#part of the band but also never having to do any of the promotional bullshit

[maryellencarter]

Memed from @thisbluespirit : "Share ten different favorite characters from ten different pieces of media, in no particular order, then tag ten people."

Do I even have ten blorbos? Surely I must. I don't have handy gifs of most of them, I don't think. How far back in my fannish history am I going to wind up going here?

1: Jigen Daisuke, from Lupin III. I've told this story in a few different places, but about six or seven years ago -- I think it must have been 2015 because some of the promotional material from Part 4 looks awfully familiar -- VirusQ was reblogging an assortment of Lupin stuff. Now, VQ and I have *extremely* similar taste in sharpshooters. I saw about a five-second clip from Jigen's Gravestone, the bit where Jigen is explaining to Lupin why he lost the first quick-draw duel in that movie (I'm pretty sure it was the Japanese subbed version but it could have been English with dubtitles, I know the audio was written down because like fuck would I have remembered Jigen's name six years later if it wasn't), and I said to myself, "If I see *any* more of this man I am going to have a new hyperfixation, and I do not have the spoons for that right now," and I blocked the Lupin III tag on Tumblr for the next six years.

Then, late last year, Leia asked me "hey would you buy me an action figure for Christmas if I asked", and she linked me a figure of one Goemon Ishikawa XIII, whom I had never heard of in my life. But I clicked through to the Amazon listing, and you know how those have the long stringy search-engine titles, so it was something like "Banpresto Goemon Ishikawa XIII Lupin III", and I was like "I know that name, Lupin III" and I had a feeling as of impending fate. (Not to be melodramatic, but I really did. I have a habit of putting off many visual medias until the stars align, and sometimes they actually do align and it's a very particular feeling.) And then I scrolled down to "other people also bought" and went I KNOW THAT SKRUNKLY ASS MOTHERFUCKER ^_^ and then I very cautiously made noises (not to get Leia's hopes up too far) indicating that I would be amenable to being shown the thing, and then she did, and now I've seen 95% of it and we're in the middle of publishing a 50k novel about it :D

(Also I've dragged at least two other people into it after me. The First is one *hell* of a gateway drug. XD)

2: Wes Janson, from about ten seconds of Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back, and also four tie-in novels by Aaron Allston from the '90s. If you've seen ESB, you presumably remember the scene on Hoth where they use the snowspeeder tow cables to wrap around the AT-AT's legs and knock it down. Wes is the gunner who actually makes the shot that anchors the tow cable to the AT-AT's foot. This is his entire existence on film. However, because Star Wars, his personality and backstory was greatly expanded in the tie-in novels (and some comics which I read much later and so only regard when they happen to add important details like the existence of socks in the GFFA). He became Rogue Squadron's class clown with some underlying survivor's guilt and PTSD that presents *really* similarly to mine, plus the ability as a trainer to turn a ragtag band of misfit pilots into a found family -- an ability which his friend and boss Wedge Antilles weaponizes as the premise of the Wraith Squadron trilogy, because Wedge never saw a character trait he didn't think tactically about.

I first read the tie-in novels in 2007 or thereabouts, while being extremely isolated and struggling with undiagnosed PTSD, ongoing emotional abuse, and an assortment of other mental health bullshit, and latched onto Wes *hard*. I've wandered in and out of the fandom several times over the years; I originally wanted to grow up to be Wes but didn't think that was possible. When it occurs to me to think about it, I'm still quite thoroughly confused that I've not only grown up to be him but have also managed to acquire my very own Hobbie Klivian. (That's the guy in the background of Princess Leia's briefing scene on Hoth who says "Two fighters against a Star Destroyer?" In the comics and at least one of the novels, he's Wes's BFF, wingmate, and partner in crime. He's laconic, sarcastic, pessimistic, and has up to three prosthetic limbs and possibly a prosthetic dick, depending on which parts of canon you accept and which ones you think are an editing error, a stupid throwaway line, etc. Star Wars! *jazz hands* Hobbie is a massive troll, but quiet enough that people usually notice the much more flamboyant Wes first.)

Did I mention Wes is also a sharpshooter? For some reason, I have a *type*, and very little about it is physical appearance -- I think "sharpshooter with a soft spot for people who need help, probably has PTSD, also a knack for unexpectedly wise insights possibly delivered in a rusty baritone" is probably gonna be at least half the guys on this list.

3: Zaeed Massani. Case in point. Zaeed is a DLC character from Mass Effect 2, voiced by the late and greatly lamented Robin Sachs, who was an absolutely amazing voice actor (possibly better known as the recurring chaos sorcerer Ethan Rayne in Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the main villain whose name is escaping me in GalaxyQuest, although there's something wrong with the mike setup or the ADR in GalaxyQuest so you don't really get the full effect of his amazing vocal range). Uh. Where was I? Right. Zaeed is yet another sharpshooter, a merc in his forties or fifties -- Mass Effect continuity being what it is, he has at least two wildly contradictory backstory timelines. Point is, twenty-odd years ago as of ME2, he founded a mercenary group which became very large and successful, and his co-founder double-crossed him and shot him in the face at point-blank range. Being made primarily of steel wool and hatred, Zaeed survived this with only the loss of an eye, which you'd think would be a problem for a sharpshooter, but nope, he's still one of the best there is at what he does.

As of ME2, Zaeed has been trying for twenty years to find and get revenge on the man who double-crossed him. Being a DLC character, he has a nice compact little story where you can either help him get his revenge -- having to let a factory's worth of trapped workers burn to death in order to do so, because video games -- or save the trapped workers but let the enemy get away. When I first played ME2 on a severely underclocked computer, I had planned to take the "Paragon" route where you save the workers (me being me, I had read a walkthrough of the mission beforehand), but there's a puzzle minigame you have to solve to open the door to that route, and my computer lagged too much to get through the minigame, so I had to take the "Renegade" route where you take a quicker path through the burning factory, help Zaeed get his revenge, but have to listen to the distant screams of the dying factory workers the whole time.

I've since played both routes, but Robin Sachs absolutely *nailed* the voice acting, the script was fantastic as well ("Don't you call that a goddamn grudge!" hits me really hard for personal reasons), and I always wind up going Renegade because... well. Depictions of PTSD mostly have a tendency to trigger my own PTSD (it's complicated), but some of them land just right. Plus, listening to him tell the story about Jessie, his first gun that ge finally had to retire a couple of years before ME2... god, he absolutely breaks my damn heart every time.

Actually, I should probably tell the story about Jessie, too. It's this weird recursive piece of causality. So, okay, when I was very first getting into Mass Effect 3 multiplayer, this would have been in early 2013. There used to be these weekend challenges where you competed to get a certain number of points with certain weapons, or killing certain enemies, or whatever. I hadn't played any of the singleplayer games yet, didn't know any of the characters, I was just messing around in what is still objectively the best co-op shooter multiplayer ever created. Early March 2013, it was announced that one of the voice actors had just died and there was going to be a memorial weekend challenge, so many kill points with this specific gun and so many with this specific power. Well, I didn't have any kit with the required power (it took me literally another year to finally unlock one), but I had the gun because it's one of the five starter guns you unlock on your first multiplayer login. So I'm always down for a memorial event like that, so I did what I could. Didn't get very far that weekend, but I did find that I liked the gun -- a basic shooter game assault rifle, very "spray and pray" style (which was about all I could do on this extremely laggy underpowered computer), kind of a peashooter as far as damage per bullet but with a really big clip and easy to aim.

So then I carried this gun as my default for quite a long time, and of course anytime people were talking about their favorite guns in the game they just had nothing good to say about it (because, gamers being gamers, there are like two or three guns that are really best suited to the highest difficulty level, and this gun really is only suited to the lowest difficulty but that's what I played). So then when I finally got around to playing singleplayer, and I got to Mass Effect 2... even before you do Zaeed's DLC mission, as soon as you recruit him, you can go and talk to him about various items scattered around his room, get some war stories and characterization out of him. And one of those items was his first gun, which he named Jessie, which was this same model of starter assault rifle. He spoke so fondly about it that a big part of why I initially latched onto him is that I'd finally found someone else (even though a fictional character) who appreciated this gun. Which, of course, I only appreciated so much because of the memorial weekend challenge for Robin Sachs, where we had to use Zaeed's gun.

Damn, now I want to play Mass Effect again. I take Zaeed everywhere in ME2, every mission that you get to choose a squadmate on (there are some where you can only take required squadmates). Because squadmates don't have bullet/power travel time but the player character does, and because my computer was so laggy, telling Zaeed to shoot a particular enemy off me was often the only way I stayed alive.

Am I gonna be able to fit ten blorbos in a single tumblr post at this rate? Fuck if I know.

4: Wolverine / Logan, from the X-Men (comics and various assorted animated shows, I've never gotten into the live action X-Men stuff). Not a sharpshooter, for once. ^_^ So back in 2004, Spider-Man 2 (the Tobey Maguire one with Alfred Molina as Doc Ock) came out, and somebody recommended it to my mother, who became absolutely obsessed with all things Spidey. So a friend of hers was taping the '90s Spider-Man animated TV show off cable at the time, and I wound up getting assigned the rather drudging work of cutting the commercials out of said show using some video editing software we had for reasons, so we could burn it to DVD-R without having to sit through a bunch of ads. I still owned that set of homemade DVDs until I lost all my most treasured stuff a few years back, actually, but it's on Disney+ now, so there's that.

Point is, the '90s Spider-Man cartoon did a crossover two-parter with the '90s X-Men cartoon, and I *really* have a thing for those growly baritones, okay? So I wound up finding the bulk black-and-white "Essential X-Men" reprints of Chris Claremont's run at the library -- they had volumes two and three, which turned out to be the perfect introduction for me, covering most of John Byrne's run as artist (including the classic Dark Phoenix Saga, which literally every X-Men adaptation apparently has to cover at some point) and all of Dave Cockrum's second run, and more to the point, covering the most pivotal part of Wolverine's character development from a feral hypothetically-teenage asshole with no known name to something pretty much approximating his "standard" characterization in the years since. As an autistic tortellini dealing with constant forced overstimulation and unpredictable meltdowns, I really latched onto the portrayal of Logan's struggle to control his "berserker rage" meltdowns caused by his enhanced senses.

Of course, Herself was always terrified of anything that she feared might get me in touch with my violent side, and for good damn reason -- both my parents strongly deserved to have me snap and kill them, and I'm convinced that she at least knew it. (I have not, for the record, killed anyone irl. Yet. You never know.) She forbade me to read X-Men comics, I attempted to set An Boundary on my eighteenth birthday by telling her I would respect her rules and not bring them into her house but I was an adult who needed to make my own moral decisions and I would continue to read them at the library, and she very conveniently started the Remodel of Doom a few months later which kept me 100% isolated and under her control for the next five years as well as permanently ruining my health... but also forced me to spend most of my waking hours at the library because the house where I was living didn't have running water or, uh, installed toilets for a lot of that timeframe, which meant I found a compilation of "40 Years of X-Men" on CD-ROM at the library and read *the entire fucking thing*.

With that kind of isolation and that kind of input, I wound up developing a headmate version of Logan, who helped me massively with surviving and getting out of that whole situation. He very, very rarely shows up anymore, which is a really good sign, because it means I haven't been in that kind of a survival situation in... several years at least. I still think of him as my big brother, though (which is from a whole other situation I may have mentioned where my sisters and I had this incredibly complicated multi-crossover found family storyline going on... it says a lot about our general situation that the one who insisted no abuse was happening and I couldn't even use the term "a bad situation" about my experiences, was also the most heavily involved in creating a world where none of us had any interaction with our RL bio-parents.)

(My name in that storyline was Estel, which is Sindarin for "hope". On the nose much? ^_^ Logan still calls me Essie, which nobody else who's still in my life does. I've tried on a royal fuckton of names over the years. If I was going to change my legal name again, I'd probably take the last name Logan. Unless I made it my middle name and chose something that's not a first name for my last name -- my current legal name consists of three names that can all be first names, and the confusion it causes at doctor's offices is a pain in the ass.)

... that's only four blorbos, but I am out of spoons. I'm pretty sure the other six would fit the pattern as well. Let's see if I can at least make the rest of the list, if not say anything about them.

5: Adam Cartwright, from Bonanza. The original reason I wanted a hat, before Logan even entered the scene. Another sharpshooter, soft-spoken, mechanically minded (I have been known to say that my type is guys you'd want around to help you rebuild after an apocalypse, specifically a lot of them have engineering and/or childcare skills), and -- man, I don't know if it holds up, I don't even know where the hell I'd watch it since my VHS tapes are long gone, but I loved the hell out of early Bonanza back in the day. It hit the same kind of "eye-opening social justice for an extraordinarily sheltered tortellini" buttons as Howard Pease's 1930s YA mystery novels. The very first episode I ever saw was about the ways USian society treats felons after their jail sentences are up -- I can still hear the guest star saying bitterly, "They say you do your time and you pay your price, but don't you believe it!"

6: Richard Dean Anderson as MacGyver and Jack O'Neill, which are two very different characters but I'll put that down as a twofer.

7: Gandalf, because he is a delightful bitchy-ass troll. We read The Hobbit and LOTR out loud as a family when I was ten, which was possibly the best thing that ever happened to me as a kid, and I was hooked right from "Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I like it or not, or that you feel good this morning, or that it is a morning to be good on?" (I am still *insanely* proud that, with no other spoilers than the fact that the blurb for ROTK in the back of The Hobbit mentioned Gandalf, I recognized him on his return as Gandalf the White at the same moment Aragorn does and for the same reason -- his "laughing long and softly" there is distinctive, he does it in that first conversation with Bilbo in The Hobbit as well (at least I think it's the first conversation, I have my one-volume of LOTR but I don't own The Hobbit currently).

8: Does Marvel count as one fandom? Seems like it's supposed to, these days, but I'm gonna put down Venom as well. I named my hat after him. Well, *I* didn't, exactly -- my sister had a brown cowboy hat of which the brand name was Eddy, so when I got my black cowboy hat, he was promptly named Venom. I didn't mind, because in the '90s Spider-Man cartoon, Venom is voiced by Hank Azaria nomming on all the available scenery and then some, and I do love me some good scenery-chewing. Also Eddie Brock is just kind of a dork in any incarnation, and depending on your version and timeframe, he's also very much the Catholic guilt superhero, which you can see why that grabbed me.

Anyway, then Herself decided my hat was in fact a symbiote and wouldn't sit next to him in church (another reason I wanted a hat was for taking it off in church purposes, because when that's about the only way you can express masculinity as a very suppressed trans tortoise, you do what you can). Well, she always said she didn't actually believe he was a symbiote, but in a defensive sort of way, and she really wouldn't sit next to him. So that's why my hat has pronouns. That and the fact that he was basically my only remotely physical companion during the Remodel of Doom. Have you ever had to figure out the logistics of crying on a hat's shoulder? I have. Much of my hat-wearing experience lends itself well to writing Jigen, but I'm not so sure about that bit.

(Technically I retired Venom-the-hat earlier this year, he has a spot on the closet shelf now, but the new hat seems to be inheriting the pronouns. Nearly twenty years of habit doesn't go away easy. The new one doesn't seem to have a name for now, presumably because I have other friends.)

9: Merryweather from Sleeping Beauty? Man, I am either running out of blorbos or not thinking of some. Merryweather was partly a color coding thing -- my birth name was a variant of Mary and my next sister's was a variant of Rose, so whenever there were things like toothbrushes to divvy up, I got the blue one and she got the red or pink one. Suited me just fine, not being the pink-coded one after she came along. Anyway, so in Sleeping Beauty, obviously Flora was "her" fairy and Merryweather was mine, but Merryweather is also very relatable -- the most aggressive of the three fairies, the one who it's implied does all the chores for the sixteen years Aurora is growing up, and also she's just a little cutie.

10: Dr McCoy, from Star Trek: The Original Series. My space doctor. *The* space doctor by whom all others are measured. I could do a whole essay if I wasn't so tired. Best space doctor.

[5secondsofhating]

Same anon, no I don’t think they will have another hit or Youngblood on their hands. I can’t say for certain- But I don’t see it happening unless they collab with another band like the level of fame chain smokers were at the time when they did “Who do you Love?” But they’re all idiots and collabing with Sierra Deaton and making music videos for songs that will never be popular (ie- Older). They’ll probably have like another 2 Complete Mess level minor hits imo if anything. I totally agree with what you said. They’re trying to survive from the fans they already have like you said, and that’s not a way to be sustainable (also a lot have left lol). The quality of the music is not as good in any capacity as it used to be and there is no promotion on their parts. Their independent album did not do well, and they literally were happy to reach #2 and the album then virtually disappeared from the charts. It flopped so hard. It reached #2 and then fell so low and then like disappeared. There’s 4 of them, I don’t understand how not one of them is taking a stand in regards to who they are collating or what they’re doing- they should be trying to be mainstream popular again ala Youngblood- but they’re just doing, whatever. I legitimately believe if they tried harder, or purposefully got into a scandal (LOL jk but not really), had a real label, collabed with other people, etc. they could at least become more recognized again.

yes, you're right, but didn't they say that no one wanted to collaborate with them? lmaoooo and if they did a collaboration with a big artist tbh I don't see any of the big artists wanting to collaborate with them, so they're losing either way. don't get me started on sierra collaborating with them because now she's part of the band and everyone treats her like she is (band and fans) she says she likes to be behind the scenes but we all know it's complete bullshit and it's only because she was semi cancelled, but every time she gets a chance to shine she does and her "shy persona" magically disappears and here we have 5sos pushing everyone she's super talented and poor her likeee stfu.

wait didn't they get to #1 because they were telling the fans to buy it and they even made the song cheaper?????? I don't remember

they should be trying to be mainstream popular again ala Youngblood- but they’re just doing, whatever. I been saying this for years but the thing is that 5sos don't want to be popular anymore because they're going to be "pressured" and I mean I understand but you can't expect good things if you never work, they want to do the minimum but expect to be the best and well, things don't work like that and they always come out with "finally we are doing what we like" but they say that every time there is a new album

i hope everything i said makes sense hhdwjffks

-n

[speakergame]

Bit of an odd question but if the main cast were all in a rock band together what instruments would they play? I feel like Li would make a good singer…if their vocal cords aren’t fried from their frankencoffee creations 😬

oooooh I love this

Kana already plays guitar and sings, so their role in the band would be pretty obvious, but I think for the sake of this I'd put them as the lead singer!

Li is a decent singer. not a great one, but mostly because they've never tried to be. I could really see them on lead guitar

Rory would be drummer, definitely. big Arejay Hale energy

Sebastian, I think, would play bass. he just has bassist vibes, I dunno why

Azalea is a tough one here, just because I'm not sure in a situation like this if she'd try to hide from the spotlight or would thrive in it. but I think she'd want to play all the "backup instruments". rhythm guitar and piano/keyboard and stuff like that, depending on what a song needs

[tuffduff]

#1 Fan (Axl Rose x Reader)

Pairing: Axl Rose x Reader

Words: 2,043

Request: @normatural “Hii, hope you’re doing fine! Could you write some Axl (current or 80’s) x reader, where she’s a famous young (20s) actress and they go to a talk show/interview together? It’s okay if you don’t feel like writing :)) Thank you xx”

A/N: Hello, love! I went with 80s Axl for this one, and lemme tell ya, I LOVE this request so much. I love ideas like these, thank you for requesting! Happy Friday loves! <3

Taglist: @ubernoxa @the--blackdahlia​ @reigns420​ @stradlin-cold-heartbreaker​ @rumoured-whispers​ @dustnbones​

“Critics have already been calling The Winter Trials your breakout film. This is also your first action movie. What was it like filming and working as a lead role opposing Arnold Schwarzenegger?”

For you, doing media to promote your movies was one of your favorite parts of the job. That is, when you got to actually engage in intellectual talk rather than just details of your diet. But this late-night talk show appearance had you more nervous than most.

“It was an awesome experience. Getting into acting, I’ve never wanted to do only one genre, I’ve always wanted to do different types of work. He’s an absolute workhorse and a true professional, which is such a privilege to be around because your company really elevates your own mindset. And he’s so kind! He really helped bring out the best in me.” The talk show host nodded at your words.

“Well, I know I can’t wait to see it and I’m sure the rest of the world feels the same; you’ve really been working hard the past few years to make a name for yourself. Do you have time for anything else? Do you watch MTV?” You laughed despite feeling your stomach drop; you had a feeling this was a segue point.

“Oh, absolutely. Yeah, I love MTV.” You shifted nervously on the small loveseat you were seated on.

“Have you heard of Guns N’ Roses?” The crowd cheered, mainly the women. You pressed a smile on your lips, hoping the camera couldn’t see you sweating.

“Yeah, of course.” You replied evenly. On the inside, you were screaming. You were a huge fan of Guns N’ Roses. When Appetite for Destruction came out, it was the only thing you listened to for months straight. And if there were any other guest appearing on the show with you, you would probably be gushing over that fact.

But your fellow guest star was in fact Axl Rose, and you couldn’t lose your cool. You were actually certain he probably had no idea who you were. He probably didn’t care.

He had a bad boy reputation, known to fly into a frenzy at a moment’s notice. You were America’s current sweetheart.

Ever since you found out you would be appearing on the show with Axl Rose, the only thing you could think about was his reaction to you. He probably thought you were boring, uptight, and some actress snob. He was probably disappointed it wasn’t Arnold Schwarzenegger.

“What do you think of them?” The host asked.

“I think they’re very talented.” The crowd clapped in agreement and you took a breath before you added, “I think their album actually is the greatest debut album of all time. Of any genre.” The crowd cheered louder in agreement and the host’s eyes went wide.

“Wow. Are you just saying that because of our other guest this evening?” You laughed a little and shook your head.

“No! I’m being honest. I don’t ever get asked about my music opinions.” You admitted. If Axl held a certain disdain for you, or no opinion at all, it couldn’t hurt to put your honest feelings out in the open. Right?

“Well, alright then—let’s talk music! Don’t go away, up next we’ve got Axl Rose joining us!” The crowd cheered and clapped in anticipation. You smiled and clapped with the audience, knowing Axl himself was in the back waiting to come out.

Sooner than you expected, the show came back and the girls in the front row were screaming exceptionally loud as Axl walked out. He was instantly an intimidating sight in his leather chaps over his blue jeans, thick studded snakeskin belt paired with an LA club tank top and black leather vest. You swallowed nervously as you clapped, realizing the loveseat you were sitting on would barely provide enough space for the two of you. You saw the host stand to greet him with a handshake and scrambled up to your feet, remembering etiquette. Oh god, were your hands clammy? Was your top wrinkled from where you were sitting? You didn’t even have time to think because as soon as he shook the host’s hand, he was turning to you.

There was something immediately disarming about him. You’d seen the magazine covers and music videos of a rough and tough arms-crossed-and-covered-in-tattoos man, but now, here, he didn’t even look like the same person. He was smiling pleasantly at you and his face was incredibly clear. Smooth and frustratingly beautiful, like a sculpted Greek statue. His hair wasn’t ratty and teased and sprayed in Aqua Net like other rock stars. Instead, it rested against his shoulders neatly, shining a delicate strawberry blonde in the studio’s lighting. Even his handshake as he grabbed yours in his was gentle. You weren’t expecting him to lean forward and kiss your cheek.

“How are you?” You heard him ask next to your ear. It wasn’t small talk other famous people made for appearances, he genuinely pulled back and waited for your answer.

“Good.” You were able to murmur in reply. You could smell his cologne and almost felt your knees weaken.

“W. Axl Rose! Guns N’ Roses!” You heard the host say and you were suddenly reminded this was an interview. You sat back down again and Axl followed your lead. Your legs instantly brushed, and you wondered if you should’ve tried to scoot over, but decided to stay frozen, waiting for him to be the one to move. He didn’t. His leg stayed against yours, brushing yours with his every time he moved ever so slightly. “How are you? How’s the band?”

“Good. We’re really good. We just got done touring for our last album. We’re all taking a short break and getting everything in order before we head back to the studio and start working on the next album.”

