#he's so fucking pretentious but he got famous for being REAL and his music has helped a lot of people because of how real it was

[hella1975]

this isn't meant to like. make you give your opinion on Discourse™️ or anything I just wanted to ask, but I keep seeing people upset about taylor dating mr. 1975 and I can't figure out if it's bc he's a terrible person or just a greasy alcoholic 😭😭😭 do you know what's up with that guy??? like on one hand I like not knowing things about celebs and I should keep it that way. but also

i, unfortunately, do know what's up with that guy and it's that he's said something problematic about every faction of society at least once. for me i have some weird, reluctant fondness for him because he is just a train wreck and he's such a twat all the time that at least it's nondiscriminating, and i also like that when he sings about mental illness it's bc he's actually BEEN THERE and been publicly a mess bc of it and been addicted to drugs and acted like a dick, and he ACKNOWLEDGES THAT, but also at no point am i gonna jump on the 'he's an amazing person' parade bc generally he is just a sleazy idiot. it is weird watching people suddenly dragging up every single thing he's ever said to be like 'look! this is why he's bad for our tay tay!' when the running joke with matty healy is that he's just a prick. like u dont need to expose his moral fibre. u can just say he's a prick. and also as funny as the jokes are she's still a grown woman who's been around the block a few times when it comes to dating. i think she will be okay maybe

[adultswim2021]

Cowboy Bebop #23: “Brain Scratch” | April 3, 1999 | S01E23 Adult Swim premiere: November 12, 2001 - 12:30AM 

Okay, so way back when Adult Swim started I immediately turned my back on Cowboy Bebop for being anime and especially for not being 4 more repeats of Space Ghost Coast to Coast. So I didn’t really on-purpose watch it at all. But the closest I got after turning the first episode off after five minutes was when I watched the last stretch of this episode, context-free. I saw an old man’s face on a bunch of TV screens smugly saying things like (insulting, slightly gayer mimic) “do you know why man believes in god? (long pause) because he wants to.” or “god didn't create humans... it is humans that created god!” while ominous music played. “You see TV has become the new religion” SHUT UP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP YOU PRETENTIOUS FUCKING ANIME BULLSHIT. 

It’d liken it to the time when I was under the influence of a COOL ADULT I knew who said All in the Family was lame and preachy and completely overrated. I sampled a single episode on TVLand and it was exactly those things, with an overly simplistic MONEY CAN’T BUY HAPPINESS message that was constantly punctuated with Rob Reiner furrowing his brow thoughtfully at Archie being too STUPID and CONSERVATIVE to understand it all. I drew this comic about it:

Later I downloaded all of All in the Family in MP3 form and listened to them instead of podcasts and you wanna know what? I fucking LOVED IT and thought the show was brilliant and hilarious, all because I didn’t have to look at Rob Reiner scowling. My point is my impression of anime was that it would be exactly as pretentious as this episode is. I happened to catch the one single scene from the show that would reinforce those ideas THE MOST. 

Well, I appreciate this show more now. This episode is fine, I guess. I do still think it’s pretentious. I think there was an episode of Duckman that was more insightful than this that had the same message. TV controls people, they worship it like a religion. Sure. But it’s also cheap hedonistic fun, and what am I gonna do? NOT WATCH IT? Hell, I have TWO TVS going right now as I speak. One is a B&W dailies monitor I bought at a yard sale for 5 dollars. I had to buy an RCA adapter that was 6 dollars to hook up a VCR to it and now I play random tapes on it. I just think it’s cool looking. Sorry, I just realized I haven’t used my tumblr to brag about my B&W monitor yet. I could sell it on eBay for $50 bucks, easy, but I’m not gonna. What was I talking about 

This one is about a guy who is selling a religion where you can allegedly upload your soul into a computer or something, and live digitally. 1000s have seemingly committed suicide for this process. BUT COULD IT BE REAL? And why is the head of this religion unreachable? He appears on TV to hawk his cult on a daily basis. It turns out he’s using the brainwaves of a comatose guy, basically using him like a battery and he’s just a max headroom on a screen. I think. Then he says pretentious stuff to Spike while they kill him. Obvious reference I didn’t realize until this very moment: Heaven’s Gate. That guy. Remember that shit? I do, because I was just becoming an extremely online guy at the time and I remember that being maybe one of the most famous websites out there. I remember the official Monty Python website redesigned their site to parody it, and thinking it was so funny. I recall going to the actual site out of morbid curiosity and my mother freaked out and thought I was going to become a cult member, and I remember feeling like insanely insulted by that and getting into a big fight with her. I don’t even believe in Christian god, you idiot!!!

I like the first act, where they are flipping through TV channels and stuff. All this stuff is strong. But I still think this episode is a little lame and goofy, the same way I did when I stumbled on it in 2001 and s’d my damn h. At it. But, it didn’t piss me off, and that’s worth something. 

[songbirdstyles]

sparks

summary: you’re a music journalist assigned to covering one of harry styles’ gigs, and he’s absolutely smitten with you. (part one.)

warnings: slight fluff, excessive liberties taken about music journalism; smut in later chapters, angst in later chapters

word count: 8.2k

inspo.: almost famous - cameron crowe; sparks - the who; hello, i love you - the doors

You’d never truly gotten a big assignment before - sure, you’d gotten a few pieces here and there detailing local LA bands that you knew would never live to see more than 100,000 monthly listeners on Spotify, and they mostly ended up buried by your higher-ranking coworker’s higher end stories on the front covers - and, for the most part, you’d honestly been fine with it. You’re fresh out of college, the newest recruit to your company and your colleagues who are sent out to tour with big bands and artists have been here for years, some even decades, and you suppose they deserve the opportunities more than you, don’t they?

You work your way up, your boss had told you the first day you’d started working, following him around like an eager puppy as he showed you the office. Eventually - if I’m impressed with you - you’ll get something big.

It’s enough for you. Small bands playing in hole-in-the-wall clubs and restaurants may not be the exact thing you’d envisioned when you’d set your sights on being a music journalist but it’s worked out well for you so far, hasn’t it? You’ve made friends - even dated the lead singer of an underground rock band who cheated on you hardly two weeks into the relationship - and your portfolio is slowly building, stacked with exposés and detailed recounts of small gigs that you’d watched from backstage. Eventually, you’ll leave this company and move on to something bigger, like Rolling Stone, and your career will take off until you’re practically the face of music journalism.

And, really, those dreams have carried you through college and the first year of your career, putting your all into every article and every piece just so your boss can tug you into his office one day with a rarely-seen grin to finally tell you -

“I want you to write an article on Harry Styles.”

You furrow your eyebrows, shifting in the cushy office seat that your boss has for guests in his office. It’s a facade that you’ve learned to acknowledge, because, no matter how much he makes it look like he appreciates guests in his office, you know he regards you as nothing more than an interloper, even if he’d invited you there to begin with. “Harry Styles?”

“You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?” Mike asks, light shining off his bald head, and your mouth opens and closes a few times uselessly. 

“Of course I have!” You push yourself to sit up straighter in your seat, staring up at your boss with shock written in every feature of your face. You, writing about Harry Styles? God, you nearly want to pinch yourself to see if you’re dreaming. “Write an article about - about what?”

Mike scoffs in that pretentious way that makes you hate ever having to talk to him, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes at him. “He’s coming to do a few shows along the West Coast. You can go to one or two - talk to him a bit, talk to his band - you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“With small bands, sure - Tacocat and - and the Mystery Lights -” You swallow thickly, and Mike stares down at you in your seat like he’s unimpressed with your enthusiasm, or lack thereof. And it’s not that you aren’t executed - but, Christ. Going from bands performing in underground clubs to Harry Styles is like going straight from crawling to flying a fucking plane and you’re not sure if any of your experience with the musical locality in LA could prepare you for that. “I mean, that’s huge, Mike.”

“It is huge,” Mike confirms, crossing his thick arms over his chest, leaning against the desk before you as though he’s immune to sitting in his seat behind his desk like a normal boss. “Do you not want to do it? Because Melissa, you know - she’d love to, was going on and on about it last week -”

“No!” Your cheeks flush at the volume your voice raises to, and if you didn’t know better you could swear you see the ghost of a grin on Mike’s face. “I want to, Mike, I really want to - it’s just crazy.” There’s a pregnant pause between the two of you, your boss nodding smugly down at you as you struggle for words, before you ask the question burning the tip of your tongue with its desire to be heard. “But - why me? I’m sure you have people more qualified for it -”

“Easy,” Mike says, cutting you off and you’d be annoyed in any other instance but you’re too desperate to hear his answer. “Look, Harry’s a young guy. Younger than anyone else our people have interviewed - I think he’ll respond more to a young, pretty girl like yourself than someone older than him.”

Well, that makes sense, you suppose. The only coworker even close to you in age is Melissa, and she’s pushing 30 as it is. You’re 23 - graduated college just over a year ago, and by far the newest recruit this company has taken in years - but you had always imagined that was the main reason you wouldn’t get many big articles, and here it’s the main factor in you getting what will surely be the highlight of your portfolio once you apply to Rolling Stone. An interview with Harry Styles - God, they’ll probably foam at the mouth when they see it, and a grin spreads across your face as you think of it.

“Is that a yes?” Mike questions, blonde eyebrows raised high and nearly disappearing into his scalp. 

“Of course,” you respond without another moment of hesitation, and you push yourself to stand, office chair rolling behind you with the force, and it hits the wall behind you with a soft thump. “Yes - of course - of course.”

“Great.” And he crosses to the other side of his desk, pushing aside a few loose papers and folders on his desk, and you clutch your hands in front of your stomach as you watch him, practically bouncing up and down with uncontained joy and fear bubbling inside of you. The last time you’d felt like this was the first time you got a real assignment - more than just ranking songs and discussing new album releases - and you’d been sent to a strip club to cover a gig from an up-and-coming band. Back then, you’d never expected to ever feel more excited over anything in your life, and yet, here you are, eight months later, fighting back the urge to burst into joyful tears. “They come in a week - I’ll send you the address - if you need help with your questions -”

“I’ll ask Francine,” you finish the same advice he gives you every time you’re assigned an article, referring to your oldest coworker - a little old woman who’s been with the company since the 70s. She’s always been more than willing to help you with your assignments but this - you need to do this by yourself. “Thank you so much, Mike, this is - this is great.”

“Don’t let me down,” he says, pointing his finger at you, and you nod furiously. “I’m trusting you on this - it’s a big opportunity.”

“I won’t disappoint you,” you promise, holding up your crossed fingers just to show him how much you mean it, and you know it’s the truth - you’ll make this piece the best damn one this company has ever seen if it’s the last thing you ever do. 

 ~~

 The night begins a bit - rocky, to say the least.

For one, you couldn’t decide what to wear, even after spending nearly a half hour trying on every variation of clothes in your closet and tossing them onto the floor of your studio apartment when they didn’t satisfy your needs. In the past you’d worn to gigs what you’d wear if you were a simple concertgoer, albeit a bit more modestly, but you can’t decide what you would wear to a Harry Styles concert if you got the regular chance to - and you’d never even dreamt that it would happen in the first place -

Well, you peruse your closet intently and land on a pair of patterned flare pants and a long sleeve sweater. It only seems fitting for the chilly weather outside, and you fold a shirt into your bag in case you need to change if it gets hot backstage. You’re not dressed to impress, necessarily - you’re dressed to get a job done, as Mike would always say, but how could you be expected to not attempt to impress Harry Styles? It’s a preposterous idea. You’re sure anyone would understand.

Journalism pass - phone - keys - deodorant - when you’ve checked your bag over three times to ensure you have everything necessary you finally leave, locking your door shut behind you and ordering an Uber to take you to the concert.

You hadn’t anticipated Uber and Lyft being absolutely overloaded with patrons due to the concert just a half hour away and you need to be there by 6:30 at the very latest to ensure you get in and can at least talk to Harry before he goes on - a quarter of your questions are geared towards how he feels pre show and you can’t get pre show questions after the show - that’s barbaric. But the minutes inch closer to 5:30 and your Uber driver is still ten minutes away and your heart beats so fast against your chest you think you might vomit right into the street in front of your building -

You’re in the car by 5:45. It’s not ideal, and you know you’re cutting it close, but hopefully you’ll be there before the soundcheck ends. It’s always an ideal time to take photos, watching the band warm up and check mics, and with a piece like this, you need all the opportunities for pictures you can get.

And traffic is horrible - you suppose that’s also to be expected, and your Uber driver curses in a language you can’t recognize as cars cut him off on the highway and if you were a different person, you’d recommend a shortcut he takes, but he doesn’t look like he wants to hear a single word come from your mouth. He had given you a dirty look when you entered the car, and that’s enough to make you shut up and pray for the entire car ride that you make it on time.

6:27. Mike would piss himself if he knew how close you cut it, and you hop out of the car with a speed you didn’t even know you could muster, pushing past the buzzing crowd standing in front of the main entrance. The hoard of people seems to have a steady heartbeat, pulsing with excitement much like your own, and you can’t help but smile as you make your way around the group, goosebumps cropping up over your skin as your teeth chatter in the coldness. For a moment you fear that the directions to the backstage entrance that Mike had given you were total bullshit - but then you see the door, blocked by a burly security guard that glowers at you as you walk up to him like you’re something sticky beneath his shoe.

“Hi!” you call, breath exploding in a white cloud in front of you in the cool night air. The security guard smells so strongly of booze that you need to try harder than you’d care to admit not to scrunch your nose - you cough softly. “Let me - um - find my pass - I’m with Autoamerican, the magazine?”

Fingers grab onto your journalism pass, deep within your bag, and you tug it out, flashing it to the security guard with a slightly nervous grin. All of the gigs you’d been to before hadn’t even had backstage doors - to get backstage, you just had to climb onto the stage and walk behind the wings - but this is a fucking stadium, not just a measly club, and a big one, at that. In your youth you’re sure you could recall your dad watching a football game that occurred in this very stadium - funny how life turns out, sometimes.

“Autoamerican?” the security guard questions, bringing his face closer to your badge as the wafting smell of alcohol increases, and he raises his eyebrows with a scoff. “Never heard of it.”

“Oh.” you pause, feeling your teeth beginning to chatter in the cool February air. You’re not quite sure what to say - you’d assumed Mike had called to arrange the entire thing, hadn’t he? And this is the time you’re supposed to be here - “well, we’re not as big as Rolling Stone magazine, but - we’ve done interviews with The Cure, The Smiths - even Zeppelin, at one point -”

Your voice trails off into silence. He doesn’t care. He’s looking at you like you’re some innocent teenage girl, trying to bribe your way backstage so you can bombard the artist and not a fully grown woman here on business, goddammit. And you’re not sure what to say - he doesn’t believe you, clearly, and you hadn’t anticipated that even as you listed all the ways tonight could go wrong.

“Look, kid,” he begins, and that really has your blood boiling, eyes narrowing to glare at him. “We get this all the time. I’m a journalist - I’m with the crew - it’s a bunch of bullshit. Now go to the front with your general admission tickets like the rest of them -”

“I have a pass - I’m a journalist!”

“Sure -”

“I can call my boss if you want proof!”

And before you can reach into your bag to search relentlessly for your phone to follow through on the promise like you intend to, the door the man is guarding suddenly swings open, nearly hitting the guard in the ass as it opens out. You take a step back as dim light from inside floods the darkness, and a man steps out of the doorway, his eyes darting between you and the security guard.

“Are you with Autoamerican?” the man questions, raising his finger to point at you as though he could be speaking to anyone else. You nod furiously, and you hold up your journalism pass again just to prove it. “You can come inside, then - c’mon, Steve, she’s got a pass, for God’s sake -”

And you can’t resist flashing the guard a smug smile as he steps to the side to let you inside, rolling his eyes so far back into his head that all you can see is a strip of white.

The man lets you inside and the door shuts behind you, and you nearly knock straight into a second security guard standing by the door inside, as though trying to stop people from going out. And, well - you’ve been backstage at more concerts than you could count but this is certainly bigger, better, bustling with people carrying equipment and makeup artists and more people you couldn’t possibly identify. You’re half inclined to reach into your bag and grab your notebook to jot down exactly what you’re seeing so you can make sure to include it in the article, but you have a distinct feeling you’ll never forget it.

“I’m Jeff,” the man tells you, already setting off through the people, and you’re quick to follow, trying to maintain your pace beside him. After a second of walking in silence you realize he’s waiting for you to say yours - you clear your throat and introduce yourself, and he sends you a smile. “The band just finished their soundcheck, if you’d like to have a word with them before they go on - what’s the article about, anyway?”

Jeff shoulders the two of you through lingering groups of people until you emerge into a small hallway lined with doors, and you can hear bustling noise coming from the one closest to you - holy shit, is that Harry? 

“Um - just about the shows, the tour, how everything’s going. My boss basically told me to do what I want with it, so I’ll have a better idea once I speak to the band.” It’s the loosest instruction you’ve ever been given for a piece - you’d expected a clear cut outline - but perhaps with an artist this big, Mike trusts you to know what to write. “It likely won’t be anything too personal, but I’d love to get a chance to speak with Harry before and after.”

“Sounds great,” and you can tell he’s stressed - you wonder if he’s always anxious before his client’s shows, or if there’s something special about tonight that has him worried - and then he reaches past you, twisting the doorknob closest to you and holding the door open for you to enter before him, and you give him a gracious smile before walking in.

The room isn’t as crowded with people as you’d expected but they’re bustling with energy - a woman and a man, holding a guitar, lean against the wall with each other - two other women sip water bottles, laughing loudly amongst each other - another woman leans above someone, their body hidden from view except for their legs, covered in silk, floral printed pants -

Your breath catches in your throat as Jeff shuts the door behind you both, and the sound of the door clicking shut draws far more attention to yourself than you’d expected - it seems like every pair of eyes lands on you and Jeff, and you’d decided on being a music journalist to keep away from being the center of attention. You’ve always preferred being behind the scenes, a bit, at least until your career progresses until you’re a household name for music journalism, and now -

You feel very much in the scenes, eyes on you as Rhiannon plays in the background.

And then Jeff is tapping you on your shoulder, leading you around the room to the small groups of people lingering - you shake hands with Mitch and Sarah, the couple against the wall, and the rest of his band, and they’re so nice your smile feels like it’s going to break your face in half. You’ll need to interview them at some point - nothing too intense, and you may not even need to, if Harry’s answers are satisfactory enough - and you can already feel yourself building a strange sort of rapport with the band, their kindness rubbing off on you until you practically glide beside Jeff to the woman bent over Mr. Floral Pants, whose identity you’re fairly certain you’ve already deduced.

It doesn’t make it any more surprising when the woman steps aside where she’s carefully applying powder to the man’s face, and then Harry fucking Styles is staring up at her with a smile and an outstretched hand, suit jacket matching the floral pattern of his pants. His curls are carefully slicked back from his face, skin matte with the powder the woman resumes applying to the side of his face that isn’t turned to you, and you swallow your shock before reaching to shake his hand, Rhiannon turning into Hello, I Love You, playing from a source you can’t identify.

“Nice t’meet you,” Harry says when you’ve told him your name and the magazine you work for - Jeff had already mentioned it, but it is customary to repeat it to whomever you may have to interview. “Y’know, I love Autoamerican - told Jeff, s’the only magazine I’d let interview me backstage. Don’t usually allow it.”

“Really?” your stomach flips as Harry stops bouncing his arm, but it takes just another half second for him to untwine his hand from yours - you’re sure it’s because the makeup artist fretting above him is using her thumb to wipe off powder from his nose, but it still makes your heart thump faster against your chest. “I assumed most people haven’t heard of it - it’s nowhere near Rolling Stone.”

“I love it,” he insists, dropping your hand, and he looks so casual, as if this interaction isn’t blowing up your entire life, and you’re brought back to the many moments you’d spent as a teenager fawning over him in his One Direction days - God, this feels like a dream, and you’re half inclined to pinch yourself in case it is. Maybe you’ll wake up in Mike’s office to him giving you another shitty underground LA band to interview. “The interview with Sublime s’great - read it all the time.”

You swallow thickly, grin spreading wider across your face, and before you can open your mouth to tell him about Francine’s go-to story about how Eric Wilson had flirted with her while she interviewed them for the story, Jeff interjects - “Steve hadn’t even heard of it.”

“Steve’s an idiot,” Harry starts, and you giggle - his lips lilt upwards just a bit. “Hope he wasn’t hasslin’ you ‘bout it.”

“Just a little,” you say, hoisting your bag further up your shoulder just as the makeup artist drops the powder back into the apron slung around her waist, and her manicured nails tilt Harry’s head around for a moment before she seemingly deems his makeup satisfactory before leaving, sending you a tight lipped smile as she goes. “I’d love to ask you a few questions before the show - nothing too heavy - and then I’ll observe the concert and how everything goes, ask a few questions after.”

“Sounds great,” Harry responds, lifting his fist with his thumb up and you didn’t think your heartbeat could grow any faster or louder but you suppose today is just proving you wrong time and time again. “D’you need t’record m’answers? S’a bit loud in here.”

The truth is, you’re sure you’ll have this entire experience engraved in your brain for years to come - you’ll remember every word he utters for you until your dying days - but it is more practical to have a recording. You swing your bag off your arm and open it, digging through the jumbled mess of items inside until you find your phone, and you hold it up with a nod. “Yeah - there isn’t anywhere a bit quieter, is there?”

It takes a minute of bustling - Jeff tells you two instructions to go down the hall into another room where you may find more silence - and Harry promises, accent thick and eyes rolling, to be back in twenty minutes or less, if tha’s enough time for you, ma’am, and you try to trick yourself into thinking the burn flushing up your cheeks is due to the heat of the room.

Down the hall is another door that Harry opens for you, letting you walk in first. It’s a small room, clearly meant for storage, and he shuts the door behind the pair of you. There’s - luckily, or perhaps unluckily - just enough room for you two have at least a few feet between you, and he leans against the wall with an air of casual elegance you couldn’t hope to achieve as you scroll through your phone to search for the voice recorder app.

“Hope this s’good enough - is it?” Harry inquires, leaning his head closer to yours, and you nod. “Good - wish there was a nicer spot for you, but -”

“Don’t worry about it,” you interject, smiling up at him, and he grins back, and your stomach churns violently. You almost feel like you could vomit - when he goes on, you’ll go and have a bit to eat at the table set up with foods that Jeff had wheeled you past when you arrived. Eating seems to solve more of your nerves than you’d care to admit, and you feel like you’re nearly 95% nerves right now. Your fingers fiddle with the voice recorder app, adding a title to the recording while entirely too focused on the sounds of Harry’s breathing above you, and you can practically fear his eyes boring into your face before you press record. 

And, for the most part, it does go smoothly. Harry introduces himself with an ease that only comes with years of practice, so much time spent being interviewed that it must feel like as much of a second nature to him as interviewing is to you. He’s charming and charismatic - flirtatious, even - making jokes and adding lines that you make a mental note to be sure to include in your final piece - whatever direction you go - and you can’t say you’re bothered by the way he leans closer to the phone, and thus closer to you, in order for his voice to be heard more on the recording when occasional noise bustles in from outside.

You don’t need to look at the questions you’d spent weeks laboring over - every question you inquire derives directly from his answers like he’s practically feeding them to you, and then you’re interviewing him so naturally, you could nearly fool yourself into thinking it’s an organic conversation between friends. 

What’s his process to prepare for shows? Well, listening to Fleetwood Mac and eating finger foods, of course - he loves mozzarella sticks. Does Fleetwood Mac make you less nervous for shows? No, he doesn’t get too anxious before shows, now that he’s out of the band. He just loves Fleetwood Mac - he could listen to them at any time of the day. What do you think makes your solo career less anxiety-inducing than being in the band? Different fans let him be himself more. There’s less pressure to be someone he isn’t - do you think he could’ve worn a floral printed suit at a One Direction concert?

And, in the end, twenty minutes hardly feels like it, and by the time Harry tilts his head over the screen of your phone to check the time, you could nearly convince yourself that you’d merely spent a minute with the heartthrob, and it pains you to stop the recording.

“How’d I do?” he questions, cheeky smile indenting the dimple in his cheek, and you feel like you need to dip your face in ice once he goes on stage - your face hasn’t felt anything less than piping hot since the first moment he rested eyes on you, and his kind-bordering-on-flirtatious nature only makes your skin heat more under his gaze.

It isn’t as though you’d have it any other way, though.

“Perfect,” and you send him a smile. “I’ll watch the show - probably eat a bit, too, if I’m being honest - and maybe ask you a few questions. How many shows are you doing in LA?”

