#anyway that's just an anecdote and also something i have seen countless times before. she isn't alone in that feeling | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

flamingo-writes · 4 years

Text

Here With Me — Bakugo x Reader. Ch 1

Multichapter, Chapter 1: Can I Tell You Something Just Between You And Me?

[Next]

Summary: After hearing endless stories about Kirishima’s sister, the two of them finally meet. And for the first time, Bakugo feels something new in him, something he knows and hates to admit it.

A/N: I’ve been thinking abut this for almost a month now, but didn’t bring myself to write it. Now, being thinking about this for so long, I guess it was obvious it’d end up as a multi chapter (to my own surprise, can you believe that?). I’ll try to post this constantly, also to force myself to write because I’ve been ridiculously lazy about writing for a while now and I want to break that slump. If you’d like to be tagged, please let me know! Also, one of my favorite songs inspired this title. Here With Me by Marshmello ft Chvrches

Posted: 01.28.2020

Word Count: 1.6K

Warnings: none

Something Bakugo Katsuki found oddly curious at first was how close Kirishima Eijiro was to his sister. Up to this point, he knew you from sight. You picked up Kirishima from school three times a week. He knew your name from the countless times your little brother talked about you. You were quirkless and you were on your last year of high school and were working with a paramedic, as their apprentice, with the intention to become one in the future.

It was stupid how much Kirishima talked about you, thought Bakugo. The admiration was evident, although it kinda made sense to Bakugo, since, despite being quirkless, you were still determined to become someone who helped people.

“Today my sister got her acceptance letter from the college she applied to!” Kirishima cheered as he walked out of the classroom, ready to head back.

“Congrats” Bakugo said dryly not really caring.

“We’re going to her favourite restaurant. Wanna come with us?”

“Why would I want to go to your sister’s dinner?”

“She told me I could invite you! She knows a thing or two about you from anecdotes, plus she watched the sports festival”

“Yeah?” Bakugo asked, still uninterested.

“Yeah! C’mon dude! You’ll like her, she’s cool! Besides, there’s this delicious spicy hot curry you have to try!” Wrapping an arm around his friend’s shoulders, he knew the idea of spicy food would catch his attention.

And despite his best attempts to turn him down, the idea of trying spicy food was appealing. Considering it was free food, Bakugo agreed not as bitterly.

By the time the two of them walked towards the entrance, Kirishima spotted your small blue car. As usual, Eijiro climbed into the seat next to yours, as Bakugou sat behind you.

“Bakugo, this is my sis! Sis, Bakugo” Kirishima smiled proudly, as the endless stories finally took a human shape for Bakugo to see up close.

“It’s good to finally meet you, Bakugo-kun” You said looking at him from the rear mirror and smiling warmly.

“Yeah, same… “ Bakugo hissed in a low voice. “Congrats, by the way” He said lowly more as a polite gesture towards Kirishima, than to yourself.

“Thank you! How kind of you” you cheered smiling through the mirror once more.

There was something in your kindness that felt repulsive at first to him. He wasn’t used to that sort of gentle kindness. However, seeing you interact with his friend was a whole different story.

The closeness, and genuine bond the two of you shared. He’d never seen Eijiro so relaxed, and the way you seemed to flow with the same natural chill, talking back and forth as if you two were the closest friends, surprised him.

It made him painfully aware of his aggressive nature. Growing up as a prodigy, sure made him turn into someone arrogant. He knew this, but wasn’t precisely bothered by it. However, that same arrogance always kept his friends at a considerable distance. He found himself craving a close bond like the one he was seeing before him. What does it feel like, having someone you trust so unconditionally?

It didn’t come as a surprise to him, that you were so friendly. Your brother, Eijiro, was no different. And it still amazed him how despite his sarcasm and mood swings, Kirishima didn’t seem to mind any of it and stuck by his side. Always with a smile on his face. You were as friendly, and ignored his rudeness with such an ease that he felt both bothered and intrigued.

And that’s how it began. After that celebration dinner something in him happened. There was this faint trace of anxiety that twisted his gut whenever he saw you or heard your name. He wasn’t stupid, and right away could put a name to whatever he was feeling. Even though he refused to admit it, even to himself.

Since that day, Kirishima was constantly inviting him over for dinner, or you gave him a ride home after school. Bakugo was constantly seeing you. He liked it, but he also hated it. He hated feeling anxious and sweatier than usual when you were around. He hated the beats his heart would skip whenever you smiled at him. He hated even thinking about what was going on with him. He’d never felt anything similar towards anyone, and it annoyed him that he didn’t know how to deal with it

“Oi, Bakugo” Kirishima greeted him walking up to him in the hall. “Hey, can I ask you something real quick?”

“You just did” Katsuki said monotonously.