“Right, yes. I’m sure everyone’s heard it, Appetite for Destruction?” The host checked with the crowd who cheered and clapped in response. The host turned to you, a teasing gleam in his eyes. “We all know Y/N has.” You could feel your cheeks heating up and you looked down at your lap, unable to even look at the man next to you, though you were pretty sure you heard him laugh. You were eating your words now. “But what I found interesting is, in the beginning, MTV wouldn’t even play your videos. The album didn��t even get notoriety until a whole year later, which doesn’t happen. How did that make you guys feel, Axl?”

“Uh, I mean, it’s kind of disheartening. When you put so much work into something and everything is against you, it only makes you want something more. We had to claw our way to where we are now.” You listened carefully to his words, surprised by how well-spoken and articulate his response was. And his voice, smooth and deep, so different than the earth-shaking screams he could produce. “But, in the end I guess it all worked out. If Y/N thinks we’re good, then we’ve really accomplished something great.” You looked up quickly at the sound of your name. The host and crowd laughed, and at first you assumed Axl was being sarcastic until you saw the smile on his face. One of earnest, with his eyes lighting up a little when you finally met his. You smiled back at him, laughing a little as you relaxed.

“Are you surprised Y/N listens to your band?” The host asked.

“Oh, yeah. It’s a real trip—I almost lost my mind back there while I was listening and waiting to come out because,” Axl shifted in his seat, facing you with his body. Somehow, he managed to appear bold and yet bashful at the same time. “I’m a really big fan of yours. I almost considered canceling this appearance because I was so nervous.” The host and crowd were delighted at his revelation, but you could only sit there with your mouth open.

“…Me? You were nervous to meet me?” You managed to get out. There was no way you could hide the blush on your face now.

“Yeah. I’ve been a fan of yours ever since Don’t You Remember?” You blinked a few times in amazement. That movie had been filmed years ago, when you were barely breaking into the film world. It was a romantic and sentimental 1800s period piece.

“No one’s seen that.” You laughed in amazement, making the crowd laugh too. Axl only smiled sincerely at you, and all of a sudden you felt like a giddy teenager again.

“I have. I liked the title and the cover when I saw it in the rental store. I don’t really watch movies, but I watch all of yours. I go back to that one all the time.” You were speechless. “Yeah, I think you’re incredibly talented. I’d really love it if you starred in one of our music videos someday.” The crowd cheered in agreement.

“I would love that!” You couldn’t help but blurt out. “So much. I’ve never done a music video, but I would love to do one with you guys.”

The rest of the interview went pretty smooth, with Axl shedding a little light on some of the song’s inspirations, what Guns N’ Roses hoped to accomplish in the future, and upcoming tentative tour dates. But it was when you were both backstage together again that you felt the most nervous, just the two of you.

“You know, I meant everything out there. I wasn’t bullshitting you for TV or something.” He told you. Without the noise of the crowd or studio, the deepness of his voice struck you even more.

“I meant it too. I had no idea you were gonna be so…” you struggled to find the right word. Charming. Interesting. Insightful. “…not scary.” You finished lamely. He laughed warmly, but you noticed he stepped closer.

“Did I scare you before?”

“I…didn’t think you even knew who I was,” you admitted. “I mean, your band has this reputation, and I get it. More than you probably know. The media likes to twist you around and paint you a certain way. But I can see there’s a lot more to you than what everyone else thinks they know.” He listened intently every time you spoke, and now, his eyes continued to search yours for a long moment after you were done speaking.

“I think all the hype about you is true. And you’re more beautiful in person.” You were a nervous mess, practically giggling like a school girl at his compliment. “…But I agree with you. And I want to know the things about you no one else knows.”

That was it; you gave Axl your personal number and he called you that next night. The magazines, radio, and TV had a field day with your interview segment and rumors ran rampant of the two of you crushing on each other. The world was obsessed with the idea of the two of you together. Polar opposites—the rebellious rock star and the polished starlet.

There was a mad frenzy the first time you two met for dinner, with pictures in the magazines and tabloids for weeks after. You and Axl then agreed to have secret rendezvous in disguises at odd times of the day and night, the two of you sneaking around and going off to hole in the wall restaurants far from the prying eyes of Hollywood.

As time went on, you kept your relationship very private, though neither of you failed to mention the other in interviews or speeches. You went to each other’s award shows, movie premieres, and concerts. You became the “Guns N’ Roses” girl, appearing in every single video afterwards on starting with “Don’t Cry.” Axl even wrote a song for one of your movies. The both of you were obsessed with each other, always one another’s biggest fan, always celebrating every accomplishment together. Out of any accolade you could attain regarding your professional career, nothing could ever top the true happiness of a partner who loved, cherished, and respected the blood, sweat, and tears you put into your craft. And with Axl, you had that, as he did with you.

[ronsenburg]

i saw this post and IMMEDIATELY started writing an essay, so I moved it here so as not to clutter up someone else’s post...........

it absolutely blows my mind that, today in 2021, i honestly can’t remember what’s canon from the turnabout serenade case, what i read in a fanficition, and what is my own personal HC. like, it’s been more than a decade since i played the case for the first time and it’s probably been 5ish years since the last time i played AJ (definitely forgot to play it again before writing youngblood which is.... contributing to this) so i really don’t know if what goes on in my head is accurate, but, over the years, i’ve come up with a Lot of Thoughts, which i’ll discuss below. 

tldr; it’s all about power (the desire for, the subversion of, the need to maintain), but if you’d like the specifics, here you go:

daryan: i think the explanation that he did it for “the money” is a line. please don’t mistake me, daryan is an asshole and a murderer, im not discounting that, but in court ive always thought that he was playing the part that everyone- especially klavier- is expecting of him. he’s the bad guy. might as well make it a finale for the books.

i’ve always seen daryan and klavier as opposite sides of the same coin when it comes to family and career aspirations. where i imagine klavier came from a well off and well loved family before his parents died, i see daryan from a working class, difficult upbringing. i read a few papers on the psychology of children/parenting style of police officers and decided early on that daryan’s dad was also a cop. his mother is either dead or (more likely) left them early on. dad coped by working a little too hard, gambling/drinking a little too much, and was overall not around a lot and kind of an authoritarian/controller when he was. it left daryan with a lot of anger he had to cope with, about what it means to be a cop, the idea of a “just cause” and the ends justifying the means, and an issue with authority (which is laughable, considering what a bully he turned out to be. sometimes we emulate our parents unintentionally; it’s the only thing we have to model our behavior on). so daryan started off at a disadvantage. klavier started off loved and supported and surrounded by expensive belongings, but the death of his parents and the subsequent emotional and financial abuse by his newly appointed guardian/brother left him in a similar place by the time he and daryan met. i think it was probably the foundation for their bond, and i think it’s why klavier decided to become a prosecutor instead of following in his brother’s footsteps and why daryan ultimately decided to enter law enforcement as well. i think they had a lot of optimistic, idealistic thoughts on being better than the people that hurt them, on utilizing the law to make the world a better place. i don’t think klavier ever conceived that kristoph could have wanted him in the prosecutors office as another pawn to play, and i don’t think he realized how fluid daryan’s morality could be.

shipping alert—you guys know me, im crazy for the idea of a “best friends to on again off again lovers to tenuous coworkers to bitterly disappointed in but still harboring feelings for the other person despite being on opposite sides” dynamic between daryan and klavier. i honestly can’t separate the ship from the case and im sorry about it. if you read youngblood you know that i think daryan started to resent klavier pretty early on, when they were still together, when the band was still successful, because klavier was able to move forward and work through the issues of his past while daryan was seemingly stuck. yes, daryan had made detective and the gavinners were a hit, he’d risen above his initial social standing and thrown off the control his father, he had money and fame and a future. but everything he had was because of klavier. daryan needed klavier, emotionally, morally, financially. but even when klavier was professing his love for daryan, both privately and in the form of chart topping songs, he didn’t need daryan. it was obvious (and of course, healthy, but how do children of abuse learn what a healthy relationship looks like without help? especially when the only relationships you’ve ever had are codependent and, in some ways, just as toxic?) and so things spiraled. daryan got possessive and angry again and klavier got distant and they broke up and got back together and broke up and didn’t get back together but kept ending up back in each other’s arms for comfort and for support and because how the hell do you move on when the person you’ve been in love with since you were 15 is sitting next to you on a tour bus and is also your partner in a homicide case and singing songs he wrote about you on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans?

okay, shipping glasses off, sorry. but no matter how you look at their relationship, daryan’s promotion out of homicide was probably the most distance they’d had from each other in years, as it removed a large chunk of the daily “working relationship” aspect. and without klavier there to act as a moral compass, it was likely easier to slip back into his earlier thoughts about what constitutes justice and his intense hatred of being pushed around by someone who has more power than you. so enter the chief justice with a son who is sick, dying even, but can’t get the medicine he needs because there’s a government out there telling them no. The reasons are arbitrary: the medicine could be used as a poison and can’t be found anywhere else so it might come back to bite the country in the ass if it’s misused by criminals. newsflash: pretty much all medicine is poisonous if it isn’t used correctly, should we stop using penicillin entirely because some people might be allergic to it? they’ve essentially condemned a whole bunch of people to death because they’re worried about their reputation. and that doesn’t sit well with daryan, who is caught up remembering the bullshit justifications his dad would spout when he knocked him around, that kristoph would give when withholding every single penny of money klavier was entitled to until he agreed to do what kristoph wanted. it isn’t right, it isn’t fair and unfair laws shouldn’t have to be upheld, especially when they’re the unfair laws of a country you most definitely did not swear to uphold and protect. it was never about money, though daryan agrees to take it when the chief offers it to him, more for his comfort level than for daryan’s need or desire. it’s about justice and putting a bully in it’s place with a (seemingly) victimless crime that should be so easy given his role in the international division of criminal affairs and klavier’s sudden hard on for the country of borginia. seriously, how could this have been any more straightforward? daryan is capable of murder, though. all cops are. and if it came down to a “them or me” shootout, of course he’d pull the trigger. 

machi: when you come from nothing, the desire to have something of your own is overwhelming. the idea that machi is famous and financially set is disingenuous; he is not individually famous, he is Lamiroir’s “blind” pianist. yes, she views him as a son and seems to care deeply for him, but his main purpose in her life is to perpetuate a lie. machi has been abandoned before; what will happen to him if lamiroir suddenly remembers who she was in the past? what if she has a family and a true son of her own and has no use for him? what if their secret is found out and the public rejects him for his role in it? he is 14. what does he know about being provided for? about contracts and trust funds and royalties? he ended up in an orphanage originally because he was unwanted, and that led to a life of poverty and hardship. abandonment issues are rooted in fear and are rarely logical. i find it far easier to believe that machi did it for the money, but more for the power money might have given him towards independence in an unfeeling and capitalist world.

kristoph: i won’t get into this, because this is supposed to be about daryan and machi and the guitar’s serenade, and kristoph is not really involved in that at all. but i think everything that kristoph has ever done in the game, good or bad, is rooted in a pathological need to constantly be in control. i think that kristoph and klavier both have very intense personalities that they have sought to control over the course of their lives for the sake of their careers. kristoph believes that to be a good lawyer, you need to play your cards close to your chest, that to show your hand is to expose a weakness that the enemy can exploit, that to show no weaknesses at all places you in a position of power. klavier believes that to show his true self, to display his weaknesses and fears to the public, would result only in their rejection. as such, they both wear masks of their own creation even under the most intense of pressures: kristoph as pleasant and calm, klavier as magnetic and dynamic. note the primary difference in their rational? klavier wants to be wanted, while kristoph wants power. and power corrupts, after all. once you have it, what could be more overwhelming than the idea that you might lose it all? it can drive even the most rational people to commit acts of passionate irrationality in the name of holding on to that power. and kristoph has so many pieces involved in his strategy to maintain.  

[brave-clarice]

“Clarice” Liveblog: Episode 1

Here are my extremely unfashionably late takes! They’re long, so strap in if you want.

okay, I genuinely thought the scenes in Gumb’s basement were ripped from the film for a second. extremely well done.

I both appreciate that they’re acknowledging the Bureau-mandated psych eval Clarice would have to go through (not sure she’d have to have another one a year later?)...

...but I sure wish they hadn’t chosen to open this show in a therapy-like session. it’s going to be subject to enough NBC comparisons as it is.

gosh, Rebecca Breeds is so pretty, and in the same almost, idk, elfin kind of way Jodie Foster is.

“Bride of Frankenstein”! a novel reference! and a Hannibal Lecter reference even though they can’t use his name! I’m excited

I was afraid of this part, though--everyone’s going to call her “Clarice” aren’t they?

it’s very significant that in the books, Hannibal is virtually alone in using her first name to address her; even Ardelia calls her “Starling.” but of course this series chose “Clarice” as its title, so...

“the checkout lady at the Safeway asked me to autograph a melon” omg

so Clarice has supposedly been “mandated” to see an FBI therapist for an entire year? hmm.

tbh, this feels kind of like a proxy for Hannibal’s scenes in the movie, especially with the therapist calling her “Clarice.” not sure if I dig it.

“...given that your last therapist was an inmate” Hannibal reference #2!

they’re explicitly talking about Hannibal without being able to name him and it’s hilarious, frustrating, and immensely satisfying all at once.

there’s no way to avoid talking about him altogether without being disingenuous to Clarice’s eventual character arc, so I’m glad they’re ripping off the band-aid early

“you let that relationship be intimate”  Yeah, Clarice and Hannibal’s relationship IS intimate and YOU! SHOULD! SAY IT!!!

it’s kind of ridiculous for this guy/the show not to acknowledge that little trainee Clarice was sent to see Hannibal by someone who should’ve known better. That Crawford was doing it with the intention to save lives doesn’t mean he didn’t use the shit out of Clarice.

that’s not to take away her agency or minimize the choices she made after she met Hannibal. She wouldn’t have been in a position to make those choices if Crawford hadn’t arranged it, though.

even if they don’t have the rights to Crawford’s name, either (I have to assume that’s the case) couldn’t they at least mention this??

“hasn’t seen her own family in years” Are they actually going to address Clarice’s maybe-dead-maybe-not mother (depending on the canon they adopt, book or film) and possible siblings??? Please tell me they are!

Clarice’s “egregious” PTSD doesn’t have much to do with Buffalo Bill ofc, and this therapist seems to be making excuses to be the first in a long line of men getting in the way of Clarice’s career goals...

...which she recognizes and confronts him about. Call him out!!!

*Anthony Hopkins voice* That’s my girl.

the way she’s been written in this scene gives me a lot of hope going forward! she’s funny, she doesn’t take any sexist bullshit, she’s calm and polite but you get a glimpse of the rage underneath. 

wow, they promoted Senator Martin to Attorney General!

the opening credits (if you can even call them that) are a let-down, though

she has her beads!

can anyone who’s not Hannibal please stop calling her Clarice

wonder if they’re going to touch on any of the extreme tension that existed between Senator Martin and Clarice in the novel? they didn’t interact in the movie, but in the book, Martin is under intense stress, and it doesn’t go smoothly.

of course in “Hannibal,” Martin invites her to “ride horses,” so they obviously reconciled after Catherine’s rescue and kept in some kind of touch.

and speak of the devil: horses! (and Catherine)

“I can’t have a reputation, I’ve only done it once” Thank you for being the voice of reason, Clarice.

“Paul Krendler” *ugly screaming commences*

“you don’t have any people, Clarice” Aaand that’s the plot of the Hannibal novel!

looks like they even gave her the ring Jodie’s Clarice wears!

oh yeah, this Krendler looks like a sumbitch if I ever saw one. No one will ever be as perfectly cast as the dude in Silence imo, but a much better fit than Ray Liotta. 

“small carat, but it’s a sweet ring” A very in-character observation probably directly informed by her comments about nail polish in Silence.

she mentions this victim’s nail polish (!) being “tasteful,” and I shrieked a little again.

I understand it’s necessary for Krendler to be a douche, but there’s not even going to be any payoff for the audience (or Clarice) when Hannibal eats him, so boo.

wait...wait, why aren’t Clarice and Ardelia in their Alexandria duplex? They’re not just best friends, they’re roommates! For the entire seven-year story! GIVE ME THE DUPLEX!!!

BUT points for Ardelia bringing Clarice a treat, since she was always leaving her candy bars in the Silence book!

Clarice interacting with the washer/dryer is a nice nod to the books, too.

speaking of... “What did we learn in the laundry room back at Quantico?” For some reason this line made me actually cry, I guess because this whole episode has been such a love letter to something I love so dearly, and it’s making me emotional.

FIRST PRINCIPLES!

DESPERATELY RANDOM!!!

wow, the men in Clarice’s new office giving her lotion as a hazing “welcome” gift is awful, and now I’m just mad (which is the point of the scene ofc).

so this ex-military OC is the John Brigham stand-in, I take it?

if that means John Brigham won’t be here, No Thanks.

Clarice telling him she’ll drive...a tribute to Dana “Why Do You Always Have to Drive?” Scully, perhaps (who was herself inspired by Clarice) as well as a nod to Clarice’s love of cars?

“Why do they call you the bride of Frankenstein?” Sorry, I don’t have the legal rights to tell you about my last intimate relationship.

“Already on my way to West Virginia Granny Witch” Look, this show could crash and burn from this scene on, and it would still have been worth it just for these first 25 minutes.

I like that Clarice is shown wanting to help people, and the scene of her with the baby is a nice call-back to the eventual shoot-out at the beginning of “Hannibal”...but I hope they don’t try to domesticate her too much. Clarice needs her hard edges. To be tough (reasonably so)--a cub growing into its big cat’s claws.

also, somehow I doubt that Miss Valedictorian spent her six years in the Lutheran home “changing a lot of diapers,” but sure, okay. If her siblings are alive in this, she might have changed their diapers!

even though Krendler’s a real dickwad so far, he’s not slimy enough for me. Needs more grease.

“I got a call from your therapist who’s concerned that you might genuinely flip out” I really do not like this subplot Sam-I-Am. Aren’t the huge glass ceiling/Boys’ Club obstacles enough?

seriously, though, I know Hannibal tells her that the metaphorical lambs will come back--at the end of Silence, though, she’s at some kind of temporary peace, not in danger of “flipping out” any time soon.

if Esquivel really is our Brigham stand-in, I’ve got...problems with that. He was Clarice’s teacher and became her friend, not some Krendler double-agent. (Also worried they’re setting him up as a love interest for her which...eesh, no thanks.)

and sorry, I actually hate that Catherine kept Precious the dog in this.

I have no problem with Catherine being a character, or with her interacting with Clarice...that said, I don’t know if her being shown as severely traumatized and reaching out to Clarice as a form of emotional lifeline is...a good idea?

I understand the symbolism of Catherine’s smashed mirror, but...smashed mirrors are already a Thing in this series (albeit not Clarice’s chapter in it), and that’s all I can think of here.

Catherine’s a victim of unthinkable trauma. Nevertheless...she’s talking to the woman who saved her life. Who risked death to do it. I just don’t like the way this scene is written. Apparently, in this show’s canon, Catherine hasn’t gotten the help she needs. But Clarice isn’t her therapist, and it’s upsetting to have Catherine being all “I’ll never be safe and neither will you.”

how does Catherine remember “the mannequins, the autopsy table”?? And why is she throwing them in Clarice’s face?

I’m going to stop talking about this scene now because it’s making me angry and a little upset, which is maybe the point? I just don’t think it’s written well. If Catherine’s going to be a recurring character, I hope she’s shown getting professional, medical help.

Clarice finding the victim’s papers in the box of pads is a direct callback to her finding the photos in the jewelry box in Silence. Nice.

let’s agree that Hannibal and Crawford are both in Ardelia’s (too-cutesy-for-me) book

another nice little X-Files homage?

I have some qualms about that big climax, but...meh. It was capital-F Fine.

Yikes, this is a full week late. Thanks for reading this entirely-too-long post through to the end, if you’re still here! 

To sum up my thoughts...

The Good: 

the visual connections to the Silence film (that green coat/blue knit scarf combo in particular)

Rebecca Breeds’ performance overall so far

Clarice’s strong writing/characterization

her sense of humor and her inclination to call out bullshit

maybe it was just me, but I also got a sense of Hannibal’s influence on her in some of her dialogue--her blunt observations--and I love it

Ardelia Mapp

the repeated in-your-face references to Hannibal Lecter

the respectful, non-exploitative way the victims were treated by the narrative.

let’s just say, not all Harris-inspired shows managed to do this. :)

the many, many allusions to the novel

“you let that relationship be INTIMATE” !!!

The Bad: 

the near-constant implication that all Clarice’s trauma stems from her experiences in Gumb’s basement

I just don’t understand this one...it’s not supported by the text imo

the “Clarice-is-a-psychological-loose-canon” subplot

almost everyone calling her “Clarice”

NO DUPLEX IN ALEXANDRIA! Boo!

Esquivel maybe replacing Brigham

the narrative choices they’ve made surrounding Catherine so far.

Seriously: please let Catherine seek/get help instead of screaming “HELP ME” at Clarice, who after all risked her own life to save Catherine’s, over the phone.

The Ugly: Paul Krendler, lol. Confession time: I also don’t care for the way they’ve styled her hair. Not sure why it bugs me, it just...does.

Overall, I’m thrilled to death with this. I was so afraid it would be disappointing, so even if it’s not a five-star episode (and pilots rarely are), it’s a great beginning! It’s beyond amazing to see our girl on the screen again. Just this hour-long episode did her character way more justice than the entire Hannibal film. Despite its shortcomings, it’s such a loving homage to characters and a story that mean a lot to me, and I love it just for that.

Going forward, I’d like to see more of Clarice as a person. Her hobbies and interests--cars, sharpshooting, running, fashion magazines stuffed under her bed, horseback riding, her total inability to cook...anything would do. I of course want to see more of her with Ardelia. I want to hear more about her backstory and find out which version of it (truly orphaned when her father dies or sent away by her mother) they’ll choose to explore. And while we all agree that this show is about Clarice and she don’t need no man, I won’t lie: I’d gobble up more sly references to Hannibal. He’s her endgame, after all.

I’d also like to really see the warrior underneath. There are flashes of her in the last twenty minutes of this episode. But Clarice Starling is a big cat, she’s a warrior, she’s between iron and silver. I’d hate for her to spend most of this show doe-eyed and traumatized. I want her to be ferocious, to see the woman who’s a match for the monster.

Krendler needs to get nastier. He should make us feel like we need to shower. In the novels, he wants to use Clarice--only for her body. And when she won’t allow him to, he takes his revenge. That’s what makes him so particularly awful. Let’s amp him up here.

And finally...maybe I’ll appreciate Catherine’s scene more on a second watch. Maybe I’m not being sensitive enough to her trauma, her struggles. But I didn’t like the way that scene was staged or scripted, and I didn’t like the suggestion that she just hasn’t gotten help after a year and is subsequently taking her pain out on Clarice on some level. I hope future episodes handle this subplot, and her character, a bit better.

Please let me know if you guys would like me to do another of these monstrosities for the next episode. (I promise it won’t take me an entire week this time!) And thank you again for reading!!! 

[halseyhazzard]

The Redemption of Judee Sill

Halsey Hazzard, fall 2018

for a writing class on pop culture criticism “So much sensationalist bullshit has been written about Judee Sill (by people who never knew her) focusing on her days as a hooker and a junkie.” So begins Pat Thomas’s interview with Tommy Peltier, a longtime friend and collaborator of Sill’s, in the liner notes to the recently and lovingly compiled “Songs of Rapture and Redemption: Rarities & Live.” He’s not wrong; in nearly all of the writing on Sill, her music, an inimitable blend of gospel, folk and country at once bluesy and baroque, plays second fiddle to the stranger- and sadder-than-fiction story of her all-too-brief life. Her eponymous 1971 debut and 1973’s Heart Food were met with praise from critics and her fellow songwriters alike; in 1973 Steve Holden called Judee a “most gifted artist, one who continues to promise almost more than I dare hope for.” Unfortunately — for Sill and for those who loved her, and for those of us who love her music — much of that promise never came to pass. She died in obscurity in 1979, leaving behind an unfinished third record and quietly ascending to the pantheon of young, brilliant musicians who died too soon.