Harry reaches past you, grabbing the doorknob and opening the door for you once more, and you slip out with a small smile as he follows, face twisted in what’s clearly a show of being in deep thought. “Four. An’ a few more on the West Coast ‘fore we move out - reckon you’ll need t’come t’a few more?”

“Depends.” He looks at you curiously as the two of you make your way back to the room you’d been in before, and when you enter, it’s clearly in a more prominent state of preparation for the show - there’s more bustle and movement between every band member and Jeff, who looks entirely relieved to see you two come in as She’s a Rainbow thumps softly, volume clearly turned down on whatever produces the music. “If I feel like I’ve got enough material from this show, then that’ll be it - I usually just do reviews of specific gigs, and this is a lot broader - so I really don’t know.”

Harry nods, and you feel a flutter in your heart at how intently he seems to be listening to you, like he really cares, and you’re sure it’s a facade - he probably has a million other things on his mind as Jeff descends upon the both of you, whisking him away as he calls goodbye! to you - but still. When was the last time you’d felt listened to? By Mike, or by the security guard outside, or even from your own parents when you try to convince them over and over that you have a plan, that your degree wasn’t a waste of time when you could’ve been a doctor -

Well, Harry’s a gentleman, you decide, sliding your phone into the back pocket of your flares as you reach in your bag for your notepad. You can tell they’re preparing to go on soon and so you descend against the wall, grabbing your pen from deep inside the confines of your bag to scribble the essential notes of what you’ll need - it’ll make it easier when it’s time to write, rather than listening to the entire 20 minute interview again to try and find the important sections to include.

His responses to your question still burn fresh in your mind, and you began scribbling your bullet points on the small notepad in your hands. It’s decently easy to block out the chatter of the room you’re in along with its music, volume turned down further until it’s hardly audible, and it really is a skill you’ve mastered, though you suppose you’ve had to - trying to take notes for articles about gigs occurring in buildings so small that their noise reverberates off of every surface has made you a master in tuning out noise surrounding you.

You are aware, and acutely, at that, when the band starts exiting through the door beside you. They don’t look nervous, returning your encouraging smiles with ones of their own, and you watch them pour out the door with confidence practically radiating off of them. Well, that’s something to mention, isn’t it? Most of the bands you’d interviewed were practically vomiting with nerves -

Harry takes up the rear, fingers running through his slicked back hair, and you can’t tell if it’s a nervous habit or if he’s simply trying to let his curls fall in front of his eyes more. Jeff walks in front of him, giving you a smile as he leaves, and the singer stops beside you.

Your breath just about catches in your throat as you look up at him, and he’s staring down at you with a decidedly ambiguous look in his eyes, and you smile at him. “Good luck out there.”

“You’re gonna come and watch?”

You nod. “Eventually - I’m gonna eat something first, finish my notes. Maybe give myself a tour of the backstage in case I decide to include it.”

“Sounds good t’me,” Harry says, but he doesn’t make a motion to leave, and then his eyes roll down your body and is he fucking checking you out? Because - no - that’s crazy. That would cement into your brain the knowledge that this is a dream, and not reality, because there’s no fucking way Harry Styles is checking you out, eyes roaming from your eyes to your stomach to your - “I like your pants. Where’d you get ‘em?”

Ah. Of course. Fashion icon, he is, inquiring about the pants you’d chosen specifically because they looked like something he may like. “These?” You glance down as though you’d forgotten what pants you’d donned, as though you hadn’t spent hours in front of your closet envisioning what outfit you could wear to impress him. “I think they’re from Zara. Got them a couple years back.”

“They’re pretty.”

“Why, thank you -”

“Harry!”

Jeff’s voice calling from outside the room snaps you both out of your conversation, a slightly embarrassed grin spreading across Harry’s face that you’re sure is mirroring your own. His cheeks are tinged pink and he clears his throat.

“Sorry - gotta go - make sure y’try the mozzarella sticks, ‘kay? They’re good,” Harry tells you, and you grin, drumming the pen clutched between your fingers against the notepad in your hands.

“Will do,” you reply, and then you lift your hand and point to the door, raising your eyebrows with a smile. “Go break a leg - and then be ready to talk about it when you’re done!”

He doesn’t say anything else - just gives you a thumbs up and slips out the door, and you can hear his frenzied apologies to Jeff as their voices fade away, surely preparing to get on stage and sing his heart out and blow the fucking stadium away, but you can hardly focus on it. Because - God, you really don’t want to sound like a narcissist - but he was joking around with you, complimented your pants, and he did technically check you out, even if it was just to see your pants. 

Was he flirting with you?

Surely not. No, that would be absurd. He’s probably just bored - maybe entertaining random people backstage is his way of dealing with his nerves.

That makes a bit more sense.

When you glance back down at your notepad, the page half filled with scribbled bullet points of things you’d sworn to remember, and when you click your pen open to continue your list, you find that you can’t quite think of anything else to write. All you can think about is the mozzarella sticks waiting for you, and then standing in the wings to watch him sing his heart out to a crowd of adoring fans that you, at one point, would have killed to be apart of -