“Clever, but no” Kirishima chuckled. “D’you mind if I give your phone number to my sister? She asked me for it on my way here, but I thought I’d ask you first, dude”

Bakugo’s heart seemed to stop briefly as he suddenly felt dizzy.

“What?” He growled.

“She showed me this very funny meme, and told me she’d like to send it to you. You’ll like it”

“Couldn’t she sent it to you and you show it to me?” Bakugo growled, suddenly nervous that you wanted his number. Was he being obvious? Getting altered this much by just a number? Bakugo suddenly felt paranoid.

“We didn’t think of it. Anyways, can I?” Kirishima chuckled awkwardly, not thinking much of his friend's behaviour. It was just textbook Bakugo.

In an attempt to read Kirishima's body language, for the sake of his consuming nerves and self awareness, Bakugo didn't conclude anything. He sighed deeply, trying to bring himself to relax.

“Do whatever the fuck you want, I don’t care” He said walking inside the classroom, trying his best to "act normal" even though he had been since the beginning.

“Great!” Kirishima said, hopping to his seat and typing on his phone.

During the class, he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. Briefly, a couple of times. His mind, instantly paranoid, he thought that it might be you. Discreetly, he pulled his phone out and looked at the screen, announcing a couple of new messages from an unknown number.

'Hello Bakugo-kun, it’s me!' He read the notification.

Unlocking his phone, he opened his messages to the sweet surprise.

'Hello Bakugo-kun, it’s me! Kirishima [Name]! How is it going? Sorry to bother you, can I tell you something just between you and me? Also! Here, have a meme to brighten up your day!'

Tch, how dumb...He thought, yet with a gentle smile on his face.

'I told Eiji-chan' — Katsuki began reading

Eiji-chan? I'm gonna use that to tease him, Katsuki thought looking up from his phone and looking at the red head sitting in front of him.

—'I’d give him a gift for entering UA,'- He continued reading your texts —'but I haven’t bought him anything. I am the worst sister, I swear! Then I thought "I could throw him a surprise party" and then it occurred to me, why not invite his UA friends and celebrate that all of you made it in??'

Before answering, he saved your number.

'How corny, jfc' He typed and sent it to you.

You didn't take long to answer his text. And after a few minutes his phone vibrated a few times once more.

'Thank you. I’d like to keep it a secret, though. You think you could help me organize it? Invite his friends, and organize them. I’ll get everything for the party. Will you help me?'

'You seriously are the cheesiest, it's grossing me out' He answered. 'Fine, I’ll do it'

'Yay! Thank you Bakugo-kun! ♡♡ I owe you BIG!!'

'Yeah, sure. I’m in class atm, I’m trying to pay attention'

'Oh right! I’m I'm sorry for distracting you! Have an enriching class, Bakugo-kun! Text ya later!'

As much as he tried to concentrate, it was hard in the beginning. The scene kept replaying in his head a few times before he was able to focus on the class. The set of hearts framing his name puzzled him. A torturous shame made him feel dumb, getting excited over a few texts, how lower could he sink?

After class, he texted you once or twice throughout the afternoon. Trying his best not to desperately open your text to answer them. He wasn't going to become a desperate idiot like everyone else around him usually did when they had a cru--

"[Name]'s here!" Kirishima's voice distracted him from his thoughts as he looked at your car. "Bye bro! See you tomorrow!" Kirishima hopped like a sheep towards the car, goad that school was over.

You looked at Bakugo and waved at him as he just raised his hand in response. His heart wild in his chest, he remembered he was about to admit his crush on you. And with every curse word he knew, he cursed at himself.

"Bakugo-kun!" You shouted from the car. "You want a ride home?"

He looked at you, ans seriously thought about it. Already having a hard time trying to pretend he wasn't developing a crush on you. He looked at his feet, trying to bring himself to reject the ride this time.

"Nah, I'm good" he said. "I feel like walking today?"

"You sure?" You insisted.

For fucks sake, stop! He thought, feeling his body tense up.

"Yeah" He hissed.

"Okay then. Be careful though! Text us when you get home safe and sound"

It was very uncomfortable how much you seemed to watch over him. Maybe it was your older-sister instincts kicking in. But not even his mother worried that much about him.

Bakugo didn't answer. He just stared quietly. Interpreting his silence as a yes, you waved at him once more before driving off.

#my hero academia imagines #my hero academia #my hero academia x reader #mha imagines #mha bakugou #bnha imagines #bnha bakugou #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo imagine

141 notes · View notes

adventures-in-mangaland · 6 years

Text

ChatBug!

Hey @judiejodia, here is your full Christmas present for @mlsecretsanta! (I was on tumblr mobile before.). I tried for Beauxbatons, and failed, but I’ll try to finish it for you one day! In the meantime, have silly identity/friendship shenanigans. Also, link to the fic on AO3 here.

