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pablitogavii · 11 months

Note

Hiii!!Can you do smth like Gavi and the reader went to Coldplay concert with Mikky and Frenkie,bc Gavi is a big fan of Coldplay?

Thank you🌹Love youuu🙈❣️

Sky full of Stars

Pablo was supper excited about the Coldplay concert coming to Barcelona that he kept talking about it for the whole week to his sister, friends and of course you.

He grew up listening to Coldplay with his sister and there are many beautiful memories that he has with their songs in the background. For your very first date, he took you to the edge of the town where you laid in the trunk of the car looking at the stars and listening to Coldplay...so this was a special even for him.

"Amor, should I wear blanco or azul??" he asked you checking himself out in the mirror while you smiled at his indecisiveness when he looked so handsome no matter what color he chose to wear. But you decided to be helpful so you replied "Tu estas tan guapo cuando te pones blanco.." and he smiled immediately choosing that outfit and leaving to change.

"Así? Dios! Did you change??" Pablo said when he saw that you wore a white top and some shorts in order to match with him which looked so perfect contrasted with the bright red lipstick he loved to see on your lips.

"Mhm..wanted to match with my amorcito" you waled up to him snaking your arms around Pablo's neck while his were on your waist pulling you close and kissing your lips (ofc getting some lipstick on his that you needed to clean afterwards hehe).

Groupchat:

frankiee: ready??

pablo: sí!

aurora: i'm sure pablo is ecstatic!! see ya there!

y/n: he is rora hehe

pablo: shut up hermana!

mikky: we're picking you guys up in five <3

When Frankie and Mikky picked you up, bunch of paparazzi were snapping pictures calling the boy's names which usually annoyed Pablo but nothing could ruin this night for him.

"You guys look so good in matching outfits!" Mikky complimented and you smiled thanking her before laying your head on Pablo's shoulder which he welcomed with a kiss on your head.

When you arrived, there was a large crowd of people laughing, chatting to one another, laughing some more and just spreading positive energy.

"We are going to get you ladies a drink..wait here so we don't lose you" Frankie said kissing Mikky while Pablo still kept a tight hold on your hand unsure if he should leave you alone in the crowds in case you end up getting lost. He was always way too careful when it came to your safety.

"Don't worry, amorcito..I'll wait for you right here" you reassure Pablo going on your tip toes before pecking his lips making him smile and nod his head before leaving wit Frankie towards the bar.

Meanwhile Aurora and Javi joined the two of you giving you hugs before Aurora asked Javi to take a photo of the three of you which he gladly obliged.

aurorapaezg

Coldplay con mia hermanita @y.n.bebe y amiga especial @mikkykiemeneyl! Oh and the boys @javi_begines @pablogavi @frankiedejong

Liked by 100K

Comments:

gavifansss: y/n is so beautiful!!

javi_begines: photo credits??? liked by aurorapaezg

y/n.bebe: best photographer!!

mikkykiemeney: YES! thank you Javi!!

aurorafans: beautiful!

gavigirl: not aurora calling y/n her hermanita OMGGG!

pablogavi: gee we feel special lololol

y.n.bebe: you are special <3

pablogavi: babyyyyy<33

gaviiigaviii: aweee she so cute!!

fanssbarcawags: power couples at the concert!!

mikkykiemeney: me obsessing with y/n's outfit!!!

y.n.bebe: luv you bonita!

frankiedejong: let's have fun!!

"You look so good hermanita! My hermano is a lucky cabrón!" Aurora said and you laughed before hearing "yeah he is!" behind you as Pablo's arms snaked your your waist from behind and he kissed the side of your neck before giving you the promised drink.

"Gracias amor.." you say sweetly blushing a little that he was very touchy in public which isn't often but you weren't complaining.

When the music started, everyone sang and danced taking a few videos for memory before putting phones away to enjoy the moment fully.

Then they started singing "Sky full of Stars" making Pablo immediately look down at you rested in his arms the same moment you looked up at him with a smile remembering that night of your first date.

"Dance with me linda?" he said and you blushed nodding your head while snaking your arms around his neck while he pulled you in closer and you started to slow dance like nobody else existed..like you were the only two people on Earth.

"Que preciosos!" Aurora whispered to everyone and they all smiled at how i love you two looked at each other enjoying your special moment.

Mikky took her phone and took a video of you and a few pictures to send to you knowing you would want to remember this moment in te future.

"I love you..did you know that??" Pablo said with a big smile and you smile nodding your head before kissing his lips softly.

"I know that..and I love you too Pablito!" you smile resting your forehead against his as the song ended and everyone cheered.

"Que romantico!" Aurora teased her brother taking off his cap and putting on your head before leaving with Javi to grab another drink while you blushed looking at Pablo whose eyes were sparkling looking at you.

"Check you phone" Mikky winked before she left with Frankie and you did smiling wide at the video and pictures they took of the two of you dancing.

y.n.bebe and pablogavi

Coldplay Concert

Cause you're the sky full of stars <3 @pablogavi @coldplay

Liked by 200K

Comments:

pablogavi: mi princesa preciosa

y.n.bebe: te amo<3

aurorapaezg: mi hermano y su princesa!!!

paezfamforevaa: this is so adorable!! aurora ships them too!

mikkykiemeney: me catching this moment like a pro!!

y.n.bebe: graciasss mikky! besitooosss <3333

barcawagssfav: love her smile!!

gavigavi: most adorable couple!!

gaviraispreciousboy: idk if i'm jealous, or happy, or both AWWW

pablitogavifan: the reason fans don't hate on this girl is because she is real and honest! others only used situations to get fame and you can tell this girl truly loved pablo! Always support love! <3

liked by pablogavi

When you came home, you were both ecstatic of the feeling from the whole night laying in bed together cuddling up and watching the video of you dancing on repeat..it looked like it was from some fictional show.

"We need Coldplay to play on our wedding.." Pablo said and you blushed looking up and and putting your phone away.

"Our wedding?" you said shyly and he nodded kissing your lips before pulling you closer wishing you sweet dreams while your heart was pounding hard against your chest after hearing those words..your and Pablo's wedding.

Hope you like it! Did Pablo go the concert??

#pablo gavi #pablo gavi icons #pablo gavi x reader #pablo gavi x y/n #pablo gavi x you #fc barca #fc barcelona #fc barça #gavi #gavigif #pablo gavi x reader smut #gavi x reader #gavi x yn #gavi x you #gavira #pablo martín páez gavira #pablo gavira

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sgiandubh · 9 months

Text

Such unsmiling people

The comment that moved me the most after posting that August 10 diatribe came from a very special blogger, @myrthil23. I promised her a longer, thoughtful answer, so here it is.

I share with her way more than meets the eye and with a bit of deductive skills, you could easily place us very specifically on an European map. To be honest, I was surprised (and then absolutely thrilled, of course) to find someone like her hanging on in here. But this is not the only reason prompting a response - her comment made me think a lot about a couple of relevant things.

For those who loathe foraging for reblogs, here goes:

In the colorful Shipper family, the Eastern Europeans are (supposedly) the unsmiling ones. This is one of the stubborn clichés that informed the Western gaze, especially in Communist times. Unsmiling, foreboding and unfathomable people: I am not smiling, I am laughing while writing it, because if anything, Myrthil, @zeya-zg, a couple of others and I do share a superb ability to use bullshit-o-meters, an unsinkable sense of humor and a hefty dose of sarcasm. All of these are basic, compulsory street smarts if you want to survive, God knows how, a nuclear winter of sorts.

Imagine you grow up in a world with empty supermarket shelves but permanently sold-out concert halls, where trivial details such as cotton swabs, potato chips (crisps, heh), political parties or The Last Tango in Paris are virtually unknown. Imagine your family is either cautiously aligned to some public idiocy they loathe everyday at home, teaching you at the same time to never talk to strangers. Or even worse, a political pariah, for reasons that have everything to do with the way you sip your tea, as Ella Fitzgerald would say. The latter situation (mine) was something very much akin to a civil death. And you just knew you could never be, for imbecile but firm reasons, an architect, a lawyer or even an epidemiologist: jobs way too sensitive to entrust the enemies of the people (and their spawn) with.

What is left for you, then, when the view from your window, in 1982, is something not very different from this photograph:

(side note: these people are staying in line to buy 1 kilogram of sugar for each person, which was the monthly allowance fixed by law in my country, from 1980 to 1989; you could only buy those with Government-issued tickets, not unlike what happened in the UK during WWII or what you can see in series like The Handmaid's Tale)

When all is seemingly lost, you will still have, in no particular order: books. Music (including piano lessons). Sports. Each other (although that was overall more complicated than it seemed). Going to the opera and never taking off your winter coat inside, but enjoying every second of it. Impromptu dinners by candlelight during power outages ("wir machen ein bisschen Stimmung"/let's make a bit of atmosphere, grinned my aunt). Foreign languages (a must). Fits and giggles and jokes galore. And the ability to adapt to just about anything, anywhere.

When change finally reached us, many had the almost surreal opportunity to go West. Some came back, others didn't, simply because they chose to continue elsewhere their pursuit of happiness. And yes, Myrthil is right, that fabled West was always something to behold and measure up to. In my case, it was almost too easy, but then I consider myself really lucky: going to live in Paris, at 18, felt both as homecoming and being left alone (and with unlimited credit) in a candy store.

So, here we are. We may have discovered Sylvia Plath a bit late, but I think we are decently knowledgeable about Chaucer. We sometimes may sound Edwardian and if we do, you should probably blame C.E. Eckersley's Essential English (this is how that life-long affair started, for me). And if anything, we bring another, perhaps even more inquisitive, angle to these strange things we are dealing with daily, in here.

But for the love of Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, don't you ever dare tell us what to think and with whom to talk. Don't call us stupid. Don't call us liars. Historical reasons prompted a durable allergy to sanctimonious speech and yes (I can only speak for myself) I will always, always react. Because we do not deserve the arrogance of people who have no idea of how it really was to grow up somewhere in Eastern Europe during the Eighties. Oh, and something else, lest I forget: being pariahs never bothered us - we can cope.

Other than that, we should go along just fine. :)

youtube

PS: @claraisabelcampohermoso, you probably don't know how your gif made me smile. Nadia will always be Nadia: a humble, warm person with a terribly heartbreaking story.

#fandom #Youtube

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assortedseaglass · 1 year

Text

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Eight

Tom Bennett x OFC

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Language, injury detail, World on Fire spoilers

Word Count: 5.8K

Note: It’s a long chapter! The last one got a lot of love that I wasn’t expecting, so thank you! If anyone has any suggestions or things they’d like to see happen, give me a message!

December 1939

Dear Tom,

You’ll notice there’s no photograph enclosed. There are numerous reasons. 1. The last person a group of lonely sailors want to look at is serious old me, 2. We can barely afford our groceries, let alone a trip to the picture parlour, 3. I have some self-respect and shan’t be “oiling myself up”. Besides, I’m sure you all got plenty of entertainment on shore leave, though what makes you think I have any interest in your exploits I don’t know, seeing as I never have before.

How was shore leave? Did you have much time to relax? And answer properly this time! I hope for Norman and Terry’s sake, you were gentle with them! And you’re right, Norman sounds like a bit of stuff for Dot. Now Cora has Roger, maybe I could have Vic? When are you bringing him to Longsight? Is he handsome?

It’s a dreadful thing to say, but sometimes I envy you. Out there, seeing the world. At night, when I’m thinking of you and Albie, I dream that I have the cold wind and salt spray on my face. Tell me what it’s like. Has this been the making of you?

We found out yesterday that Albie will be back for Christmas. Dadda and Dot are beside themselves. Cora and I, of course, can’t wait to have him home but the three weeks between now and Christmas seem like such a long time for so much to happen. I shan’t be happy until he steps through the door.

I must admit, Dot has been insufferable recently. She was eighteen on Sunday and has taken her official arrival into adulthood rather too seriously. She has an opinion on everything, though sadly I think it’s what she has heard some of the older women spouting at the factory. She’s becoming such a snob – no one can do any right in her eyes. Nothing is “proper” or “civil”. We had hoped the war would give her a dose of reality but it seems to have done quite the opposite. Dadda’s drinking is getting worse again, though he isn’t as angry as he used to be. Sometimes I wish he’d shout at us, at least it would show someone is living in there. Now, he’s like a ghost, wafting between the house, the dockyard and occasionally the pub with your dad.

Speaking of, your dad said he’d written to you recently. I don’t know if he mentioned it, but I’ve been spending a lot of time with him. You know I’ve always likes the quiet, and your dad might just be the quietest man in Longsight. It all started when Walter Watson tried having a go at him for giving out the Peace Paper. Well, your dad didn’t back down and Walter Watson went on his way. You should give your dad more credit. I know you don’t always see eye to eye but you’re more alike than you think (stubborn). Anyway, since then we’ve been handing out the Peace Paper together outside the factory, and he gives me a lift home on the bike. He loves you so much, Tom. Sometimes, I catch him through the window doing nothing but sitting by the wireless. I miss mam and Albie, but at least I have Cora, Dot and dadda. He’s haunted by all this love he has nowhere to place.