You shove your pen and pad back into your bag with a determined spin of your heels. Food first - contemplation second.

 ~~~

 The show is - needless to say - amazing.

You’d feasted on slightly-cold mozzarella sticks that were, even in their lowered temperatures, immensely good, and clearly garnered all the affection Harry had for them. The food table was nearly completely empty, crew members repeatedly coming up to fill plates with vegetables and snacks, and so you simply gathered the last three sticks of celery once you were done with your sticks before taking a leisurely stroll along the backstage area. Celery firm between your teeth, you pulled out your notepad and your pen once more and jotted notes of what you could possibly include in the article to jog your memory later -

It takes a while, admittedly. You don’t want to leave anything out, and eventually you have two pages filled with notes in your handwriting that would surely be illegible to anyone else who happened upon them - and, sure, your pages are small, but still. Two pages is a lot, and you’re sure most of it won’t even make it into the article but you don’t want to risk forgetting any important information.

A trip to the bathroom - perusing the food table again to pick up the last few carrot sticks - and the show is nearly halfway over, so you decide it may be time to slip into the wings and watch. Take notes, possibly, but mainly just listen and absorb the music and the atmosphere and exactly how the fans react to his every move. That’s what the people want to know, isn’t it? It’s what you would want to know - so you slip past the lingering groups of people into the wings of the stage, where you get a clear view of Harry and his band, singing his heart out to a tune you know to be Kiwi.

It’s ear splitting, truly, in a way that none of the other gigs you’d witnessed had been. But it sounds good - better than good - and he’s as charismatic on stage as he is off,  waggling his eyebrows during the more suggestive lines and undoing the button of his suit jacket, and the latter garners a deafening scream from the adoring fans in the crowd. 

No, you won’t need to take notes, at least not yet. You’ll remember this forever, won’t you? Watching him work the crowd like he was born to do it, like it’s a second nature and you’re sure it is, at this point. It’s all you can do to stand there, watching him, and you’re sure you look no different from the other fans in the crowd, your eyes wide and lips parted in absolute awe of him -

His head turns to the side, briefly, as if he can sense your eyes on him above anyone else’s. In reality you’re sure he’d simply turned his head to flick a sweaty curl out of his face but it’s never a bad thing to dream right? And your gaze locks for just a moment, his eyebrows raising when he sees your face, and heat burns at your cheeks before his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his right eye shuts in a quick wink before he’s turning back to the crowd as if his attention had never left them.

Shit. You nearly drop your damn carrot. God, he’s a fucking tease, and you’re not even sure he knows it - that this experience will never leave your brain for as long as you walk this Earth, watching him wink as he stared into the depths of your fucking soul, clad in a gorgeous suit with his gorgeous hair and -

Harry truly is a sight to behold, and you’re more than content to watch him forever.

Forever ends up being another half hour or so before you’re made entirely too aware of the fact that you have to pee - not insanely bad, but enough to make you shift uncomfortably from side to side before sighing, turning and making your way further backstage in your search for the bathroom. In your determined tour of the backstage you’d forgotten to search for the restroom, and you wander about for nearly five whole minutes before getting to it -

You do your business. There’s not much more explanation needed.

It’s when your washing your hands, though, water freezing cold against your palms, that you become slightly aware of a myriad of noises occurring outside the restroom. At first you choose not to focus on it, shoving your hands beneath the air dryer to ease your soaking, cold hands, and the noise of violent air assaulting your palms drowns out the scuffling sounds from outside.

When the dryer turns off, and you reach down to wipe your damp hands on your pants, the noises haven’t stopped. And, sure, no one could expect it to be completely silent backstage, but whatever you’re hearing isn’t the normal laughter and chatter and muffled music that you’re used to hearing -

It sounds like someone is fighting, and your hand freezes in its place on the cool metal doorknob. You lean forward, scrunching your nose as you plainly try harder to hear what’s happening -

But, Hell. You have a job to do - you need to get back to the wings to watch the remaining few minutes of the set before Harry leaves and, subsequently, returns for the encore, and you’d intended to write with detail about his closing repetition of Kiwi. So you grab the doorknob, swing the door open and step out, and freeze nearly immediately once you’ve exited.

There is a fight - not as violent as you’d expected - as the security guard from inside scuffles with Steve, who looks positively wasted in a way you’ve come to know all too well, doing gigs in LA. His face shines with a sheen layer of sweat, skin glowing in the artificial light, and his fists move slowly to pummel into the other security guard’s back. It’s, truthfully, a bit pathetic to watch - he isn’t putting up much of a fight against the guard trying to hold him, and your mouth parts with poorly-concealed confusion at the display in front of you.

You’re not sure what to say - or do - or think - standing in the doorway of the bathroom as you watch the poor excuse of a fight, Steve nearly toppling to the ground as the other guard tries to contain him.

“Come on, Steve - don’t be like this -”

Then the other security guard looks up and sees you, and the expression on his face nearly makes you burst into laughter, but you contain it with a bit more difficulty than you’d like to admit. He looks annoyed, like he’s absolutely done with his coworker, and also slightly embarrassed. Clearly, he’d dragged Steve into the hallway containing the bathrooms with the hopes of nobody seeing either of them, and you’ve interrupted his bid for privacy desperately. “Sorry, ma’am,” the guard says, grabbing one of Steve’s flailing fists in his hands. “Don’t mind us - he’s drunk - just trying to contain him.”

You’re doing a damn good job, you want to say, but you bite back the retort with a small nod and a whisper of a smile on your face, walking with your back to the wall past their display in the hopes of Steve not seeing you. He hadn’t been particularly nice to you when you’d first seen him and you can tell he’s in a much more heightened state, now - he’d been drunk when you’d seen him before and you can tell it’s only gotten worse.

Maybe you should’ve told Jeff the guard was drunk?

Well, it’s counterproductive to dwell on the past.

You’re not so lucky, though - you’ve barely made it down five steps down the hallway before Steve lifts his head, pupils blown and skin even stickier looking than before, and he gives you the same disgusted look as though you’re something his dog had left on the grass. “Hey - hey - Jim - do you know who that is?”

And the other security guard - Jim - just rolls his eyes. “No, Steve, I don’t - stop making a fool out of yourself.”

“She works at - at - Eat to the Beat - Parallel Lines - what is it?”

Do you answer him? You don’t quite know. You just swallow thickly, forcing yourself not to don the smile that’s urging its way onto your lips as you hear roaring screams from the crowd that alerts you to the fact that, if Harry isn’t done with his set yet, he’s close, and you need to watch the end. “Autoamerican. Those are all good albums, though.”

“She’s snarky - get off of me, Jim -”

In Steve’s final bid for freedom his legs kick out, and his sneakered foot knocks into your ankle, and it’s certainly not hard by any stretch of the definition but it’s enough to catch you off balance, his toe hooking into the loose fabric around your ankles as he brings his foot back to kick again. One kick did it, though - you tumble to the ground, legs flying out from under you until you land on your ass on the hard floor, your bag slipping off your shoulder, and its contents scatter across the ground.

Fuck. That hurt, more than you’d care to admit, as you brace your elbows behind you to stop your head from knocking into the ground. Your ass hurts and you can see Steve’s leg bracing backwards for another kick, and you push yourself backwards so his foot merely pushes against the air.

You can already see Jim opening his mouth to desperately say sorry when a set of footsteps interrupts his apology - you don’t have to look to your side to see who it is, the smell of expensive cologne wafting before him like an introduction. You practically feel him before you see him.

Your name falls off Harry’s lips entirely too easily, like he’d been looking for you in the overtly small window of space he has before he has to go back on stage - his hair is messy and his skin is sweaty and he bends down next to you with such sentimentality in his eyes - you almost feel like a child again.

“Are y’okay?” Harry questions, and his hand rests on the small of your back and warmth seems to seep through your body from its spawning point, palm moving in circles against your sweater so gently you can tell he’s scared to go much harder. “Wha’ -?”

For his eyes had just landed on the sight in front of you - Jim managed to pull Steve up, the latter clearly coming to his senses at least a little bit, and his eyes narrow at the sight of you on the floor and subsequently widen as he sees Harry next to you.

“Wha’ happened?” And you can hear anger quivering under his voice like boiling water, ready to overflow, and you instinctively reach up to press your hand against his forearm - you do it to your niece all the time when you can tell she’s on the verge of a tantrum and it always works on her - but she is five, and Harry’s twenty years her senior, so, needless to say, the motion doesn’t do much to soothe him. “Fightin’ back here, kickin’ her - you’re s’posed t’be security guards!”

“It’s okay, Harry -”

“S’not okay -”

And then there’s another set of footsteps jogging over to you, and you look up to see Jeff -

“Har, you need to get back out -” but you can see the confusion set into his features as he stands over the scene, eyes flickering to you and Harry on the floor to Jim and Steve, the former having settled the latter into a fairly calm position. The scent of alcohol is strong and you can practically watch as Jeff smells it, his nose crinkling. “Is he drunk?”

“He is drunk, an’ got into a fight wit’ -”

“Okay, okay,” you interrupt, squeezing Harry’s arm again as you push yourself to stand, attempting not to wince at the pain in your ass as your muscles tense. He’s looking at you like you’ve just been hit by a car instead of having a mild scuffle with a security guard, eyes wide and concerned, and you shake your head at him. “Didn’t get into a fight, Harry - he accidentally kicked me. It’s really fine - you need to go back out, anyway.”

“She’s right,” Jeff insists, reaching down to tug Harry up as his eyes bore into the sight in front of you, Steve slowly calming himself down until he’s simply red in the face and reeking of booze. “Come on, Har - you need to get on.”

But Harry’s already bending down again, grabbing your pen and your notebook and your phone (you can see a crack in the screen that most certainly hadn’t been there just a mere ten minutes ago) and you could nearly laugh at the display he’s putting on, shoving your items back into your back, if Jeff’s demeanor wasn’t bordering on murderous as he drags Harry up again. You reach down and grab your bag, now fully stocked again with all of the items that had clattered out, and you give the tussling security guards one final fleeting look before following Jeff and Harry as they make their way down the hall.

“Y’sure you’re okay?” Harry questions, slowing his pace so you can jog beside him, much to Jeff’s lingering annoyance as he brings his fingers up to rub at the space between his eyes. “Y’should know - tha’ doesn’t usually happen -”

“I get it,” you tell him.

“No, really.” You’ve reached the wings of the stage, and Jeff leaves the pair of you alone to descend on to where the band stands, clearly waiting for the cue to go on. Harry runs a hand through his hair, and he looks oddly exasperated and you wish you could get it through his head that it really isn’t a big deal - “Someone will take care of the guards, okay?”

“Don’t fire them,” you insist, even though you’re sure he has no say in it. “Not Jim, at least.”

“Jim -?”

“The sober one.”

“Oh.” He pauses, dropping his hands to his sides. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Just try.”

“Will do.”

There’s another brief second of silence before you nod towards the stage where he’s needed - the few lowly minutes between the end of the show and the encore has come to an end, and you’re sure people are beginning to wonder if he’s not coming back. “Go on, Har. There’s people waiting for you.”

“M’going!” And he isn’t going, just staring at you with his brows furrowed, and you raise your own with a confused stare. “Are y’gonna come t’any more shows?”

You pause, nibbling on your bottom lip as you contemplate your answer. “Well - maybe. If I need more information.” “You should,” he tells you, and you tilt your head to the side. “Look, I don’t want your only impression of m’shows t’be that they’re violent an’ crazy.”

“I don’t think -”

“Jus’ one more? In two days. I’ll send you th’address. I really want you t’come -”

Before you can process the request Jeff has stepped forward, hooking his arm in Harry’s and practically dragging him towards the stage, and you watch him prance back in front of the audience like it’s his God given purpose and perhaps it is. You’ve never quite met anyone like him, you don’t think, and you’d certainly had a perception of what you’d imagined him to be like based on the insane amount of time you’d spent obsessing over his band when you were younger -

Your mouth feels suddenly dry as you watch him begin, and the music seems to reverberate beneath your skin, and suddenly - without having to think about it much at all, really - you know it won’t take much convincing on his part to get you back for a second night.

[rovewritesit]

Angel Of My Dreams (Chapter 3) John Deacon x Reader Series

Meant to get this out last night but I’m on call 24/7 for my job so ya know, life.

Series Summary: After reluctantly joining a band with your childhood best friends, you are thrust into oncoming stardom with no sea legs and an overwhelming sense of anxiety. But you just might find your way, thanks to some seasoned pros by your side. And the interest of one particular bassist.

This series is a work of fiction, and is loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 4

Pairing: John Deacon x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Strong language, you know the deal. Feelings of anxiety. Slightly sexual dialogue. Reader is kinda horny? Misogynistic comments towards reader.

Chapter Notes: I may have written out an ENTIRE episode of Pop Quiz before realizing that shoving music facts down your throats isn’t the best use of our time. Apologies if it got a bit disjointed in the trimming process. I work in TV so I just had to add in a cliche meet-cute. Sorry not sorry.

Song/Title Inspiration: Angel - Fleetwood Mac

Taglist: @yourlocalmusicalprostitute​ @brianmays-hair @deacyblues @squishy-geckboye

April 1982 - BBC Studios, London

“It’s not funny, Y/N! Stop laughing. You’re gonna ruin all my hard work!” Dawn chastises you as she sweeps a pale blue eye shadow across your lids, trying her best to complete your request to tone down your usual stage look.

You try to muffle your laughter, teetering on your chair set up in the spacious green room. It comes out as a wheeze, a soft whistle escaping through your nose. “I’m sorry, you said what!?”

“I kid you not, I took one look at his penis and said ‘What the fuck is that?”

A sharp laugh escapes from your mouth once again, failing miserably to prevent tears from leaking out of the corners of your eyes.

“I feel awful! It’s just that I had never seen one before,” Dawn whines.

“Okay, I know for a fact that’s not the first dick you’ve seen. Hell, even I’ve seen some of those. Like ships passing in the night as they raced out of your dorm bed,” you giggle.

“You know what I mean. I’ve never been with one that’s… intact.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, “Oh c’mon. Uncircumcised can’t be that different.”

“It wasn’t! I was just drunk and got spooked, I guess. It was actually kinda cute. Like it was wearing a little turtleneck or something.”

You lose it, yet again. Laughter falls freely from your lips, helping to alleviate the dreaded stress that has now become your constant companion these days. Appearing on a game show alone was not something you thought you’d have to tackle on your third day in London. You’re sure the boys were off exploring the sprawling city that none of you had stepped foot in prior to the trip.

Pop Quiz was apparently a big hit for the BBC, featuring a bevy of famous musicians battling out their knowledge of the industry. You’d never had the chance to watch, obviously not readily available to viewers back home, but a harried man had come in earlier to give you a basic rundown of the format. You were somewhat confident in your knowledge of music, having been a regular at your hometown’s local record shop, you just hoped it would be enough to keep you from making a fool out of yourself in front of an entire country. But your anxiety mostly stemmed from your upcoming appearance in front of the camera without the boys there to play off of.

“How was it, though? I heard they’re supposed to “feel better” or something like that,” your curiosity getting the better of you. “Ooo, was it curved? Sometimes that can be a great thing. Except for one I encountered that was going in the opposite way then you’d think. Like even it knew it should be running away from the dude.”

Dawn’s face screws into a pinch, “Was that Tyler... Wait, don’t tell me. Ew. And I wouldn’t know! The poor guy was so embarrassed he couldn’t even keep it up after that!”

“What a waste,” you sigh. “I thought I’d be at least getting some field research out of your antics. What did I even bring you to London for?” you joke as she holds a tissue out to blot your lips.

“Uh-huh. The day you do some “field research” of your own is the day I chop off my own hair,” she quips, narrowing her eyes at you.

You casually raise your right hand to flip her off. She wasn’t wrong; it had been a while since you’d been with anyone, let alone entertained the fact of jumping into a relationship. There were partners in the past, of course. A few geeky high school boys, a woman who worked at said hometown record store, and the occasional pretentious film kid while at NYU, who spoke condescendingly of women working in film but scratched an itch when needed.

“And there’s no time like the present! You know what they say. When in Britain…” Dawn trails off, failing to finish her bit.

You left eyebrow quirks, “Throw dental hygiene standards out the window?”

Her face twists in disgust again as she uncaps a can of Aqua Net. “Gross. Now close your eyes and shut up so I can be done with you.”

The spray sputters, emitting little from it. “Dammnit,” she curses, turning to rummage around her sprawling kit. “Of course, I didn’t pack a spare. I’ll be right back. Hopefully, their hair department has one we can borrow.” 

She rushes from the room in a sweeping motion, knocking over a coffee that was precariously placed on your chair’s armrest in the process.

“Fuck me,” you breathe, jumping up, your white blouse now doused in caffeine.

You hurry to jog out of the room, trying to catch up with her. “Daw- Shit!”

Your face collides with a hard chest.

Two large hands grip your shoulders to stop your momentum. “Oh! Apologies,” comes a light voice from above, muffled by your full head of ringlets. You jerk your head away quickly, and your gaze lands on a pair of startled greyish, green eyes.

“S-sorry,” you stutter out. “Completely my fault.” You glance down to the hands that still rest on your shoulders for a moment before looking back up. The pair of eyes go wide, and the hands quickly retreat back to the man’s side. 

The man being the bassist of Queen, John Deacon. You scold yourself for only having glanced at the day’s detailed itinerary this morning before heading out. How did I miss that one? Sweat begins to gather on your palms immediately.

“John Deacon,” he hesitantly smiles at you while extending a hand.

“Y/N L/N,” you squeak out as his hand engulfs yours, inwardly cringing at how moist it must feel. You hold it for a bit too long. “I’m one of the contestants on Team A today,” you yank your hand back to your side.

His brow knit together. “Oh? I was told I’d be with Nick Rhodes and Jon Moss today.”

You shift your weight uncomfortably from side to side, having yet to meet his eyes again. “Nick had to cancel, I believe. I’m a last-minute replacement.”

“Okay,” he replies with a tight smile. “Well, good then. I hope you’re ready,” he glances down, noticing the stain splashed across your top. “Or, at least close to it...”

“Huh?” you blurt out before realizing, looking down at your shirt. “Oh, yes. The reason I so rudely ran into you. I should go-” your eye catches something as they finally travel back up to his. “Aw, fuck.”

“Pardon?”

You grimace, pointing directly at his chest. Right to the giant imprint on his tight blue shirt. One that had been left by your bright red lipstick.

He follows your finger. “Ah! Will you look at that.”

“I am so, so sorry,” you rush out, absolute mortification seeping into your voice.

He dismisses your apology with a wave of his hand. “Not to worry. That’s what jackets are for,” he says, zipping up the oversized grey jacket slung around his shoulders. “And at least now I know this shade of red really isn’t my colour.”

You smile up at him, not really knowing what else to say—the full weight of your not-so-smooth first encounter with this man hitting you fast, as people squeezed around you two in the tight hallway. “I should go get fixed up,” you tell him, pointing your thumb back over your shoulder towards your dressing room, ready to make a quick exit.

“Alright. I’ll see you out there then. Cheers!” he smiles back with a wave of his hand, turning to find his own space to get ready.

You stand there watching him in a daze, mentally berating yourself for now having had two inappropriate run-ins with a member of Queen.

Dawn materializes into your field of vision, hands-on-hips.

“Honestly, what the hell. I left you alone for two minutes!”

- - - - - - -

20 minutes later, you follow a stagehand through the back of the soundstage, fidgeting with your outfit while trying not to crash into anyone else. Dawn’s top that she quickly switched with your own was cut much lower than you would’ve liked and left you feeling even more exposed than your current bout of nerves did.

You’re dumped onto the set with the point of a finger over to a tall man. Mike Read, the host of Pop Quiz, stands by a large desk, crew members bustling around him. You stick to your spot out of the way, not sure if to interrupt the conversation he’s currently having to introduce yourself. 

You take in the spacious stage, never having been on a show of this size before. A wave of longing suddenly washes over you, yearning for days on set where you were a part of the crew that moved around you. While at school, you’d worked on several student films, usually as a 1st Assistant Director or Line Producer. You loved the pace of production. Keeping everyone on time, on budget. It was where you felt most confident. While there were a variety of different types of personalities on set, you found it exhilarating to be the one to settle disputes and help everyone stay on track. Your subtle superpower of putting out little fires everywhere you went. Never had it crossed your mind that you’d be on the other side of the camera one day.

“A change of wardrobe, I see,” a voice says from behind you, pulling you out of your daydream. You turn to catch John’s smirk, his eyes trained intentionally on your own.

“It would appear so,” you reply, glancing down at yourself quickly.

“Have you been introduced to Mike yet?”

“Nope. I was working up the courage,” you admit.

“C’mon,” he gestures for you to follow him as he strolls towards the man. “He doesn’t bite.” You follow, trailing behind his long strides as he daintily weaves between the many bodies in your path.

“John!” Mike exclaims as you both approach. “Good to see you, mate,” he claps him on the back.

“You too. Thanks for having me back,” John greets him cheerily. “And look, I brought a present. All the way from America, I’m assuming. Mike, this is--”

“Y/N L/N!” Mike says, a genuine smile forming. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that we fit you in.”

“Oh, thank you. I’m excited to be here,” you mumble as he brings you in for a hug.

“Can I just say, your video for Heart of the Night is absolutely outrageous. I thought my eyes were going to pop out my head when I’d learnt that MTV in the States had aired it,” he laughs. “Daring stuff, really.”

You feel a heat creeping up your neck as you try to accept the compliment. “Yeah, thanks. Glad to hear that you’re all a bit more relaxed in terms of watching the explicit murder of a teenage girl on your screens.” You immediately wince at your own bluntness.

You can’t help but peek over at John, curious if he’d seen the violent clip now making its rounds across UK television sets everywhere. He’s staring at you with eyebrows raised and his mouth hanging open slightly. 

Great. He thinks I’m a lunatic.

“We certainly are!” Mike chuckles. “Have you been briefed on the logistics of how the taping will go?”

“Mhmm, I got the rundown from one of your producers.”

“Excellent. Well, you’ll be in good hands with John here heading your team,” he says, slinging an arm around the man’s shoulders and adjusting his large glasses with the other.

Good hands indeed, you think to yourself, remembering how large they felt when they gripped your shoulders earlier. No, stop that, you scold yourself.

“We’ll be getting started in just a few minutes if you’d both like to find your seats. And you’ll have to regale me with the gory details from that shoot of yours afterward,” he winks, gesturing towards your spots for the show. You turn to follow John to your side of the set.

“Oh, and Y/N!” Mike calls out. “I do hope you’re good. Deacon got absolutely spanked last time he was on.” You bring your hand up to your face to stifle your giggle. John makes a show of rolling his eyes but keeps walking. You notice his face is now tinged a lovely shade of pink.

“You must think I’m daft,” he says, turning to you slightly.

“Me? Oh no, I’m sure we’ll do great!” you reply, a bit too happily.

“No, no, not that,” he laughs lightly, his hand finding the back of his neck. “For not recognizing you during our... colourful meeting in the hallway. It seems you and your band left quite the impression on our dear Freddie.”

“Oh! That’s nice to hear. You can tell him he left quite the impression on us as well, but I’m sure he makes an impression on most everyone,” you shrug. “And don’t worry about it, please. It’s not as if I’m a part of the biggest band in Britain or anything,” you tease. He smiles shyly. You catch the crinkles on the outer corners of his eyes before he turns them downwards.

You reach the long table on your designated side of the studio. There’s one on the other side mirroring it, with three somewhat familiar faces already sitting behind it. You glance at the empty seats before you, moving hesitantly towards them until John pulls out the closest chair, gesturing for you to sit. He gingerly pushes it under you as you lower yourself down.

“Thanks,” you mumble. He nods and moves to sit beside you.

There’s a loud bang to your right, causing you both to jump and look to the source; a large Grip gingerly picks up the c-stand he’s knocked over. John hovers above his chair, watching on as a producer shouts at the poor man, his waist now at your eye line.

You had never understood the fascination with men’s butts. That is, until now. The tight jeans John had on left little to the imagination. As if that would stop you. You shake your head back and forth as if to clear your thoughts. All of Dawn’s talk earlier must have you seriously whacked out.

“Are you alright?” John asks, now situated in his seat.

“Hm?” you break out of your daze. “Yes, fine. It’s just- I haven’t done anything like this,” you gesture to the large room teeming with various crew and a studio audience, “before, on my own. Usually we’re all together, and I’m slightly less charismatic than the rest of them, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I would tell you that it’ll get easier, but I still feel like I’m rubbish without my lot as well,” he sympathies. “And I happen to find you quite charismatic as you are,” he adds softly. “You certainly had Mike going back there.”

“Oh boy,” a voice huffs from the other end of the table, drawing away John’s attention. You’re thankful for the distraction, finding yourself at a loss for words due to his comment, coupled with your previous thoughts.

“I see you two actually arrived on time, ya goodie-two-shoes,” the flamboyant man complains as he plops into the third and final seat at the table.

“Jon, welcome. Good to see you,” John acknowledges, shaking the man’s hand.

“And who’s this little thing at the end, then?” he points at you.

John’s expression turns slightly sour at the informal greeting directed towards you. “This is Y/N L/N of Lo & The…” he struggles to remember, “Legs?”

You bark out a laugh. “The Limbs. But The Legs sounds better actually.” You share a smile, holding onto John’s eyes even though it makes your insides flip.

An outstretched hand is shoved past his body. “Jon Norris. Drummer. Culture Club.” You accidentally brush John’s arm as you move to return the handshake, not missing how he jumps a bit at the contact. “Pleasure,” reply, tearing your eyes away.

The drummer retracts his hand, settling back to swing his shoes up onto the table. “I’m glad to have a bird on the team, actually. Maybe we’ll get a few extra points thrown our way for that tiny top of yours,” he smirks, not even glancing over in your direction.

You look down at your slightly exposed chest, but the color red quickly clouds your vision. John sucks in a breath as he sits up straight in his chair. “That’s a bit ru-,” he starts in an annoyed tone.

But you’re quick to cut in, leaning your body forward on the table to lock eyes with Jon, “Actually, we might get docked a few for that obnoxious suit you’ve got on. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that stripes bleed on camera, sweetheart?” you seeth.

He glances down at his bright pink and green striped suit, clearly taken aback by your quick comeback. “N-no…” he falters, shutting up for the moment.

You catch John’s expression, a mixture of confusion and awe while he gapes at you. You lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. Luckily you don’t have much time to stew over the misogynistic comment as the stage manager’s voice rings out a 10-minute warning.

“Just try not to show me up too much, would you?” John whispers, leaning in closer to you. Obviously, trying to lighten your mood.

You give in. “You, sir, are lucky to have me on your team,” you point at him. “Tell me, what’s more important? The scoreboard or your fragile ego?” You’re not sure where your sudden wave of confidence is coming from.

He brings his hand to his chest. “You caught me,” he says, trying to hide his smile. “One could say I’m overcompensating, given who my bandmates are. Roger’s won this twice already, and it only started airing last year. I’ll never hear the end of it if I muck it up again.”

“Well then, I’ll do my best to save your sorry ass, and maybe that one down there too, if he’s lucky,” you tease. 

Great. Now I’m thinking about his ass again. Fuck you, Dawn.

“If you’d be so kind,” he says before turning his attention elsewhere, content to watch the happenings around him until the show’s start. You hear him start to softly hum to himself, not able to place what the tune is.

You try not to watch him out of your peripherals for the next few minutes, hardly even noticing your lack of nerves as the studio audience starts cheering.

- - - - - - -

“And to end out round one, we have Adam Ant’s team with 3 points. And with a slight lead, John Deacon’s team with 4.” The studio audience erupts in a deafening cheer. “That’ll bring us into round two, which will be a team question. John, your team to go first,” Mike directs from his desk in the center of the set.