It’s hard to write about Sill without relying on sensationalist bullshit. I suppose in writing this at all I’m contributing to the problem, but like so many others, I have joined the ranks of Sill’s devoted disciples, compelled to tell and retell her story to rectify fate’s perceived cruel disservice to a great talent. What emerges is not always a faithful portrait of the complicated artist Sill was, but rather a shifting and sometimes contradictory fable that cements Sill’s status as a legend — not, as she might have hoped, as “an extremely famous or notorious person,” but rather as the subject of a “story sometimes popularly regarded as historical but unauthenticated.”

The story goes something like this: Judee Sill was born Judith Lynne Sill to an average, unhappy middle class household in Los Angeles in 1944. She fell in with a rough crowd, got married, committed a series of crimes, got addicted to various drugs, went to jail, got married again. Eventually she cleaned up her act, put the gospel licks she’d learned in reform school to good use, and became the first act signed to David Geffen’s Asylum label. She put out two albums of intricate songs that married earthly desire and longing for heavenly salvation, populated with lonely cowboy types and vigilantes that sometimes seemed strikingly similar to Jesus. For a few shining years it seemed like Sill had made it. It soon became clear (the story goes) that fame was not what fate had in store for her. Until 2003, when Rhino issued Judee Sill and Heart Food on CDs for the first time as part of its Handmade series, Sill was “[u]nlamented and all but forgotten.” These are the words of Barney Hoskyns, who in a 2004 Guardian profile declared “[t]he tragic Judee Sill is well overdue for (re)discovery.” Since then, interest in Sill’s life and music has steadily increased thanks to a series of posthumous reissues and releases: 2005’s “Dreams Come True,” a two-disk set of unreleased recordings mixed by Jim O’Rourke (Sonic Youth, Wilco); Live in London: The BBC Recordings 1972-1973, released in 2007; and “Chariot of Astral Light,” an intimate collaboration with aforementioned Tommy Peltier recorded in the ‘70s and finally released in 2004.

In a review of the 2004 Intervention reissue of Judee Sill titled “The Judee Sill Cult Continues, This Time at 45RPM,” Michael Fremer of Analogplanet writes, “sometimes "legends" are created and nurtured simply by tragic circumstances. In Judee Sill's case add wasted talent and unfulfilled great promise that add up to a movie worthy story.” Sill’s life has yet to inspire a movie (although a seemingly-deserted IMDB page indicates at least one attempt at a documentary), but songwriter Laura Veirs’ “Song for Judee,” renders the Judee Sill legend in sparse yet cinematic detail. In it, Veirs’ voice echoes on top of warm, jangling guitars, the apparently upbeat melody betrayed by the sadness of the story it tells:

“You wrote “The Kiss” and it is beautiful

I can listen again and again

You never really got a break

From the car wrecks and the pain”

The crux of the Judee Sill legend is captured in these lines, which immediately identify Sill’s work with the tragic events of her life. Sill’s music is mentioned in Veir’s lyric but once, and only glancingly; it’s not even clear “The Kiss” is a song, or “Judee” a songwriter. Veirs’ appreciation for her music is given is as pretext for why the listener should care about Sill’s life, but it’s clear the main attraction here is tragedy. The rest of this atypical ode is not praise, but a retelling, addressed to Sill herself, of key moments in the legend of her life. What emerges is a tellingly concise fable that identifies Sill with the lonely phantom cowboys who populate her lyrical landscape.

Veirs appears to have lifted her narrative and several phrases from the BBC documentary. She mines in particular the commentary from Peltier, who says Sill was his best friend and shares the insights that would come to compose Veirs’ chorus: “You loved the Sons of the Pioneers and the Hollywood cowboy stars/you were just trying to put a hand to where we are.” She also borrows, nearly word-for-word, an introduction Judee gave during one of her London radio performances in 1972, describing her time “living in a ‘55 Cadillac, five people sleeping in shifts.” This almost creates an intimacy with Sill, whom Veirs had never met; however, there remains an insurmountable distance. Sill had been dead 35 years — as long as she was alive — by the time this ode was composed. While Veirs hints at Sill’s troubles in the first verse, only in the last verse does she make explicit what happened: “They found you with a needle in your arm, beloved books strewn ‘round at your feet”. The revelation gives the chorus retroactive prophetic relevance. The past tense, once wistful, is now crushing.

Her death, like her life, became part of the legend. There are general points of agreement: she had been in several car accidents, was using heroin again, and died of an overdose just after Thanksgiving 1979. Everything else is less clear. Though her death certificate reports she was found dead in her house in North Hollywood, a persistent rumor suggested she had disappeared to Mexico to live out her final days. Her death was reported as a suicide, but family members and friends maintain that the note found near her, a characteristic musing on death and redemption, was an idea for a song.

The title of a 2014 BBC Radio documentary by Ruth Barnes says it all: “The Lost Genius of Judee Sill.” Sill’s genius is preceded by its lostness. Sill herself comes last. Her music is mentioned too, of course. They quote Sill’s self-description of her work as “country-cult-baroque” and her professed influences, Bach and Pythagoras. (In some versions of the quote, Ray Charles is thrown in.) Yet every time, it seems, someone brings up that she wrote “Jesus Was a Crossmaker,” about JD Souther, that Graham Nash produced it. She was the inaugural artist on David Geffen’s Asylum, we’re told, .She opened for Crosby Stills and Nash, and Cat Stevens, and Gordon Lightfoot — and so on. These revelations are usually accompanied by astonishment at the fact that she failed to find the commercial success of her peers, despite her comparable — perhaps superior — talents.

Many have offered explanations about how this happened. There is a general consensus that her falling-out with Geffen played a role. It’s not exactly clear what happened. The word “faggot” was involved, but whether it was said live or on the radio, in reference to Geffen himself or a pair of his pink shoes, is up for debate. Whatever she said severed their relationship. Some contend that she may have been in love with him, and was hurt when he spurned her advances. Others point out that she was growing frustrated with what she saw as his lack of promotion for her music. By this point, she was already making no secret of her disdain for the “snotty rock bands” she had to open for, and I doubt this did her any favors.

The contradictions in people’s stories exacerbate the larger-than-life quality of her life and times, as do the many cliches used to tell her story. Headlines variously declare her “a star that fame forgot,” “L.A.’s doomed lady of the canyon who lost her genius to drugs,” a “mystic” who “walked among us.” The human Judee Sill is lost somewhere beneath this sensationalism. It is no wonder why her friends and family members, Tommy Peltier chief among them, feel so compelled to set the record straight by providing their version of events. In his remarks in “Songs of Rapture and Redemption,” Peltier is quick to discourage speculation about her drug use and past prostitution, declaring instead “She was just the most beautiful person.”

“Beautiful,” you may recall, was the only word Laura Veirs could come up with to describe “The Kiss.” When I first heard “The Kiss,” I was immediately struck by how inadequate the word was to describe what I was hearing. The song showcases the best of her efforts to induce mathematically precise intervals into intricate melodies that aren’t so much heard as felt. Her lyrics, confusing the sacred and profane, ride the thin ridge between love and logic, devotion and desperation. Over shifting and plaintive piano Sill sings a eulogy to stars bursting in the sky and begs a lover — god? — to come and hold her “while you show me how to fly.” I first heard “The Kiss” in a YouTube video, one of few that survives of her performing, whose introduction insists that she herself was determined to be a successful musician. Ironically, the video shows precisely why perhaps she couldn’t be: severe and guileless, Sill hunches over the piano as if it were all that exists, engrossed in the song’s intense and uncommercial emotional intensity.

Sill’s idiosyncrasies are on full display in “Songs of Rapture and Redemption”, a compilation whose greatest strength is its commitment to capturing the artist and all her contradictions in her own words. The sleeve features a candid photograph of a smiling Sill, alongside several of her paintings and drawings. The tracks included are a combination of live recordings, demos, and studio outtakes that lay bare the deceptive complexity of her compositions. In the Boston Music Hall performance that opens the record, Sill, armed only with an acoustic guitar, tells the audience “I’m going to sing you a few little songs before David [Crosby] and Graham [Nash] get here. I’d like to sing you this song called “The Vigilante”. It’s new, I hope I remember the words.” The self-effacing introduction notwithstanding, what follows is nothing short of revelatory.

An early highlight is “Enchanted Sky Machines,” a bluesy number about waiting for the end of the world where she trades her distinctive fingerpicking for pentecostal piano licks she picked up in reform school. There is an aching earnestness to the way she sings of swallowing her yearning, and it carries over into “The Archetypal Man,” which begins with Sill singing the song’s opening harpsichord solo. Before “Crayon Angels,” she describes how she would call up friends as she was writing the album and sing them instrumental solos, joking that it must have been hard for them to like her in those days. The crowd is in on it, and her self-deprecating humor belies a clear confidence in her talents and her musical vision that is justified by the virtuosic grace of her playing. Sill was a perfectionist who demanded and deserved creative control, a notoriously laborious songwriter who could be a tyrant in the studio, and these tendencies are on full display even in this humble solo set. When she introduces her second last song, “The Lamb Ran Away With the Crown,” she enunciates every word, then repeats it again — ”with. the. crown.” — determined to ensure the the audience walks away knowing exactly what she was saying.

The set ends with Judee’s signature song, “Jesus Was a Crossmaker,” which had only just been released to radio two days prior. She calmly reveals the song’s inspiration, an unhappy relationship with a “bandit and a heartbreaker,” and describes waking up one day with the conviction “that even that wretched bastard was not beyond redemption.” Her diction is clear, her tone less so. The audience, nonetheless moved, cheers and laughs. She goes on: “It’s true, I swear. It saved me, this song. It was writing this song or suicide. It’s called “Jesus is a Crossmaker” and I hope you like it.” Her voice seems monotonous for such an emotional confession, but that stops mattering as soon as the song begins.

Instantly her singing voice, freed from the perfectionism of her studio recordings, reveals itself as strikingly human. Precise, unadorned, free of vibrato, it is flat in places, sharp in others, yet cuts to the rhythmic core of each note. She struggles with a few of the intervals she has given herself to sing, but this only enhances the song, giving human voice to the mathematical precision of her compositions, linking the downtrodden with the divine. With her unpretentious voice and deceptively simple language, she strives to speak redemption into being. Her longing for it is audible.

Such longing is a key theme in much of sill’s work, and nowhere is it more pronounced than in “Crayon Angels”:

Crayon Angel songs are slightly out of tune

But I'm sure I'm not to blame

Nothing's happened, but I think it will soon

So I sit here waiting for God and a train to the Astral plane

Later in the song, she confesses “Guess reality is not as it seems so I sit here hoping for truth, and a ride to the other side”. Sill knows the truth she longs for is unattainable, at least in this lifetime — but she remains unflagging in her belief in something. It is this belief that motivates her music. To characterize Sill as a god-given genius laid low by fate undercuts her formidable musical ambition, and the sincerity with which she approached her craft. The work she created was not purely inspired by the divine, but instead strove for it, confronting the inevitable impossibility of reaching perfection with the all-too-human drive for beauty in the face of death. Still, one gets the sense that Sill herself, enthralled as she was with cowboy stories and cosmic secrets, might appreciate the mythic proportions her life story has taken. I like to think that she’s made it to the Astral plane, and that wherever she is, she’s smiling.

[stina-is-a-punk-rocker]

stephanie perkins: ‘anna and the french kiss’

SPOILERS AHEAD!

Then again, if you’ve read any YA book, ever, it’s fairly obvious what’s going to happen.

I was going to go easy on this book; I really was. It’s really unfair how media aimed at a female demographic is seen as frivolous and vapid, and more often than not bashed and bullied when it comes to reviews. “People actually enjoy this crap?” ask the powers that be. “It’s worthless! Pulp! Dreamy-eyed nonsense only complete nimrods could ever like!”

And I take offense to that. There’s nothing wrong with liking romance or happy endings or stories about cute European boys. I was ecstatic when I stumbled across Anna and the French Kiss upon a chance trip to the bookstore. The cover was… meh (Century Gothic? Really? There were no other fonts?). But I’d heard nothing but praise about the book, and I was prepared to stay up all night and into the wee hours of the morning to finish it.

Admittedly, I was far from impressed upon the first reading. The characters were unlikable, the plot would’ve worked better for less shitty characters, honestly fuck these characters am I supposed to like them, fuck Anna, fuck Étienne, fuck Bridgette, fuck Toph, fuck Dave and Meredith and Amanda and Seany and every other stupid character in this stupid book.

The second time around, I expected to not hate it as much as I did when I first read it. It’s happened- I hated Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda when I first read it, and when I read it again, all that red-hot anger simmered down into an overall dislike. I thought To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before was trash at first, and then I read it again, and it got promoted to recyclable waste matter.

I found Anna and the French Kiss horrendous the first time I read it, and then I read it again, and… yeah, it’s still pretty awful.

Le Sommaire:

Anna Oliphant is a seventeen-year-old wannabe film critic who is #NotLikeOtherGirls – so she’s exactly like every other female YA lead. To her credit, she never explicitly says she’s special… everyone around her does.

She has a pretty meh life in Atlanta, Georgia with her mum and little bruv Sean- and then her dad decides to ship her off to France for her final year of high school. I’m not judging Anna for bawling her eyes out on her first day; I’m a huge mummy’s girl myself and I’d probably (definitely) do the same.

Meredith is Anna’s next-door neighbor, who does that thing which only happens in YA where she’s like “Oh, newbie? Let’s be friends!” (Or maybe it does happen irl and I tend to make a bad first impression which is why no one has ever approached me.)

Meredith’s friends are: Rashmi and Josh (who are a couple), and Étienne St. Clair. Guess which one is the love interest.

Étienne is cultured in that white person way where he’s half American, one quarter French and one quarter British. A true international.

But- *gasp*- American-British-French boy has a girlfriend, Ellie.

Anna has an absolutely gorgeous punk rocker (yum) boy with sideburns (yikes) back home named Christopher. Also, Christopher’s nickname is ‘Toph’ instead of ‘Chris’ because he too is #NotLikeOtherGirls. Anna tells us that nothing will happen between her and Étienne.

Anna is wrong.

Meredith has a crush on Étienne. So does the Regina George of the school, Amanda.

Étienne and Anna have some moments ™.

♫ Everyone else in the room can see it, everyone else but Anna ♫

I tear my hair out in frustration.

Several other white boys vie for Anna’s heart. Anna remains blissfully unaware (♫ that’s what makes you beautiful ♫). Étienne (who is still dating Ellie, mind you) is unreasonably agitated by this.

Étienne’s mum has cancer btw, which excuses all the shitty things he does, because he’s just a poor, misunderstood boy.

Ellie dresses up as a, quote unquote, ‘slutty nurse’ for Hallowe’en, though- so it’s perfectly okay to dislike her (even though, in the first interaction she had with Anna, where Ellie meets Anna and Étienne, after Étienne takes Anna to the movies, Ellie is perfectly sweet).

Anna, however, is NOT a slut. Amanda is, though. And Rashmi’s cold. And Meredith’s desperate. And Emily’s a slut, too. And her friend Bridgette from Atlanta is a traitor. Anna has an intense case of internalized misogyny.

Anna’s friend Bridgette from Atlanta is screwing Toph, and Anna throws a fit.

Étienne and Anna have some more moments ™.

A truly chaotic series of events befall Anna. She somehow winds up dating Dave (one from the harem of white boys who likes her) to spite Étienne, she gets into a fight with Amanda, more drama ensues, there’s a hint for a spinoff, Étienne and her kiss, Meredith sees and feels betrayed… several misunderstandings and more bullshit later, Étienne and Anna wind up together, because true love conquers all.

Mes Réflexions:

(If the French is off, blame Google Translate.)

Usually, it takes me half a page of my notebook to scribble down my thoughts about the book I’m reading. This motherfucker took me almost an entire page.

Granted, a solid 30% of those notes are me throwing insults at Étienne, but still. ‘STOP STOP STOP YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND YOU DICK’ counts, right?

(That was #17 in my notes, by the way.)

For the record, I like Stephanie Perkins’s writing. It’s not as over-the-top and unnecessarily introspective as Jenny Han’s in To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, and the interactions between Anna and her classmates were natural and not the “How do you do, fellow kids?” style of Becky Albertalli’s Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda. The pacing is decent- I didn’t feel like it was too rushed; not the insta-love trope most YA romances unfortunately fall prey to.

And yet. AND YET.

Anna: “What’s your problem?” Amanda: “You.”

Same, Amanda, same.

Anna Oliphant is one of my least favorite leads in a book, ever. Étienne’s even shittier. And it’s not like Nick or Amy Dunne from Gone Girl, or any of the main characters from The Secret History, where readers pretty much unanimously hate them. You’re meant to relate to Anna, you’re meant to find Étienne charming and dreamy. I literally had to put the book away and calm myself down several times- especially in the last quarter of the book.

One of my main gripes with Anna is how… dumb she is. I guess Anna’s “Oopsies, silly me, I don’t know French!” is meant to be relatable to the readers. And some parts (like her not knowing how to order food because she can’t speak French) are plausible, but- sis, you didn’t know how to spell oui? And my idea of a cinematic masterpiece is Kung-Fu Panda, but even a dumbass like me knows that France is the film appreciation capital of the world. And yet Anna, a self-professed film freak, doesn’t?

Of course, Anna’s gorgeous, but she has no clue, because of course she doesn’t- even though she has multiple guys falling head over heels for her.

I’m in a short skirt. It’s the first time I’ve worn one here, but my birthday seems like the appropriate occasion. “Woo, Anna!” Rashmi fake-adjusts her glasses. “Why do you hide those things?”

Étienne is staring at my legs. The scales covering them throb under his intense gaze, and the pincers sticking out of my thighs start clicking rapidly in arousal. My hooves shiver in ecstasy.

… sorry, that’s not funny.

Her friends think Anna’s weird for wanting to write film reviews (which is the most contrived thing I’ve ever heard) instead of being the next Margot Robbie or whatever, but of course Étienne doesn’t and he thinks it’s not weird and cool and that Anna is such a special snowflake.

(Man, I sound like Amanda.)

And then we have this spiel by Anna about how she got into film critiquing (?), because we the readers need to know how special and #NotLikeOtherGirls Anna is.

To this, I say, “Piss off, you pretentious fuck.”

Of course, Anna’s a virgin and she’s never gotten drunk before or worn short skirts- she’s not a slut, she shaves below the knees only.

And would YA really be YA without several hearty helpings of internalized misogyny?

First up, we have the bimbo; the Barbie doll archetype whose only goal in life is acquiring the main guy (who is quite obviously uninterested in her), and making life hell for our protagonist. Amanda Whatsername (is she ever given a surname?) has this coveted role in Anna and the French Kiss. She’s blond (because of course she is); the first time we meet her, she’s in a, quote unquote, ‘teeny tank top’, and she also ‘positions herself for maximum cleavage exposure’. She’s always flipping her hair, getting her grubby paws on Étienne, giving Anna the stink-eye, being homophobic and a grade-A bitch.

Meredith goes batshit when Anna and Étienne kiss, and is very pouty and unhappy during prior Anna x Shittiene moments. Honey… he’s just not that into you. Rashmi’s the Ice Queen reincarnate and halfway to bitchdom. Anna doesn’t go as hard on them as she does on literally every other female her age in the book, though.

Rashmi looks at me for the first time, calculating whether or not I might fall in love with her own boyfriend.

Anna, hate to break it to you, but not everyone’s a possessive fucking weirdo.

About Cherrie, her ex-boyfriend Matt’s new girlfriend:

And maybe Cherrie isn’t as bad as I remember. Except she is. She totally is. After only five minutes in her company, I cannot fathom how Bridge stands sitting with her at lunch every day.

Her lifeless laugh is one of her lesser attributes. What does Matt see in her?

Even Bridgette, Anna’s best friend from Atlanta, isn’t immune to Anna’s anti-female propaganda. She’s screwing the guy Anna used to like, and Anna, the hypocrite, throws a huge fit.

For context: Bridgette and Toph are in a band called the Penny Dreadfuls (why is it with YA books and horrible band names? ‘Emoji’ from Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda was bad enough), and Anna + Matt + Cherrie go to a bowling alley to see them perform. After the performance, Toph announces that he’s sleeping with Bridge, and Anna confronts Bridge… onstage.

“… You’re welcome to move in when I leave again, because that’s what you want, right? My life?”

She shakes with fury. “Go to hell.”

“Take my life. You can have it. Just watch out for the part where my BEST FRIEND SCREWS ME OVER!” I knock over a cymbal stand, and the brass hits the stage with an earsplitting crash that reverberates through the bowling alley. Matt calls my name. Has he been calling it this entire time? He grabs my arm and leads me around the electrical cords and plugs and onto the floor and away, away, away.

Everyone in the bowling alley is staring at me.

I duck my head so my hair covers my face. I’m crying. This would have never happened if I hadn’t given Toph her number. All of those late-night practices and… he said they’ve had sex! What if they’ve had it at my house? Does he come over when she’s watching Seany? Do they go in the bedroom?

I’m going to be sick.

Give me a goddamn break.

Anna, about Ellie:

To my amazement, Ellie breaks into an ear-to-ear smile. Oddly enough, it’s this moment I realize that despite her husky voice and Parisian attire, she’s sort of… plain. But friendly-looking.

That still doesn’t mean I like her.

“Anna! From Atlanta, right? Where’d you guys go?”

She knows who I am? St. Clair describes our evening while I contemplate this strange development. Did he tell her about me? Or was it Meredith? I hope it was him, but even if it was, it’s not like he said anything she found threatening. She doesn’t seem alarmed that I’ve spent the last three hours in the company of her very attractive boyfriend. Alone.

[about Ellie’s Hallowe’en costume] Slutty nurse. I don’t believe it. Tiny white button-up dress, red crosses across the nipples. Cleavage city.

If I didn’t like Ellie before, it’s nothing compared to how I feel now. It doesn’t matter that I can count how many times we’ve met on one hand.

I fantasize about their break-up. How he could hurt her, and she could hurt him, and all of the ways I could hurt her back. I want to grab her Parisian-styled hair and yank it so hard it rips from her skull. I want to sink my claws into her eyeballs and scrape.

It turns out I am not a nice person.

YOU DON’T FUCKING SAY.

Emily Middlestone bends over to pick up a dropped eraser, and Mike Reynard leers at her breasts. Gross. Too bad for him she’s interested in his best friend, Dave. The eraser drop was deliberate, but Dave is oblivious.

One of the juniors, a girl with dark hair and tight jeans, stretches in a move designed to show off her belly button ring to Paul/Pete. Oh, please.

And I’m meant to like this character? I’m supposed to root for her?

I’m not saying every girl in the book should be perfectly sweet and friendly- that’s just not realistic. But when Anna has something judgmental to say about every other young female character… maybe she’s the problem.

In fact, the only girl I recall getting a pass is Isla Whatsername. And why do you think?

Brilliant.

And now we have the amalgamation of almost every fanfic boyfriend trope from 2014, Étienne St. Clair. Brown-eyed Harry Styles. I can’t fucking wait.

Étienne could’ve discovered the cure for cancer, or abolished poverty, or volunteered at animal shelters in his spare time. He could’ve been the most virtuous guy around (fret not; he decidedly isn’t). And I still wouldn’t’ve thought of him as the man of my dreams because HE HAS A BLOODY GIRLFRIEND.

I mean, which girl doesn’t want her boyfriend to say:

“I cheated on her every day. In my mind, I thought of you in ways I shouldn’t have, again and again.”

Fuckin’ smooth, bro.

“No matter what a terrible boyfriend I was, I wouldn’t actually cheat on her. But I thought you’d know.”

Such a gentleman!

“So you can keep dating Ellie, but I can’t even talk to Dave?”