It was an act of desperation.

Mme Bustier stood at the head of the class, smiling benignly, completely unaware of the despair she had inspired.

“I’ll be collecting your forms now. I do hope you all found a suitable placement for the next two weeks. Remember, M. Damocles and I will be reviewing all your applications, and depending on their approval, you should all be able to begin your Work Experience on Monday!”

She seemed delighted for them. Marinette just cringed, sinking even lower into her seat.

This is going to be so humiliating.

She had tried everything.

She had asked everyone in the class (except Chloe) if their parents might have work experience placements for students in their work places. She had contacted countless Fashion Houses and Design Studios. She had scoured the newspapers and Yellow Pages. She had asked random customers at the bakery and phoned all of her parents’ friends. She had even advertised her desperation on Craig List.

Finally, she had asked Mme Bustier if she couldn’t just work at the bakery, only to be told her family’s business was not an option.

“It’s a chance to experience a new working environment, Marinette,” she had explained kindly. “To prepare you for your first day of work after you finish school.”

And then she had found it.

Her Salvation and Destruction in one neat bundle.

As her teacher collected the accursed form she groaned and let her head hit the desk with a defeated thunk. Alya patted her back sympathetically, clearly trying not to laugh, before shaking her head sternly at Nino when he turned around with an inquiring look.

But that thrice-damned sign she’d found pasted to the wall of the bakery, like a portent of doom, had been her only lead in her mad scramble of a job search, and the only positive response to boot.

So, as of Monday, she would be sacrificing her dignity in the name of Work Experience.

This was the worst day of her life.

Correction, this was the worst day of her life.

She stared at herself in the mirror through her parted fingers, aghast. The suit was not completely skin tight (it had not been designed for her, after all) and sagged in strange places, despite stretching tight over her bust. Not to mention the material was cheap and luridly bright. And the red of the boots they had given her to wear did not match the rest of the outfit, and had heels to boot.

Heels! I thought I was supposed to be doing a lot of walking! Why would they give me heels! Ladybug doesn’t even wear heels!

It was grossly unfair, especially as she had seen their Chat Noir’s costume, and he had not been subjected to the same indignity.

There was a knock at the door and it opened before she could squeak a reply.

“Ready?” It was Claudine, the co-ordinator of the Tour Company. She gave Marinette a once over and nodded her head in satisfaction.

“Good. Good. You’re a little younger than the real Ladybug, of course, and it shows, but you certainly look the part! Have you memorised your lines?”

Marinette gritted her teeth, but managed to nod with a smile.

She had memorised them. She had memorised every single cringe-worthy one.

Claudine beamed. “Excellent! I’m sure you’ll have a great time! Your Chat’s almost ready, and your first group should be arriving in about ten minutes, so just relax and go over the FAQ in the meantime. I must say, your knowledge is excellent. Just don’t let us down!”

On that passive-aggressive note, she waved and left the room, shutting the door with an unnecessarily loud bang behind her.

Marinette slumped.

This was definitely the worst day of her life.

This was the best day of his life.

Adrien grinned and bounced on his toes as he admired his reflection in the changing room’s mirror.

True, the material of his suit wasn’t real leather, was rather tacky, in fact, and true, his bell didn’t jingle right, and his tail was a limp, inanimate belt. But here he was Adrien Agreste, dressed up as his Crime-Fighting Alter-ego, and his Father couldn’t stop him.

He had tried, of course, insisting that as a celebrity, Adrien’s security could be threatened, that he didn’t even need work experience, since he had plenty with his modelling, and that if he had to waste two weeks of schooling, he might as well spend it doing something useful, like learning the ropes of his own future business.

But to Adrien’s intense gratification, Mme Bustier had stood firm.

No, the point of the placement was to expose Adrien to new experiences. No, he couldn’t spend the time working for his Father. No, he couldn’t work for any of his Father’s business associates at a rival Fashion House either.

She did concede the need for anonymity, for the sake of Adrien’s safety, a concession he was more than willing to embrace.

And then she had brought him the advertisement with a kind, expectant smile.

“I know it might be a little outside your comfort zone, Adrien. But I’ve noticed you’re a little shy sometimes, and this opportunity could really build your confidence! And your experience as a model should help. It’s a little silly, I know, but I think you could have a lot of fun with it.”

Lord knows, you need it.

She hadn’t needed to say it, but the words hung in the air, and Adrien whole-heartedly agreed.

So here he was, brimming with a tingly mixture of nerves and excitement. All the freedom he usually experienced as Chat Noir at his fingertips, and he was still Adrien.

No Gorilla, no schedule, no name.

Even his Father had admitted that, without the name Agreste, and with his face obscured by a mask, he was in no more danger than any other teenage boy. So, with strict instructions to call Nathalie at the beginning and end of every shift, and during his breaks, to prove he was still alive, he was free to explore Paris as himself.

