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oftenderweapons · 3 years

Text

The Studio - Min Yoongi

Pairing: Yoongi x reader (nicknamed Kitten)

Wordcount: 9.8k words

Genre: fluff, smut, mild angst

Rating: 18+

Hello my little raspberries! Here we go with Yoongi’s studio one shot. I’ll try and explain as briefly as I can for those new to this: Kitten is the nickname Yoongi has given to the reader (read more about the nicknames here), so basically this is a readerxYoongi.

To sum up the context of the fic quickly without reading all the rest (including some stuff which hasn’t been published yet [if you wanna read it vote for Illicit Affairs *wink wonk*]), Yoongi and Kitten have been dating for months but Yoongi kept postponing stuff with her (much to Kitten’s dismay — more like utter desperation) until their schedule in Japan was done. When they do reunite, they basically live joined at the hip — pun intended — but unfortunately, since tour is approaching, Yoongi has to take a week to focus on his job, promising Kitten the weekend. As Friday nights falls, Kitten decides to come claim her prize, and she comes carrying a lethal weapon.

Description and trigger warnings: Lots of swearing. As usual there is unprotected sex (these two got tested before going bare, please be like Yoongi: be smart, get tested). Female masturbation (with bullet vibrator), Kitten acts up since Yoongi acts oblivious and indifferent (surprise: He. Is. Not.), Trauma from past relationship (Kitten has had a pretty shitty ex who ignored her needs and made her very uncomfortable about having someone go down on her), Male masturbation, Oral sex both male and female receiving, Sensation play and slight foot fetishism, cum play and cum eating (it was necessary), lowkey spanking, multiple orgasms, hinted squirting.

Word count: 9.8k

Here is my updated Masterlist!

The receptionist led you through a daedalus of rooms and glass doors. After a few turns you spotted the sign of the Rkive, nothing but darkness coming from behind the glass door. He was probably already at home, maybe with his girl. From what Yoongi had told you, Namjoon had been working from home for the last few days, only coming in for rehearsals, leaving shortly before dinner. You had crossed her on the lift once as she carried a weekender, smiling at you, before you both headed for the same corridor, stopping at neighbouring doors, both ringing the doorbells and waiting.

"You must be Kitten, uh?" She said, using Yoongi's nickname. You asked yourself how she knew that.

"Vixen?" You replied, guessing that she was the woman that Namjoon told Yoongi about.

She laughed and nodded. "Yes, I guess you can call me that too. Pleased to meet you." She said, introducing herself with her full name. Just as you shook her hand, introducing yourself, Namjoon came to the door in a pair of loose grey sweats and a white t-shirt, greeting her with a "hey babe" before he spotted you, waving cutely at your form before Yoongi opened the door for you, with a way less appropriate "fuck, I'm starving, come here" which had the couple next door secretly giggling as your needy partner dragged you past his threshold and smashed the door closed.

That was just two weeks ago. You went from a week of daily sex — with multiple rounds — to a complete caresty. You were almost ready to hump a streetlight like a stripper pole, however you thought you'd much rather surprise your man and knock at his door like a discreetly civilised young woman.

Lost in your thoughts you didn't even realise you had reached his door.

"Here we are, shall I ring?" The receptionist asked.

"Yes, please." You said with a polite smile.

"I think I've already seen you."

You nodded. "My firm works for yours. I have come here before." You confirmed.

"Oh, that makes sense."

Yoongi opened the door, his mouth composing a surprised expression, and then his signature gummy smile, which you mirrored. "You're here."

You nodded, mirroring his expression.

"Thank you, Mr. Kang." He said, holding his hand out for you. You caught it immediately as he led you through the door.

"That's okay, boy." The older man, quite surely a member of security greeted both goodnight and headed back for his spot.

"He's my favourite. Sometimes when his shift ends we eat dinner together. He's amazing." He said with a soft smile. He brought your joined hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles. "How's the weather outside?"

"Not too cold, but the air is pretty damp, I just hope it rains. It's very foggy tonight." You said, taking off your coat.

He grabbed your face as both your hands were still caught in your sleeves, planting his lips on yours. "Lemme finish a couple things on this one then we're all set and we can head home."

"Are you the only one left?" You asked.

Yoongi nodded. "Normally it's me and Joon working late and heading back home together, but lately he's been going back home to Vixen. I've heard he's trying to get her to move in."

"Haven't they been dating for a couple months?" You questioned.

"So what. We've also been dating for a couple months but would you say no if I asked you to move in with me?"

You thought about it.

"Seriously?" He asked, scandalised at your hesitation as he headed back to his chair.

"I mean…!" You complained, trying to win him back. "It's just a couple months. I would take it easy, maybe first I’d start with staying for the weekend and then see if I can handle it during weekdays too, gradually. A bit at a time."

He acted as if he weren't listening.

"Yoongi!"

"Busy." He replied.

"You cannot not listen to what you don't like." You said, with a curious giggle.

"Call me when you're ready to say 'If you asked me to, I would move in tomorrow'". He typed, but it sounded more like a dramatic gesture than some actual typing. "Plus, I will unlisten to whatever you say that doesn't respect the I-love-you-I'm-a-sucker-for-you-Yoongi agenda."

You moved closer to his chair, standing behind him, bending down to his ear. "What if I put my lips, right here." You teased, "would you listen to me?"

He shivered and you snickered like a vicious predator.

"Uh?" You urged him.

"You won't distract me like this." He said.

"Not even if I said 'I love you, I'm a sucker for you, Yoongi'," you moaned in his ear, "not even then?"

He shifted in his seat, his lips parting. "No." He said, but his voice was extremely unsure, not even a glimpse of firmness in it.

"Don't lie to me." You murmured. Your hands spreading over his pectorals. He might not be as buff as some of the other guys, but he was secretly well built, especially on the chest area. You had personally tested that out.

He withheld a moan. "I'm not distracted."

"You're getting hard, Yoongi." You commented, noticing his bulge. You let your hands crawl lower, down his stomach, where his sweater met the waist of his slacks. "I missed you so much these past few days." You whined, trying to find the button of his trousers.

He slapped your hand. "Let me finish and we can head home. There you can tell me how much you missed me." He said, his voice almost sounding like a warning. "In detail."

"But I want you now."

"Stay put and wait."

You tutted and stood up. "Cockblocker." You snarled under your breath, sitting on the sofa.

"How can I cockblock you if you don't even have a cock?" He argued back.

You chuckled. "Shut up." You rummaged in your bag, smirking when you found your little personal pouch. "Plus, why would I need a cock when you can share yours with me?"

It was his turn to chuckle. "You, shut up." He said back at you. "If you were smart enough, you would keep quiet and be good, so I can finish my job and take you home."

The fact that you immediately thought of his place scared you a little. You absolutely understood Vixen and Namjoon's position at this point. With the guys' schedule, which includes working hours, trips, shootings, TV and radio appearances, then briefings and their own meetings and the oncoming tour, you started fearing how it would end up with you and Yoongi: your relationship had blossomed in fits and starts through Yoongi's determination and commitment, and your curiosity towards him. It had kept going because of the incredible attraction, the sense of balance and the sacred quiet and respect that you could reach in each others' company.

"Home where?" You asked, shutting up your mind.

He turned with his chair. "This should be enough to show you that Namjoon is right about having her move in. And that I would be right too if I wanted you to."

He wanted to. After he'd come back home from Japan, you had spent the rest of the week going back to his place after dark, having dinner, taking care of each other, sleeping together. The week after that you basically went back home only to grab a few things before going back to his. Then on Sunday he told you he had rehearsals at BigHit, and usually those go on till late, so he would be staying at the dorms, promising you he'd spend whatever free time he had with you and that he would see you in the weekend, when the rehearsals finish earlier and they have less disturbing timetables.

That's how you found yourself in his studio, on Friday night at 10pm.

"How long do you have left there?" You asked.

"Mh, maybe twenty minutes. I was just doing a little bit of fact checking and research for some references. Almost done."

"No listening?" You asked, testing for any catch in your plan.

"No, i don't think so, why?" He kept scrolling on his screen.

As you quietly took off your trousers, you chirped out a "nothing" shedding your jacket too in the process. You sat on his sofa in nothing but a formal shirt, an undershirt and your bra, your lacy panties doing little to protect your skin from the cold bite of the leather. You grabbed your disinfectant gel from your pouch and poured a dollop on your palm. After that you passed a wet wipe on your hands, carefully inspecting the underside of each nail. Once you were satisfied, you neared the bin by the door and got rid of the used wipe.

You sat back on the sofa and bit your lip, hesitating before moving to the next step. You still forced yourself to ignore your pouch, focusing on cupping your crotch and staring at the back of Yoongi's head. His place smelled amazing, something like patchouli and lavender and amber and pine. It was very male. Sometimes you could even catch a whiff of scotch.

You were wet.

It felt uncomfortable and somehow disappointing that he was there but he hadn't yet looked for you. Uncertainty made you desperate and eager for confirmation on his side. Maybe that's why you were here, acting like this.

The moment your finger slipped against your clit you huffed out a heavy breath, trying to keep quiet and making sure that Yoongi couldn't hear you quite right yet.

You did it again, trying to arouse yourself fully, until the wetness became unbearable. Not only it needed to feel wet, but to sound like it too. It took little, especially considering that you had accidentally deprived yourself because of a combination of work and stress and waiting for Yoongi. On the brink of sanity, you slipped your panties to the side, the sound of typing stopping for a second, which had you stopping your finger with the tip hovering at your entrance.

Yoongi started typing again, slow but completely absorbed in his work. You pushed your finger in, your mouth opening in a breathy sob, which Yoongi didn't hear — or that maybe he ignored.

Crooking your finger, you teased your g-spot, immediately flinching as you realised how it felt almost too good. The sofa creaked underneath you.

At his desk, Yoongi was going on with his work, completely oblivious of the misbehaving happening on his couch, however he almost started thinking of working from home.

Oh, so you'll be in the same house as Kitten, with a bed, a sofa and a bathtub, and you're gonna lock yourself in the studio and ignore her. Yeah, right. He thought.

Therefore, on with his work.

In the meantime you had surreptitiously taken off your panties, your legs still open just barely enough to fit your wrist. The process had been an exercise in control, since the leather seemed to have glued to your naked backside, which made it creak at every single inch of skin trying to part from the surface. Your hand was now free to roam on your pubis, cupping the skin and parting the labia, dragging two fingers along the slit, wetting them properly before inserting them. This time you did moan a short staccato sound, it lasted maybe half a second before you regained control of your vocal cords.

Yoongi's ears immediately picked that up, however he deemed the sound a sign of impatience or tiredness and dismissed it altogether.

Licking your lower lip, almost expecting him to turn around, you waited a couple more seconds before moving your fingers inside, crooking them. You bent forward at the precision with which you managed to find your sweet spot, the seated position simplifying the operation. Your mouth parted in a silent cry and your hips buckled, once more making the sofa crackle underneath you.

Yoongi started getting suspicious: he knew you had something going on, but he decided against asking. Ignorance is bliss.

He went on with his work.

You started getting seriously upset at his lack of recognition. With insufference and discontent coursing through your veins, you fished out a smaller pouch from your bag, quickly undoing the strings with your clean fingers. You extracted one of your favourite gifts to yourself, a small vibrator, a rather practical one you had taken from your bedside before you came to see him. You were almost sorry it was a pretty quiet one. You switched it on, enjoying the light buzzing it emitted. It was like listening to a mosquito fly around your ears. You seriously doubted Yoongi could hear it.

You placed it on your mound, without even letting it close to your folds or your clit. You teased the outline of your intimate parts, gently drawing the lines of your labia. You were very careful when you reached your clit, still a whimper escaped your lips.

Yoongi placed it immediately. He could recognise that sound instinctively. Usually it was connected to his tongue curling around your clit when he started eating you out. It was the first-lick whimper. The other circumstance was when he slid inside you particularly good, with that smooth, all-in-in-one-go kind of thrust. You were probably touching yourself.

He didn't know what to do with that information. He wanted to turn around and look at you, of course, but he thought that if he ignored you, you would probably get louder, needier and messier, and he was all in for that.

In the meantime you had started drawing circles on your clit, your breathing erratic and your spare hand going up to cup your breast. Your eyes were still glued to the dark mass of hair emerging from the chair right before you. "Yoongi." You called.

"Almost done, baby." He replied. He wanted to smash his head against the table. No man in his right state of mind would do this. He wasn't a genius. He was a masochistic fool and the worst part of it all was how disgustingly lucid he was in his reasoning. How he was trying to get you so desperate that you would scream and beg for his attention.

You were fuming: you turned the power of the toy to the loudest setting you had, the buzz now propagating in the room, your cunt so slick it was almost too loud for your taste.

"Yoongi, please." You cried out, your juices dripping on his sofa. And then you snapped, your whole body bending forward as you moaned "so good, Yoongi", your body too weak to remove the vibrator from your overstimulated nerve endings, your orgasm too sudden and overwhelming.

Still, no sign from Yoongi. The back of his chair was the first thing you noticed as soon as you recovered from your small black-out.

You switched off the toy, laying it on your thigh as you laid back against the back of the couch. "Yoongi." You called again, upset by his indifference.

"Mh." He acknowledged. That was suspicious. Quietly you parted from the sofa, kneeling down and starting to crawl towards him, not entirely trusting your legs to not give out beneath you; however your crawling had a limping pattern, your soaked hand close to your chest, clutching the toy in your palm.

You were perfectly quiet as you closed up on him, hiding behind the back of his chair as you listened. He was making a noise similar to a low purr, groaning under his breath. Your eyes closed as you listened to him carefully. You knew that purring moan, the rushed pattern of breaths. You moved to the side of his chair, peeking at his lap.

He was touching himself, his other hand combing his hair back and moving down the side of his neck, lingering on his chest. His eyes were closed, his lips parted, his hips jerking up just a fraction of an inch with the tiniest thrusts. His hand looked glossy with spit and precum as he dragged it roughly from base to tip, where he gave two rolls of his wrist before heading down again.

It was his technique, milking upwards, double roll the palm around the tip and back downwards. It was the way he used to do it before you came around. Since then he had slowly grown accustomed to finishing by thrusting up into his fist, usually laying on his belly before cumming on your navel or kneeling, straddling your waist and spilling on your chest. He loved pressing his face between your boobs when he touched himself hovering over you, but he also enjoyed the view when kneeling over you.

Thinking of you like that had his lips parting in a slow, heavy breath that got you even wetter.

"Yoongi." You whispered delicately.

He didn't even get scared, he just opened his eyes and smirked. "You done with your little scene on my sofa?"

Cocking an eyebrow you sat on the balls of your feet, observing him. "Maybe I should go back home, where I can comfortably make myself cum on my plush bed without judgy, undeserving people around." You said with a petty tone.

He looked taken aback by your comment. "I had told you to stay put, still and quiet."

"Buy yourself a doll and she can do that for you. I've been staying put, still and quiet all week. I can assure you it's pretty boring." You reprimanded him, a bit upset.

"Are you horny?" He asked, slowing down his motion.

"I was." You clicked your tongue, catching his hand mid-stroke. "You lost your chance."

He chuckled mischievously. "You've had just one. You need minimum another." He ripped his hand from your grasp and started moving again.

"You were busy. How come you're jerking off instead of doing your fact check?" You asked, snarling a little.

"I finished my fact check but I didn't want to interrupt you. I reckoned I could use your little solo for selfish purposes." He said, groaning a bit as his slowed down movement reached a sensitive spot.

You wanted your mouth on him. You were ready to make him pay for it.

He stopped touching himself and moved his hand to your mouth to draw the line of your lips. You immediately opened up, slipping your tongue out to lick at his finger.

"Kitten." He breathed out.

You ignored his plea and sucked at his finger. His strong, slender, beautiful finger. He was enraptured by your expression: eyes closed, lips puckered around his knuckle. You looked peaceful. And beautiful. And well, erotic.

"Kitten, love." He murmured, turning his chair slightly, enough so that you could be more comfortable in your position.

You were finally facing his lap, his cock laying in front of you, covered in slick, so thick and delicious. He wasn't that long, but it balanced his body beautifully, the thickness and modest length making it the best dick you had ever taken in your mouth, which obviously made you twice as willing to suck him. All the time — not like frequency mattered.

With a bit of resistance on your behalf, he pushed his finger out of your mouth. "Are you that in love with my hands, Kitten?"

You pouted. "Tell me one good reason to take it away from me."

"I thought you'd like my cock better." He said, honest.

You frowned. "As if you deserved to get some after making me cum all alone, while you took advantage of my loudness."

“Are you angry at me, Kitten?” He asked. He knew it was a bastard move when he started it, but he hadn't thought it would affect you this much.

“A bit.” You admitted.

It was sort of hilarious to have this conversation while you were naked from your waist down, a bullet vibrator in hand and his erection laying out of his pants.

“Why are you angry at me?” He asked, being absolutely neutral about his state of undress. Unfortunately you weren’t an ounce as neutral as him.

You dragged the back of your hand up his calf, your knuckles grazing the soft stubble of his legs.

“I have been unfair to you, haven’t I?” He asked, caressing your head with his clean hand, tipping your chin upward. “I’m sorry, Kitten.” He said, holding your gaze. “I’ve missed you too, love.” He traced your lips. “I’ve missed making love to you.”

“I’ve missed you so much.” Your hand reached his crotch, scratching his thighs through the fabric of his trousers. “I’ve been wanting you all week, but i didn’t want to bother you. I kept reminding myself that you were busy, that I just needed to last a few days until it was the weekend and you could be all mine.” You bent down and kissed his knee. “But it took a toll on me, not hearing from you. Not having you near.” You pressed your face to his lower inner thigh. “You didn’t even say you love me.” You mumbled under your breath, feeling a knot in your throat.

“Oh, ____, love.” He bent down, trying to drag your face away from his knee, keeping you from hiding yourself. “I love you, ____. I love you, Kitten.” He kissed your forehead. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you, baby. I’m sorry I didn’t tell remind you.” He cupped your jaw and pressed your mouth to his. “I love you, Kitten. I’ll tell you as many times as you need it, baby.”

“I love you too, Yoongi.” You murmured against his lips. “I’m sorry for being like this.” You said. It was a flashback to all the times you had to beg your ex to declare his feelings to you, to all the times you had had to ask him to love you.

“Nothing to be sorry about, Kitten. Absolutely nothing, my love.” He whispered close to you face. “I’m not your ex, baby. I’m here for you.” He kept stroking your cheek. “If we keep going here we’re gonna make a mess, Kitten.”

“Is there any reason why we shouldn’t?” You asked, quiet and mischievous.

“I usually meet the guys here to record demos.” He objected.

You frowned. "It's not like I'm going to cause irreversible damage."

He pouted and nodded. Fair enough. “So…"

"Yoongi, please, I need to feel you in my mouth." You whined, biting your lower lip.

He chuckled, sitting upright. "You sure, Kitten?"

"Yeah, I'm sure, now stand up and take off your trousers please." You said, tugging at the fabric.

He snickered and pushed his chair back enough to stand in front of you and roll down his slacks. He sat closer to the edge of the chair and you tugged at the hem, finally removing his trousers completely. Now you were free to make him open wide and kneel between his legs.

You suckled the skin of his inner thigh, your hands skimming his calves. At the moment, your toy was laying between your thighs, switched off as you waited for the best moment to bring it into the picture. "Do you want me?" You asked, looking at him from under your eyelashes, batting them slowly, your lips curled up in a cute pout.

"Of course I do, Kitten. I'm so hard for you baby." He moaned, stroking himself. He lowered the tip so that it was closer to your lips.

"Can I?" You murmured, almost desperate.

"Yes, Kitten. It's yours, love, you know it." He said gently, longing for you so ardently and so composedly.

You licked his slit with delicate manners. You looked like the elegant cat you had reminded him from day one. And then your lips wrapped up around him, sucking his bulbous head into your mouth, your cheeks wrapping so tight around him with the pressure of your sucking.

"Fuuuuck, Kitten, that's amazing, love. ____, you're gonna make me cum."

Grinning like the devil, you took the chance to swallow him almost entirely, leaving only an inch out, and making him roar with pleasure. "Yes, yes. That's one hell of a mouth, Kitten. That's so fucking perfect, ____. I fucking love you so fucking much, babe." You loved when he started to swear during sex, it turned you on in a manner you couldn't quite understand.

When you felt him start to pulsate in your mouth you pressed two fingers at the base and pulled him out.

"You good, Kitten?" He asked, panting, trying not to cry at the vulnerable situation you'd left him in. He was on the very edge, one more second and he could have cum. But he didn't press you, you just came up for air.

Little did he know it was absolutely intentional. And you intended to do it again. You played a poker face. "Yes, I'm good, why?"

"Just checking on you." He explained, stroking himself at the base.

This couldn't do. You caught his wrist gently, blocking it. "Lemme take care of it all, babe." You licked his tip seducingly. "You know I won't leave you hanging."

He smiled and threw his head back. "I am at your mercy, ____."

He had all the power in the world when he spoke your name. You eagerly returned to your ministration, this time blocking his palm on his tight, underneath yours, while his other hand kept toying with his neck and chest. Not that you noticed: you were too eager bobbing your head on his length, focusing on the lewd moans he emitted, on the swear words he growled against the headrest of his chair, where he was currently pressing the side of his face.

"Kitten." He whined, almost endearing in the delicate inflection of his voice.

He was going to cum. You pulled him out as fast as you could, quickly heading to his underside to lay the softest kisses of affection.

"Kitten." He growled, but this time it was no joke. He was getting worked up. A bit angry.

"What?"

"Stop teasing."

"Me! Teasing! How could I? My priority is my boyfriend, Yoongi, and his well-being”. You grinned, delivering a long lick from the base to his tip. “I’m going to make you feel so good.”

“Kitten, I swear, if you’re edging me I’m going to make you pay for it.” He growled, fighting your grip on his hand.

You gripped his wrist harder. “This can go two ways, Yoongi. You let me do my thing on my terms, or I’m going to leave right in this second and go back home by myself tonight. Pick.” You used a tone so calm it sounded like the most sensual of threats.

He twisted his wrist gently, looking into your eyes, and lacing his fingers with yours, moving your joined hands to the armrest. With the other hand he gripped the edge of the chair behind his head. “Do your thing, Kitty cat.”

Smiling lasciviously, you placed open mouthed kisses to his inner thigh, moving from the left to the right side. You lifted your hand, previously on his lap, letting the edge of your nail draw a thin line from his hip to his knee to his ankle, where it met his sock. You were almost tempted to take it off and tease him there. Why not? You had the wipes to clean it afterward… Fuck it.

You caressed his ankle, teasing it with your nails.

“Kitten, that feels very good, love.” He moaned, squeezing your hand in his. “Want me to let go of your hand?” He asked.

“Maybe later.” You whispered, leaving sucking kisses at the base of his shaft. You blindly took off his sock. “Are you cold, baby?” You murmured softly.

“No, I’m shivering because it’s so good, love.” He praised you. “You are amazing, Kitten. Thank you so much for this, babe.”