They’ve moved me onto making the Lancasters at the factory. I don’t know if you’ll have seen them, they’re mostly flying over Europe. Enormous things, they are. The foreman had us line up on one of the wings to see how many it would fit. Almost thirty of us! I’m enjoying the work, but I can’t help but feel so detached from the war. I never see the work we do in action, and I think of you and Albie, even Lois, out there and feel like such a fraud. They’re advertising nurses training at Manchester Royal and I thought I might apply. What do you think? Maybe it’s spending all this time with your dad – I so admire Cora and Dot and Roberta, but I want to be patching people up, not making the things that hurt them in the first place.

Speaking of the girls, Hattie and Jude are back this weekend so we’re going dancing with Roberta, C and D. Can you believe it, Hattie has a fella! A young farmer she met in the Land Army. Glen, he’s called. I don’t think she’s bringing him with her, her mam would have an apoplexy. We’ll have to make do with the few men we’ve got and each other. Speaking of which, since when did you get so defensive of Queenie Warren? Last I remembered you were avoiding dances and saying she’d go for “anything with a pulse”. You know I’d never say anything to her face, but you and I were always in the same mind about her. Cora always saw far too much good in her, Dot far too much bad. You and I saw the real Queenie. Charmingly nonsensical.

I miss having someone to confide in. I sometimes thought you and Albie were the only people that understood me. I wonder how you and I got to talking and why we never do anything in the day. Just sit in our kitchen at night and chatter. Are we friends? Or just two people whose lives correspond? I hope we’re friends, Tom. I know you aren’t one for sentimentality, and I’m silent as the grave but, as I said in my last, letters seem to be my medium. Every thought I’ve ever had comes pouring out with ease. Believe it or not, I can’t wait until you come into the kitchen at witching hour and sit with me while I sew or play piano. It’ll mean the world has gone back to normal. Please take care, for me, and God bless.

Your friend,

Bess.

Tom finished reading the letter that had come with the latest resupply from the auxiliary vessel. From the netting that hung above his bunk, he grabbed pen and paper.

“Can’t keep your sweetheart waiting.” A low voice teased from the opposite bed. Tom balled up a piece of paper and threw it at Vic, who smirked and shut his eyes. They were on shift in less than an hour, enough time for him to get some rest and Tom to reply to the letter. He lay it next to a fresh piece of paper and began to write.

Dear Bess,

I was glad to get your letter but sorry to see no photograph inside. I’ve told the lads all about the dark haired Vaughn girl and they’d love to get a look at you. You know you’re gorgeous -

Fuck. Did he really just write that? Well, no going back now.

You know you’re gorgeous - I saw those men clambering to dance with you before I left. And you had Walter Watson and Frank Smith fighting over who got to dance with you first. Lucky girl.

Tom looked back to the letter Bess had written him. “What makes you think I have any interest in your exploits I don’t know, seeing as I never have before.” He blanched with embarrassment.

Shore leave was fine, though Port Stanley isn’t much. Picked up a lovely bird while I was there. A real one. Bright yellow, she is. Called her Vera. Norman and I are taking bets on when she’s going to lay an egg. And I know you’re already thinking that I’ve swindled the lads out of pocket by buying a male, but she really does lay eggs. First one came just as we left Port Stanley. I think Norman and Terry enjoyed shore leave more, though Terry nearly lost his stomach next morning. Tell Dot I’ve got a fella for her, and that I’m keeping him safe.

He looked at her letter again. “Maybe I could have Vic? When are you bringing him to Longsight? Is he handsome?” Soft snores came from Vic’s bunk, and Tom observed him from the corner of his eye. He was handsome, Tom supposed. Tall, bonny face. Hatred bloomed momentarily in his stomach.

Vic is handsome, I’d say. But you’d make a boring couple, you’re both too serious.

Funny that you envy us, Bess. I envy you. What I’d give to be tucked up in bed, smelling a fresh pot of coffee and bacon from downstairs. Cook keeps us well fed, but it looks like slop. On my down shifts, I’ve taken to standing on the stern and watching the horizon. Sometimes it feels like if I just stood on my toes, I’d see you all on the other side. Stood there, cold wind and water washing over my face, is the smallest I’ve ever felt. Was always scared of that before. I wanted to feel big but out there, my insignificance is calming. Does that make sense? Certainly makes me less scared of dying. I’m just one bloke. How about, when this is all over, I take you on a cruise? That way you can see what it’s like for yourself. Bet you’d love to make yourself dresses and suits for sailing. Like Bette Davis or Marlene Dietrich.

I’m sorry Dot is giving you grief, and tell her I’m sorry for forgetting her birthday. She’ll grow out of it soon. She’d better or she’ll have you and Cora to answer to. And crikey, Bess, the list of people I’m going to have to sort out for you is getting longer by the day. I know you said you wished your dad would shout at you, just so he seems human, but you and I both know what he gets like. He’s not himself when he’s drinking and if he lays a finger on you I’ll be back from the navy quicker than you can say Hitler’s Only Got One Ball. Think you should release him back into my Dad’s care, that way someone can keep an eye on his drinking and it doesn’t have to be you.

Dad did indeed tell me that you’ve been spending time together. I don’t think much of your taste in men. Will I be calling you “mum” soon? From what he told me, it sounds more like you were the one to send Walter Watson packing. Thank you, for spending time with him. When I’m home, I can’t bear to spend more than an hour with him but when I’m away, I worry. Lois always knew how to handle him, handle both of us.

I know you won’t believe it, but I’m glad Hattie has a fella. It means the rest of us won’t have to put up with her appalling dancing. Seems like everyone is getting paired up. Hattie and her farmer. Queenie and Frank Smith, if that’s still happening. Cora and Roger. Your Dot and my Norman. We’ll be the only ones left. Though, by the time I get back, you might be in training and I’ll be on my tod. I can imagine you as a nurse. Just seeing you would make the fellas’ day but heaven forbid they try anything. Not if you treat them like you did Walter Watson. I think it would suit you. And it’d be good for you to get away from Longsight. I know it’d only be a few miles, but you could have your own life there. You loved it at the tailors, and this might give you some of that life back.

I’d miss you though. I do miss you.

Tom paused his writing and stretched is hand.

I hate that you question our friendship. You’re the only person that treats me right. Dad and Lois think I’m a lost cause. Maybe I am. But I never feel that way with you. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I imagine I’m sat in your dad’s armchair listening to you play the piano. It became such a routine that I think I find it hard to sleep now without it.

The auxiliary boat is leaving soon so I best give them this letter. I’m sending with it all my care for you and your sisters. Give Dot a birthday kiss from me and tell her that when I’m back I’ll take her for a dance.

Don’t worry about me,

Tom.

He jumped from his bunk, straightened his uniform, donned his cap and grabbed Vera’s cage. On deck, Campbell was bidding farewell to the auxiliary ship’s captain.

“One for the post!” Tom called.

“Cutting it fine, Bennett,” Campbell said, but allowed Tom to hand over his letter and ignored the birdcage. “Shift in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, sir.” Once the letter was sailing towards Bess, Tom made his aways along the various decks rattling the coin purse in his pocket. “Time and date she lays an egg,” he called to his fellow sailors, holding up the little birdcage. Somewhere, along the way, kind and gentle Norman joined him. Below deck, Terry was tapping away at the wireless operations table.

“Y’alright Terry? Name the day, name the time Vera lays an egg. Nearest time wins, threepence a bet.” Tom said, leaning against the doorframe as Norman handed over the betting book. Terry removed his headphones and scribbled down his prediction, turning it to the little yellow bird.

“Today, eleven-hundred hours.”

“Hey,” Tom interjected. “No coaching. Good lad, Terry.” The boys moved to the mess hall, and Tom made a beeline for Vic, now awake and ready to start his shift. Tom rattled the money purse at him while Norman took more bets.

“Time and day she lays an egg,”

“Sure it’s a girl?” Vic scoffed.

“She laid an egg at Port Stanley,” Tom quipped back.

“Bet she looked surprised,”

“I wouldn’t know what a surprised bird looks like,”

“Find that hard to believe!” Vic said good-naturedly. Tom turned to look at the room, a roguish smile on his face. His eyes landed on the man leant against the deck frame.

“Ginger?” Tom shook the coins. The man turned, barely looking at Tom until he came near level to his face. Mistrust was written across his pale features.

“Why would I want to line your dirty Manc pockets?” Men sat up in their hammocks and stooped in the doorway. The whole room stilled to watch the men square up.

“Dunno,” Tom smirked. “Maybe you’re saving up for a whore in Argentina.” A few people sniggered.

“Alright Tom, simmer down,” Vic spoke over his shoulder. “He gets over excited, Henry.”

The ginger man took no notice, but averted his attention to Norman, who laughed next to Tom.

“You laughing at me lad?”

Norman stopped immediately, eyes shifting from Henry to Tom.

“No, Henry.”

“No, sir.” Henry asserted.

Tom could feel his piss curdling. Fucking prick.

“Don’t have to call you “sir” now, does he? Same rank.” He leant to Norman. “Don’t call him sir, Norman.” There was a long pause while Tom surveyed the room and everyone waited for Norman to speak. Henry got there first.

“No, sir.”

“No, sir.” Norman said softly to the ground. Tom nodded. Of course. Before Henry moved away, he looked Tom in the eye, smug that he had won the altercation.

“’SIR’” Tom said cruelly in Norman’s face. The quieter man went pale.

“Come on, Tom,” Vic warned. “Play nice.”

Every atom in Tom’s body was starting to thrum. Two months he’d been at war without so much as a sniff of a fight, and here Henry was kindly offering up his services. Tom straightened his shoulders and squared his jaw. He felt like a prize fighter, ready for the first punch. Vic watched his friend’s nostrils flare and knew what was coming. Tom turned lazily on the spot and watched Henry walking away. Cocky git can’t get away with it that easily.

“You’re lucky you get called Henry.” Men around them hissed with expectation, and he heard Vic issue another warning. Henry immediately prowled back towards him.

“So what is it you’d like to call me?” His tone was calm but his posture was anything but, fists balled and face looking up at Tom’s jutting jaw. Norman edged closer to Vic.

“Spoilt for choice really.” The circle of men was closing in, anticipation wending through the air. “Let’s just say it wouldn’t be a word a mother would use. Although,” Tom sniffed and looked the smaller man up and down. Here came the first blow. “Your mother might.”

For a moment, it looked as though nothing would happen. For a moment.

Henry slammed Tom into the store cupboard and Vic jumped in front of him.

“You want some!? You FUCKING WANT-”

CRACK

Henry’s fist made contact with Tom’s jaw before he had time to finish his sentence. No sooner had Tom hit the ground was he trying to get up again, grappling with the many hands attempting to restrain him. Henry walked away, shoulders hunched in frustration.

“OI! Take your hands off me!” Tom shouted, straining to be unleashed.

“Stay down!” Vic shouted. “THAT’S ENOUGH!”

Tom checked his nose for blood and smirked at Vic. Calm and measured Vic. Not anymore. “Hey! What is wrong with you? Why do you have to go around winding the rest of us up? Why can’t you just do your job like the rest of us?”

“I’m standing up for Norman ‘cos he can’t stand up for himself.” Tom shouted. Norman shuffled his feet, not having moved from where he stood.

“You don’t give a sherbet about Norman. Think you’ve made his life easier by making an enemy of our Henry?” Tom sniffed at this, trying to ignore Vic’s astute rebuttal. “’Standing up for Norman’. No, you used him to get at Henry because that’s what you do-”

Tom had no chance to respond. The lights of the mess hall cut out and red flashed all around. The emergency alarm wailed, men scrambled to their stations. This was it. Exercises and drills had led to this moment. Vic stood and held is hand out.

“Come on, mate. Take my hand.”

“Nah, mate.” Tom stayed on the ground. “Better get on with my job like you say.”

With one last annoyed glance, Vic ran out of the mess hall. Tom launched into action. He sprinted down the narrow corridors of the Exeter as other sailors hurried past. The cry of the siren faded as blood roared in his ears. Skidding to a halt at the end of the corridor, Tom jumped the stairs of the gunroom and began removing his boiler suit. Campbell, dressed in his cap and overcoat appeared at the hatch.

“What’s the story, sir?” Tom called up, tying his sleeves around his waist and watching the others get to work.

“All you need to know is that she’s sunk nine of ours and we’re not going to be the tenth. Get on with it!”

“Got it.” Tom sped into the gunroom and stared up at the turret. Henry and Vic were already preparing the missiles for loading. They placed them in their barrels and Tom lifted each into the gun, listening with intent as they were fired beyond the steel of the ship. All around them came bangs and clatters. After the firing of three missiles, Tom’s arms were throbbing but he continued the work. All at once, the ship shuddered and an almighty bang rang deep through the gunroom. The lights flickered off.

“Fucking hell,” whispered Vic. The screams of men echoed above them.

“If that took the canary out, nobody gets a refund,” Tom laughed, trying to ease the terror in his stomach, the terror reflected in Vic’s eyes as he looked at him. More screams rent the air.