John lightly taps his pencil against the notepad in front of him, the current tight score starting to bring about his competitive side. He peeks over to check on his teammates. Y/N looks like a radiating ball of energy. Her feet are tucked up under her on the chair as she hunches forward, pencil already hovering while her teeth chew on the eraser. To his right, Jon doodles away, drawing exaggerated characachers of select members of the studio audience.

“Right, question coming to you in a moment, but first here’s the band, The Band.”

A large monitor towards the front of the set comes to life with a clip from their concert film, The Last Waltz. The chair to his left gives a loud squeak as Y/N begins to scribble furiously as if already knowing the question before it’s been given.

“Here’s a clip from The Last Waltz, The Band’s famous taped last concert. Please name 10 of the 20 rock legends that joined them on stage that night.”

John’s face scrunches in concentration, trying to recall the recording of it that he’d listened to many times before. He writes down the first few that come to mind, struggling to get past 6 names that he’s sure were present.

“Bloody American bands and they’re American friends,” Jon says, shoving his own piece of paper into John’s view. It has 4 names on it, 3 of which John already has down.

“They’re Canadian,” John replies, transferring the extra name to his paper.

“What?”

“The Band. They’re from Canada, I believe. At least most of them are.” Jon shrugs as the clip fades out, their minute of deliberation up.

“Alright, that was The Band with a famous clip from The Last Waltz. If you’d please, John, name 10 of the acts that accompanied them that night.”

A sheet of paper smoothly glides in front of his, Y/N’s messy scrawl covering it with 10 names hastily jotted down. He raises his eyebrows to her, but she just nods at the paper, urging him to read it.

He starts, completely disregarding his own list. “Erm, yes, we have Eric Clapton, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Dr. John, Van Morrison, Ronnie Hawkins, Neil Young, Bobby Charles” he struggles to read the small scribbling, almost illegible. “Um, Muddy Waters? Yes. And Neil Diamond.”

John lets out a breath, silently praying that the young girl beside him is as bright as she seems.

“Right you are! 10/10,” Mike exclaims. “For a bonus point, can you name the two artists that recorded pre-taped performances with them for the film as well?”

“Uh…” John glances at Y/N for support. She shoves another scrap of paper to him. Emmylou and Staples the only thing written on it.

“Emmylou Harris and The Staples Singers?” he answers, more like a question.

“Wonderful, a full 4 points to you all.”

He watches as a deep grin breaks onto Y/N’s face as she finally reclines. She looks over to him, a bit proud of herself, he thinks, as the other team begins their own round of questioning.

He’s quite intimidated by the American next to him if he’s being honest with himself. Her anxious demeanor seemed to have vanished into thin air once the game started, tackling each question thrown at their team with a hungry reverence. But her laugh is what keeps him on edge the most. It’s brash and full, consistently breaking him from his determined concentration to send a confusing jolt through his body each time.

“While your knowledge reigns superior, your handwriting leaves something to be desired,” he whispers in jest, not being able to help himself. She simulates a shocked expression as she leans over to look at her own paper that sits in front of him.

Her accent is thicker as she returns his whisper, “What ya tawking about?” She moves her eyes closer to examine, her shoulder bumping his. “That clearly says Muddy Waters.” Her hair hovers below his chin, almost tickling his stubble. It smells of something citrusy and light. 

“Y’ smell lovely,” he sighs, almost inaudibly.

“Hm?” she questions, bringing her body back into her own seat.

“E-ever-ly,” He stumbles out, still quietly. “I thought it read it as the Everly Brothers at first,” hoping to god his bad save is enough.

She snorts. “You sure you didn’t leave your glasses at home? Would’ve thought you’d bring them to something like this.”

He quickly fixes the flustered look on his face, “Hm, glasses aren’t conducive to my rockstar type of lifestyle. Take Rog, for instance. Always wearing those bloody prescription sunglasses indoors, looking like an absolute git.”

She lets out that sharp laugh again, immediately covering her mouth, embarrassed at the thought of interrupting the other team. “I’ll have to watch out for that. Eat my carrots, all that nonsense,” she answers softly. If Brian were here, he’d ramble on about how there’s no scientific evidence of that or some bollocks, he thinks to himself.

“Let us hope my ears are in far better condition. Then you won’t have to keep, how did you put it, saving our sorry asses?” She smiles down into her lap and bites her lip. Oh hell, don’t do that.

Mike is now wrapping up with the other team. “No, I’m sorry. Their other top 10 hit was “So You Win Again. 3 points it is.” He once again turns his attention back over to John’s team. “Moving on to our third round, we have individual questions. Y/N, we’ll start with you. Here’s the hit Then You Can Tell Me Goodbye. Please name the artists you hear in order.”

The sound bites begin, and Y/N is once again bent over her paper as she listens, brow furrowing. John identifies the first two singers instantly but is at a loss for the third, making him grateful the question isn’t his. The clips fade out.

“Y/N?”

“I think it was Glen Campbell.”

“Correct.”

“Johnny Nash.”

“Good. Last one?”

“And... Bettye Swann?”

“Yes, top job! Known for her R&B hit Make Me Yours. I’ll give you a bonus if you can tell me who the song was sung by originally,” Mike counters.

“The Casino’s,” she says confidently.

“No, I’m sorry. I’ll give you one more chance.”

John realizes she was probably too young or not even born yet when the original was released. He slyly slides closer to her. “Don Cherry,” he mumbles lowly, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

“Don Cherry?” she shouts as if to cover up his assistance.

“Yes, John Deacon, you’re right. It is Don Cherry. The point is yours for at least attempting to be subtle,” Mike laughs. Y/N shyly smiles over at him, silently thanking him for his help. 

John and Jon mostly breeze through their questions with ease, racking up a hefty amount of points in favor of their team before turning over to the others. He takes a sip of water as he smugly watches on.

“Glad to know my own ass is in good hands if it’s ever in need of saving again,” Y/N quietly comments. He chokes lightly on his water as an image flashes quickly through his mind. John racks his brain for a reply, but only overtly cheeky responses come to mind.

“Anytime,” he manages, afraid to catch her eyes. She lets out a light giggle, starkly different from her usual roar. It sends a warmth of color to his cheeks. 

Intriguing, he thinks, silently hoping that he’ll get the chance to hear it again.

[discopiratetanis]

Prompt: 12. I think I love you 

Words: 5012

Prompt list

Read on Ao3

Ko-fi

This prompt it’s longer than I expected to be, it got out of hand. But I am happy that I could write this much! So @leavemeintheocean​ this is for you, I hope you like it and it is romantic enough!  ♥️♥️♥️

There are some musical references but I’m not an expert, so I’m sorry for any mistake about it. 

(Again I have no beta for this 😔)

The ballroom was full of couples dancing. The music was so lively and vibrant that even Geralt of Rivia, the lonely and gruff witcher, was keeping up the rhythm tapping his fingers on his crossed arms and goblet of wine. It was unconscious, he wanted to thought, but the truth was that he was enjoying the music because it was Jaskier who was playing it.

The bard was in his element, confident, cocky, arrogant. Geralt could say he had smiled twice in half a minute when Jaskier had won a music duel for the fourth time that evening. Maybe his friend couldn’t do magic properly said but he could enchant an entire court of nobles used to the most refined songs in all the North Kingdoms only with his voice and chords.

If real magic didn’t exist, then that would be magic.

Geralt was leaning on one of the marble columns, almost hidden in the shadows under the gallery arches that surrounded the room. It didn’t matter how many times Jaskier dragged him to those parties, he never fully liked it. It wasn’t his territory, it was Jaskier’s. If he was there in the first place was only because the queen of Lyria and Rivia wanted to show him off, make herself look more important than she really was because a famous witcher chose her kingdom’s name as last name years and years ago. She was lucky his master didn’t let him use the first name that he came up with.

At least you’ll have food and drinks for free, Jaskier had said when they arrived at the castle, patting his arm, trying to encourage him.

At least, yes, he didn’t want to be sober all night.

A few ladies, the bravest or the most pretentious, he couldn’t tell the difference, had tried to get him to dance time to time but he always declined their proposals with a polite apology. They always pouted but left him alone after two or three negatives masked with flattery. After all the ladies’ attempts, Geralt always glanced at Jaskier, finding out that the bard was also looking at him, with a funny smile spread on his lips and almost laughing.

Every fucking time.

And Geralt always reacted to that smile with a resigned frown and a sip of his wine, just because that made Jaskier laugh in the end. And one of the few things that could help Geralt endure what was left of the party was to see Jaskier laughing. To see his bright, pure and precious smile even if it was at his own expense.

He could say he didn’t know when he had started to think like that, and it would be a blatantly lie. He knew that one day he had woken up, (and Geralt would always deny it, but he remembered that day perfectly.) he had seen Jaskier smile during breakfast and had felt something. Something that made him take a deep breath and look at him in silence when Jaskier was distracted. Something that made him softer around him, something that made him lend Jaskier all the blankets at night (because Jaskier was human and…), to put a hand on his forehead if the bard had nightmares and use Axii to calm him down.

Something that made him want to make Jaskier smile and laugh, want to make him feel safe and sound. Appreciated. Admired. Respected.

Loved.

Geralt grunted, drinking all remains of his wine and gave the goblet to a maid that was passing by. His head was fuzzy already, buzzing with all those thoughts.

The last song was a fast and wild string strumming, the sixth or seventh duel between bards. Of course, Jaskier the Songbird was the winner. Again. The crowd, including the royal family, burst into thunderous applause and shouts. Geralt hissed and frowned a little, overwhelmed by the commotion. That was partially the reason he always was a distant bastard in parties, as much as he could and as much the social code allowed him to be without looking an ungrateful guest. He watched Jaskier bathing in praises and compliments, in claps in the shoulder and gifts from some of the court’ ladies, and licked his teeth. He began to feel that something again, warm and cozy, before it transformed in somewhat much more green and monstrous.

Geralt had to take a long breath and close his eyes. He took another breath and exhaled it slowly, thinking on that day, that winter morning when Jaskier smiled and he felt that something for the first time. When he opened it, the bard was walking at a steady pace towards him, making his way through the dancers and the musicians who were still congratulating him. Jaskier was radiant, and Geralt thought he was beautiful even if he was heated, had his forehead pearly with sweat and his cheeks red. The something warm ate the somewhat green and monstrous, and made Geralt curved a slight smile while watching Jaskier almost rushing to him.

“Geralt!” Jaskier was breathless. He had his lute well held under his arm “Have you seen it? Gods, I thought I was going to run out of air.”

Jaskier tugged his doublet’ collar and untied three buttons. Geralt slid his eyes down his neck, tilting his head a little.

“I saw it, and I heard it,” he said. Jaskier huffed. “Good job, Songbird.”

Even with all the noise, with all the sounds surrounding him, Geralt could hear Jaskier’s heart beating faster than before and smell his happiness. Jaskier smiled and looked away from a second. The witcher knew there was coy in his eyes. If Jaskier was radiant before, now he was glowing like the sun at his summer’ zenith.

“Thank you,” Jaskier replied, looking up at Geralt, and frowned a little with guilt. “I know you don’t like being at these parties.”

Geralt felt how his own expression went soft.

“Well,” he said. “It’s not that terrible. As you always say there’s free food, free drinks, sometimes good company…”

“Oh?”, Jaskier raised his eyebrows and looked around. Geralt bit his inner cheek while Jaskier wasn’t looking and shook slightly his head with denied. His face went flat and serious when Jaskier looked at him again, this time suspicious. “But I’ve seen you rejecting all the ladies who wanted to dance with you?”

It was Geralt’s turn to raise his eyebrows, letting Jaskier try to figure out what was he had meant. Jaskier stared at him for a moment, then blinked, confuse. He parted his lips.

"You–”

“Jaskier!”

Jaskier turned around. A woman with a fiddle in her hands approached them, also heated and exhilarated. Geralt threw her a look, smelling her enthusiasm. She was young, long blonde hair, big green eyes, freckles… She was more girl than woman actually, with her cute golden dress that matched with all the other bards’ golden clothes.

“Lena,” Jaskier greeted with a smile.

The girl, Lena, glanced at Geralt, curious (and he noticed that curiosity was genuine and had no malice), but looked at Jaskier immediately after. Geralt watched them in silence, waiting.

“Prince Marek wants us to play The Sun and Moon Waltz so he can dance it with his wife, we need you to guide us.”

Jaskier snorted, smiling.

“You need me or you wanted me to?”

“Well…”

Geralt snorted too. The girl looked like she was caught drinking ale when she was told not to do it. Suddenly, Geralt thought Lena must have been a few years older than Ciri, and that thought made him feel… remorseful. Only a little. Only for a moment.

“Please?” Lena begged, almost hugging her instrument. “You are the best of us, no one can play music and sing as you do it.”

Jaskier turned towards Geralt, inflated with pride.

“See? Someone knows the truth, Geralt of Rivia,” he said, triumphantly. Geralt rolled his eyes. Lena didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or not. “I don’t know, darling,” he said to her. “I think I need a break, at least for the next half hour.”

“Oh, but–”

“You can ask Betricze, she’s the composer, no?”

“Betricze is the one who wants you to lead us, in fact. She said that you would want to inflate more of your ego.”

Jaskier groaned and Geralt thought it was an excellent imitation of his own grunts. He couldn’t help to smile.

“Of course she said that,” Jaskier mumbled. Then he sighed, resigned. Geralt didn’t need his witcher senses to know his friend didn’t want to return with the other bards yet. “Give me a moment, I–”

“Tell that lady that Jaskier will not play that song with you.” Geralt interfered, his voice low and harsh but calm. He straightened and took one step ahead slowly, circling Jaskier’s waist with his arm. He felt the bard going stiff, his heartbeat faster than before, his scent spiced with nervousness. Geralt held his breath. “Tell her that the witcher wants his bard with him after all night waiting and if she has a problem with that she can go fuck herself.”

Lena blinked, gripping her fiddle, and nodded with no words, flustered, face red. Geralt wanted to laugh. The girl turned on her heels and trotted to the gang of bards that were watching them from the other side of the ballroom. Geralt watched them in return with that scary face he knew he could do, pressing Jaskier back against his chest.

“Uh, Geralt–” the bard mumbled.

“Wait,” Geralt hissed.

He located that woman, Betricze, and locked eyes with her. She was older than Lena, mature. Geralt smiled fiercely when she frowned and huffed at him in the distance, starting to prepare the rest of the bards.

The somewhat green and monstrous barked a laugh and retreated.

Then Geralt realized that Jaskier was trembling. And he let him free.

The something warm didn’t want him to do it.

“I’m sorry if I got you in trouble. I felt you didn’t want to go with them,” he murmured.

“Hm, yes, well, you are right,” Jaskier cleared his throat, fiddling with his collar and the fourth button, not looking at Geralt at all. “Thank you. But I’m afraid now they’ll think something that it’s not true.”

“I don’t care about what some bunch of bards thinks about us while that doesn’t affect you.”

Jaskier grinned and when Geralt saw that pretty little smile in his lips, that something warm roared victoriously.

“That’s very kind of you, Geralt.”

Jaskier looked up, looked at him, and Geralt lost himself in his blue eyes, his pretty bright eyes full of passion and untold feelings. It was a moment but he felt it like a century as if time has stopped, with Jaskier in front of him and Geralt ready to set that something free. But then a soft melody began to sound and Jaskier looked away, distracted.

Geralt sighed.

The guests gradually moved away from the center of the room to form an oval space, wide enough for a couple could dance. Geralt saw the prince, a young man with black hair and blue and silver clothes, taking his wife, a very elegant woman with a long and puffy dark blue dress, to the center of that space. They bowed to each other and started to dance, slowly. The song was only instrumental, and only with strings instruments.

The crowd watched the couple dancing in a silence broken with sighs and aws of joy.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Jaskier whispered.

Geralt noticed Jaskier had left his lute on a table near them. The bard was much calmer now and had caught his breath finally. But he was still blushing.

Tell him, tell him, said the something warm.

“The song?” Geralt asked.

“Yes, of course the song, Geralt,” Jaskier chuckled and threw him a doubtful glimpse.

“I suppose, yes,” Geralt replied. “I’m not an expert.”

Jaskier crossed his arms then, smiling.

“Well, it’s not only beautiful, but it’s also brilliantly written.”

Geralt knew that Jaskier wanted to be asked about it, so he indulged him.

“How’s that?”

“It’s not for the technical aspects, though I could tell you about all the details of it if you want. It has wonderful arrangements and the harmony it’s a masterpiece itself.”

Geralt chuckled. In the oval area, the prince made his wife turn on herself two times, then he took her hand and moved two steps to the right, and turned around with her after. They were smiling, and giggling sometimes. They looked happy, comfortable with each other, in love.

In love.

Geralt slightly licked his lips and felt… strange, as if his guts had shrunk and something tightened his throat. It felt as if he had a big rock on his back, a sword sunk in his chest. He swallowed and felt it as if he had a heavy lump stuck.

“I think I’m not the best person to appreciate those things,” he mumbled, and in some way, he sounded a little sad.

Jaskier looked at him with a tiny sweet smile and said:

“Don’t worry, that’s not the most interesting. Not for the no bards, at least,”

“Then?”

“There are two main melodies, one played by a lute, the other played by a fiddle and each of them has a cortege of the same instruments playing their respective chorus behind.”

“They wanted you to be the main lute, right?”

“Yes, in fact, it’s the true main instrument. It represents the Moon in the story.”

“Oh?” Geralt tilted his head a little, still watching the couple dancing. “So, the fiddle it’s the Sun.”

“Yes,” Jaskier nodded. “The two melodies are entangled, its harmony it’s the same, but the lute plays in a minor key and the fiddle in a major key.” Jaskier went silent for a moment. Then he spoke again, and Geralt sensed a melancholic note in his voice. “The story tells you that the Moon was in love with the Sun, but the Sun never noticed, so the Moon started to appear in the sky when it was daytime, glowing with part of the Sun’s shine to attract its attention.” Geralt looked at Jaskier and saw his distant and sad look. The sunken sword in his chest hurt him more. “The Sun continued no noticing the Moon was there, day after day after day. And the Moon felt despair and disappear. Then, during a sunset, the Sun finally thought: ‘Where is the Moon? Why isn’t it here with me?’, and felt despair too.”

Geralt swallowed once more, hard. He felt as if a claw had removed the sword and stuck in his chest, trying to tear his heart out.

“How it ends?” he asked in barely a whisper.

He sensed Jaskier beside him getting tense, his heart beating fast again, and that even he almost had tears in the corner of his eyes. The bard cleared weakly his throat.

“The Sun went on a long journey to search for the Moon– Oh, they are playing that part now, look.”

Geralt threw a glance at the couple. The princess, with her puffy dress floating like a cloud, was dancing alone near one of the extremes of the oval space. The prince, dancing alone too, was slowly approaching his wife with short and errant steps, pretending being lost without her. Then, when they met, the music exploded in a new sweet fanfare and the dancers turned on themselves without an inch between them, without tearing their eyes from the other. The prince made his wife turned around three more times. The princess took two steps back, two steps ahead, to her husband. The music began to fade. The couple slowly stopped dancing. They bowed to each other again, then they started clapping. The crowd imitated them.

“So the Sun found the Moon and they were happily ever after?” Geralt said while all the nobles and guests surrounded the bards to congratulate them. Jaskier nodded without words, smiling, but Geralt knew it was a weak and fake smile. “And it’s brilliant because… ?”

Jaskier snorted, then he shook his head.

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied.

“It’s important to you, don’t you,” Geralt faced Jaskier.

Jaskier looked at him, his smile vanishing bit by bit and said:

“You are indulging me a lot lately,”

Geralt shrugged. The claw tore flesh. The something whimpered.

“Do you want me to be the grumpy witcher as always?” he replied.

Jaskier shook his head, again with no words. Geralt watched him in silence too, knowing the bard wasn’t going to tell him why the song was beautiful and brilliant in his opinion. And he knew it was because Jaskier thought the Sun hadn’t noticed him.

But that wasn’t true.

The bards began to play another song, one much more lively, and some of the nobles began to dance it. Jaskier looked away and picked up his lute from the table, clearing his throat for the third time.

“I should go back. If the queen catches me wandering so much she won’t pay me,” he said with a resigned and tired sigh. He didn’t look at Geralt. And Geralt felt bad. “See you later?”

He was about to go when Geralt grabbed his arm softly. Jaskier looked up and blinked, confused. Geralt frowned, also confused, and parted his lips as if he was going to say something. The witcher hesitated.

“Geralt–”

Just for a second.

“Don’t. Wait,” he said. No. He begged. “I… I have noticed you.”

Jaskier blinked again, still confused.

“What are you talking about?” he said, frowning too.

Geralt held his breath, dragging his fingers along Jaskier’s arm until he touched the wrist. He wasn’t good with words, Jaskier was. It wasn’t fair.

“I… “ he mumbled and closed his eyes for a second, indecisive.

Tell him, TELL HIM, groaned the something warm and cozy, now afraid, terrified. He opened his eyes. Jaskier was still looking at him, now somewhat skeptical. Geralt gulped and felt the lump bigger than before, the rock heavier than ever. Jaskier sighed.

“Geralt, let–”

“I think I love you.”

It was as if the time had stopped again. Or as if he suddenly went deaf. The music, the chatter, the voices, the laughs, all of it faded away gently. There was a loud heartbeat in all that silence, and Geralt knew it was his own. It was slow, agonizing, desperate. Jaskier tilted his head, surprised, and then said something that Geralt never thought he could say to him after he confessed somewhat like ‘I love you’.

“Geralt, are you drunk?”

Geralt felt the rock crushing him, the claw finally ripping out his heart, the tip of the sword at his neck. He let out a deep breath and released Jaskier’s wrist. He didn’t know emotions could hurt so much.

No. He did know but he blatantly chose to ignore it for years.  

“Maybe,” Geralt grunted, suddenly feeling tired, suddenly wanting to be really, really drunk. “Forget it,”

Then the witcher turned around and walked away through the gallery, also feeling stupid and an idiot. Behind him, Jaskier’s voice rumbled with a perplex echo along the corridor, calling him.

But Geralt didn’t listen and didn’t stop.

* * *

The gardens were empty, with all the guests inside the castle in general and the ballroom in particular. The moon was in its first quarter and shed a pale silver light over the trees and the small lake that was surrounding the fortress. Geralt thought it was ironic that it was him the one contemplating that view, the flowers on the shore, the ducks in the water, the fireflies floating everywhere as if he was a damsel with a broken heart because her beloved did not return her feelings. But he was not a damsel, nor his beloved did not correspond his feelings.

That was what pissed him off the most.

Jaskier, in fact, did return his feelings. Geralt was aware of how the bard looked at him, how he smiled at him, and he knew why he sang those songs about him, why he touched him with so much care, why he followed him with such insistence despite the danger of the witcher’s life, why he helped him the way he did.

He knew why.

And he understood why Jaskier thought Geralt must be drunk if he was saying that he loved him. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt anyway.

I suppose I deserve it, he thought, that was reckless and stupid, and out of time and–

Geralt let out a deep sigh. He was sitting near the lakeshore, in the shadow of the castle, with an almost empty bottle of wódka stoled from the kitchens. He wanted to be drunk, wanted to forget his stupidity, but his metabolism burned the alcohol before it could take effect. He thought about Jaskier, who probably was having fun without thinking or worrying about what had happened. He thought (no, he knew) that they probably will not talk about it in the morning or in the several following days.

Not if it depended on Geralt.

And that pissed him off too.

Geralt drank the last remains of the wódka and left the bottle on the grass and clicked his tongue with a grunt. Suddenly he heard the steps, distant and careful steps, and the whispers. Three persons, one male, two females. He could smell them, they were nervous. At first, Geralt thought they were nobles who wanted to have fun behind the bushes, but then he smelled the buttercups and the daisies and…

And there was music too.

Geralt looked back and saw Jaskier walking towards him. He had his doublet unbuttoned. Geralt frowned a little, more confusing than angry. Behind the buttercups, the daisies and the nervousness, he smelled hope. He got up slowly, just when Jaskier reached him. The bard had a cautious and eager expression. His eyes were of a deep blue that resembled the blue of the water illuminated by the moonlight. Geralt blinked, not knowing what to say exactly. Jaskier offered him his right hand. Geralt sighed.

“Jaskier…”

“Please, Geralt,” Jaskier mumbled, and Geralt smelled guilt. He took his hand, feeling it warm and a little sweaty. Geralt put his own right hand on Jaskier’s waist while Jaskier put his left hand on Geralt’s right shoulder. Something inside Geralt melted and whimpered. Jaskier held his breath and swallowed. “Do you remember the dance?” he asked, again with a whisper.

For a second, Geralt didn’t know what he meant, but then he listened to the music and recognized it.

It was that waltz.

The Sun and Moon Waltz, specifically the part where the Sun was looking for the Moon and then they met again. Geralt shook his head weakly, feeling his gut hot, like a wasp’s nest. Jaskier smiled, softly.

“It’s alright, you have seen it once,” he said. “I didn’t expect it.”

Jaskier began to dance. Geralt followed his lead. Well, actually saying that they were dancing was saying a lot. They were swinging more than dancing, slowly, sometimes clumsily.

But it was enough.

He had Jaskier in his arms, it was more than enough.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, after minutes and minutes of heavy silence. “I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously before. I can’t believe you told me what I had been wanting to hear for so long and that I disdained it that way,” Geralt squeezed his fingers gently. “I’m so dumb…”

“You are not dumb,” Geralt sighed, in a mutter. “You had the rights to think I was drunk,” He licked his lips slightly. “I’m sorry I storm off like that.”

“No, no, it’s okay, really,” Jaskier wasn’t looking at him directly. “If it had happened the other way around, I would be walking in circles whining like a child, and I would be thinking of writing a thousand songs about my broken heart.”

Geralt huffed with a tiny smirk.

“Well, I was not thinking about writing songs, but I was here trying to get myself true drunk if that comforts you.”

Jaskier looked at him finally. Geralt saw and smelled guilt again, saw the tears in the corner of his eyes.

“It doesn’t comfort me… I’m sorry,” Jaskier said.

Geralt knew Jaskier was about to cry. So he released his hand and stroked his cheek with his thumb.

“No, no, my little bird, don’t cry.”

Jaskier leaned into the touch, smiling, and put his free hand on the other shoulder, almost circling Geralt’s’ neck. They were still swinging slowly, pretending to be dancing the waltz. Geralt breathed in.

And then he heard them.

But idiot, just kiss him already

Please, ma’am, he is going to hear us

I don’t fucking care, girl, I’m tired of men incapable of doing romance properly

I think they are doing it right?

He stopped dancing.

And when he did it, the music faded, Jaskier huffed and hid his face in Geralt’s chest. Geralt patted his head.

“Alright, you can go out, you two!” he called.

Instantly, two figures appeared from behind a tree not so far, one carrying a lute and the other carrying a fiddle.

“Lady Lena, lady Betricze.” he greeted.

He saw how Betricze wrinkled her nose.

“Oh, don’t call me that, witcher,” she replied, clearly disgusted in general with the situation.

Beside her, Lena looked much more satisfied and happy. Geralt gave her a tiny nod. Jaskier huffed again and moved aside him, looking undignified and resigned.

“Thank you, Zeze, for breaking the moment, very professional,” he said, bitterly.

Betricze gasped and frowned.

“Oh, excuse me, Pankratz, but I haven’t been the one who screwed up anything, it has been your lover and his… ridiculous hearing.”

Geralt could see her face going red. He wanted to laugh but he snorted, repressing it. Jaskier looked at him in disbelief.

“Geralt, it’s not funny! She promised she would play all the waltz for us, and she didn’t do it.”

“Oh, come on, you weren’t even dancing,” Betricze grunted. “My song was being profaned with those pathetic moves.”

“Oh, yes? I’ll show you something very, very, profaned,” Jaskier began to roll up his sleeves.

Geralt caught him by the waist with one arm and made him stepped back.

“Alright, ladies, I think you can go now, thank you for the music, I owe you a favor,” he said.

Jaskier squirmed in his arm. Betricze smiled triumphally and turned around, going away. Lena sighed and began to follow her.

“Don’t, Geralt, you don’t owe her anything!” Jaskier exclaimed, frustrated.

Betricze made a rude sign to him and laughed. Jaskier grunted. Lena, still following the older woman, looked back and shouted:

“I think you make a great couple!”

Jaskier rolled his eyes but grinned a little.

“Thanks, Lena!” he replied.

“Can I write a song about you two?!”

Geralt snorted again. Jaskier grumbled.

“No, Lena!”

Geralt knew that No, Lena had an implied He is mine, don’t sing about him. For some reason, he thought that was cute. He let go of Jaskier gradually.

“What if I write it with other names?!”

“Go away, Lena!”

Lena giggled in the distance and ran behind Betricze. Jaskier, shaking his head, put his hands on his hips, still annoyed. Then looked at Geralt, who seemed about to laugh finally.

“What?” Jaskier inquired, displeased.

“Nothing,” Geralt replied, amused. “Bards.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Geralt didn’t respond. He cupped Jaskier’s face with both hands, gently, and kissed him, also gently. Jaskier whined, kissing him back, circling his neck with his arms and pressing, almost rubbing, himself against the witcher. Geralt let out a harsh groan, a rough grunt, and bit Jaskier lower lip carefully, making him moan against his mouth. Geralt pulled away just enough to breath and rested his forehead on Jaskier’s. Jaskier was panting a little and had his pupils wide and huge. He smiled, laughing softly after. Geralt smiled too, kissing his forehead, kissing his temple.