You parted from his skin. “No need to thank me, Yoongles.” You licked his length. “I do it because I like it. Because it’s so good.” With your spare hand you tickled the underside of his foot, which had him tensing the muscles there, his whole leg jumping, trying to escape your sweet torture. “Too much?”

“Just… unexpected. Sensitive.” He hissed.

You removed your teasing fingernails.

“It’s– No, I liked it.” He clarified, his pretty face scrunched in a confused expression.

You smiled darkly. “I was thinking of this…” You placed your toy under his foot, switching it on on the lowest setting.

“Kitten. Fuck. Shit.” He growled. “What the hell!” He pressed his head against the back of the seat.

“Too much?” You asked, distancing it from his skin.

"No, good. God, Kitten. Just, please, your mouth." He begged.

You kissed his tip and swallowed him.

His back arched and his lips parted in a gasp. "Yes, love. Oh god."

The slight buzzing moved up towards his calf as you absentmindedly followed the outline of his leg. You were completely absorbed in pleasuring him with your mouth, squeezing him with your lips and tongue and stroking him with the tender skin of your cheeks.

"Please." He moaned, struggling under your assault. "Love you." He whined. "Let me." He was so hopeless, his broken thoughts exiting his mouth unfiltered.

You pulled him out, taking a deep breath, opening your eyes to look at him. "You look so pretty, Yoongi. You look so fucking high, babe.”

“Please,” he breathed, trying to grind up into your mouth.

“Come on, wait for me, Yoongi. I’m not done with you yet, baby.” You cooed, bringing the vibrator up to the inside of his knee, which made his leg start bouncing. Ever so gently, you brought the head of the bullet even closer to his inner thigh, making him swear under his breath. “I feel so good making you look like this,” you groaned, kissing his navel. “I know right now your head is so empty you’re only thinking about me. No drama going on inside your pretty head when I’m giving you head this good. ”

“Kitten, for the love of God.”

Just when you had reached his crotch with your toy-accidentally-turned-instrument-of-torture, you started again on the other side, from his knee. His hand was gripping yours viciously, his strong fingers constricting your knuckles with so much pressure you worried about him getting cramps right when you wanted him to feel only pleasure coursing through his body.

“I am begging you, Kitten. I ain’t too proud, please.” He howled, as you saw a glistening pearl of precum blossom on his slit. You immediately caught it with your tongue, using the occasion to suck his tip.

“Such a good boy. Lemme take care of you.” Your head lowered on him once more, this time not sparing an inch of him. Just as he quieted down from the deep moan he had just released, you moved the vibrator to the tender skin of his testicles, placing it there without pressure, which made the stimulation even more intense.

He growled your name. It was the most virile thing you had ever heard. You were ready to commit murder to hear him say it like that everyday for the rest of your life. The hand once tightly gripping the back of his chair was now hanging midair, as if ready to touch you. He caressed his sweaty fringe, combing his hair back and deciding on gripping the armrest instead of the back. You slipped him out once more and removed the vibrator.

He opened his eyes with the most pitiful expression he had ever made. “Kitten.”

“I know, baby, I just need to know if you want to cum in my mouth or if you have anything else in mind.” You said, tracing small circles with your thumb on the back of his hand.

He noticed that you were still wearing your nice shirt from work. “Chest.” He murmured.

You grinned. You had never allowed any man to do that to you. You hated the idea of it, but when you did it with Yoongi for the first time you just saw him lose his mind at it, stare at you in admiration, like you were the most beautiful thing in the world, and you just decided that the look on his face was a great prize for a relatively small sacrifice. Little did you know you would come to like it, the warm, sudden feeling of his semen sprinkling your naked skin, rolling down gently in the most erotic sort of massage you could ever dream of. Quickly, you let go of Yoongi’s hand, offering him the vibrator. “Hold it for me, baby?”

He simply nodded with a confused pout, his brain so fucked out that you giggled at how cute he looked. You undid a few buttons of your shirt to your stomach, then you stood up and took off your undershirt, slipping the thin straps off your arms through the hem of each sleeve and dragging the lower hem down from your waist, until you stepped out of it like a skirt. Yoongi looked a bit more lucid as you undid the clasps of your bra and removed the straps just like those of your undershirt, gripping the front of the bra and pulling it off from the opening of your shirt. Covered only in your white work shirt, you regained your vibrator from Yoongi’s obedient hand and joined your hand with his once more.

“Open it nice, I don’t wanna mess up the shirt.” He said, ever the caring, attentive one.

You slipped the shoulders off, the fabric slipping under your breasts and supporting them like some sort of a corset.

“Like this?” You asked.

He nodded. “Will you let me this time, please?” He said, his voice so fragile and broken that if you hadn’t already decided, he would have convinced you to offer him relief.

You let your actions speak. You started working the first few inches of his shaft, gently toying with the vibrator at the base, where his cock met his balls. His moaning soon became desperate, so incoherent that you doubted having one of the most talented rappers and songwriters in front of you. He looked like he didn’t know a word, like the best he could do were baby gurgles.

When you felt him begin to pulsate, you let him take the lead a little, choosing how deep he needed to go and how long he could keep going. You started teasing the underside of his cock with the side of the vibrator, running up and down the thick tendon there. “Kitten, I’m close.” He warned with a timbre so husky it almost scared you

You started going a bit faster with the up and down pattern of the toy. Your eyes were fixed on him when he started slowly moving his hips toward the edge of the chair with weak thrusts. He started opening and closing his mouth, gaping. His short groans became more frequent, getting higher and higher, his knuckles going white with how hard he was gripping his armrest.

“Now.” He said, letting go of the armrest, using his hand to pull out of your mouth while you scooted closer, offering him the skin of you bosom. Your inner walls began pulsating as he pushed his tip against the skin of your nipple, rubbing it while at the same time he gently pushed your hand and the toy aside to stroke the base. He kept licking his lips, delivering those small thrusts into his fist just as you moved the tip of the vibrator to the head of his cock, teasing the frenulum. He groaned and began moving faster, his grunts getting quicker until he finally screamed your name.

The first shot was usually the messiest, the pressure so high it often reached your neck and chin, but this time it stayed on your breast, probably because Yoongi was pressing up into you and the toy. You moaned yourself when the vibrator touched your nipple, Yoongi laughing gently and calling your name when he realised you were paying for this too, that you too were vulnerable, and that probably you were turned on enough to let him eat you out and possibly cum inside you before you both headed to his place for a hot meal and a shower. Not necessarily in that order.

He spilled twice more on your breastbone and your other breast before he calmed down, reaching for the toy and switching it off. “Kitten. I swear to God, I’m gonna die because of you.” He panted, heavily gasping for air.

Still no trace of the mighty rapper, just one very normal, very lovely young man.

With a fingertip you collected a drop that was dangerously rolling down towards your shirt. “A good way to go.”

“It would be sort of embarrassing to explain.” He blushed, looking at you sucking at his cum on your fingertip. “Come here.” He murmured, patting his thighs. “Can you straddle me?” He asked.

“Why don’t we move to the sofa?” You asked.

He nodded, using your still joined hands to help you up on your feet. As you both stood up, you found yourself face to face, however his eyes moved downwards, to the wetness on your boobs. Bending his head, he cupped both with his palms, cradling the underside in his hands before pushing his lips to your nipple, his tongue lashing out to lick away at his release. Still needy, he moved to the other side, cleaning the other stain too.

Your knees wobbled. He smirked. “Sofa.” However when he reached the black leather piece he noticed the mess you had left behind. “You’d better fix it. Immediately.” He reprimanded.

You hang your head low between your shoulders, hiding from his scolding. You put your toy on top of its pouch, fishing a couple wet wipes to clean the cushion properly, as you bent at the waist to check for the results, you felt his hand smack your ass heavily. “You’re lucky it’s not suede or you’d be fucked by now.” He stood behind you and bent over your spine, adhering to your backside. “And not in the nice way.” He stood up again. “Stay like this, Kitten, don’t you dare move.”

You heard the sound of the lid of your wipes coming off, then the sound of fabric. You didn’t dare move. Yoongi was very likely to look for revenge now, and you already had a high price to pay. In your peripherals you noticed him rubbing the wet wipe all over your vibrator, cleaning it up.

You knew it was your turn now. You just had to hope he was feeling merciful. He bent over you. “Stay put and it’ll be okay, love.” He said with lethal kindness. You heard a gentle thud to the floor, shorty followed by another. “I am kneeling behind you, Kitten. Are you okay with me eating you out like this?”

He was so attentive: it felt like he had a list of all your triggers memorised in his mind; he was always so careful when it came to your potential traumas and insecurities. You weren’t new to receiving oral sex, however to you sometimes it felt very intimate and your worries kept you from freeing your mind and enjoying the experience fully.

“It’s okay.” You mewled.

“You can stop me anytime, love.” He said softly, kissing the back of your thighs, licking the thin stretch marks there. He loved all those small signs, the way they showed the tide of your skin, the way it made sense, the way you looked realer than anything he’s ever dreamed. He was in love with all your freckles and moles, wrinkles, the squishy part of your belly and waist and hips, the little hairs on your navel. He felt real when with you. He felt a little bit less surrounded by that artificial, polished world that looked like a simulation. He felt like he was allowed some small chance of normality, of reality with you. No skinny models with made-up personality, no fame or ego, just being two people facing each other, telling each other how it feels to be human.

Throughout all of his meditation he delivered small bites and kisses on the skin of your thighs and ass, tracing the outline of your labia, enjoying the plush softness.

You moaned out his name, pressing into him. “I know I’ve been bad, just… Please.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologise for.” He murmured, kissing your slit. “I deserved it.” He licked you slowly, from your mound to your entrance, the tip of his tongue digging in and collecting the wetness oozing out of you. “I neglected you.” He licked you again, nuzzling the raw skin of your inner labia with his lips. He kept his lips there, breathing softly through his mouth. “I love you, Kitten.” He kissed you there. “Love you so much, baby.” He murmured before you heard the buzz of the vibrator. He wasn’t toying around with you: he wrapped his arm around your leg, nuzzling the toy against your folds until he heard you whine. "Found it?" He asked, referring to your clit.

"Right there." You moaned.

He flattened his tongue against your folds, rolling it until they were spread wide, exposing your most tender nerves to the violent vibrations.

"Yoongi, I'm gonna cum." You whimpered, pressing yourself into him.

He wanted you to. He didn't care, couldn't care less of the amount of times you edged him earlier: he wanted to see you undone. He wished he could tell you, however he felt like it was more important for his mouth to stay on your cunt. He wanted you to know that you were allowed, that he wasn't going to deny you. He simply reached for your hand, placing his on top of yours on the cushion. Suddenly you started grinding your hips, riding his tongue, your free hand wrapping around his wrist, helping him place the bullet where you needed it. The fact that you were almost silent, holding your breath and gasping every time he spread your slick to the apex of your labia, so that the vibrator could slide more comfortably.

Your high hit you like a tide, your knees buckling underneath you, Yoongi's hand leaving yours so he could use his arm to stabilise you. Your hand on his wrist invited him to remove the toy, your position not safe and steady enough to allow any type of overstimulation, meanwhile his tongue battled with the contractions of your inner wall as he slipped it in just enough to stimulate the small muscle at the back, where you were always most responsive. He felt proud at knowing these small tricks, these little details that he had discovered with keen exploration and observation. Every body has their shortcuts to pleasure, though not all people are the same. He had learnt that some things that set his exes on fire to you were completely indifferent, meanwhile stuff that his exes refused could turn you into putty in his hands.

"Yoongi, that's okay.” You moaned, slipping away from him. He parted from your skin, gently pressing a kiss to your labia.

"Are you okay, Kitten?" He asked before running his hand to your breasts, cupping one softly, secretly searching for your heartbeat.

"I think I'm a little shook." You giggled. "It was… Very intense." You exhaled and laughed.

He kept kissing your thighs. You knew that that meant something. "I wanna try something but if it's too much we can stop here." He spoke delicately, his lips tickling your skin.

"Now I'm curious." You said, tired but mischievous still.

"Lemme show you." You heard him shuffle around a bit as he removed his sweater and placed it on the floor. He just hoped he wouldn't make a mess. From his kneeling position he shifted and sat on the oversized garment, thanking God that it wasn't as cold as he expected. He reclined his head on the seat of the sofa as your gaze met his.

"Am I going to ride your face?" You asked with a knowing smirk.

"Smart kitty." He said, mirroring your expression. "Knees on the cushion. Come on babe."

Shaking your head and smiling, you followed his order, your hands looking for support on the back of the sofa. "I'm afraid I'm gonna crush you." You said, even though you loved looking at him like this. His hair was a mess around him, his eyes so dark and intense that it felt like he was ready to drag you to hell and back with himself.

“It’s okay, you’re small. I can help you.” He said, placing his hands on your butt, squeezing. “I’m happy to help.” He grinned and you grinned back at him. You loved that both your brains shared the same perverted paths following the same dirty cues. “I wanna suck your clit, but I don’t know if it’ll work for you since you had the vibrator there.” He said, spreading small bites on your thighs.

“It’s okay. No need to make me cum.” You reasoned, openly refusing that a sexual experience can be successful only if culminating in an orgasm.

“I hate how you’re always ready to give up on your pleasure.” He said, getting argumentative. “I’m doing this to please you.”

“You can please me without making me cum.” You argued back. “It’s not like— Holy fuck!” You screamed, your shoulders giving out. His arm holding your ass up while his other hand held the tip of the vibrator against the underside of his tongue. “You’re fucking wicked.” You swore as your clit disappeared between his upper lip and his pink, filthy tongue. “Fuck Yoongi, you’re the best.”

He exhaled through his nose in some sort of a snicker, pushing on the small button to increase the vibration.

“Oh God. Yoongi— Fuck, like that.” You squealed as you felt him suck you in with wet, slurping noises. “Love.” You said, worry veining your voice. “I’m gonna make a mess.” You warned before raising your hips, parting from his mouth. “Wait.”

He removed the vibrator, opening and closing his mouth quickly before speaking to retrain his tongue muscles. “It’s okay.” He breathed, brushing his cheek against your thigh.

“You’re gonna get wet and smell like sex on the way back home.” You reminded him.

“I can rinse in the bathroom quickly, plus we’re driving by ourselves in the car.” He murmured. “We can if you want to.” He said, reassuringly.

“Get back in place then.” You teased, gently pressing yourself down on his pout and grinding coquettishly. He laughed with his mouth close, digging his fingers into your ass, which made you raise your hips with a small jump.

“I love you so fucking much, Kitten.” He murmured. “Don’t you dare forget that, ____.” He switched the vibrator on, all the way up. “Ready, kitty cat?”

“Bring it on, mister.”

He laughed and got to work. You were pretty sure that the moans you were emitting, joined with the wet, sucking sound that came from Yoongi’s tongue on your drenched clit would probably expose the two of you to the whole floor, and possibly more.

If you had been any more lucid you would have thought of poor mr. Kang guarding the building from the reception, but probably — hopefully — he was far enough not to hear a thing.

Yoongi sped up his game, willing and ready to bring you to the edge once more. He reduced the pressure on your clit, allowing the vibration to travel faster, with less resistance and more power. He shifted his grip from his plush upper lip to the edge of his front teeth, simply grazing your nub as he caressed it with his tongue.

“Yoongi. So sensitive.” You gasped through a muffled moan, your hand pressing against your mouth as you lowered your gaze. He was there, eyes closed, enjoying the feel of you, focusing on each movement, on the taste of you, on your sounds, your heat. Opening his eyes, he winked, realising that he had one last trick up his sleeve. He started brushing the vibrator up and down the underside of his tongue, the act mildly resembling a thrusting motion that had your hips undulating, your breath stopping in your throat.

The high built and built so that when it snapped, you didn’t even realise it, submerging you like a tide, like a small boat in a maelstrom: you felt each roll of your hips, each movement of the vibrator in that straight line underneath Yoongi’s tongue. The high was there, but you still hadn’t felt the peak. You were ready to give up when he slid the bullet off his tongue and into your entrance, pressing it against the tender spot of your vagina, rubbing it as his lips latched to your clit.

“Fuck. Cumming.” You whined before biting your palm. His hand smacked your ass, repeatedly, delivering four or five slaps as if spurring you into riding his face. When he felt your release spill, he stretched his tongue, trying to collect as much wetness as he could, using the bridge of his nose to tease your clit while his mouth was busy. You gushed two, maybe three times before you removed your hand from your mouth, squealing his name and a string of swear words, your hand reaching down, trying to slap his toy-holding hand from between your legs. He understood your gesture and parted from your cunt entirely, letting you recover from the experience while he shut the buzzing device.

“I need in, sweet thing.” He murmured, climbing up clumsily and a little bit helplessly. You rose to your knees, letting him sit on the cushion, helping him fit against your body. “I’m gonna slide in, Kitten. I just need in. Promise.” He kept his sentences short, both for his urgency and your almost shut down brain. Gripping himself steady, he slipped in flawlessly, your drenched walls welcoming his shape, clinging to it and making him swear with how tight you felt right after an orgasm.

“Kitten, so tight.” He groaned, his face falling forward, hiding in the crook of your shoulder. His hips thrusted up while his hands toyed with your breasts, sliding into the shirt you were still wearing. His whole face felt damp against your neck, and you didn’t know if it was sweat or your juices or his saliva as he began drawing a pattern of hickeys on the top swell of your boob. “I can’t hold on.”

“Cum inside, please.” You murmured into his ear, licking the shell and biting the lobe, your hand gently cradling his skull as you enjoyed his grunts and pants against your throat.

As he hammered into you from below, you felt him reaching your cervix, your inner contractions making him come undone, his hands gripping your waist and angrily pushing you onto his lap. The squelching, crude sound, mixed up with his deep groans and the smacking of skin made you close your eyes as you registered every detail. You would come back to this night, when he would be gone, and you would relive it entirely, from start to finish, from the loneliness and coldness of being alone on the sofa, to the anger and revenge of the armchair, to the selfless, devoted attentions you had received twice on the sofa again, and finally this boy-man, hiding against your chest as he vulnerably withered before you.

“God, Kitten.” He breathed out chuckling. “Thank you so much, love. You’re perfect.” He murmured, caressing your back.

“Thanks to you too.” You spoke softly.

“I’m sorry for the last one. I got carried away, I didn’t make you—”

“If you say the verb ‘cum’ I am going to slap your pretty cheeks.” You threatened weakly. “You can do that in a few hours. Wake me up at three am and make sweet love to me.” You propositioned. “Though if I fall asleep, I might sleep for the next ten hours with no chances of being woken up.”

“We need sleep. Both of us.” He hugged you, searching for your hand, twining your fingers together. “But first we need a shower. And we need to rinse before we leave.”

“Closest toilet?” You asked, groaning a little at the idea of getting up, cleaning yourself and all the rest.

“Two rooms away.” He mumbled, his eyes droopy, his head leaning into your shoulder. “Are you feeling okay about everything? I know I pushed it when I left you alone and when I went down on you.” He commented.

“I think we cleared up the air about you ignoring me. It reminded me of when I was with my ex, which is exactly the reason why I bought the toy. He wasn’t happy I used it, but he never said anything or kept me from searching for my own pleasure. Sure though, this was my first time using it with someone. I’ve had a few people before as I said, but it was never… this.” You said, referring to your whole situation with Yoongi.

“How did you feel about how I went down on you?” He asked, always sympathetic.

“I loved it. But that vibrating tongue thingie was sooo kinky. How the hell did you come up with that?” You complimented him.

He chuckled. “I wanted to suck you and I wanted it to be a bit hardcore. It tickled like hell though.” He kissed your cheek. “I didn’t know it would work for you. I had never tried it before.”

“The vibrator was a big ally tonight.”

“Definitely the highlight of the night.” He conceded.

You leaned down and sucked his lower lip in your mouth, releasing it with a snap. “I love tasting myself on your mouth.”

He cupped your cheek. “You were amazing on that chair, love.” He praised you, making sure that he gratified you for something that your previous significant other had awfully taken for granted. “I’ll never forget these two covered in me.” He said, bending down to kiss each of your breasts.

“Is your neck okay?” You asked, worried about the way he had reclined his neck before while you sat on his face. “Are you cold?”

“My neck is a bit sore, but some hot water and stretching will solve it. And yeah, I’m a bit cold but it’s okay. Let's fix this place, get dressed and head home, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

"Then get up, lazy cat." He teased, poking your sides.

"I'm sleeping on the couch tonight." You murmured, teasing him as you raised your hips, getting off him.

“You’re sleeping in my bed and we both know it.” He helped you on your feet.

Your lips bent downward as you nodded. “I hate it when you’re right.”

As you turned and bent to gather your wipes he stared at his cum dripping out of your hole, staining your thighs. “Such a shame you’re in love with me,” he replied. His hands gripped your hips, blocking you while his tongue moved between your folds, delivering tiny licks with the tip of his tongue before covering your labia in soft kisses. "All clean, Kitten." He murmured, caressing your naked legs.

"You're the worst." You teased, before his short nails caused goosebumps on your skin.

He stood up behind you. "Fuck, look at this mess." He said, looking at the sofa. "Do we have enough wipes?"

"Oh God."

"No one's gotta know." He commented, and once more you were partners in crime, hiding your thousandth mischief.

You headed for the chair, throwing him his underwear and trousers.

He caught them.

"Bottle of water?" You asked.

"Fridge." He pointed as he slid his boxers on.

You picked up your undershirt, glad that it was a cheap deal, and headed to the small fridge, where you found the water, opening the bottle and pressing your balled up garment against the rim, wetting the fabric.

Next you knelt by the sofa, getting to work.

Yoongi lit a scented candle on the low table, spraying some perfume with a certain desperate motion. "Jeongguk will know. He can smell anything."

You shook your head while you poured some more water on your improvised rag. "Dammit we fucked up."

"Shut up, it was your idea." He taunted you while he found his sweater on the floor, checking it quickly before putting it on with a shiver. "Freezing. Shit."

Once you deemed the damage mostly solved, you grabbed your wipes and used one to eliminate the traces of the water. Checking that no stain remained, you moved on to dressing yourself.

"Have you seen my bra?" You asked.

"No." He murmured, offended, just as you noticed a familiar frill coming out of his bag.

"Why is my bra in your bag?"

"Your bra is not in my bag."

You raised an eyebrow, hooking said frill with your finger and fishing the garment out of his personal tote. "What is this?"

"A fancy hat." He said, barely holding back a laugh.

"Oh, so you're gonna wear that later when we head home?" You asked as you pressed one cup onto his head, the other hanging from the side while you clasped it around his face.

He simply shook it off, bending to kiss your lips. "Don't wear it." He whispered on your mouth.

"I won't." You replied, kissing it once more before placing it back in his bag.

Wearing your panties and buttoning your shirt, you left a couple buttons undone for his viewing pleasure.

He fixed the last few things, opening your coat and helping you wear it.

He fixed his own jacket and caught hold of your waist, placing you in front of him and wrapping his scarf around your neck and face. He kissed your forehead sweetly.

"Get your shoes, I'll do a quick checkup."