“Fucking hell,” Tom looked up and saw fire curling down the turret. The world stilled. As ash began to fall against his face, Tom watched the flames fade against the darkness and was reminded, irresistibly, of Bess’ hair. The image of her sat on the front step of her house, smoking a cigarette and lit by the setting sun was just racing through his mind when the air was sucked from the gunroom and he was thrown into the steel wall. Heat swept across Tom’s body and the ship was silent.

He was back in the Vaughn’s kitchen, watching Bess sewing Robina Chase’s red suit. A cigarette hung loosely from her lips and every so often she glanced at him, as though checking he was still there. His eyes felt heavy, and Tom felt himself drifting into sleep as the fire crackled in the grate, Bess humming along to the wireless. The snap and pop of the flames became louder, and the smoke of Bess’ cigarette stung his nostrils.

He woke with a gasp. With lungs of fire, Tom crawled to his knees and spat black tar against the ground. The room was silent but for the hum of flame.

“Vic,” His voice was hoarse from the polluted air. His friend lay next to him, unmoving, and Tom tapped his foot. “Vic,” He rolled him over and bile rose to his mouth. Vic’s once bonny face was charred beyond recognition. Plasma oozed from the cracked skin and his teeth were bared in a grisly smile. Is he handsome? Tom fought the urge to vomit as his breath came in ragged rasps. From across the room, an agonised moan sounded. Tom stood and dragged is heavy body towards the noise. It was Henry.

“Got four dead here,” Tom called out. “What about you?”

“I’m not dead,” Henry groaned, and as Tom rounded the corner, he froze. Henry was slouched against the gunroom’s loading dock, his right arm missing below the shoulder, grizzled skin dripping blood onto the floor.

“Don’t you worry, you bastard.” Tom’s mind seemed to take over his body as he grabbed a cable from the wall and crouched by the man. “You ready? Right, this is gonna hurt.” He paused for Henry but he said nothing. “Right? We’re gonna get this tied off. I’m gonna count to three-”

“Just do it,” Henry murmured as Tom placed the makeshift tourniquet around what was left of his arm.

“Right,” Tom braced himself. “One-” He tightened the tourniquet and Henry screamed as Campbell raced into the room.

“We’re gonna need a medic down here, sir.” Tom growled, looking at the bits of body strewn around him.

“The medic is in worse shape than the able seamen,” Campbell wiped his dirty brow. “We’ve lost a lot of men but we don’t seem to be sinking.”

Tom hung his head and looked at Henry. “This’ll have to do for now. Let’s get you up.” He threw Henry’s remaining arm over his shoulder and hauled him to his feet with Campbell’s help. Henry cried out and shuffled towards the ladder. “We’ll get you up these steps and, if you slip, I’ll catch you.”

Once they had carried Henry to the sickbay, Tom made his way through the ship, checking for other casualties. He moved through the smoke-filled corridors, hand in front of him as torchlight pierced the smog. Terror was sinking into his bones. Vic’s face flashed in his mind and he blinked. At every turn he feared tripping over another body. Breathing heavily, he fumbled his way around until a faint twittering pricked at his ears. There on the floor, cage upturned, was Vera. Tears filled Tom’s eyes as he righted the cage and peered in. In the corner, freckled and inconspicuous, lay an egg.

✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼

It was a typically crisp and overcast Wednesday in Manchester. Bess took the early shift that day and was sitting in the window of her bedroom, hair dripping as she dried it with a towel. Dot and Fergal were still working and, downstairs, she could hear Cora beginning dinner.

A flurry of movement caught her eye and she looked down the road to see Douglas Bennett pedalling furiously towards his house. He dropped his bicycle by the door and hurried inside. Best check on him later, she thought.

She moved from the window to the bed and lay her head on the pillow. From beneath the it she pulled out a small biscuit tin and lifted its lid. The letters she exchanged with Tom could no longer be contained in Bess’ books, and so she hid them under the bed with her box of buttons and ribbon. Tom’s face peered up at her from the top of the pile and she reached out for him. A violent shiver ran down her back and her blood ran cold. Bess stared back at him as ice prickled at her skin.

“Bess? I’ve been knocking,” Bess jolted and slammed the lid of the tin. Cora held the bedroom door in a white-knuckled grip, her doe eyes wide with concern. They glanced momentarily at the biscuit tin but she said nothing.

“What is it?” Bess’ voice was barely above a whisper.

Cora swallowed. “The Exeter,” her voice wobbled. “It’s been hit.”

Neither spoke. Not for a while. Not until Bess choked on the air. “Oh, my darling-” Cora made to move towards her sister but Bess was faster. She pelted from the room and down the stairs, slipped on her work boots and Albie’s overcoat before running into the yard. She wrestled her bike from the fence and cycled to the only place she could think of.

“Dadda?” Bess called out when she reached the dockyard, frantically searching for her father. A few people gave her pitying looks, and one man whistled at the sight of her in her nightdress and overcoat. “Dadda? Fergal Vaughn? Has anyone seen Fergal Vaughn?”

“Bess?” The voice came from behind her. She dismounted from the bike and watched her father emerge from a cabin, cup of tea in hand. He took in her ashen face and his cup fell to the floor. “My God,” he was striding towards her, hands outstretched. “What’s happened? What’s happened to my boy?”

“Nothing, Dadda,” Bess whispered weakly and her body slackened in front of him. Fergal caught her before she fell to the ground.

“What is it then, my girl?” He cupped her face in his large, calloused hands. “Tell me, my darling.” Concern overcame his face as he watched her.

“It’s Tom-” An ugly sob ripped her throat. “The Exeter-” And another. She had no need to say more, for Fergal had wrapped her in his arms and begun rocking her back and forth.

“Come. Let’s get you home.” The few onlookers watching the scene retreated as Fergal picked his daughter’s bike up from the ground. “Sit on the saddle, I’ll wheel you home like I used to.”

The night had darkened by the time Fergal wheeled the bike onto their street. Lampposts were flickering into life, and his daughter’s sobs had subsided. She sat limply on the saddle, breathing deeply though still shaking. They came to rest outside the front door and Bess moved to stand. Cora opened it before Fergal could retrieve his keys, and behind her Bess saw Dot perched on the staircase.

“A pot of tea, I think.” Fergal stepped inside and removed his coat. Dot moved to the kettle. One of Bess’ booted feet was barely over the threshold when a muffled cry caused them all to freeze. What followed were a series of loud crashes and more shouting.

“STOP! STOP IT” The voice was shouting. More crashes sounded.

“Douglas,” Bess whispered and ran across the street. The front door was unlocked, and Bess entered in time to see Douglas pick up the wireless and throw it against the table, copper wire spilling from the splintered wood.

“I want him back,” Douglas’ voice broke as he shouted. “I want him back! I want my boy back!” Bess ran to him and gripped his arms. He folded into a chair and his body heaved as tears mingled with the salty tracks already coating his face. She held him tightly, cooing and soothing him as he shook.

“Douglas.” Fergal’s voice was firm. Bess watched as her father entered the kitchen and placed a hand on his friend’s back. “You’ll stay with us tonight.” It was a statement, not a question. Douglas nodded in Bess’ arms and stood to be led away. Bess turned down the paraffin lamp and followed her father back into the house. Cora was already pouring five cups of tea when Douglas slumped into the armchair. Dot ran downstairs with a blanket and draped it across his shoulders, before wrapping her arms around him. Bess joined her, as did Cora. The Vaughn girls took Douglas in their arms, and Fergal watched with pride as fear for his own son worried his nerves.

✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼

The HMS Exeter juddered through the South Atlantic, aflame but afloat. Tom Bennett made his solitary way along the upper deck, glancing at the debris of ship and sailor as he did so. Coughing, he came across a row of tarpaulins. Hammocks. Each was bundled and he knew that beneath were the bodies of the crew. The breeze from the water had blown one away and Tom paused as he looked down at the man. It was Vic.

“I’m sorry.” Tom said as he knelt beside Vic’s body. “I should have shook your hand.” With bloodied hands, Tom covered his face and stilled for a while.

“Didn’t have you down for the praying type, Bennett.” Campbell approached him with a cigarette. He didn’t offer one to Tom.

“I wasn’t praying sir.” Tom stood. “I wouldn’t give God the work. He’s got enough on his plate sorting this shit out.”

Campbell nodded. “Hell of a crew. I’m proud of every one of you. You took part in a famous victory today, Bennett. You should be very proud.”

“Yes, sir.” He felt sick. “I am, sir.” Campbell left him to his thoughts, and Tom looked around. Bloodied and battered men lined the deck railings, and he could barely distinguish one from another. One sailor still had his cap on perfectly and was attending to some of the wounded.

“Oi, Terry. Your winnings mate.” Terry watched Tom approach, bemused. “You were as near eleven hundred hours. Well done, yeah?”

Terry didn’t move. After a moment, he said “I can’t take this. Half the lads who bet on it are dead.”

“Well, you can do what you like with your half. All the lads put in fair and square. It’s our money now.”

Terry eyed him. “Well, I think we should give it to the widows. Or the chaplain or something-”

“We’re in the Atlantic.” Tom wanted to scream. “Off a country I’ve never heard of, chasing a ship I can’t even fucking pronounce.”

“What has any of that got to do with the money?” Terry asked in disbelief.

“Vic’s dead,” Tom said simply. “And I never got to shake his hand. The world’s fucked mate, so look after number one.”

Terry laughed bitterly and thrust the coin purse at Tom’s chest. “Keep the fucking lot.” Hot panic flushed Tom’s cheeks and his chest began to heave. He had to get out. One way or another.

✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name,” the crew chorused in solemn unison. Those who remained uninjured hadn’t slept through the night, working to put out the fire and prevent the ship from sinking. Tom stood by the gun turret, eyes bloodshot and unmoving as he listened to the men praying. He didn’t join in. Despondent and weary, when Campbell had finished the memorial service, he made his way below deck to the sickbay.

He glanced around but could see no sign of the man he was looking for. Cap in one hand and coin purse in the other, he moved through the cramped deck, between injured men and those assisting them. Someone passed him a cigarette and he took a puff. As he handed it back, his target came into view. Arm bandaged, and gazing sadly through the porthole by his bunk, was Henry. He seemed to sense someone’s eyes on him, for he inclined his head as Tom moved forward and placed the money in his lap.

“I know it won’t go far, but you need it more than me so-” Tom trailed off. Henry watched him. He’d never known Tom Bennett so quiet.

“Thank you for seeing me right after it happened,” he nodded to the covered remnants of his arm. Tom shook his head as though saving another man’s life was nothing.

“Graf Spee has sunk,” he said finally.

“What, did we hit her?”

“Nah, captain scuttled his own ship so we couldn’t take her. Shot himself. Don’t know if that counts as one for us, what with it being an own goal-”

“Shut your noise, will you?” Henry hissed, though it made Tom smile. There was a moment’s more silence.

“Don’t tell anyone I’ve done this,” Tom said softly to Henry.

“Yeah, I’ve heard they’ve been giving you grief about the money.”

“Yeah, well I ain’t doing it for the lads.” Tom was quick to correct him. “I’m doing it for Vic. Sort of soppy thing he’d do, isn’t it?”

Henry nodded, and Tom continued. “This doesn’t make us mates.”

“No,” Henry half-smiled. “Thank you for the money.” The smile Tom returned was gentle and genuine. He nodded to Henry’s arm.

“Maybe you could put it towards a hook?” Before Henry could retort, Tom meandered away and out of sight. A moment later, he returned.

“Could you lend us a few bob, Henry?”

“Jesus Christ-”

“Not for me!” Tom held up a placating hand. “Just need a little to send home.” Henry handed over sixpence and Tom touched his cap. She’ll have to get a photo now, he thought.

Note: Hitler’s Only Got One Ball was a British war song. This was hard to write because there is so much dialogue in the show. Watching it back closely to get the transcript, there are a few moments where you can see Tom beginning to panic. So well acted by EM! Next chapter should be up soon. I know I said it last time, but I’m so excited about the next couple of chapters!

Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @anditsmywholeheart @allthefandomtherapy @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @beiigegalx @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa

#ewan mitchell #tom bennett #tom bennett x ofc #world on fire #ewan mitchell x reader #the seamstress & the sailor

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canirove · 1 year

Text

Best friends… forever? | Chapter 28

Previous chapter | Next chapter

Masterlist

"You guys are on The Sun again."

"Shut the fuck up" Mila says, ripping Diogo's phone from his hand.

"What is it with you women and violence on this trip?"

"Maybe it is what you deserve" his girlfriend smiles next to him.

"Shh" Mila shushes them while reading the article.

"Again?" Rúben says behind her, leaning on the back of the deckchair where she is sitting.

"Again" she replies, her eyes still fixed on the phone.

"What happened?" Bruno asks. "I thought we all were going into the pool?"

"Mila and Rúben are on The Sun. Again" Diogo says.

"What? How?"

"They have photos of us from the other day when we were on the boat, both at the pier and at sea. They followed us" Mila explains.

"Wait, they also got photos of us?" Bernardo asks. Now everyone is outside in the garden, all around Mila’s deckchair.

"No, just us. Don't worry" Rúben says. "But how did they know?"

"This is Ibiza. There are paparazzis everywhere and we have posted that we were together" Diogo shrugs.

"But how did they know where to go?"