He glanced at the clock. Claudine had said their first tour would be starting soon, so really it was time to go and meet his ‘Lady’. His stomach buzzed with nerves again and his smile faltered.

Would she like him? Could they be friends? What would she be like? It was weird he couldn’t tell her his name, wasn’t it? Would she find it creepy?

Anxiety began to overtake the excitement.

He had never really met people his own age outside of school before. And there he had a schedule, and clear, unwritten boundaries to dictate his behaviour. There he had Nino, not to mention school work to save him from the need to interact with anyone else. Not that he didn’t like socialising with his classmates, of course. But after a mostly solitary childhood, it could be overwhelming. What unspoken social conventions was he stepping on now? It was a mine field, one he was glad to walk, but nerve-wracking anyway.

His own reflection caught his eye again.

I’m Chat Noir. I’m a Superhero! I can do this.

Squaring his shoulders, he threw open the door.

And froze as he heard it make contact with someone’s face. Pushing the door more cautiously, it swung back to reveal a girl in a Ladybug costume, cradling her nose and swearing under her breath.

Shit. Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! What should I do? She’ll hate me!

“A-are you OK?”

She looked up and blue eyes met his, looking so much like his Lady as her face scrunched up into a scowl at the sight of him.

“I’m fine. No thanks to you. Stupid Cat.”

She immediately clasped her hands to her mouth, looking mortified and began to stutter an apology.

But, for whatever reason, her irritation eased the tension from his shoulders and pulled a smile from his lips. Whoever they’d hired to play Ladybug must have been a megafan, because her impersonation so far was excellent.

This was familiar. This was the pattern of so many of his actual encounters with his Lady. True, it wasn’t real, but he could pretend; this whole job was about pretending. And no one could do Chat Noir better than him.

He straightened, stretching as an excuse to flex, while watching her out of the corner of his eye.

“I am so sorry, My Lady. What can I say? I always make an impact!”

She just scowled and rolled her eyes, muttering something before saying more loudly: “Come on, you. The tour group will be here in five minutes. Let’s go over the routine.”

So it wasn’t too terrible.

Marinette loved Paris, and once she put over the indignity of the costume (and the one-liners), she rather enjoyed showing it off to tourists.

True, most of them were interested in hearing about how it had been torn up on numerous occasions – it was a Miraculous themed guided tour, after all – but that didn’t stop her attempting to sneak in some historical and cultural facts alongside epic accounts of explosions and akuma.

Surprisingly, her partner had been some help there. He acted like an irresponsible poser of a flirt, but he knew his history, always ready to back her up with a date or an anecdote, and even quotations.

He’d only mouthed “Home schooled” at her over an English tourist’s shoulder at her raised eyebrow.

He might have posed far too much, and he told terrible jokes, but he was kind of fun to be around.

And today, the biggest recompense of all.

“Jagged Stone!”

Turns out, he was a huge Ladybug fan. Not surprising, really, considering the number of times he had been caught up in akuma attacks, not to mention his own akumatisation. And to Marinette’s unending delight he had requested a private tour. With her.

“You’re that young girl who designed by glasses, right? And the cover of my album.”

Marinette fought to keep her face calm and composed.

“Yes! I am!”

So much for that.

“Great! You’ve got good taste! This tour will be rockin’!”

She wasn’t sure what her artistic taste had to do with her competency as a tour guide, but Marinette beamed until her cheeks ached.

Beside her, ‘Chat’ shuffled awkwardly, glancing surreptitiously at their guest with a slightly annoyed expression before ducking to whisper in her ear.

“You don’t have to make that weird face. He’s just a guy.”

Marinette’s smile froze. Fortunately, Jagged was busy chattering animatedly with his manager and hadn’t heard.

“What are you talking about?” Her lips barely moved as she attempted to keep the smile in place. “He’s Jagged Stone! He’s a rock star!”

And he remembered me.

She chose not to add that last part.

Her partner huffed and crossed his arms petulantly. “He’s still just a guy. He’s nothing special.”

This time, Marinette didn’t even try to cover her annoyance, huffing and fixing him with a look. “Oh, please! I saw how you reacted when you saw the roster for today. You actually screamed.”

“I did not scream!”

“Yes, you did! You were just as excited as me.”

“Well, at least I haven’t been drooling over him since he arrived! It’s not… It’s not professional!” He finished loftily, impressed with his own flash of inspiration.

“Well, I don’t think – ”

“Excuse me? Is there a problem?”

Jagged’s agent, Penny, was watching them with a look of concern. They both flushed at being caught bickering.

“Of-of course not! Everything’s fine. We’re just… preparing.”