While you exited the room, he noticed a small glimmering coming from the crevice between the two cushions. Pushing his fingers in, he managed to pinch the object and pull it out.

He snickered, placing his small treasure before his eyes. "You served well, soldier. You deserve a night of rest. I'll recharge you and keep you safe until next time."

"Who you talking to?" You asked from the corridor.

"Nothing." He placed the vibrator in his pocket. "Coming." He blew on the candle and closed the door.

———————————————

"Hyung, you look well-rested." Jimin greeted him the following morning as he entered the training room.

"I bet he does." Namjoon quipped.

"HE FUCKED KITTEN IN THE STUDIO!" Hoseok announced. "Sorry, couldn't hold it in, you know I can't handle secrets." He said with a sad face, looking at Namjoon.

"Good for him." Taehyung replied.

Jimin looked amused while Jin shook his head, “Is that a good reason to be late, Yoongi? We've been waiting fifteen minutes–"

"Hyung, you arrived two minutes ago." Taehyung replied quietly while Jin shouted, "Shame on you! The disrespect!"

Jeongguk neared Yoongi, patting his shoulder. "I'm sorry I rat you out. I came in last night because you weren't at the dorms. I didn't know. I accidentally said it to Namjoon, Hoseok heard, everyone knows." Guk shrinked in his shoulders. "Sorry." He chirped.

However it was still too early and Yoongi was still too fucked out to care. "Let's just kill this choreo. We better finish soon 'cause I've got Kitten home in my bed to go back to."

Namjoon smirked. "Let's get it."

#bangtan sonyeondan #bts smut #bts imagine #bts headcanons #bangtan smut #bts scenario #yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine #min yoongi smut #yoongi scenario #min yoongi #yoongi fanfic #yoongi reaction #yoongi one shot

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finoalcielo · 3 years

Text

KAI-CHAN RADIO ⑤

☆ JUL 21, 2021☆

KAI: They competed for the fun~! YOU: Leisure activities, huh? Summer is full of it. And so, KAI: Kai-chan Radio! YOU: will also include Haduki You! See in you a moment♪

☆ KAI-CHAN RADIO IS A CASUAL RADIO ☆

KAI: Let's talk tonight♪ About our summer vacation activities! YOU: I started off extremely excited for it, but, I don't think I'll be able to go to the August's activities. Like the Lantern Festival dance, mountains, swimming pool, or even a little trip to the sea. Is that all?

KAI: Ah? Really? YOU: I'll be at home. Helping my parents. KAI: Oh right. The temple. YOU: Yup. Obon is the busiest time of the year. So, I have to travel with my family. KAI: Ooh. YOU: I've never really had much complaints about it. KAI: Ah, I see. YOU: Yeah, since I understood it ever since I was a child.

YOU: It felt a bit nice to see my parents relying on me for some things. I went exploring deeper into the mountains with Tooru (2nd oldest brother) once. And, when we returned later than usual, Sou (oldest brother) scolded us. We mess around a lot every day. KAI: Oh, Haduki brothers. You guys haven't changed at all (www)

YOU: I only remembered when I started talking. Still, I travelled about 2, 3 times. Near Takachiho and Hokkaido. And my memories from that time is a bit weird. Like, I remember the soft serve ice cream being delicious or the sea urchins being terrible (I like it now though) (www) KAI: Memories from long ago are really like that. Food being more important than famous places!

KAI: I also remember the souvenirs I bought on the way rather than the destination. It was a metal keychain with a dragon entwined around a sword. YOU: I knew you'd speak about it (www). Wasn't it the one where it had a lot of crystals or stone stuck to it? (wwww) KAI: I still have it (ww)

YOU: You still have it?! Wow (www) KAI: I use it for my car key. YOU: Extremely distracting... (www) KAI: Ah, anyways, about my leisure activities! I went to a lot of places, but have I told you about the year when my father rented a minibus to go on a family vacation? YOU: Minibus?! KAI: We are a big family (6 siblings). YOU: Ah.

KAI: My father did his best to get a license to drive our big family. YOU: Fuduki papa is amazing. KAI: I got one too. Let's all go~? YOU: The Fuduki family is amazing. KAI: The destination was for Tokyo's Disneyland! It was for a day, but if we include the sightseeing at the town on the way back, then it was 5 days in total? It was awesome. YOU: Sounds fun!

KAI: Maybe I remember this because it was during the time I enjoyed travelling? But anyways, in about two years, the Fuduki family once again travelled in the minibus! At that time, we travelled to Shikoku. YOU: Oh~ It takes a while to reach there, right? KAI: It took us a week to reach. YOU: Lots of driving (www).

KAI: No, at that time, the truck driver's cousin or I sometimes took over driving. On those days, my father would drink beer with his morning, evening and night meals. YOU: Fuduki papa (www) I get your feelings (www) KAI: It's a memory of my summer vacation activity, which was more fun than the destination itself ♪

KAI: And so, that was the Kai-chan Radio "Summer Vacation Activities" Edition! YOU: And then is... ah, right. Want to take some messages from people? I know it's late in the night, but if anyone is awake and has some messages for us, we'll accept them! KAI: Questions, messages, anything is fine~!

It's so hot that I feel like melting... Please give me an idea to cool down! = = YOU: I know! Turn on the cooler. KAI: A pragmatic answer (www) YOU: It's not good to put up with the heat ~ KAI: That's true. YOU: Watch out for heat stroke!

Thank you for sharing your stories. If you could travel now, where would you go...? = = YOU: It's really hot, so I want to take a dive in the sea. KAI: I'll be next to him! YOU & KAI: We want to go to the sea~~~!!! HARU: Didn't you go there the other day? (laughs)

Kai-san, You-san, thank you...! The final exam is about to start, so please give me some encouragement... = = YOU: Studying this late? Woah! We'll be cheering for you to do well! KAI: I'll support you with (my heart's) pompoms~ Hooray~ Hooray~ Study well!! YOU: A fun summer is waiting for you after the test!

Kai-kun! I have a glittering bow keychain, so let's compete against each other!!? (laughs) = = KAI: A fellow friend!!! Then, I'll be the second player!! Bring it on!! YOU: Exactly how will you fight (www)

Hello! I'd like to hear about any recent small incidents that occurred around Procella members! = = YOU: Yoru's glasses got deformed by the heat (www) KAI: He accidentally left it on the bonnet of our travel bus, it got deformed slightly after about 2 hours. (www)

24 hours a day isn't enough. What do you think? = = KAI: I guess it's slightly not enough? If you sleep while thinking, "Stay tuned for Kai tomorrow!", then you'll be excited. YOU: Don't get excited before going to bed (ww)

You-kun! Please do something with Aoi-kun!!!!!!! (I'm greedy) = = YOU: I like your greediness~ Yosh, let's do it now. Aoi-chan. AOI: Eeh?! YOU: I caught the retreating Aoi-chan. AOI: I-I got caught! KAI: Now, how do you want to do this?! YOU: What should we do? Aoi-chan. AOI: EHHHH?!

→ AOI: L-L-Let's peel it off! T/N: Aoi was trying to say "Look that way" (あっち向いてホイで lit. atchi muite hoi de) but ended up saying "Let's peel it off" (あっち剥いてホイで lit. atchi muite hoi de). Both have the same pronunciation, just different meanings.

→ AOI: What a terrible typo!!!

→ AOI: I meant 'Look that way'!! YOU & KAI: (wwwww) AOI: I was really flustered and when I thought I deleted it, I actually sent it instead. I meant 'Look that way'!!!~~~~~ You!!! Kai-san, geez!!! YOU & KAI: (wwww)

#Aoi won by default.

This is for a questionnaire, but what was doing your homework like? Did you fill in what you knew on the day you got it and left the rest blank and asked a friend for help, or leave some empty in the first week and finish the rest later? = = KAI: I did half in the first week, and the remaining in the last week.

→ YOU: I want to say that I finished it early in August... but I ended up frantically doing it towards the end (www) KAI: I can imagine that ~~ While Yoru did his patiently, right? YOU: Yup. Isn't that right? YORU: Yes. Ah, I also did the Radio calisthenics properly! Radio Calisthenics = a short exercise routine broadcast daily on Japan's national radio, streamed on YouTube, followed in parks and schools every day – sometimes several times a day – by all generations of Japanese people

It's been hot lately, but please tell us if you have a story that chilled you to your bones. = = KAI: Shun turned bright red and got a fever. YOU: He got one after frantically trying to decide the thumbnail for his Hajime-san video collection. KAI: He looked really happy when I putting the cooling patch on. YOU: His fever also came down almost immediately. YOU & KAI: We ate curry together.

Hi!! Starting from today, we'll be having the 4 day holiday, so will you all be working??? Are there any jobs you have with other members of the agency??? = = KAI: Hi~! Tomorrow will be a visual shooting with the theme of intelligence♪ YOU: It's not a job, but the day after tomorrow, I'll talk with Takaaki-san and Roa-san about an independent dance lesson along with a few more people. The 4 day holiday they're talking about is Marine Day, which lasts from Jul 22 - Jul 25 in Japan.

Is it okay to eat ice-cream at this time?! = = KAI: We've already eaten it (sparkles) YOU: Recently, my favorite one is... the Shi●kuma ice cream KAI: The melon flavour! This year, for some reason, the melon flavor is in demand. YOU: You can buy it at a convenience store ~ He's referring to the Shirokuma Ice Cream which is a shaved ice dessert topped with ice cream and condensed milk.

Please tell us what you had for dinner today! = = KAI: Pork shogayaki. I really like it. Especially when its with White Rice. YOU: I get you.

Have you been interacted with the Gravi members lately? Please tell us if there's anything interesting👓✨ = = KAI: Oh, that emoji means Haru! Haru~ HARU: I was waiting so long to be called. YOU: You appeared so quickly (www) HARU: Something interesting... Ah, let's play Look that way! YOU: Is it popular in Gravi? (ww)

#Haru won and was satisfied when he left.

I'm busy and tired lately, so please leave a good luck charm please!! I love you!!! = = KAI: I love you too!! YOU: Me too! The is the best good luck charm you can believe in! We love you, support you, so please do your best!! KAI: I wish you a happy summer!

It's summer!!!!!! Did you have anything of a summer vibe that you ate?? = = KAI: Corn!!!!! Grilled Corn!!! YOU: Recently, Procella has this trend of using the Bato Mayo Soy Sauce with various things.

Is Maze slowly molting??! = = YOU: ......Maze? Are you molting? I've never cleaned them up. MAGELLAN: Que! (I forgot) KAI: He's always like fluffy. Maybe it's because he's an Demon World Penguin? Next time, let us touch you~

Speaking of summer vacation, I remember watching movies at movie theaters or on TV when I was in elementary school! Do you have a favorite movie when you were little? = = KAI: Back to the Fu●re that was rebroadcasted on TV! I feel like that's a classic one. YOU: There's also Toto●. KAI: Ah, there's that too! The child in the middle has my colors! Kai is referring to Back to the Future and I believe You is referring to My Neighbor Totoro.

We can't drink outside, but have you been drinking at home?? = = YOU: The senior group sometimes drink on the balcony~ KAI: Only sometimes~ I don't drink a lot (laughs). And what about the middle group? YOU: We don't really drink much? Instead, we eat food.

KAI: That was all for the replies~! YOU: Thank you for your messages despite it being midnight! KAI: I was going to introduce the October's CD but it's so late now, so I'll do it tomorrow! YOU: If you're going to do it tomorrow, then just call in the people themselves. KAI: Ah, true. Anyways, this is all for today's corner!

KAI: It was Kai-chan Radio, Summer Vacation Activity Edition~! YOU: Thank you for listening to us! Ah, Kai, let's say that. KAI: That? YOU (whispers unintelligently to Kai) KAI: Uhhh.. KAI & YOU: Dream well? KAI: .... YOU: .... KAI: I'm kind of embarassed. YOU: Why? (www)

#Kai-chan Radio #Thank you

✧If you like my work, then please consider supporting me here. Thank you~!

#tsukiuta #tsukiuta twitter #fuduki kai #haduki you #kai chan radio #please this was too long #what the heck #how do they have so much energy?#they really are summer guys #LOL

14 notes · View notes

argumentl · 3 years

Text

The Freedom of Expression Radio version - Ep 9, Nov 2015.

Kaoru begins by introducing the concept of the show, and then immediately introduces Joe. Kaoru says the show has become quite interesting for him, and he gets less nervous each time.

After reading out the shows contact info, he reads out a message which was sent in by a listner. The message asks how Kaoru feels about the fact that photography is allowed during shows overseas. Doesn't it bother him? He says at first, he wasn't used to it at all, especially the flashes going off from the audience. These days you can take a decent photo on a smartphone without necessarily having to use flash, so he doesn't see as much flash recently. But when they first started going overseas, the amount of flash from the audience was incredible, and he wasn't very fond of it. He doesn't mind it as much these days though. He thinks its ok if fans post images of live shows online because it spreads awareness of the band. On the otherhand, its not good if people see these photos and make a judgment about the band, because these photos do not catch the real feel you get when you actually go to a live. In the end, he thinks it can have pros and cons. Joe says it reminds him of a band he loves, Grateful Dead, who let fans tape their shows. Fans would make bootleg copies of material and exchange it among themselves. Then after that, even if the band didn't have a new release, there would be people who knew them from bootlegs where-ever they went. But Joe doesn't think we should equate bootleg footage with going to an actual live. Kaoru says, this may be his own selfishness, but he at least wants people to wait until after the show is finished before they post photos online. The original question also asks if Kaoru wants photography to be banned in lives overseas, like it is in Japan. Kaoru says its mainly down to a culture difference, and he thinks its best to just follow the culture when they are overseas. ('When in Rome...' I guess).

He then moves to his next topic about a man named Neil Thomas Douglas who discovered his absolute doppelganger after getting on a flight heading to Galway, Ireland. Kaoru says this isn't related to Freedom of Expression, but he just finds it amazing, and asks Joe if he's ever had this experience. Joe says he was recently mistaken for the comedian Naoki Matayoshi, when he was in a cafe. The staff wouldn't take payment from him because they thought he was Matayoshi, and wanted him to have it for free. He says he's worried if he goes back and they ask for his signature. Joe then says there is an urban ledgend that everyone has three doppelgangers in the world. He finds it fascinating that as DNA is finite, there may at some point be a person out there with exactly the same DNA arrangement as your own. It may or may not be at the same time you are alive, but he thinks it may be possible. He also thinks that De ja vu could be explained as, for example - if he went to Kyoto, had a great time and didn't want to go back to Tokyo, the part of him that wants to stay in Kyoto would stay there emotionally. And although these two parts of him shouldn't ever meet, whenever they do cross paths, thats what causes de ja vu. He says there must be more to it than just science. Kaoru (possible slightly sarcasticly) expresses his awe at such an idea.

After this they are joined by Dobashi from Tokyo Sports. They comment that the murder story from last week was a little creepy. Dobashi brings up the story that Osaka now has its own 'Lupin'. On the 22nd of October, an unemployed person had been arrested in Osaka, suspected of being responsible for a number of thefts and illegal entries. This was after a series of 14 different investigations by the prefectural police. He had been responsible for various sneaky thefts over a few months, and was eventually spotted in a shopping zone by the police, but ran for cover to a friend's house nearby. When they went to find him, he shouted, 'Im called "Naniwa Lupin!!" '. (*Naniwa is an area in Osaka*) They wonder why he wanted to be called in that way. Naniwa, and Osaka itself has a kind of tough image, especially compared to Kaoru's home prefecture, Hyogo. Hyogo does have its dark side, but no-one ever imagines that. They think about Kobe, or the theatre group Takarazuka, nice things like that. Its nothing compared to the tough image Naniwa has. But when Kaoru, as someone born and raised in Hyogo, hears the phrase 'I'm Naniwa Lupin!', he thinks it sounds crazy. On the otherhand, it could just be the uniquness of people from Kansai showing. After all, the guy is exercising freedom of expression by saying it, which links the story right back to the theme of the show.

Then they move onto one more story. The story that the celebrity Takabe Ai had been arrested for cocain possesion and use. This news had been widely reported, and promted the question of whether there is a celebrity war on drugs taking place. Kaoru says he didn't really know much about Takabe. Joe asks Dobashi if Tokyo Sports have any juicy info regarding this issue. They do, apparently. Dobashi then hints at various famous persons he knows of whom the authorities suspect of drug use, without actually saying their names. Kaoru says he knows that someone who Dir appeared on a tv show with several years ago is also suspected. Dobashi then stresses that these are just people who are suspected. The police need solid proof before they can raid someone's home, because if they don't find anything in a raid, they will have to admit publicly that the suspect was innocent of drug use. Simply put, a famous person won't be raided unless the police know for sure that they have drugs, which is probably what happened to Takabe. Kaoru adds that an arrest will be possible if two people testify against a suspect. Dobashi then talks about how the singer Aska used to do drugs at his mistress' house, to keep it a secret. Joe says that from the day after Aska's arrest, his songs were no longer played on radio. Of course doing drugs is bad, but should that crime also extend to the artists work? Does it become a crime to even play the songs on radio after that? Joe says its very difficult to have any meaningful discussion in the Japanese media about a convicted artists' previous body of work. Kaoru says Dir en grey are the type who people often imagine would be doing drugs, as they often also go overseas too. He says whenever they get back to Japan from overseas, the drug detection dogs at the airport come straight over to them. He's kinda scared of them as they are so big.

Kaoru finishes by promoting the Budokan shows and Chinese tour, and reminds listeners about the Arche cover design topic, and that some of designs are being posted on the show's blog. He tells listeners that as the next show will be the 10th episode, there may be a kind of special announcment to look forward to. He ends by saying he thinks the recent episodes have been going pretty well.

Songs - Dir en grey/Un duex, Mastadon/Divinations.

#dir en grey #the freedom of expression

23 notes · View notes

hoodharlow · 4 years

Text

Se Esta Acercando el Final de Nuestro Amor

AN: Thank @fioridichernoby1 @frankies-fury and @littledrummeraussie for the beginning lmao. As always thank you to @d-oaks for editing.

Reqquested: Yes! by a lovely anon. “1 + 7, with Cal and the OC of your choice.”

Warnings: smut in the beginning, a lil angst, and mentions of sex

Word Count: 4.2 k words

Claudia's anthropology notes and flashcards were long forgotten. All she could concentrate on was her mounting orgasm rather than the exam she had later in the morning. She knew Calum had been up to no good when he told her to put on her vibrator, pero como mensa se lo puso.

Even before today, she knew she would regret buying that vibrator the minute she inserted her card on the chip reader at the store. Then she saw the mischievous glint in Calum's eye when she showed him that he could also control the vibrator through an app even if he was across the country.

Everything was fine when they started the Skype call until Claudia joked that he should increase the speed for every definition she got wrong on her flashcards. She started to purposely get definitions wrong just so Calum could tease her, which pissed him off because the last thing he wanted to do was to get in the way of her studies.

Claudia closed her legs shut.

"Keep them open." Calum demanded. He increased the speed on the vibrator, making her yelp.

She reached for her pillow to keep quiet. Thankfully Calum slowed the speed, but it was still driving her insane. Claudia squirmed and wiggled her hips for some relief.

"C'mon pretty girl, one more. I know you have it in you." Calum's voice echoed through her Airpods.

Claudia bit her pillow harder, keeping her moans and screams muted. Her hands pushed her face deeper into the pillow.

Through his computer screen, Calum watched her body tense and constrict. She was nearing her climax, so he increased the vibrations on his phone. He watched as her hands tightly fisted the pillow, letting Calum know she was coming. Her legs shook at the intensity, and her grip on the pillow loosened.

Claudia pushed the pillow off to the side.

"There's my pretty girl." Calum smiled once he saw her face.

"I hate you." She panted.

"You shouldn't have been a smartass earlier. No one likes a smartass." Calum tisked.

"No, but you like this ass." She sat on her knees and lifted his flannel just above her waist, showing off her glorious ass.

What Calum would do to be right there with her. He hasn't been able to hold her in weeks. He briefly saw her for a few days before the tour began. Except he had to fly to New York for a last minute radio show, so they didn’t spend as much time as he wished. The good thing was that she’s finally going to come see him.

She sorted her school schedule to visit him. Her and Dulce even pre-recorded their podcast to upload on Apple Music and Spotify later. At the end of the semester, the school shut them down for being too political, so now they do podcasts. Claudia still worked at the restaurant during the summer. It was a deal she made with her parents. What financial aid didn't cover, her parents would pay plus her rent. She knew they were making a huge sacrifice, so she worked at the restaurant to earn some money of her own, so she wouldn't ask them for any more spending money.

Claudia reached down and removed the toy. She got up and picked her panties off the floor. Noticing their dampness, she tossed them to the laundry hamper and got a fresh pair. In the bathroom she cleaned the toy and placed it in the storage box; then into an empty tampon box.

She quickly fixed her hair and went back to bed. Claudia beamed at Calum. He looked a bit intimidating with his shaved head, but the second he smiled, he had a completely different demeanor. He looked so soft and cuddly.

"I like your face.” Claudia found herself saying out loud. She pulled her giant pillow closer to herself as she watched him get ready. She unconsciously licked her lips when he was in front of his suitcase. His glorious ass out on display as he put on his sweats. She squeezed her thighs together, hoping for some relief. After all those orgasms, she should not be thinking of how she would dig her nails in his ass when taking him in her mouth. Nor the way he would tightly grip her hair as he guides her mouth along his length.

Claudia sat up right and slid her hands inside her panties. She closed her eyes and imagined Calum's face in between her thighs. His teasing licks and kisses. Her other hand played with her breasts. Tweaking her nipples and squeezing them. After all that teasing, she inserted her ring and middle fingers inside of herself.

Calum was too busy getting dressed that he wasn't watching the screen, but the second he heard Claudia's soft moans, he stopped everything and looked over.

"Calum," she said softly as she touched herself.

"Fucking hell," he mumbled.

He checked the time; he had an hour before heading to the arena for sound check. He sat back down and pulled down his pajamas along with his boxers. His cock slapping against his stomach, already hard. He reached for his lotion and slowly stroked himself.

"What are you thinking about, pretty girl?" He asked her.

"Your tongue, miss it so much" She groaned. They told each other what they wanted the other to do to them. In a matter of minutes they both came.

"How many was that?" Calum asked her.

"Like eleven? I don't know, my brain is mush." Claudia sighed. Her alarm belted out a piano cover of 'L$D'. She groaned and stretched over to the other side to turn it off. "Fuck, I gotta get ready to fail my exam."

"You better pass, or else." He warned.

"Or else what?" She sassed him.

"You don't get my tongue."

***

The exam is multiple choice and short answer, and in the class it's a given pass if you get at least 75% on the multiple choice. Claudia passed her exam. She doesn't like her professor, but the one good thing about her is that she's a fast grader.

Her flight was tonight, arriving in New York in the morning to meet up since he had a few days in between shows. Calum bought her her ticket, much to her dismay. . He knew she hated that he paid for her things because she wasn't a mantenida. Calum always reassured her that he's okay with paying for her things because he knows that college is expensive. He doesn't want her to worry about it when she's saying up for grad school.