Étienne looks shamed. He stares at his boots. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t even know what to do with his apology.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. And this time, he’s looking at me. Begging me. “And I know it’s not fair to ask you, but I need more time. To sort things out.”

And this gem:

“If you liked me so much, why didn’t you break up with her?”

“I’ve been confused. I’ve been so stupid.”

*me, banging pots and pans together* F U C K Y O U

“Ellie’s not like you, Anna; she’s a slut and a whore even though I’m the one who’s been thinking about another girl inappropriately and I’m the one who gets my knickers in a twist when another man glances in your direction because my masculinity is extremely fragile and I’m a total hypocrite and a dickhead.”

I mean, he didn’t actually say that, but that’s the gist.

WHILE DATING ELLIE: he gets Anna a book of sexual love poems, he calls her attractive (“Any bloke with a working prick would be insane not to like you.”) multiple times, he gets jealous whenever another guy so much as breathes in Anna’s direction and constantly interrupts such interactions, he’s been ditching his friends for his girlfriend but suddenly decides he prefers a new girl over said girlfriend, he thinks bread pudding tastes good- in conclusion, he is a Massive Fucking Prick. Though in hindsight, him and Anna deserve each other. They’re awful.

I had loads more notes taken down (Anna using Dave; “The important thing is this: Dave is available. St. Clair is not.”); the implication that cheating is okay because Ellie is bad or whatever, even though the sudden change in her character seems contrived because she was perfectly okay with Étienne and Anna hanging out before; how my blood boils whenever I read an American book and American girls are like “oOoOh AcCenT!!!1!!1!!”; me reading “DAVE SAYS YER A SLUTBAG” in Hagrid’s voice; the sheer atrocity of the name ‘Étienne St. Clair’ (sounds like a caricature of a French person)… but this ‘review’ is already pushing 3k and I can’t be fucked to expand on any of those points.

Verdict (which is apparently the same in French):

Who needs Christopher when Étienne St. Clair is in the world?

Speak for yourself.

[ubernoxa]

The Token: A GNR FanFic

Chapter 5: Burnt Pastries and Coffee

Masterlist

Story Summary: Story inspired by the movie She’s the Man. A female Duff is tired of dealing with the bullshit of trying to make it on the strip as a female bassist. Did Michelle think it through as she chopped her hair? Nope. All she knew was that she wanted to make it on the strip. If she had to mascarade as a guy, so it shall be.

Chapter Summary: Izzy and Axl stop by Michelle’s work.

Tags: Taglist: @viralwolf02 @littlemisscare-all @smokeandmirrorz @aratbaby @slashscowboyboots

I have absolutely no desire to be at work this morning. My head hurt, my hand hurt, my arms hurt, hell EVERYTHING hurt. I popped my third aspirin of the morning into my mouth after dealing with an annoying customer who was complaining about how we were out of cherry danishes. It took every ounce of my will power to calmly tell her why we were sold out. Not only were the cherry danishes a very popular item, but we also stop making them at 10. Eventually she calmed down and made some comment how I should have gotten a better education to get a real job, but I digress. All I want to get across is that I should win some sort of acting award for smiling and not shoving a cherry pastry up her you know what.

“You know you’re only supposed to take one of those every 6 hours right?” I glared down my coworker wishing he would just leave me alone.

On top of the pain, my head was sweating because of the stupid wig. I felt like I had just gotten out of the shower and had yet to dry my hair. I wanted nothing more than my shift to finish, so I could take a shower.

I was grateful this morning when my coworker noticed my...hungover state and offered to run the register while I made the drinks. It was unconventional, but I defiantly appreciated it. I always looked forward to working with Derek during my shift. He was a nice guy, super easy to get along with. ..unless he was bugging you about the serving size for pain killers.

Any normal musician would smile and feel a sense of relief if a couple of her band mates came into the coffee shop, but I’m not what they call a normal musician. I felt my stomach tighten as the came in.

“Wow they just let anybody in here now,” an older woman said as I handed her the coffee she ordered.

“Well...we are open to the public, ma’am,” I replied before I returned to making the next order. I heard my coworker hide a snicker.

I watched the Indiana boys as they slowly made their way over to the pick up counter. Why were they here?

“Hey,” I ignored Axl at first. I didn’t want to give Derek the idea that I was friends with them because not too long ago I would constantly complain about them. ObViously my opinion of them has changed over the past days. I could feel Derek’s eyes wander towards me as I blended the smoothie I was making. When I heard Izzy raise his voice this time, I turned the blender on and blended the smoothie one last time.

I poured the smoothie out of the blender, turning around sending them a warm smile as if it was the first time I heard or saw them.

“Order for Tracy!” I cheered as I handed a girl no older than me her pink smoothie pulling her from the flirty eyes she was sending Axl and Izzy.

“Hey,” I stood at the counter smiling at the pair who were definitely out of their element.

“You guys look horribly out of place, you looking for Duff?” I asked trying to remember that Michelle didn’t like the Indiana boys.

“Nah, you guys dating or some shit?,” I let a laugh escape me as Axl finished talking.

I stood still and shook my head. “You think I’m his groupie?” Izzy sent me a look that meant one thing, careful. Did they really come down just to ask me that.

“Funny, Slash said the same thing last night,” I heard Axl say out loud. Why? I have no idea.

“Why you curious about Duff’s love life?” I tried to causally ask, but it definitely came out awkward.

“I’m more curious about the girl who gave us the free coffee.”

“Axl, don’t forget that’s the same girl who has definitely thrown a punch or two your way in the past,” I snapped back. It needed to sound hard. Duff..was was their band mate, friend even, but Michelle...she was the girl who had been in several fights with the pair.

“And yet..I don’t recall you every landing a punch,” I rolled my eyes as Axl spoke. I was in no mood for this.

“Did you guys come here to pick up chicks or something else. If you were coming for the girls, you definitely got their attention,” I asked as I tilted my head in the direction of the girls who hadn’t stopped looking at the pair.

“Didn’t notice,” Izzy cooly replied.

“Well, if you’re here to pick up a girl. You wouldn’t need to look far,” I gestured towards another table that had a few girls who were trying to discretely check out the pair, key word trying. The coffee shop was in a nicer part of town, and these rich girls had a thing for rockers. Something about the whole bad boys vide...at least that’s what I’ve been told.

“Come on Michie, we both know I don’t need to look for girls. Girls look for me,” he gently played with my fingers as he spoke. A small laugh escaped my lips.

I sent Izzy a ‘what the actual fuck’ look before he stepped forward.

“Thanks for the coffee, yesterday. It was the pick me up we all needed,” I thanked God that Izzy had decided to interrupt whatever conversation we were talking about.

“You should come to our next show. We’d love to have you there! Especially Duff, he seems to get a little red whenever we mention you,” Axl added.

So that was their reason for coming here? They wanted to invite me to their next gig? That was kind that they would do that for their band mate, but too bad that was never going to fucking happen.

“Sorry but I work nights,” I shrugged.

“You’re a coffee shop, who the hell buys coffee at night?” I stared Axl down as I felt like an idiot. How the hell did I not think the lie this far through.

“Yeah, we.....make the dough...and pastry stuff the night before! If you want the next time I work late I can give Duff a couple pastries for one of your practices,” I said praying he would buy into my answer. The offer of free food hopefully distracting him. Smooth, very smooth Michelle. I was mentally kicking myself.

“I’ll never turn down free food,” Axl flashed the first genuine smile he has ever sent in my direction when I was Michelle.

“You used to perform nights all the time, what happened,” I wanted to slap Izzy senseless when he opened his mouth and asked that question. He knew it was all a lie, so why was he pressing further. Did he enjoy watching me squirm?

“I got a recent promotion,” I cockily replied. It was such a blatant lie. I burnt half the pastries I made the other day. I was distracted by trying to figure out a line or two for a new Guns N’ Roses song. No way a promotion was in sight for me especially since I caused the pastry today’s shortage.

“Didn’t know you watched me perform...” I hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but the words came out of my mouth anyway.

“There probably isn’t a guy on the strip who hasn’t seen Pixie perform. Plus from what I’ve heard about you..,” Axl’s tone pissed me off as he spoke. How was he so infuriating?

“You guys weren’t bad,” Izzy interrupted Axl from digging his hole. Obviously it was an attempt to move on from Axl’s stupid comment.

“Thanks, I’ll take not bad,” I offered a half baked smile as I spoke.

“What did you make me again, yesterday? You know the coffee you gave Duff? It was good,” Axl leaned forward as he spoke.

“Cinnamon coffee, but if you’re looking to try something new I recommend the vanilla berry coffee. It’s not on the menu, but it’s a house special,” I shot Izzy a quick glance and I could tell he was hiding a smirk. He knew this wasn’t just any ordinary coffee, it was karma coffee. (As I like to call it)

“Sounds good! Can I have that?”

“Michelle, I pay you to make coffee and other drinks. If you want to keep your job I recommend you do your job,” I turned to my uncle and flashed him a quick smile and nod. It was clear my uncle knew this wasn’t a conversation about work.

“Axl, I know this whole coffee shop thing is probably new to you, but you gotta order at the register,” I teased before returning to work.

“You okay?” I turned to Derek who seems somewhat concerned.

“Besides this headache I’m good...why?” I quickly rebutted. What the hell was he trying to get at?

“I don’t know much about the Strip, but for the past months I have heard you bitch about Axl and Izzy. Why are you being so nice to them all of a sudden?”

“I’m not they’re just...associates that’s all,” Derek made no attempt to hide his eye roll as I spoke.

“They’re gonna order some weird shit, just written it down and I’ll make it. Also just charge their orders to me. You know I’ll pay it. I’m good for the money,” I said as I walked past Derek to get more cups.

“Yup just associates.” Derek mumbled under his breath.

——————-

“It should be Take me down to the paradise city where the girls are fat and got big tities,” the room bust into laughter as I shook my head at him. We had been working on a song back at the ‘hell house’ as Axl called it for the past couple of hours. I would be lying if I said any of us were sober.

“No,” was all I could muster. My speech was beyond stuttered and slurred as I spoke. It was slowly becoming harder and harder to keep my voice deep.

“Why not? I love me some big girls and titties,” Slash threw his hands up in defense.

“I like grass is green waaay better,” I said before I finished my fifth or sixth beer. No wait seventh.

“Duffles,”

“Slaaaaaaash,”

He then continued to sing take me down to the paradise city where the girls are fat and got big tities. I was about to give in, but Steven immediately jumped in.

“I agree with Duff on this one,” Steven said before taking another sip of his drink.

“Thank fuckin god,” I mumbled the words under my breath, but somehow Axl must have heard me.

“Thank god you joined the band,” Axl sent a smile his way.

I felt a little pride flow through my veins as Steven and Axl agreed with me. This was new, the feeling of comrodery. In the past if I said something in one of my previous bands I was immediately shot down or completely ignored. I could get used to this.

I could feel a smile plaster on my face as I leaned back into the couch. We continued to fiddle around with different cords and lyrics for the next hour not really accomplishing much. The song was pretty good, if I may say so in my non sober state, but it wasn’t ready yet. There was something missing and I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I almost jumped as I felt Izzy twirling my hair around his finger. I quickly snapped my head in his direction as he spoke to Axl. Was Izzy just doing this because he was drunk and knew I was a chick? I quickly looked around the room making sure not to draw attention to myself, and noticed that Izzy was either being incredibly discrete or everyone else was plastered. Maybe it was both?

“Looks like he’s out for the night,” Slash pointed towards Steven who earlier was passed out on the floor.

“Yeah,” he passed out like 20 minutes ago.

“Hey Slash,” I perked up as a couple girls came stumbling into the apartment. I couldn’t help but smile at Slash’s drunk girlfriend. She was sweet. If I met her as Michelle, I believe we would have been good friends. She came stumbling into the apartment with a couple of her friends, something that wasn’t incredibly uncommon. I watched as Axl quickly joined Slash heading to one of the shared closets that were setup as bedrooms. The last time Slash’s girlfriend stopped by with friends, they had made advances on me which Izzy immediately interrupted. I brought him a coffee the next day as a thank you.

“Do you want me to walk you home?” I perked my head up as he spoke.

“I’m a long ways away,” I let a giggle escape me as relaxed. Besides Steven who was clearly passed out, Izzy and I were the only two in the room.

“Stay the night then,” I giggled at his response before I finished my drink.

[i-dont-want-your-hysteria]

In Your Letter (Viv x Reader)

edit: omg I totally forgot to dedicate this to @defkisshalen​ when I put this in the queue. I hope this is enough “vivian for the soul” for you girl ;D

Prompt: It’s 1983, you’re part of Def Leppard’s road crew on the Pyromania Tour, and you get a letter from your pen pal one day- a pen pal whose identity you keep a secret from everyone else. They all insist you have a huge crush on whoever this mysterious gentleman is, but you know they’re wrong.

Or, are they...?

---------

July 21st, 1983. Victoria, British Columbia, Canada

Checking for the post turned out to be a joyous decision, and you knew right away it would probably be the best decision you'd make all day. As you shuffled through the pile of mail in the back hallway of the venue, you couldn't hide the giddy smile that appeared once you saw the envelope that was addressed to you. Just like that, the day was off to a great start. 

It was made out to a "Ms. Y/n L/n" like always. The gentleman-like flattery never failed to touch your heart, and it never failed to signify who had sent the piece of mail your way.

Concealing the envelope under your arm and throwing the other mail on a table for everyone else, you scurried off to a different room for some privacy. This wasn't exactly something you wanted to keep a secret from your surrounding crowd, but you thought it was for the best that you did. You were teased enough already by the crew and the band about your pen pal, and you could only imagine how much worse it would get once they actually knew who you had been writing to (and how often he was writing you back).

You shut the door and quickly threw yourself into a chair, kicking your legs out of excitement as you tore open the envelope. After you extracted the letter, you didn't hesitate another second before unfolding it and slowing down your impulse to carefully read the familiar handwriting.

"Hi, Y/N! I hope this got to you at the right place- since you said this Victoria address would be the one to send to around this time. Either way, it won't be a problem. You know we always make things work somehow. Now normally in this space I'd be answering questions from your last letter, or writing about all the exciting things I've been up to with the band, but I'd rather tell you in person. Yes, you heard me! Surprise! I'll be in Victoria on the 20th and 21st for some promotional reasons, and I'd love to catch up with you when you get there (as long as you're not too busy with Leppard things)! My tour starts on the 23rd, so this will be the only opportunity to meet up for a while. I wrote the number of the hotel I'll be staying at below, so give me a call when you get this, okay? If I don't hear from you by 1pm on the 21st then I'll give your venue a ring just in case you didn't get this letter. We'll sort out details over the phone. Can't wait to talk!! 

See you soon (hopefully)! Xx

-V.C.

P.S, Hope you like the candy I sent! Something sweet for the sweetest person I know : )"

There was an arrow pointing to a small wrapped candy he'd taped to the paper, and an unwanted blush washed over you. Despite the bashfulness, you felt yourself bouncing in your seat.

You glanced up at the time to check that wasn't 1 o'clock yet. Luckily, it was only 12:14.

"Still got time," you whispered aloud, just before hearing a muffled cough from somewhere in the room.

You turned around in a snap, squinting, and eventually spotting Phil, Steve, and Malvin hiding behind the coat racks in the room.

"Guys!" you whined as you tried to conceal the contents of the letter, "How long have you been there for?"

"Long before you came in," Malvin stood still, despite knowing you were aware of his presence. Steve poked his head out, "You looked so excited that we didn't wanna ask why-" Phil came all the way out, smirking evilly, "But now we can see..." "You didn't see anything!" you scolded them, but paused and went on in a hushed tone to continue, "Did you...?" "Not a thing," Malvin answered in a truthful tone. It was easier to believe him more than the other two. "But this has to be another letter from your mysterious boyfriend, am I right?" Phil teased. "You make it so obvious!" Steve walked out from hiding with Malvin, "What's the bloke sayin' now?" "For your information, he is not my boyfriend." Phil rolled his eyes sarcastically, "Alright, maybe he's not your boyfriend, but you've gotta admit you have been crushing on him pretty hard the past few months..." "I've gotta agree with them," Malvin chimed in, "You do make it quite obvious." "Says you!" you objected, your voice going higher than you wanted it to, "Can't you just leave us alone? Besides, he also plays guitar- maybe even better than you. Both of you." "Oh yeah?" Phil drew back to feign offense, "Maybe we should meet this bloke and have it out for your hand- being as you've got a thing for guitarists, anyhow." You scoffed and gathered everything up to head back out, "Yeah, you wish I did!" There wasn't any time to waste bickering with them; you now had an important phone call to make, and an important reunion to arrange and follow through with before the show that night. "'Boyfriend'," your mind scoffed at them, "What do they know?"

*** Despite the casual air you and your faraway friend always had, you felt an invisible pressure to be sufficiently presentable for him. It was a special occasion, regardless of what the others thought, so with limited time and resources, you ended up slipping into the Leppards' dressing room and snagging some makeup for your own use. You agreed to meet up for dinner with your pen pal (as you still had things to do prior to the show), and you snuck out of the venue at five without being seen or stopped by anyone. Before you knew it, you were approaching the restaurant that was agreed to host the rendezvous. Somewhere in the back of your mind, part of you felt like you were headed to a date. "Ugh, that's Phil and Steve's fault. All that 'Is he your boyfriend?' and 'You've been crushing on him' bullshit." You had long convinced yourself into thinking the guitarists were wrong about the second half of that. You had been writing back and forth to this friend for the better part of 6 months, and during the run of those 6 months, your heart never failed to flutter whenever you interacted with each other. To you, that didn't mean you were "crushing" on him (as Phil had so bluntly put it); you were just excited! When your hand touched the door of the restaurant, you felt your heart accelerate, and your mind was suddenly flooded with all the reasons why you couldn't wait to see him again. You had every reason to be as thrilled as you were. After all, he was an interesting guy, you never got tired while talking to him, he had such a sweet way with words and a guitar, and even just thinking of his accent and eyes made your heart melt- You froze, realizing you were getting too caught up in yourself. You pushed open the door and stood in the entrance, glancing around the establishment to see if he'd arrived yet. The sound of Since You're Gone patted against your eardrums as you looked around the warm, chestnut interior of the restaurant. The instant you found him was sure to make your heart soar with joy, but as luck would have it, he found you first. "Y/N! Over here!" an Irish brogue caressed the words that were called out to you. When your eyes found him, you felt yourself lift off the ground at the happy sight. There he was, sitting in a booth, quickly getting up to greet you. There he was, the curly-haired, bright-eyed Dio guitarist himself. There he was, your dearest Vivian Campbell. You embraced and cheerfully greeted each other before you could get to the table. He kissed your cheek, and you stood on your toes when you hugged him back, feeling as if you somehow found a home away from home. "How did you manage to get this set up on such short notice?" you asked, amazed at how everything fell into place. "Carefulness and luck?" he chuckled before pulling back and eyeing up your whole appearance, "Wow... you look wonderful, Y/N. I swear you've gotten taller, too- cos' I could've sworn I had more height on you last time we met..." "Oh really? And I could've sworn you were less Irish when we last met!" you teased him back. He put his arm around you, leading you back to the table, "I guess when you travel so much, you wanna get back in touch with your roots a bit." "Oh, don't you change a bit," you warned as you took a seat across from him, "You're the only thing that keeps me sane, you know. The entertainment industry can be a little too entertaining at times." "Oh, I know what you mean," Viv started to pour water into the two empty glasses on the table, "We're on different sides of the same coin; the performers and the road crew." "It's nice to sit down and do something simple that's not related to the tour for once, you know? Just so there's a reminder that our typical lives still exist outside of all that." He pushed one glass of water towards you, softly smiling, "Couldn't have said it better myself." "Well then," you raised your glass towards him to make a small toast, "To sanity." He raised his own glass to add on, "And to a conversation that's not on paper for once." *** The sunset had completely taken over the sky once you and Viv were finished with dinner. Both knowing that you had to leave for the Leppard show soon, you took a short walk up to the quiet rooftop terrace of the restaurant to continue your conversation. Sitting next to each other on a bench and overlooking the city in the evening glow, an imminent 'parting of ways' sensation was in the air. You nearly felt like a modern-day Cinderella; the clock nearing the fated time where you had to scurry off from the ball and leave your prince. "Prince?" you nagged yourself, "God, there I go again! Those Leppard boys are getting too much into my head. Talk about having evil stepsisters..." It seemed all there was left for you and your Irish 'prince' to do was reflect on whatever was to come next in your lives. With the tour getting kicked up a notch for you, and his just beginning, it was impossible to know exactly what directions both of you were headed in. Given that, not knowing when you'd see each other again should've been the main topic at this point in the evening, but neither of you wanted to bring it up. It seemed like a future problem, not a problem for the present, so all things on that matter were quieted. "So, do you think this tour is gonna keep Def Leppard on the rise?" Viv asked you, breaking the silence at one point, "I hear they're getting bigger and bigger, and as far I'm concerned, they deserve it." "Oh you have no idea- things seem to get crazier every night, I swear! The word 'rise' is putting it delicately. 'Domination' is more like it. I just hope it doesn't go to their heads..." "You've got enough messes to clean up already, I get it. You're like the mum of the whole band." You let your eyes float upwards to the clouds as you got more lost in the thought, "Why does everyone always say that to me...?" "I'm just speculating-" Viv put up his hands, laughing guiltily, "I've never heard anyone say that before..." "I suppose that is one way to put it... those guys can be a handful, but sometimes I exaggerate too much about them." "You tend to talk about them a lot too, I've noticed." "Well- then I suppose I am their mum. They're well-behaved compared to some other musicians. But they're still crazy in their own ways, let me tell you," you chuckled and added, "I can only imagine that you'd fit into their mix pretty well." Viv laughed with his arms around his stomach. The sound of him, the look of his handsome and toothy smile, plus the surrounding golden pink glow of the sunset stirred up your emotions in a strange way. Maybe it was happiness, maybe it was appreciation, or maybe it was nostalgia for something you knew you were going to miss. "Are you calling me crazy?" he scoffed at you, his laughter persisting, "I thought tonight was supposed to keep us sane?" "Am I wrong, though?" "No, no, you're not wrong," he straightened up, "Guess I've got more in common with those guys than I know." "You're so different in your own way, but you'd be surprised at how much you remind me of them. Maybe all young rockers are just- alike." He brushed his hair back when you glanced at him, and that's when the bracelet on his wrist caught your eye. You let your eyes focus on it, and before you knew it, you were staring, and your heart was softening even more. Now that you noticed the small detail, you had no idea how you didn't notice it sooner. "What?" Viv asked, oblivious and looking around for what you were fixed on. You blinked as you were broken from the trance, but still continued to stare at him, "I just- I noticed you were wearing the bracelet I made you..." He held up his wrist so you'd have a clear view of it, "Oh yeah, I wear it all the time! Wanted to be sure I was wearing it when I saw you tonight, though." Again, you fought against the rising flush that wanted to be visible on you. "Shit, why is that making me blush? He's just being a good friend." "I'll admit, I'm touched and surprised that you remembered," you looked back out at the sunset over the city. Viv shrugged, turning to look at the sunset respectively, "'Course I did. We're always so far apart, so it's nice to have a little part of you with me sometimes. Can't exactly carry your letters with me onstage if I want to." The flush couldn't be held back now. Viv's flattery was too much for your heart, and too much to not grin at. "But don't people talk?" you purposely teased him the way your crew did to you. "Talk about what?" "Well-" you tried to accurately express the emotions you felt towards the Terror Twins, "For example: the people I work with call you my 'boyfriend' simply because I write to you. Don't people wonder why you suddenly started wearing that bracelet and disappearing to meet with a woman you call your 'pen pal'?" "Now that you mention it," he rubbed his chin, "I'm surprised no one does... guess people don't care enough to tease. Or maybe I got lucky?" You scoffed and shook your head, "Lucky? Absolutely. I had to keep it a secret that I was coming here just to enjoy myself!" "That's awful that they won't leave you alone," he frowned. "Don't worry," you looked over at him and made a swatting motion with your hand, "It's easy enough to get back at them. All you gotta do is eat their lunch and blame it on someone else." "Is that so?" "It's either that, or let a mouse loose in the showers. Works every time." You both cracked up with laughter, each resting back against the bench then hunching over. "This is why I like meeting up with you- you're such great company!" Viv put his hands flat on the bench, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears. "You could say that again," you mimicked the posture, keeping a smile on your face, "It's nice to see the face of a rock star that I don't work with, and one that doesn't need me to throw away his dirty tissues." Viv looked up at the clouds and snickered, "I could give you some of mine if that's what you want." "Don't you start, mister," you threatened him, breaking up into soft giggles again. You paused, and let yourself sigh to him, "God, I'm gonna miss you. After tonight, I mean. I know we'll keep writing and all, but it sucks that we can't see each other that often." His hand found yours, casually patting and resting on top of it, "Oh, I know. But tours, right? What can you do about 'em?" You smiled down at your joined hands, slowly moving yours from underneath Viv's, adjusting the position so you were now holding his instead. "You just gotta go with it and hope there's days that they cross paths." From the corner of your eye, you saw him look at you with a gentle grin, then turn away. He gently gave your hand a squeeze, and you hoped to god he couldn't feel your heartbeat through your fingers, as he would've noticed it was speeding up. Silence fell between both of you for a moment. The only things you could hear were the sounds of the street below, and the breeze around you. Your thumb moved back and forth on his skin as you let your sight fall back down to the way you were holding hands. He slowly looked back down, too, not letting his sight trail away to anything else. When the pause was broken, Viv's voice was softer than it'd been. "Y/n, can I..." "Mmhm?" "Can I be honest with you?" Your voice went gentler as you suddenly felt a new sensation in the air, "Of course." His eyes slowly drifted upwards until he was looking at you, "I think I wanna kiss you..." There was no use hiding the coy smile when it took over. You instinctively looked down for a second to break the eye contact. "...can I?" he sweetly asked when you looked back up at him, his eyes looking reminiscent of a polite puppy, "Is that okay...?" You carefully lifted your eyes back up to meet his again. You nodded and whispered, "Okay." When you granted the permission, you swore you noticed redness on Viv's cheeks. It was good to know that you weren't the only one being bashful for once. Still keeping the hold on your hand, Viv slowly began to lean in, briefly glancing at your lips before letting his eyes close. You did the same, welcoming the warm lips onto your own. The initial contact was deeper than you'd anticipated, but he prolonged it into a softer, more tender kiss. Although a kiss is all it was, you felt- almost literally- swept off your feet. You gently put your other hand on the side of his face, wanting to absorb whatever feeling of glory was being created. Some of his soft curls brushed up against your hand as they lightly trembled in the breeze. Viv broke the embrace slowly, still trying to fight a shy smile. "He never gave me any indication of being shy before... wow, what did I do to him?" You went back to facing the urban view, but broke the hold on Viv's hand to rest your head on his shoulder instead. "Yeah..." you sighed dreamily, "Can't do that in a letter." He silently chuckled against you, putting an arm around your shoulders, "I could've just written an 'x' on your lips instead..." *** The sunset was nearly over and done with as you took a cab back to the venue. The crowd for the Leppards' show would be almost completely filled in by the time you got back, meaning you'd have work to do. "Cinderella's gotta get back to unfinished work," you concluded to yourself, smiling as you stared at the remaining orange streaks in the sky. You and Viv wanted nothing more than another date to arrange a meetup, but you both knew it'd be impossible for the time being; tours rarely crossed paths. As the cab drove on, you felt your path get further and further away from his. No bother, though. You'd write each other as soon as you could. The paths would cross again someday. While the imprint of his lips still ghosted over your own, you didn't want to think too much into it. After all, you wouldn't see or speak to each other for a while yet; the kiss would probably mean nothing in the near future, because that's just how life unfolds around things like that. But for that same evening, though, it meant almost everything. You just wanted to remember that. You got back to the venue in time before the show, a gentle, goofy smile stuck on your face. Your eyes didn't dare look at anything but your feet as your legs dreamily floated you back to a break room. In the back of your mind, you couldn't help but worry that someone- somehow- had seen what you were up to. You put down your purse and flopped into a chair with a thick exhale. Upon remembering how the incident with the Twins and Malvin went earlier, you looked around, and confirmed to yourself that you were alone. Calmer now, you closed your eyes. You could still picture the light of the golden-pink sunset gently vignetting Vivian's face. "A conversation that's not on paper," you recalled the toast from earlier in a whisper. "And a kiss that wasn't on paper either..." You would've never guessed when you woke up this morning that you'd end up kissing your pen pal in such a romantic way. It was crazy how events unfolded in this backstage life. When all seemed settled, and your personal chapter for the day had ended, there was a knock at the door. "Come in," your head went upright again. The door creaked open, and Malvin came inside. You greeted him tiredly, "Hey." "Where have you been?" he asked as he went to a vending machine, "Can't just disappear like that and not tell me what you're up to..." A shrug was all you could think to reply with. "It was nothing. I went to get dinner." "Really? And with who?" "How do you know if I went with someone?" "The shade of red on your face tells me otherwise." You scoffed at him, "You're making that up." "Maybe I am," he teased you, "Better get up there in the next ten minutes though, everyone's wondering where you've been." "I'll be up there in six." Malvin took his drink and nodded, heading towards the door. He took a sip, but stopped himself before he could get to the room's exit. There came a playful nag from him, "Oh, and I haven't told the others this yet, but you've got some explaining to do!" "I do?" "Yeah," he affirmed, going on in a lower tone of disbelief, "You've been writing to Viv Campbell?!" Your heart leapt up, then proceeded to drop into the pit of your stomach.