“Yeah. Chill, Penny. They’re getting into character! They sound just like Ladybug and Chat Noir!” Jagged patted his manager’s shoulder, grinning at them expectantly. Marinette managed to return the smile weakly.

“Mr. Stone has met Ladybug and Chat Noir,” Mlle. Stone announced ominously as the Walking Tour got under way. The So you better not screw upwent unsaid, though Marinette would probably laugh about it later, when she wasn’t choking on completely irrational performance anxiety. Luckily, her Chat had no such issue.

“Oh yeah!” He said, with his usual cheerfulness. “I remember that one vividly. On the Eiffel Tower, right?”

Jagged preened, looking pleased by the acknowledgement. As if he wasn’t a famous Rock Star and akumatization wasn’t a traumatic event.

Chat laughed. “So, shall we skip that one on the Tour? Been there, done that?”

“No way!” Jagged cried, as oblivious as Chat to Marinette’s glower, because, really, that was just insensitive. “I want to know all about The Mime!”

“It was pawsitively awesome,” Chat agreed. “My Lady was breathtaking. Every swing of her yoyo wrapped itself a little tighter around my heart. And saved a precious landmark,” he added, as an after thought.

“Yes, she and Chat Noir saved the day, protecting the city’s heritage and preventing cat astrophic property damage and loss of life.”

Chat shot her a grin and a fist bump.

“Any other favourites?” Chat asked innocently.

“Oh yeah! I want to see that Plaza were Animan swallowed Ladybug! And the fountain where Ladybug fought Chat Noir! And Hotel de Ville! I have got to hear about Darkblade and Kung Food. I was there, but I don’t remember! It was wild!”

“We could do a re-enactment!” Chat exclaimed, brimming with enthusiasm.

“Would that be safe?” Mlle Rolling cut in, eyeing Chat dubiously.

For some reason, that irked Marinette. Sure, he was some teenager, not an actual super hero, his insistence on anonymity aside, but dammit, he was still her (temporary!) partner. She opened her mouth, and was saved from a breach in professionalism by Jagged cutting in.

“It’ll be totally fine!” he said, brushing away his manager’s concern, like crumbs.

“I’m just not sure if there’ll be time,” she hedged.

“Oh, no worries, Penny. I don’t know if you have noticed, but all these akuma attacks happen in this exact area.”

“Convenient,” she said dryly.

And it certainly was for Chatbug Tours, and for Marinette’s Work-Superhero-Life balance. It was almost as if she, Chat Noir and Hawkmoth all lived in the exact same neighbourhood.

Eh. It was great for tourism in Central Paris, at least.

So they stopped at Trocadéro for Timebreaker stories (Marinette did not tear up) and pictures of the view. And an epic recreation of the Eiffel Tower’s near death experience, complete with Chat whipping his cheap plastic baton around athletically and energetically enough to attract a small crowd.

They agreed not to cross the river, but continued on through the Right Bank, paying tribute to the Pharaoh at the Louvre - “Penny! What rhymes with Egyptian?” - and Stormy Weather’s Ice Dome park.

Jagged even exclaimed over the bakery as they passed the scene of Animan’s defeat.

“Penny! We should buy croissants!”

Marinette cringed. If her parents saw her in this get-up she might be forced to drown herself in the Seine. But Chat was already bouncing forward, like an overexcited kitten chasing a butterfly.

Heh. She’d have to save that one for Chat later - the real Chat, her Chat. It suddenly felt like ages since their last patrol.

“This is where Ladybug and I made our strategic…. retreat during the battle,” Fake Chat announced, interrupting the sudden onslaught of feelings . “But, that’s not all! Ladybug and I would be nothing without the brave citizens of Paris -”

“You wouldn’t have any akuma, for a start,” Mlle Rolling muttered.

“ - And this fact has never been more evident than during that tumultuous struggle! The Dupain-Cheng family, who own this bakery, risked their lives to protect us and sheltered us within these very walls!”

He was hamming it up mightily, clasping his hands to his chest with emotion. Jagged was enthralled and even Mlle Rolling looked reluctantly impressed. Despite herself, Marinette couldn’t help wiping her eyes. Her parents were awesome!

“We have got to go!” Jagged crowed, shaking his manager’s shoulder, like a child begging for a treat.

“Right!” Chat enthused. “Their madeleine are to die for!”

Also, wait. How did he know all this? Was he one of their regulars? She appraised him subtly, but, as usual, got nothing. Just a teenage boy her age, like millions of others in Paris.

He probably lived in the area. Perhaps his school was making him do Work Experience too?

Small world.

Chat started to cross the street, grinning like he could already taste the macaroons.

And that was when the screaming started.