She pushed away those thoughts and went back to packing. When she got home, her Savage×Fenty package was at her doorstep. She was trying on the bra she ordered when Calum FaceTimed her.

"Hey!" She said, "This is cute right?"

"I'm supposed to go on stage in a bit. Why do you torture me like this?"

"Fine, I'll take it off." she reached back and unclasped it. She threw it on her bed near her duffle bag. "Happy?"

"Please put on a shirt." He groaned. Claudia laughed at him, but went to go put on a shirt.

"What's up?" She asked, pulling out her hair from her shirt.

"Can you do me a favor? I need some jackets. When you stop by my place to get Duke, could you get some? I'll even let you take a hoodie for yourself." He replied. He had only packed one jacket that was useful for cold weather. The others were more for him performing.

"Like any hoodie? Even your green one?"

"If you can find it, it's yours."

"Okay. I have a few hours before my flight. I'll text Roy that I'm driving over."

"Okay. Want me to send you some food over?"

"I made myself chilaquiles verdes." She lifted her bowl and showed him.

Calum nodded. "Thank you. I appreciate it and I appreciate you."

"Better show me how much you do when I get there."

"Oh, I plan on it."

They kept talking until Calum had to go on stage. Claudia was pulling up to Calum's house an hour later. She knocked on the door and waited. She looked back and didn't see Roy's car, but there was a car parked in the driveway. Maybe he got a new car, she thought to herself. She knocked again.

A girl with purple hair opened the door. It took Claudia a second to realize she was Calum's ex.

"Cal's not here." She said. She looked at Claudia up and down.

"I'm aware. I need to get some things for him." Claudia replied, coldly. She nudged her way in.

"Still can't believe you're together. Let me give you some advice. As someone who dated him—"

"I didn't ask for advice." Claudia snapped at her. She surveyed the house. Her eyes landed on the living room. A blanket she left there was splayed over the couch and the tv had "The Good Place" paused. "Where's Duke?"

"Roy took him to get groomed."

Claudia watched her lay back on the couch. She covered herself in the blanket and continued watching "The Good Place." Claudia sat on a chair in the kitchen.

She pulled out her phone. Calum was already on stage. She texted him to call when he can.

Roy came back half an hour later. Duke ignored Calum's ex and went straight to Claudia.

"Hey, babas." Claudia said. She pulled him to her arms and sponged kisses all over his face.

"Well, I should get going." The ex announced. She pulled Duke out of Claudia's arms and hugged him. He squirmed and tried to pull away from her. "Bye, my love. Be good."

She set him on the floor and he went back to Claudia.

Roy bid her goodbye and led her to the door. There were muffled whispers between. Then Claudia heard the door slam.

"Sorry, I was gonna bathe him here, but we ran out of shampoo, and Cal is super anal about Duke's shampoo. He gets that expensive shit from Japan. And it gets here in a few days. So I just took him to get groomed. I didn't know she was gonna be here." Roy rambled.

"No worries." Claudia waved him off. "Cal needed some clothes."

"Right," he said. He pulled out his keys and handed her one. "This is the one to his room."

"Thank you." she said, taking it.

She went upstairs and quickly entered his room. She slammed the door shut and finally started processing what just happened.

‘She still has a key ro Calum's place. It's probably not the first time she's been at his place when no one's home. And lastly, she used my blanket.' Claudia thought to herself. She just can't comprehend that Calum still lets her come over like that. She sighed and went into his closet.

***

Calum's stomach dropped and he saw the 'text me when you can, we need to talk' message Claudia sent him. He had about half an hour before going back on stage. He took a backstage pass and went to the tour bus. He paced around the bus waiting for Claudia to answer.

"Bueno?"

"Hey, just got off stage. What's up?"

"Just trying to figure out why your ex was watching 'The Good Place' at your house. I find it weird. Like, the fact that she acts like it's her place just doesn't sit right with me."

"She has a key? She always goes over to see Duke. We got him together, you know that. She gets him when I'm touring."

"And that makes it okay for her to act like that's her house? Why doesn't she take him back to her place? Where she has her own blankets." She mumbled the last part, but Calum managed to hear her.

"Claudia, please tell me you're not getting worked up over a fucking blanket?"

"I could care less about the blanket! I just don’t like it that she's at your house. How would you feel if you came over and found Paco chilling in my house while I was out of town?"

"It's not the same thing! We have Duke! Plus it's not like I'm there with her."

Claudia was silent for a bit. Then she sighed. "I don't think I can go visit. I have midterms coming up and I can't distract myself with anything."

"Fine." Calum said. He balled up his fist and rested his head against it. He saw Ashton hold his hand up, they were going back on stage in five minutes. Calum waved him off. "I gotta go. I have to get back on stage. I'll call—"

"Okay, I don't wanna keep you." she said softly. "Um, I'll call you later. Good luck."

Calum didn't respond. He hung up and went back to the arena. The guys noticed his whole demeanor change.

"What?" he snapped at the guys.

"Everything alright?" Michael asked.

"Yeah." He said. He waited for their cue to go back into the stage.

It was the worst Calum has ever played. Even the people that went to go see them could tell he wasn't in the right headspace. In a blink of an eye, they performed and left.

. After the performance, he went back to the bus.

His phone pinged. It was a venmo alert that Claudia sent him the money for the plane tickets. He sent the money back and texted her not to send him the money. He waited for her to reply, but she didn't.

Michael came on the bus. "We're going to go get food before we hit the road. What time are you leaving for the airport?" He asked.

"That's not happening anymore." Calum sighed.

"What do you mean? Is Claudia sick or something?"

"We got in a fight because she saw my ex at my house."

"Why does she still have your key? Don't you find it weird that she's always there when you're not?"

"Because she sees Duke. What's not hard to understand about that?" Calum snapped at him. "Sorry… Claudia's just pissed for no reason. I never thought she'd get so worked up over a fucking blanket."

Michael stayed silent.

***

Calum thanked the Lyft driver and made his way up the steps to his house. He noticed her bright red car parked across his house. He trudded up the steps and unlocked the door. He stepped in and immediately frowned at the sleeping body on the couch. ‘That’s Claudia’s blanket,’ he thought to himself.

“Get up.” He said sternly. He shook her shoulder, waking her up.

“Shit,” his ex said looking up at him confused. “How long was I out?”

“Where’s Duke?” Calum asked, dismissing her. Duke, no matter where in the house he is, always meets him by the door when he gets home.

“Hmm?” She yawned and scratched her hair. She pushed off the blanket and stretched.

Calum scoffed and went to go look for him. He went upstairs to check his room. Empty. Behind the fireplace where he stored all the chewed up shoes. Nope. Calum went to the yard; he chanted and whistled for him, but Duke didn’t appear.

He came back to the house. He heard soft whines and moans. Calum quietly walked near where he heard the sound. He ducked down under the table and saw Duke. There was a pint of ‘Chocolate Therapy’ next to him.

Calum's heart raced.

"Oh, you found him!" He heard her say from behind.

"Get out." Calum's voice rose in panic. He scooped up Duke and took him to the nearest bathroom. "It's gonna be okay, old man." He rubbed his stomach and kissed his head.

He ran back to the kitchen and rummaged around looking for measuring spoons. He opted for a turkey baster and went back to Duke.

He filled it with enough hydrogen peroxide and forced it down Duke's throat. After two minutes, he vomited. Calum waited another fifteen minutes to make sure nothing else happened.

"You feel better, old man?" Calum asked him. He set Duke on the couch and went back to the bathroom to clean up.

When he came back, he found Duke sniffing Claudia's blanket. He growled at it and laid down on the opposite side of the couch. Calum went to get the blanket and frowned. It didn’t smell like Claudia.

Calum needed to call her and apologize. He wondered if he should go over or just call her.

He missed Claudia, plain and simple. He wanted to hear her laugh. He needed her there with him, reassuring him that Duke was going to be fine. He just wants her there with him.

***

Claudia checked her phone for the millionth time, but nothing. She wasn't in the wrong, she thought. He's the one that doesn't have set boundaries, and his ex was the one fucking this up.

She went to the fridge for some rosé. She was going to sip some wine and color to keep her mind off things.

Her phone rang, so she ran from the opposite end to answer.

"Bueno?"

"Mi'ja, why haven't you called? You said you were calling when you landed." It was her dad.

"Um, something came up?... Yeah, my profe dropped an assignment last minute and I wanted to work on it. It's due the day before my—"

"¿Porque mientes?"

"I'm not… I'm not…"

"Claudia, te conosco. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just…" Her voice cracked. She couldn't finish what she was saying. She slid down against her desk and sighed. "I'm just stressed with school. Like I graduate next semester and I have to do good because I have to apply for grad school next semester too. I just wanna do good. Don't want to let you and mami down."

"Claudia, we're proud of you no matter what. You can drop out and go to pastry school, and we'd still be proud and support you. If you think it's too much, you can take a semester off before starting grad school."

"Thanks, dad." She felt guilty for lying to him, but she hates putting out her business like that. Knowing her dad, he'd joke about potentially killing Calum, but he'd wish them the best and tell her some dicho her grandmother would say to him.

"Te dejo. I was just checking in. If you need anything me hablas. Te quiero."

"Yo tambien."

They bid goodbye and hung up.

Claudia sighed. She heard her stomach grumble. She hasn't eaten anything since last night.

She tugged the sleeves of Calum's green hoodie. She found it last night when she was getting his jackets and Duke. It felt like she was getting a hug from him.

She quietly walked in the kitchen where the others were and grabbed some noodles from the freezer. While they cooked in the microwave, she went back to her room for the rosé and her coloring supplies.

Dulce and Sara looked at each other and then back to Claudia. They had both seen the airport pictures of Calum. They weren't sure if Claudia had, so they decided not to say anything until she brought them up. They saw how upset she was when she got home last night. The last time they saw her that upset was when her ex broke up with her last year.

Claudia sat on their island and spread out her things. When the microwave beeped, she pulled out her noodles and added some leftover bistec. She poured her rosé into her mug and got coloring.

Her left hand alternated between feeding herself and having a sip. Her '💔💔💔' playlist was blasting through her air pods. After a few hours,she got up to get the charging case.

"... she's a little sensitive right now. Us telling her that he's in L.A. is probably not—" Dulce quieted down. Sara and Ale looked behind them. Claudia was standing behind them.

"He's here, and he didn't even bother to tell me." Claudia wiped a tear off her cheek. She hugged herself. "He's probably here to break up with me. Of course he is! He's fucking Calum Hood. I'm just some college student. He can do so much better, and he will."

"You burn all of his shit." Dulce piped up. "Starting with the hoodie."

"Dulce!" Ale and Sara said at the same time. She signaled them to wait for Claudia's response.

"Maybe something happened, right? It's probably all a misunderstanding and he's gonna show up and tell me. 'Hey, sorry for being MIA the past few hours.'" Claudia said. She sat down on the couch only to stand up three seconds later. "But if he's not? What if this is his way of breaking up with me? I'm going to go listen to Christian Nodal full blast."

"This is all a misunderstanding, like you said. We'll order some pizza and wait for him with you." Ale said.

Claudia nodded and went back to the kitchen to finish coloring. She sipped some more rosé. Then the doorbell rang, and she bolted to open the front door. She looked at herself in the mirror and pulled up her hair into a messy bun. She plastered a smile and opened the door. Her smile faltered when she saw it was James, the pizza delivery guy who's also in Claudia's anthropology class. He used to give them free pepperoni knots but stopped when he found out Claudia was dating Calum.

"You're not Cal." She said softly. Claudia teared up and slammed the door. Shortly after, she opened the door and took their order. The girls came over and found her stuffing herself with pepperoni knots. She hugged her knees and sighed. "How do you think this ends?"

***

Calum rolled off his couch. After he gave Duke the hydrogen peroxide, he took him to the vet. They stayed there for a few hours until Duke was cleared. He was going to call Claudia, but he left his phone on the bathroom sink. When he got home, he called his ex. They argued for a bit, but they agreed that she should return his key and that she should call Roy whenever she wants to see Duke.

He decided to take a quick nap before going over. He wrapped himself in Claudia's blanket after he washed it with the detergent and fabric softener she uses and sprayed it with her perfume that he stole because it reminded him of home.

Now it's almost midnight.

"Fuck," he mumbled. He rubbed his neck and stretched.

His phone pinged. He tripped over his feet to get his phone. It was from Claudia. 'Hope you had a safe flight.' He cursed. He grabbed his keys and phone. Duke followed him. Instead of convincing him to stay, Calum lifted him onto the car and drove to Claudia's.

He gave himself a quick pep talk before working up the courage to knock on her door. Her bedroom light was on. He could hear her singing.

"Se está acercando el final de nuestro amor…" he overheard her sing. He wasn't sure what she sang, but he knew it was a sad song.

He took a deep breath and knocked. The music stopped. Seconds later the door opened. Tears pooled around Claudia's eyes.

"You couldn't wait until the morning to break up with me?" She asked quietly.

"What? Break up with you? I came to apologize. You—"

"What happened to you, babas?" She lifted Duke and inspected the tag on his paw. She moved off to the side to let him in. She looked up at Calum, her eyes filled with worry. "Is he okay?"

"Yeah. When I came home I found him covered in chocolate ice cream. Gave him some hydrogen peroxide and then took him to the vet to make sure he's okay." He explained. He followed her to the kitchen. She sat on a stool and Calum took the one opposite of her. "Claudia, I'm sorry. I—"

"I should be the one apologizing. It's not my place to tell you how to take care of Duke. You know what's best for him, and I should respect that." Claudia said. She softly rubbed Duke's tummy and kissed his head.

"But you were right about setting boundaries. I didn't realize how you must've felt until I saw her in your blanket. It just didn't feel right."

"Cal, please tell me you're not getting worked up over a blanket?" She joked.

She set Duke on the floor. They heard him pad over to her room. Claudia wrapped her arms around Calum. He sighed and kissed her hair. They stayed quiet in each other's arms. Calum's stomach ruined their moment.

"You hungry? There's pizza." Claudia offered.

"Did you pass your exam?" He asked her, dismissing her pizza offer. He wanted to eat something that he was craving for the past few weeks.

"Yeah, but what does that have to do with pizza?"

"I want my dessert first if that's okay with you, pretty girl." He picked her up and sat her on the counter. He got down on his knees and placed her legs over his shoulders. He ran his hands over her thighs.

"I suppose. You did help me study."

Taglist:

@calumscalm

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@myloverboyash

@idontneedanyone

@findingliam-o

@sexgodashton

@calumhoodaf

@5-secondsofcolor

@sunshinebabycal

@another-lonely-heart

#el novio #El Novio series #calum hood imagine #calum hood imagines #calum hood smut #calum hood fanfic #calum hood one shot #calum hood one sh #calum hood series

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passionate-reply · 3 years

Video

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This week on Great Albums: a fresh look at quite possibly the 80s’ most hated band, A Flock of Seagulls! Spoiler: their music is good, people in the 90s and 00s were just mean. If you want to find out more about how having the absolute best hair in the business ended up backfiring on these poor sods, look no further than my latest video. Or the transcript of it, which follows below the break!

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! Today, I’m going to be diving into a discussion of quite possibly the most derided and lambasted music group of the 1980s: A Flock of Seagulls. With a strange name, a perhaps painfully stylish aesthetic, and equally trendy and of-the-moment music, that was, for a time, inescapable in popular culture, their legacy forms a perfect target for the ridicule all popular things must face in due time. But even moreso than that, I think A Flock of Seagulls have become not only a punchline in and of themselves, but also a summation of everything that was dreadful and excessive about the early 1980s, with its “Second British Invasion” of synthesiser-driven New Wave. I can think of no better example of this kind of abuse than a famous line from the 1999 comedy film, Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me. The film is largely a love letter to the 1960s and its Mod aesthetics, and the protagonist, a super-spy unfrozen from this era in time, dismisses the history and culture of the 1970s and 80s as nothing more than “a gas shortage, and A Flock of Seagulls.” But at the time of this writing, we’re about as far away from Austin Powers as the film was from the release of this album, the band’s 1982 debut LP, so I think it’s been long enough that we can start to re-evaluate A Flock of Seagulls’ rightful place in music history.

While this self-titled album was the group’s first long-player, their first release was the 1981 single “It’s Not Me Talking.” Notably, this track was actually produced by the legendary Bill Nelson, who also released it on their behalf via his personal label, Cocteau Records. Ever since discovering this for myself, I’ve found the connection between Nelson and A Flock of Seagulls fascinating, and also satisfying. Despite the gulf between their respective reputations, I do think their work has a lot in common, at the end of the day: swirling washes of synth disrupted by screaming guitars, not to mention that shared interest in Midcentury rock and roll aesthetics.

Music: “It’s Not Me Talking”

These two acts would, of course, go their separate ways shortly after, and they ended up in completely opposite camps, with Nelson becoming a cult favourite with little crossover success, and A Flock of Seagulls going on to create what is, undoubtedly, one of the most iconic songs of the entire decade.

Music: “I Ran”

What does one even say about a song like “I Ran”? Over the years, it’s certainly gotten somewhat overplayed, but I can’t really hold that against it. It’s just a damn good song. Both ethereally menacing as well as catchy and rather accessible, “I Ran” takes the atmosphere suggested by “It’s Not Me Talking” and kicks it into another gear, with a harder-hitting hook and the introduction of that highly distinctive and of-the-moment echoing guitar effect. Some will hear it as little more than evidence that the song is hopelessly dated, but I’ve never thought of it as anything other than satisfying to listen to. If you ask me, I figure all art that exists is essentially “a product of its time”--nobody ever said Michelangelo Buonarroti’s David was a lousy sculpture, just because you can easily tell it was made during the Italian Renaissance. At any rate, I’d encourage everyone reading to go back and listen to it again, trying to maintain a little neutrality. I’d recommend the album cut of it, which is significantly longer than the single version, and features a rich intro that sets the scene before that famous guitar ever makes an appearance, which I think really adds to the experience. By some reckonings, A Flock of Seagulls are sometimes considered a “one-hit wonder,” but while they certainly are remembered chiefly for “I Ran,” this album’s other singles were moderately successful as well.

Music: “Space Age Love Song”

“Space Age Love Song” is perhaps the band’s second best-remembered single, and takes their sound in a markedly different direction than that of “I Ran.” “I Ran” won popular acclaim by finding a new home for the guitar, in the midst of a sea of synth, and pushed A Flock of Seagulls into a similar space as acts like the Cars and Duran Duran, who had enough mainstream rock sensibilities to sneak a lot of synthesiser usage onto American rock radio...much as one might sneak spinach into tomato sauce when feeding picky children. But I think “Space Age Love Song” is much more palatable to listeners of pop, synth- or otherwise. It’s softer in texture, and really almost dreamy, capturing the hazy, buoyant feeling of limerence as well as any pop song ever has. I’m tempted to compare it to another synth-driven classic, whose influence towers over this period in electronic music: the great Giorgio Moroder’s “I Feel Love.” Much like “I Feel Love,” “Space Age Love Song” combines simple, almost banal love lyrics with an evocative electronic soundscape, painting a picture of an enchanting, high-tech future where human feelings like love have remained comfortably recognizable across centuries or millennia. A similar theme of futuristic love pervades the album’s second single, “Modern Love Is Automatic.”

Music: “Modern Love Is Automatic”

While “Space Age Love Song” uses simplistic lyricism to portray the relatable universality of falling in love, “Modern Love Is Automatic” gives us the album’s most complex narrative. In a world where “young love’s forbidden,” we meet a pair of star-crossed lovers prevented from being together by some sort of dystopian authority. The male member of this union, introduced as the “cosmic man,” is apparently imprisoned for the crime of loving, but the text suggests that he may escape from this prison--or, perhaps, even be freed from it. The title, repeated quite frequently throughout the track, is perhaps the mantra of this anti-love society, a piece of propaganda being drilled into us as thoroughly as it is into these subjects: Modern love is automatic, with no need for messy, unpredictable human input.

It’s also worth noting that the song is consciously set in “old Japan,” deliberately locating it in the “exotic” East. While East Asia was strongly associated with refined, perhaps futuristic culture, I can’t help but think there’s a more pejorative sentiment operating here, rooted in stereotypes of Asian cultures unduly policing sexual freedom, and other forms of personal expression and self-determination. Ultimately, despite its futuristic trappings, “Modern Love Is Automatic” isn’t really a song about technology at all, but rather authoritarianism. “Telecommunication,” on the other hand, engages more directly with that theme.

Music: “Telecommunication”

“Telecommunication” was also released prior to the self-titled album proper, and was also produced by Bill Nelson. While structurally similar to “Modern Love Is Automatic,” with an oft-repeated title, brief verses, and a generally repetitive musical structure full of meandering guitar, its text quite plainly discusses the titular field of technology, in a seemingly non-judgmental fashion--though it could be argued that the fairly upbeat music suggests a positive outlook on things like radio and TV. The one hitch in all of it is the very end of the last verse, which sets the song in the “nuclear age”--a nod, perhaps, to the darker applications of 20th Century technology. “Telecommunication” is perhaps indebted less to figures like Moroder, and moreso to Kraftwerk, who first solidified the rich tradition of stoic synth thumpers about everyday machines like cars, trains, and, of course, nuclear energy. I’m also tempted to compare it to an earlier work of Bill Nelson’s group Be-Bop Deluxe, “Electrical Language,” another bubbly number that playfully bats this concept back and forth.

The theme of “quotidian technology” is also present on the cover of this album, which features an interior shot of a living room, centered around a television set. The TV displays a figure playing guitar--perhaps one of those heroic rock pioneers of the Midcentury like Buddy Holly, whom Nelson was so keen to imitate. But what’s most immediately striking about this cover is its beautiful colour palette, full of deep, saturated jewel tones, treated softly with an “airbrush” style effect. Despite being a somewhat mundane scene, the image also features fanciful, imaginative touches: the floor of this room is actually a miniature beach landscape, with the “floor” beneath the TV actually being the surface of the ocean, and the TV appears to be surrounded by a colourful, glowing group of birds. Given the beachy surroundings, we could perhaps interpret them as the titular seagulls. It’s tempting to think of this scene as a representation of how technology can sweep us away, out of our everyday existence and into something richer and more exciting.

But perhaps it’s not so simple--note also the open window in the top left, whose curtain appears to be agitated by some sort of motion in the air. Perhaps these birds are not the products of television fantasy, but rather have flown in from the window, and hence hail from the “real world?” Given how tracks like “Space Age Love Song” and “Modern Love Is Automatic” tackle the theme of the mundane meeting the fantastical, I think this complex and arresting image is a great fit for the album.

While their self-titled debut spawned multiple recognizable hits, A Flock of Seagulls never came anywhere close to recapturing its success. For the most part, they struggled to remain relevant as time wore on, largely abandoning the sonic footprint of their first album, and chasing after new trends in music technology such as digital synthesisers. They would eventually break up during the mid-1980s, and though they’ve reunited in order to perform live several times, the book is probably closed on A Flock of Seagulls. Personally, I can’t help but wonder what might have been if they had stuck to their musical roots a bit more. You get a bit of that on their third LP, 1984’s The Story of a Young Heart, which thankfully brings back that iconic echoing guitar, and does so without sounding too much like a simple retread of “I Ran.” Out of all their other work, it’s the album I would most recommend to admirers of this debut LP.