"Sasha" Mila says.

"What?"

"When we saw her and Jack, she asked you about where we were going, what we were doing that day. She tipped the paps and sent them after us."

"I thought your agent had said you weren't interesting enough" Bernardo chuckles.

"That's what she said, yes. But looks like she was wrong."

"Ok, but why would Grealish's girlfriend send the paps after you?" Bruno's wife asks.

"Because she apparently hates Mila" Rúben says, rolling his eyes.

"I know you don't believe in my theory, but look. She and Jack got papped that same morning, and again, she looks amazing on the photos, she knew they were there. And if you check the credit, the photographer who took her photos is the same who took ours. She sent them after us."

"Or maybe he was the one working that day? Like Diogo said, this is Ibiza and they knew we were here because of Instagram. It isn't that hard to spot people" Rúben says.

"That's your theory, I have mine. We'll see who is right about it when we make it home."

"What are you going to do?"

"Face Sasha, of course" Mila says, getting up from her deckchair.

"Oh, God" Bruno says.

"What?"

"Just try to be nice, ok?"

"I always am nice."

"Have to disagree with that" Diogo says behind her.

"I am nice. If I wasn't, your phone will be flying to the pool instead of resting on the deckchair" she grins.

"You are so scary sometimes, Mila. No wonder Rúben likes you."

"What does that mean?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest and making Mila stare, forgetting for a moment that she's kind of pissed at him.

"Ask Bernardo and his neck" Diogo laughs.

"Here we go again with me bullying him."

"You do bully him a bit" Bruno points out.

"Really? You all think that about me?" Rúben says, looking around, everyone nodding. "Mila?"

"Um?" she mutters, her eyes still fixed on his biceps.

"What do you think?"

"I... think... I think we should let them enjoy the pool and go do something with this violence they don't like."

"What?"

"Yeah… we need to put this energy somewhere where it is welcomed. Let's go" she says, walking back into the house.

"Is she ok?" Rúben asks.

"I think she's more than ok" Diogo laughs. "Have fun, bro."

"Fun?"

"He is so clueless it is almost cute" Bruno smiles.

"Rúben, are you coming or not?" Mila calls from inside.

"Coming!" he says, still confused about what is going on.

"That's what they are going to do, yep" Diogo says before he and Bruno start laughing, their partners rolling their eyes when they hear them.

"What is going on with you?" Rúben asks when he walks into their room. "I thought you were mad at me and... Mila."

"Close the door."

"What... Why..." he mutters, his eyes fixed on her. She's lying on their bed. Naked. Completely naked.

"Close the door, take off that swimsuit, and come here."

"Yes, ma'am" he smiles, doing as she ordered him.

"Just so you know, I am still pissed at you for not believing my theory even if we now have more proofs" she says as he moves to be on top of her.

"Ok."

"But you then decided to show your arms in all their glory, and dear God, Rúben."

"So that's why you were acting weird, uh? You were turned on" he smirks.

"So turned on you can't even imagine."

"They may hear us and tease us about it."

"Tomorrow is our last day here, we’ll survive. But if you don't fuck me right now, I don't know if I will survive."

"Anything special you would like me to do?" he asks before kissing her neck.

"Everything. Anything. I don't care. Just do it" she says, moving her hands up and down his back.

"Ok" he laughs. "But one thing before we are too busy to say coherent things."

"Please be quick."

"Let's make it Instagram official when we make it back home. Let's be the ones in charge, not this person selling things about us."

"You mean Sasha" she says with a teasing smile, her fingers hovering over his arms.

"Whoever this person is. Do we have a deal?"

"We do. How are we sealing it?"

"I think a kiss will work."

"And then you'll fuck me?" Mila asks, still smiling.

"And then I'll fuck you as many times as you want" Rúben says with a smile that matches hers.

"Then kiss me, Rúben Dias.”

“My pleasure, Mila Soares” he says, making both of them laugh before doing what she asked. Kiss her, and then…

━━━━━━❃━━━━━━

#ruben dias #ruben dias fanfic #ruben dias imagine #football fanfic #football imagine

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geoffrard · 1 year

Note

if you don't mind, could you spare some pointers about archive work? i would love to try some but i honestly have no idea where to start.

happy to give some guidance since archiving is something i'm passionate about :)

my experience with archive work lies largely outside of mcr specifically, and subject area 100% impacts the archiving experience. that disclaimer in mind, i'm a history grad student, work with physical & digital archives, and managed a smaller one for a few years. on the fandom side of things, i run @thursdayarchive with nic @raytorosaurus (who is also a great resource for the specifics of mcr archiving & who suggested some advice given here!).

but you definitely don't have to have much experience to archive! archiving, at its root, is about assembling materials relevant and organizing them in a way that allows other people to access them. And this work is super, super important (esp since so much of mcr's history dates back to an era of the internet that is rapidly disappearing) & definitely doesn't require you to develop a sophisticated skill set.

There are three basic things to take into consideration when you're starting to archive:

Artifacts: What you collect

Personal organization: How you will keep track of what you find

The repository: How you will share your archive

Artifacts: Collect materials

Finding materials to share is the meat of the archiving experience, and often it's what takes the longest time. It can also be a little intimidating at first, especially considering the amount of unsourced photos that regularly float around mcr spaces. some notes on that end (mainly concerning photographs, since that tends to be the currency the mcr fandom deals in):

first, you don't have to just archive photos--the range of interesting materials related to mcr is vast. an archive might include photos, interviews, videos, magazine features, music, etc.

Consider what gaps might exist within fandom archives. MCR fans have run a number of really great archives in the past, so some work might not need to be done. Of course, those materials might not get circulated--and recovering it would be a worthwhile task. Perhaps recent interviews haven't been compiled and transcribed. Perhaps you can't believe that people aren't talking about a certain two-minute excerpt from a Frank podcast from five years ago. Perhaps you've noticed a dearth of photos of Mikey from 2010 in fandom spaces. Do what is interesting to you, but build on past archival work when you can. Honestly I can really see a need to keep track of a lot of the fan videos from the recent tour.

Decide if you want your archiving to center around a certain theme--like, a certain member of the band, a certain type of media, etc.

KEEP TRACK OF SOURCE CREDIT. the mcr fandom has been awful at keeping track of photo sources in the past, and as a result many of the most of the iconic photographs have been totally divorced from their source. Also, make sure that the person you're crediting is the actual original source.

On that note: while it might not seem like a big deal, reposting without a source is. Music photographers make their living by licensing their photos, and if a for-profit publication wants to use those photos but doesn't know photographer, they can't, and the photographer loses out on business. Non-professional photos really should be sourced, too. Fans in a photo might not want to have their picture spread around for a number of reasons (this specifically has happened in the mcr fandom, where a collection of photographs were reposted without permission from a private photobucket).

It's always easier to find photos at their source rather than sourcing photos that you already have. A lot of photographers post their pictures on their own archives, often on places like getty images, photobucket, flickr, and their personal websites. a lot of these sites are searchable, and they're a decent place to start.

keep track of the names of photographers and interviewers that you see often

familiarize yourself with archive.org. it is your friend when you encounter dead links.

it's also worthwhile to have a decent grasp on the mcr timeline, or at least know where to reference it. since i have a shit brain for remembering specific dates, i generally reference concertarchives (though it can be a little unreliable at times and warrants some cross-referencing).

Personal organization: Keep track of what you find

When you locate something you'd like to archive, you'll want to keep track of the information associated with it--in archiving, we call that metadata. This can be a bit of a headache in the moment, but integrating your own organizing systems is a lifesaver in the long run. Consider:

what kinds of information might interest your audience? Typically, I include source, date, location, people included (if it's a photo), and any other context that might be relevant to the source, if I can find it.

what is the easiest way to track that information? I keep a detailed spreadsheet for that purpose, but you might find it useful to archive the item onto your repository immediately. there's no one right way to do this step, but having a standard practice can help you avoid confusion or accidentally sharing incorrect details.

The repository: share your archive

The whole point of archiving is to share materials with other people--though this is certainly easier said that done. Your repository doesn't have to be anything more than your blog, but it deserves a decent amount of thought. Things to think about:

Where will you host your archive? Most of us will use Tumblr, and there's nothing wrong with that, but you don't have to. Places like dreamwidth and google drive can be useful platforms as well. If you stick with tumblr, consider if you want to use the blog you already use, or if you want to start a new blog for a clean slate.

You don't have to repost the content that you want to archive. Making lists of content by topic is incredibly important, and there is a decent amount of content that you wouldn't be able to upload on most platforms because of size and length restrictions.

How will you organize your repository? The easier someone can access something they're looking for on an archive, the more they will use it. Using specific tags to indicate certain features of an archive post is generally the most intuitive organization method, but you can also use other systems (like hyperlinks) if they work for you.

What kinds of information do you want people to find on your archive? Generally, if you use tags, you'll want to come up with a consistent system for general pieces of info like people, form of media, time period, etc. If you have a more specific archive topic or an interest, like you really want to log Mikey's sock collection during the bullets era or something, consider adding tags for that. You can have fun with these :)

Make it easy to figure out what kind of organization system your archive uses. This might mean a taglist, a general explanation of your methods, or some combination thereof.

I'm sure that I missed some points here, and as I said, a lot of this advice is a little more general because I haven't spent a lot of time doing archiving for MCR specifically, and it mainly pertains to archiving through photo uploading, but I hoped it answered some questions for anyone interested in getting into archiving. As always, i'm happy to answer any questions based on my own experiences :) happy archiving!!!

#my chemical romance #mcr #archiving #hope this all made sense! i hope i didnt get too technical sdkjhasdkjsad #answered #mine

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munson-blurbs · 1 year

Text

How They Say "I Love You" for the First Time

Just some thoughts about how each Stranger Things guy would tell you he loves you for the first time :) divider credits: @firefly-graphics

Steve Harrington: Meeting His Parents

You come home from work to see Steve sitting at the table, head in his hands, clearly distressed.

"What's wrong, babe?" you ask, rubbing his back gently.

He looks up at you with red-rimmed eyes. "My mom called," he explains, "and she wants me to come over for my dad's birthday."

You frown, knowing about your boyfriend's strained relationship with his parents from your many late-night talks. "What do you wanna do?"

"I don't know," he says finally. "I know I should go, but I can't stand to listen to him talk about what a failure I am for not going to college while my mom just sits there and does nothing."

You consider your response carefully before speaking. "What if I come with you?" you offer, not wanting to cross any bounds. "Only if you want."

"You'd do that for me?" His voice breaks slightly, in awe that someone would voluntarily risk getting caught in the Harrington family crossfires.

You nod, placing a kiss atop his head. "Of course, Steve. I'll be with you the whole time."

Steve stands up and pulls you in for a hug. "Baby, I love you so much."

Billy Hargrove: Patching His Wounds

Billy had changed a lot since you two had started dating: he had moved out of his house, away from his awful dad, allowing Max to stay over whenever she needed. He'd be trying to steer clear of fighting, especially now that he could be charged as an adult.

That was until he'd overheard someone talking about you; some prick who took one look at you in your short skirt and said to his buddy, "How much d'you wanna bet that I can get in that slut's panties?" The next thing anyone knew, Billy's fist was connecting with the guy's nose with a sickening crack. He probably would've kept going if you didn't pull him back.

Now you're back at his place, gently applying antiseptic to his bloodied knuckles. He hisses at the sting, instinctively withdrawing, but you pull him closer and keep dabbing.

"You don't have to fight for me," you tell him. "That loser wasn't worth all of this pain."

"Hell no," Billy says through gritted teeth. "Nobody talks that way about the woman I love and gets away with it."

Eddie Munson: Post-Sex Cuddles

It's no secret that Eddie Munson is touch-starved; he's constantly all over you. Fingers intertwined with yours when you're walking, an arm slung around your shoulder during a movie date, randomly kissing your forehead while you're hanging out with friends. Tonight, you're laying on the couch after exploring each other's bodies, soaking in the feeling of bringing each other such physical pleasure.

Your legs are lazily draped over his, head against his soft chest, gently rubbing his torso with your thumb. He presses his lips to your scalp.

"Can I tell you a secret?" he murmurs. "This is what I've always wanted."

You glance at him, kissing his jawline. "Mind-blowing sex?" you tease.

"That part's great," he agrees with a laugh, pulling you closer into him. "But the...holding you afterwards, it just feels so right."

"I know what you mean." You snuggle him, taking in the warmth from his body. "It feels especially right being with you."

"I think," Eddie starts, hesitating before hurtling into his true feelings. "I think it's because...because I'm in love with you."

Jonathan Byers: Taking Your Photo

One thing you and Jonathan initially bonded over was your love of peace and quiet. Both natural introverts, you could cuddle for hours without saying a word, just listening to the beating of his beautiful heart as you lay on his chest.

Even your hobbies centered around quiet, with Jonathan's love of photography and your penchant for reading novels. Right now, you're sitting under a tree, eyes scanning Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye, one of your favorite books. Jonathan is supposed to be photographing the meadow; instead, he keeps his camera trained on you.

"Jonathan!" you giggle, "I thought you said you wanted to get pictures of the flowers!"