#mlsecretsanta 2k17 #miraculous ladybug #fanfiction #xana's writing #ladybug #chat noir

9 notes · View notes

glimmerkeith · 7 years

Text

forgive my somewhat scattered thoughts here, but they’ve been the result of several good posts i’ve seen lately and convos w/ others and i’m just trying to articulate them as best as possible, even if it’s been said before, but anyway:

i’m really not sure why people still skate around the fact that john lennon was bisexual. i don’t care what you personally think or feel about yoko, there is plenty of valid (and also not so much) criticism of her, but the fact of the matter is that she knew john best in the world for years on end–and she said he was bi. there are countless stories and anecdotes of john’s relationships and encounters with other men over the years, all of which lead to the very obvious conclusion. he was bi (and a happy pride month to all my fellows out there).

why then, is this still something that isn’t discussed, mentioned in biographies, whatever? it’s well-known that of course, history is by and large written by older (and white) heterosexual men, to say nothing of classic rock history. it’s an industry utterly dominated by old straight white dudes, who do all the writing. and they can push whatever narrative they’d like to. the fact that john was into dudes is Not Very Punk Rock (or something), so it’s quietly pushed aside, ignored, or outright dismissed. never mind the overwhelming pile of contradicting evidence.

the same isn’t true of other white dude music icons, like freddie mercury, david bowie, and mick jagger (the last of whom was a contemporary in the same time period as john). all men who have had relationships/affairs with men and women alike. the difference here is that these were/are all guys who built their entire stage personas, their whole careers, their very image–on being flamboyant. on wearing different clothes, sometimes women’s clothes. on being “f*ggy” (to borrow a word lobbed at mick and keith too). they were challenging what masculinity was and looked like and what sexuality looked like at every performance they gave for a while. that’s simply who they were and how they chose to present themselves as well.

john was a member of the beatles, and this already connects him to an image i don’t think will ever change. not just the four identical mop-tops and the suits, so clean-cut and cute (but most definitely safe, most definitely heterosexual), but then the men who reshaped the entire music industry and the art itself as we know it–legacies. not people. legends. his tragic, horrific early death only further locks him into place, in short, john’s martyrdom keeps him as an icon that challenged authorities and conventions–but only musically. only politically. but sexually? no, never. he didn’t prance around and shimmy his hips like some of those other guys, there was no way he was one of “them.”

and i think as long as we have both a) a hero worship built around him and b) a running undercurrent of biphobia in not just the music world but society as a whole that dictates what sexuality does and doesn’t look like, it’ll never be embraced as common knowledge. and while true that it isn’t like john went around making it public himself, i’ve also got very little doubt in my mind that had he lived, we’d know a lot more about it today than what we’ve got. it makes me sad and frustrated for a lot of different reasons.

#this is to say nothing of paul which i think is different #a bit #i hope this makes sense i had to write it out lol #john lennon

31 notes · View notes

therewillbebeauty · 7 years

Text

i can’t wait to go home - shin soukoku (+ gin)

Day 4: mandarin orange / harry potter

After the defeat of Francis and the Guild, their relationship had settled into something more … normal.

While they were still at each other’s throats ninety-nine percent of the time, there were a few calm moments, sprinkled throughout their frantic lives, when Akutagawa would invite Atsushi to grab a quick cup of coffee, or Atsushi would cheerfully call upon Akutagawa’s expertise when picking a new winter coat. In those treasured pockets of solace, they would not speak of the Port Mafia, or the Armed Detective Agency, or the Guild, or Fyodor, or their rivalry, or abilities, or anything to do with work. This, in its casual entirety, was playtime.

Sometimes Gin comes along too, and that’s fine; she makes great conversation, and has an endless repertoire of anecdotes to tell, ranging from childhood memories to another man hitting on her. Both ends of the spectrum make Akutagawa bristle, and Atsushi giggles at the simplicity of it all, the normality. To passersby, they could be anybody, three nondescript teenagers laughing about their own private jokes.

Atsushi is not used to being average.

It’s nice.

Sometimes, they do dinner. Atsushi was the first to invite the two siblings over to his tiny apartment for a bowl of chazuke, and Gin had graciously returned the favor the next day, albeit with a more intricate meal, one clearly crafted at the hands of one who’s cooked for two before, judging by the careful arrangement of the vegetables draped faux-effortlessly over steamed white rice. It’s an entirely new experience for Atsushi, having someone lovingly prepare a meal for him with nothing expected in return except his company.

And lovingly, he supposes, is an accurate word. That’s what they have between the three of them, isn’t it? Obviously, Gin and Akutagawa love each other deeply; there are no bonds stronger than those brother and sister who have quite literally killed to stay together. And Atsushi recently has come to love Gin in the same way he loves Kyouka: as a younger sister or close companion. Akutagawa, he muses, is the same: a mellow friend, a literal partner-in-crime. Though their friendship isn’t always easy, peppered with fights more often than heart-to-hearts, it’s leisurely, relaxed, good-humored at times, and that’s enough.