Music: “Remember David”

My favourite track on A Flock of Seagulls’ debut LP is “Messages”--not to be confused with the track of the same name by Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark! Moreso than anything else on the album, “Messages” has this aggressive, insistent, driving quality, and feels less like yacht rock, and more like punk rock. Despite not being released as a single, I think it’s a very strong track that’s quite easy to get into. That’s everything for today--thanks for listening!

Music: “Messages”

#music #album review #album reviews #great albums #a flock of seagulls #flock of seagulls

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Text

when your love reaches me (iii)

summary: 1978 is decidedly not 2020. nor is your life ever the same when you meet a guitarist, curly haired, soft spoken, and true.

word count: 7.5k

warnings: angst, language, yearning for a man in his 70s (c’est la vie, i guess), over-describing a moment i’m very passionate about (sorry, not sorry! ten points to the person who can tell me what moment it is LOL)

a/n: wow—this gif? yeah, match made in heaven. thank you all so much for indulging me in this mini-series. i really am very proud of this silly little thing & i’m sad that it’s over because i enjoyed writing it so much. thank you to @im-an-adult-ish & @deacyblues for helping me work out the rough spots in this one. would love to hear everyone’s thoughts because i’m very ~emotional~ about this mini-series!! xoxo.

part i, part ii

in this final chapter: you must adjust because it’s not in your cards to be with him, is it?

you run your hands down your face, feel the ring on your finger catch along the end of your nose, and sigh. two months—two months without him. two months to adjust to world you once knew but happily left behind. two months to gather the pieces of the life which cruelly slipped through your fingers like water.

each day is the same. you rise early and take your coffee on the postage stamp terrace outside your flat. you watch the sun climb higher in the sky with each passing moment and let the warmth of your drink soothe the ache in your soul. you wash your breakfast dishes, mumble a good morning to rachel when she exits her bedroom to make her way to the shower, and dress for the day. you walk to campus if you have a class or take the underground to the museum if you have a shift. you come home, eat dinner, go to bed. repeat.

if rachel notices a change in you, she doesn’t say anything. in her mind, no time has passed between the morning where she asked you to come to the pub and the same evening you tumbled into the flat, drenched and sobbing.

but you—you’ve lost a year of your life. there’s no getting it back, and the only thing that proves it really truly happened is the ring on your middle finger, the necklace hanging by your heart, and the undeveloped rolls of film in your bedside table.

there are few words to describe the unbearable pain in your chest. anything and everything reminds you of brian: the whisper of the breeze in the autumn-heavy trees; the feeling of your warmest cardigan around your shoulders; the sound of someone laughing in the museum.

but there’s more:

the scent of cigarette smoke reminds you of roger. the sight of two friends ribbing one another in a grocery store reminds you of crystal. a colorful jacket makes you think of freddie, a whispered snide remark takes you back to john, and two girls giggling reminds you of giddy moments with anna.

around every corner you turn there’s a memory you cannot avoid, and it hurts—desperately, keenly, deeply.

so you push it all away and soldier on, quiet and downtrodden. it’s easier that way. maybe, if you forget, you can move on and make it through life without him.

six months after you’ve left brian behind, you’re approached by your boss at the museum with an opportunity you’d only ever dreamed of: the chance to create and prepare your own exhibit.

monica is firm when she offers you the south wing to reshape as your own. “blow this out of the water, [y/n], and there will be a job as assistant curator waiting for you after graduation. i want something fresh and exciting. think you can manage?”

you agree without hesitation.

for the first time in a long time, you can’t help but smile to yourself. this is your chance to put everything you’ve learned to good use, to put something tangible in your portfolio, to make a name for yourself.

you’re buzzing with excitement and have to practically hold rachel hostage as you spout your myriad of thoughts and ideas. she’s your sounding board, even if she doesn’t want to be, but she’s honest where it counts most, and you’re grateful for that.

she glances over the kitchen table, laden with open magazines, cutout photos, and history books. her brow puckers. “this is... really boring, [y/n],” she says with a cringe, looking up with her blue eyes and freckled face.

your shoulder droop. “that’s it? that’s all you have to say?”

she shrugs and reaches for a photo, inspecting it with a critical gaze. “i mean, ancient textiles might be interesting to you and maybe five other people, but it isn’t exactly blowing me out of the water.”

dropping to the seat across the table, you huff. “well, we’re a photography museum, rachel. it’s not like i can whip up a few outfits and put them on mannequins.”

“excuse me, but fashion design is just as artistic as curating a museum—if not more so.” she sighs and puts the photo of a thirteenth century chinese table linen on the table. “there must be something else you’re interested in? something that other people will like just as much?”

you don’t mean to, but you let your eyes trail to the camera sitting on on the tv stand. you’d left it there after your return, uncertain where to put it. sometimes you catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of your eye and then you remember the tubes of film in your bedroom, undeveloped and unseen.

rachel follows your gaze. “you know, you never told me where you got that.”

“it was a gift.”

“oh really? from who?”

you’re slow to answer. the truth sits on the tip of your tongue—the man i love, the man i was going to marry—but you bite it back. “my great-aunt. she left it to me... in her will.”

you aren’t sure what compels you to retrieve the six rolls of film from your bedroom, but you do. the tubes feel heavy in your palm and clang against the table as you put them down. rachel looks at them then back at you, waiting.

“she gave me these, too.”

“i didn’t know you had a great-aunt.”

“we weren’t close.”

“obviously you were close enough to get these things.” rachel lifts one of the tubes, turning it over in her palm. “wonder what the pictures are.”

“i’m not sure,” you lie. “maybe they could make an exhibit.”

“i think you’d have to develop them first then make that decision.” she rises from the table and shrugs on her coat. “i’ve got a date, so don’t wait up. and try not to let this consume you too much? you’ve been down and out lately. i think the work will do you good, but don’t let it take over, yeah?”

you nod and wish her well on her date. she leaves the flat in a flourish, leaves you to the tubes of film and the growing curiosity in your stomach.

you really should get them developed. if not for an exhibit, then for yourself. an entire year of your life is in those tubes, and you deserve to see the photos you’d taken to preserve that time.

it’s been six months. you’ve purposefully distanced yourself from anything and everything related to queen, be it a simple news story, a song on the radio, or any of roger or brian’s social media posts. it hurts to see them, to know that they’re so close yet so far away, that they have no idea what became of you all those years ago in japan.

still, it’s been six months. developing the film might be your first step toward a sense of closure. you don’t want to stay in your rut forever. though you’re comfortable with the idea that brian might be your great love and you’ll never find another, you know you can’t stay as you are, sullen and despondent. it’s like a break-up, really. you’re sad, heartbroken over the loss, but you know it’s time to step out of the hurt and into something different.

before you can stop yourself, you grab the rolls of film, your purse, and your jacket, and you head for the nearest photo shop.

a few hours later, you return with a heavy packet of freshly-printed photographs and a usb drive full of digital scans. there’s over two hundred photos to sort through, and you’ve yet to see one.

flipping on the light to your living room, you sit down beside the coffee table, a glass of wine at your side, the table cleared of any lingering books or empty teacups. before you open the packet of photos, you open your laptop and type your search into the search bar. if you’re going to quell your curiosity tonight, you might as well quell all of it, and you’re dying to know what happened after you left.

a simple internet search confirms what you already know: your presence within the group on the jazz tour did not alter any significant events. freddie still passed away, john still retired. a further search yields at least one previously nonexistent queen song written by brian may: “into thin air.” it was released in the album following jazz. you can’t bring yourself to listen to it, not yet. a deeper search unearths an interview brian gave a year or so after you left. the interview was published in a magazine editorial covering of each of queen’s band members and their lives when not on tour or recording. after freddie’s bit, there’s a photograph of brian at the top of a new page. he’s smiling, but he looks weary and he mentions you only once: “i was engaged for awhile, but that ended in an unfortunate circumstance, so to answer your question: no, i’m not looking for love. not right now, anyway.”

you close the laptop and lean back against the sofa. the ring on your finger feels heavy. your eyes fill with unshed tears, and you decide the photos can wait to be seen until tomorrow.

the packet of photos ends up sitting on the coffee table for two weeks before you invite your co-worker, shamik, over for wine and cheese and museum gossip. shamik is kind, a first-generation immigrant from india with personality to spare and an exuberance for all things american. he claims it’s his greatest curse that his parents brought him to britain as a baby instead of america, and it’s something he can never forgive them for. you’ve only interacted with shamik at work, but when you mention your exhibit project, he’s eager to offer his help. with no new ideas outside ancient textiles, you’re willing to take whatever advice or ideas he has.

sitting beside him on the couch, you spread your collection of papers and pictures on the table to explain your vision. he listens dutifully, nodding along, his eyes scanning the 3-d projection you’ve made of what the exhibit might look like once completed. when you’ve finished your spiel, he sets his wine glass down and nods to the packet of unopened photographs on the edge of the table.

“what’s that?”

you frown, shaking your head at the sudden turn in conversation. “sorry?”

he reaches for the manilla envelope. “oh, it’s hefty! what’s in here?”

you sigh and take the packet from his hands. it feels solid in your lap, like a brick. “photos from my great-aunt.”

he points to the sealed flap. “it’s unopened.”

“i haven’t gotten the chance to look through it yet.” setting the packet to the side, you raise your eyebrows. “well, what do you think? about the exhibit?”

“honestly? it’s dull. monica won’t be impressed.”

you throw yourself back against the couch with a groan. “what the hell,” you whisper. “i’ve got no ideas then.”

you know ancient textile photography would not be the most enticing exhibit, but it’s been an interest of yours for some time and would be easy enough to complete. shamik and rachel’s reactions do not bode well, you have to admit. having a job as an assistant curator right out of the gate would be beyond marvelous, and you desperately don’t want to screw it up with a boring first exhibit.

“let’s have a look at these pictures from your aunt!” before you can stop him, shamik reaches across your lap for the photo packet and rips open the top. “maybe that will spark some ideas?”

you lean forward, blush already rising to your cheeks as he pulls out the first picture. “oh no, shamik, i don’t know if—”

“holy shit!”

you shut your eyes, wincing.

“that’s fucking freddie mercury!” shamik grabs your shoulder, his fingers digging into your flesh. “did you know about this, [y/n]? that’s your aunt with freddie mercury!”

forcing your eyes open, you look at the photo trembling between his fingers. it’s a picture of you sitting beside freddie on the tour bus. (you think john took the photo in an effort to get you to stop taking photos of him when he was asleep while roger and crystal placed as many items on his head as they could before he fully awoke.) your head is against freddie’s shoulder, your eyes droopy with sleep. a lump rises in your throat, and all you can do is shake your head in feigned disbelief as shamik continues to shuffle through the photos.

“oh my god, your aunt was a groupie,” he cries, passing you another photo.

“i guess—” you clear your throat. “i guess she was.”

“you know”—shamik sets the pile of photos down and spreads them across the table, obscuring your vision of an ancient textiles display—“this would make a great exhibit.”

“shamik—” your voice is a warning, a sudden surge of anger rising in your chest, but he continues.

“no, really, [y/n]! there are so many photos here that tell such a cutesy little story. i mean, come on? freddie and this cat?” he lifts the photo in question. “it’s stuff people have never seen before from a totally different side of queen. it’s a fucking goldmine!”

“absolutely not,” you say. “i will not put my aunt’s personal affairs on display.”

“think of monica, [y/n]! think of the job!”

“no, shamik!” you stand from the table and drop your plates in the kitchen sink with a resolute clatter. “i barely knew my aunt, but i know enough to gather that her time with queen was private. she didn’t say anything about it until she died. that’s got to mean something, and i don’t want to air it all out for everyone to see and speculate and gossip about just for my own personal gain.”

you’re shouting, fists clenched at your sides, by the time you finish. shamik just stares at you, his face blank and unreadable. he glances down at a photo.

“she looks a lot like you,” he says, his voice even.

you huff and take the wine glasses from the table. “we’ve got strong family genes. now, please, i’d appreciate it if you just drop the whole queen thing. we can find some other idea.”

you gather the photos, shove them back in the folder, and toss the envelope in the nearest drawer you can find. the drawer slams shut, and you leave the photos there to gather dust.

you mull over shamik’s idea of an exhibit based on your photos for a month before you finally relent. monica’s riding your ass daily with questions about your progress. you need to get something down on paper for her to give to the contractors, so you begrudgingly type out a response to her most recent email:

monica,

i’ve landed on an exhibit topic at last. took me long enough, right?

i’ve recently come into possession of a series of photographs taken by my late great-aunt. turns out she was a groupie with the band queen in the ‘70s. my exhibit will be centered around those photos. i’m thinking the exhibit will be titled “queen: unfiltered.” do with that what you will. :)

monica, much to your dismay, loves the idea and sends you right to work on gathering and laying out your vision while she begins the necessary promotion.

it hurts at first—looking at all the photos you took, remembering the way you felt so unearthly happy during that year. you cry each time you sit down to sort out the best of the pictures. the ones which capture a moment of levity amongst the band or are particularly well-shot go in a pile on the left. the ones which didn’t develop well or are too intimate for you to ever consider putting on display go in a pile on the right. your bedroom floor is a mess of drafted captions written on slips of printer paper, photographs with notes scrawled along the back, and used tissues. more than anything, you wish you could step into the world behind those photographs. you want to be back there—with him, with them—until you grow old and gray. knowing you can’t, that you won’t ever see him again, tears you apart inside.

but it helps. the exhibit forces you to acknowledge the time you spent with brian, with queen. instead of leaving the photos in a drawer, they confront you everyday as you sit down to work, and everyday it gets a little bit easier to face your past. as the tears subside, you find yourself laughing whenever you find a new photo of roger’s antics. your heart doesn’t clench as much when you run across another photo of you and brian. you can smile now when you look at his face. he really was so handsome...

you go so far as to frame your favorite photograph of your time together and place it on your dresser. he’s got his arms wrapped around you from behind, his chin settled on the top of your head. you’re laughing, your hands folded on his arms, legs crossed as you tilt to the side. he’s making a face, his tongue stuck out at the camera, and every time you pass by the picture, you can’t help but chuckle.

you love him still. you’ll love him always.

with three weeks before the opening of the exhibit, the stress is starting to get the better of you. you’ve bitten your nails down to the quick, there’s heavy bags under your eyes from lack of sleep, and you can’t remember the last time you consumed something other than coffee. despite the stress, you feel lighter. working through the photos, laying them out in order, writing the captions, pouring over the faces of the ones you love so dearly—it’s all helped ease the burden in your heart. for the first time in a long time, you slip out of bed in the mornings with a newfound sense of energy and purpose.

life will go on. just as you did when you fell into the past, you will find a new future.

arms laden with exhibit proposals and mock-ups, you brush into your local coffee shop—pretty bird—intent on getting some real work done on choosing the final photographs before you send them off to be printed. you order your usual and take a seat by the front. the air which wafts through the open window at your side is warm with spring and rebirth, and you breathe deep, cracking open the lid of your laptop. you manage to pick a total of twelve of the seventy-six needed photographs before you’re interrupted.

“whatcha workin’ on?” matthew, barista extraordinaire and casual acquaintance, sits down on the bench across from you. he has his own cup of cold brew poised between his lips, and the piercing in his eyebrow wiggles as he moves his brow up and down.

“an exhibit for the museum,” you say, pausing to roll your tight shoulders. “it’s my first.”

“do tell!”

you explain, briefly, how to came to acquire your dead aunt’s photographs and the general theme of the showcase. he nods in approval then snaps as if he’s remembered something.

“hold on. stay right there. i’ll be right back.” he puts his coffee down, scoots off of the bench, and darts to the back of the coffee shop. you wait and listen to the sound of the birds twittering outside before he returns with a framed picture in hand. “i just learned about this,” he says, taking his seat again. “this building used to be a disco back in the 70s.” he hands you the frame and points to a collection of people in the middle of a disco bar. “that’s queen. they came here once and somebody had the smarts to take a picture.”

your hands shake around the photograph, eyes darting from one corner of the picture to another.

matthew keeps talking. “the place was called climax. can you believe that? the 70s were fuckin’ wild, mate.”

you nod, lips parted, and skim your fingers over the incredibly tall and recognizable form of brian in the center of the photo. you can see your shoulder, jammed between freddie and crystal, but the rest of your body is obscured. you lift your eyes from the frame and glance around the coffee shop, at the exposed metal beams and vaulted ceilings, at the disco ball still hanging in the center of the room.

makes sense now. why the building had felt so eerily familiar back then.

handing matthew the picture frame, you sit back in your chair. “wonder if my aunt ever came,” you say.

“maybe? sounds like she was in pretty tight. you know who you could ask?” you shake your head, uncertain of matthew’s question. “chris taylor. he was a roadie back then. he’s a regular here. comes in at least twice at week.”

you can’t stop the hand that flies to your mouth in surprise. you try to smother your gasp with a cough, but matthew still stares at you like you’ve sprouted another head.

“you okay?” he asks warily.

nodding, you take a sip of your drink. “yeah, yeah, sorry! wrong pipe.”

“so, do you want to meet him and ask about your aunt?”

everything in you screams to say no. it’s too dangerous. you will surely break the moment you see him. crystal became your lifeline apart from brian during that year. he was your brother, your partner in crime, the one who kept you grounded when things got too wild. just knowing that he’s frequented the same coffee shop as you for the last six months brings tears to your eyes. you could have run into him. hell, you might’ve already. still, you aren’t sure if you’d be able to make it through a proper meeting without spilling your guts and apologizing for the way you left.

“[y/n]?” matthew pulls you from your thoughts. “what do you think?”

you hesitate before shrugging. you speak before you can stop yourself, before the rational and reasonable part of you can take over. god, you need this. if it’s your only opportunity for true closure, you’ll take it. “if he’s up to it then... sure.”

matthew grins. “come in tomorrow. i’ll introduce you!”

that night you toss and turn. you’re plagued with anxiety. will crystal recognize you? if he does, what will he say? will he be angry? what if he tells brian and then—

your bedside alarm goes off just as you fall asleep. it’s a struggle to drag yourself out of bed, but you must. there’s closure somewhere around the corner, and if you just move your ass, you’ll find it. you have one class this morning then your meeting with crystal. you’re jittery by the time you leave class, but you chalk that up to drinking two cups of coffee before leaving your flat and one in class.

it’s drizzling as you make your way to the coffee shop. you hasten your steps, head bent against the rain and fingers curled around the strap of your bag. when you enter the shop, it’s nearly empty aside from a few lonesome students studying in far off corners. you can hear the faint thrill of music over the loudspeakers, but the blood that’s rushing to your ears blocks out most of the melody.

crystal’s already here, leaning against the counter, in conversation with matthew.

you stop in your tracks. he’s bald now, slightly pudgier with age, but he looks every bit as devilish as you remember.

you swallow past the fear in your throat and the anxiety in your veins and step forward. you voice wobbles when you speak. “matthew?” you direct your entrance to your friend because if you come right out and say crystal’s name, you will surely fall over in a puddle of emotion.

“there you are!” matthew jumps over the counter in one easy leap and lands to the floor beside you. he drapes his arm around your shoulders and motions to crystal. “[y/n], i’d like you to meet chris taylor. chris, this is [y/n], the girl i was telling you about.”

crystal’s staring at you through his blue-tinted glasses like he’s seen a ghost. his jaw has gone slack, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to formulate a sentence.

you shove your hand into the space between you. “nice to meet you, mr. taylor.”

looking between matthew and yourself, he gathers himself, clearing his throat, and shakes your hand. “you too.”

“should we sit?” you motion to the same table you occupied the day before. “i can buy you a coffee for your troubles.”

he shakes his head and lifts his cup. “already got mine.”

“all right, well...” you glance at matthew.

“do you want your regular?” he asks.

“yes, please.”

“comin’ right up.”

crystal follows you to the table and sits down, his movements slow. for a moment, you sit in silence and allow his eyes to roam your face. you can’t tell if he knows it’s you or if he thinks it’s just a coincidence. you want to reach out and take the hand he rubs across the bridge of his nose, but you fold your fingers in your lap.

“thank you for agreeing to talk with me,” you finally say.

“you aunt,” he starts.

“yes, my aunt.” you pull a photograph out of your bag. it’s one of the few you took with crystal all those years ago. he’s got you in a headlock, his opposite fist grinding into the top of your skull. you slide the picture across the table. “you knew her?”

crystal lifts the photo, inspects it, before putting it down. he sighs, shaking his head. “i loved that woman. broke my heart when she left.” his gaze lifts from the table. “you look like her, have her name too.”

you look away, out the window at the side. there’s bird fluttering in a puddle on the sidewalk, and you watch it for a moment before turning back to him. “i think my mother loved her a great deal. i didn’t get the chance to know her, though. we only just found these pictures recently.”

his eyes narrow. “i mean, you really look like her.”

you force a smile. “thank you. that’s kind of you.” shifting, you tap your finger on the table. “i know her leaving wasn’t exactly...” you struggle to find the proper word, but he jumps to assist.

“natural?”

“well, i was going to say easy, but—”

“she fuckin’ disappeared! excuse my language.” huffing, he drops back against his chair. “one minute she was there, the next minute she was gone. i swear, i’ve never seen anyone skip town that fast.”

“she didn’t say anything about leaving?”

“why would she? she was engaged! she had no reason to leave that i know of.”

“was she happy?”

“hell yes. her and brian—i’ve never seen two people more fit for one another. brian just about lost his mind trying to find her, but it was like she never existed. strangest thing.” he pauses to take a sip of his coffee, looking askance, before his eyes whiz back to yours. “oh my fucking god.”

you look up, fear sparking in your belly. “what?”

“[y/n]?”

you blink. your head feels dizzy with the way he’s looking at you, like he’s about to jump across the table and throttle you or hug you so tight your insides might squeeze out of your body.

“fuck,” he breathes. “it is you.”

“i don’t know know what you’re—”

“don’t play dumb with me!” he leans across the table and lowers his voice. “i was the one who got you that phony passport, remember? i always wondered why i couldn’t find your credentials. had to lie my way through it until i got the damn thing. you’re lucky everything was so lax in the 70s.” he shakes his head. “how’d you do it?”

there’s part of you that wants to deny, deny, deny.

but it’s crystal. you can’t lie to him any more than you already have.

“i had no choice in the matter,” you say plainly. “one minute i was here, the next minute i was there, and the next minute i was here again.”

his jaw works back and forth as he processes the information. “does brian know?”

“no—and i’d like to keep it that way.”

“i thought we might lose him after you left.”

you twist the ring on your finger. “if i’d had the choice, i would have stayed. i hope you know that.”

crystal nods. “yeah, i do.” he holds your gaze then motions to your bag. “so, this exhibit matthew told me about. you’re publishing all those photos you took?”