"I do." he pouts, feigning frustration. "You're just so beautiful, y'know? I feel like I have to capture this moment."

You roll your eyes playfully. "You're ridiculous," you say, getting to your feet and pulling him in for a kiss.

He brushes your hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. "Maybe," he admits shyly, "but it's only because I love you."

Argyle: Brushing His Hair

People might expect Argyle to blurt out his true feelings for you while under the influence of his favorite plant, but he's stone-cold sober when it happens.

You're both in his living room; you're sitting on the couch and he's on the floor beneath you. You've been playing with his hair for the last ten minutes, running your fingers through his long, silky locks.

"'S not fair," you mutter quietly. "How does my boyfriend have better hair than I do?"

He chuckles, shaking his head back and forth so his hair tickles your legs. "I think it's only fair that I have something, considering everything about you is perfect, babe."

You feel yourself blushing, like you always do when he gives you a compliment. It feels like he never runs out of sweet, romantic things to say to you. "Can I brush it?" you ask.

"Of course." He disappears into his bathroom, returning with his hairbrush in hand.

You start at the ends, gently combing out the knots. He closes his eyes and relaxes as you work your way up to the roots.

"I dunno how to say this...might sound weird," he says softly, "but I always feel, like, safe with you. Does that make sense?" He furrows his brows, worried at your response.

"I feel safe with you, too," you confide. "Like nothing can hurt me, because I have you to protect me."

"Exactly!" A smile lights up his face, sending electric shocks through your body. "Man, it's like I totally get it now."

"Get what?" you question, pausing your brushing.

"Get what everyone meant when they said that I'll just know when I'm in love."

#stranger things #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #eddie munson #eddie munson imagine #billy hargrove #billy hargrove imagine #jonathan byers #jonathan byers imagine #argyle #argyle imagine #fanfic #imagine

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otteranha · 1 year

Text

part 1 Part 3 of the snowed in blackout at Steve’s house fic*

*did I skip part 2 because this section was finished and wouldn’t get out of my brain? yes, yes I did. apologies for any confusion, part 2 will be out sometime.

It was nearly 6 o’clock and the chaos had dulled to a simmer. Eddie had to admit that it was a lot of hosting to take on for a lot of long, dark, empty hours if Harrington had been letting the kids stay over since the storm. No wonder the guy looked shell shocked. Once the question of the television was officially out, Eddie got the kids circled up, passing around a flashlight as they told each other ghost stories. Peace reigning upon earth, Eddie peeled himself off the floor and left the group to their pseudo-campfire tales, and snuck back into the kitchen.

The overhead lights were still on there and in the hallway, everything else dark. Steve was arranging fix-in’s for s’mores on several plates. It was the first time Eddie’d seen him alone all day. Steve looked up, “Hey thanks for your help this afternoon. I think I might actually have lost my mind there if I had to face that lot alone.” Eddie hadn’t expected that. “Oh, no problem. You’re the one doing us a favor really.” “Yeah but you fully made yourself the bad guy back there, with the TV. That- that was a big help.”

“Well, you can’t play good-cop bad-cop all by yourself. They always gang up on you like that?” “Nah,” said Steve, “Usually they’re pretty great. I want to say sweet but that’s giving them too much credit, usually they’re...” “Salty? Savory? Umami?”

Steve laughed. “Sure, let’s go with that. Besides they’re lightyears better people than I was at their age so. I try to cut them some slack.” He trailed off, then exclaimed, “Oh you never got your shower did you?” Eddie, in fact, had not.

“You can go now, if you don’t mind showering by lantern. The water heater’s still getting power.”

“Right now I’d shower by bioluminescent fish if the water was hot.”

Steve laughed again- strangely gratifying. “Let me get this out to them and I’ll grab you a towel.” He disappeared with the snacks. When he returned he lead Eddie not towards his dad’s gym where everyone had been showering all day, but upstairs.

“Luring me into the bowels of Castle Harrington? I’m not going to end up bricked into a wall, am I?” Eddie asked. The hallway was long, deeply carpeted and spookily pristine.

“It’s a mess in there. I swear, not one person cleaned the drain. I should make a sign.” He lead Eddie into a bedroom with an ensuite bathroom tiled all over in what was either pale grey or lavender, impossible to tell by flashlight.

“Your parents don’t mind you letting the rabble invade their room?”

“Oh, this is a spare room.”

Eddie felt himself blush, of course it was a spare room idiot. Because people like the Harrington’s had to spend their money on things like rooms nobody slept in 90% of the time. He bounced around, distracting from his mistake, coming to rest in front of a display of photographs on a presumably empty dresser.

“Must be handy for all those Harrington family get togethers, huh?”

“d’Agostino get togethers actually. My mom’s family. Dad’s an only child.”

“That explains a lot.”

“You’re an only child, aren’t you?” Steve said, but he didn’t sound mad, just matter of fact.

Eddie had to admit his point.”Touchè, your Majesty.”

“They were going to have more kids I guess,” Steve went on, “But mom says she ruined her figure enough just having me.” His tone was light but in the weird flickering light from the flashlights, everything seemed to have a kind of gravity.

“You have a lot of cousins,” said Eddie looking over the photographs- dozens of people with symmetrical faces, standing in symmetrically arranged poses in rows symmetrically arranged frames.

“Yeah. We haven’t seen them in years. Mom stopped talking to her family after my grandpa died. It was tough on her and- ” he cut himself off abruptly.

“And what?” “Nothing.” “Tell me.” “Rich people problems. You don’t want to hear about it.”

“Sure I do,” and to his surprise Eddie did. “Lay that Park Avenue drama on me Harrington.”

“My mom’s got three brothers, she’s the only girl. It’s just that my grandpa was really old school, traditional, you know? He divided everything equally among his kids in his will, but instead of leaving my mom’s share to her he... he put it in a trust. For me, when I turn 21. I don’t know all the details, I was only 10 when he died but I remember she was going to leave my dad. She had an apartment and a lawyer and everything.” He drummed his fingers nervously over the dresser and went on.

"Then her dad died and she was gonna use the money he left her to get away and start over. Only she didn’t get any of it. And her brothers wouldn’t help her out, because they thought she was asking for more than her share. I think she was kind of mad at me too, because grandpa left me the money instead of her. I tried to give it to her once when I was a kid but she just got upset and told me not to mention it again. Anyway she stopped talking to her family after that so. Not many family get togethers.”

“That’s not fair though. It wasn’t your fault, you were just a kid.”

“I know, I think she just couldn’t help being a little mad about it. She’s a good mom though.” Steve raised his chin, defensive. The beam of the flashlight lay across the long column of his neck. “Oh yeah?”

"She could still have left my dad, but he would’ve kept me. His lawyers are really good. And she wasn’t going to leave me with him.”

“I get it,” said Eddie because suddenly, weirdly he did. He had something in common with Steve Harrington. Upstairs in the dark house, it felt like they were the only two people who existed, not in Steve’s parents’ guest room, but some weird pocket realm, through a wardrobe, or a looking glass.

“Do you?”

“I really do Steve.” Eddie cleared his throat, “My mom tried to leave my dad a bunch of times. Sometimes she had to leave in the middle of the night without even a bag but she always took me with her.”

“Oh.” Steve looked at him, this common ground seemingly just as surprising to him as it was to Eddie. “Is she- where is she now? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Drunk driver.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah me too.” They stared a bit, not directly, but pretty steadily at each other’s shoes. Then Steve shook himself, tossing Eddie the towel.

“I’ll get out of your hair. Thanks again for helping with the kids. I really hate it when they get so- when I have to disappoint them like that.”

“Any time you need someone to play the big bad, just whistle. Especially if I can claim all the amenities of chez Harrington, seriously this towel is like a cloud had a baby with a lamb.”

“Aren’t lambs already babies?”

Eddie snorted. “Semantics. Now shoo.” Steve shooed.

#steddie #stranger things #stranger things au #stranger things fic #steddie fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson

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iamstevessmile · 2 years

Text

MY DRIVER

James Bucky Barnes

Summary: Formula 1 Bucky Barnes; Bucky Barnes racer; lot of fluff and cuteness

photo credits @pinterest

“Thanks for tagging along Ads, I’m not sure how much longer I can do it alone.”

“Are you kidding? I should totally be the one thanking you y/n, I mean, you’re taking me to a racetrack filled with good looking guys!” I let out a laugh, shaking my head at her dramatics.

“In that case, you’re welcome.” I grab my car keys off the table, slinging my bag across my shoulder as I make my way to the front door. “Now, we best be going if we wanna get there on time.”

Addison hops off the couch, following behind me like an excited puppy as we both make our way into to my car.

“I don’t know if I already said this, but I’m really excited.” I laugh softly, as I pull out of the driveway and onto the main road.

“Maybe once or twice. I actually always wish you could tag along. It gets quite boring being there alone.”

“I mean, technically you’re not alone.”

“I would classify sitting by myself in a ton of stadiums as alone Ads.”

“Okay, true, but Buck is there.”

“Mmh, he’s there, but I can’t speak to him.” I sigh quietly, not wanting to show how much this all was starting to affect me.

“Y/n/n, you know that I know you more than you know yourself right?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“So I can tell you’re not happy with all of this, so why don’t you say something to him?” I bite down on my lip, turning the car off as soon as I pull into an empty parking spot, after searching for almost ten minutes.

The stadium was packed, no doubt about that.”

“It’s not up to him Ads, you know this.”

“You say this, but in the end, it’s still up to him.” She says bluntly, catching me off guard. “Don’t get me wrong y/n/n, I know he cares, but have you questioned why he’s just agreeing with it all?”

“Of course I have, I think about it more than I’d like to admit, but I trust him Ads. He’s not doing this because he wants to, he’s just listening to his team.”

Addison nods slowly, holding out her hand for me to take before squeezing it gently.

“Sorry babes, you know I just worry about you sometimes.”

“I know, but you don’t have to, I promise.” I flash a genuine smile at her, pushing all the worries aside for the moment. “Now, let’s go, I wanna grab something to drink on the way in.”

Addison and I climb out of the car, locking it before we make our way into the stadium, flashing our tickets at the security on the way in.

“It’s on me, order whatever.” I smile at Addison, gesturing for her to pick something off of the menu while the waiter hands me my drink.

“Thanks babes, I’ll grab the next one.” She says, waiting for her drink before the two of us search for our seats within the crowd.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?”

“No, not really.” I laugh, grabbing the tickets out my bag as I hand them over to her. “You can lead the way, with pleasure.”

With that, i followed her blindly as she led us though the crowd, all the way down to the paddock box, right in front of the race track.

“Do you always sit this close?” Addison asked, shuffling back into her seat as I fall down into the empty one next to her. This area seemed more reserved; with less of a crowd surrounding them and more media reporters and photographers.

“No, I usually sit up top somewhere.” I whisper back, not wanting to bring any attention to me.

I bring the bottle of coke up to my lips, taking a sip as I search the area in front of me. My eyes land on James and my heart rate immediately picks up, a reaction that never seems to fade when I’m around him.

“I see that you’ve found your loverboy.” A small, teasing nudge pulls me from my thoughts, and I can’t help the way my cheeks heat up almost immediately. “Wonder what it’s like dating the top formula one driver in the world?”

I roll my eyes at her, choosing not to answer incase someone was eavesdropping.

“Do not let me leave here without snatching up one of these men.” As soon as the words leave her mouth, I burst out laughing, slamming my hand across my mouth to stop myself from spitting the drink out.

“Noted.” I swallow the small bit of the drink on my mouth as I replied to her.

I turned my body back to the front, my eyes wandering back over to where Bucky was, only to be met with his eye on me already.

Without even having to say anything, the small smirk that spread across his face said enough, and when I tilted my head slightly in question, all he did was wink subtly before walking over to his car.

“I want what you two have, so badly.”

With that, the race had begun, announcement being made consistently as the race quite literally zoomed by.

“THE DRIVERS ARE APPROACHING THE FINISH LINE. AS USUAL, JAMES BARNES IN THE LEAD. IF HE MANAGES TO CROSS THAT LINE FIRST, WE MIGHT JUST HAVE OUR NEW 2022 CHAMPION.“

The whole crowd sat in anticipation, erupting into a wild cheer as they sped across the finish line.

“THATS IT EVERYONE, JAMES BARNES HAS MANAGED TO WIN AGAIN, TAKING FIRST PLACE ON THE PODIUM, ALONGSIDE ROGERS AND WILSON.”

“Oh my god, HE WON!” I screeched, turning to Addison, my excitement extremely evident. “I’m so proud of him, I just-“

“ALTHOUGH TAKING THE CHAMPIONSHIP TITLE FOR THE YEAR, JAMES SEEMS TO BE ON HIS OWN MISSION, AS HE MAKES HIS WAY TOWARDS THE PADDOCK.”

“Hang on, what!” I quickly turn my head away from Addison, seeing Bucky run through the gate entrance of the Paddock, stopping when his eyes landed on me.

I freeze in place, shaking my head slowly as I see him slowly start making his way towards us.

The crowd was going wild. There was no doubt that every single eye in the stadium was on him right now as he stood directly in front of me.

“Hi doll.” He whispers, leaning against the metal bar that separated us.