Tonight is one of the nights when Gin texts Atsushi five minutes before he is supposed to be at their apartment which is fifteen minutes away, because she is making dinner and would he care to join? He rushes out of the door and down the street, ten minutes late as usual, and Akutagawa rolls his eyes at the jinko’s sweat and shortness of breath from running and Gin giggles delicately before pouring him a glass of water and inviting him to sit. He’s not deceived by her domestic act—he’s seen her hold a knife to countless throats and knows she could feasibly slit his, too—but he flops down on the cushion and drinks the glass in one gulp, before digging in. It’s warm and flavorful, and once he slows down and stops shoveling food into his mouth, they lapse into easy conversation.

After the food is gone, Gin clears the table and heads into the kitchen to do the washing-up. Atsushi offers to help, as always; Gin declines, as always. He and Akutagawa put away the kotatsu and Akutagawa settles down with the newspaper of the day, doubtlessly picked up off the street, or possibly plucked from the newspaper stand when the attendant was distracted, but never paid for. Akutagawa found it outlandish that newspapers should still be so expensive, when all the same news was available on the Internet for free, and anyways half the time he caused the news so he knows better than those shoddy reporters piecing the story together from tidbits and hairs left at the scene.

Atsushi wanders over to their bookshelf, which is congested with cook books, nonfiction historical books, romance novels, and crime dramas, all of which are Gin’s. The cook books she buys so she can experiment with new dishes for dinner; she claims Atsushi is probably suffering from multiple nutrient deficiencies due to his all-chazuke diet. She’s also secretly a history nut; her guilty pleasure is ancient China, for whatever reason. Atsushi’s asked; she couldn’t explain either.

The romance novels are simply because “I’m a sixteen-year-old girl, Atsushi-kun. Don’t you think I would enjoy romance, too? It’s nice to take a break from the bloodshed sometimes.” She speaks lightheartedly, but her smile is razor-thin, a silent warning not to tease. Atsushi may make rash decisions sometimes, but he is not about to challenge the silent assassin.

In contrast to her former statement, Gin enjoys crime dramas, too. “Sometimes, it’s nice to see the good guys win,” she says simply. Atsushi leaves it at that.

All this time, Akutagawa sits, silently reading his newspaper, eyes occasionally flicking over the top of the page to follow them.

Atsushi selects a worn paperback and sits down next to Akutagawa. He reads the faded gold letters printed on the purple cover softly to himself. “Harry … Potter.”

“That’s Gin’s,” Akutagawa says, and Atsushi snorts.

“Why would I think it was anyone else’s?” he banters, opening the front cover. At once, the story grips him: a young boy from an abusive family is whisked away from his troubles by a caring stranger, thrown suddenly into the amazing world of magic and mystery, and used for fight evil? Atsushi finds the parallels to his own life uncomfortably close, and yet it’s a sort of catharsis. It’s nice to feel like someone else outside this life went through some of the same tragedy that he did, and came out stronger for it. The compelling story carries him late into the night, and when he finally closes the back cover it’s already three a.m.

Gin has quite handily finished tidying the kitchen and is presumably sleeping. Akutagawa is still beside him, dozing. The newspaper print is bleeding onto his hands, consequence of him gripping it for so long. Atsushi moves to put the book back, and he stirs. “Ah, Jinko, you’re finally done with that book.” He stands up and heads into the now-immaculate kitchen. “You were reading for a long time. Are you hungry?”

Atsushi shakes his head no, but his growling stomach undermines his response. Akutagawa rolls his eyes and pours a glass of water before grabbing a mandarin orange (which Gin insists on buying even though her brother hates them) out of the bowl on the counter. He sets them gently on the floor beside Atsushi before heading over to the bookcase. Atsushi greedily wolfs down the orange before washing it down with the water. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

Akutagawa returns and tosses another book into Atsushi’s lap. The younger examines the cover gently: red lettering on a green cover. “Harry Potter? Didn’t I just read this one?”

“There are seven, total,” Akutagawa sighs. “Eight, if you count the play. We have them all. You can read more tonight if you want. I’m going to bed.”

“Then I should go,” Atsushi apologizes, hurriedly standing up and brushing out his clothes.

Akutagawa sighs again. “I meant what I said. You can read all night if you want. If you get tired, there’s a spare futon in the closet there, and I’ll lay out some pajamas and a toothbrush for you. Okay?”

Atsushi beams and dives into his book.