“yes. there are some pictures i’ve saved for myself, but my boss, monica, she got permission from the record label to go ahead with the others. it opens in three weeks.”

“i’ll be there if i can. i’d like to see those pictures.”

you smile, your first earnest smile of the day. “you feature many times.”

he ducks his head like an embarrassed schoolboy. “we were thick as thieves, weren’t we?”

“you and roger were thicker, but i’d like to think i had a part to play some of the time.”

he lifts his head and heaves a heavy sigh. “you know, when i said i loved you, i meant it. not in the way brian did. you were like a kid sister to me. i cared for you a great deal.”

before you can stop yourself, you slip your hand across the table to grasp his worn fingers. his shoulders shake on another sigh, and he lifts his opposite hand to wipe at his eyes beneath his glasses.

“oh, crystal. i’m so sorry,” you whisper. it hurts to see him cry, to know that you’re the cause behind his pain.

he waves your apology away, sniffing hard. “i’m just glad to know you’re okay. we thought you might’ve gotten picked up or—” he shakes his head and pats your hand over his, meeting your eyes. “you’re okay, though. that’s what matters.”

“will you really come to my exhibit?”

“anything for you, kid.” he thumbs the underside of your chin with a lopsided grin. “even after all this time, i’m putty in your hands.”

you grin and hand him a business card, which he tucks in the folds of his wallet. rising from his seat, he opens his arms and you practically trip into his hug. he holds you tight for the briefest of moments before pulling back. he pats your cheek.

“i’ll see you in three weeks, yeah? if i stay any longer i’ll end up a sobbin’ mess on the floor.”

you nod. “yeah. and, crystal?” he turns at the door. “don’t tell brian. please.”

he leaves without another word.

the day of the exhibit opening you are equal parts thrilled and a nervous wreck. everyone’s here—your family, rachel, shamik, even matthew. you haven’t seen crystal amidst the crowd mingling in the lobby, but you trust him to show. he’s always been reliable, and you doubt he’ll fail you now.

monica squeezes your shoulder as she passes you by in the staff hallway. “it looks wonderful, [y/n]. consider yourself hired,” she says and hands you a keycard. “i’m going to give you a piece of advice i got when i completed my first exhibit: go have a moment by yourself. look at your work, be proud of it. you deserve it.”

with trembling fingers and a racing heart, you make your way down the corridor to the south exhibit hall. due to a celebratory lunch with rachel the day before, you hadn’t gotten the chance to see the room in its final state. in retrospect, you’re thankful for the chance to see it for the first time alone. at least this way, if you cry, no one will have to know.

the door beeps as it unlocks, and you slip inside the room. you descend the handful of stairs which lead into the showroom floor and suck in a deep breath.

before entering the exhibit, there’s a wall to the side with a simple explanation written in a white font:

queen: unfiltered — this exhibit preserves and presents never-before-seen images of the popular band, queen, through the eyes of an unnamed woman who spent a year traveling the world on queen’s jazz album tour. her images are intimate yet distinctive and offer a personal glimpse into the lives of one of britain’s most well-known bands.

at the far end of the room hang four banners spanning floor to ceiling. the banners wave gently in the air blowing throughout the room, illuminated from lights on the ceiling and floor. each banner hosts an oversized photo of one of the band’s members in an image that best captures their personality. it took you hours to find the right photo for each man, but you stand by your choice for each one.

there’s john on the far left, head bent as he strums the bass across his knee. his lips are pursed in thought, a line of concentration on his brow.

there’s freddie next to him. he stands in a spanish alley way, cradling a stray cat in his arms. he looks serenely on at the camera, a rare moment of simplicity.

there’s brian sat in an overstuffed armchair, his gangly legs crossed, a book open on his lap. he has the corner of his thumb in his mouth, and if you squint you can see the edge of his tongue.

there’s roger on the far right. he’s smiling at the camera, his eyes bright with mischief and joy. there’s a party hat snug on the crown of his head, pulling the skin of his forehead taut.

on opposite sides of the room, two parallel rows of twelve photos hang in neat order. you decided to have every photograph in the exhibit printed in black-and-white and, in all, you painstakingly picked the forty-eight photos featured in their simple white frames. you walk along the wall, hands clasped at your waist, eyes running over the memories you hold so dear.

the afternoon crystal taught you ride a bike in barcelona: you’re sat on the handlebars after a hard fall, mouth open in a squeal of delight as crystal whips toward the camera.

roger and john tossing an apple back and forth in an ottawa grocery store: john’s smile is broad, the apple caught on film midair.

brian sitting on the floor of your hotel suite: there’s a tray of sushi at his feet, and he’s smiling at you, his hair wet from a shower.

freddie playing the piano in the airport in yugoslavia: he’d been so excited to see one, his shoes had slipped on the slick floor as he ran to it. he’d played dramatically, conducting those around him in a horrible rendition of “god save the queen.”

your eyes sting with tears as you glance about the room. you’re proud of your work. it looks good, professional and elegant, but more than that, you’re proud of yourself for the work you’ve done in mending your broken heart. though you will never live the life you’d once dreamed of, you will always have the memories—and that’s got to count for something.

when the double-doors open and monica ushers the first of the patrons in, you slip into the closest bathroom to wipe at the makeup smudged under your eyes. you’re happy, truly so, and you want to celebrate—celebrate both of your lives as they finally come together.

the room is crowded when you reenter, conversation and gentle laughter mingling in the air. you accept a tight hug from rachel when you see her and the congratulations of your parents. you can’t stop smiling, and you’re sure your face will hurt come morning, but it doesn’t really matter, does it?

your parents float away, hand in hand, and you find yourself alone in the center of the room, watching in awe as people you’ve never met look at your photos, at your memories, and nod in appreciation. your chest swells with an emotion you can’t place.

“i think this calls for a congratulations. you’ve outdone yourself, dove.”

you whirl on your heel, lip caught between your teeth in a poorly-concealed smile. “you came.”

crystal grins. the tie of his suit is rumbled and askew, and you reach out to straighten it. old habits die hard. “i said i would.”

“what do you think?”

“i think it’s fantastic. the lads would be proud.”

“maybe.” you shrug. “guess we’ll never know.”

“are you really so intent on staying hidden forever?”

you nod. “yes. it took everything in me to even talk to you. i don’t want to ruin their lives again by popping back up, especially because i’m not exactly old, am i?”

crystal laughs, shaking his head. “you must think you’re hot stuff if a simple hello could ruin a life.” his laughter fades into a simple smile. “now, i know you’re going to hate me and i’m willing to take that, but i did tell a certain someone about the exhibit.”

you can feel the blood drain from your face. “crystal, you didn’t.”

he winces. “i might’ve.”

you slap his arm and curl your fingers into his bicep. “you bastard!”

he holds up his hands in defense, decent enough to plaster a look of contrition on his face. “look, i didn’t tell him the context or what tipped me off. i just told him there was a new exhibit about queen and he was eager to come see. that’s all!”

you swallow hard, uncertain how to respond. “i—” your head twists back and forth in utter confusion. “i don’t know what to do.”

crystal’s face softens, and he nudges your shoulder. “go talk to him. he deserves that much, doesn’t he?”

you can’t argue with that.

giving crystal’s arm a grateful squeeze, your legs shake beneath you as you turn and see him—brian—across the room.

you don’t know how you didn’t see him before. even now, forty years later, he’s still unmistakeable: still tall, still gangly, but his hair has gone white and his strides are slower. the overwhelming urge to tear across the room and curl yourself around his back nearly overpowers you, but you shove it down and manage to cross the floor in slow, even steps. you keep your eyes glued to his back, your hands twitching at your sides. when you reach him and catch a faint whiff of his cologne, the same he wore all those years ago, you have to push back the tears that rise unbidden to your eyes.

you tap his shoulder. “dr. may?”

he circles around, as does his wife anita, her arm snug in his elbow.

brian blinks hard, his brow furrowed in confusion. for a moment, you let him stare at you as you stare right back. his eyes are the same. you’d thought they’d be different, but they aren’t. the realization stuns you silent.

anita glances between you both before smiling sweetly. “good evening, sweetheart,” she says, and her voice is so kind you can’t even summon the slightest bit of jealousy. “i’m afraid i didn’t catch your name.”

“oh, i’m sorry!” you laugh and find that smiling at anita isn’t hard. “my name’s [y/n] [y/l/n]. i created the exhibit. i thought i might come and introduce myself.”

“oh, how lovely!” anita claps her hands together. “what you’ve done is so beautiful, [y/n]. it’s nearly brought a tear to my eye.”

“that’s very kind of you, ma’am.”

“brian likes it too. don’t you, brian?”

he still can’t seem to formulate any sort of response. he’s frozen in place, and your heart lurches for him. to see the woman he’d once asked to marry him, the one so cruelly ripped away, while standing next to his wife... precisely why you never wanted to meddle in his current affairs.

finally, he seems to collect himself. he sucks in a deep breath and nods in agreement. “yes, i do. very much.”

“that means a lot,” you say, easing your smile back into place. “thank you.”

“i’ll leave you two to talk to for a moment. i see crystal hovering in the corner over there, and i’m sure you both have many questions for one another.” anita presses her hand on your arm as she passes. “lovely job, dear.”

she leaves, and you’re left alone with the greatest love of your life.

you wait for him to speak.

“you’re... alive?” it’s a question, not a statement.

“yes.”

“you’re the same age?”

“yes.”

“how did—” he shakes his head. “i don’t understand.”

“neither do i.”

his chin quivers slightly, and he looks away. “i thought you’d been taken or decided to—”

you dare to touch his arm. a spark jolts through your fingers at the slightest touch, but you hold firm. “nothing happened,” you explain. “other than nature righting her mistake.”

“i think—i think i need to sit down.”

“yes, of course. my office is down the hall. it’s quiet there.”

he nods and leans against your arm as you lead him down the hall. in the silence of your dimly lit office, he collapses to the loveseat beneath the window and drops his face to his hands. you hesitate in the doorway until he looks up. tears shimmer in his eyes, and you swallow hard, your smile wavering around the edges.

he stands then, crosses the floor, and cradles your face in his hands. “my god,” he breathes. “it really is you.”

with a laugh, you hold his wrists. “in the flesh.”

“how long’s it been?” his thumb works over your cheekbone and, though you know he should stop, you can’t bring yourself to step away from his touch.

“about seven months.”

he snorts. “try forty years.”

“you seem like you did well for yourself, though.”

he shrugs. “i suppose.”

“you’re happy?”

there’s a heavy pause before he says, “yes.”

“that’s all i want to hear.”

slipping out of his grasp, you put a modicum of space between you both. the air is thick with emotion, and your heart beats wildly against your chest. the love you thought you’d put to bed flares at the mere sight of him, even after all this time.

you drift your finger through the sand of your tabletop zen garden. “i told crystal not to tell you about me,” you admit.

“he didn’t—not in so many words.”

“i know. i’m glad he said something, though.” you pause, meet his gaze. “it’s so good to see you, bri.”

quiet falls over the room as he stares at you. you don’t squirm. you’re comfortable under his gaze, always have been.

“i hope you know i never stop looking,” he says. “even after anita, i kept trying to find you. just to know.”

“and i hope you know that i would do it all again in a heartbeat if it meant i got to be with you even for a time.”

your phone vibrates on the desk, skidding across your oversized calendar. you reach for the phone and flip it over before slipping it in the purse hung over your desk chair.

“i’ve got to go,” you admit, crossing to his side. “i’ve actually got a date.”

to your surprise, his eyes crinkle with amusement. “i’m happy to hear it.” he lifts a hand and smooths back the hair from the side of your face. he looks at you with all the love he did forty years ago, and you wish you could take a picture to remember forever.

but then you remember: you have dozens of photos at home, and it doesn’t seem too hard to let him go now. not after the work you’ve put into mending your heart. you can face this, face saying goodbye for good. you have to, for his sake and your own.

rising to your tiptoes, you place a hand on his shoulder and kiss the corner of his mouth—one last touch, for you both. you wind your arm around his neck and whisper in his ear, “i love you, brian may. i always will.”

he squeezes you hard against his body, sucking in a ragged breath. “i love you too, [y/n].”

dropping back to your heels, you huff a breath and smile wide. “well, i’d better go.”

“yes, you’d better. don’t keep the lad waiting.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, your hand lingering on his. “okay, well... goodbye, brian.”

he smiles, and it’s the loveliest sight you’ve ever seen. he brushes you cheek with the back of his hand, whispering, “see you later, love.”

dipping out the back of the museum, you walk down the street, purse slung over your shoulders. you think you’ll be able to sleep well for the first time in a long time tonight.

you hope he can, too.

~*~*~*

taglist: @bhmay @grigorlee @teenagepeterpan @just-my-sickly-pride @perriwiinkle @ubernoxa @anunknownnebula @coincidence-ithinknots-blog @captvinswaan @ineloqueent

#brian may #brian may x reader #brian may fic #brian may x you #queen #queen fic #queen x reader #j writes

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dragonrajafanfiction · 3 years

Text

Yamata-no-Orochi (Part 3) Betrayal

*kicks the legs out from under the table, one by one*

You’d been stuck for hours. It was extremely late but you couldn’t sleep. Caesar and Chu Zihang drove in circles before finally parking in an alley to wait. At first, it was all emergency vehicles -- Police, Fire, and EMS -- then there were many reporter trucks with satellites mushrooming from their roofs.

After that, the streets got very quiet and occasionally you spotted dark sedans driving far below the speed limit, like sharks on the hunt. Hydra was looking for Mingfei and Erii.

You lay in the back seat to keep hidden. You were still in your silver Cheongsam and heels. You stared holes in the back of the driver's seat and listened to the radio. Seventy six people were dead. Only a single person was injured. They were painting it as some wild street race gone wrong. People were describing fiery debris. Bodies, some of them in various degrees of dismemberment, were strewn all over the street. It would take days to recreate the scene. One of the things the reporters quickly picked up on was the lack of wounded. How could a car accident be so catastrophically fatal?

But the noise of the radio faded away in your mind. Instead you were remembering when you first saw Z. It wasn’t in real life. You first saw him in your dreams. When you were hurt or frightened by the nursery staff, Z would appear and ask you what you would like to happen to those people. If they stuck you with needles you would say, “I wish they would be stuck by a million needles.” And then watch as they were stuck, screaming and crying in pain, just like you were.

Or if you were beaten by the nurses, something horrible and perverse would happen to them in your dreams. Like one round nurse would swell up so big and red you could see her veins through her transparent skin and wherever you popped her she would bleed.

When you first saw Z in real life, it was the special day when you graduated from the preschool section to the adolescent section and started to use your soul skills in experiments. He stood tall and proud, his bright red-gold eyes gleaming at you. He smiled at you, a warm smile like he was the king and he could have picked anyone in the world but he picked you. That smile was a gift that beckoned you to run towards him. You thought it was a dream. But he opened his arms and hugged you.

In the back of the car, tears fell at the memory. You’d never been hugged before. Ever. A warmth spread from his arms and his body and filled you. It made you bright. It opened your mind and heart and let him in completely, without reservations. After that he was your best friend. Between him, you and Renata, you felt privileged, you learned quickly how to navigate your dangerous world and soon you were the oldest and most successful hybrids there. You were sure to go to the capital.

It was only at Anton’s death that Z showed you the truth, but he didn’t help you survive Black Swan overtly. You still had to watch your friends die. You assumed Z died too. He never reappeared in your dreams again until you nearly died in Chizuru and then you were so happy to see him again. But your relationship changed into something far more intimate. You didn’t know if you were ready for something like that. But he certainly did.

At least he never lied. He never explicitly said he loved you. He didn’t even say you could love him either. He said you didn’t know any better. Of course you didn’t. He’d groomed you since you were a child.

Remembering that made it hurt all the worse. A great shadow has fallen over your past. Now you had no happy moments to reflect on with Z. Everything was full of crevasses that hid questions and doubts. Like the boulders that would forever separate Izanami and Izanagi from each other in the underworld, you and Z were now irreconcilable.

“I haven’t seen a patrol in the past 15 minutes. Think we’re clear?” Chu Zihang asked.

“How the hell should I know? We take a risk if we wait 15 minutes or an hour.” Caesar responded. “You okay back there MC?”

You look up at him, his blue eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. “I’m pissed.” you growl.

“I bet you are.”

There was more to be said but now was not the right time.

You end up making it a room across from the hotel where Erii was staying. Lu Mingfei was waiting for you there.

Mingfei cracked open the door and then let you in.

“Take off your clothes!” Caesar said coldly.

His voice was so sharp and harsh that Lu Mingfei immediately did so, removing his shirt.

When Mingfei unbuckled his belt, Caesar snapped. “Keep your pants on… turn around.”

“Oh, you were so serious I thought I had to take off all my clothes.” Lu Mingfei said.

Chu Zihang and Caesar curiously admired the dense lines of scars on Lu Mingfei’s back. They were so numerous that you could not find a single unmarked spot on him. It was like he had endured a beating of a thousand strokes or had rolled over a bed of knives. Even Caesar and Chu Zihang were stunned speechless.

“Are you done looking? I’m kinda cold.” Mingfei peeked over and startled at the sight of you. “Ah! You didn’t tell me MC was here!”

“She doesn’t care, stop wiggling!” Caesar hummed. “Incredible self-healing ability. A trauma of this magnitude would take at least 3 weeks to heal even at a top-notch medical center. But only eight hours have passed since you were attacked. You should have bled to death on the spot.”

“That’s because the wound began to heal itself the moment he was injured. The blood vessels stopped bleeding on their own, so the blood was locked in the body. The cells filled in the wound by a high rate of division. Even the ruptured tendons were repaired.” Chu Zihang said. “This self-healing ability surprasses that of Chisei Gen and MC.”

Could this be why the principal rated him as S-rank?” Caesar mused. “If he always had this ability, wouldn’t he make the perfect meat shield? If we have another gunfight with someone, we can send him in front of us to Main Tank the damage while we lay down suppressive fire!”

“The so-called lack-of-childhood must have been an act, then? Boss, you’re so familiar with the term ‘main tank’. What do you play? Warcraft or Warhammer? Anyways, shut up about that, we’ve got a bigger problem!”

“We already know, even if you didn’t come to us, we came to you. Every news channel is broadcasting what happened last night.” Caesar grabbed the remote from the chair and turned on the TV.

You already knew the story, so you don’t bother watching it again. Something else was bothering you. Caesar said she was 21, and was staying at a love hotel, but he also said she was wrapped around his finger. Didn’t Caesar say that he was hoping for Erii to fall in love with Mingfei? The whole idea suddenly made your skin crawl!

“Caesar. Is it alright if I go to the bathroom?”

“Huh?” Caesar looked up from the TV. “Yeah sure whatever.”

You walk inside and shut the door and get as far away from the door as you can and lean against the wall. You cross your arms, your nails biting into your biceps. You understood that Erii was potentially dangerous and that was evident today. But all you could think of was Z’s gentle hug, his indulging in your punishment fantasies, the play time and the jokes. It was all fun until it wasn’t. You recall the souvenir Mingfei got from her after she rescued him, a little duck bath toy. You’d tteased him for playing with it. Mingfei said he would never bathe with a duck.

He wasn’t that much of a kid.

Fire like a kiln blazed in your stomach. This was the person Mingfei had wrapped around his little finger? As Caesar had so blithely put it? You flush the toilet and pretend to wash your hands and open the door.

The boys were already moving on, talking about something else.

Caesar was standing next to Mingfei and handing him a card. “Meet at Pier 7 in Tokyo Harbor. The address is written on this.”

“What if she loses control while on the ship?” Lu Mingfei looked frightened.

Caesar handed him a box of medication encased in a glass vial to Lu Mingfei: “Isoproterenol, a strong anesthetic. Give her this medication. It will reduce her vital signs to a minimum and she will sleep until she gets to China. Give her some glucose half way through the trip.”

“But she’s very weak now!” Lu Mingfei raised his voice. “Injecting a very weak person with a strong anesthetic and only living on glucose for seven days? What if she dies?”

Caesar patted his shoulder: “We don't want her to die either, but this is the most feasible way to deal with it right now. She is a deadly weapon that could get out of control at any moment. And we can neither continue to hold this dangerous weapon nor return her to the Hydra, so the only way to do that is to send her out of Japan. It would take a bit of a risk, but it would get her out of Tokyo, the center of controversy. She’s the strangest hybrid we know of, perhaps related to the awakening of the White King. And with her gone, it would be the equivalent of a dangerous element being removed.”

Wait a minute. This didn’t sound like Caesar. The way Caesar was talking about her to Mingfei was not the way he talked about her to you. The way he talked to you was that she was a beautiful girl and that hoped Lu Mingfei and the Uesugi Clan Chief would get together!

Mingfei seemed convinced by this however.

Chu Zihang spoke up. “Caesar and I have discussed this before we came. And this is the only way. Find an excuse to take her out and bring her to the dock tomorrow at exactly four in the morning. She trusts you and should agree to board the ship with you.”

Chu Zihang’s words were like a bomb going off. “Uh… excuse me!” You say.

“What is it?” Caesar asked, his voice slightly dismissive.

“Why don’t you just tell her the truth?” Your face was awash in indignant confusion.

“What? Are you kidding?” Mingfei squeaked.

“No, I’m not kidding! Caesar just said, ‘make up an excuse’. You’re going to lie to her!” You lower your voice to a whisper but point sharply at the hotel across the street. “Do you think she’s stupid?! When she finds out that you’re lying, she will go absolutely nuts!”

“MC.” Caesar took a breath. “MC… I know how you feel but now is really not the time.”

“No, you’re being cruel. Mingfei, you should know better!” You snarl. “You are her only friend, her only one! You are under an obligation to be upfront with her or else you’re no better than Herzog! You should know better. All of you should know better!”

“Hey…” Caesar growled, his eyes darkening. “This is completely different. Don’t compare me to that asshole.”

“What if she loses it? You don’t know if she can handle that sort of information. She’s extremely mentally unstable!” Mingfei whimpered.

“There is nothing more destabilizing than being betrayed by the people you trust.” You stare at Caesar accusingly. “After all this time, after all you know about me. You turn around and pull this?” You take a shaking breath. “She is a child.”

The room descended into an uneasy silence and no one moved or spoke. The only sound was the continuous rain on the window and the rumble of distant thunder.

“That’s your plan? Tell her the truth. Are you going to take responsibility for her going on a rampage after she hears that she’s dying? Not everyone is that strong, MC.” Caesar was completely expressionless. He only got this way when he was upset.

You take a breath and let it out. You start to speak and nothing comes. You shake your head, struggling. “The man who told me I was dying was the man who loved me.”

You turn away and leave the room to regain control of yourself.

A few moments later, Chu Zihang exited with a box of tissues but he quickly saw it wasn’t needed. You were just staring blankly at the wall in the hall.

“Caesar has decided to let you go. He wants you to stay with Mingfei tonight and go with them to the docks tomorrow. Take the ship to China with them.”

“What’s stopping me from telling her the truth on the way there?”

“Mingfei will drug both of you.” Chu Zihang said.