“Can I ask you something?” Jaskier asked, whispering.

“What is it?” Geralt murmured against his skin.

“Since when?”

Geralt knew he would do that question someday. He didn’t expect it so soon. But well, he couldn’t blame Jaskier after all.

“I don’t remember what day exactly, but I know it was late winter, and we were far away from any village,” he said thinking back about that. “I was doing something beside the fire and then… “

“Then?”

Geralt kissed near his left eye and straightened up, looking at him, and his expression was soft and calm.

“Then I looked at you, I don’t remember what were you doing either, but… I looked at you, and you were smiling, and I thought: I want him to smile like that forever. I want to make him smile like that always.”

“Geralt…”

“And the day after it was something else as if suddenly I could notice all the little things I like about you that I didn’t notice before.” Geralt slid his fingertips alongside Jaskier’s jaw and neck, making him shiver with pleasure. “And then I didn’t know–  No, I didn’t want to acknowledge it was something more than ephemeral, after all these years, that it was…”

Geralt frowned a bit, hesitating, looking for the right words, looking for good words. Jaskier stroked his jaw, watching him with all his sweetness, listening patiently, knowing that talking about emotions was difficult for Geralt.

“It was… ?” he encouraged him.

Geralt took a deep breath, hearing the precious heartbeat of Jaskier, smelling his scent made of buttercups and daisies, gazing at his beautiful, bright and radiant blue eyes, and felt that something finally taking shape in his mind.

“It was love,” he whispered.

And Jaskier breathed in deep too, before grabbing Geralt’s shirt collar and kissed him, trailing his hands and his fingers for all his chest, touching the medallion with devotion. Geralt kissed him back, slow again, feeling the heartbeat going fast, smelling Jaskier like buttercups and daisies but also like fire, wood and oil.

And Love sighed with relief, finally free, finally… at home.

[horansqueen]

Vote For My Next Story

I'll try to keep this short. YOU&ME has ended, and it was a big part of the last few years of my life (along with AM Conversations). It'll probably always be my favorite and best story but that doesnt mean i want to stop writing.

please, know that the oneshots ideas are independent from the story ideas, meaning that i can write a story AND oneshots at the same time so let me know if youre interested!

(click on the read more to read the 10 synopsis of the story ideas I’d like to write)

AM Conversations & YOU&ME ideas:

-oneshots ideas for what happened after the story, before the story, or even in-between chapters in the story. you can send me ANY idea that you would want to read between Liv and Niall or other characters.

-oneshots ideas for any "what if" you can think of (i.e. what if one of them didnt love the other, what if they hadnt seen each other at the bakery, what if Liv had dated Louis, etc)

NEW STORY IDEAS:

NOTES: 

all the ideas are AU. 

 #2 #8 and #9 will include a few of the 1D boys. 

despite the title, #4 is a Niall fic

titles may change

                                   VOTE HERE!!!!

you can also vote by messaging me.

in the form, theres a place for comments but you dont have to leave any

you also dont have to leave your name or anything

thank you if you vote, it means a lot to me!

ill keep this open for a while, until i get enough votes :)

1- UNPREDICTABLE

They haven't seen each other since high school and they hadn't missed each other at all. In fact, they never really could stand each other. Her, a bit of a rebel, listening to punk music, searching for trouble whenever she could... and him, the good boy, popular and loved by everyone, who could rarely be seen without his guitar. It's been a few years already but not many things had changed and they still didn't have anything in common... except one thing. Both of them aspired to become famous with their music. With a twist of fate, they end up in each other's lives again and if they can put aside their resentment for one another, maybe they could bring something incredibly precious to each other. But nothing has ever been uncertain.

This is the story of two opposite persons who share a burning passion that may slowly bring them closer... or make the hatred they already feel for each other even more intense.

2- D.N.A. (daddies now available)

The test was positive. I was pregnant. The problem was, I didn’t know who the father was. It could be my ex boyfriend Liam, his best friend Niall or my best friend Louis. Or maybe it could be that boy I randomly had sex with, Harry... I had no idea and I was not going to find out soon.¸

All I knew was I had to tell four boys that there was a possibility for them to be a daddy in less than a year. Can you just imagine their reaction?

Contrary to all expectations, they accepted their fates.. somehow. And no matter who his daddy was, “little human” was going to get a lot of attention from a lot of men. Exactly like me.

This is my pregnancy story. And it was just the beginning of a long journey.

3- MEANT TO BE

When they first met, Louis was all *MAIN GIRL* ever wanted. However, a decade later the high school sweethearts had change and she felt like most of the sparkles she once had were now gone. Then she met Niall and it clicked instantly and intensely and since then, they’ve been seeing each other in secret, lying to their whole entourage about the nature of their relationship. Feelings started to grow, things started to change, and maybe, just maybe, it’s meant to be. Or maybe not.

A tale of broken hearts, unforgettable love and many… way too many lies.

4- LIVING WITH LOUIS TOMLINSON

Call me Queen Catastrophe. I lost my job, my boyfriend, my best girl friend and my apartment on the same day. Just a little friday afternoon like all the others, right?

Thank god, my best friend Louis was there to save the day. Nothing unusual. I was supposed to crash at his apartment for one night and then walk on my pride and go back to my parents to admit how much of a failure I really am.

However, Louis had other plans : he wanted me to move in with him. That’s when my story really starts. Mutual feelings, drunken sex, grocery shopping, fights that end up with porcelain thrown around the kitchen (I’m an intense person, I know) but most of all, his best guy friend stealing his (our, now) couch at least 5 nights a week.

I despise Niall Horan with all my heart. Him and his stupid charm, his flirty smile and his hands that always ended up in places they shouldn’t. He was threatening to come between Louis and I. He was slowly taking more space in our apartment… and in my heart.

Fuck, I hate Niall Horan with a passion.

5- FOR YOUR LOVE

After months of trying to get pregnant, Niall and his long-time girlfriend found out she was sterile. The news obviously shook their relationship and sparked a few arguments but after a long discussion, they found only one solution : hire a surrogate mother. As days go by, Niall's relationship gets harder and harder to save, and his connection with the surrogate mother of his child becomes tighter. Soon, he gets caught in feelings he can't explain and definitely can't understand. But life is not as easy as just following your feelings.

A story of unsettling feelings, confusing relationships, a deep and strong connection but mostly, decisions impossible to make. Can this really end well?

6- DATING FOR DUMMIES

*MAIN GIRL* has tried blind dates, dating apps, and speed dating to find her soulmate with no good result. Niall has tried pretty much the same without much more success. With all the bizarre, creepy and incompatible persons they meet, they're so close to give up on love until they meet each other through a friend. After a bottle of wine and a long discussion, they start thinking that maybe they were the problem, and that they're too dumb for dating. That's when they decide to make a list of what they individually want and need on a first date and finally decide to try it together. Unfortunately, things rarely go as planned and they will both realize that feelings can't be controlled.

When all else fails, the solution will always be to follow your heart.

7- THE BREAK-UP PLAN

*MAIN GIRL* and Niall's relationship had started when they had barely entered their teenager years. Now, over 10 years later, they feel like something is missing. They didn't know anything else besides each other and it had to change. They still planned on spending forever together but their lack of experiences and mistakes seemed to be an obstacle between them.

They agreed on  break that was not really a break. for six whole months, they would be able to do whatever they wanted to do with whoever they wanted to. Going to parties, leaving for a whole weekend with friends without giving any news, dating and even screwing whoever they wanted, nothing was out of reach.

They only had one rule : honesty. Every friday night, they'd meet and spend the whole night together, talking, making out or just cuddling until they'd fall asleep, to make sure their love was preserved.

Unfortunately, things rarely go as planned and seeing the person you love the most in the world be happy without you is something almost impossible to accept.

A story about angry tears, painful jealousy, sweet sweet revenge and realizing who your real soulmate is. Watch out, it's gonna hurt.

8- HOT MESS

*MAIN GIRL* has always been a bit of a rebel who didn't really care about much. She just enjoyed life the way she wanted to and never really paid attention to anything else. If she wanted something, she did everything she could to get it, no matter who she'd hurt in the process. After a few years away from her hometown, family and friends, she finally comes back to realize that a lot of things have changed. Jumping in her twin brother Liam's life without being invited, she's about to make a mess of everything he had made so much effort to build by flirting with every single one of his friends without any shame. She's not looking for a relationship, she's just looking to have some fun and break a few hearts... but perhaps, she's about to make a mess of her own heart.

Sometimes, you play the game and some other very rare times, the game plays you.

9- 15 Complicated Rules

I have no idea how I got into this mess but somehow, I ended up with 4 different fuck buddies. I thought I was going crazy until I made a strict schedule of the days and time I would see them, and wrote down a few rules I had to respect myself. A useful guide to manege my 4 fuck friends. Monday for my ex boyfriend, tuesday for my co-worker, wednesday for my old best friend and thursday for a family friend. It could work, right?

I've never been much of an organised person but I honestly thought I could make this work. Everything went as planned for a few months until I broke one rule after the other. That's when I knew I was in deep shit. These are my 15 complicated rules to have fuck buddies. And this is the story of my downfall and the incredible mess I put myself into. After all, rule 15 was 'Never Fall In Love' and I guess that's something I couldn't control, even if I wanted to.

10- DISCONNECTED

When *MAIN GIRL* switches college to finally follow her dreams, she was ready to face anything and everything that would come her way. After all, she had been through so much already, right? The problem was, she didn't expect to be stuck in a room with someone who gets on her last nerves because of a paperwork mistake. Despite trying to find an other place to live or spend her time talking to the administration, she had to face the fact that this situation wouldn't change for a few months. Niall knew how to piss her off and he clearly abused that superpower, doing anything and everything he can to annoy the most pretentious and stuck-up person he had ever met. Perhaps fate is having a good laugh, because they seem to get stuck together way more often than not, but it's not until they let down their defense that they will see who the other really is... if that ever happens.

Apparently, some people are in your life to teach you something and make you grow. Perhaps, if you take the time to listen to them and open up to them, your karmic soulmate can turn into your twin flame... or not.

11- NEW ANGEL

When *MAIN GIRL 1* breaks up with Niall, he takes it harder than he thought he would, realizing in the process all the feelings he had for her. After a few weeks locked by himself in his room, his friends take him out on a crazy night and he decides he needs someone else, if only to get over the girl he loves. That’s when he meets *MAIN GIRL 2* and bring her back home.  However, on the next morning, he realizes he doesn't want her to leave, and that despite the feelings he has for *main girl 1*, he could definitely develop something with *main girl 2*. Everything is going amazingly well for a few weeks until what Niall never thought would happen actually happens : *main girl 1* calls him to tell him she regrets leaving him. Now confused and stressed, Niall is going to have to make a choice between the girl he thought he'd spend his life with, and a girl he just met that makes his heart race. And he's going to get help on his journey from someone he would never have thought of.

A story about making choices, creating connections, messy hearts and confusing emotions.

(i have many ideas for this one but i dont want to give everything away!)

[lucienhqs]

( timothee chalamet , cis male , he/him, 24 ) no way ! i swear i saw lucien slater walking down danforth avenue ! i just saw a post about them on 6secrets ! i think it said something like “lucien slater stumbles out of everleigh at 3 am with blonde model”. isn’t that wild ? i guess that makes sense since they’re apparently selfish and flighty. fans will claim that they’re verbose and loyal. i mean , it’s not like i know them personally — they’re a famous actor . whenever i think of them, i think of scripts covered in doodles, half-lit cigarettes, overpriced iced black coffee. i wish i would have asked for an autograph ! ( tay, she/her, 21, est ).

hello everybody i’m super late to the party ( as always ) but i’m just churn this out real quick so i apologize for any mistakes <333 like this or hmu on discord ( taymoney#1820 ) & we can plot something wattpad-worthy. i will also be updating his intro / writing a more comprehensive background later on at some point so i’ll link that later :))))

𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄: lucien reid slater  𝐀𝐆𝐄: twenty-four 𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐂 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍: aries 𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: bisexual 𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: actor ( career claim would be timothee )

-- - 𝑮𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹𝑨𝑳 𝑩𝑨𝑪𝑲𝑮𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑫

okay so his parents are both relatively successful / wealthy 

his father is a prominent figure on bay st. and his mother used to be a famous model

he has duel citizenship in canada and france ( his mother is french ) and he visits paris every fall

because of his parents he kinda always grew up in the spotlight but it definitely got more intense after he started acting

his parents’ marriage was dysfunctional at best. they slept in separate beds, argued constantly, ask lucien and he’ll say they should’ve gotten divorced years ago ( it definitely fucked up his perception of love / healthy relationships )

on top of that his father worked a lot and was emotionally and physically distant -- always on business trips, on a work call, etc.

was always the class clown, loves being the center of attention and making people laugh, always had a passion for theatre.

he was a bit awkward in high-school, he grew into his looks later on

always did very well in school, top of the class, his teachers loved him. 

he was never big into partying until university, in high-school he spent his free time with the company of books 

went to u of t university for theatre 

once he got to university he was suddenly a huge lothario. he was no longer the gawky teen that listened to obscure music and quoted old, dead writers now he was edgy 

kinda went a bit crazy, partied a bunch, slept around a lot, build up a reputation for himself

despite the questionable ~substances~ he consumed he did extremely well and was always in the top 5 students in his program

after university he began his film career & using the money from that & the weekly allowance his parents sent him he got a place in the city 

-- - 𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑺𝑶𝑵𝑨𝑳𝑰𝑻𝒀

idolizes writers like jack kerouac ( toxic manipulator male writers basically ) & that’s definitely reflected in his personality

pretentious af... has a pet fish named charles bukowksi 

unfortunately the fish is about the only thing lucien can commit to. he’s notoriously flighty and petrified of commitment. 

he’s a mega man whore, super full of himself, thinks everyone wants to have sex with him & basically the world revolves around him 

narcissistic, solipsistic, thinks he’s the best actor 

i know i’ve made him sound like trash but underneath that all he’s rlly a softie and just needs someone to be there for him

he’s struggled with drugs / alcohol in the past, has a soft spot for things that intoxicate * why he likes sex and people so much, he likes to get caught up in them but after a while he gets bored and starts looking for the next best thing ( usually cheating )

has an absurd amount of film / literature knowledge like will talk you under the table about poetry, movies, etc.

also a raging ~ atheist ~

-- - 𝑾𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑫 𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑵𝑬𝑪𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑺

his exes: he’s been in a few relationships, all of them seem to end in tears. he’s quite toxic in relationships, extremely possessive and demanding but gets bored easily and can get distant. usually ends up cheating.

fwb: someone he just hooks up with. maybe there’s feelings there that one or both of them are hiding, or maybe it’s simply for fun.

enemy: someone lucien dislikes or someone who dislikes lucien. maybe lucien mocks them, thinks they’re dumb, etc. there’s a lot of reasons for someone to hate him.

close friends: his inner circle, the people he turns to when he needs help. people that know the real him and can look past his fake deep bullshit.

unrequited love: someone he yearns over or someone that years over him give me some ~slow burn~

will they won’t they: always been a bit of sexual tension between them, they’re so close that people always assume they’ve hooked up but they haven’t.... yet

enemy but make it sexual: someone he hates with a passion but is also lowkey super attracted to

miscellaneous: someone he’s worked with in the past, someone he’s met at events and either likes/doesn’t like, someone he hooked up with drunk but barely remembers, family friends, people from when he was younger, maybe friends from university, etc. etc.

[michaelmilkers]

I saw in one of your tags that you mentioned how 21 pilots made emo pretentious and im actually curious about why you say that (not hate i just never knew about them that much)

my friend you have asked me about a topic i am very knowledgeable and very angry about so prepare yourself for what you have wrought

it isnt just twenty one pilots but theyre just the biggest and most popular example

like. take my chemical romance in the early-mid 2000s aka the peak of emo. it was very melodramatic and theatrical, the way emo should be. there was a presence of “we are not like other people” in a lot of the songs, but it was never just that. it was more of a “we have been cast out and we kinda suck but thats okay.” one of the best examples of this is, ironically, i’m not okay.

take, for example, the opening to the mtv music video:

[Ray] You like D&D, Audrey Hepburn, Fangoria, Harry Houdini and croquet. You can't swim, you can't dance and you don't know karate. Face it, you're never gonna make it. [Gerard] I don't wanna make it, I just wanna...

this immediately establishes the song as being about social outcasts and people who dont fit the mold. the fucking tag line of the song is “i’m not okay” ffs, that really tells you all you need to know about the song. but the important thing is it doesnt take itself too seriously either. the music video takes place in a private school, and shows scenes of the band members eating lunch alone, being bullied by jocks and preps, etc., but it ALSO shows scenes of frank putting swim goggles on in chemistry class and ray drawing on his test with a crayon and then licking it, and at the end they all ambush and beat the shit out of a guy in a mascot costume. all of this is cut up by text saying things like “if you ever felt alone” “if you ever felt wronged” “if you ever felt anxious”

do you see the juxtaposition here? the music video could very very easily be a fake deep bullying psa, but its not, because while theyre getting bullied and playing their music in a garage they are also, unequivocally, total fucking losers for obvious comedic effect. it is a very exaggerated and lighthearted version of real phenomena, which makes it more relatable to a wider audience.

the same can be said about the song itself. it has some pretty heavy and angsty lyrics (”i’m not o-fucking-kay”) but the instrumentals are punchy and energetic and catchy and gerard’s vocal delivery is very theatrical but also very deliberate and he still puts real emotion in the words. it sounds like its taking the piss out of not being okay, which is exactly what i as a clinically depressed 13 year old needed, and i bet a lot of other people can say the same. i’m a loser and thats okay. i fucking suck in school and thats okay. i feel shitty and thats okay. i’m not okay and that, in itself, is okay.

with twenty one pilots, on the other hand, there is no theatrics, theres no taking the piss, theres no over-the-top melodrama that made emo what it was. 

take, for comparison, the opening lines of heathens:

All my friends are heathens, take it slow Wait for them to ask you who you know Please don't make any sudden moves You don't know the half of the abuse

and this presents, immediately, one of my biggest criticisms of twenty one pilots: their rampant appropriation of mental illness.

because my first thought when hearing this is as an abuse survivor and someone with ptsd they can kiss every single square inch of my ass.

Welcome to the room of people Who have rooms of people that they loved one day Docked away Just because we check the guns at the door Doesn't mean our brains will change from hand grenades You're loving on the psychopath sitting next to you You're loving on the murderer sitting next to you You'll think, "How'd I get here, sitting next to you?"

they try to do the same kind of nuanced poetic lyrics that my chemical romance did and in my opinion is just doesnt fucking work because they take themselves SO. FUCKING. SERIOUSLY. it sounds JOYLESS. 

and the song closes out with this:

Why'd you come? You knew you should have stayed (It's blasphemy) I tried to warn you just to stay away (Away) And now they're outside ready to bust (To bust) It looks like you might be one of us

this is what i mean by pretentious. there is a clear separation of the person/people from whose point of view the song is told and the people the song is meant to be listened to by from the greater population, but theres no high energy or comedic self deprecation to counteract it. 

now take some lyrics from heavydirtysoul, a song i actually really like the sound of, im not just shitting on this band bc its not to my taste yall:

There's an infestation in my mind's imagination I hope that they choke on smoke 'cause I'm smoking them out the basement This is not rap, this is not hip-hop Just another attempt to make the voices stop

Nah, I didn't understand a thing you said If I didn't know better I'd guess you're all already dead Mindless zombies walking around with a limp and a hunch Saying stuff like, "You only live once." You've got one time to figure it out One time to twist and one time to shout One time to think and I say we start now Sing it with me if you know what I'm talking about

right back at it again with that appropriation of mental illness symptoms! and some dumbass critique of our generation that doesnt fit in with the rest of the song at all, closing out the verse with “we are not like you” shit. the vocal delivery at least has more energy than heathens, but the lyrics just feel like a mishmash of different points theyre trying to make that have nothing to do with each other.

the best line of the song is undoubtedly “death inspires me like a dog inspires a rabbit” but its poetic just... for the sake of being poetic? its one of those lyrics that sounds like someone came up with and was like “bro we gotta put that in a song” but then couldnt actually figure out how to fit it into a song in a way that would flow. another example of this is “i cant drown my demons they know how to swim” in bring me the horizon’s can you feel my heart. not shitting on bring me the horizon, i really like sempiternal, but thats another line thats just poetic for the sake of being poetic. and to be put on t-shirts. i know this because when i was 12 i had a shirt that said “i cant drown my demons they know how to swim” on it.

i could do more analysis on other mcr songs, namely welcome to the black parade and famous last words, but i would be here for literal hours and idk if people actually care that much.

to sum my points up:

they take themselves too seriously. they appropriate and romanticize mental illness (forgot to mention that top’s website, at one time, described their music as “schizoid pop” lol). they pull a lot of “We Are Not Like Other People..,.,.,,...” shit. 

that last point is not inherently a bad thing, for example the new slipknot album is literally called “we are not your kind” but the song that contains that line as a lyric is all out life, and corey taylor is screaming that entire song and the instrumentals are reminiscent of speed metal with how fucking energetic they are. its edgy and its GREAT. twenty one pilots just sounds like they think theyre the shit.

also, and i want you to read the following sentence in a bass boosted voice to best understand how i feel when i say this:

the twenty one pilots cover of cancer is an embarrassment that completely misses the point of the original song and changed it into a weird amalgamation of lo-fi synth pop.

emo music is dead. thank u and goodnight.

[upontheshelfreviews]

And now we come to the final piece of Walt Disney’s original animation trifecta, Fantasia, and it’s one I’m both anticipating and dreading. Fantasia isn’t just one of the crowning jewels in Disney’s canon, a landmark in motion picture animation, and second only to Snow White in terms of influential music and storytelling in the whole medium, it’s one of my top three favorite movies of all time. Discussing it without sounding like an old history professor, a pretentious internet snob, or a hyper Disney fangirl is one hell of a daunting task.

“Did someone say hyper Disney fangirl?! I LOVE Disney!!”

“I thought you only liked Frozen.”

“Well, DUH, Frozen is my favorite, which makes it, like, the best Disney movie ever! But Disney’s awesome! There’s a bunch of other movies I like that are almost as good!”

“And Fantasia’s one of them?”

“Yeah!!…Which one is that again?”

“The one with Sorcerer Mickey?”

“Ohhhh, you’re talking about the fireworks show where he fights the dragon!”

“No, that’s Fantasmic. I’m referring to Fantasia. Came out the same year as Pinocchio? All done in hand-drawn animation…has the big devil guy at the end?”

“THAT’S where he’s from?! Geez, that’s some old movie. Why haven’t I heard about ’til now?”

“Probably because you spend twelve hours a day searching for more Frozen GIFs to reblog on your Tumblr.”

“Ooh, that reminds me! I need to go post my next batch of theories about the upcoming sequel! Toodles!!”

“Thanks. Another second with her and I would’ve bust a gasket.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Anyway, it’s no surprise Sorcerer Mickey is what people remember the most from Fantasia, and not just because he’s the company mascot. “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice” was the reason we have the movie in the first place. It began as a pet project between Walt Disney and renowned conductor Leopold Stokowski.

“Yep. THAT Leopold.”

However, between the upscale in animation and the use of the Philadelphia Orchestra, the cost grew too high to justify the creation of only one short. Over time more sequences featuring animation set to various pieces of classical music were added in what was initially dubbed “The Concert Feature”. Later it was wisely changed to the more memorable “Fantasia”. It works not only because it’s derived from the word “fantasy”, but because “fantasia” is a term for a musical composition that doesn’t follow any strict form and leans towards improvisation. Combine the two meanings and you get the whole movie in a nutshell.

And this leads us to –

Things Fantasia Fans Are Sick of Hearing #1: “It’s SOOOOOO boring! Nobody’s talking and nothing ever happens!”

You know, few recall that decades before Warner Brothers was known as that studio that made rushed prequels to beloved fantasy franchises and a hastily cobbled together superhero universe, it had humble origins in the music business; their Merrie Melodies and Looney Tunes shorts began as music videos made to sell their records. Disney’s Silly Symphonies followed in the same vein, though they focused more on pushing the envelope in animation technique and character resonance than selling music, as did the lesser known Harman-Ising Happy Harmonies.

And if that’s the case, then Fantasia is the Thriller of animated music videos. It’s the result of years of technological advancement and trial and error, all culminating in the flawless weaving together of visuals and some of the greatest music mankind has created to tell seven stories and elicit an emotional response for each one.

Let me repeat that: FANTASIA. PREDATES. THRILLER.

“And unlike Thriller, Fantasia has the advantage of NOT being directed by a man who literally got away with murder or involving an artist whose pedophilia accusations are still discussed a decade after his passing…at least as far as we know.”

By the way, if you’re watching the current version of Fantasia that’s available, do me a favor and pause the movie to watch the original Deems Taylor intros; while they’re shorter than the ones on the blu-ray, they have Deem’s original voice. All later releases have him dubbed over by Corey Burton because the audio for these parts hasn’t held up as well over time. Now Corey Burton is a phenomenal voice actor who’s done countless work for Disney before, but there’s a problem I have with him taking over these segments: One, he and Deems sound nothing alike, and Two, he makes him sound so dry and dull. Not to mention the longer intros practically spoil everything you’re about to see whereas the cut versions give you just enough to build some intrigue for what’s to follow.

Regardless of whichever one you’re watching, Deems gives us the rundown on what Fantasia is all about and lists the three categories that the sequences fall under.

A concrete story

Clearly defined images with something of a narrative

Music and visuals that exist for its own sake

And the very first of these parts falls directly into the last one.

Toccata and Fugue in D Minor – Johann Sebastian Bach

Some hear this tune and attribute it as stock horror music, but for me it’s the start of a grand, dark, fantastical journey through realms of the imagination. While it is intended as an organ piece, this full orchestration blows me away. Capturing the orchestra in bold hues and shadows with colors specific to certain highlighted instruments was a brilliant move, setting the stage for what’s to come.

And if the previously referenced Bugs Bunny cartoon was any indication, the real Leopold Stokowski is one of the main draws to this segment. Stokowski’s claim to fame was that he ditched the traditional conductor’s baton and used his hands to guide the orchestra. His passion and restraint is plain for all to see, even in silhouette.

Ultimately Stokowski and the orchestra fade away into the animated ether. The idea behind Toccota and Fugue was to show a gradual transformation from the conscious world to the subconscious, providing a literal and figurative representation of what you see and hear with the music. That’s why the first animated images resemble violin bows sweeping over strings. Over time those distinct objects evolve into abstract geometric shapes.