Shit.

The end.

------ “Since You’re Gone” by The Cars

[aion-rsa]

The Sopranos’ Funniest Moments

https://ift.tt/32fYYqM

The Sopranos’ genius was in telling structured stories with well-established themes, while still aping life in all its dirty, disorganised, contradictory, open-ended glory. The show wasn’t a drama, or a comedy, or a tragedy, or a farce. It was all of them. It was none of them. It was life.

Creator David Chase and his crack team of writers never lost sight of the essential truth that no matter how cruel, harrowing or horrid life becomes, it’s always laced through with laughs: oftentimes the laughter and the horror rise in tandem.

Here, then, are some of The Sopranos’ funniest moments, most of them enmeshed with the macabre, the monstrous and the melancholy. 

South of the Border

S1, E9 ‘Boca’

In the machismo-drenched world of the mafia, even going down on your girlfriend is seen as a sign of sexual weakness, and quite possibly – in the non-PC words of Uncle Junior himself – ‘a sign that you’re a fanouk.’

Apparently, ‘they’ think ‘if you’ll suck p***y, you’ll suck anything.’

Whoever ‘they’ are.

News of Uncle Junior’s oral talents reaches Tony from a gossip chain, the final link in which is Carmella. Tony’s reaction, and the way in which he baits Uncle Junior with the intel on the golf course (culminating in Tony singing ‘South of the Border, down Mexico way’) is equal parts childish to hilarious – but funniest of all is how this schoolboy teasing serves as the pre-cursor to a Mafia war.

As Tony later tells Carmella: ‘Cunnilingus and psychiatry brought us to this.’     

Guess Whose Back?

S1, E10 ‘A Hit is a Hit’

Christopher sets Adrianna up in a recording studio to help realise her dream of becoming a music mogul. Things don’t go well. Her new band – the woeful Visiting Day – is ready to walk after a long and soul-sapping session during which they’ve produced nothing of worth. Christopher wastes no time taking up the mantle of manager to convince them that the show must go on. It’s fair to say that being motivational doesn’t come naturally to Christopher. Or, rather, it does, it’s just that his methods of motivation are rather more violent than most. First, Christopher throws the ex-addict lead singer a bag of crystal meth and orders him to take it. When that doesn’t work, he takes the only reasonable course of action left open to him and smashes a guitar over the man’s back.

There’s No Place Like Home

S2,E4 ‘Commendatori’

Paulie is incredibly excited to be visiting the motherland, and arrives full of romantic notions about Italy. All of these are systematically stamped out, mostly by Paulie himself, of whom an Italian gangster remarks at dinner, after Paulie requests tomato ketchup for his spaghetti:  ‘And you thought the Germans were classless pieces of shit.’

Paulie’s beatific little smile as he drinks in the squalor of New Jersey on the ride home from the airport is pitch perfect.

It’s the Jaaaccckkeett!

S2,E8 ‘Full Leather Jacket’

From the moment Richie Aprile is released from prison he’s on a collision course with Tony. In classic Sopranos’ style, though, the torch paper isn’t lit by Richie shacking up with Tony’s sister, or paralysing their mutual friend Beansie, but by the fall-out from a spurned jacket. Not just any jacket, though: ‘the’ jacket; the one Richie took off Rocco di Meo after an adolescent scrap.

‘Cocksucker had the toughest reputation in Essex County, but he never came back after I got through with him,’ Richie tells Tony, as he gifts him the infamous garment.

‘He later died of Alzheimer’s,’ adds Junior.

The look on Tony’s face as he tries to look grateful for ‘the jacket’ is almost as funny as the look Richie later wears in Carmella’s kitchen when he  notices the sainted jacket hanging from the shoulders of the maid’s husband.

I Ain’t Afraid of No Ghost

S2, E9 ‘From Where to Eternity’

When Christopher briefly dies on the operating table after an assassination attempt, he returns from the brink of death with visions and dispatches from the afterlife. Paulie takes these reports to heart, divining in them a supernatural threat. Not only does Christopher tell Paulie that the souls of his many victims still follow him everywhere he goes, he also brings back an oblique warning: ‘Three o’clock’.

This cryptic curse has Paulie slamming bolt upright in his bed each night with a scream on his lips. First he visits Tony, who tries to lead Paulie back to sanity.

‘You eat steak?’ Tony asks.

‘What the fuck you talkin’ about?’

‘If you were in India, you would go to hell for that.’ 

‘I’m not in India,’ says Paulie. ‘What do I give a fuck?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. None of this shit means a goddamn thing.’

Unconvinced, Paulie visits a spiritualist psychic, who ‘confirms’ that Paulie is being stalked by ghosts. ‘That’s satanic black magic!’ rails a terrified Paulie, ‘Sick shit’, before hurling a chair at the ‘ghosts’ and screaming ‘Fuckin’ qu***s!’ at them. Finally, he visits his priest to tell him he’s cutting off his donations to the church on the grounds that he should’ve been protected from hauntings. I defy you not to chuckle at the baleful glare Paulie gives the Virgin Mary on his way out of the church.  

A Very Un-woke Wake

S3, E2 ‘Proshai , Livushka’

Livia Soprano – Tony’s murderously manipulative mother – proved just as divisive in death as she was in life, her demise precipitating a wake that was as awkward and corrosive for the characters experiencing it as it was rich and funny for us schmucks at home.

Tony never wanted any of Janice’s ‘California Bullshit’ at the gathering he and Carmella hosted at their home (or ‘that house, up on that hill’, as Livia would have called it). Janice being Janice, though, vetoes her brother’s ruling. She asks each of the assembled guests to share a thought, a memory of their mother, which – given that Livia was a sharp-tongued, anti-social harridan – doesn’t produce heart-warming results. No wonder the unknown man descending the stairs in the background behind them all decides to about-turn and get the hell out of there.

‘She never minced words,’ says Hesch, trying his hardest to accentuate the positive, ‘Between… brain and mouth… there was no interlocutor.’

Read more

Movies

The Sopranos: saluting the greatest TV drama ever made

By Jamie Andrew

TV

The Sopranos: Explaining the Final Scene

By Jamie Andrew

Christopher’s rambling, drug-fuelled, ad lib on the nature of existence, rebirth and doppelgangers is a treat, the sort of new-age snash David Brent might have conjured up while fully sober. The silence doesn’t last for long, though, not least because Carmella has spent the duration of the tense memorial knocking back booze like a cooze-hound on Spring Break, and is ready to unleash hell. 

Merry Stressmas

S3, E10 ‘…To Save Us All from Satan’s Power’

In the absence of Big Pussy Bonpensiero – taken on a long boat-ride to oblivion – the amply proportioned Bobby Baccala is the natural choice to become the new Satriales’ Santa. Except he doesn’t want to do it. He’s too shy.

‘The fucking boss of this family told you you’re gonna be Santa Claus,’ Paulie tells Bobby menacingly. ‘You’re Santa Claus. So shut the fuck up about it!’

The surly and reluctant Bobby proves a lacklustre substitute, an observation that’s articulated perfectly by Paulie when he says, ‘Fuckin’ ho hum if you ask me.’

It’s not just Bobby’s mafia colleagues that like to drop the F-bomb at Xmas. Even a little boy, unimpressed by Bobby’s schtick, issues a heart-felt: ‘Fuck you, Santa.’

God bless us. Every one. 

Two Assholes Lost in the Woods

S3, E11 ‘Pine Barrens’

The Pine Barrens was the episode that cleaved most closely to all-out comedy, pitting hot-headed anti-survivalists Christopher and Paulie against a runaway Russian they’d failed to kill. The darkly comic shit-show unfolded in the unforgiving, snow-filled foliage of the eponymous Pine Barrens, where Tony and Bobby were eventually summoned to rescue the hapless pair.

It’s hard to pick a comedy highlight from this episode, as it’s chock-full of them, but highlights include Tony losing it at the sight of Bobby Baccala’s hunting attire (if James Gandolfini’s laughter seems particularly genuine here, try googling some behind-the-scenes facts – you won’t be disappointed); Chris and Paulie noshing down on sauce sachets like they were a gourmet meal, and the following misunderstanding between Paulie, Chris and Tony thanks to poor mobile reception:

Tony: (garbled, on phone) It’s a bad connection, so I’m gonna talk fast. The guy you’re looking for is an ex-commando! He killed sixteen Chechen rebels single-handed.

Paulie: Get the fuck outta here.

Tony: Yeah, nice, huh? He was with the Interior Ministry.  Guy’s some kind of Russian green beret. This guy cannot come back to tell this story. You understand?

[line breaks]

Paulie: (to Christopher) You’re not gonna believe this. He killed sixteen Czechoslovakians. The guy was an interior decorator.

Chris: His house looked like shit.

You Talkin’ To Me?

S4, E6 ‘Everybody Hurts’

Artie Bucco, Tony’s boyhood best pal, is a regular, hard-working chef. Even so, he’s frequently seduced by the luxurious criminal lifestyle he sees lapping around the fringes of his wonder-bread world. When a business deal to promote ‘the new French vodka’ goes awry and Artie finds himself $50k out of pocket to a swindling huckster he decides to channel his inner Mafioso and get his money back the Soprano way. Unfortunately, his inner Mafioso is no more ferocious than that possessed by any average member of the show’s audience – as much as proximity to Tony might convince us otherwise – and he gets the crap kicked out of him. Before that, though, his little Taxi Driver moment in the mirror, complete with mid-life crisis ear-ring and mobster posturing (‘Fucking shoes you’re wearing. What are they? Designer?’) is at once endearing, pathetic and very, very funny.

The mirror is no accident. He’s looking at us, looking at him, looking at ourselves.     

Telephone Tough Guy

S4, E9 ‘Whoever Did This’

While Ralph Cifaretto is probably most widely remembered as a sort-of gangster Loki – a mirth-wracked trickster with a penchant for mayhem – most of his misdeeds were so loathsome that even the wider mafia disapproved: cheating on his grieving partner, beating a young pregnant girl to death, burning a horse alive (come on, of course that was him). Still, he did make us laugh, though, didn’t he?

No more so than when he pranked Paulie’s dopey-yet-adorable old mother in her nursing home (‘It’s a retirement community!’), announcing himself as Detective Mike Hunt, Beaver Falls, from the Pennsylvania police department. Not only did Ralph claim that Paulie had been caught pleasuring a cub scout in a public bathroom, but also that a small rodent had been discovered in Paulie’s rectal passage. ‘A gerbil, ma’am’.

Ralph laughed his head off.

Tony later removed it.  

A Truth Injection

S4, E10 ‘The Strong, Silent Type’

Drug interventions are worthy and solemn rituals – they certainly aren’t supposed to be funny – but there’s something delicious about a room full of self-involved sociopaths with no impulse control and an insatiable appetite for pleasure assembling to pass judgement on Christopher essentially for having no impulse control and an insatiable appetite for pleasure. Christopher is at least self-aware enough to lobby this back in the faces of his supposed rescuers, pointing out that Silvio likes to sample his sex-workers; that Paulie’s hot-head almost dragged the Newark family into war with the Russian mob, and that Tony’s epicurean compulsions will probably kill him more quickly than Christopher’s drugs.

From the moment a bewildered Christopher emerges from his bedroom to find both families – blood and work – camped out in his living room, the laughs just keep coming, all the way through to the (inevitable) explosion of violence at the scene’s climax.

Christopher instantly recognises the host of the intervention, Dominic Paladino, as ‘the guy who broke into Stew Leonards that time and stole all those pork loins.’

‘Yes,’ replies a sheepish Dominic. ‘But… that’s not why I’m here today.’  

Especial mirth-based mentions must go to Silvio and Paulie (the latter’s reaction to Christopher’s narcotic-related manhood problems is priceless), and their refusal to play along with the ‘care-frontation’. 

‘When I came to open up one morning, there you were with your head half in the toilet. Your hair was in the toilet water. Disgusting,’ says Silvio, reading awkwardly from what is possibly the most unnecessary aide de memoire ever written.

Leave it to Paulie to lay the smackdown on this particular brand of ‘California bullshit’: ‘I don’t write nothing down,’ he says, ‘so I’ll keep this short and sweet. You’re weak. You’re out of control. And you’re becoming an embarrassment to yourself and everybody else.’

Drugs are bad. Mmmkay?

Dead Good Food

S5, E7 ‘In Camelot’

When Junior realises he can get respite from his house arrest through attending family funerals he starts to exaggerate and exploit ever more spurious links to get him out of the house for a few hours. While all around him are wracked with grief, his is the only face with a smile on it, enjoying the change of scenery, enjoying the food, wondering why everyone has to be so maudlin.

In a darkly funny scene he happily extols the virtues of the spread while attending the wake of a teenage boy. ‘Chicken’s nice and spicy, huh?’ he beams at a fellow mourner.

A Grave Error

S5, E9 ‘Unidentified Black Males’

When Tony agrees to pick up the tab for the headstone of a New York soldier who was slain, unbeknownst to him, by his own cousin, his men manage to add insult to injury.

We see the headstone. At the graveside. During the funeral service. And it says:

Peeps.

‘Peeps?’ spits Tony. ‘It’s a fuckin’ nickname! His family name is Pepperelli!’

Silvio hunkers down into full middle-management mode. ‘They’re gonna re-do it. Fuckin’ J.C. He’s dyslexic.’

 ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ asks an incredulous Tony. 

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

You could fill a book with The Sopranos’ funniest moments – Paulie’s rant about shoelaces, Bobby B botching a publicity shooting, Silvio’s poker-table tantrum, Little Carmine’s malapropisms, to name but a handful – so by necessity we’ve had to leave a lot out. What are some of yours?

The post The Sopranos’ Funniest Moments appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/2U1uOTz

[the-blind-assassin-12]

I’ll Think About It

A/N: *LET IT BE KNOWN: on this, the third day of September in the year 2019, I have decided to place Billy Russo in an alternate universe where he just gets to run Anvil and be happy. Like that’s it.* Okay, that’s not completely it, but like, no bullshit shady ass secretive back door deals, no playing a part in murdering his best friend’s family, no revenge. Just his own stubborn self getting in his way. This makes smooch #17…

Word Count: 3,162

Prompt from: @thesumofmychoices who wanted “On the street, life or death for Billy”

You leaned against the door frame, glaring at him as he stalked through the bedroom. Shirt unbuttoned and hair falling loosely over his brow, he gathered his things quickly, lining everything up on the bed. Gun, knife, headset, tie, keys, second gun, second knife... The argument had chewed up some time, so he was rushing now, cursing to himself under his breath, something about his phone. He passed right in front of you but you kept your arms crossed tightly over your chest, kept shooting daggers with your eyes. His long fingers deftly started working to slip the buttons of his shirt into their corresponding holes as he scanned every surface in the room for his phone, shoelaces dragging on the hardwood.

You’d watched Billy get dressed for work plenty of times, usually from the bed before the sun had finished rising, and after being thoroughly reminded of how you made him feel. You’d roll onto your side as he pulled his arms through the sleeves of his vest, and he’d lean over you, gripping your hip and seeking out your lips with his own, his grip wandering over the side of your body to squeeze your ass and pull a moan into his mouth. With a nip at your bottom lip, he’d stand back up and finish getting ready, securing buttons, dragging his hands through his hair to slick it into place, fastening his watch band, and doing the laces on his shoes. He’d turn once more to the bed and your spent form slumped into the pillows, telling you not to move, that he wants to come back to you in the same position, that you better not put any clothes on...something along those lines. But he’d throw you a wink as you slipped back to sleep, and a few hours later you’d get a text asking if you were awake yet.

Billy hadn’t said that he loved you, and you knew better than to say it first, but you also knew that things were changing between the two of you, regardless of what words you used to describe it. He hadn’t asked you to move in with him, but he’d flicked a key across the breakfast table at you while you sat cross legged in the chair eating blueberries from a bowl, wearing his shirt from the previous night. You hadn’t made a big deal of it then, continuing to munch your fruit as your hand closed around the pair of keys, Billy observing your non-reaction with a barely there smile from behind his coffee mug. You’d gone back to your place that afternoon and couldn’t keep your smile in your pocket any longer, pulling it and the keys out and falling into your bed before packing a bag with as much as you could fit. You moved in with Billy slowly over the course of the final few months of your lease, spending 3 or 4 consecutive days with him before going back to the address that still bore your name, staying there for a few days with your increasingly emptying shelves and closets before taking a few more things to Billy’s. Even after your lease had expired and you had forwarded your mail, you were slow to call Billy’s place home. But after he’d called once to tell you that a meeting ran late, that he’d miss your dinner reservation, you’d smiled at his next words. “Just head home, I’ll pick somethin’ up on the way back. I’m sorry to ruin the night, it’s just, these are important clients and-”

You’d cut him off then, still smiling. “It’s fine, Billy.” You turned and started walking in the opposite direction you were travelling in. You were only about a block and a half from the restaurant by the time he called you. “You can make it up to me when you get home.”

And he had, too. He’d brought dinner home from your favorite diner, even picked up a bouquet of roses from a corner vendor. Depositing both in your hands, your fingers closing quickly around the squeaky plastic wrapping the flowers and the rolled top of the plain brown bag, he grabbed your hips and pulled them to his. “Dinner,” he leaned in, tracing his tongue up your neck. “Flowers,” his teeth took the moistened skin over your pulse point between them. “Did I make it up to you?” The low growl in his voice and the way his fingertips were digging into your flesh told you how to answer.

“Not even close, Billy.”

He grinned, taking both items back from your grasp and setting them on the countertop along with his keys. “I was hopin’ you’d say that.” His hands and lips were on you again, walking you into the bedroom, dinner entirely forgotten.

You knew that night that you loved Billy Russo. And when he emerged from the shower to join you in the kitchen, towel tied low on his hips and water clinging to his hair, you were fairly certain that he loved you, too. He reached over your shoulder to grab half of the turkey club in the open take out container, shredded lettuce falling on the table as he turned to quickly kiss your cheek before hastily stuffing the sandwich in his mouth. His cool, black eyes warmed as you brushed a crumb out of his beard with your thumb, and you didn’t have to say it out loud to know what you felt. You loved him, and it filled your entire being with excitement, with happiness and possibility.