You turn to look at him and then immediately turn away, your heart sinking. “He views me the same way. So much for the ‘I'm not Godzilla’ speech huh?”

“Things aren’t always black and white. A lot has happened. You’re in obvious danger from something we don’t understand. You may not realize it but your mental state is not the same as when you arrived.” Chu Zihang’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper. “Your mind is going too.”

You just shake your head. “All I hear are excuses. Excuses for him to be a hypocrite.”

Chu Zihang sighed, and you see for a moment how tired he was.. “You don’t have any say in the matter. The decision is unanimous, not only between me and him, but also Lu Mingfei.”

You drop your arms from your chest, limply.

He looked down at you, his eyes cold. “If you defy the orders, I won’t hold back. From your training you should understand what I mean.”

The door opened and Caesar walked out. “Alright, let’s go Chu.” He paused next to you, his eyes cloudy. “I care about you. I really do. But there’s too much you just don’t understand. We’ll talk about getting you back to Japan once this is all over.”

You look up at him and shake your head. “The key to my survival is in Tokyo. If I leave, you won’t see me again..

He reaches out to hug you and you let him. You take a deep breath of the smell of his shirt which still smelled of those fine Cubans. It might be the last time. He really did believe what he was doing was the right thing even though it directly contradicted what he said before.

“Don’t say goodbye. I’ll see you later.” Caesar said. “Keep an eye out on the two love birds.”

He walked away and didn’t bother looking back.

You return to the room with Lu Mingfei and sigh. “What a mess.”

He laughed but there was no humor in it.. “Yeah no kidding.” He was holding a modified pistol in his hand, one of Caesar’s Desert Eagles!

“What… are you doing with that?” You shiver violently.

“If she gets out of control, I will have to shoot her. The bullet inside is specially made to be completely lethal. Even to dragons.” He mumbled. His eyes were dark pools and you couldn’t read the emotion in them. “If, for some reason that doesn’t work, you’re to finish her off.”

“Will you use that against me too?”

After a long silence he continued. “Turns out we actually are going to be at war this whole time. Me and Erii were never going to happen. You and I were never going to happen. I tend towards being a human. You and Erii tend towards the dragon side. If we go to battle, we have to use all our resources against each other and fight tooth and nail. It doesn’t matter if you sit together on a Ferris wheel or… talk all night on the phone or… run through the streets in the rain.”

He lifts his head to you. “If that day comes, we just have to grab our weapons and fight.”

He looks back down at the gun. “You were raised to fight. It’s what you know. But Erii… she doesn’t know anything.”

Outside the window it was pouring rain.

#Dragon Raja

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hotarutranslations · 2 years

Text

Utacon, Many Announcements For Tomorrow!

NHK "Utacon"

Thank you very much for your support with the live broadcast 🍀

Dai Jinsei Never Been Better!

We performed it on TV for the first time! Did you enjoy it! I had a lot of fun!

(But maybe I bounced a bit too much...... 😕 )

Maria-chan and Mei-chan's energy is really necessary for Morning so, we gave it our all with our own energy----thats what I think the stage was like ☺️❤️

Only for Utacon-san, the live performances have increased a lot!

Today, I was happy to hear Otake Shinobu-san's, singing in the same place

Watching the show the other day, watching Otake-san cry while singing along to the lyrics, that also made me cry,

But even with that impact, I'm not sure what the show was or what song it was 😭💥

uuu, what is it, I wonder if anyone watched it as well, I don't have a lot of details,

Today they sang "Ippon no Enpitsu", it left a deep impression in my chest, it was a wonderful stage, thank you very much!

We will do our best to be able to perform again 🔥

the western sun was amazing

Again on NHK-san this week, we'll be performing on "Venue101" 🔴

June 4th (Sat) 11:00PM~ 🔴 Venue101 🔴

I'm happy ♪

With the release approaching,

First off tomorrow,

From 12:00~3:00PM on live radio, FM Yokohama "Kiss & Ride"

Fukumura Mizuki-san and Ishida Ayumi, the 2 of us will appear as guests 🔴

Also in the evening at 9:00PM~ We have our YouTube Limsta Sign Meet Live Stream 🔴

Further in the evening from 12:04AM~ 🔵 Da-iCE music Lab 🔵

on the 3rd there is a YouTube live stream, on the 4th we'll be on NHK-san, on the 5th we'll have our first meet after its been a while--!

Just about every day we'll be appearing in some form 🦩

Apart from the talk meet, you can watch it! everyone!

Da-iCE-san's program is in Kanto but, you'll be able to watch the TVer after the show!

This week, thank you for a lot ☺️🔥

A more happy thing, Makino Maria-chan and Yamazaki Mei-chan, we'll be resuming activities!!

Details

Welcome back!!

Tomorrow on YouTube's live stream, I'll be there with Maria-chan ☺️❤️ happy

Again, we're Morning Musume '22! From now on thank you very much for your support! 6/8 release 🟠Chu Chu Chu Bokura no Mirai/Dai Jinsei Never Been Better!🟠 Dai Jinsei Never Been Better! Chu Chu Chu Bokura no Mirai I WISH! Thank you! September 19th, We'll be performing 🟡Inazuma Rock Fest 2022🟡 It ends June 5th so watch it soon 🔥 🔴 JAPAN JAM 2022 Live Video Streaming 🔴 🟢Morning Musume 9th, 10th Generation 10th Anniversary BOOK🟢 Every Wednesday, Tokyo sports note Series updates 🔵#66 Its A Once In A Lifetime Thing, So Be Conscientious About It 🔵 A place to talk in depth

see you ayumin <3

https://ameblo.jp/morningmusume-10ki/entry-12745801127.html

#Ishida Ayumi #Morning Musume '22 #Morning Musume #Hello! Project #Translation #Blog

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watchtheworldargue · 4 years

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egg magazine, april 1990. interview with Michael Hutchence

transcription below :)

Michael Hutchence on Lower Broadway

By Hal Rubenstein \ Photography by Steven Meisel

Globe-hopping is hell on a wardrobe and hard on the feet. Sometimes you have to get out of the limo to spend your money.

Michael Hutchence rarely comes to New York without luggage monogrammed INXS or Max Q, so one would think that on a visit without portfolio, the last thing he'd want to do is add on more baggage. But given a free day, a book of tickets, and our offer to go anywhere to do anything, Hutchence got into the limo with an agenda we could hardly call a new sensation. What kept us from sulking was that he hadn't left the devil outside.

Michael: You think we can load this car up with Yamamoto, Comme des Garcons, and Armani by 6?

Hal: Driver, step on it. Down to Grand and make a left.

[The car turns onto Union Square West.]

Isn't there a club on the corner here?

The Underground.

That's the one that keeps surviving regardless of how many people get shot there. How many are they up to?

No one's quite sure.

Where are we now? I don't recognise this.

This strip of lower Broadway didn't exist last time you were here. Now it's like a mall-less town's Main Street.

And Tower Records is City Hall. Not bad. It's wild to see this much activity because people around the world now talk about New York in terms of decay, how New York is such a rude place, and we keep telling them, No, New Yorkers are quite friendly, we like it there. New Yorkers are just very honest. They don't have time to bullshit. I like New York because people are linked to each other. L.A. Is fun, but segregated. Here there is a metro, and a different philosophy of getting around so there's rich upon poor upon rich. The only thing I don't remember is how many homeless are asleep on Park Avenue and everywhere else. Or is it my imagination?

No, it's real. How come you choose to live in Hong Kong instead of Australia?

For about three years, I thought it didn't matter where I lived. But I kept passing through it again. I grew up there, from when I was four until twelve. My dad still lives there. It has great energy, like New York. And it's ten hours closer to the world than Australia is. If you travel a lot, it adds up.

[We enter the Yohji Yamamoto store.]

So austere. Do they go wild if you hand back anything wrinkled? Those clothes over there are good acid-house colors. Has acid house caught on here?

Not like in England.

That's 'cause New York has bad radio. Are these dogs always here? They must sleep in the shoes. Ooh, look at these here. Not very me, but very Star Trek. $500 for a T-shirt. I see. I'll buy six. No, twelve. Now, here is something very stagy. Ultraflouncy. I like that, but the general consensus might kill my career.

Is what you wear onstage the same as you wear off?

I sort of smush them all together. My favorite piece of clothing is a leather jacket I had made for me that says “Hutch” in chain mail on the back.

Did Michael Schmidt make it for you?

Yeah – how'd you know? He's great. He sort of looks like a beautiful snake. He loves all the Hollywood stuff, but he's so sincere when he talks about it. Almost makes me like it. Is there somewhere funkier we can go, like Yankel's House of Pile? I saw that on the way down.

If you want old clothes, we should go to Cheap Jack's.

[We head back up to Broadway and 13th Street. Several young ladies on the corner stare at Hutchence as he enters Cheap Jack's.]

Do you enjoy recognition?

Depends on where I am.

Like when you're out on your own. Shopping, for instance.

Shopping, yeah, 'cause I get discounts. And there is a definite bonus to recognition when I'm onstage.

It makes the night go faster. But I'm not an institution yet. Sometimes I think about how hard it must be for someone like Bob Hope to go for a stroll. I don't really get hassled. I can stand in the middle of a street in London, or even New York, and usually nothing happens. I don't think I have that distinctive of a face. I got recognized in Tangier once, going by in a taxi, very fast … from a distance … in a fog … during monsoon season. Just kidding. It's odd how once you are conscious of being watched, you stop being so self-conscious because you realize there's nothing you can do about it. Of course, nobody in Hong Kong gives a shit who I am.

Aren't people there freaking about the city's eventual realignment with China?

Thousands are leaving a year, but they're the ones who can afford to leave, to give Australia half a million to let them in, though a lot more are going to Vancouver or New Zealand instead because they've heard, and it's fairly true, about Australia's racism.

It's actually more like unconscious racism. There's a naivete to it that you might call charming if it wasn't so sick. See, most foreigners don't realize – because we refuse to believe it ourselves – that Australia is southern Asia. Australia is linked to England in everyone's minds.

Yet most Australians don't have the faintest idea why the Japanese tried to invade us during the Second World War, and can't understand why they might not have wanted any foreigners on the biggest island in the Asian paradise. If we had lost, my home would be covered in rice paddies by now. Australia would have been Japan's Great Plains, their grain barrel.

I've never met one Australian who knows that. We have it so easy in Australia. It's very easy to live there. Tougher than it was before, but that's because five years ago it was ridiculous. I used to live in a three-story, five-bedroom house. It cost me $20 a week.

Did you make that much playing music?

Nah, but so what, we were all on the dole. Everyone went on it. That's one of the reasons you have so many bands in Australia. It's cheap to live and collect, so all the bands go on it. You wouldn't even have to go pick up your employment check; they'd mail it to you or transfer it to your account. Ready cash. I guess because there is such an anti-authoritarian vibe in Australia that people are quite happy to accept government checks. “Aw, screw 'em” - that's the attitude. Lots of people accept four and five checks or even have jobs. It's very lax. That's why we're stuck with the tall-poppy syndrome.

Translation?

Don't be successful, don't rise above your mates, or you'll get chopped. It's weird. It's the don't-leave-the-pub way of life. I think people in America are generally happy for someone's good fortune; they know how to let themselves go. In Australia, they go, “Good, mate,” and don't ask a single question. There are no celebrations for a job well done. I'm still shocked at how Americans cheer you on when they like you. I know you don't fancy it anymore, but I like phrases like “dress for success.”

And that's why you're shopping here?

I love hideous ties. Girls love 'em. Dunno why. Its like red socks. Are the playing Richard Hell? I haven't heard this song in 20 years. God, you must hear better music in clothing stores than you do anywhere else in New York. All these baseball jackets are so cheap. You know what they pay for these in Australia? I should buy the whole lot, take them back. I'd never have to tour again. I could get 150 to 200 bucks just for the ratty ones. I think this is the first clothing store I've been in that wasn't playing videos.

Are videos big in Australia?

We've actually been involved in music video a whole lot longer than in America. Because we are so far away, the only way we've had to understand all this music flying around the world is through video. Since the '50s, even when it was only 10 minutes a week, Aussie tv has been showing music videos.

And we don't censor the way you guys do. The “Way of the World” single is a very serious song, but MTV is quite shy of the video, you should note – I say this diplomatically. They censor here for all the wrong reasons. Like it's okay to stare at Cher's crotch for four minutes, but it's hard to say something truthful about the state of the world.

Could it be because with a group that's become as wildly successful as INXS has, it's inevitable that favorable reaction always turns?

I don't think INXS has reached that point yet. Give us four more years. We've only recently become hip in England. At the beginning, they hated our guts.

Why?

'Cause we are Australians writing pop music, why else? They don't make much in England, apart from nice jumpers and Jaguars, and one of the few things they can claim some turf on is pop music. So, they're not happy when someone else does it. It's a standard trait of island people; they're very territorial.

But you guys are island people too.

Yeah, but we got a bigger island. Now, if we can just get rid of some competition from the expatriate colonies.

Isn't it enough already with this rivalry between Australia and England? L.A. And New York have settled their feud.

England still treats Australia like we're descendants of convicts. Well, I guess we are, aren't we? We're trying to get rid of them, but unfortunately, they're coming back with money and buying up half the country. Don't you resent the Japanese buying Rockefeller Center?

I resent the Rockefellers more.

[Having tried on everything and bought nothing, Hutchence decides against old clothes. We head down to If boutique.]

Armand Basi. Nice stuff. That Claude Montana is fabulous, but God, this stuff is expensive. We don't know anyone here for a discount, do we? My father used to design clothes for a shop in Hong Kong called Dynasty. Glitzy evening wear for too much money. One year, when we did our first tour, we bough ta lot of Sprouse, real colorful stuff, and we spent a fortune, especially when you consider it's disposable fashion. All it had to do was last a month. All the buttons fell off, it shrunk, seams opened up. We would have been more upset, but it made us homesick for the mother country. Disposable fashion is very English. The nice thing about it when it comes from there, however, is that even though the stuff falls apart, it's cheap.

Ah, I like this. Very sexy, very smart. Basi, right? I found the best underwear. I think it's called Nikos. Someone gave it to me last night. Well, that's a plug. No names, please. These pants might go with the Basi shirt. [Like Navy pants, they have over a dozen buttons instead of a fly.] Not good clubwear. Certainly not quick enough to please me.

Your choice of underwear would have to be very discreet.

And always clean. Maybe these pants come with a catheter. Should I ask the shopgirl? [He raises his arm to call her and, wincing, puts it down.]

Just realized a colostomy bag wouldn't hurt?

No. I think I have a cracked rib, from too much fun the other night at Inflation, this super club in Melbourne. Melbourne has some of the best clubs in the world. Great people. Amazing clubs. Sydney has nothing. Boring as hell. Nice place if you're a surfer. Really pretty, like L.A. But very corrupt, Sydney. Everyone is always paying everyone off. That's why you can't afford to do a club there. It's like, in order to get a club license, all the other nightclub owners have to agree to your having a license. And four people control the voting on that. Melbourne now has a club called Razor that is so exciting. It used to an automobile club, especially popular during the '50s, where people used to talk about their cars, you know, with photos of Mini-Minors making hairpin turns around corners. Like a racing club, I guess, except for slower cars. Razor gets the best people.

[He picks up a pair of huge, get-lost-in-the-rain-forest-and-survive black shoes and delights.]

Many people have shoe fetishes. I guess it's around the world actually, not just with Imelda. I think people are probably just jealous of her because they secretly wanted so many pair. But these are big, like size big. Are Americans getting larger feet, or do they just want more room? I always notice shoes when I'm here.

There's almost like a $100 tax on shoes in Australia. Like a pair that will cost you $50 here will cost you almost $200 in Australia. A pair of Levi's cost $100. I never buy furniture in Australia, either, and I have an obsession with furniture the way Americans love shoes. It's a shame I don't have an obsession with homes, too, since I have no place to put all the furniture. I have it stored all over the world.

Let me get the Basi shirt, and then I want to buy records. I would get them later, but I just remembered I have a friend coming in tonight for only one night. He and his father are trying to get down to Nicaragua. They're helping Ortega keep the Contras back. Good luck. What's so weird about their going is that these guys are publishing magnates in England. Entrepreneurs. They should be serious Thatcherites, but they just hate Thatcher. Real lefties.

If everyone is so vocal of their dislike of her, how come she's so strong?

The British love her because they love to be miserable; they love to complain. Thatcher's become irrepressible. She's finally showing signs of faltering, except she's winning by default, because no one wants to put Kinnock in, either. It's like your Dan Quayle. What an alternative.

Are Australians political?

It's compulsory to vote, if you want to call that political. Frankly, nobody particularly gives a fuck. That doesn't mean Australians are not aware people. I think they know more about what's going on in the rest of the world than the average American, but that's because they have to compensate for being in the middle of nowhere. They're more concerned about international politics, about the environment. Every time the Americans come into Sydney harbor with their nuclear ships and submarines, there's always 5,000 people telling them to fuck off.

But the hell with domestic politics?

Do you know anything about our system? It's built on a bickering sort of war. The front page is always about politicos throwing shit at each other, spending more time insulting each other than governing.

Mind you, they are really very good at it. It's a fine Australian tradition of political insult. Listening to parliament is hilarious - “Shut up, you bastard!” - and that's our prime minister, Bob Hawke. He's in the Guinness Book of World Records for having drunk a yard of beer in record time. He is actually a brilliant leader, a Rhodes scholar at Oxford, and he has done a bloody good job, considering the apathy he's up against. What he should be real pleased about its restoring pride in being Australian, particularly after all that nonsense when the governor general dismissed Prime Minister Whitlam in 1975.

How was that possible without the consent of the Australian parliament?

We're still a colony. I think a lot of us were cynical after that. They felt like puppets. Probably had something to do with the CIA. The good old CIA. I'm in their files, I found out. That they should waste their time on me. I'm listed as subversive, for my lyrics to “Guns in the Sky” and because I once threw condoms out to the audience in Northern Australia.

How is that subversive?

The more north you get in Australia, the more it is like the South in America. The man who ran Queensland, one of the biggest states in Australia, was this guy, Joh Peterson, who was in power for over 20 years. Peterson was this sort of South African leftover who arrived in Australia, and he made things illegal, like sex education, abortion, condoms to minors – you couldn't have the vending machines in clubs. [You can now.] Well, I slandered him, and so I got taken to court, where he was thrown out of office from the corruption uncovered during the proceedings.

Did that make you a hero down there?

Say what, mate? This is Australia, remember. Our heroes are bushrangers, outlaws, and sporting stars. If you're an athlete, you can get away with anything.

[Hutchence purchases the Basi shirts, and then we head to Tower Records at the corner. A street person approaches us.]

is this the official mugging committee?

Street person: “Ooh, ooh, here they come in their limo, straight from Saks Fifth Avenue. Board of directors, how you doing, moneys, you big-time decision makers. Uh-oh, who's you? You must be a rock man. Stand aside for the rock man.”

They always pick on me.

“I want to give you something, man. Some humility. But there's only enough for one.”

I don't care for some, but humility is something we can spread around.

“Hey man, this is for seriously. You will love this humility. No side effects, no speed. Say yes, and I can be back in an hour.”

[We go through the revolving door and right to the rock section; within three minutes, Max Q is playing on the system.]

That's good, somebody knows it's out.

[Hutchence buys albums by Ciccone Youth, Camper Van Beethoven, Soul II Soul, Grace Jones, Shakespear's Sister, Jesus and Mary Chain, and Suicidal Tendencies. As he is paying for them, he spots a postcard stand that features a picture of him.]

Holy shit. When did they take this thing? What a bizarre likeness. I hardly know this guy. This is not an approved photo. [He gets the attention of a young lady behind the counter.] Excuse me, please, this is not an approved photo. It's a pirate. Do you know where you get these from?

Salesgirl: “No idea.”

Can you find out?

“Why, do you want to buy a lot of them?”

See, I told you no one recognizes me.

[We walk outside and the street person comes up to him again.]

Street person: “I know who you are.”

Who am I?

“You are someone who's gonna give me a lot of money.”

How much you want?

“Just give me one of those bills, thank you. Now I'm officially your biggest fan. Just tell me what you want to buy.”

I must be dressed for success.

#inxs #michael hutchence #egg magazine #salesgirl's answers are perfect lol why would she know that hutch #maybe these pants come with a catheter #what kinda pants......#long post #tagging that in case read more doesn't work on mobile idk #collection

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papermoonloveslucy · 4 years

Text

LOOK! TV: TURN ON OR TURN OFF?

September 7, 1971

The September 7, 1971 issue of LOOK Magazine (volume 35, number 18) dedicated their entire issue to the medium of television. Inside, there is a feature titled “Lucille Ball, the Star That Never Sets...” by Laura Bergquist on page 54.

The photograph on the cover is slightly distorted to give it the look of an image through a TV screen. The shot was taken by Douglas Bergquist in January 1971.

The issue presents a variety of viewpoints about the state of television. Is it ‘tired’ or is there an infusion of new energy to take it into the new decade? John Kronenberger writes an article that asks if cable television is the future. Hindsight tells us that it was not only the future, but is now the past.

“Lucille Ball, the Star That Never Sets...” by Laura Bergquist.

Bergquist first interviewed Lucille Ball in 1956 for the Christmas issue of Look.

The photograph is by Douglas Kirkland, a Canadian-born photographer, who not coincidentally, also took the photograph used on the cover. This shot was taken in the garden of Ball’s home in June 1971. At age 24, Kirkland was hired as a staff photographer for Look magazine and became famous for his 1961 photos of Marilyn Monroe taken for Look's 25th anniversary issue. He later joined the staff of Life magazine.

Bergquist launches the article talking about her friend Sally, who is besot with watching Lucille Ball reruns, preferring Lucy over the news. Under the headline, she sums up the purpose of her interview: “Sorry, Sally. But Lucy is a serious, unfunny lady. So how come she’s a top clown of the fickle tube for twenty years, seen at home 11 times weekly and in 77 countries?”

LUCILLE BALL: THE STAR THAT NEVER SETS...

(Lucille Ball’s quotes are in BOLD. Footnote numbers are in parentheses.)

My neighbor Sally, nine, turns out to be a real Lucy freak. Though she likes vintage-house-wife I Love Lucy best, she'll watch Lucille Ball 11 times a week, if permitted. That's how often Madame Comedy Champ of the Tube, come 20 years this October, can be caught on my local box. Ten reruns, plus the current Here's Lucy on Monday night, CBS prime time. Friends, that's 330 weekly minutes of Lucy, which should be rank overexposure. Did you know that even the U.S. man-on-the-moon walkers slipped in ratings, second time around?

Quel mystery. Variety last fall announced that old-fashioned sitcoms and broad slapstick comedy are passé, given today's hip audiences. With one big exception - Lucy. When the third Lucy format went on in '68, reincarnating Miss Ball as a widowed secretary (with her real-life son, Desi Jr., now 18, and Lucie Jr., 20), Women's Wear Daily said not only were the kids no talent, but the show was "treacle." "One giant marshmallow," quoth the Hollywood Reporter, "impeccably professional, violence-free, non-controversial . . . 100% escapism."