“James! You shouldn’t be here.” I keep my voice low, seeing the photographers now starting to take interest in the two of us. “What are you doing?”

Suddenly he ducks down, moving under the metal bar, standing up and leaving the smallest distance between us. Way too close for anyone to not question who I was.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He flashes one of his award winning smiles that make me melt inside. “I’m here to celebrate with my gal.”

My cheeks heat up wildly, and my eyes go wide at his words. Was he really doing this?

“But, your team-“

“I just won the world championship for this year, I’m sure they won’t have anything to say.” He says softly, lifting his hand up to rest it against my face. I watch his eyes drop down to my lips as his tongue darts out over his lower lip.

“Are you sure?” I whisper.

“Never been more sure of anything than I am of you.” He says, his lips brushing against my own. “Now, I think your boyfriend deserves a kiss, you know, after winning and all that.”

I giggle softly, not waiting another second before crushing our lips together, melting into him as he pulls me tightly against his body.

Everything felt completely okay, like it was just me and Bucky, until the announcer spoke up again.

“AND TO ALL THE FANS OUT THERE, LOOKS LIKE JAMES HAS ALREADY BEEN SNATCHED UP, SORRY LADIES!”

With Bucky’s lips still on mine, I burst out laughing, feeling absolute pure bliss as he squeezes my hips, peppering kisses on my cheeks before pulling away.

“Hey Ads.” Bucky smiles over at Addison, who was watching the scene in front of her in awe.

“Hi Buck.” She smiles back, before Bucky turns back to face me.

“Come down with me? I want my girl there when I get onto that podium.”

“I’d love to.” I blush deeply at his words, before nudging Addison. “Can Ads come along, she’s really adamant on leaving here with a new boyfriend?”

Bucky chuckles deeply, throwing his head back in the process as Addison shrugs, not denying the claim at all.

“Of course.” He smiles, pulling the two of us towards the podium. “You know, I think you and Rogers would get along really well.”

#sebastian stan #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #formule1 #formula racing #f1 #Bucky Barnes racer #race driver #love #fluff

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stinkyme · 6 months

Note

So, I have been reading this amazing SKK parent AU story on ao3, and I can’t stop thinking about having Dazai and Chuuya as my parents! Basically it’s about Dazai trying to adopt more kids than Bruce Wayne, and the found family content is spectacular! My parental trauma is showing from having an emotionally absent Dad, so I’m just going to leave that here.

Anyway, I took one of my finals yesterday and I got a 98 on it! It’s for a photography class and my Professor has been a complete jerkwad. He’s been bullying me all semester, saying that I’m too much of an artist to be a photographer, and getting pissy at me because my pictures are technically sound, so he can’t criticize me.

So I’ve been imagining Chuuya giving me a huge hug, saying he’s so proud of me for showing my loser of a teacher whose better. Then he’s says we should celebrate, and we end up spending the day together getting lattes, cheesecake, and sooooo many books at Barnes and Noble.

For Dazai he tells me of course I got a 98% because I’m a genius like him. Then we end up snuggling on the couch, eating too many sweets, and watching all the Scream movies!

Basically I’m a sucker for found family, and characters I love being wonderful parents. So I have throughly exposed myself, and so I’ll just see myself out.

I hope you’re having a marvelous day Stinky!!! Sending good vibes and virtual hugs!

-Rosie!

GOOD JOB ON GETTING 98%, THAT'S ABSOLUTELY INCREDIBLE AND I AM SO PROUD OF YOU!!! fuck your jerkwad of a teacher, you proved him wrong indeed and you are amazing :D <3

I also love found family and I definitely agree, Dazai would be that parent who takes all the credits for himself LOL, in a playful way of course, while Chuuya scolds him and always makes sure you know how amazing you are and making sure that you are taking all the credits while also spoiling you by any rewards you may want :D <3

thank you dear Rosie!! I hope that your day/night is going lovely, smoothly and amazing, and that you are taking care of yourself as much as possible, sending you lots of love and virtual hugs right back!! :) <3

#stinkyanswers #my sweet rosie <3 #i love found family trope too!! it's one of my favorites :)#and you don't have to worry!! thank you for being so open and i think this is a very lovely thought :)#AND AGAIN!! I AM SO PROUD OF YOU ROSIE YOU AE AMAZING :D <333 GOOD JOB EHEHEH

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starshine-wagner · 1 year

Text

loving reminder that, as a rule of thumb, we should be giving some sort of credit to photographers/artists when we post their work if we can!

I know that sometimes it’s easy to post in haste, but taking the extra 20 seconds to type out the artists name in a caption or link to their work is one of the best “thank you’s” you can give them. Many artists do not get paid for what they’re creating, and exposure, while it doesn’t pay the bills, can certainly help.

Of course, we aren’t always going to be able to easily find the creator, as things get tossed around the internet. That’s normal. But in cases where you realistically CAN, give credit!

#not directed at anyone #just a thought I’ve been meaning to share #love y’all <3

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heliads · 1 year

Text

just a short time chapter five: the system's breaking down

Y/N L/N and Nikolai Lantsov have already fallen in love. They have yet to meet. Their stories are over and done. There is far more to the world than just one series.

this time: Nikolai doesn't like thinking about the time he ran away to be a nobody in a ghost town by the sea. That doesn't stop it from being real, though, nor does it keep him from wanting to become Sturmhond again more than ever.

this chapter's song: glitch

chapter four / series masterlist / chapter six

Nikolai Lantsov almost doesn’t believe he’s going to get away with it until he’s already gone. Running away has been a fever dream of his for some time now. The idea that life in the rest of the city could continue on as normal— just as hollow, as saccharine, as worthless— without him feels impossible.

Improbable, he should say instead, it feels improbable. Improbable, because today Nikolai has done the impossible and he got out. His fluorescent city is a smudge of light in his rearview mirror, already much too far away to ever have a hold on him again.

Technically, he already departed the city. Ravka left his sights a while ago under the guise of Nikolai pursuing a university education. That much was true, Nikolai did go to college, but he also managed to get through it much faster than expected due to a masterminded application of previous course credit and placement exams.

Time spent at the university is still the alibi cloaking him from the sights of the general public, though, and it’s the excuse Nikolai uses now. He was still monitored at college, photographed through the doors of lecture halls and videotaped on his walks throughout campus.

Nikolai didn’t like that very much. Sometimes, when his irritation got the better of him, he imagined running up to the paparazzi and smashing their cameras or ruining their film or doing something, anything, to erase any trace that he’d been there at all.

He never did. Nikolai knows the expectations for his mother’s son and his father’s heir, he knows how the rumors would run rampant if he were to give the snapping cameras so much as a single sour look. Not only would he be ruined, called callous and cruel and some sick selfish kid who only got where he was because of his father’s money and his mother’s beauty, his parents would be punished as well. The apple doesn’t fall from the tree, and you can take that either way. If his parents were terrible, he surely is as well. If Nikolai’s damned, so are they.

No, fighting isn’t an option. Running, though, now that’s certainly something. Nikolai first experienced the barest trace of it back in uni, and already it was enough to keep him going. This is altogether different. This is Nikolai sprinting for his life. He swaps cars three times, selling and renting with abandon, and then he’s gone for good.

Nikolai ends up settling in a small town. Nobody knows where it is, not even the occupants. The borough is so obscure it doesn’t even deserve a dot on a map, Nikolai looks at the place and calls it home without a second thought. There is not a single soul in this town that knows who he is, and it is marvelous.

Still, Nikolai has a few close calls his first week. He’s still a newcomer by time of arrival to these particular streets, and he walks and talks like he’s used to money. Nikolai has always been a damned good actor, though, so he decides upon his next role without a second’s hesitation.

They need someone who doesn’t breathe like an outsider, so that’s exactly what he becomes. Nikolai gets a job in town to pay off rent on a small shack near the sea that he thinks has less surface area than his mother’s closet. The walls are patched thrice over, the windows cracked. Nikolai can stand on his threshold and smell the salt on the air, ferried over to him by the waves breaking down the hill. He loves it like a paramour.

Nikolai gets drunk one night and hates the way he looks. He stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, knuckles white as bone around a chipped ceramic sink, and all he can see looking back at himself is his father. There are a thousand and one different rumors that Nikolai isn’t actually Alexander Lantsov’s real son, but at this moment, unlike any other, Nikolai doesn’t believe a word of it.

If he isn’t his father’s son, why does Nikolai see traces of the man in the disappointed set of his eyes, the tight, judgmental sneer that crosses his face when he least expects it? Nikolai wants to scream at people who don’t deserve his rage, that’s his father. He wants to blame the world for things he did to himself, that’s Alexander for sure. Nikolai is young and wants to make even more mistakes to cover up the ones he already committed, but that’s his mother speaking, telling him to keep going, keep hiding until no one knows him at all.

Nikolai steals one more glance, then all but runs out the door. He doesn’t know where he’s going until he blinks and he’s idling in one of the aisles at a nearby convenience store. There’s a box in his hand; it takes a few moments then Nikolai realizes what it is. Hair dye. Red, like dried blood. Nikolai can taste a copper tang on his tongue even before he hands over a few crumbled bills to the cashier so he can stumble back home and try to fix himself up.

It takes far too much time and far too much spilled color, but at the end of it, the early light of new dawn shines through Nikolai’s askew blinds and shows him someone else. Not his father’s son, not anyone his father could even recognize. Standing here, his hands streaked with red, his hair too dark, and his expression shifty, Nikolai knows for certain that he is the kind of arrogant youth who would make his mother cross to the other side of the street. His father would give him a glare, jut his chin out in that same way that makes his disapproval clear. Nikolai usually tries to do anything to avoid that, but today? Today he loves it.

That change, more than just physical, is apparently what Nikolai needed to blend into town for good. On his way back from work, he’s accosted by a group of teenagers about his age. At first, they were angling to jump him, but when Nikolai proves himself more than decent with his fists and beats up a few of them before they can even make him bleed, they change their minds. Then Nikolai has a crew, and he’s really good once he can start clawing his way up.

Nikolai has always enjoyed a good challenge. Once exposed to the complex web of adolescent thugs and convicts, he’s in a whole new world of opportunity. It doesn’t take long for Nikolai to rise up in the relative ranks. He switches gangs twice, merges a few, makes himself an empire.

Soon enough, his accomplishments are tossed around on the streets just as often as the day’s news. He doesn’t like being referred to by his birth name, still not liking the idea that someone could happen to connect the dots between that actor kid who dropped off the map a while ago and Nikolai himself.

With every problem to come his way, though, Nikolai has a knack for finding a solution. The perfect opportunity presented himself, and Nikolai jumped the gun just like he always does. Some tough guy who thought he was better than everyone because he’d been to jail and back tried crossing Nikolai to take over his followers.

Nikolai was having none of it. The two of them were wary for days, and then the other guy attempted to take him out while he was walking one late night. Instead of caving, Nikolai beat him into a pulp, then set his own dogs on him. He can still remember how it felt that night, the stars watching over him in bright horror as the snapping of bone echoed in his ears again and again. It was the sort of thing you wouldn’t even want to look at in a movie, and this was real, blood moonlit. It did the job, though. No one crossed him after that without a damn good reason.

It wasn’t a pretty picture when the cops caught him, but Nikolai had a damn good alibi. Every convict in the town was willing to go to bat for him, and when you’ve got dozens of eyewitnesses, no one can come for you. Nikolai is pretty much certain the only reason they backed him up is because they were scared he’d do the same thing to them, but he doesn’t mind that much. Power is still power, and that sort of rush doesn’t leave all that easily.

Besides, it earned him a new name. Sturmhond, they call him, Sturmhond of blood and bone, Sturmhond, the one who’ll kill you just for looking sideways at him. Not all of it is true, but it doesn’t have to be. Nikolai is having a damn good time being Sturmhond, and he isn’t inclined to leave it behind in the slightest. He changed his phone number, his location, now he’s changed his name.

At some point, Nikolai Lantsov will die out entirely. He doesn’t think anyone will be around to mourn. His face looks different now, his gaze hardened, his cheeks hollow. He looks like the sort of young man who’d do anything to get what he wants, and he likes it. He likes it quite a lot. He picks up a truly ridiculous teal coat from some abandoned shipping crate of equally luckless clothing. It’s gaudy and atrocious, perfectly him.

Nikolai manages to convince himself that maybe this is real, this is who he was supposed to be all along. He’s one of the gutter rats now, the kings and convicts who run with knives up their sleeves just to stab them in someone else’s back. He gets high off bringing someone else low, and he loves it. All of it.

And then, just when he’s certain that rock bottom has never felt better, Nikolai meets someone, a girl. She’s from out of town, that much is obvious. Her gaze is just as guarded as Nikolai’s must have been when he came all the way out here for the first time, like she can’t manage to convince herself that anyone crossing in front of her won’t be laying a trap.

Nikolai should just watch her disappear from his line of sight, let her sort out her problems on her own time. Saints know Sturmhond would never trouble himself with anything like a strange girl, especially not one that he’s certain is from the city he killed everything to leave behind.