But it was also terrifying to love a man like Billy. Danger was never more than a few paces behind him, and while he assured you that he’d always outrun it, that confident smirk on his perfect face, you couldn’t help the anxious way your stomach would flip when you thought about his job. You couldn’t have been more proud of Billy for building the company that he dreamed of, for getting it off the ground and turning Anvil into one of the premier names in private security. You loved the way he beamed when he filled you in on new developments, and were more than happy to massage the tension from his shoulders after a long day.

In the beginning, there were endless meetings and conference calls with investors and potential clients, which meant missed dinner dates, interrupted plans, and nights where Billy came back long after you’d already been asleep. But you understood. There were recruiting events and training drills that lasted several weeks at a time, Billy calling you from a hotel in D.C. or Philadelphia or some other metropolis, making promises that sounded more like threats about what he wanted to do to you when he got home. He’d usually yawn mid way through, and your heart would ache with how much you loved him, with how much you wished he was in bed with you, his weight dipping the mattress beside you, his sleepy mumbles into his pillow. But you understood. You understood that for the first year or so, he’d have to go on all the jobs, running the missions himself to ensure that things went smoothly and safely. While you hated knowing that he was essentially contracting himself out as a human shield for some politician, celebrity or businessman, you understood that this was how it had to be until he was confident enough in the higher ranked members of his team to let them take the reins. A few nicks and bruises, a black eye here and there, all of that you understood. This is what it meant to love Billy Russo.

What you failed to understand, almost three years later, was why Billy still insisted to lead as many jobs as he did. He’d promoted four of his guys to operations leaders, hired enough employees- all of them former military- to run all four teams at once. The occasional job, a high powered client, a conditional term in the contract stating that William Russo himself lead the security detail… those instances you understood. But he’d told you at the beginning of all of this, when you’d spent more time apart than together, when he’d come home bleeding once or twice, or else splattered with blood belonging to someone else, that it wouldn’t be this way for long. He’d told you that eventually he’d cut back and focus more of his time on running the business and not the missions. But when you’d asked him a few times about when that might be, all he’d answered with was a kiss on your nose, a wink and an “I’ll think about it,” on the way out the door.

Which is precisely what he’d told you when you’d brought it up again last week. You’d had a dream, a nightmare, that ended with Billy, blood soaked and fading in your arms. It wasn’t the first of its kind, and you were sure it wouldn’t be the last, but it was strong, gripping you by the lungs and shooting your veins with ice. You knew he had a big job coming up, and you knew it was a high risk client- one with several death threats over his head- and you knew that it was likely to blame for influencing your sleeping brain. But you had to ask, had to try, even though you could already hear his answer.

“Billy, it’s just… you’re the CEO. You have other responsibilities, you don’t need to go on all these jobs anymore… don’t need to risk-”

“I’m not riskin’ anything,” he reached behind you to grab a banana from the fruit basket, kissing the corner of your eye as you rolled it.

Not riskin’ anything, no one’s gettin’ the better of me. It was almost as practiced a response as “I’ll think about it” at this point, and while you knew he meant it, knew that confidence, that bravado were real and that he wasn’t trying to deflect or lie or shut you up, you also knew he wasn’t seeing things from your perspective. You sighed, pushing yourself away from the counter to follow him as he finished getting ready to leave. “You are risking something though, Billy, you’re risking your life… you’re risking all of this,” you gestured broadly around the apartment, indicating your shared home, your shared love. “I try not to let it bother me, I really do. But, Billy?” you placed your hand on his bicep and he stilled his motion to turn to face you, hands settling at your waist as he looked down at you with his full attention. “You roll the dice too many times, your luck’s gonna run out. That’s just a fact.” You tried to keep the lump in your throat from changing your voice, and you knew he noticed your effort.

He narrowed his eyes and flexed his fingers around your hip bones before tilting his head. “Well, I don’t wanna risk all that.” Fingers slipping under your shirt to slide over your skin, he dropped his lips to your cheek and you sighed. “I don’t wanna risk you.”

“So… you’ll stay home? On Thursday night for the Anderson job? You’ll let Donovan or Zeke or one of the other guys lead it?”

“I’ll think about it. Promise.” With that, he grabbed his briefcase, stuck the banana in his pocket, and coffee in hand, strode for the door leaving you just as exasperated, nervous and unsure as you were before you brought it up.

Now that it was Thursday night, it was clear that if he’d thought about it, he hadn’t thought enough of your concerns to agree with you. You’d lost your patience and your temper, asking if he’d even cared about your opinions, if he even considered what you’d said. He’d groaned, telling you that now wasn’t the time, that of course he’d thought about it, that he had to get ready and that you’d talk about it when he got home.

“If!” you’d shouted, setting the wine bottle down with a little bit more force than necessary. “If you get home, Billy. Because, you know, you’re gonna go put yourself in danger for no reason, so if you get home, we can talk about it.”

You heard his annoyed laugh, the one he let out when you’d pressed his buttons and he knew screaming at you wasn’t an option. “If I get home. Okay.” He was already in the bedroom, already getting dressed by the time you took a swig of the drink you’d just poured. You huffed, setting your glass next to the bottle on the counter and crossing the apartment to take up residence in the doorway. “So I’m definitiely dyin now? That it? Every time I go out on a job,” he looked at you, one eyebrow raised sarcastically. “I’m not comin’ home?”

“I didn’t say that, Billy, and you know it. All I said was you’re taking too many risks, and you are.” You crossed your arms. “And you said you’d think about it, and you didn’t.”

You watched him pace around, searching for his phone and choosing to ignore your answer. “You seen my goddamn phone anywhere?” He turned back to you, the sarcasm gone, replaced with a genuine request for help.

I shouldn’t tell him, I should just let him keep looking so he’s late and he can’t go on the job. “It’s on the table in the living room.” You stepped aside to let him pass, making sure to put enough space between you so that he couldn’t just distract you with a kiss or change your mind with his hands.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, striding back into the living room to grab his phone, returning to finish putting himself together. “Look,” he released a breath as he watched you in the mirror, seething silently at him while he crafted a knot in the matte black tie around his neck. “We’ll talk about it when I get home, okay?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it, Billy, if you’re not gonna change anything. I love you, Russo, and I know you love me too. But this is getting out of control, and if you’re not gonna actually think about it, then I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’ll just keep it to myself and wait.”

“Wait.” He turned, tucking his collar over his tie. “Wait for what?”

You shrugged. “Wait for you to get home. Or not. Seems that’s what you want for me, so that’s what I’ll do.”

He groaned, holstering the two guns and sheathing the knives, one on his waist, the other in holder strapped to his ankle. “It’s not what I…” he patted himself down, double checking that he had everything he needed. “Look. I have to go. You gonna kiss me goodbye, or not?”

You shrugged again, trying desperately to hold on to your grudge.

“Okay, fine.” He pressed his lips to your reluctant cheek, his hand on the small of your back. “I’ll be home soon. I love you.”

His shoes slapped the hardwood as he made for the door, dark head dipped to check the time on his watch, a quiet shit under his breath at the lost minutes. I’m not gonna give in. I’m not. He needs to know I’m serious. Needs to know I mean it...needs to know I’m scared… You heard the door open and close, and then you heard silence fill your home. Distantly, you heard the ding of the elevator, telling you he’d stepped in and was on his way down to the parking garage.

Fuck it.

You hurried into your room, found the nearest pair of shoes and jammed your feet into them before running out the door after him. You knew waiting for the elevator would cause you to miss him, so you flew for the door to the staircase, making quick work of the 15 flights. As you burst through the door in the garage, you were met with his tail lights pulling out of the exit and you picked up your speed, sprinting towards the street. “Billy, wait!” you called, waving one hand to try to get his attention.

The brake lights glowed red and you breathed a little easier. He’d pulled out onto the street, putting the hazards on and stepping out of the driver’s side door. “Look, I really gotta-”

You didn’t let him finish, launching yourself at him, hands grabbing greedily for his hair as your lips expertly landed on his. You swallowed his surprised oof, tongue sliding into his mouth as his hands came to your face. You felt that familiar rush of heat flush through your whole body as he kissed you back, taking control and tilting your head to give himself a better angle. You’d never let him leave without a kiss before, knowing better than he seemed to that the dice could come up snake eyes at any moment, and you weren’t going to let both of your stubborn heads get in the way of that. Your fingers dug into his thick locks, his palms kept you in place. You poured everything into that kiss, pressing your chest to his and not breaking away until you felt yourself straining for air.

“Hey,” he whispered, combing a stray piece of hair out of your eyes. “What was that for?”

“That, Billy,” you let your fingers slide down his face, nails scratching in his beard to pull a hum from his throat. “Was incentive to get your ass home to me so we can talk about it.”

He chuckled with a shake of his head. “Already thought about it.” You wrinkled your forehead questioningly. “You know how slow the elevators are,” he raised his hand in the direction of the elevator vestibule in the garage. “Thought long and hard on my way down here.”

You swallowed, almost afraid to ask. “And?”

“And, this is gonna be the last time I go on a job that isn’t an absolute necessity.”

“You promise?” You felt your shoulders relax, felt all the anxiety drain from your bloodstream as he dropped his hands to your arms.

“Promise. You’re right. We got too much for me to take risks like that. Plus I think you’d kill me yourself if I don’t change my tune, yeah?”

You smiled, a small laugh tumbling out with it. “Yeah, probably.”

“Okay. Look, I really gotta go or I’m gonna be late and then-”

“Okay, Billy.” You raised on your toes to kiss him one more time, fixing the hair that you’d disrupted when you grabbed him. “Okay, go take care of business and you make sure you get back here in one piece.”

“What’s in it for me?” he asked, climbing back into the car as a grin climbed his cheeks.

You shook your head and smirked at him, arms crossed again. “I’ll think about it.”

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @lexxierave @thebbtongue @songforhema @thesumofmychoices @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @roses-in-your-country-house @lysawayne @ymariejp @belladonnarey @audreychaz @traeumerinwitzhelden @breanime @songtoyou @stories-you-wont-hear @gollyderek @luminex3

[stormtrprinstilettos]

Fun’s For Free - Chapter 7 (Roger x Reader) (smut)

Summary: It’s 1978 and you’re assigned to follow Queen on their North American tour to promote their new album. Only problem is the magazine you write for has not been kind to the band in the past, and someone has a hard time letting go of that fact.

Series Masterlist Here

In this “episode”: FFS, Roger.

Word Count: ~5.2k

Warnings: The entire series is language & smut so 18+

[A/N: Here we go. Shit’s gonna get real now.]

November 22, 1978 – Nashville, Tennessee

“All I’m saying is that if we change the set list it’s going to ruin the whole show,” Brian says, standing his ground to Freddie, who for some reason wants to mix things up for the show tonight. “We’ve got everything down to a science and…”

“And it’s boring me,” Freddie complains. “It’s the same thing every night and it’s boring.”

You’re smirking as you listen to them, finding the whole argument amusing. Like Daisy told you back in New York, they’re bitchy and that makes them hilarious. Your eyes glance up and you see Roger, wearing sunglasses, his hair completely disheveled, wearing the same clothes he was yesterday, walking to the table, with his arms around some chick you’ve never seen before and your stomach drops.

“Late night?” Brian asks him, clearly pissed off, before he glances across the table to you with his brows furrowed.

Roger and the mystery chick sit at the table and he starts to chuckle. “Well, you know how it is sometimes, eh Bri?” He puts his arm around her again. “Lisa here kept me up late.”

“My name is Lacie,” she snips. “Lacie, for the millionth time.” Now Freddie is looking at you too, trying to figure out how you’re going to react. “At least you’re not calling me Y/N anymore I guess,” she grumbles. Freddie starts to laugh loudly and you look up at the ceiling, not sure if you’re pissed, hurt or amused by it all and Roger’s arm quickly moves away from her.

“So, Lacie, where’d you meet our Rog?” Brian asks, clearly trying to make Roger more uncomfortable than he already is.

“I work here. At the bar,” she giggles. “He came in last night for a drink and I cheered him up.”

“There isn’t some ‘no patronizing with the guests’ rule here?” you ask.

She shrugs. “Probably, but I don’t care,” she says as she grins at Roger before looking back to you, holding out her hand. “What’s your name?”

You grab her hand and shake it. “Me? I’m Y/N,” you smirk. “Nice to meet you.” You keep your smirk as you glance over to Roger and pull your hand away. “Excuse me, but I’m going find something more important to do.” You stand up from the table and walk away, and Brian quickly follows you.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks as he gets next to you.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He gives you a curious look. “He’s…” Your eyes start to well up, either out of sadness or anger – you’re really not sure, nor are you sure why you’re feeling any emotion about all of this – and you fight them back. “I’m tired, Brian.” He knows what you mean. You’re not sleepy tired. You’re mentally tired. “I think I just need to be alone right now.” He gives you a sympathetic look, trying to decide if he wants to leave you alone. “Really, I’m fine. I’ll see you at soundcheck, Okay?” You force a smile and head to your room.

You were at the arena in time for soundcheck but you couldn’t bring yourself to go sit out there. You couldn’t face him. You couldn’t even allow yourself to think about him because it turned you into a massive ball of emotion – emotions you didn’t want to have. Not for him. Not for anyone, but especially not for him. He showed himself to you, you thought. You told yourself that he was probably only being nice to you to keep you close enough to dish out sex whenever he wanted it. So that was it. No more. No matter how much you wanted it, if the chance ever presented itself to you, you were done. No more of this thing – whatever it was.

The door to the dressing room flies open and Roger storms in, not noticing you sitting there at first, but when he does you hurry and get up to walk out. You don’t speak to him. You don’t even look at him. But he looks at you and watches you rush out of the door, not even giving him the chance to make an asshole comment. You run into John – literally – as you leave, apologize for doing so, but he grabs you before you can make your getaway.

“Nope, you’re talking to me,” he giggles as he pulls you aside. “You don’t have to talk to anyone else, but you’re talking to me.” You sigh and take a seat on the floor and look up at him. He plops down right next to you and nudges your shoulder. “I heard about what happened this morning.” You glare at him, letting him know that you really don’t want to talk about it, but he ignores your silent plea. “I can’t believe he was calling her your name,” he says, his laughter loud. “And then you introduced yourself! I wish I could have seen that.”

You can’t stop your laughter anymore. “Yeah, it was priceless. My only regret is that I didn’t stick around longer.”

John pulls a cigarette from his pocket and hands it to you before taking one for himself, lighting yours before his. “Fred and I want you to come on the road with us all the time, even if it’s just to sit there and look pretty, because it’s funny watching Roger squirm.”

“I think I’m going to need a vacation when this one is finished,” you giggle. “A nice, long, relaxing vacation.”

“Rumor has it Miami wants another reporter with us when we go to Japan in April,” he says with a sneaky voice. “And I hear people have asked him if he can get you…”

“Oh God,” you groan, stopping him before he can finish.

“You love us, really,” he laughs. “And you’re fun. We like having you with us.”

“Maybe you do,” you smirk. “But I don’t know if…” Roger storms out into the hallway, yelling for John, not seeing him sitting on the floor next to you. You point to Roger and whisper. “I don’t know if he does.”

“Oh, he does,” John whispers, amused. “He won’t admit it, but he does.” He stands up and gets Roger’s attention. “I’m right here, Rog.” Roger turns around and sees you standing next to John.

“Fred’s looking for you,” Roger tells him. John walks in the dressing room, but Roger stays standing there, and the two of you get locked in a stare.

“Y/N… I mean, Lisa… Damn, I mean Lacey didn’t want to come tonight?” you snark. “Or is she old news? Want to find someone else instead?” He opens his mouth to say something, his face twisted into anger, but nothing comes out. His expression quickly changes, too, realizing that he has absolutely nothing to be angry with you about. “Hmm,” you chuckle. “I’m sure there’ll be someone floating around here that’s good enough for you soon.” He gives you an agonizing look, wanting so much to say something, but he can’t find the words. You, on the other hand, don’t let on that you’re torn up inside. “Have a good show, Roger,” you say as you walk past and head outside.

After the show, everyone piles on the bus to ride six hours to the next stop. You quickly take your regular spot away from everyone else, saying nothing as you pass them by, hoping like hell they leave you alone. You’re not in the mood to talk to anyone. You’re really not even in the mood to hear anyone, but you know it’s not going to be a quiet ride. They were still riding high on adrenaline, and if the other nights they were like this was any indication, it was going to be a loud six hours. You glance up and see Roger walking on the bus with a girl, grunt internally and focus on your notebook and pen. Before you start to scribble your notes, you hear Freddie and John yelling at Roger that no company was welcomed to join the group. “Not tonight!” Freddie yells. “It’s just us tonight, Rog.”

“Then shouldn’t Y/N be relegated to one of the cars?” Roger yells out.

You grab your purse and notebook and start to walk off the bus, but Brian grabs your arm and stops you. “No, she’s not going to be relegated to anywhere but here,” he fusses. “You want to bring your friend along? You go ride in one.”

“No, I’ll go,” you say. “I don’t particularly feel welcomed here.”

Freddie stands up to block your path and turns to Roger. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you two now but I’m not standing for another second of it.” He looks at the girl and smiles. “Darling, I’m sorry, but there’s no room for you on the bus.” He turns his gaze to Roger, who is looking at the girl and shrugging his shoulders, making her storm away in a huff. The driver closes the door and Brian guides you back to your seat.

You throw yourself down and stare out the window. One more month. A whole month left on this tour and for the first time you don’t know if you’re going to make it. This last month has been nothing short of a whirlwind, and you thought you had gotten past the worst part unscathed, but now you’re wondering if the worst is yet to come. “Hey,” Brian says as he sits next to you.

“Hey,” you say with a small smile as you turn and look at him. “What’s up?”

He smiles softly. “Just want to make sure you’re alright.” You nod yes and he pats your arm. “You’ve been with us long enough to know how he can be.”

“Yeah,” you chuckle. “I’ve grown quite immune to his bullshit,” you giggle. But really, this time you’re taking it personally. But you’re also hiding it very well. Brian goes to join the others and you’re finally left alone, just like you want to be, turning your focus on your notebook as you start to jot your words down.

November 23, 1978 – St. Louis, Missouri Roger has been quiet, not speaking to anyone and staying to himself. Everyone has been, really, after the minor blow up on the bus last night. There was no tension, no awkwardness, just a different vibe than before. You knew it would pass. Maybe everyone was tired of the monotony of being on the road. You’re not sure, but you’re not letting it consume your thoughts. You’re here to do a job, and that’s what you’re going to do. You also convinced Mike to fork out money for a plane ticket, which will give you a three-day break from everyone, since you’ll be skipping the show in Richfield and flying straight to Cincinnati tomorrow afternoon.

As always, the show went off without a hitch and everyone perked up. Even you. You often felt almost the same adrenaline rush they did, but tonight it even cheered you up. It cheered you up so much you even joined the guys at the hotel bar, something you haven’t been doing lately, trying to keep yourself sober because you meant it when you told yourself that “it” was not going to happen with Roger again.

The alcohol was flowing tonight, though, and you were taking advantage of it. The music was good, too, and you were enjoying dancing around like an idiot with John. One of the crew members was enjoying watching you, and he made every bit of effort to get as close to you as possible. You didn’t mind. He was cute. You didn’t know his name, but that wasn’t important. Roger was watching you like a hawk, his eyes taking note of your every move. You didn’t notice like you did when he was doing this in New Orleans. You didn’t notice because you convinced yourself that you didn’t care. Not anymore. You didn’t notice until the nameless crew member’s hand touched your hip and Roger came swooping in like the hawk he was being, pulling the guy away from you. “She’s off limits,” he tells the guy with an angry look as he pushes him back.

“Really, Roger?” you yell. “What the fuck are you doing?” The look on his face lets you know that he doesn’t even know why he did that. You roll your eyes and walk away from him, but he follows.

“Y/N, wait!” he calls out, but you keep walking, heading for the elevator. When you walk in, he hurries and walks in behind you, letting the doors close and watching you stand in the corner with every ounce of frustration you’re feeling right now emanating from your body. You walk up to press your floor’s button but he stops you. “Fucking talk to me,” he says.

“Don’t you dare turn this all around on me like I’m the one at fault this time,” you seethe, pushing your way past him to press the button. “You’re the one who walked out, not me.”

“Can I explain why…”

“No,” you cut him off. “I am here to write an article about a band. I am not here to have drama with the fucking drummer.”

“Maybe the fucking drummer is trying to figure out why he feels completely defenseless whenever you’re around.” You glare at him, not fully comprehending what he’s trying to tell you. “Jesus, Y/N, I don’t know how to handle any of this.”

The elevator door opens and you walk out, leaving him standing there alone. “Find me when you do,” you tell him. “Stop playing your stupid little game with me.”

The door starts to close, but he holds his hand out to stop it. “This isn’t a game.”

“Yes, it is,” you tell him. “You won. You got to fuck me. Congratulations.”

He walks out of the elevator and pushes you into the hall. “You think that’s all I wanted? Like you were some conquest?”

“Of course,” you smirk, your tone sarcastically dry. “And that’s okay. Because all I wanted was to fuck you, too.” You raise a brow, taking note of his shocked look. “What? You don’t think us girls can have our fun too?”

“I thought there was more…” he says, his voice drifting, feeling defeated, not finishing his statement.

You roll your eyes and sigh. “Oh, please, Roger. The second I dared question anything you freaked out and left. And then you spent the night with whatever her name is.” You walk to your room door, directly across from the elevator where he’s still standing and turn around. “And for the record, all I wanted to know was where you stood, to avoid any unnecessary tension for either of us. But of course, you couldn’t even let that happen without throwing a goddamn tantrum.” Normally, this is when he would start arguing with you, but he was just standing there, saying nothing, letting you unload on him. “I don’t know why nothing can just be simple with you. The smallest things are blown completely out of proportion and it’s maddening, Roger.” You turn back to your door and insert the key into the lock, wanting to walk inside, but you weren’t finished. “You know, I thought there was more too,” you say as you turn back around, but now he’s standing closer to you. “But when you walked up yesterday morning with her? That said it all, really.” He leans down and tries to kiss you, but you push him away. “No!” you yell. “No! Not this time. This isn’t how you fix things.” You open your door, walk inside, and slam it shut, leaving him on the other side.

November 26, 1978 – Cincinnati, Ohio Your self-imposed solitary confinement was going to be over soon since you’re in the back of a taxi cab heading to tonight’s venue. You thought three days alone would do you wonders, but all it did was leave you alone with your undistracted thoughts. There were even a few times you picked up the phone to call Mike and tell him to send someone else to finish, but you didn’t. You started this assignment and you were determined to finish it, your confused feelings about Roger be dammed. No more entangling yourself in his orbit. You were going to ignore him as best you could. Only talk to him when needed. A rock – that’s what you were going to be.

A rock. Right. More like ice that starts to melt into a massive puddle of water the second you see him sitting alone on the stage behind his drum kit smoking a cigarette. No one else is around. He sees you immediately and his eyes complete your proverbial transformation into liquid as he takes a quick drag off of his cigarette and looks at you with an almost blank expression. You don’t know if you should walk out or walk closer. It doesn’t matter, really, because you can’t move. You don’t even know if you’re breathing. And you don’t know why you’re stuck there, but you are, almost as if he’s telepathically forcing you to stay right where you are. He slowly stands up and walks over, not saying a word until he reaches you.

“I told Brian that I’m fucking crazy about you, Y/N,” he says, harping back to the discussion the two of them had when Brian caught the two of you alone on the bus a few days ago. “I told him that I think you are the strongest, smartest, most amazing woman I’ve ever met.” He starts to run his hand under his shirt collar and takes a deep breath. “I meant it when I told you I don’t know how to handle this, because I don’t… I don’t know how you feel about this. And when you asked me about it the other night, I panicked because I felt like a complete idiot.” You grab his arm and move closer. “You said this was meaningless, Y/N. But it’s not meaningless to me.” He pulls his arm away and backs himself up.

“It’s not…” you say, but you’re interrupted by voices in the background, so you move closer to him again so you can say what you want quietly. “It’s not meaningless,” you whisper. “I thought that’s what you wanted to hear.”