Around five a.m., halfway through the book, he can barely keep his eyes open, and he resigns himself to sleeping over. He rolls out the guest futon and changes quietly in the bathroom, avoiding the lights for fear of waking Akutagawa, or, God forbid, Gin. When he steps into the warm glow of the living room once more, he looks down at his borrowed pajamas. They could be his own, judging by the fit. It’s certainly convenient that he and his prickly partner are nearly the same height and weight. But that’s not what gets him. He feels the laugh bubble up in the back of his throat, and it escapes quickly in a series of lighthearted peals before he can slap a hand over his mouth to stop himself.

They're cat-patterned.

#shinsoukokuweek #shin soukoku #atsushi nakajima #akutagawa ryunosuke #akutagawa gin

26 notes · View notes

mm4-fyp · 7 years

Link

Can’t recommend this book enough, some amazing insights and anecdotes into music creation and performance but also the psychology and social aspects of music.

Extract to note for our show, inspired by Japanese Theatre he talks about making things bigger, more theatrical or purposely deconstructed and not be afraid to make them unrealistic or letting the audience see the workings of a piece is not necessarily a bad thing,they are there for a performance and to suspend their belief but must also be led on that journey of the optimum effect:

Chapter 2 My life in performance:

The tour eventually took us to Japan , where I went to see the traditional th eater forms: Kabuki, Noh, and Bunraku. These were , compared to Western theater , highly stylized; presentational is the word that is sometimes used, as opposed to the pseudo-naturalistic theater we in the West are more used to. Everyone wore massive, elaborate costumes and moved in ways that were unlike the ways people move in real life. They may have been playing the parts of noblemen , geishas , or samurai , but their faces were painted and they spoke in voices that were far from natural. In Bunraku, the puppet theater , often a whole group of assistants would be onstage operating the almost-life-size puppet. We weren't supposed to "see " them , but they were right there , albeit dressed in black. The text, the voices , would come from a group of guys seated off to the side. The character had in effect been so fragmented that the words they spoke didn 't come from close to or even behind that puppet , but from oth er performers on an entirely different part of the stage. It was as if the various parts of an actor 's performance had been deconstructed, split into countless constituent parts and functions. You had to reassemble the character in your head. Was any of this applicable to a pop-music performance? I didn't know, but over dinner in Tokyo one night the fashion designer Jurgen Lehl offered the old adage that "everything onstage needs to be bigger." Inspired, I doodled an idea for a stage outfit. A business suit (again!), but bigger, and stylized in the manner of a Noh costume. This wasn't exactly what he meant; he meant gesture, expression, voice. But I applied it to clothing as well.

There is another way in which pop-music shows resemble both Western and Eastern classical theater : the audience knows the story already. In classical theater , the director 's interpretation holds a mirror up to the oft-told tale in a way that allows us to see it in a new light. Well , same with pop concerts . The audience loves to hear songs they 've heard before , and though they are most familiar with the recorded versions , they appreciate hearing what they already know in a new context. They don 't want an immaculate reproduction of the record, they want it skewed in some way. They want to see something familiar from a new angle .

******************************

While we were performing the shows in Los Angeles that would eventually become the Stop Making Sense film, I invited the late William Chow, L a great Beijing Opera actor, to see what we were doing . I'd seen him perform not too long before, and was curious what he would make of this stuff. He'd never been to a Western pop show before, though I suspect he'd seen things on TV.

The next day we met for lunch after the show. William was forthright, blunt maybe; he had no fear that his outsider perspective might not be relevant. He told me in great detail what I was "doing wrong" and what I could improve. Surprisingly, to me anyway, his observations were like the adages one might have heard from a vaudevillian, a burlesque dancer, or a standup comedian: certain stage rules appear to be universal. Some of his comments were about how to make an entrance or how to direct an audience's attention. One adage was along the lines of needing to let the audience know you're going to do something special before you do it. You tip them off and draw their attention to you (and you have to know how to do that in a way that isn't obvious) or toward whoever is going to do the special thing. It seems counterintuitive in some ways; where's the surprise if you let the audience in on what's about to happen? Well, odds are, if you don't alert them, half the audience will miss it. They'll blink or be looking elsewhere. Being caught by surprise is, it seems, not good. I've made this mistake plenty of times. It doesn't just apply to stage stuff or to a dramatic vocal moment in performance, either. One can see the application of this rule in film and almost everywhere else. Stand-up comedians probably have lots of similar rules about getting an audience ready for the punch line.

A similar adage was "Tell the audience what you're going to do, and then do it." "Telling" doesn't mean going to the mic and saying, "Adrian's going to do an amazing guitar solo now." It's more subtle than that. The directors and editors of horror movies have taught us many such rules, like the sacrificial victim and the ominous music (which sometimes leads to nothing the first time, increasing the shock when something actually happens later). And then while we sit there in the theater anticipating what will happen, the director can play with those expectations, acknowledging that he or she knows that we know. There are two conversations going on at the same time: the story and a conversation about how the story is being told. The same thing can happen onstage.

#research #paul

0 notes