But she looks so unhappy to be lost, yet so determined to make her way out. Nikolai watches as she stalks through unfamiliar turns like each alleyway is a bully she can best. He isn’t even surprised when he gets up from his perch on someone else’s back fence and heads over to her.

The girl looks to be about his age, he decides, and her eyes widen with a start when he appears out of nowhere. He doesn’t introduce himself, and the name she offers up is not hers but that of a hotel on the other side of town. The nicer part of town, Nikolai realizes, the part he usually doesn’t dare traverse. He is the physical embodiment of the shadow of that bright light, so clean streets and pretty girls aren’t usually included in Sturmhond’s empire.

Still, he isn’t about to tell her that, so he tells her to follow him and sets out into the maze of streets. He could abandon her at any point, or, worse, lead her further from her goal, but he doesn’t. Instead, Nikolai walks purposefully in the right direction. As they draw closer, she starts to lead instead, recognizing familiar landmarks as Nikolai’s grasp on the territory leaves him.

They talk the whole time over, and Nikolai can’t help but be surprised that someone from that damned city would be able to match his snapping wit measure for measure. A few times, Nikolai wants to bite his own tongue, certain that he’s been too rough or clunky for some girl still glowing with the thrill of someone else’s approval, but she just laughs even harder.

He finds himself watching her out of the corner of his eyes, waiting for her to grow tired of him, but she never does. It makes Nikolai wonder if maybe the city has changed, if maybe there’s room for him there again. If someone like her can belong to it, well, perhaps he can too.

This isn’t what he’s supposed to be doing, what he’s supposed to be feeling. Sturmhond is harsh, uncaring, cruel; he does not fasten himself to strange girls with a stitch of borrowed time. Nikolai doesn’t trust himself to say goodbye to her, unsure if he even could, so he disappears into the shadows again the moment the hotel is within sight. He lingers for a second, halfway down an alley, watching the girl turn around to thank him. Her brow furrows with surprise, and she searches the empty streets for him before eventually settling on nothing and slipping inside.

Nikolai is not aware of the fact that his path will cross with the girl’s anymore. He does not know that their futures are hopelessly, inescapably bound together, that there is no one without the other nor would he ever want there to be. He doesn’t. But you do.

Even if he never sees her again, intentionally doesn’t go to her concert so he can avoid something stubborn like missing her, Nikolai walks away from that encounter changed. He’s thinking about Ravka again in a way he hadn’t before, and it starts to gnaw at him, tearing open wounds he thought were long since scarred over.

Eventually, his conscience gets to screaming a little too loudly, and Nikolai has no choice but to respond. His actions start developing for the better. He doesn’t rob kids with nothing, he folds them into his ranks. Sturmhond doesn’t capsize random fishing boats for fun, he goes after the big schooners piloted by the corporate bigwigs who don’t pay their taxes and dump refuse in the water. Everything he does benefits the coastal town in some way, even if it isn’t immediately obvious. Framing goodwill as reckless youth gives Nikolai a lot of leeway that others don’t have.

It’s this newfound interest in being on the right side of the line, however, that does Nikolai in at last. Nikolai is coming back late at night, perusing the dark streets in search of trouble, when he stumbles upon some arrogant asshole trying to rob two young people at gunpoint. Usually, this is the part where Nikolai just ignores the whole affair, but he recognizes the gunslinger as someone who owes him money.

This, of course, is why he challenges the would-be thief, not because of the way the two victims, clearly brother and sister, keep trying to protect each other from the path of potential bullets. Not because Nikolai remembers having a sibling of his own. Not because he wishes he could have counted on Vasily to care even half as much as one of these strangers.

Regardless, he throws a few punches and the kid runs off into the night clutching a broken nose. Nikolai shakes the blood from his hand and moves to leave, but one of the twins– a girl, with close-cropped black hair that makes her eyes stand out even more in the moonlight– calls out to him.

“Nikolai Lantsov?”

Nikolai freezes in his tracks. He didn’t tell anyone in this town his last name, and hardly anyone his first if he could avoid it. Slowly, carefully, he turns back around.

“I don’t know who you’re talking to,” he says as casually as he can, “but it isn’t me.”

The girl shakes her head, moving carefully forward as if she expects him to run like a wild animal. Maybe he will. Neither of them know for sure. “It is. You’re supposed to be at university, right? Saints,” she laughs, “you’re supposed to be blond, too, but it looks like neither of those things turned out true.”

Nikolai glares at her. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but you’ve clearly mistaken me for someone else. I should have just let that kid shoot you.”

“But you didn’t,” the brother presses, “because you’ve got a good heart. Because you got that from somewhere else. You are Nikolai Lantsov.”

It isn’t a question now. Nikolai sighs and, after glancing around to ensure no one can overhear them, fixes his gaze on the pair. “Yes. What do you want?”

The girl sighs in relief. “Thanks for not running. Took us a hell of a time just to find you. You’re too good at covering your tracks. I’m Tamar, by the way. This is Tolya.”

Nikolai’s eyes narrow. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Tolya nods solemnly. “Your parents need you back. The world needs you back. We recently joined your talent agency, we were tasked with trying to bring you home.”

“I am home,” Nikolai says defiantly, “that place isn’t mine. I appreciate the effort, but tell the agency to get someone else to star in a show or two. My parents’ fame can stand on its own without me mucking things up.”

“Actually,” Tamar argues, “it can’t. Things are starting to come out about Alexander’s relations with a younger model, Genya Safin. Your mother has been under fire as well for refusing to speak out about it. And then there’s Vasily–”

Nikolai cuts her off, already getting the picture. “Alright, so they’re in trouble. Who cares?”

“You do,” Tolya says softly. The worst part is that he might be right.

Still, that doesn’t mean that Nikolai has to like it. “No, I don’t. I left for a reason. I’m not coming with you.”

He turns his back on them before they can argue further. Nikolai storms in silent fury the whole way back. Who do these twins think they are, barging into his town with such a demand? Nikolai doesn’t owe them anything. Ravka isn’t his place, his family has no claim on Nikolai’s legacy. They haven’t cared about him this whole time, but now that they’re broken, they need him back to fix them up. Ridiculous.

Yet Nikolai lies awake the whole night, wondering what it would be like to go back. In truth, this city isn’t Nikolai’s, but Sturmhond’s, and that’s a big difference. There’s a reason Nikolai always feels like he’s playing a part, running with the wrong sort of people in the hopes that it’ll make him feel right. Being Sturmhond has been wonderful, an escape utterly unlike anything Nikolai even dreamed about, but you do have to wake eventually. Maybe this is his call to arms.

Nikolai struggles deep in mental warfare for the next day and night, then comes to a decision. He packs his things, then unpacks them, then packs them again. He drops off his teal coat at the house of his second in command along with a note explaining that he’s leaving again. At roughly three in the morning, Nikolai shows up on the door of Tolya and Tamar’s house. They never told him where they live, but this is his territory and he has a way of figuring out what he wants.

Inside, they’re already awake. Tamar nods, keeping all but the slightest trace of satisfaction from her smirk. “We were waiting for you,” she says, and Nikolai sees the packed suitcases in the corner of the room.

Evidently he was easy to predict. That should anger him, but instead, Nikolai chooses to take it as further proof that this is the choice he was always meant to make.

And so he leaves behind his escape, his dream, his chance at being normal. His destiny has been to live and die in that accursed city, and although it has been paradise to push that off even temporarily, Nikolai could never truly leave, not forever. Fate doesn’t like it when its characters are offstage for too long. Something would always come about to drag Nikolai back, and now here he is.

He was gone for a few years, but it feels like he never spent more than an hour away. Nikolai looks up at the towering skyscrapers and knows that nothing has changed, not really. He stands alone in his new apartment with his blond hair peeking through bloody roots and lets go of the idea that he could ever be anything but this, a Lantsov, a figurehead. When he opens his eyes, he is back again. The prodigal son has returned. It is time to see what horrors he will commit in the name of making things right again.

series tag list: @neelia-ficrecs

grishaverse tag list: @rogueanschel, @deadreaderssociety, @cameronsails, @mxltifxnd0m, @story-scribbler, @retvenkos, @thatfangirl42, @amortensie, @gods-fools-heroes, @bl606dy, @auggiesolovey

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spaghettificationandpretzels · 2 years

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The Reaper and The Death Angel Snippet 4 - The Charming Gazette

Who doesn't love a bit of world-building?

Series Masterlist

Part 30

Contains: A little it of fluff

895 Words

Comment if you want to be tagged.

From meaningless scuttlebutt to breaking news The Charming Gazette has it all.

Living in a small town meant a small-town newspaper, in this case The Charming Gazette. Run by a mix of fresh out of high school kids who want to be journalists, in the know towns folk and small-time writers and photographers.

For just three dollars a week, the paper could be delivered to your door seven days a week, three-hundred and sixty-five days a year. It wasn't the largest publication, there was a section for the local businesses, another for school sports and obituaries.

Sometimes, they wrote about the Club, Clay was good friends with the head of the paper so it was never bad. Sometimes they wrote about weather events or the change of seasons. There was the occasional huge story, like when the new fish monger was caught selling fake crab but most of the time, it was such small-town gossip and fluff pieces.

Although, that didn't stop everyone from reading it, and you can best bet at least one article would be the topic of every breakfast table in Charming.

"Did you see the front page today?" You took the paper from your brother.

"The guys at Teller Morrow help local business."

You nodded, "yes I did. I'm pretty sure what Clay has going on with Jerry is illegal, I thought the news was supposed to be impartial."

Sam shook his head, "it's not when the head writer's sons works for Unser and Jerry's been getting free services for years."

The article was simple, and went on to talk about how after a truck fire, the local ice cream man was out of work, so T-M built him a custom truck and offered half-price service as long as he was in business.

"To be fair, he makes the ice cream himself and it's amazing, I don't blame them if they made him pay them hin chocolate chip Sundays."

****

"Wow, they've really got it in for Hale." Clay tossed the paper to the side, everyone had stopped by Gemma's for a nice weekend breakfast and the paper this morning was being passed from person to person.

"Dirty development done dirt cheap."

"Good, does anyone in this town want what Hale does. Even his brother dislikes him."

Jax shook his head, "you should have heard Earl go on and on about Hale harassing him to buy his house, he might wanted his lawn mower fixed but I'm pretty sure he was looking to hire Happy for some other work."

Gemma laughed, "wouldn't that be a story."

****

"Fun at Francine's Fabrics."

"Are you going to the sewing class on the weekend?"

You nodded your head, "Of course, I mean, I know how to sew but she always orders the fabrics I need so I want to support her."

Sam nodded, "yeah, some of the guys are going to be there. She's a good lady."

The piece about her shop was nice, the author had won the high school textile competition that year and wanted to give credit for all help Francine had given them. You hoped it would drum up business for her. Francine was a kind woman in her mid-fifties who went out of her way to help everyone who entered her store.

"She deserved every cent of what she makes this weekend, I'm glad the paper decided to run the story."

****

Jax put the paper in front of you, "what have I told you about sharing your achievements with me?"

You shook your head, "it was under duress, the museum made Holt force me to do it."

"Charming's own Miss Frizzle."

Jax dramatically opened the paper, reading the article out loud.

"Our tour started with a warm hello and the statement that there are no stupid questions, only stupid answers. Dr l/n took us through her lab where she and her colleagues help law enforcement identify missing persons."

"Dr l/n or y/n as she insisted we call her believes that science should be for everyone, and when she's not giving a voice to those who had theirs stolen, she's teaching the kids of Charming Elementary all about the world on her wildly popular tours."

"But that's not all, the quiet Charming resident is also an author and activist who spends her free time lecturing at various universities and speaking at the UN."

You shook your head, "ok Jackson enough. You are insufferable." He smiled and went to the cupboard, getting out the scissors, "what are you doing."

He picked up the paper again and started cutting, "I'm framing this."

You thumped his arm, "do you enjoy embarrassing me?"

He smirked like a cat who just caught a mouse, "no, I want to hang it in my locker."

****

Jerry answered the phone, "hello sir, I have a story I'm sure you'll love to run."

He picked up his notepad, "what is it?"

He could hear that the person was outside the paper's office, "in two days, something is going to break and you're going to want to be the first person to talk about it. Outside in the rose bush is a folder filled with photos, with plenty of proof to your story. All I ask, is that you run it under my headline."

Jerry sent someone out and sure enough, they came back with a thick yellow folder. He was shocked when he opened it. "Done, what's the headline?"

"Fascists at our door."

Part 31

Just a short one to add context for the next chapter which should be up tomorrow. I hope you liked this plot device.

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tomoyajpeg · 2 years

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A Friend, A Detour, A Way Home - Part Two

Tsukasa: (Onee-sama... ah, there she is.)

Onee—

Tori: Ah, it’s Anzu! Heeeey, Anzu~ ♪

You didn’t think you were gonna see me here, huh? You must be sooo happy, right? Ehehe♪

Tsukasa: (Th-that’s unfair...! Tori-kun may have gotten to her first, but the one Onee-sama made a promise with is me!)

Tetora: Ahaha. Tori’s always kind of a clingy little squirrel around Angeo, huh?

Tsukasa: Indeed. No matter how much time passes, it seems like he will always be a spoiled child.