Honestly, no amount of stills can capture what it’s like to watch this sequence play out. It’s a radically unique experience, almost like a dream.

Things Fantasia Fans Are Sick of Hearing #2: “It’s the world’s first screensaver/musicalizer!”

This is something I hear often from people (ie. the people making the complaints I’ve chosen to highlight). First, read the previous Thing. Second, Toccata is not so much about recreating a story as it is capturing a feeling. And yet a story isn’t out of the question. I always saw at as glimpses of a battle of light versus dark, heaven versus hell, albeit not as overt as the opening of Fantasia 2000. That’s the beauty of this segment. It’s all up for interpretation. You can let the images and sounds wash over you as if you were dreaming it, or attach whatever meaning you find.

And on that note (ha) –

Things Fantasia Fans Are Sick of Hearing #3: “God, all these animators must have been so fucking high to come up with this shit.”

I tell ya what, if you’re one of those people who think that, take whatever drug is handy, grab some crayons or whatever you feel comfortable doodling with, and when you’re comfortably high, draw one full second of animation. That’s 24 consecutive drawings that need to flow, squash and stretch into each other realistically. It doesn’t have complicated; it can be a ball bouncing, a flower blowing in the wind, an eye blinking, but it has to work.

Not so easy, huh?

Classic Disney animators who lectured at art schools received comments like this all the time. While there were some like Fred Moore who would go for the occasional beer run on breaks, there’s no record of narcotic or alcoholic influence on the animators’ turnout. I’m pretty sure Walt would’ve fired anyone who turned in work produced while high because it’d be awful. Animation was still a fairly new medium at the time, and Disney was constantly experimenting with what it could do, which is why we got things like this, the Pink Elephants, and other delightfully trippy moments throughout the 40’s, not because of drugs. Isn’t that right, classic Disney animator Bill Tytla?

“Of course! I’ve never done drugs, and I never drink…wine.”

The Nutcracker Suite – Pyotr Illich Tchaichovsky

Things Fantasia Fans Are Sick of Hearing #4: “Yawn. Nutcracker is SO overplayed. Of course Disney had to jump on the bandwagon with their version!”

Ironically, the extended Deems Taylor intro has him mention how nobody performs Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker; in light of its modern seasonal popularity, the sentiment is rendered archaic. True, the ballet wasn’t an initial critical hit and Tchaikovsky himself virtually disowned it, but much of its ubiquity is largely due in part to Disney adapting it for Fantasia. It eschews the title character in favor of a nature ballet portraying the cycle of seasons. Initial planning included the overture and the famous march featuring woodland critters, though they were eventually cut. Walt considered pumping scents into the theater during this part, but was unable to figure out how to do it naturally. If they had Smell-O-Vision that might work, but what scents would you have to scratch off for the other Fantasia segments? Wood resin? Wine? Wet hippo? Brimstone?

The sequence begins with The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. In the night a group of fairies dance like fireflies, gracing spring flowers and spiderwebs with delicately timed dewdrops.

“Any of you girls seen Tinkerbell?” “She ditched us to hang out with that obnoxious flyboy.” “Again?! That’s the third time this month!”

The scene is atmospheric with beautifully rendered pastel backgrounds. After the fairies comes The Chinese Dance performed by a group of little mushrooms. It’s a cute number, and just another that was parodied more than a few times in other cartoons – wait do those mushrooms have slant eyes? And they’re prancing around nodding like extras in The Mikado…

You fungi are lucky you’re so darn adorable otherwise I’d sic the self-righteous side of Twitter on you.

Dance of the Reed Flutes follows. Lilies gently float on to the surface of a pond before inverting themselves to resemble twirling dancers with long, flowing skirts. And since I’m not always one to take the easy route, enjoy this niche reference instead of “You Spin Me Right Round”.

A gust of wind blows the spinning lilies over a waterfall into some moody underwater caverns, where a school of unusually sultry goldfish perform the Arabian Dance.

Cleo, does Gepetto know about this?

A novel idea, using the basic swimming motions of a goldfish and their naturally diaphanous tails and fins as veils to resemble exotic dancers, though like other animated characters in a similar vein, this has led to some…”interesting” reactions from certain people.

Right, well, bubbles transition us into the penultimate movement, the Russian Dance. Thistles and orchids resembling dancers clad in traditional Russian peasant clothing spring to life in this brightly colored energetic minute. You’ll be chanting “hey!” along with it.

And finally, the Waltz of the Flowers. As a little girl I would often hold my own “ballets” to this scene, which mainly comprised of me in a ballet costume or fancy nightgown spinning around in circles for family members with this playing in the background. Top that, Baryshnikov.

Fairies similar to the ones from the beginning transform the leaves from fresh summer green to autumn orange, brown and gold. Milkweed seeds blossom forth and float through the air like waltzing ladies. This piece above all else is what really shows the beauty of nature. I feel more emotion watching the leaves pirouette in the wind than any plain live-action drama.

Fall turns into winter, and the fairies, now snow sprites, skate across a pond creating ice swirls while even more spiral down from the sky as snowflakes. The secret of animating these snowflakes was nearly lost to time. Several years ago a notebook by technician Herman Schultheis was rediscovered, revealing how many of the special effects in Disney’s early films – Fantasia in particular – were brought to life. The snowflakes were cels on spools attached to small rails from a train set that were filmed falling in stop motion and black and white, then superimposed on the final picture.

In conclusion, The Nutcracker Suite is a lovely piece of animation and music, and I’ll pop in Fantasia at Christmastime just to watch it. This was my introduction to The Nutcracker, and it’s an excellent and unique one.

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice – Paul Dukas

The symphonic poem of the same name now gets a proper name with Mickey Mouse stepping in the title role. It’s impossible to imagine any other character in his shoes, but for a time there were other considerations.

“Nope. Too wooden.”

“Too angry.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re just too darn loud.”

As we all know, Mickey was given the part since his popularity needed a boost. He doesn’t talk here, and I know those who find his voice grating wholeheartedly embrace that fact, but what we’re given is proof that Mickey works just as well silently as he does speaking. Very few cartoon characters can pull off that kind of versatility.

And while we’re on the topic of sound, Walt was so determined for the sound quality to match what was happening on screen that he devised a system he dubbed “FantaSound”, where it would seem as though the music would move around the the theater instead of just blare out from one speaker.

You read that right. Fantasia is the movie that invented SURROUND SOUND.

But that’s not the only technological leap Fantasia is responsible for – this is the first time we see Mickey with sclera.

That’s the white of the eyes for those who don’t speak science.

Before Fantasia, Mickey had what we refer to today as “pie eyes”, a relic of the era he was created in. As the art of animation progressed, animators found it increasingly difficult to create believable expressions with two little dots. Fred Moore is responsible for the mouse’s welcome redesign. Mickey as the apprentice serves the sorcerer Yen Sid, named after his real world counterpart.

“Hey! I didn’t teach him that!”

Mickey’s craving a taste of his master’s power, so he borrows his magical cap after he goes to bed and enchants a broom to finish his work of gathering water. It’s fun and bouncy, though the part where Mickey dreams he can control the cosmos, seas and sky is something to behold.

“The power! The absolute POWER!! The universe is mine to command! To CONTROOOOOOL!!!”

But Mickey is jolted from his dream of ultimate conquest when the broom begins flooding the place. Unfortunately the sorcerer’s hat doesn’t come with a manual so Mickey doesn’t know how to turn it off. He resorts to violently chopping the broom to pieces with an axe. The animation originally called for the massacre to happen on screen, but was altered to showing it through shadows instead. I think it’s much more effective this way. The implied violence is more dramatic than what we could have gotten.

One of my favorite stylistic choices in Fantasia is what follows. The color is sucked out, drained if you will, mirroring Mickey’s exhausted emotional and physical state after committing broomslaughter. But it slowly returns as the broom’s splinters rise up and form an army of bucket-wielding drones. They overpower Mickey and catch him in a whirlpool until Yen Sid returns and parts the waters like a pissed off Moses.

“You! Shall not! SWIM!!!”

Mickey sheepishly returns the hat, and I have to give credit to the animators for the subtle touches on Yen Sid. He appears stern at first glance, but the raised eyebrow borrowed from Walt? The slight smirk at the corner of his mouth? Deep down, he’s amused by his apprentice’s shenanigans. Even the backside slap with the broom, while rendered harshly due to the sudden swell of music, is done less out of malice and more out of playfulness.

The piece ends with Mickey breaking the barriers of reality to congratulate Stokowski on a job well done.

“Hey! I didn’t teach him that!”

If you haven’t already guessed, The Sorcerer’s Apprentice is easily one of my preferred sequences. It’s energetic, perfectly matches the music, and features my favorite mouse in one of his most iconic roles. I joke about the scene where Mickey controls the waves and the sky due to Disney’s far-reaching acquisitions in the past decade, but within the context of the film it’s one of the most magical moments. Some theorize that The Sorcerer’s Apprentice is an allegory of Walt’s journey to create Fantasia itself, and there’s some merit to it – Mickey’s always been Walt’s avatar after all, and here he dreams big only to wind up way in over his head. But you don’t need to look for coincidental parallels to enjoy this part.

Rite of Spring – Igor Stravinsky

Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring is admittedly my least favorite part of Fantasia, though I don’t hate it by all means. Thematically it’s the furthest from the original work’s intent: instead of a pagan ritual involving a virgin sacrifice, we witness the earth’s infancy. I was never really into dinosaurs as a kid (I didn’t even see Jurassic Park until I was in fourth or fifth grade), and the thundering, threatening music put me off. I found it too long (twenty-two minutes is an eternity in child time), uninteresting, and dour compared to the other sequences, with the exception of one moment. I can appreciate it now that I’m older, though.

A solitary oboe echoes through the vast darkness of space. We soar past comets, galaxies, suns, and down into our lonely little planet still in the early stages of formation. Volcanoes cover the earth. They spew toxic gas, but their magma bubbles burst in precision with the music. Once again this is due to Herman Schultheis. He filmed a mixture of oatmeal, coffee grounds, and mud with air pushed up through a vent, and let the animators go to town on it.

The volcanoes erupt simultaneously. Lava flows and the ensuing millennia of cooling form the continents. But deep in the sea, the first protozoan life wriggles, divides, and evolves into multi-cellular organisms. One of them crawls up on to land, and finally we’re back in the time where dinosaurs weren’t just confined to zoos.

Things Fantasia Fans Are Sick of Hearing #4: “Dinosaur inaccuracies…brain melting…”

True, most of the dinosaur and plant species here never shared the same period of existence, but try telling that to the animation studio or John Hammond. They mostly went for whatever looked cool and prehistoric regardless of scientific accuracy. Some of the designs themselves are a bit off, but the animators did their best considering how much we knew about the creatures in the 30’s and 40’s. Heck, we’ve only recently discovered that most dinosaurs were covered with feathers or fur, and I don’t see anyone harping on Jurassic Park for omitting that detail. Thank God Steven Spielberg doesn’t harbor George Lucas’ affinity for reworking his past movies with extra CGI.

Believe it or not, this scene was once considered the height of accurate dinosaur depictions on film, because nobody else had done it before with this level of research and care in animation. Without Rite Of Spring, we wouldn’t have The Land Before Time or Jurassic Park in the first place. Look at Land Before Time’s bleak, orangey atmosphere and the Sharptooth fights and tell me this didn’t influence it in any way.

The dinosaurs themselves have little character and, while fascinating to see how they might have lived, are not particularly engaging. Until…

Yes, when the king of all dinosaurs makes his entrance, bringing a thunderstorm along with him no less, all the others are wise to run and hide from him. I would hide under a quilt but still peek through the holes in awe. He snaps about throwing his weight around, but when it goes toe to toe with a stegosaurus? That’s when things get real.

This battle, by the way, is animated by Woolie Reitherman, who had a knack for bringing gargantuan characters to life. He was responsible for animating Monstro in Pinocchio, and was behind Maleficent’s dragon form in Sleeping Beauty.

Though what follows is far from triumphant. The earth has become a hot, barren wasteland. The dinosaurs trudge through deserts and tar pits, their fruitless search for water turning into a slow death march. Not even the mighty T-Rex can survive this.

California: present day.

Some time later, the dinosaurs are all gone. Only their bones bleaching in the sun remain. Without warning, a massive earthquake hits and the seas flood through, washing away the remains of the old prehistoric world. The sequence comes full circle as the lonely oboe plays over a solar eclipse, which sets on an earth ready to step into the next stage of life.

If Walt had his way, the segment would have continued with the evolution of man and ended on a triumphant note with the discovery of fire, but he was worried about the possible backlash from zealous creationists. And I don’t blame him for wanting to avoid a confrontation with that crowd.

“It’s bad enough he makes a mouse act like a people with his dadgum pencil sorcery, but propagandizin’ evil-loution in mah Saturday mornin’ toon box? That’s just plum un-okkily-dokkily!”

“…You wouldn’t happen to have a dictionary on hand, would you?”

“DICTIONARIES ARE THE DEVIL’S BOOSTER SEAT!!”

Subsequently, those edits made to Stravinsky’s score pissed off the composer so much that he considered suing Disney for tampering with his work. He opted not to, yet the experience turned him off animation for good. A crying shame; Stravinsky, apart from being the only classical composer alive to see his work made part of a Fantasia feature, was excited to work with Walt. The two deeply respected and recognized each other as artists ahead of their time. Who knows what else could have come from their collaboration if things ended better?

With that knowledge, it makes sense that one of Stravinsky’s most famous pieces, the Firebird Suite, was included in Fantasia 2000: perhaps on some level Disney wanted to apologize for how the finale of Rite of Spring was mishandled by making Firebird the grand finale (though knowing Stravinsky he would have hated the little changes made to his music there as well).

Following the intermission, the orchestra reconvenes and has a fun little jam session. Deems Taylor takes a moment to introduce us to the most important – but rarely seen – figure that makes Fantasia and most music in movies possible, The Soundtrack.

Once again, Disney does what it does best and anthropomorphizes what no one thought was possible. Think about it: giving personalities to animals is one thing, but they’ve successfully done the same for plants, planes, houses, hats, and here, sound itself. It may seem silly and out of place, but I think it’s brilliant and charming. The visuals it creates to represent different instruments are perfectly matched; some of them harken back to Toccata and Fugue. This, combined with the improv from the orchestra, is a good way to ease us back into comfort after the harshness of Rite of Spring.

Pastoral Symphony – Ludwig Van Beethoven

There’s a famous story about Walt Disney while he was pitching this segment. When met with complaints that it wasn’t working, he cried out This’ll MAKE Beethoven!” In a way, he was right. This was the very first piece of Beethoven I ever heard, even before the famous “da da da DUUUUUN” of Symphony #5. And as far as I know, it was for a good many Disney fans too. We still get a romantic depiction of the countryside as was the composer’s intent, but instead of an rural utopia, we see the Fields of Elysium at the foot of Mount Olympus. It’s home to a variety of mythical creatures from the golden age of Greece: fauns, unicorns, cherubs, centaurs and Pegasi.

If there was ever a Disney world I wanted to spend a day in, this would be it. It’s so innocent, laidback and colorful; it takes me right back to my childhood. A great portion of this sequence was used in my favorite music video in the Simply Mad About the Mouse anthology album, “Zip A Dee Doo Dah” sung by Ric Ocasek from The Cars. Whether that was my favorite because it featured Pastoral Symphony or Pastoral Symphony was my favorite because it was featured in the video I don’t know. There’s nothing that could ever destroy it for –

Oh son of a…

Things Fantasia Fans Are Sick of Hearing #5: “RACIST. FUCKING. CENTAUR. EQUALS. RACIST. DISNEY… RACIST!!!”

Yes ladies and gents, that image is real. Meet Sunflower (or Otika, I’m not sure which one she is) one of the the censored centaurettes (for very obvious reasons). I’m of two minds when it comes to their inclusion. First off, yes, they’re crude and demeaning blackface caricatures that have no place in a Disney movie, let alone one of the best ones and in one of my favorite sequences. But my inner art/film historian that despises censorship feels that erasing these depictions is the same as pretending they and other prejudices of the time never existed.

Thank you, Warner Bros.

As time and the civil rights movement marched on, all traces of the Sunflower squad were removed from later releases of Fantasia. The downside to that was editing techniques at the time weren’t as high-tech as they are today; I was lucky to see a film print of Fantasia at the Museum of Modern Art in 2015 that must have dated as far back as the ’60s because she wasn’t there, but the cuts were very noticeable. Sad to say the amazing remastered tracks done by Irwin Kostal in the 80’s used a similar print because the shift in the music is very jarring at points in this segment. It wasn’t until Fantasia’s 50th anniversary that they were able to zoom in and crop the scenes that had Sunflower in them while recycling other pieces of animation over parts where they couldn’t get rid of her, eventually managing to digitally erase her from some of the film entirely (look carefully at the part where the red carpet is being rolled out for Bacchus on the blu-ray. Unless he got it from the Cave of Wonders, carpets normally don’t roll themselves…)

I completely understand the reasoning behind Sunflower’s removal, but can also see why animation aficionados would try to pressure Disney into bringing her back with each new re-release for Fantasia, possibly with one of those great Leonard Maltin intros putting everything into context like in the tragically out-of-print Disney Treasures dvds – though the chances of that happening are as likely as Song of the South being made public again (the Disney+ promo should have made that clearer when they claimed Disney’s entire back catalogue would be available for streaming, but I doubt the tag line “We have everything except Song of the South” would hook people). It’s an issue I’m very torn on. So if there was ever a chance that a version of Fantasia with a restored Sunflower was possible, either through Disney themselves or fan edits, my thoughts on it would be a very resounding…

The first movement of the symphony is “Awakening of Pleasant Feelings upon Arriving in the Country”, and this part does just that. As the sun rises and we get our first glimpse of the technicolor fantasyland. Pan flute-playing fauns and unicorns frolic with each other while a herd of Pegasi take to the sky. Again, going back to other notable movies taking cues from Fantasia, Ray Harryhausen carefully studied the movement of the Pegasi here when creating his stop-motion Pegasus for Clash of the Titans. They canter through the air as they would on land, but in the water they move with the grace of a swan.

And look at the little baby ones, they’re just too cute!

The second movement, “Scene by the Brook”, takes place exactly where you think it does. A group of female centaurs, named “centaurettes” by the animators, doll themselves up with the help of some cupids (and the aforementioned Sunflower) in preparation for mating season.

“”I used to like the centaurettes not just because they were pretty but because each of them having different colors could be interpreted as women of all colors hanging out together and finding love. But no, having Sunflower there confirms that they’re all supposed to be lighter-skinned ladies. Racism given context makes it no less of a pain in the ass.”

The male centaurs arrive and hook up with their conveniently color-matching counterparts. The cherubs help set the mood for their flirting interludes until they discover two shy, lonely centaurs (Brudus and Melinda, because I’m that big of a Disney nerd that I know their actual names) who haven’t found each other yet. They lure them to a grove with some flute music a la The Pied Piper and it’s love at first sight.

One of my favorite details throughout the Pastoral Symphony is that we keep coming back to Brudus and Melinda. They’re a cute couple, one of the closest things we have to main characters in this sequence, and it’s nice to follow them.

Our third movement is “Peasants’ Merrymaking”. The centaur brigade prepare an overflowing vat of wine for Bacchus, god of booze and merrymaking. Bacchus, forever tipsy, arrives backed up by some black zebra centaurettes serving him. Maybe they were considered attractive enough to avoid being censored.

The bacchanalia is in full swing with everyone dancing and getting loaded. But Zeus, who appears more sinister than Laurence Olivier or his future Disney counterpart, crashes the party with a big thunderstorm. I used to think he was a jerk for endangering his subjects just for kicks, but in light of recent revelations maybe he had ulterior motives.

“Feel the wrath of the thunder god, you fucking racists!”

“Come on, dad, you used to be fun! Where’s the Zeus turns into a cow to pick up chicks?!”

“He grew up. Maybe you should too, son. Now EAT LIGHNING!”

“The Storm”, our fourth movement, provides some stunning imagery against the torrential backdrop, from the centaurs being called to shelter to the pegasus mother braving the gale to rescue her baby.

Ultimately Zeus grows tired and turns in for the night, ending the storm. Iris, goddess of the rainbow, emerges and leaves her technicolor trail across the sky. The creatures revel in the effects it has on their surroundings, then gather on a hill to watch the sunset, driven by Apollo and his chariot. Everyone settles in to sleep, and Artemis, hunting goddess of the moon, shoots an comet across the sky like an arrow that fills the sky with twinkling stars.

Pastoral Symphony was the one part of Fantasia that always received the most derision from critics, but racist characters aside I simply don’t get the hate for it. It may be longer than Rite of Spring but feels nowhere near as drawn out. I love the colors, characters, and the calm, bucolic fantasy world it creates. This was my first exposure to Beethoven and the world of Greek mythology and I still hold plenty of nostalgia for it. I admit it’s not perfect, and not just for the reason you think. Out of all the Fantasia pieces, this is the one whose quality is closest to an original Disney short than a theatrical feature. It’s a bit more cartoony and there’s some notable errors, particularly when the baby Pegasi dive into the water and emerge different colors. Also, Deems and the animators flip between using the gods’ Greek and Roman names, and the stickler in me wants them to pick a mythos and stick with it. But for all it’s flaws it’s still among my very favorite Fantasia pieces and nothing can change that.

  The Dance of the Hours from the Opera “La Giaconda” – Amilcare Ponichelli

Like I said before, Disney was a master of the art of anthropomorphism. And nowhere is this more true than Dance of the Hours. Animals portray dancers symbolizing morning, noon, dusk and evening – only they’re the most unlikely ones for the job. The characters of our penultimate act are as cartoony as any you’d see in a Disney short from the era, but what puts the animation above it is the right balance of elasticity and realism. The exaggeration is on point, but there’s enough heft and weight to the animals that I can buy them being grounded in (some semblance of) reality. The animators studied professional dancers and incorporated their moves and elegance flawlessly. Half of the comedy derives from this.

The other half comes from how seriously the mock ballet is treated. We’re never informed who the dancers will be, leading anyone who hasn’t seen this before to assume they’re people. The ballet itself is a parody of the traditional pageant, but the performers carry on with the utmost sincerity. It doubles the laughs when it comes to moments such as Ben Ali Gator trying to catch Hyacinth Hippo in a dramatic pas de deux or an elephant getting a foot stuck in one of her own bubbles as she prances around. The familiar lighthearted refrain of the dance provides wonderful contrast to the caricatures on screen, particularly if you recall its other most famous iteration beyond Fantasia.

No one ever told me Camp Grenada was this Arcadian or zoological.

Morning begins with a troupe of uppity ostriches in ballet gear waking up, exercising and helping themselves to a cornucopia of fruit for breakfast. They fight over some grapes only to lose them in a pool. Something bubbles up from beneath and the ostriches run away in terror, but it’s only the prima ballerina of the piece, Hyacinth Hippo. She prepares for the day with help from her handmaidens and dances around a bit. Then she lies down for a nap, but no sooner do her ladies in waiting leave than some playful elephants come out of hiding and dance around Hyacinth unawares.

Elephants blowing bubbles in a Disney feature…nah, it’ll never catch on.

The elephants are blown away by a gust of wind (must be a really strong breeze), and with the coming of night a sinister band of crocodiles sneak up on Hyacinth. They scatter at the sudden arrival of their leader, Prince Ben Ali Gator, who immediately falls in love with Hyacinth. Surprisingly, the feeling is mutual.

I’m calling it – first body positivity romance in a Disney flick.

The climax of the piece has the crocodiles returning to wreak havoc on the palace and pulling the ostriches, elephants, and hippos back into a frenzied dance which brings down the house.

No bones about it, Dance of the Hours is a comic masterpiece and one of Fantasia’s crowning jewels. And the moment it ended was always the signal for younger me to stop the tape and rewind it to the beginning, due to what follows making a complete and terrifying 180…

Night on Bald Mountain – Modest Mussorgsky / Ave Maria – Franz Schubert

At last we come to our final part, two radically different classical works that blend perfectly into each other. And brother, what a note to end on.

Composer Modest Mussorgsky passed away before completing his masterwork “Night on the Bare Mountain”, a tonal poem depicting a witches’ sabbath from Slavic mythology. His friend, the great Rimsky-Korsakov, finished it for him while adding his own personal touch. The result is some of the most iconic and terrifying music ever created, and the accompanying animation, with the exception of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, is the most faithful to its source material.

The scene takes place on Walpurgis Night, which is the closest thing Europe has to a real-life Summerween (those lucky so-and-so’s), on the titular mountain. The mountain’s peak opens up revealing Chernabog, the Slavic deity of darkness.

Chernabog is a masterclass in design and form. It’s easy to mistake him for Satan himself – Walt Disney and Deems Taylor both refer to him as such – though considering he’s technically Slavic Satan, there’s not too big a distinction. Chernabog radiates power, terror and pure darkness from his intro alone. You can imagine him influencing all other Disney villains to do his will, essentially filling in the horned one’s hooves. Chernabog was skillfully handled by Bill Tylta, an early Disney animator with enough talent to create characters as diverse as Stromboli and Dumbo. Bela Lugosi, the original Dracula, posed for reference pictures in the early design stages, though Tylta ultimately discarded them in favor of some different inspiration – sequence director Wilfred Jackson as model, and Tytla’s own Czech heritage. He grew up with folktales of Chernabog, which served him well during the production.

“Soon, master. The one known as Jackson shall take up your mantle and we shall feast upon humanity yet again.”

Chernabog unleashes his might on to the sleeping village below and raises the dead from the cemetery. A cabal of witches, wraiths and demons gallop on the wind and take part in his infernal revelry. Yet they are but playthings to the evil being. He transforms the creatures into alluring sirens and wretched beasts, sics harpies on them, condemns them to the flames, and lustfully embraces the hellish blaze. It’s an in your face pageantry of pure malevolence that you can’t look away from

Things Fantasia Fans Are Sick of Hearing #6: “This is too scary for kids!! What the hell were they thinking?!”

I think it’s time we made one thing clear: Fantasia was NOT made for children – or to be more accurate, not EXCLUSIVELY for children. While Disney movies are made to be enjoyed by both kids and adults, Fantasia is the only one who dared to appeal to a more mature audience, and Night on Bald Mountain is proof of that. It had the audacity to explore some of the most darkest, ancient depictions of evil in a way that no Disney feature has before or since. Most importantly, it’s not done for shock value like any random horror movie you could name. It’s meant to show the juxtaposition between the darkest depravity and purest good; combined with Ave Maria it makes for the perfect symbolic climax to Fantasia. Light versus darkness, chaos versus order, life versus death, profane versus sacred, and the quest to master them all are the themes that unify the seemingly disparate sequences, and this finale is the apotheosis of that.

I stated in my Mickey’s Christmas Carol review that Bald Mountain was one of my first introductions to the concept of eternal damnation at the tender age of…I wanna say four, five? It was easily one of the most petrifying things from my childhood, but at least I could avoid some exposure to it thanks to its position at the very end. Though now I adore Night on Bald Mountain for how bold and striking it is. Tytla’s animation, Kay Nielsen’s stunning demon designs, and Schultheis’ effects culminate in harmonious diabolical artwork that’s impossible to extricate from the music. It’s a shame Schultheis left the studio after Fantasia. He met a mysterious, tragic end in Guatemala, right around the time Bill Tytla left too as a matter of fact…

“He knew too much…about the secrets of animation, I mean. Nothing at all about das vampyr walking the earth. No sir.”

Yet at the height of his power, one thing stops Chernabog cold – the sound of church bells. Disney historian John Culhane saw Fantasia during its original theatrical run (lucky so and so…) and he recalled how much having FantaSound affected his screening: when the bells rang, he could hear them coming from the back of the theater and slowly course their way up front as their power grew. It was an awe-inspiring moment that took the Bald Mountain experience one step further into reality.