“No, Y/N. No this isn’t meaningless,” he whispers. He wants to touch you, but eyes are around, and he notices a familiar face. “Find me after the show, alright?” You nod your head and he darts his eyes behind you, letting you know there was someone standing there. After he leaves, you turn around and are shocked.

“Mike sent me,” Daisy tells you. “Not to replace you, but to join you, so don’t get huffy.”

“To join me?” you ask, angrily. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, not making eye contact with you. “He just said that he wanted me to come.”

You’re furious, and you’re trying not to yell. “That’s bullshit, Daisy, and you know it. What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t tell him anything. I don’t know…”

“You already told him I was fucking…” You turn down your tone. “You already told him I had something going on with Roger. So what did you tell him now?”

“I didn’t tell him anything, Y/N.”

“Don’t lie to me. You were pissed that they sent me and not you and now you’re here.”

“Oh hey Y/N’s friend!” Freddie yells from the stage. “Nice to see you again!” Daisy smiles and waves and turns her attention back to you.

“I’m here to help you, not take your job,” she snips. “To type up your stuff, make any phone calls you need, make sure you eat. Basically I’m here to do whatever you need or want me to do.” She nudges your shoulder and starts to laugh. “I’ve been demoted from staff writer to assistant.”

“Why’d you tell Mike anything?”

“I didn’t think he would flip out! I thought it was funny! Because of course you’d hook up with the drummer.” She starts to laugh, and you try hard not to, but you can’t help it. “Always the drummers with you.”

“I don’t like that one,” Freddie tells you in your ear, pointing to Daisy in the dressing area after the show. “I don’t trust her.”

“I don’t trust her either,” you groan. “But I can’t exactly do anything about it.”

“I think someone wants to talk to you,” he whispers in your ear, pointing to the door. You see Roger standing in the hall, a smile on his face, and one immediately draws on yours. “Go on. I’ll distract her.” You look at Freddie who is giving you an encouraging look, mouth a “thank you” and sneak out the door.

Roger takes your hand in his and sneaks you outside and to a car that is waiting. “I don’t want to have this conversation in there,” he tells you after sliding in the backseat next to you. “I don’t want to have it in here either,” he smirks. You nod your head and smile and sit in silence, your fingers entwined in his, for the 5 minute ride to the hotel. He doesn’t let your hand go as you get out of the car and during the walk to his room, and he’s still holding your hand as he guides you to sit on the bed.

“I…” He holds a finger up to your lips, and you stop talking.

“Let me say this while I have my words in order,” he says, and you give him your undivided attention. “I never wanted any of this until I had a taste of it. And now that I have, I don’t want to be without it.” He stands up and starts to nervously pace the floor as he runs his hand on the back of his neck. “I don’t know how to describe it, what’s inside. I’ve been feeling so empty for so long.” He stops, trying to find the right words. “Something missing, you know?” You stand up and walk to him, getting as close as you can without touching him. “But when I’m around you…” He looks at you and can’t finish his statement. You share a look, letting him know that you know exactly what he feels.

“Almost like you were just going through the motions,” you whisper. “Not exactly…”

“Living,” he says, finishing your statement. “That night on the bus, when we were talking and you fell asleep on my shoulder?” He pulls you into his arms, softly smiling and looking deep into your eyes. “I think we can bring each other back to life, Y/N.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and softly rest your hands on the back of his neck. “I think we already have,” you whisper with a smile. He leans down and softly kisses you, his hand to your cheek.

“Stay with me tonight,” he murmurs.

You smile and nod your head as he flashes you his killer smile. The tension of the past few days ebbed away as the passion ignited between you again, only this time there was no fighting. No frustration. No yelling or screaming. He falls to his knees, his hands crawling up between your thighs until they reach the button of your pants. You sigh a deep sigh as he slowly unbuttons them and slides them down. “Now there’s something I’ve missed,” he says with his raspy voice as he looks up to you and smirks. He brings his mouth close – so close you can feel the warmth of his breath – and you let your head fall back. He softly grasps your hips and pulls you closer before starting to move his tongue around your labia, sucking and teasing at your wet lips. He groans, bringing your arousal higher and excitement to burning point.

You start to twitch, and he slowly slides two fingers inside you while bringing you to the brink of orgasm in a flurry of tonguing. “Oh fuck,” you softly whisper as you grab his hair, your pelvis starting to buck as your quiet orgasm escapes you.

He stands up and kisses you hard, taking your tongue and rolling it with his like you were making love with that one kiss, sensual and building anticipation for what was to come. He starts to grind his body into yours, showing you his erection through his jeans and grabbing the hair at your nape to glue you to his lips. He has you at his mercy, just as you like it. You’re hungry for more, and he knows it.

He sits on the bed, and you sit behind him, kissing over his shoulder and undoing his shirt, his body practically on fire. He leans back, and you reach down to his erection, feeling how hard he is already. He quickly shucks off his jeans and settles into the bed. God, his cock is perfection, and you tell him so as you give him a nice slow hand job, bringing your lips to his head now and again to taste his flavor. He is delicious, and you can’t get enough, running your tongue up and down his length over and over. Not frantically – slowly, savoring this moment for as long as you can. “My beautiful Y/N,” he whispers as he softly runs his fingers through your hair.

Your muscles are clenching in desperation, begging you to sit on his dick right away to give him the ride of his life. You can’t wait a second longer. You straddle him and place your hands on his chest. He steadies you by the hips and stares right into your eyes as you guide him to your entrance before sinking down onto him, both of you letting out a loud gasp as you take him all the way in. You ride him hard, concentrating on taking his full length inside you as you look deep into his eyes. You sit straight up and he rips your shirt open, exposing your breasts to him and he grabs them, squeezing them together as you rock and grind on him. Oh, it’s so good, you arch your back and thrust your pelvis to increase the sensations to your clit, and suddenly you’re coming on him… already. You slow down and eased yourself off, smiling and rolling to the side. Your cheeks feel flushed with the afterglow. “Be gentle,” you whisper with a smirk as he pushes you onto your stomach and leans in to worship your ass with his hands and kisses.

He nibbles and gnaws at your flesh, sliding a finger in as he buries his face in. It’s absolute heaven, and you relish the slippery probing feel of his tongue licking from your pussy right up to your asshole, breaching your most private space for a moment before flicking out as if it didn’t happen. He swoops up to your face, kissing you again, his cock nudging at you. You pull up onto your knees, and he opens you up, pushing himself deep inside, slamming his full length in over and over again, his balls tapping your clit with every thrust. The stillness of the room is in such delicious contrast to what is going on between the two of you right now.

He presses his hand into your lower back as he works, the added pressure there making you feel truly owned and taken, as you bare down and meet him thrust for thrust. You look over your shoulder at him biting his lip. It’s super sexy knowing he’s trying to stop himself from coming. He knows you can take him all day long. Your groans, intermingled with the rhythm of his thrusts, make the most sublime soundtrack.

He grabs your tits over your bra and rolls you over, spreading your legs so he could eat you again. You drift off into that orgasmic place with your foot arched up over his back as he laps and teases you again with his tongue. He stops to snake his way up to spoon you and enters you from the side. It hits your g-spot perfectly, and you suck on his finger, hoping it feels as sexy as your wetness. The slapping noises add to the sexy rawness and you reach down to rub your clit while he pummels you. It feels so good to be so full and ravished. He cradles your thigh as he licks and teases your nipple, squeezing it to intensify the sensations he’s giving you right now. You rub your clit harder and start to cum hard on his cock again, floating off into that beautiful space. He grabs you tit and rubs it in time, handful after handful.

Pushing you onto your back, he settles between your legs, kissing you briefly before he drags you onto his cock again. He yanks your bra open and caresses your breasts as he penetrates you. You’re staring right into each other’s eyes, and it’s intense, more intense than any other time you’ve been together. You want to swallow him whole, take him inside of you forever and be one with him. He starts shuddering as he’s about to cum, and your eyes encourage him as he fills you completely with every last drop he can muster.

You hold a hand to his cheek and giggle as you kiss him. “This is not where I ever thought I’d be right now.”

“Where? Cincinnati?” he chuckles, and you push him off, rolling him on to his back. You snuggle into him, resting your head on his shoulder and start to trace a finger on his chest. “It’s going to be hard to keep you a secret, you know.”

“I’m hardly a secret,” you giggle.

“You’re right,” he says. “You’re not a secret.” He starts to chuckle. “You’re a groupie.”

“Wrong Roger, though,” you laugh.

“Back with us on the bus tomorrow?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “And now we have Daisy…”

He quickly covers your mouth and chuckles. “I don’t want to talk about other women when I’m in bed with you.”

You laugh and pull his hand away. “What I’m saying is…” you say as you lean up on your side. “How in the hell am I going to be able to stay away from you for 8 whole hours?”

“We could knock her out,” he says with a serious tone, but clearly joking. “Stick her in with the luggage.”

“Give her to one of the roadies,” you say, only half joking. “I mean, there’s not really a lot of space on the bus.”

“Hmm,” he ponders. “I’m sure they can fit her in one of the cars.” He squeezes you tight and rests his head on yours. “I thought I lost you, Y/N. Not that I ever had you, but I thought…”

“I’m here now,” you tell him as you squeeze him back. “I’m not leaving.”

(I told y’all the angst wasn’t going to last too long!)

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[justfinishedreading]

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov

It has been at least 8 months since I finished reading this novel, and now I’m finally posting the last part of my review.

Part 3 – Margarita, Feminist Icon or Romantic Cliché?

Spoilers.

The Master, a thirty-something recluse male writer, first sees Margarita walking down the street. She has in her arms a bouquet of yellow flowers. The Master follows her, they exchange hellos and she asks him if he likes her flowers. He says no. She proceeds to throw the flowers in the gutter.

This is not a promising introduction to our heroine: a heroine who is quick to throw something away because a random man dislikes it. The situation doesn’t get any better after that; the two become infatuated with each other, and she becomes obsessed with his writing, with his “genius”, so much so that it is she who names him “The Master”.  For me a clichéd classical heroine is characterized by two things: first she is young and pure, pure in spirit and body (i.e. meek and clueless). Secondly, she is hopelessly dedicated to her man, he is all she lives for. Now on the first point Margarita does not qualify, she’s a married woman having an affair with another man, not surprising considering Bulgakov’s taste for married women. But Margarita absolutely fulfils the second criteria: her main characteristic as a character is how unfailingly devoted she is to her lover.

The novel is split into two parts and if it weren’t for the events of the second then her character would be very dull indeed. In the first part most of the action is focused on the Devil’s appearance in Moscow and the chaos his companions inflict on the inhabitants of the city. We’re briefly introduced to the characters of the Master and his lover Margarita. We’re told of how she supported his writing, and how he fell into depression when his novel about Jesus Christ and Pontius Pilate was ostracized by the Russian literary scene. There’s a passage in the novel in which Bulgakov explains that Margarita married young, now years later she’s living in a nice house, she’s a woman of leisure, she has money and her husband is decent enough, so why is she so unhappy? Bulgakov argues that she clearly needs the Master, she needs to live with him in that hole in the wall apartment and share his sorrow and pour herself into his work. Well Bulgakov you missed the mark. Margarita is so insanely attached to the Master’s novel (he gets jealous that she cares more for it than for him) that it seems clear to me that what she really needs isn’t the Master but for herself to get a job as an editor. What she needs is a challenge.

The first part of the novel jumps from character to character in alternating short comedic scenes, it is only in part two that the novel starts to feel more like a novel, it is the first time that more than two chapters (five to be exact) are dedicated to the same storyline: Margarita.

In this second part, one of the Devil’s companions offers Margarita a way to be reunited with her precious lover, whom she hasn’t seen in a long time, ever since he, willingly, disappeared from her. She is given a cream and told to apply it at midnight, she does so and turns into a witch, she feels a sense of liberation, removes all her clothes, grabs a broom and flies out into the night. After a few incidents she then meets the Devil and makes a bargin with him: he offers to reunite her with the Master if she will be the hostess at his Ball for the dead tonight. She accepts and fulfils her part perfectly and in return the Devil delivers her the Master and wishes them a happy life.

I have to say the second part of the novel, which relates to Margarita’s story, is what I enjoyed reading the most, it was a thrill to follow her new freedom and sense of adventure and wonder, and frankly a relief to be following a linear narrative. Margarita is the only character in the novel who takes action, the only one to be brave enough to face the Devil, take on his challenges and gain what she wants in the end.

And yet Margarita became a witch and got involved in the Devil’s business, she’s a heroine but one who gets mixed up with unholy things, and even before that she was an adulterer. In this sense she is a new type of heroine. There is a key moment in the Devil’s Ball when Margarita has to greet the Devil’s guests who are all dead sinners. She greets a woman who is deranged and keeps going on about a handkerchief, when she was alive she worked in a café, the owner “pressed her to join him in the pantry once, and nine months later she gave birth to a boy: she carried him off to the wood and stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth and then buried the boy in the ground. At the trial she said she had nothing to feed the child with.” To this Margarita asks what about the café owner? And one of the Devil’s minions replies: “what ever has the owner got to do with it! After all, he didn’t smother the baby in the wood!”

Now in the afterlife this woman is everyday presented with a handkerchief with a blue border identical to the one she used to kill her child, every day she destroys it and every morning she is presented with it anew, she is being forever tormented by the handkerchief, by her crime. When Margarita finishes her service to the Devil she asks that the torment to this woman be stopped. This shows a higher, more complex level of compassion than we usually see in romantic heroines. It’s easy to show a heroine to be compassionate and charitable to those who are innocent and poor, but here is compassion and understanding of how a person can be driven to acts of evil, and how they can be forgiven. And an acknowledgment of the man’s part in a woman’s ruin.

So apart from the character Margarita, are there any other moments that could tell us what was Bulgakov’s attitude towards women? Well whenever there are public incidents in The Master and Margarita, Bulgakov specifies that there are women screeching and wailing, implying that women will always be the ones to loose composure first and be “hysterical”. A character, angry with himself, exclaims “An idiot, a foolish woman, a coward! Carrion’s what I am, not a man!”. When one of the Devil’s minions approaches Margarita for the first time, he exclaims “Difficult people, these women!” when she is confused by his cryptic messages, a few minutes later he warns her “No dramas, no dramas”.

And then there’s Nakedness, nakedness is an important theme, there are five instances of nakedness: 1. The Devil has a group of four minions, one of whom is a woman, and she is always naked. Her nakedness is used to enthral and surprise her male victims on a number of occasions, but she is also described as a maidservant, who later in the book kneels down and rubs the Devil’s feet. 2. At the Devil’s stage performance in a theatre, his goons offer the people money, which later disappears, and to the women new frocks and shoes, which they exchange their old dresses for and change into on stage behind a curtain. Later on as they are leaving the show the dresses disappear and they are left naked. Nakedness here is used to embarrass. 3. Margarita and her maid turn into witches and go naked, this seems to be about liberation, liberation from social restraints, an abandonment to freedom, to adventure, to mischief. 4. The new witches meet a drunk fat man by a lake. Nakedness here reflects this man’s idiocy. 5. Women and black servants at the Devil’s Ball are naked. All male guests are formally dressed, the female guests wear nothing except for fancy shoes and elaborate headdresses. Serving the party are “motionless naked negroes with silver bands on their heads”. Is it liberating that the women are naked? Or is it just an indulgence for the men to feast their eyes upon? And to make the male readers giddy? Later in the party, the women, (and only the women) take off their shoes and jump into a large pool filled with champagne and get drunk.

After hours and hours and hours of serving as hostess at the Devil’s Ball, Margarita and the Devil are about to part ways, she has fulfilled her part of the bargain and now it is the time for the Devil to fulfil his and return the Master to her. But the Devil says nothing and neither does Margarita. She has worked so hard and been through so much and is about to walk away without demanding what is right: the payment for her services. As she is just about to leave the Devil exclaims: “Correct! (…) That’s the way! (…) never ask for anything! Never anything, and especially of those who are more powerful than you. They’ll make the offer themselves and give everything themselves.” What bullshit. I don’t know how exactly but I grew up with this belief, never ask for anything, if you deserve it, it will be given. What utter bullshit. I read in a study that one contribution to men getting more promotions at work than women was simply because men had more confidence in asking for promotions, whilst women assume that if they do their work well then a promotion should naturally happen. To all women everywhere: if you want something, go for it, ask for it, fight for it.

Bulgakov was a man who wrote a lot of himself into his work, in part 2 of my review I talked about all the similarities between Bulgakov’s struggle with censorship and the Master’s plot, Bulgakov also frequently broke the fourth wall as narrator and commented on the action or wrote things like “Follow me, Reader!”. So it is no surprise that Margarita has some similarities with Bulgakov’s third and final wife, Yelena Shilovskaya, who was a married women when they first met, and during and after Bulgakov’s life fought to get his work published. It seems clear to me that Margarita is a tribute to her.

I can’t say that The Master and Margarita is a feminist text, there are subtle moments of machismo which I feel Bulgakov would not have enough self-awareness to spot, and Margarita’s character has a number of problems, such as having no personal goals or desires outside of simply worshiping the “Master”, but I can say that there is enough to make Margarita a step in the right direction, a step in between a cliché of male desire, and a feminist icon for us women.

Review by Book Hamster

[ohblackdiamond]

just like streetcars (ace/gene, nc-17)

Just a show, except it wasn’t a show at all. It wasn’t a show at all unless he made it one. During an evening at the debauched Studio 54, Ace gives Gene a dancing lesson.

Notes: Christmas gift for @planet-neun (who also gets ample credit for her input on the basement scene and makeup choices, all of which really helped me out while I was stuck!)!  Thank you for being a wonderful, lovely friend. I’m really blessed and grateful to know you, each and every day. 

“just like streetcars”

by Ruriruri

“D’you dance, Gene?”

“Not really.”

“D’you wanna learn?”

“Huh?”

Gene couldn’t understand him over Studio 54’s usual obnoxious din. He tilted his head slightly, raised a hand to his ear just in case Ace hadn’t heard him, either. Not unlikely around here.

“I said, d’you wanna learn?” Ace’s tone still managed to be lazily affable even when he had to raise his voice. Ace didn’t push much. No, that was an understatement. Ace didn’t push at all. Not with Gene. He had seen Ace cajole Bobby occasionally, but it was always over inconsequential things, things they’d be doing anyway. Asking him for a kiss before a show, or while he was teasing his hair for a photoshoot (“you’re good luck for me, Bobby, you always are”). Gene would watch, shake his head a little bit at the antics.

It wasn’t even just with Bobby. No, Ace made out with Peter often enough, too, whether out of fascination or boredom. Gene didn’t get it. Maybe it was just some strange hedonistic impulse. They’d all indulged, to one extent or another. Regular sex with the groupies had gotten monotonous just because it was so inevitable. They were so easy, so bizarrely willing. Not even blinking at the fetishes and roleplays Gene would sometimes ask out of them. Five, six, seven girls in his bed—he couldn’t even fuck them all in one night, but he’d still bring them in. He wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to prove. Maybe just that he could get them.

Maybe that was what motivated Ace. Kissing his best friend just because he could, like a modern-day Roman emperor high on his own power. Maybe that motivated Ace and Peter both, really. A middle finger to the establishment, just like Bowie’s bisexual claims. Except unlike Bowie, they were backing them up at every single turn. Falling right in line with seven-inch leather heels and dog collars, and distinctly out of line with schoolkid lunchboxes and thermoses. Stooping down until they ran out of depravities to commit.

Gene might believe it if Ace ever looked like he was committing a depravity, but he never did. He’d kiss Bobby or Pete just as warmly, just as ardently as he’d kiss Jeanette. No discussion, but no shame, either. Gene didn’t see how Ace could—keep on like that, not differentiate, and not have it haunt him. Paul couldn’t. It bothered the hell out of the poor guy to—

“Learn?” It took Gene a second or two too long to repeat the question. Ace tilted his head, leaning in more than he needed to. Practically peering. Less sense of personal space than a wandering toddler.

Not that that was unusual, around here. Studio 54, even on the VIP floor, even in the corner of the lounge area they were tucked into, was nothing but bodies smashed against bodies. The din was overwhelming. Worse than a concert. Floor always shaking, the insistent, pulsating bass blaring from the speakers. Topless girls everywhere. Drag queens dressed in tutus. Sodom and Gomorrah with a hearty splash of cocaine.

There was something so self-indulgently unfocused about the whole place, like he was trying to see through glazed windows every time he cut through the velvet-roped line and stepped inside. Paul liked it well enough; Peter wasn’t exactly immune, and Ace ate the damn discotheque up, but it just wasn’t Gene’s preferred scene, not really—not enough attention on him when guys like Rod Stewart and Mick Jagger would put in appearances.

“Yeah, learn.” Ace shrugged. “Why show up here if you’re not gonna dance and you’re not gonna drink?”

“It’s good promotion.”

“Promotion, my ass. You just wanna get a real easy lay.” Ace was grinning. His grasp on his oddly-untouched glass of champagne was flimsy at best, wobbling before he set it down. He stood, reaching out a hand. “C’mon. I’ll teach you.”

Gene took his hand, letting Ace pull him up and out of the booth. Whatever. Just another weird, wild hair on Ace’s part. Not worth arguing, not worth worrying about. Two guys dancing wouldn’t even get you blinked at here. Two guys fucking wouldn’t even get you blinked at here. VIP or no. But it wasn’t just not seeing the harm in it that made Gene relent. No, there was something strange and almost-serious in Ace’s expression. Something that might have passed for sobriety.

This close, he could see the pockmarks and scars across Ace’s cheeks that all the dermabrasion sessions hadn’t managed to clear. Ace wasn’t as good with regular makeup as he was with the greasepaint, but he was enthusiastic. Slightly-smudged eyeliner, foundation, maybe even mascara. A little lipstick, just a shade or two deeper than Ace’s actual color. Femme, sure, but nothing really over the top. Ace didn’t look as much like a chick as he used to a few years ago, before the alcohol had started softening up his gut. But in the flickering light of the disco, he was still pretty and still androgynous. Ace cared more about looking good than Gene did, though he’d always had more to work with. Better features. Just worse skin. Gene let go of Ace’s hand once he was up, only for Ace to take it again, tugging him onto the floor.

“Okay, get your other hand—uh-uh, Gene, your hand’s gonna be on my shoulder. There you go.” Ace’s other hand was already on Gene’s back, pads of his fingers only a vague insinuation against his shirt. A far lighter touch than Gene had ever expected.

“You’re leading?”

“No shit,” Ace said, and laughed, softer than usual. “Don’t worry, I’ll treat you like a lady.”

Gene glanced past Ace and into the crowd on brief automatic. Not that it mattered when the press rarely got into this section of the disco. Most of the juicier photos only ended up in private collections, and most of the big names weren’t even out tonight. Even if they were, it would’ve been fine. Just fine. No one gave a damn around here. No one gave a damn who they’d fooled around with until the morning after, once the Quaaludes and cocaine highs wore off and all they were left with was themselves. A hell of a fate, really. Just a hell of a fate.

Ace squeezed his hand and Gene refocused, just in time to see Ace take a tentative, leaning step forward just as the next song came blaring through. The Stones in all their crackling fury, slamming in with their own seedy disco take. “Miss You,” with its saxophone and insistent underbelly of a bass line, and Jagger spewing out all his hollow denials. Brilliant stuff. Playing to the trends without losing sight of the band’s edge and swagger. KISS could do that. KISS should do that.

“C’mon, Gene, loosen up,” Ace urged as Gene took an awkward step back in response. “Don’t be so stiff, you ain’t in heels right now.”

“Might make this more convincing,” Gene said. Ace didn’t say anything at first, just sort of smiled. “I don’t know if this has the right tempo—”

“Bullshit. Four-four time’s all we need.” Ace crooked his head to the side. A step forward, a step back. “Can’t believe Paul never helped you out any. Mirror me and you’re not gonna go wrong, yeah? ’S just like the shows.”