Midori: ...Suou-kun, aren’t you walking kinda fast, all of a sudden?

Tsukasa: Y-you’re just imagining things.

Thank you for your hard work, Onee-sama. I look forward to working with you today.

...You were surprised because I arrived with such a large amount of people, I see. You have my deepest apologies for startling you.

Though we have a photoshoot scheduled for today, may I suggest that we partake in their assistance and take photographs of us all playing at the “arcade” after school?

Fufu. I’m honored by your compliments. "We'll be able to take some good "high school student"-like photos there," you say?

...So this is, indeed, the way high school students spend their time.

No, it’s nothing. Well, then, let us proceed, Onee-sama.

Time: 30 minutes later...

Tsukasa: So, this is the "arcade?"

Tsukasa: I see. Just as I’ve been told, there are indeed a great variety of Games here.

I would also like to try playing one. Harukawa-kun, may I ask you to inform me of the etiquette needed for an arcade?

Sora: Etiquette? The rules are different depending on what game it is, but first, you should put money in the game machine you want to play on~

Tsukasa: I understand. To start out, I shall try that on this nearby Game machine.

...Hm? I cannot locate the Card slot.

Shinobu: Yes, you can’t use a credit card. Usually, games like these take something like a 100-yen coin.

Tsukasa: I-is that so? I tend to make most of my payments by Card, so I instinctively...

I do carry some physical currency on me, just in case, but I don’t seem to have any 100-yen coins...

What is it, Onee-sama? ...Hm. I see, if I use that currency exchange machine over there, I will be able to acquire a 100-yen coin.

I’ll go do that, so please do whatever you’d like, everyone.

Midori: So it’s a free period, then. Okay, then maybe I’ll go check out that crane game...

When we went by, I saw that there were mascot character plushies... ♪

Tetora: I’m gonna take on that arm-wrestling machine!

Today, I’m gonna see if I can beat the unshakable record of that legendary player, “ADNS”~!

Sora: Sora will play that candy-catching game over there! Sora’s going to get a present for Shisho~

Shinobu: I will be challenging a rhythm game! I’ll aim for the position of Bongo Master... ☆

Tori: Oh, can I come along too? That game looks super embarrassing to play all by yourself, so I've never tried.

Time: After a little while...

Tsukasa: (...Everyone looks like they’re having fun.)

(But, I...)

.......

.......? Ah, Onee-sama.

Why am I not playing anything? Um...

...To be honest, I’m not sure what I should do. Even though you asked me to take pictures of myself when I am acting as a “high school student”—

In the end, I was unable to find a solution by myself. The academy is simply a place for learning, and I don’t really have friends who spend time with me after school.

Seeing that I was troubled, Harukawa-kun reached out to me. I was only able to get this far riding on the coattails of everyone’s suggestions.

While being swept along, I found myself here. I was unable to conduct myself like a normal high school student.

...Why are you beckoning me this way? “There’s somewhere I want to take you to,” you say?

Of course. I shall accompany you anywhere you wish, Onee-sama.

Location: A different floor of the arcade...

Tsukasa: This is...? There are quite a few of these large, box-like machines lined up in a row.

“Pur*kura”... I see. One can take pictures of themself using a Camera~, and then print them out. [1]

! This poster says “No Boys Allowed”! I must make my exit quickly, then...

Why have you stopped me? ...That only applies to unaccompanied males?

...As long as one is with a girl, then it is fine, I see. Certainly, that is indeed written on the poster as well... I apologize for jumping to an incorrect conclusion so hastily.

First, insert the money... Do you decide on what kind of photograph to take while outside of the machine?

Portrait mode, Filter effects...? I don’t quite understand these options...

...Alright, I’ve done it. Next, let us enter and take our photographs. After you, Onee-sama.

Oh, there are words displayed on the screen... “Follow the instructions for a perfect picture! ☆”

Fufu. As an Idol, photographs are my forte. I will respond perfectly, no matter what Pose I am given.

Say “meow meow” and imitate a cat...? This is the first time I have been assigned such a thing, u-um...

Meow, meow... ♪

Ugh. That ended up coming out quite awkwardly.

P-please do not laugh at me... Ah, the next instruction is here.

Please watch me! The next pose I make will be absolutely perfect!

Time: A few minutes later...

Tsukasa: ...Ohh. Not only can you change the background, but you can also enlarge your eyes and make your eyelashes longer, it seems.

So this is called a “touch-up.” ...Come to think of it, Narukami-senpai has said something like that before. ☆ [2]

I recall her smiling happily while looking in the dressing room mirror, saying “Touch-up successful!”

At the time, I had wondered why her "touch" was "up", but now I understand... Unexpectedly, I was able to resolve the questions I had.

Now, all that’s left is to wait for the pictures to be completed... oh, are they already finished?

So this is my first “Pur*kura”... ♪

Fufu. I followed Onee-sama’s recommendation and added a filter, but it’s fascinating how it almost looks as if I am someone else entirely.

Is this how I appeared, taking these photographs? “You may have been taking cues from someone else, but you looked like you were having fun, like a high schooler,” you say...

I’m certain that is because Onee-sama was by my side.

For the Suou family, for work, for publicity... My photographs are usually for the sake of someone else.

Even the photographs that I take myself are all of scenery, or animals. I rarely take pictures of myself.

That’s why I’m truly happy to have been able to take a picture with you like this.

Thank you very much, Onee-sama... ♪

—That’s right, isn’t it. This is a place where one does not have to act formally, and can play around without a care in the world.

Just like how Onee-sama invited me to take a “Pur*kura” together, I should spend time with everyone without feeling hesitant.

Therefore... your hand, please, Onee-sama.

Fufu. You, too, are a high school student. That’s the appropriate age to play together with your friends at an “arcade,” is it not?

Let us seal away all the troublesome matters of everyday life, and enjoy ourselves for now.

Purikura, short for "print club," is a photo booth machine where you add filters and can draw on the photos after you've taken them. Once you're done, the machine prints the photos out as stickers.

In JP, he calls it “盛る,” slang for making yourself look cuter than usual, specifically by applying things like heavy makeup or photo filters.

#enstars #suou tsukasa

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kiri-cuts · 1 year

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Elliott Smith, Frank Ocean, and a chair between them

At the 1998 Academy Awards ceremony, Elliott Smith took to the stage in an ill-fitting white suit accompanied by a fine mop of messy tresses. Behind him, an orchestra filled the auditorium with bouquets of strings in accompaniment to “Miss Misery” –- the credits tune from Gus Van Sant’s “Good Will Hunting,” and an Oscar nominee for best original song.

“This isn’t like some song I wrote for the movie,” he’d told his friend, Mark Flanagan, a night earlier during a drinking hangout that lasted until 5 am. Flanagan encouraged him not to back out of performing at the ceremony. No matter how uncomfortable he felt, it was a one-of-a-kind experience for him to be part of.

And so, he turned up and he stood there in the center of a comically oversized stage, his melodic whisper of a vocal lilting with the occasional show of nerves. Between every finger-picked chord, he attempts to make eye contact with the glitzy audience, but barely lifts his eyes beyond his fretboard. When he’s finally brave enough to take in the full view of the room, the song is almost over, and his relief is visible. It’s doubtful that any musician has ever projected so much discomfort at the Oscars.

As photographer Autumn de Wilde recounted in her tribute book to her late pal, his distress during rehearsals was noted by the production team who attempted to accommodate him. “[So] Elliott says, ‘Well … can I have a chair?’” de Wilde recounted. Their response? “That we can’t do.”

Following his main performance, Celine Dion –- who took the Oscar home that night for “My Heart Will Go On,” from “Titanic” –- gave him a hug. “She was the nicest person I’ve met in a while,” he told Rolling Stone a few months later. “Afterward I’d get these indie-rock kids saying, ‘I can’t believe you had to hold Celine Dion’s hand.’ I said, ‘I liked holding her hand because she’s a nice person. In fact, right now you’re being much more narrow-minded and shallow than she is. You’re in a very backward position here, You should rethink it.'”

The inclusion of his music in such a mainstream film changed everything for him. As de Wilde put it, “It was the movie that made … the common man, someone who we felt we were different from, know who he was.”

But just because musicians are thrust into the public eye doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re ready or willing to carry the weight of such a platform –- the scrutiny, the attention, or the expectations. Once an artist achieves a certain level of fame, the public can apparently make demands of how that person conducts themselves and even performs. The act of creating music or performing it becomes transactional on a level that not everyone is comfortable with –- the actual person behind the songs can be removed from the great general consciousness of it, and replaced with an icon. Or, more accurately, a product. Content. It was a set of values that Smith was well aware of and seemed eager to push back against. Discussing his raw and unflinchingly intimate songwriting and performance style, he told Rolling Stone, “I don’t intend what I do to be especially revealing. It’s not like I just reel it out of my subconscious. I don’t think of what I’m doing as punk, but I really like punk. The things that I like about it are not stylistic things, they’re human things. Stylistic things aren’t enduring; human things are.”

I thought about all of this during Frank Ocean’s highly criticized 2023 performance at Coachella, and the backlash surrounding the troubled set. In the liner notes to his 2016 masterpiece, “Blond,” Smith is amongst the variety of names that he gives credit to. Of course, that’s likely due to him using a sample of “A Fond Farewell to a Friend” in “Siegfried,” but I’ve always believed the credit extends far beyond his use of that track. While they may seem like an unlikely pairing, Smith and Ocean share sensibilities central to their approach and their sound. After all, it’s easy to imagine the songwriter behind “White Ferrari” making a similar statement to Rolling Stone about how his musical process isn’t driven by stylistic decisions, but human things. Like Smith, Ocean’s music is tactile and intimate, and though it feels personal, it often draws from experiences beyond Ocean’s own. The two are capable of inhabiting and scoring the trauma of adolescence –- and indeed, of love, grief, and feeling displaced and othered by society in ways beyond your control –- in a way that is distinctly rare.

On stage at Coachella, after stripping an elaborate ice rink performance from the stage at the last minute, Ocean obscured his face from the audience with his hood and performed discordant remixes of a handful of his beloved songs in a way that made for uncomfortable and unwanted listening for those who expected record-perfect renditions of the hits. It was raw and vulnerable, and messy in its unfiltered heartbreak. It was the musical equivalent of what Smith had said –- Stylistic things aren’t enduring; human things are.

Unlike Smith at the Oscars, Ocean was given a chair to sit on. However, that was allegedly only because he’d sustained an ankle injury on the festival site –- said to be the reason for the last-minute change to the production as doctors apparently urged him not to fuck with ice whilst his ankle was busted.

There was a legitimate sadness to the brief set that was worsened by the scores of critics lambasting him for being a diva. How dare he not deliver exactly to their exact specifications –- as though they’d placed an order at a McDonald’s drive-thru and were suddenly furious that their requests for extra sauce and no gherkins were wilfully ignored.

In comment sections across the internet, people who likely pride themselves on listening to “proper music” pointed out that Dave Grohl –- a man who would likely turn his morning turd into a promotional opportunity if only Pitchfork would pick up the exclusive for it –- once continued to play a show with a broken leg. But not everyone is Dave Grohl, nor do they want to be. And although it means something to accept an invitation to perform on stages as big as the Oscars and Coachella, not every brain or body is equipped to handle the magnitude of such spaces or the number of eyes that will pin themselves to the performance, nor the sharp tongues that will eviscerate it.

In 2020, Ocean’s brother, Ryan Breaux, died in a car crash, aged 18. In the middle of his widely loathed Coachella performance, the musician revealed that he wasn’t exactly a fan of the festival, but he came because of his brother. By all accounts, the performance was for him.

"My brother and I came to this festival a lot, I felt like I was dragged out here half the time because I hated the dust," he told the audience. “... I know he would've been so excited to be here with all of us.”

On an episode of their podcast, “Empty Netters,” former hockey player brothers, Dan and Chris Powers claimed that they had been two of the 120 ice skaters hired to perform on the stage during the extravagant set. While they highlighted a chaotic production, full of last-minute alterations that were poorly communicated, they also expressed how deeply Ocean had cared about making the show something spectacular and special for his fans –- and for his late brother.

“It just broke my heart,” Chris said. “... He clearly put a ton of weight on this performance. First of all, he’s coming out of hiding [after] seven years of not performing. He’s doing this for the memory of his brother. And he just wanted it to be this big thing and then … everything was gone and it was cut short.”

If the overblown and disproportionately negative response to his performance is anything to go by then nobody is in cahoots with Smith’s belief that human things are more valuable than stylistic ones. But for me here, watching the set via some dodgy footage on Twitter, it meant the world. His jagged, off-beat rendition of “White Ferrari” brought me to my damn knees. But online, all anyone could do was jeer. People wanted their money’s worth –- and apparently, that’s all an artist amounts to in 2023.

Just as many of Smith’s albums have been for me throughout my life, “Blond” is my chapel. It has been ever since its release, and it continues to be. With every passing year, the album takes on new significance and introduces new curiosities and mysteries. It’s an album to grow with, and if you’re listening correctly, it grows with you.

And that’s an absolute privilege to experience -- not a right.

#frank ocean #elliott smith #coachella 2023 #blond #oscar performances

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