The bells and the rising sun drive Chernabog and his minions back into the mountain and the restless spirits return to their graves. In the misty morning a procession of pilgrims glides through the woods like a parade of tiny lights, and thus the Ave Maria begins. It’s one of the rare times Disney has gone overtly Christian. Maybe Walt wanted to get back into the God-fearing American public’s good graces after the sorcery, paganism, devil worship and evolution theory we’ve witnessed in the past hour and fifty minutes. It does relieve the tension from the previous turn of events.

The first pitch had the march enter a cathedral, but Walt didn’t believe recreating something people can already see in Europe. So instead they move through a forest with trees and natural rock formations resembling the Gothic architecture of a cathedral. It’s the stronger choice in my opinion. The implication speaks greater volumes than a specific location, subtly connecting nature to the divine. It’s difficult to make out most of the hymn’s words, but regardless it sounds beautiful, especially those final triumphant notes as the sky lights up over a view of the verdant hilltops.

“When the sun hits that ridge just right, these hills sing.”

And with that, Fantasia comes to a close.

Really, what else can I say about it at this point. I keep forgetting this movie came out in 1940. It’s virtually timeless, and a must-see for anyone who loves animation and classic film and wants to jump into either one.

Fantasia was a critical and box office success…sort of. Despite the praise and high box office returns for the time, it sadly wasn’t enough to make up for the cost of putting it all together. Like Pinocchio before it, the war cut off any foreign revenue. And not every theater was willing or able to shell out for that nifty surround sound so the effects were lost on most people. Then there’s the audience response, which is the most depressing of all. The casual moviegoers still viewed Walt as the guy behind those wacky mouse cartoons and called him out for being a pretentious snob, while the highbrow intellectuals accused Walt of debasing classical music by shackling it to animation. The poor guy just couldn’t win.

Fantasia marked the end of an era. Never again would Walt attempt a feature so ambitious. His plans of making Fantasia a recurring series, with old segments regularly swapped out for new ones, would not be seen in his lifetime. There’s been the occasional copycat (Allegra non troppo), a handful of spiritual successors (Make Mine Music, Yellow Submarine), and of course the sequel which I’m sure I’ll get to eventually, but through it all, there is only one Fantasia. And no amount of my ramblings can hope to measure up to it. Fantasia is one of those movies you simply have to experience for yourself, preferably on the biggest screen available with a top of the line sound system. I know it’s a cliche for Internet critics to name this as their favorite animated Disney movie, but…yes, it’s mine too. It opened a door to a world of culture and art at a young age. The power of animation is on full display, and it’s affected the way I look at the medium forever. Fantasia was, and still is, a film ahead of its time.

Thank you for reading. I hope you can understand why this review took me nearly three months! If you enjoyed this, please consider supporting me on Patreon. Patreon supporters get perks such as extra votes and adding movies of their choice to the Shelf. If I can get to $100, I can go back to making weekly tv show reviews. Right now I’m halfway there! Special thanks to Amelia Jones and Gordhan Ranaj for their contributions.

You can vote for whatever movie you want me to look at next by leaving it in the comments or emailing me at upontheshelfshow@gmail.com. Remember, unless you’re a Patreon supporter, you can only vote once a month. The list of movies available to vote for are under “What’s On the Shelf”.

Artwork by Charles Moss. Certain screencaps courtesy of animationscreencaps.com.

To learn more about Fantasia, I highly recommend both John Culhane’s perennial book on the film and The Lost Notebook by John Canemaker, which reveals the long-lost special effects secrets which made Fantasia look so magical.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to be spending the rest of the month with my handy dandy garlic, stake and crucifix and pray Bill Tytla doesn’t visit me this Walpurgis Night. I suggest you do the same.

March Review: Fantasia (1940) And now we come to the final piece of Walt Disney's original animation trifecta, Fantasia, and it's one I'm both anticipating and dreading.

[inbarfink]

I feel like a lot of anti-intellectualism AND elitism in media analysis actually has the same root-logic. The idea that 'Undersanding Cinematic Language' (I'm using film as an example, since anti-intellectualism in flim fandom is kind of a Thing right now. But you can put in “Metaphors in Literature”, or “Video Games as Art” and so on instead) is some sort of super-secret brain magic that only the Smart People can do - rather than something all filmwatchers do. 

It's just the difference between "This is for the elites, the Regular People can't even understand them and I am better than them and none of them have smart things to say" and "This is for the elites, so why should Normal People like us even bother to try?" 

"Cinematic Language" might sound like a bit of a pretentious term, but it's exactly what it is - a Language. The way films communicate their ideas to the audience without just saying "He's the good guy so you should feel good that he won" directly to us. If you can watch a movie and identify who are the good guys and who are the bad guys, when are you supposed to feel sad or that the train is not - in fact - gonna run you over... You know the Cinematic Language. At least the basics of it.

Obviously there are different levels to this stuff, between "Well this guy wears all-black so he's the bad guy and this lady wears all white so she's a good guy" and like... RGU Color Symbolism Essays. But it's important to remember that it's all built on the same foundation.

It's not a completely separate, inscrutable scary thing up on some ivory tower - you start with "ah Peridot is standing in the cleansing rain that washes away her misdeeds and brings new beginnings to start her redemption arc!" and then just... try and think about other stuff more. And trying to *directly resist it* cause some people ARE elitist about it is just gonna lead to totally idiotic reads even of clearly communicated stuff meant for everyone to understand!

And if someone’s gonna say “Oh so we’re just supposed to think a scene is sad cause the music and cinematography tells us it’s sad? That’s manipulative” Lemme just say it directly: all works of fiction is inherently "manipulation". 

Manipulation is a bad word in terms of like... interpersonal relationships and stuff like that. Stuff that involves reality. But fiction IS a sort of emotional manipulation. The creators want to feel a certain way about something... something that isn't even real and not happening to real people - and they make you feel that way using music and words and framing and colors and metaphors and editing and lighting. 

 When people say a work of media is "Manipulative" what they mean is usually that the manipulation wasn't subtle enough. There's a reason why we HAVE cinematic language and we don't just write "this characer is the good guy FEEL HAPPY WHEN THEY WIN" on the screen. And I would say that "All fiction 'manipulates' you into feeling something" is an obvious statement but remember that one tweet about the person who though The Shining was manipulating them cause it used music to scare them? So, you know... 

 And that's honestly just the most famous example! There's so many Bad Takes from People Who Don't Undertand How Art Works online that are like "Aurgh, that movie tries to makes us like the good guy cause he saves a puppy? How MANIPULATIVE!” Fiction is about making you Feel Things about made up stuff! We read a sad book cause we want the writer to make us feel Sad, because we want them to 'manipulate' us into feeling sad about just some words on page. We watch a romantic movie cause we want the movie to manipulate us into being involved in the relationship between those two made-up people. Who were written on a paper by a screenwriter and played by actors and are projected on the screen with light and technology. The issues arise when this manipulation is too obvious and unsubtle, or when it just flat-out doesn’t work.

This manifests in a very intersting manner in video games. There's a fairly-popular school of though about game design that the best way to make your game world feel "real" is to be as close as possible to being a simulation to real life. And that games achieving that feeling of 'Realness' through smokes-and-mirrors is somehow bad and dishonest and not just... a part of Art. 

It's okay if the 'city' isn't an entire modeled open world and it's just feels alive from whatever bits you did render for the game. I remember the first time I thought about it, I was watching a Portal 2 Let's Player. It was the start of "The Fall", where you're walking around the ruins just after... well.. the fall. The LPer was really excited about being outside of a testing area. They said they really felt free and like they can go anywhere they want! As they went down the one, linear path that the game allows you to go. As someone who watched too many Portal 2 LPs to count, I should know. 

For a moment I thought "oh this is akward, they got it all wrong!" And then I thought about it more and I realized "Does it matter?" Does it matter that there's only one linear path even though in the story you're totally off the rails? Does it matter when the presentation makes it FEEL like you're just going wherever and exploring? Masking your linear path in a way that makes it look like the player is not actually on rails, making it just look like random wreckage, while also attraction your attention and making it where you WANT to go... That's what we like to call "Good fucking game design”. Like, REALLY GOOD. 

As another example, the Photoshop Flowey at the end of the Undertale Neutral Run? It’s not that tough - if you look at it from a purely mechanical standpoint. There’s like, Five Mid-Boss Checkpoints, all the patterns are dodgeable, lot of invincibility, the damage is pretty forgiving... But it doesn’t FEEL like that wehn you’re playing through it. Cause you’re not just seeing the nuts and bolts of the fight, you’re seeing THIS.

The presentation of the battle; from the background of what happened just before it, Flowey’s design and the designs of his attacks, the fact that everything that’s going on totally overturns the established conventions of the game, the music, hitting FIGHT and only taking down one HP, the game closing down every time you lose... all of this battle feel very formidable. And it does effect how you experience it! You feel like you’re struggling by the skin of your teeth through all the battle and whatever forgiveness it gives you is not always easy to notice. This is also some Good Fucking Game Design. You see a lot of skilled players fuck up the Flowey battle because, although mechanically they might be able to one-shot it, the battle just FEELS so hopeless that it effects the way they play.

Battling against Photoshop Flowey can’t be exactly as hard as fighting against a Near-God. You want all of your players to see the Neutral Ending and it’ll be one hell of a diffculty spike - and having to replay it over and over and over a billion times would just get frustrating. And Weird considering in-universe you have lost your SAVE Abillity and are only able to start again because Flowey wants to play with you still. (Unlike the Sans Fight where reloading over and over became Part of the Point). It’s just important that it feels like fighting against a Near-God.

So no, it really does not matter that a game path is linear if you can manipulate your audience into thinking that it's free. It does not matter if your NPC CAN respond to all situations, just enough to make them feel like a person for us. The lines between a boss that feels challanging and a boss that is so on a pure mechanical level is quite blurry. Art is Manipulation, Video games are Art

[donnerpartyofone]

21 Questions

Tagged by @getoutofmyhouse who had oddly similar answers to mine

Nickname: only the one I use here, that I gave myself--Claire Donner, which has to do with my famous love of cannibalism. Claire is my real first name, though.

Zodiac: I am so very cuspy. I was born at about a quarter to midnight on April 20, so I tend to relate to, and feel insulted by, the suppositions about Aries and Taurus equally. I’m one of those jerks who will tell you astrology is a bunch of hoo ha...and then drone on with my Many Esoteric Ideas about it, so I’ll just stop myself right here.

Height: 5’ nuthin is what I prefer to say...because saying I’m 5 and 3/4′ sounds a little like saying I’m 10 and a half years old.

Amount of sleep: It’s all fucked up. Until I got into my 30s I could, and would prefer to, sleep endlessly. Now I go to bed around 10 (depression), get up around 5 or 6 (being old), and for extra fun, I’ve developed this insomnia that often keeps me up from about 2am-5am. I try make the most of it by getting up, getting high, watching a movie or two, writing...basically just having a secret private day by myself. I’d really rather go back to just sleeping constantly though.

Last movie I saw: I saw GRETA in theaters tonight, which was ok. I guess I thought any Neil Jordan film would be headier than this, but watching Isabel Huppert just running around acting like an absolute maniac is a rare treat! My last video experience was RAW, which I put on to bother my husband right when we got home from the theater. (I think he liked it more than I originally did, to my surprise)

Last thing I googled: The correct spelling of Sylvia Likens’ last name. I’m obsessed with this type of crime where a group of people (usually a family and/or some of their friends and neighbors) fall into some kind of shared hysteria where they protractedly torture to death an acquaintance for no particular reason. Some times there’s an element of mystery as to why the victim didn’t leave while they were still able to, which suggests to me that the murdered person was just as much a victim of the groupthink as the perpetrators. Other example victims include Suzanne Capper, Vera Jo Reigle, and I think to some degree Sophie Lionnet, James Bulger, and Junko Furuta. (Also a crime they briefly discuss in the book Lords of Chaos, where several people murder a friend in their trailer, but I can’t remember it specifically enough to look up the names--the other last thing i tried to google) I keep thinking there should be a psychiatric and/or legal term for this kind of crime, but I’ve never heard one, so let me know if you got one!

Favorite musician: I have trouble with questions that involve ranking anything, so I’ll just say that right now I’m listening to a lot of old White Zombie. I didn’t know anything about their origins as an East Village noise band, and I’m fascinated by the stories about how apocalyptically miserable it was to be in that group. I’m increasingly obsessed with people who work their asses off doing something they barely even enjoy, for what must be borderline spiritual reasons.

Song stuck in my head: Nothing right this second, for which I am very grateful. There’s something awful in my brain that causes me to wake up with some maddening, babyish tune stuck in my head more often than not. It is most frequently the Ten Little Indians nursery rhyme. This is literally killing me.

Other blogs: @anhed-nia, which started as a dumping ground for long posts about mental illness, and turned into almost only movie writing. at some point there was just so much movie shit that i started to feel awkward about posting anything personal there again. i also got @getoffyrass which is a group blog, and a repository for images that make great drawing references. everyone is encouraged to post their drawings, too, although it is seldom used. i still like having it around, for when i have time to draw. my “real” drawing blog is @neveratendermoment but i don’t draw often enough anymore...

Do I get asks: i used to get tons! i really enjoy them, even the trolls to some degree. i must have seemed like more of a regular tumblr geek girl back in the day. also tumblr has just changed a lot since then. my blog was definitely a casualty of Best Stuff First, i think my follower count stopped dead forever right when that happened, and now that practically every single fucking thing on this entire site is either fandom shit or *discourse*, i really have nothing to offer tumblr anymore, anyway.

Blogs following: 1,057. 

Lucky numbers: 2! Also 5.

What I’m wearing: black wool long john pants from Chrome, and a white v neck teeshirt with the words BLACK MAYONNAISE on it in black Rocky Horror font. i live near the notoriously toxic Gowanus Canal, and “black mayonnaise” is the actual term used to describe what’s on the bottom of it, by the scientists who are trying to figure out what to do with it.

Dream trip: i am really excited by travel, it’s hard to pick. i’m hopefully making a dream trip soon though: my father’s mysterious finno-swedish family is from the åland islands, and my husband and i will be planning part of our honeymoon there, whenever that happens.

Dream Job: i think about this a lot, because the older i get, the more i object to the entire concept of having to work to live. i’m into the whole universal basic income thing. i’m at this point where i can barely stand to think about capitalism in any way--like i think about how the need for money is so mortally serious that there’s a lot of physical stuff in the world that only exists because someone was scared of starving, tons of useless products and packaging and factory byproducts and all kinds of fucking straight up garbage that was only invented due to the lethality of poorness. i would rather be left totally alone forever if possible. however, if i HAD to do something and i COULD do anything, it would probably be film criticism. this fantasy takes place in a world where people care so much about what i have to say that i can make a career, not only out of movie writing, but out of only writing about the specific movies i want to write about, referring to nothing other than my personal reactions.

Favorite food: i wish the answer weren’t just “cheese”, but it probably is. also mushrooms. anything cinnamon. i’m a pretty adventurous eater though. the most important thing for me is a variety of flavors and textures.

Languages: english. i took several years of italian in junior high-high school, and did nothing with it. i taught myself to read french pretty fluently, but i would fold right up if someone tried to speak to me. i learned a bunch of swedish on duolingo, shoulda kept it up. i’ll get back to it! i really regret never learning spanish though, so i’m easily torn on what to do with my time.

Play any instruments: clarinet in junior high/high school, also alto sax which i did not enjoy at all, a little guitar. i bought a used electric bass last year that i have really been enjoying, but i feel a lot of guilt around not playing enough. so much of it is just strength training. that’s probably what i like about it, though. also i got a lot of electronic music software and midi controllers and stuff...and then i realized that it could take me months to sort through the thousands of samples i have to program this stuff, and i only got so far into it before i started to get discouraged. i need to get back to it, it’s ridiculous to let that stuff lie around. this is a rare example of me wishing i knew someone local to play with, who could speed me along on how everything works.

Favorite songs: another one of these impossible questions! anybody who is even reading this can probably guess the answers from the handful of music posts i reblog over and over and over. the other night i got all hyperactive and forced my husband to drop everything and listen to “buffalo stance” by nene cherry, which i never ever get sick of. real top contenders for favorite song might be “Stand By the Jamms” by the klf, and this recording, which has gotten me through many difficult hours:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d8k1HsF3EvY

https://www.forcedexposure.com/Catalog/sunray-sonic-boom-music-for-the-dreamachine-cd/STRAWB.003CD.html

Random fact: i’m sure i’m missing out on something really funny and cool, but for now it’s just the well-known fact that i read palms.

Describe yourself as aesthetic thing: man, how do i answer this without being totally pretentious? maybe nobody can! i’m coming up with something really hard to describe but it will be worth it. the other day i watched this insane, completely unnecessary movie about lorca and salvador dali (played by robert pattinson) as gay lovers. there’s a scene in it where lorca does that “pick a hand” thing to dali, and dali picks an empty hand. of course, they’re both poor students who couldn’t be buying any gifts, so they do this obnoxious pantomime where dali pretends lorca actually gave him something--but then it turns out that lorca really DOES have something. he opens his other hand and gives dali...SOMETHING. i don’t know what! they make such a big deal out of it, but what the hell? you see it for a second in this closeup, but it’s shot from like, behind and slightly underneath, and it is just unrecognizable. it’s sort of an orange blob? it’s probably meant to be a sculpture. but, i love the idea of doing the “pick a hand” thing to somebody, and the other person is just like...hey wait a minute, what the fuck even IS this?? 

it reminded me of one of the most amazing things anyone ever did at my school, bard college. this genius art student who I WISH I COULD NAME TO CREDIT HER did her senior project as this like...made up product. i saw them at the senior show, hanging off a spinner rack, like you’d see next to the register in the drug store. they were called Toilet Buddies. they were these plastic, brightly colored objects that looked like toys, but they didn’t have a familiar earthly shape, and because of the title, it was IMPOSSIBLE to imagine what to do with them. so, she gets the lipstick cam from the film department, and shoots this video of herself sneaking some Toilet Buddies into Walmart. then she takes them to the register and BUYS THEM--the baffled cashier looks for them for a while, and eventually just rings them up as a general grocery or something. then in part 2, the artist TAKES THEM BACK TO THE STORE WITH THE RECEIPT AND GETS A REFUND.

so anyway, i see myself as like a fake product--something that looks just familiar enough to exit, and that appears to have a designated purpose, but it’s just kind of cheap and foreign and it becomes nightmarish to try to imagine what to do with it. 

I don’t know if anyone i know will want to do this, but i tag @negativepleasure @moviesludge @former-contender @dimestoreman @thefuzzydave @darkarfs @theoddsideofme @blueruins ...um, i don’t really know who would enjoy this. the ultimate would be @garbagenacht

[anhed-nia]

THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS

When my concerned parents faced the early and unpleasant realization that they were raising a ravenous little horror hound, it meant that they had to somehow split the difference between their strict curbing of my potentially mid-warping viewing habits, and their principled encouragement of unfettered reading. That must be how I came into possession of a copy of Thomas Harris' harrowing police procedural The Silence of the Lambs at the tender age of 10, even as the film adaptation was being touted by many viewers as The Scariest Movie of All Time. I carried that book around like the Bible well into my teenage years, reading and re-reading it with even greater fervor after my parents finally decided that the film was sophisticated enough for me to watch without it turning me into some kind of animal-torturing arsonist. (Said screening was chaperoned and accompanied by an academic post-viewing family discussion, of course) The decision seemed to make sense; after all, THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS had swept the Oscars the year it was released, scooping up wins for Best Director, Best Actor, Best Actress, Best Adapted Screenplay, and Best Picture. This is not to say that my intellectual and art-appreciating family regarded the Academy as the ultimate arbiters of taste and achievement. I mention these accolades more to point out that, as my parents had surely noticed, the film holds a certain power over viewers on both sides of the high-low cultural divide, a spell that has hardly weakened in its twenty-seven years of life.

As a child, I certainly responded to the same things that piqued the general public: Anthony Hopkins' iconic performance as Hannibal "The Cannibal" Lecter, his ambiguous romance with purehearted FBI trainee Clarice Starling, and the controversial perversity of serial killer Buffalo Bill. Though the story shares the influence of real-life ghoul Ed Gein with classic shockers like PSYCHO and THE TEXAS CHAIN SAW MASSACRE, the impact of SILENCE is more akin to that of DRACULA. Much of the enduring discussion about the film revolves around the tantalizing chemistry between the preternaturally elegant Dr. Lecter and the virginal Starling; the rest is somewhat unfortunately focused on Ted Levine's eccentric performance as the (pseudo-) transsexual murderer at large, which has come under some understandable scrutiny. However, it would be unjust to reduce Jonathan Demme's movie to a gothic romance, or a gory shocker, or a campy cult item with ironic eroticism and a great soundtrack. There simply have to be better reasons for a movie to stick around this long, lingering in the minds of stuffy critics and the hoi polloi alike.

In preparing my statements about what makes THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS stand out, I learned something very shocking: It began its life as the directorial project of Gene Hackman. Hackman eventually dropped out when the script produced by (Oscar-winner) Ted Tally turned out to be too violent. Prospective Starlings like Michelle Pfeiffer and Meg Ryan were similarly disgusted, so Demme got stuck with a less likely candidate in (Oscar-winner) Jodie Foster. Personally, I find (Oscar-winner) Demme himself to be an unlikely candidate. The director cut his teeth on exploitation movies under Roger Corman, and by the time of SILENCE, had distinguished himself as a hipster extraordinaire, directing classic performance videos for the Talking Heads and Spaulding Gray, as well as chic comedies speckled with cameos from the likes of John Waters, and underground music firebrands from New York's new wave scene. Time would prove that Demme and his frequent collaborator, cinematographer Tak Fujimoto, were perfect choices for this grim project, which only supports the idea that there is something more happening with SILENCE OF THE LAMBS than its gruesome violence and epic sexual tension.

In light of these more famous elements, one might expect an adaptation of Thomas Harris' grim and seductive novel to be grandiose, expressionistic, swathed in a dense physical and emotional mist, rumbling with its own pomp and circumstance. An orphan from the hills of West Virginia, Clarice Starling is a tragic hero from the start, guarding her broken heart against a world of condescending and hostile men. Her mentor Jack Crawford seems to distinguish himself from the herd by assigning her the ambitious task of interviewing notorious serial killer Hannibal Lecter for the FBI's files--but in fact, Crawford is counting on Starling's feminine charms and naivety, secretly using her to manipulate Lecter into profiling a killer at large, Buffalo Bill. In spite of this nasty revelation, Starling sticks with it, suffering Lecter's high-minded insults and penetrative analysis of her character, and eventually earning his admiration. She proves herself not only brave and determined, but a detective of unparalleled wit and instinct, single-handedly taking down the polymorphously perverse Buffalo Bill in his moth-filled subterranean lair, rescuing a high-profile victim where the entire rest of the Federal Bureau of Investigation have failed.

This all seems to portend a bigger, louder movie than what has been committed to film. However, the book has a certain organic grit to it, something honest, downbeat and tragically real, which Demme and Fujimoto grasp instinctively. The film provides a dry, frank view of the life of Clarice Starling: the toil of academia, the drudgery of physical conditioning, the undermining attitudes of her mostly-male peers. Shot in West Virginia and Pennsylvania, Starling's world is bleak and desolate, but earnestly so, without the pageantry of the film noir and Universal horror movies with which it is so easily compared. Demme's education under B-movie king Corman shows here, and makes for a much more compelling iteration of the story than we might have from someone less accustomed to economy. While SILENCE has developed a reputation for its brutality, the film is not remotely so gore-drenched as many traumatized viewers would have you believe. That said, it may be the film's generally stark and desicated look, its workaday-ness, and its endless (wonderful) dialogic exchanges that throw into relief its comparatively minimal violence, which usually appears not in scenes of assault, but in crime scene photos or autopsy scenes.

The blanched, dreary look of the film also offsets the emotional plight of Clarice Starling. She is afforded no real romance, external or internal. The petite and clear-eyed orphan is visibly used to, and exhausted by, the constant need to look out for herself, and SILENCE will see her shuffled from one humiliating personal trial to the next. She is led into a perilous situation by a mentor who pretends to respect her abilities, but who really counts on her to fall short of discovering his scam; She is trapped in roomfuls of macho cops who scarcely acknowledge her; She has to negotiate the sexual attention of evidence technicians and bureaucrats; She even has semen flung at her by a particularly rambunctious neighbor of Lecter's. (And how often do you see that in any movie? As gross as it is, it has a way of reinforcing the extreme adult-ness of Demme's often dry, methodical movie) And then of course, there is Lecter himself, who turns Starling's personal vulnerability into a form of currency with which she can buy the scant clues that lead her to her quarry. Instead of eroticizing the anomalous femininity that Starling brings to the traditionally masculine world of law enforcement, Demme constantly reminds you of her fear, her embarrassment, her alienation. One can also imagine the temptation to Ripley-fy the character, presenting her as a fully-formed badass not to be fucked with. Instead, by eschewing both these femme and fatale modes, Demme describes Clarice Starling as three-dimensional human being whose heroism is extremely hard-won. While the character is undeniably one of the great Strong Female Protagonists, Jodie Foster's performance somehow defies the cinematic semiotics of gender altogether, giving us a person whose most important qualities are purely psychological. Tak Fujimoto drives the point home by frequently filling the screen with closeups of her face, focusing us on what she thinks and says, taking the proverbial heat off her body. Even as Lecter probes her for painful biographical information, Starling's sexuality remains entirely private--still a rare thing in any movie with a lady lead.

I don't mean to suggest that THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS is principally successful because of its plucky girl detective--that contributes to its greatness, but not in the feminist fashion that I seem to be angling for. I am reviewing this movie presently because I recently found myself looking back on my own history with it, comparing my feelings with those of popular audiences, and thinking, "What is The Silence of the Lambs really about?" It can't be so beloved *only* due to the sexy slow burn between Anthony Hopkins' Count Dracula and Jodie Foster's Mina Harker. It can't be *just* a matter of the exotic insanity of the gender-bending madman sewing together the flesh of his victims and dancing provocatively to "Goodbye Horses" by Q Lazzarus (a sadly mysterious musician who Demme certainly knew from his involvement in the New York underground). All of these characters, and their respective dynamics, contribute to the important thrill of this movie, but not in the way that most people seem to think.