Just like the shows. Gene couldn’t help but snort at that. Just like the shows where the two of them would end up gyrating against each other in a synchronized simulation. Thighs locked between thighs. Barely any breathing space for the guitars.

He didn’t really remember when he’d started taking it further. Didn’t even remember his rationale for it. One night, Ace had tilted his head back the way he usually did, mouth pinched in a tight circle, and Gene had leaned in, leaned in, kept leaning until he could taste the sweat and paint dripping down from Ace’s face, and then he was tasting it with every lap of his tongue against his neck. He’d watched Ace’s eyes go wide and his posture tense up, but he hadn’t missed a single note. By the time Gene pulled back, Ace’s expression was back to that glazed version of normal. By the time they were taking their bows, an hour later, he’d felt Ace grip his hand a little tighter, yank a bit, making Gene glance his way. Ace had been close enough then to whisper in his ear, just a few words even the crowd’s howls couldn’t steal away.

“Could you do that again? I dug it.”

He hadn’t specified. He hadn’t needed to. After that, Gene had kept licking his neck nearly every concert. It was funny, really. Ace and Peter fooled around openly, Paul on what he seemed to think was the sly, but the only time Gene ever really did anything vaguely queer was onstage. It wasn’t real there, any more than the fire-breathing or the blood-spewing. There was that comfortable distance, where they were and weren’t themselves anymore, just performers, just characters stomping and lurching around while the smoke bombs went off around them.

That comfortable distance was gone now as he danced with Ace. Forward and back, still stiff. Remarkably, Ace managed to keep from bumping into anybody. Gene kept looking him in the face at first, trying to figure out his expression. It was odd. Almost tense, his lips, fuller than Gene had realized, pursed in quick little moments. Ace wouldn’t hold his gaze for more than a second at a time, either, and so Gene gave up after awhile, started looking past his shoulder. A couple feet away, he saw two guys messing around—guys from some newer band he couldn’t remember—and there on the floor was a brunette Playmate in nothing but her underwear, sitting on a guy’s face, her lacy panties brushing up against his chin and tongue. Gene’s breath hitched. Forward and back, and he tilted his head, watching the chick as her hips pushed up and the guy lapped against the lingerie at first, then pressed his tongue beneath the cloth. Her head bent towards the ceiling, but not before she threw Gene a smile.

“What’re you looking at?” Ace’s voice in his ear, that uneven warble.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Ace was grinning at him. The hand on his back pressed just a bit harder, tugging him forward. “Maybe I wanna see.”

“Ace—” Gene started, but Ace was turning them both around already, leaving him stumbling out of step, their places swapped. Now the only sight over Ace’s shoulder was a passed-out guy in just his socks and boxers. Not half as arousing.

“Oh. Oh, yeah, okay.”

Gene expected Ace to linger on the girl, make a come-on or encouraging quip, but he didn’t. Just winked at her—maybe at him, too, and turned them back around again. She’d raised her head. Gene could’ve sworn she’d mouthed his name as her hand raised to her own breast, pushed past the flimsy bra and squeezed. The man between her thighs kept going, his head shifting with every move of his tongue—Gene couldn’t see his face and didn’t want to; he was only the instrument she was using to get off.

“Didn’t think you were much of a voyeur, Gene,” Ace said. “I dunno why, when you always bring so many girls up to your room—you get ’em to fool around for you?”

“Sometimes.” Another step. Jagger still in the background, rambling about the Puerto Rican girls. Just dyin’ to meet you. Gene’s movements were a little more fluid now, with his eyes on the chick, the most important focal point in view. “Nothing… nothing too—”

“Wild?” Ace laughed. This close and he could smell his breath. No scent of alcohol at all. Like he was cleaning up, the way he’d do during recording sessions, except they weren’t recording. His wavy hair, half the black dye gone, brushed up against the side of Gene’s face. “C’mon, man, I know better. What’d they do for you?”

“Sometimes they’ll kiss each other.” They’d think they had a leg up on the competition if they did. They’d pair off, crush their lips together and then turn to see if he was still watching. “Sometimes take each other’s clothes off. Touch each other a little.”

“For a degenerate, you suck at descriptions.” The hand on his back tightened. “Do they get each other off? Or do they gotta wait on you for that?”

“They…” It wasn’t the conversation he wanted to have with his bandmate. Any of them, but Ace especially. The reporters, the press interviews, they were one thing. He could dance around with rife insinuations and implications. But he couldn’t discuss the girls with the other guys. Not at length. It just got too stupid, turned into dick-measuring and teasing from all sides until he was too fed up for it. “They’re too shy, mostly.”

“’S sweet.” Ace’s other hand, the one clasped in his, shifted slightly, fingertips circling his knuckles, catching on the rings there. “Y’know it goes both ways, right?”

“What?”

“Getting off to it.” The strobe lights flashing against Ace’s face were making Gene squint just to see him properly. That little, amused glint that Ace couldn’t hide from anyone was full on his face as he spoke. “Guys wanna see two chicks go at it, sure, that ain’t rocket science. But girls, they wanna see two guys just as bad.”

“Like I believe that.”

“You should.” Ace’s steps were wider now, encroaching on his space a bit more. Gene wasn’t moving back as much as he ought to, and he knew it. “Some kind of psychological shit. Even back… back in the Village, I had it figured…”

Gene’s hand slipped from Ace’s shoulder. There was a little sweat left behind, dampening Ace’s shirt, barely-visible. As if he’d actually exerted himself on what wasn’t even a dancefloor. He hesitated, pushing his focus back to the girl, still straddling the guy’s face. The look in her eyes as her hips twisted. The look in her eyes as she unclasped her bra, revealing hardened pink nipples and suntanned skin. The smirk when she tossed it toward him, though it only skidded the dirty floor.

“She’s giving you a show still, huh?” Soft, soft. Jagger’s tirade was almost over, the last of the saxophones fading out over the insistent pump of the bass. Another second and they’d drop another record downstairs. Gene pulled Ace forward, trying to keep him from stepping on the bra, and Ace complied easily, closing in on what little distance was left between them. Ace didn’t reach to take Gene’s other hand, didn’t try to place it back on his shoulder. Ace’s steps slowed, then stopped, voice barely a whisper. “Let’s give her one back. Least we could do, yeah?”

“Ace,” Gene started. The syllable sounded forced. A million responses were there in his brain. Ace, this is stupid, as though something being stupid had ever stopped Ace. Ace, you’re drunk, except for once, ridiculous as it seemed, Gene didn’t think he was. At least, he hadn’t had that champagne. And he’d turned down Steve Rubell’s offer of coke at the door. A minor miracle, as Ace’s long, thin fingers stroked the back of his palm before letting go, as languid and careless as if he was releasing a guitar pick. The Playmate was looking at him again, cupping her breasts in her hands, dark eyes smoldering—let’s give her one back—and Gene felt himself nod and he felt himself lean in, to meet a pair of lips he’d never touched before.

Ace tugged him in almost immediately. Pressed tight enough that he could almost hear the click of their belt buckles as Ace kissed him back, not cautious at all, just warm and easy. Gene could taste his lipstick, the sweet, faint remnants of soda on his mouth. Feel Ace’s arm wrap around him, his hand warm against the back of his neck.

He wasn’t looking at the girl now. His tongue was in Ace’s mouth, searching, wanting. He’d lapped Ace’s neck hundreds of times, tongue tracing the sharp outline of his throat, pressing against his pulse to the sound of the screaming crowd and the beat of Peter’s drums, but there was no comparison to the taste, the feel of him now. No comparison in the world.

It was Ace who broke the kiss, his cheek still against his jaw, lips at his ear. Just a soft mumble at first, almost inaudible.

“She ain’t getting a real good look.”

“I guess not.”

“You wanna give her one?” and Gene nodded, strangely emboldened. He never had participated in Ace and Peter and Paul’s stupid threesomes, where they’d have a groupie between them who’d suck one off while the other plowed her. He hadn’t wanted that kind of excess. Hadn’t wanted to be around his bandmates that much, to the point even sex got shared. But this was different. The girl wasn’t between them. No buffer. It wasn’t even for her that he grasped Ace’s hip and turned him, wondering, somehow, if this was how it had started, with Bobby, with Peter, wondering and not caring at all.

The Playmate—last October’s girl, if he remembered right—grinned widely once they were both in view. The man between her thighs shifted, turned his head, nose slick with her fluids, and caught a glimpse that Gene was too heady to give a damn about. Ace started back in without a pause, one hand sliding under Gene’s shirt, coursing up it as their lips met again and again. Just a show, except it wasn’t a show at all. It wasn’t a show at all unless he made it one.

Gene’s hand felt heavy and cumbersome, useless except to hold onto Ace’s hip, keep him steady as he rocked against him, the friction almost familiar. He’d let Ace grind against his leg during dozens of concerts. Let him rub up on him measure after measure during his solos. But feeling Ace’s hard-on against his own, their jeans the only barrier between them, and the girl on the floor the only pretense—traipsed right out of that play-pretend territory and into something deeper. Something more real than the thump of the bass and the dirty floor at their feet, more honest than superhero costumes and movie deals. Not debauched like he’d thought, but warm, too warm, as Ace’s lipstick smeared across his skin and Gene reached out, cupping his cheek, the look in Ace’s dark eyes far away and needy.

“You okay, Ace?”

Ace made a soft sound of assent. He kissed Gene again. Despite Gene’s hand on his hip, he was still pistoning them eagerly against Gene’s own, making Gene feel as if all his blood had suddenly pooled right to his cock. He was swallowing his own small groans as if the blaring music wasn’t covering them up, while Ace’s hand beneath his shirt traced and rubbed all over his back, like he was trying to memorize the pattern of his skin. Wanting, not claiming. Ace had never claimed anything that Gene had noticed. Nothing beyond his teasing brush and his costume leotards with his name stitched on the back. Everything else, he’d allowed others to own. Paul had lifted his name years before he’d known him, to no protest at all; Gene and Peter both had his songs, freely given, sung every night. Gene didn’t understand it. Laying ownership to what you wanted, what was yours, was essential. He’d learned that at six, selling fruit for pennies in Israel. Ace, at twenty-eight, hadn’t yet figured that out.

“Ace, c’mon, let’s—let’s go to the basement,” Gene panted out. He didn’t specify further. He didn’t need to. Ace knew what was down there as well as he did. A setup as unglamorous and obvious as any. Leftover decorations and set pieces littered the floor. No more than a couple dozen people were in the whole basement at a time, ever, all holed up in rooms with dirty mattresses on the floor. In a club designed for debauchery, the basement was the only place to fuck privately. Ace crooked a smile.

“What about the girl?”

“I’m not gonna—”

“You got way too much shame, man.” Ace slid his hand out from under Gene’s shirt, patted his back before peeling away from him. He gestured with his thumb, all amused, like Gene didn’t know the way. “All right. Let’s go.”

And down the stairs they went, stepping over passed-out ingenues and burn-outs, could’ve-beens and never-was. One grasped at Gene’s foot in recognition, but he managed to maneuver free without Ace’s help, though he laughed (“did you give her a baby, Geno? You’ve got way too many as-is”), having to grip the railing to keep from stumbling.

The doorman recognized them both immediately, letting them in the basement without a second’s hesitation. The shambles of the basement were before them then, the musty smell of sex almost overwhelming, but Gene didn’t care. He’d fucked in worse places. The rat-infested backstage of those old ballrooms. Their old practice space, covered with egg cartons. He grabbed Ace by the arm, unthinking, urgent, tugging him to the nearest room. The light was already on, the bare spring mattresses, stained with semen and glitter and, probably, traces of cocaine, spread on the floor. No different from last time he’d come.

He turned, seeing Ace lock the door behind them, and then they were at it again, Gene backing Ace up against the wall before long, not out of real intent so much as happenstance, like the dance steps Ace hadn’t taught. Ace was panting against him, struggling with his own belt, fingers that were so deft on his Les Paul, so tight against a glass or champagne or a bottle of beer, somehow useless against the leather. Gene helped him unbuckle it, but then Ace was scrambling to loosen Gene’s belt, almost desperate, as if the chance was evaporating in front of him. Gene let him, then, trying to keep his face straight, keep his ego in check. But Ace stopped just as suddenly, hands reaching out to Gene’s jeans only to stop at the zipper, not even yanking them down.

“You don’t fuck around with guys,” Ace said. Just a statement. No judgment. Gene looked at Ace, finally properly looked at him, the florescent but unchanging light almost a welcome reprieve from the strobes and spotlights upstairs. The lipstick was smudged, rubbed off in the center and smeared at the corners, foundation melting. The girl was four flights of stairs away. All Gene’s excuses for the evening were gone—except they didn’t matter. He didn’t want to use them.

“Not in general.”

“Not ever. I know. But you,” and Ace hesitated, mouth contorting oddly, “you gotta tell me you wanna—”

“I want to.”

Ace visibly relaxed. He slid down the zipper then, fingers locked around Gene’s belt loops, shoving his jeans down along with his underwear, only down to his thighs. He did the same with his own, yanking them down just enough to expose his erection. Gene inhaled sharply, feeling Ace’s eyes on him, still dark and impossible to figure out, as Ace reached for his dick, fingers twitching just before closing around him. Grunting, Gene leaned in, one hand pressed against Ace’s shoulder, the other lax at his side. He tilted his head, kissed Ace’s neck while Ace started to pump, quickly, moving up and down his shaft, the dry friction of his palm barely slickened by sweat. Gene jerked in his hand, breathing hard, feeling Ace’s hard-on up against his thigh, and then he reached out and grasped Ace’s dick.

Something in Ace’s face changed then. The inscrutable look in his eyes vanished, something open, almost raw replacing it. Like he really didn’t believe it. This close and Gene could feel him panting, those little, high intakes of breath as Gene began to stroke. Small, oddly soft curses spilled from Ace’s mouth when it wasn’t pressed to Gene’s. Gene had his doubts on his own technique, but Ace’s gasps and the roll of his hips were proof enough. A little faster, a little harder, the upstairs bass pounding in his ears, flooding everything in its own tempo, as Ace’s steady palm on his cock created a maddening rhythm all its own.

He was shuddering against Ace before long, only steadied by his grip on Ace’s shoulder. Ace came before he did with a quiet moan, spurting hot all over his hand and against him, staining his shirttail. Gene was too close himself to care, cursing and grunting, every thought beyond his own pleasure long since out of view. He dropped his hold on Ace’s dick, thoughtless, his damp hand reaching for Ace’s other shoulder, vying for something, some anchor to grasp onto while he shuddered into his orgasm, gasping for breath against the crook of Ace’s neck.

Ace didn’t let him go until it was over, down to that last thread of come. He looked bleary, out of it—no different from normal, at a cursory glance. But this close, there was more; this close, there was a strange easiness to him. Gene took his hands from Ace’s shoulders, looking at the stain he’d left behind, shaking his head.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I’ll—”

“Nah, it’s cool.” Ace was grinning again, in that way that made him look like a kid. Dark eyes all lit up and almost mischievous.“Besides, I got you pretty good there, didn’t mean to.”

“What, my shirt? I’ll just tuck it back in.”

“It’s not just there.” Ace looked at his own hand, licking off Gene’s come almost absentmindedly, while pointing with his other hand, where the errant come was clotted on his thigh and hip. “Here… and right here, hang on, I’ll get it off you—I know they’ve got tissues—”

“I’ve got it,” Gene started, but Ace shook his head.

“Uh-uh. I said I’d treat you like a lady, didn’t I? I meant it.” Ace didn’t bother pulling up his jeans before crossing over to the other side of the room, coming back with a box of tissues. “Fucking swear, Gene. People begging to get in here every damn night and they ain’t even bothering with lube in the basement. Figures, yeah?”

“That would cut into their profit margin.”

“Profit margin,” Ace repeated, then giggled loudly, reaching to wipe the come off Gene. Gene tried not to move while he did it—nothing erotic in the touch, just oddly careful, oddly gentle as he ran the tissue across his skin. “There’s more important shit than that, y’know?”

“I know.”

Ace crumpled up the tissues when he was done, dropping them on the floor. He took a second handful and wiped himself off, too, not nearly as carefully, barely dabbing at the semen stain on his shirt. Gene watched him for a second before yanking his jeans back up and zipping up. He was buckling back his belt by the time Ace spoke again.

“Hey, Gene.”

“Yeah?”

Ace wasn’t quite looking at him, not directly. The old trick Gene had watched out of Paul a hundred times at least, staring an interviewer or a fan or even him in the mouth instead of the eye, just to quell his own anxiety. The exact same thing. Gene waited.

“You’re pretty good to dance with, man.”

Gene reached over on impulse. Ace didn’t freeze up when his hand closed briefly over his, and squeezed. The slow, bright smile was back on his face, and it stayed there long after Gene answered, long after they’d trudged up the stairs and sunk into the limo’s backseat, Studio 54’s neon lights fading in the rearview mirror. Long after. Long after.

“You, too.”

[purplesurveys]

781

Another quarantine survey for y’alls.

How are you coping? I enjoyed the lockdown in its first few weeks because back then it really felt like a nice break from how hectic January and February were. By now it just feels like it has overstayed its welcome and my anxiety is back to growing by the day, except this time it’s worse because I can’t actually go anywhere or do anything to get rid of it temporarily. Tl;dr I’m doing less and less well. How have things changed for you? School, mostly. The situation in the Philippines isn’t conducive to online learning, so we’ve had to cancel schooling altogether because it was the most humane option to make sure no student gets left behind. Some schools opted to mass-promote (read: pass) all their students, while the schools that selfishly chose to continue holding online classes face online backlash everyday. 

On that note, my graduation ceremony is indefinitely postponed and Andrew and I have had to give up a lot of the usual procedures for thesis, like doing fieldwork or having a required number of respondents for our questionnaire. What are three positives to being Isolated or in Quarantine? I get to stay with Kimi all day, my dad cooks amazing food for us daily, and I have so much free time on my hands which I use to watch videos or movies. What are three negatives? I haven’t seen my friends in months, being ordered to stay at home still feels different than voluntarily staying at home, and I have so much free time on my hands which leaves me to overthink and be paranoid.

Have you taken on a new hobby? Not really. I wanted to get into cooking/baking, but my dad always wants to be in control of his kitchen so I’ve barely had any chance to help out. Have you kicked any bad habits? Drinking coffee everyday. I stopped when I noticed I was getting a headache every night, which was my original schedule for making a cup. Have you watched a lot more television or movies? I’ve watched more YouTube but I generally find it hard to start on new shows or movies so no, not really. I’ve always preferred rewatching my favorites. I did revisit Descendants of the Sun starting the other night though; I hadn’t gone back to it since December but I’m glad I did now because it’s such a good show(!!!!!) Have you been separated from someone you love? Tons of people that I love, from orgmates to close friends to best friends to my girlfriend. Discovered any new bands? Nah, I’ve stuck to my faves. With Hayley hyping up her first album for the last five months and finally releasing it a week ago, my eyes and ears were only on her lol Have you shopped more online? Nope, no money these days ha. Have you cooked more? I’ve tried helping my dad more like I mentioned but ugh, he’s so possessive in the kitchen. Have you baked more? Same thing. Have you learned to knit or sew? Nope. Did you end up in Isolation or Quarantine? Just quarantine. I never showed any symptoms and neither did my family, so we’ve all bee in quarantine from the very beginning. Did the stores all close? Save for groceries, they were all closed in the first few days/weeks. But through April, more and more businesses (mostly restaurants) started to come back and offer delivery or pickup services. 

In the Philippines where the government has been hugely incompetent, they lifted the lockdown for nearly the entire country yesterday despite the number of cases not showing any signs of slowing down and DESPITE NO MASS TESTING BEING PUT IN PLACE SINCE MARCH. That means this whole quarantine has been fucking useless. And now that people have been crowding highways and malls again, a second wave is just waiting around the corner.

What kind of restrictions did your government put into place? It’s different per province but in my case, we had a ban on liquors, mass gatherings, and non-essential travel; an 8 PM-5 AM curfew; and checkpoints everywhere. For a brief time, homeowners in our village couldn’t even jog outside but I think they’ve loosened up on that rule now. Has this affected any travel, events or plans for you? Hasn’t it, for all of us? An year-end college party that my orgmates and I usually go to was obviously cancelled; I still don’t know what’s happening to our graduation; and plans to volunteer for an animal welfare NGO have been cut off. I was also supposed to go to Thailand and Vietnam this year, but I’ve had to forget about those plans. What is the first thing you will do when you get the chance? Drive up to Gabie, for sure. With all the crazy in the world, we forget how much we take for granted. Is there anything you feel you had taken for granted? Time with my loved ones. I’ve definitely thought about the times I declined on Angela’s offers to go out, or flaked on my blockmates, or opted to skip out on dinner with my orgmates so I could go home. Let's finish off with some nicer things! What is your favourite thing about life? I dunno if I’ve found a favorite thing about it yet. I find it pretty unfair for the most part. What is your favourite thing about nature? How peaceful it can be. Nature has always served me well when I’m in distress, and I will never forget the time I was in Sagada, and I had just gotten out of a breakup and was still reeling over my lolo’s death, and when I reached the top of a hill, I allowed myself to cry while in front of this view.

Favourite place in the world? Sagada, Baguio, and Palawan. Favourite animal? Dogs, if you don’t know me well enough already. Favourite Colour? I personally like pastel pink, and ~aesthetically~ I like black or white. Favourite Foods? My favorite food ever is burgers, but I also like sushi, chicken wings, and steak. Favourite Holiday destination? We don’t have an established destination. My family likes going to new places every time we have the chance to travel. Have you been on a cruise ship? Yes. Have you flown to a travel destination? Sure, several. Have you ever been on a bus or train to a holiday destination? I don’t remember anymore but we probably were. Ever been on a helicopter? I have not. Ever been in a submarine? Smaller chance of that happening cause there’s little opportunity for it, but it sounds like an awesome experience. Thoughts on Theme Parks? I will go there for the theme park food, but I’m fine with not going on any rides. Thoughts on Carnivals? Like a fair? They’re great fun, and I prefer them more than theme parks because they’re more lowkey. I also just go for the food hahahaha I don’t go on rides. Thoughts on Island Life? I’m technically living one because I live in a giant group of islands... but I wouldn’t want to live my whole life in just an island per se. I like being in the city, and I like living in a noisy environment where everyone and everything is busy. Ever taken a ferry to a destination? Eh, not really. We’ve taken smaller boats to get to certain island provinces, but not a ferry. What is the best thing about travelling? Learning new things, seeing new sights, meeting new people, getting to know new cultures.

Who would you like to travel with next time you go on a trip? I’d love to travel with Gabie. I’ve never done it with her before. Randoms.. Favourite television series on Stan? I’ve never heard of that. Favourite television series on Netflix? I don’t watch any shows produced by Netflix. My current favorite show to watch there is Descendants of the Sun, but my other favorites are there too, like Friends, Breaking Bad, and Brooklyn Nine-Nine. What movie are you keen to see? Right now, none of the upcoming ones, or at least the upcoming ones that were meant to be released by the summer. None of them seem appealing to me. Do you study or work or both? I study, but I’m so fucking close to the finish line. If you could have any career, what would it be? I’d love to be in PR. I’d still be in media which is my strong suit, but none of the journalism bullshit I’ve grown sick of in the last four years. Do you play Animal Crossing on Nintendo Switch? No, I’ve never really been a fan of the series so I’ve never felt the need to get the game. I’m happy with Mario Kart 8 haha. What gaming console do you like best? Either the Wii or PS2 as I had a lot of memories with them. Speaking of gaming, name your top 5 games? Pass. Have you ever been to a convention like Comic Con? Nope. Life gets tough, how do you cope? I take a nap, I go to a café somewhere for a few hours to be alone, I take a survey, or I drown myself in work to keep me preoccupied. Do you like housework? If I’m not forced to do it. Are you afraid of the dark? If the dark was meant to be scary, like if I was in a haunted house or if I’m in the woods in the middle of nowhere at midnight. Otherwise it doesn’t bother me. Do you have pets? Yeah, I have the best dog.