Rather like the director's earlier work with iconoclastic punk icons and indie auteurs, THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS is about authenticity. Hannibal Lecter, the unparalleled genius whose culinary expertise is part of his murderous MO, is a serial killer because he has such refined taste and decorum that he cannot live peaceably among other people. He favors victims whom he perceives as tacky, pretentious and impertinent--Starling knows that he would never harm her because, as she famously remarks, "He would consider it rude." Lecter is fascinated, not by her youthful beauty as Crawford had hoped, but by her sincerity. Starling is brilliantly intelligent in her own right, as she proves through her police work, but she doesn't have an ironic bone in her body. She is the most unpretentious individual alive, and nothing could be more interesting to Lecter, who preys upon people who are untrue to others and to themselves. Meanwhile, we have Buffalo Bill, who is attempting to change his sex by crafting a full-body "woman suit"--but, as Lecter insists, the killer is not a "true transsexual" whose legitimate identity is that of the opposite sex. Buffalo Bill is someone who was reared by his abusive parents to hate himself so much, that he is compelled to escape his natural identity; becoming a woman is less important as a matter of self-actualization, than as a means of becoming an entirely different person, *any* different person. He has been so radically alienated from his own essence by this self-loathing, that he is incapable of authenticity of any kind.

That, I really think, is the secret power of THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS: the at-once satanic and profoundly innocent declaration, "to thine own self be true". I would really love to get into a deeper dive on this movie at some point, to discuss what I think must have been the very best and very last time that Anthony Hopkins gave us a fearless and unpredictable (and in this case, somewhat hilarious) performance; to insist that Ted Levine as Buffalo Bill and Brooke Smith as his would-be victim actually give the best performances in the whole movie; to talk about the problem of the Ubiquitous Daddy Figure (of whom there are no fewer than THREE in this movie) in so many narratives about powerful women; to simply analyze the movie's sly psychological techniques, like fully humanizing Brooke Smith *just* by showing her singing a few bars of a beloved pop song in closeup, immediately before her fate takes a disastrous turn. (I would probably not take such an opportunity to investigate accusations of homophobia and transphobia, which requires a smarter and more directly experienced voice than my own) There is really a lot to say about why SILENCE is so powerful, without even threatening to address its most famous features. Unfortunately, I don't have the gumption or the madness to commit all that to Letterboxd at the moment, so I'll have to be satisfied with my primary conclusion: That the film's simplicity and gritty naturalism mirror its commitment to spiritual purity, honesty, and self-knowledge at all costs. Even at the high cost of wearing a muzzle, any time they let you out of your cage.

[daisyschadwickfa]

Trying to see the proportional relation By Ariana Reines

Trying to see the proportional relation Of one memory to another One is so strange, and then To try and see what looms And doesn’t for the other person Who was there, it gets stranger, Especially when you’ve read His email. I don’t know how people Understand their lives, measure Their sensations against “objective” Or so-to-speak democratic estimations, Whether people accept the externality Of events, “events,” as things That happen to them. I refuse To accept some coagulate Of other people’s Impressions in exchange for this Privacy, no matter how flawed it is. This is lyric poetry. It has to be. It has No other hope. What was it About you and me that made whatever Happen to us. In New York Everything fell apart. What I dreaded And expected. But still. Tonight It is dark and the weather is cooler Than it’s been. It has taken A while for Fall to break; the global Warming kept me in summer Love with you like I was under a Fermata. Now that the times Are changing, I feel Even more for you; or I feel nothing. I can’t tell; it’s kind Of scary. I was sick of thinking About you this morning but I was listening to Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen in order to think about You for literary purposes. When I feel nothing for a person I get scared I’m losing my humanity And that turning cold means My heart’s been botoxed: we’re All fucked. I watched a movie on YouTube Called Ladies and Gentlemen, Mister Leonard Cohen that was made when He was still just a poet and only Famous in Canada. He’s a pretentious little nerd In it, self-important, teacher’s pet wit. I think that, making music, he became So much nakeder, much more desperate. The talent, real, even pure, even Natural, had to ripen in The artificial man. Alain Badiou, on the day Of his class, said, “Because an event Is pure rapture, an event disappears Immediately: it does not exist Objectively, but only by appearing And disappearing.” This is both Precise and vague; it is attractive I guess. I guess since you and me did not Disappear immediately, it was Not pure rapture, not in these Terms, but my smile Was real each time I swallowed Your cum. Getting Fucked by you was great; I could Feel it in my organs, but You didn’t make me go insane Except for maybe once Or twice. Actually maybe I am Being unfair. Maybe the fucking really Was that great. In this moment I Can’t remember. I just read a poetry Review in which the reviewer States that a certain book Made his cock feel as though It were tall as a tree. That’s Nice. I have no idea What it feels like to have A cock. Sometimes I feel As though I’m getting close To understanding and then Something happens to make Me have no clue again. When Sinan Fucks me, we lose our individuality So severely it’s like we’re both Gasping after an animal that’s his Cock that is beyond us and I lose All sense of the world. His cock’s Not even him, and he’s not him either And we aren’t anything. It’s strange, the possessive. Didn’t Thomas Mann write a book called Herr Und Hund or something like that? Man’s best friend. What belongs To him. Me and Sunder Talked about how scary and arousing It is to watch men masturbate, cos Everyone relates differently to his. Like dicks are always almost but never Quite another. Je est un autre, Said that brat Arthur Rimbaud. I am definitely in love with you As I write this. You are so petty And superfluous I cannot stand You. Sinan is definitely In love with me. I know, because I saw him tonight. I love Him too. You are gracious To accord me the space and time In which to develop, or to elaborate Upon, as the French say, these Extreme emotions I am, despite The odds and certain lapses, So capable of feeling. It was good to slap Your face and to admit That your asshole Made me nervous. Your eyes had a way Of going soft and shiny When you said the really Tender things. We admitted It was intimidating For us both to hear each other describe People we’ve fucked and been In love with. I’m proud of what We accomplished together. Alain Badiou Ended his class with a reading Of “Ariane et Barbe-Bleue” which Is an opera by Paul Dukas. You And me had gone pretty far By the time this day came, and Something very fragile in me breaks When somebody says my name, or Even a variant of it. I was tired. I think Badiou discusses “Ariane” In Being and Event which I have not read. In class he said That the story of the opera is About the relationship between law And freedom, and that it shows That the desire for freedom is not So simple. Ariane experiences an Event That causes her to demand freedom, Badiou Said, but she is unable to convince anybody Else, any other women to want freedom; she ends up alone. She genuinely falls in love with the wicked Bluebeard at the beginning. Bluebeard Who previously got women by having a castle To lock them in. This woman Ariane Does not have to be taken By force. When she enters His castle he hands Her seven keys, six Of which he gives her permission To use, and leaves. She hears the cries Of his other, imprisoned wives, Coming from behind a door. So she uses The forbidden key, releasing them. Meanwhile Bluebeard is assaulted By the local peasants, who want To free Ariane, fearing her fate will turn out like That of the women who came before her. But Ariane is already free In herself, and proves this freedom By bringing the wounded Bluebeard Home, caring tenderly for him, and then Declaring that she’s leaving him for good. By the end Bluebeard’s shattered, sobbing, Bleeding. Ariane Invites the other wives to leave with her In a wrenching aria, pleading With them one by one to taste With her the freedom awaiting Them, The World. But they all prefer confinement Even though they had longed For freedom before Ariane opened Their door. Once liberty arrived they were no Longer capable of it, preferring to serve; even a gutted, Hollowed-out power. Ariane exits Alone. The end. Badiou narrated This with emotion and I cried. Maybe cos I was tired and That thing about my name or because I am not heroic or free. I had missed half of Alain Badiou’s Lectures messing around with you On the couch by the fire; in the women’s Toilets; up on the hill. If this were a suitable parable, And it isn’t, I would try to tell myself That those very early mornings in Brooklyn when I sat Up in your bed feeling wrong and Got dressed and walked away, I should Have stayed away cos I don’t need you. Maybe I don’t need you. But I want You. Maybe I don’t love you. But I am getting to know you. Maybe What made me cry in class was how tired I was and how sad and hard It is, and how rare, to undertake an act That’s truly free, and not just a response To a confused surge of drives and  fears.

[regulusarcblack]

ANNUAL WRITING SELF-EVALUATION

*All answers should be about works published in 2017.

steph @twoghostsacoustic tagged me so let’s fucking go fuckos

1. List of works published this year:

let’s be honest here and admit that steph was the one to write M&W all by her damn self HAHAHAHAH it’s our baby but i’m like the cool father who only pops by every weekend to fuck up the kid’s personality and all the hard work is steph’s own doing (same applies to love is on the radio)

anyway moving on

i’ve written everything i’ve ever tried in my life this goddamn year so congrats 2017 you played yourself

first: PWPs Butterflies (or as i like to call it, harry and louis going solo again) Blue and Green (don’t judge me) Ambrosia (seriously pls don’t judge me) Through the Wire (actually nevermind if you’re judging me it’s your problem lmao) Ruby Woo (yes it’s harry wearing lipstick)

Then i tried~~ to be a serious writer and my babies were born

You can’t blame gravity (for falling in love) aka larcel au

High-five of your love aka girl larry 

Harry’s Journal to Self Discovery aka girl larry that will probs be published soon?? and hopefully my xmas crack fic as well???

then i got two wips that were written this year and published on the amnesty week cuz i will never finish it let’s be real lmao

2. Work you are most proud of (and why):

honestly? butterflies cuz it was the first one i published on ao3 lmao cuz everything i write i despise

except u#28 i love that shit to pieces but it’s still wip and i love it cuz it’s noir and superhero-y and yeah

3. Work you are least proud of (and why):

every single one of them lmao i hate my writing BUT i think blue and green cuz it was the first one????????????????? and it really does suck lmao

4. A favorite excerpt of your writing:

“Shouldn’t you have quit by now?”

“The watch out?” He smirked. “Or the fags?”

He didn’t need to look at Liam to know he was rolling his eyes.

“You know they’re not good for you.”

“Jeez, dad, no need for a lecture right now.” Louis inhaled again, just in spite, wishing he could blow it out to write words on the wind like a magician of sorts. Instead, he amused himself by imagining his deformed cloud of smoke wrote a giant ‘Fuck off, Payno’ before dispersing on the wind. “They help me concentrate. Besides, they keep me warm.”

Liam tsked behind him. Sometimes he took himself too seriously. Louis wondered what it was like to still be like this. Wholesome. Unwavering. Faithful.

“Are you still having trouble sleeping?”

Louis sighed, crushing the butt of the cigarette against the wall and then throwing it away, the wind picking it up. The best part about sitting so up high was watching the wind carry everything away in a second, almost an endless fall of an acrobat, suspended on air, far away from the ground.

“Yeah.”

He let the wind take his voice away as well. Let it be swept away. Liam would know better than to keep the questioning anyway.

They stood in silence, surrounded by echoes of street life and the falling night.

5. Share or describe a favorite comment you received:

uhhhhhhhhh i love @gaycousinlarry‘s girl direction work so i’m still weak she read and commented on mine haha then @finck-you-freeky and @smellofsunshine both read my pretentious wip and highlighted some nice passages and i loved it and someone commented on my larcel saying they’ve reread it many times and i still don’t know how to answer it cuz i’m so flattered???????????? 

but above all i’ll always remember @runontheroadbeforeidance‘s comment for butterflies cuz she was the first person outside of my little group of friends to read my work and comment it and she said it felt like a slow hazy summerday which was EXACTLY what i wanted to pass and i still hold this close to my heart tbh haha

honestly i’m just grateful for everyone who ever read it and if they liked or commented on it i’ll love them forever haha

6. A time when writing was really, really hard:

every goddamn time. i struggle a fucking lot to write lmao

7. A scene or character you wrote that surprised you:

i’m still not over all that spitting marcel did. why the fuck, mate? also u#28 everyone is always surprising me haha

8. How did you grow as a writer this year:

i actually begin to write so there’s that haha

9. How do you hope to grow next year:

i hope i write smth i’m actually proud of and think it’s actually good haha @ u#28 u ma only hope

10. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc):

ughhhh my beta @britpickerhl my test runners @broccoliwasdone @finck-you-freeky @rosegoldhl will have a honour mention and all but will have to excuse me cuz right now it’s @twoghostsacoustic time

no seriously y’all don’t understand i literally only started to write because of steph HAHAHAHAHA it’s more than the fact she’s my friend my beta my cheerleader and my padner in this hellhole, she literally is the reason i even realized i could try my hand at this shit. so if yall wanna blame someone, it’s her

we have our drs and whatnot but in the end tamo junto 

so yeah steph through and through

(also dj imma choose fireproof to play then since steph wrote OVER AGAIN for me and whatnot)

11. Anything from your real life show up in your writing this year:

i too fisted someone this year

lmao jk but it does appear all the fucking time, especially the pop culture/music mentions and when they’re particularly dumb

12. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers:

watch porn, it helps

but seriously: don’t give a shit what others might think about your work, about popularity or whatever the fuck. just write it for you and if someone wants to read it with you fuck yea they winning but this baby is yours and yours alone so don’t mind about being a hype or if it’s good or not. what matters is that u wrote it so kudos to you for your effort

also, never forget fandoms love to love bs so sometimes..... things that are famous...... are worse........

and just embrace your weirdness and go for your own brand and do you

13. Any projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year:

oooooh boy yes 

i got a marcel exchange to do that i wanna write asap (tbh i have to lmao)

the i got a star trek au for @hrrytomlinson that god only knows how i’ll fit in between my other shit sorry kiddo i’m postponing that due date already haha

then i got a gift for @twoghostsacoustic that she has no idea what it’s about

then i got ruby woo part 2, the storyteller, u#28, my abo and my beatles au that are all fics that i’m dying to write

and fuck knows what else is in store lmao

also i’d love to write for other fandoms

and to like maybe take writing serious for once lmaooooooooo

14. Tag three writers/artists whose answers you’d like to read

honestly i lowkey tagged a lot of people while writing this haha so i’ve rigged the game and am tagging them but lemme see @rosegoldhl wassup binch @smellofsunshine to inspire you to write more haha and @threeandsixseconds @fireawaynjh @vanillabeanniall 

honestly what are rules i got new ones and i count them ayyy

[tuchimuchibrainvomit]

My Thoughts On Neo Yokio — I Might Just Surprise You!

Since I have a little time before I power through a 4-5 hour drive to Maryland. I wanted to try reviewing something that has taken over my eyes and mind for the past few days (and no, it is not Madoka). A tangent before we start, I tend to be one of those “Main-Subculture Hating Hipsters”, that will wait until every high up, every gossip, every hipster and every anime fan has shut up about something they deem as good before I check it out. Hence why I hit Madoka much later — when no one was talking about it. I wanna go in as blind or unbiased as I can. Call it being an “Asocial Hipster”, but when the internet finally shuts up about something, I’ll experience it and then come back to see what happened on the net and explore my own experiences solitarily. But the thing I’m reviewing today is quite different from that usual attitude of mine. Today, we are reviewing Neo Yokio!

Netflix’s, Ezra of Vampire Weekend’s and Jaden Smith’s anime... And... *sweats* Why I think it is a good show. In fact, I liked it a lot! Let me add a point of bias: in most shows, I don’t watch it sober on my first viewing. When I tried Neo Yokio sober, I was disgusted by the art style — but when inebriated, I could take in little moments and the bigger picture. Before watching it again whilst sober, taking in more detail and falling in love with it. It may have a role in why Madoka Rebellion was PERFECT THE WAY IT WAS AND DON’T CHANGE IT, HOMURA WAS IN FUCKING CHARACTER, FIGHT ME!! ... Ahem... Anyway, Go ahead boo now. I’ll wait... ... Now, LET’S BREAK IT DOWN!! Firstly, Neo Yokio tells the story of Neo Riche “Magistocrat” Kaz Khan, played by Jaden Smith. And honestly, the series is just a short slice of life. Simple and very clear that it’s just not anything special. But that’s the brilliance — in my opinion — of the series. With a kind of similar attitude as The Boondocks but less focused on Black Culture (Excluding Kaz and his posse Lexy and GollieB), and more on parodying both anime of the 90’s and early 00’s and the 1%. I want to focus on this 1% idea, and why it was very interesting and successful angle to attack with comedic parody.

We are in 2017. The political climate worldwide is ABSOLUTELY unbearable — hence why I live my life as a 23 year old loser artist as apolitically as I can. Even if it’s practically impossible... — And this is why Neo Yokio genuinely made me chortle the entire way through. So, let’s start with the main character: Kaz. Kaz is dubbed by the masses as “Neo Riche”, the highest class of Neo Yokio, and while he does his damnedest to deny it, he proves quickly that he IS Neo Riche in the first 3 minutes of the series — and it works. This aspect added a lot on my second sober viewing — where the jokes and satire made a bit more sense after I had my time with the laughs and visual insanity that Neo Yokio is. That’s when I found something charming and actually worth my time. Kaz — is the perfect MC for this ridiculous world. I like fashion. My boyfriend really likes fashion. And the idea of being the 1% is insanely charming and a way we love to playfully act together. And Neo Yokio plays into that — Kaz being just as flamboyant and unconnected in one way as his rival Arcangelo is flamboyant and unconnected in another, both stereotypical yet enjoyable plays of the 1% that many people despise so much in the political spectrum. Kaz doesn’t care about politics, and this is a perspective I rarely see about the 1% until Kaz and his friends start observing it, serving to — while confused in tone ending — comment on what often goes unseen by the 1% that is not focused in politics but in their day to day life. And it’s petty, stupid and hilariously over-the-top, as many people see the idealized lives of the 1%. Let’s talk about Kaz. I feel like Jaden Smith’s monotone mannerism and voice fit ABSOLUTELY perfectly for the kind of character Kaz is. He’s overly dramatic in a drab, pretentious way. He’s from an almost alien lifestyle and he is presented as such. Jaden fits personally with this and adds charm to it. Look at one of the BEST bits from Episode 1, where Kaz — depressed over being dumped AND failing an exorcism goes to a graveyard with his OWN grave just to lay there and wallow in his despair. This moment shows how we should see throughout the show Kaz — as weird, inconsequently rich, ignorant and yet funny and lovable. This makes him a great character to experience the world inside of Neo Yokio’s other classes. He is ignorant and therefore he is called out for it in many funny ways that can add some depth to him. Charles works in that manner, being a robot butler, who snidely chastises his master’s lack of consequence. But has a similar charm and enjoyment at Kaz, almost playing the role of audience proxy. And the more characters that come, play off of Kaz very well comedically. And from Kaz as well the references to Toblerones, high fashion like Louis Vuitton and Chanel, and the absolute joke they make out of Kaz’ bachelor status make him very personable. Next, I want to talk about the animation. When I first saw it, my gut reaction was “TRASH, BURN IT!!”

But after really seeing what the show tries, I started to understand it was —consciously and unconsciously — parodying: Shitty anime from the 2000’s, lazy techniques in anime as a whole and it made for a charming exterior. Seriously guys, Sailor Pellegrino’s name written in Sailor Moon’s title font, that’s hilarous! And whether or not, Ezra or the community says “it’s a serious story”, I’m basing this review after my experience and things I saw. In that, I want to talk about some of the social commentary. It all doesn’t work. They have an interesting episode showing Kaz’ ignorance in his inherent misogyny — but also, I feel like it doesn’t know whether it wants to comment on it or make fun of it. I saw it as really a mix of both. Some successful, some not successful, nobody’s perfect and yet I enjoyed it. There are some bits that I liked — being gay and all, Arcangelo’s VERY FLAMBOYANT portrayal was absolutely hilarious, I loved it! I love when they play up flamboyancy comedically, it often makes me fall love with a character. I loved Lexy chasing after the hottest lesbian in the town, knowing he wouldn’t make much out of it — even if he got Ranma’d to being Kaz’ date. I liked him calling out Kaz’ bull misogyny as both a good moment for Kaz and an interesting commentary, and using Ranma 1/2 as inspiration. I think that’s why I like gender benders as a whole. They tend to be wacky, campy and bring up new perspectives. But that’s just me, whether you take offense or not, is up to you. I can’t dictate that and I don’t judge people for their reactions to things. I just personally find most campy portrayals too ridiculous to be taken seriously, even if it is meant to be derogatory. Sure, they’re not great for LGBT or Women’s civil rights, but for the sake of a show that makes me laugh, I don’t take it seriously. If I wanted a serious commentary about more real life issues, I’ll go outside of anime and comedy films. As for other comments and the one’s it tends to get right: The ignorance of the Neo Riche. Kaz doesn’t even think of himself as Neo Riche, yet he is. And the character, Helena plays with that — while also making an army of fangirls, who follow everything she does in a completely hysterical manner. They are a nice poke at the masses that follow someone famous to the ends of the earth. Charles also plays with that around the penultimate episode — not spoiling. ;3 On to sound, while I didn’t pay much attention, classical style music is everywhere. No tracks stood out to me because classical is not my forte, but I think it fit with the Neo Riche-style. The acting is hokey, plays the gamut from Jaden Smith monotone to Lexy’s VERY black mannerisms — it made me feel remarkably at home. My family is absolutely like that in voice styles and ranges. It made me laugh even more. I personally liked the acting, seeing it as intentionally “bad” for the sake of comedy. The story itself plays between slice of life and a serialized story, which kinda mucks up the sudden tone shift in the end. Unlike Cowboy Bebop, we don’t have as much time with the cast as a whole to feel much for them in the end. But I’d hope for a Season 2 to really explore more of the side characters. I want to know more about Lexy and GollieB’s hole-in-the-wall bar, I want to see more of Helena’s followers — especially after the ridiculous things they do to be just like Helena, and the ending kinda shook me in a way I didn’t expect that was very cute going forward. I could go on, but I think it is time for me to sum up my thoughts on Neo Yokio: “It’s very good at what it does, but it’s not for everyone. It’s audience is like the Neo Riche, small and niche.” That is the best way to put my thoughts on it.

Some people will get it and enjoy it. Most others, will write it off as trite. And I understand that point while also saying: “Try watching it inebriated. Take in the campy ridiculousness of it all.” No matter what the creators and critics say, everyone’s personal experience will be different based on where they come from. I read it as a parodic farce and enjoyed it very much as such. As a serious story or social commentary — it fell a lot more than it rose. And that’s OK. The best parts of the show are when Kaz is with Helena, the Helenists, and his boys, Lexy and GollieB. Laughing when he’s dealing with his aunt (voiced by Susan Sarandon, so yes!) or wallowing in the “misery” of being privileged bachelor. I recommend it for those who want something that you can make fun of — as I found it making fun of itself. To people who love the fabulous rich lifestyle of fashion, fame and camp! And I recommend trying it alone or with friends, but most importantly — drunk and/or baked as hell! Always bloom proudly guys, —Tuchi OUT!

[notlexihere]

My First Love - 16/9/19

Nick. You know what. I’ll name him Nick. Not A anymore. I’ll give him a real name.

I met him on Tinder. I guess you could say I was curious if I could actually find someone to date. Earlier this year I did make an account just for fun with Nisa. That I did. Then, one day I went on Tinder just because. I wanted a boyfriend. Everyone seemed to have one, I wanted one at this point in my life. You know ?

We matched. He was. Of substance. Liked music. Non-mainstream music. Pretty smart, you know ? He had his own opinions, he could think. He games too but he still reads. He wasn’t just a 2-D character. He had multiple facets to him and that was what I liked about him. Loved, eventually. See, he was this ultimate bad boy Wattpad character, imo. He was tall, dreamy. Had that bleached hair. Ahaha. My type. Has this beautiful black sports bike. Liked indie bands. Awkward too sometimes. God. Love him.

We went on 3 low-key dates. Not many but we talked for hours on the phone. The first time was the time we met up. Had butter chicken. Ahahahah. We’re Malaysian millennials after all, aren’t we ? The second, he came over to my town. Had a late night drive around town. It wasn’t fancy but I liked it. Because it wasn’t pretentious. Just us. At McDonald’s, him eating a burger, me with my McFlurry.

That second date. He established that he thought of me as his ‘potential future gf’ because apparently that was what he saved me as in his phone. At this point of our relationship, I wasn’t giving out anything. Yknow ? I mean we just met after all. We held hands the first time that night. He asked, all cute and all, “so, on which date do I get to hold your hand ?” . Of course, I was nonchalant about it. I mean. Okay yeah. I’m talking to you. We have a thing going on. Why not. He was smiley all night. Love the way his hands held mine. How he gently rubbed his thumb against my fingers and the rings I had on.

The third date. I came over to his town. Went to Burger King. He wanted to eat at someplace fancy but I didn’t want him to spend too much honestly. He said he’s got 20 bucks in his wallet way earlier. Me being me, obviously, decided we should just eat at Burger King instead. He could get a burger way below 20. He’d still have money left. I bought chicken nuggets. Ate only 1. LOL. He kinda knows about this eating thing that I have going on. For that, I was thankful that he didn’t force me to eat. I felt like puking by then. This was on Monday.

Then. He went out with friends on a Wednesday. Went to a bar. Got drunk. I didn’t think much of it because in one of our conversations he did mention that he thinks it’s cheating if someone sees another person while they’re talking to another. Has divorced parents too. Core principles of his life were to not cheat. Now ? I don’t know anymore. Friday evening. He had posted a snap of how bad it feels being ghosted after having his dick sucked and the girl had the best fuck of her life.

I guess he forgot he had wanted to add me on Snapchat earlier and I saw. He deleted it a short while later. I confronted him on Saturday. Said he was a fuckboy after all and how I was stupid for thinking that he was decent. He replied with a “well, you always told me to find another person” “if I didn’t like you I wouldn’t have talked to you, gone out with you”.

Then, I sent him a long long text. Lol. First red flag to be honest. He called. He was drunk, at a friend’s place. Had his friend mediate us. RED FLAG HELLO YOU BLIND BITCH. He was hesitant to have a relationship. Said he was going to weigh me down because he’s dropped out of two programs already and here I am doing a tough program, in the country’s best university. We were official that night. He drunkenly told me he loved me.

See, I did realise that I loved him a while back. I cared. Extra. Unlike any other guys I was involved with. He was clinically depressed. And I cared way too much because I could relate. Before he dropped out of his second program, I was always trying to make sure he did his work. Helping him even. Gave him my books that I had in foundation. (I may or may not need it now 🌚). I wanted him to eat proper food. Didn’t want him to smoke weed or take I prescribed melatonins.

Went for uni. Freshies week for a whole long week. 6 days to be exact. He was the sweetest. Sunday night, after the usual good night I love you text. He didn’t give out his usual reply. Instead he said we needed to talk. Properly. Said that we were going too fast. I MEAN. that’s what I thought earlier. Wanted to take it slow. But he fingered another girl. Had his dick sucked because he said he didn’t know if I liked him enough to want to be his girlfriend.

Wednesday morning. He said he was sorry and said that in his current state he doesn’t want a relationship. I don’t even think it’s because of his state. It’s just him realising not wanting to commit because he realises that I’m not going to be around him 24/7. I’ll be in the uni dorms. My only reply to what he had to said was okay. I didn’t have anything else to say after all. To which he replied with a “that’s all?” I told him I couldn’t stop him from leaving if he wanted to.

I was heartbroken. Still am sometimes. When I think of him. When things remind me of him. Songs he used to sing. We were fine the days leading up to the breakup. Talking like normal. He said he loved me before hanging up. I don’t know what changed. I guess he was just pretending.

Friday. He replied to one of my stories on Instagram saying that he might go to a place I mentioned in it. Then, he mentioned how his sleep schedule is getting better. Love, I’m glad. Proud of you. But I can’t say that to you now. You don’t want me anymore. Friday evening. He unprotected his tweets and that was when i saw his tweet saying he was drunkenly guilt-tripped into a relationship with me.

What the fuck. He said he was looking for commitment. Wants a girlfriend from the start of us knowing each other. Killed any vibe I wanted to fix our relationship and whatever we could salvage. I broke. I felt played to be honest.

Sunday morning. He went out with his ex-girlfriend. Who he was with for 3 years before he thought it was failing. Whatever that meant. I know they’re still friends. But damn. It hurts. It hurts every time I listen to a song. Or songs he introduced. Songs that I started to like.

So here’s a big fuck you Nick. I loved you. I still do. The first boy I love. Whom I wanted to be with more than anything. To hold his hand when he wasn’t feeling okay. To cook him proper meals. I still miss you sometimes. I guess I’m not pretty enough like those Instagram famous girls you like nor am I skinny enough.

He loves this band. I love the song even before he came. It’s the Indonesian equivalent to the one that got away but way sadder.