Miss Ball: "Listen, that's a good review. I usually get OK personal notices, but the show gets knocked regular."

So why does Sally, like all the kids on my block, love slapstick, non-relevant Lucy? "Because she's always scheming and getting into trouble like I do, and then wriggling her way out of it." A 44-year-old Long Island housewife: "Of course I watch. I should watch the news?" When the British Royal Family finally unbent for a TV documentary, what was the tribe watching come box-time? Lucy, over protests from Prince Philip. (1)

"I've been a baby-sitter for three generations," says Miss Ball briskly. "Kids watch me during the day [she outpulls most kiddy shows]. Women and older men at night. Teen-agers, no. They look at Mod Squad. Intellectuals, they read books or listen to records.... You know I even get fan mail from China?" MAINLAND CHINA? "Hong Kong, isn't that China?" No. "Where is it anyway?"

The Statistics on the Lucy Industry are numbing. In recent years, she has run in 77 countries abroad, including the rich sheikhdom of Kuwait, and Japan, where, dubbed in Japanese yet, she's been a long-distance runner for 12 years. Where are all those funny people of yesteryear - Jackie Gleason, the Smothers Brothers, Sid Caesar, the Beverly Hillbillies - old reliables like Ed Sullivan, Red Skelton? Gone, all gone, form the live tube - except for reruns dumped by sponsors, out of fashion, murdered in the ratings.

Even this interview is a rerun. Fifteen years ago, I sat in Miss Ball's old-timey movie-star mansion in Beverly Hills, wondering how much longer, oh Lord, could Lucy last? She has a different husband, a genial stand-up comic of the fast-gag Milton Berle school, Bronx-born Gary Morton, 49. He replaced Desi Arnaz, her volatile Cuban spouse (and costar and partner) of 20 years, who lives quietly in Mexico's Baja California, alongside a pool shaped like a guitar, with a second redhead wife. "Ever been here before?" asks Gary, now her executive producer, who's brightened the house decor. "Used to be funeral-parlor gray, right?"

Otherwise, the lady, like her show, seems preserved in amber. Though newly 60, she could be Sally's great-grandmother. Of a Saturday, she's unwinding from a murderous four-day workweek. Her pink-orange-fireball hair is up in rollers. Her black-and-blue Rolls-Royce, inherited from her friend, the late Hedda Hopper, is parked in the driveway. But in attitude and opinion, she comes across Madame Middle America, despite the shrewd show-biz exterior. Good egg. Believer in hard work, discipline, Norman Vincent Peale. Deadeye Dickstraight, she talks astonishingly unfunny - about Vietnam, Women's Lib, about which she feels dimly, marriage to Latins, books she toted up to her new condominium hideaway in Snowmass, Colo. "Snow" is her new-old passion, a throwback to her small-town Eastern childhood. For the first time in family memory, this lifelong workhorse actually relaxed in that 9,700-foot altitude for four months this year, learning to ski, reading Pepys, Thoreau, Shirley MacLaine's autobiography, "37 goddamned scripts, and all those Irvings" (Stone, Wallace, etc.). She had scouted for a mountain retreat far away from any gambling. Why? Is she against gambling? "No, I'm a sucker. I can't stay away from the tables."

From yellowing notes, I reel off an analysis by an early scriptwriter. Perhaps she comes by her comic genius because of some "early maladjustment in life, so you see commonplace things as unusual? To get even, to cover the hurt, you play back the unhappy as funny?"

Forget any deep-dish theorizing. "Listen, honey," says Miss B, drilling me with those big blue peepers, "you've been talking to me for four, five hours. Have you heard me say anything funny? I tell you I don't think funny. That's the difference between a wit and a comedian. My daughter Lucie thinks funny. So does Steve Allen, Buddy Hackett, Betty Grable."

BETTY GRABLE THINKS FUNNY? "Yeah. Dean Martin has a curly mind. oh, I can tell a funny story about something that happened to me. But I'm more of a hardworking hack with an instinct for timing, who knows the mechanics of comedy. I picked it up by osmosis, on radio and movie lots [she made 75 flicks] working with Bob Hope, Bert Lahr, the Marx Brothers, the Three Stooges - didn't learn a thing from them except when to duck. Buster Keaton taught me about props. OK, I'm waiting."

Well, I hedge, I caught Miss Ball in a few funny capers on the Universal lot this week. Like one day, in her star bungalow, she throws a quick-energy lunch in the blender - four almonds, wild honey, water, six-year-old Korean ginseng roots, plus her own medicine, liver extract. "AAAGH," she gags, then peers in the mirror at her hair, which is a normal working fright wig, "Gawd," she moans, "it looks as if I'd poked my finger into an electric-light socket!" No boffo line, but her pantomimed horror makes me laugh out loud. Working, she is fearless - dangling from high wires, coping with wild beasts. She talks of animals she's worked with, chimps, bears, lions, tigers. "I love 'em all, especially the chimps, but you can't trust their fright or panic. Like that baby elephant who gave a press job to a guest actress." (2) What's a press job? "Honey, once an elephant puts his head down, he keeps marching, right through walls." Miss Ball puts her own head down, crooks an arm for a trunk, and voila, is an elephant. Funny as hell. So off-camera she's no great wit, but then is Chaplin?

Four days a week, through the Thursday night filming before a live audience, she labors like some hungry Depression starlet. Monday a.m., she sits at the head of a conference table, lined by 12 staffers, editing the script. Madame Executive Tycoon in charge of everything, overseeing things Desi used to do. Also the haus-frau, constantly opening windows for fresh air and emptying ashtrays. She wears black horn-rims, three packs of ciggies are at the ready. "Do I have to ask for a raise again?" she impatiently drills the writers, "I've done that 400 times." "QUIET!" she yells during rehearsal, perching in a high director's chair, a la Cecil B. DeMille. "Isn't somebody around here supposed to yell quiet?" She frets about the new set. "Those aisles - they're a mile and a half wide. What for?" The audience is too far away, she won't get the feedback from their laughs are her life's blood. (Once I hear Gary Morton on the phone, in his British-antiqued executive office, saying: "We need your laugh, honey. Go down to the set and laugh; that's an order.")

That physical quality about her comedy, a la the old silent movies or vaudeville - which were the big amusements of her youth - seems to transcend any language. (A Moscow acting school, I was told, shows old Lucy clips as lessons in comic timing.) So what did she learn from that great Buster Keaton?

"At Metro, I kept being held back by show-girl-glamour typing. I always wanted to do comedy. Buster Keaton, a friend of director Eddy Sedgwick, spotted something in me when I was doing a movie called DuBarry - what the hell was the name? - and kept nagging the moguls about what I could do. Now a great forte of mine is props. He taught me all about 'em. Attention to detail, that's all it is. He was around when I went out on a vaudeville tour with Desi with a loaded prop." What's that? "Real Rube Goldberg stuff. A cello loaded with the whole act - a seat to perch on, a violin bow, a plunger, a whistle, a horn. Honey, if you noodge it, you've lost the act. Keaton taught me your prop is your jewel case. Never entrust it to a stagehand. Never let it out of your sight when you travel, rehearse with it all week." Ever noodge it? "Gawd, yes. Happened at the old Roxy in New York. I was supposed to run down that seven-mile aisle when some maniac sprang my prop by leaping out and yelling 'I'm that woman's mother! She's letting me starve.'" What did you do? "Ad-libbed it, and I am one lousy ad-libber."

After 20 years, isn't she weary of playing the Lucy character? "No, I'm a rooter, I look for ruts. My cousin Cleo [now producer of Here's Lucy] is always prodding me to move. She once said Lucy was my security blanket. Maybe. I'm not erudite in any way, like Cleo. But why should I change? Last year was big TV relevant year, and I made sure my show wasn't relevant. Lucy deals in fundamental, everyday things exaggerated, with a happy ending. She has a basic childishness that hopefully most of us never lose. That's why she cries a lot like a kid - the WAAH act - instead of getting drunk."

Aha! Is Lucy the guileful child-woman, conniving forever against male authority - whether husband or nagging boss - particularly FEMALE? ("None of us watch the show," sniffed a Women's Libber I know, "but she must be an Aunt Tom." Still, I ponder, hasn't that always been the essence of comedy, the little poor-soul man - or woman - up against the biggies?)

"I certainly hope so. You trying to con me into talking about Women's Lib? I don't know the meaning of it. I never had anything to squawk about. I don't know what they're asking for that I don't have already. Equal pay for equal work, that's OK. The suffragettes rightly pressed a hard case - and when roles like Carry Nation come along, they ask me to play them, perhaps because I have the physical vitality. But they're kind of a laughingstock, aren't they? Like that girl who gave her parents 40 whacks with an ax? Didn't Carry Nation ax things, was she a Prohibitionist or what?" (3)

She'd just said nix to playing Sabina, in the movie of Thornton Wilder's The Skin of Our Teeth. Why? "I didn't understand it." She turned down The Manchurian Candidate for the same reason. "Got that Oh Dad, Poor Dad script the same week and thought I'd gone loony." If she makes another movie, she'll play Lillian Russell in Diamond Jim with Jackie Gleason, "a nice, nostalgic courtship story that won't tax anyone's nerves." (4)

Is Miss Ball warmed by the comeback of old stars in non-taxing Broadway nostalgia shows like No, No, Nanette? (5)

"Listen, I studied that audience. I saw people in their 60's and 70's enjoying themselves. That had to be nostalgia. The 30's and 40's smiled indulgently, that Ruby Keeler is up there on the stage alive, not dead. For the below 30's, it's pure camp. I don't put it down, but it’s not warm, working nostalgia, but the feeling 'Ye gods, anything but today'

"Maybe I'm more concerned about things that I realize. I told you politics is definitely not on my agenda - I got burned bad, back in the '40's signing a damned petition as a favor. (6) Just say the word 'politician,' and I think of chicanery. Too many subversive angles today. But I must be one of millions who are so fed up, depressed, sobbing inside, about the news...the atrocities, the dead, the running down of America. You can't obliterate the news, but the baddest dream is that you feels so helpless.

"I was sitting in this very chair one night, flipping the dial, and came to Combat! There were soldiers crouching in bushes, a helicopter hovering overhead. Nothing happening, so I make like a director, yelling, 'Move it! This take is too LONG!' It turned out to be a news show from Vietnam. That shook me. There I was criticizing the director, and real blood was dripping off my screen... That drug scene bugs me. It's ridiculous, self-indulgent. We're supposed to be grateful if the kids aren't on drugs. They're destroying us from within, getting at our youth in the colleges. OK, kids have to protest, but how can they accomplish anything if they're physically shot?

"One of the reasons I'm still working is that people seem grateful that Lucy is there, the same character and unchanging view. There's so much chaos in this world, that's important. Many people, not only shut-ins, depend on the tube, too much so - they look for favorites they can count on. Older people loved Lawrence Welk. They associated his music with their youth. Now he's gone. It's not fair. (7) They shouldn't have taken off those bucolic comedies; that left a big dent in some folks' lives. Maybe we're not getting messages anymore from the clergy, the politicians, so TV does the preaching. But as an entertainer, I don't believe in messages.

"Some Mr. Jones is always asking why am I still working - as if it were some crime or neurotic. OK, I'll say it's for my kids. But I like a routine life, I like to work. I come from an old New England family in which everyone worked. My grandparents were homesteaders in New York and Ohio. My mother worked all her life - during the Depression in a factory."

What does she think of the new "relevant" comedy like All in the Family? "I don't know... It's good to bring prejudice out in the open. People do think that way, but why glorify it? Those not necessarily young may not catch the moral. That show doesn't go full circle for me."

Full circle?

"You have to suffer a little when you do wrong. That prejudiced character doesn't pay a penance. Does he ever reverse a feeling? I'm for believability, but I'm tired of hearing 'pig,' 'wop,' 'Polack' said unkindly. Me, I have to have an on-the-nose moral. Years ago, the Romans let humans be eaten by lions, while they laughed and drank - that was entertainment. But I’m tired of the ugly. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing, that's my idea of entertainment. Anything Richard Burton does is heaven. Easy Rider scared me at first because I knew how it could influence kids. But at least that movie came full circle. They led a life of nothing and they got nothing. Doris Day, I believe in her. Elaine May? A kook, but a great talent. Barbra Streisand? A brilliant technician."

On her old ten-minute daily interview radio show, (8) she once asked Barbra, like any star-struck civilian: How does it feel to be only 21, a big recording artist and star of the Broadway hit Funny Girl? "Not much," said Barbra. "That cool really flustered Lucille. It violated everything she believes in," says cousin Cleo Smith, who grew up with Miss B in small-town Celoron, N.Y. "For her, nothing ever came easy. She didn't marry until she was 30, or become a really big star until she was 40. She's still so hard on herself, sets such rigorous standards for herself as an actress and parent. She honestly believes in all the old maxims, that a stitch in time saves nine, etc. She's literal-minded, a bit like Scarlett O'Hara. Does what needs doing today, and to hell with tomorrow."

Her self-made wealth a few years ago was reckoned at $50 to $100 million. After her divorce, she reluctantly took over the presidency of the Desilu studio and sold it six years later to the conglomerate Gulf & Western for nearly $18 million. Does that make her the biggest lady tycoon in Hollywood? (The 179 original I Love Lucy reruns now belong, incidentally, to a CBS syndicate; her second Lucy Show, to Paramount. She owns only the current Here's Lucy - OK, go that straight?)

"Hah! Like Sinatra, I owe about three and a half million bucks all the time. That figure is ridiculous. All my money is working. I lost a helluva lot in the stock market last year and haven't recouped it. It's an illusion that people in show biz are really rich. The really filthy rich are the little old ladies in Boston, the old folks in Pasadena, who've had dough for years and haven't been seen since."

The divorce from Desi Arnaz can still set her brooding. "It was the worst period of my life. I really hit the bottom of despair - anything form there on had to be up. Neither Desi nor I has been the same since, physically or mentally, though we're very friendly, ridiculously so. Nobody knows how hard I tried to make that marriage work, thinking all the trouble must be my fault. I did everything I could to right that ship, trotting to psychiatrists. I hate failure, and that divorce was a Number One failure in my eyes... Anything in excess drives me crazy. He'd build a home anyplace he was, and then never be around to enjoy it. I was so idealistic, I thought that with two beautiful babies, and a beautiful business, what more could any man want? Freedom, he said, but he had that. People don't know what a job he did building that Desilu empire, what a great director and brilliant executive he was yet he let it all go....Maybe Latins have an instinct for self-destruction..."

Was that the conflict, a Latin temperament married to an old-fashioned American female? "It has a helluva lot to do with getting into it and getting out. The charm. But they keep up a big facade and don't follow through. No, the machismo didn't bother me, I like to play games too.

"Desi and I had made an agreement that if either of us wanted to pull out of Desilu, the other could buy. I wanted to go to Switzerland with the kids, anywhere to run away, but he wanted out. The I found out that for five years, our empire had taken a nose dive, and if I wanted to get my money back, I had to rebuild it first. For the first time in my life, I was absolutely terrified - I'd never run any show or a big studio. When I came back from doing the musical Wildcat on Broadway, I was so sick, so beat, I just sat in that backyard, numb, for a year. I'd had pneumonia, mononucleosis, staph, osteomyletis. Lost 22 pounds. Friends told me the best thing I could do physically, psychologically, was go back to work, but could I revive Lucy without Desi, my old writers, the old crew?"

You didn't like being a woman executive? "I hated it. I used to cry so much - and I'm not a crier - because I had to let someone go or make decisions I didn't understand. There were always two sides to every question, and trouble was I could see both sides. No one realizes how run-down Desilu was. The finks and sycophants making $70,000 a year, they were easy to clean out. Then during the CBS Jim Aubrey regime, I couldn't sell the new pilots we made - Dan Dailey, Donald O'Connor, Ethel Merman. I couldn't sell anything but me." (9)

Was it tough to be a woman bossing men? "Yeah. It puts men in a bad spot. I could read their minds, unfortunately, wondering who is this female making this decision, not realizing that maybe I'd consulted six experts first. I'm all wrong as an executive, I feel out of place. I have too many antennae out, I'm too easily hurt and intimidated. But I can make quick surgical incisions. I've learned that much about authority - give people enough rope to hand themselves, stand back, let them work, but warm them first. Creative people you have to give special leeway to, and often it doesn't pay off. Me, I'm workative, not creative. I can fix - what I call 'naturalize.' I'm a good editor, I can naturalize dialogue, find an easier way to do a show mechanically.

But I didn't make the same marriage mistake twice. Gary digs what my life is, why I have to work. We have tranquility. We want the same things, take care of what we have."

She shows me Gary's dressing room, closets hung with shirts and jackets - by the dozen. "My husband is a clothes and car nut, but it's a harmless vice. Better than booze or chasing women, right?" (His cars include a 1927 Model T Ford, a Mercedes-Benz 300 SL, an Astin Martin, a Rolls-Royce convertible.)

"Anyone married to me has an uphill climb. Gary and I coped by anticipating. We knew we should be separated eight, nine months a year, so he tapered off his act, found other thing to do - making investments, building things. He plays the golf circuit, Palm Springs, Pebble Beach, and tolerantly lets me stay at Snowmass for weeks. Sun just doesn't agree with me. He didn't come into the business for five years. I didn't want to put him in a position in which he would be ridiculed. I could tell that he was grasping things - casting, story line. I said, 'You've been a big help to me. You should be paid for it.' "

On a Friday night, I dine with the Mortons. Dinner is served around 6:30, just like in my Midwest hometown. Lucille is still fretting about this week's show - "over-rehearsed; because there were so many props, the fun had gone out of it." Gary, just home from unwinding his own way - golfing with Milton Berle, Joey Bishop - asks if I'd like something to drink with dinner? Coke or ginger ale? "No? I think we have wine." No high living in this house, but the spareribs are superb. "Laura asked me an interesting question," he tells his wife. "Like isn't there a conflict when a husband in the same business - comedy - marries a superstar? I told her I'd never thought of it before."

They met the summer when Lucille was rehearsing Wildcat, and he was a stand-up comic at Radio City Music Hall, seven days a week. "We both came up the hard way," he says. "I got started in World War II, clowning for USO shows. I've been in show biz for 30 years and can appreciate what she goes through. Lucy can't run company by herself. Maybe with me around, when she walks on the set, her mind is at peace. I pop in from time to time, on conferences, rehearsals. I can tell from her if things are going well, if the laughter is there. She's a thoroughbred, very honest with me, a friend to whom I can talk about anything. She never leaves me out of her life; that's important for a man. Do you know how many bets were lost about our marriage lasting? It's been nearly ten years now, and I've slept on the couch only once."

Past dinner, we adjourn promptly to the living room, and a private showing of Little Murders. It's not a pretty movie of urban American life, and Lucy talks back indignantly to the screen. (10) The flick she rally like was George Plimpton's Paper Lion, with the Detroit Lions, which she booked under the illusion it was an animal picture. "At the end, 12 of us here stood up and cheered, and I wrote every last Lion a fan note. You know that picture hardly made a dime?"

On a house tout, I'd noted the Norman Rockwell and Andrew Wyeth albums in the living room, and a memo scotch-taped to her bathroom wall: "Get Smart with N.V.P."

N.V.P. Is that Norman Vincent Peale, her old friend and spiritual mentor? "Yes. He marred me and Gary. I still adhere to his way of thinking because he preaches a day-to-day religion that I can understand. Something workable, not allegory. Like how do you get up in the morning and just get through the day?

"Dr. Peale taught me the art of selfishness. All it means is doing what's right for you, not being a burden to others. When I was in Wildcat, he dropped around one night saying, 'I hear you're very ill, and working too hard.' 'Work never hurt anybody,' I protested. But he reminded me I had two beautiful children to bring up, and if I was in bad shape, how could I do it? I've learned you don't rake more leaves than you can get into the wheelbarrow. I've always been moderate, but I was too spread around, trying to please too many people. You don't become callous, but you conserve your energies."

What about her kids? Passing a newsstand, I'd noted a rash of fan mags blazoned with headlines about Desi Jr., something of a teen-age idol, and at 18 a spitting image of old pop. (A rock star at 12, he'd recently garnered very good notices indeed for a movie role in Red Sky at Morning.) "Why Lucille Ball's Son Is So Bitter About His Own Mother," read the El Trasho covers. "Patty Duke Begs Desi Jr. To Believe Her: 'You Made Me Pregnant.' " Does the imbroglio bother this on-the-nose moralist?

"I worked for years for a quiet personal life and to have to personally impinged on, with no recourse, is hard. I brought Patty to the house, feeling very maternal about her, saying look at this clever girl, what a big talent she is. Now, I can thank her for useless notoriety. She's living in some fantastic dreamworld, and we're the victims of it. Desi being the tender age of 17 when they met, she used him. She hasn't proved or asked for anything. I asked Desi if he wanted to marry her and he said no. My daughter helped outfit the baby, which Patty brought to the house, but did she ever say thank you?

"Desi's going to CIA this fall." Not the CIA? No, the new California Institute of the Arts, where he'll study music. "Yes, he's very much like his father, too much sometimes - I just hope he has Desi's business acumen. I'm glad he didn't choose UCLA or Berkeley or a school full of nonconformists. Lucie just now wants marriage and babies - maybe she'll go on to college later.

"I took the kids out of school deliberately. Desi was at Beverly Hills High, Lucie at Immaculate Heart."

Why? "I didn't like the scene - it was the usual - pregnant girls, drugs." That goes on at Immaculate Heart? Sure. "A lot of girls who boarded there were unhappy misfits, and Lucie was already working in the nunnery. All the friends she brought home were the rejected. I'm that way myself."

Did they mind, well, your stage-managing their lives? "No, they were as sick of that weird high school scene as I was. I made them a proposition - told them to think it over for a month, while I was in Monaco. Do you want to be on the show? I told them the salary would be scale, that most would be put in trust. They'd be tutored and not able to graduate with their classes. They both thought they were going to the coast, but working with a tutor, they really got turned on by books for the first time. They wanted to be in show business, and I wanted to keep an eye on them."

Of course her show is nepotism, she grants. "Cleo thought a long time before becoming the producer, wondering if it wasn’t overdoing family. Nobody seems to be suffering from it, I told her." Thursday night show time is like a tense Broadway opening night. Gary Morton, in stylish crested blazer, warms up the audience, heavy with out-of-town tourists. "Lucy started out with another fellow, can't remember his name.... What is home without a mother? A place to bring girls." Lucille bursts out onstage, exuding the old MGM glamour, fireball hair ablaze, eyelashes inches long, in aquamarine-cum-rhinestone kaftan. "For God's sake," she implores, "laugh it up! We want to hear from you... Gary, have you introduced my mom?" Indeed he has. Loyal, durable, 79-year-old Desiree "DeDe" Ball, her hair pink as Lucille's, has missed few of the 409 Lucy shows filmed to date, and is on hand as usual with 19 personal guests. Gary also asks for big hands for Cleo, and her husband Cecil Smith, TV critic for the LA Times, who has also appeared on the show. (11)

One day Desi Jr. wanders on the set, just back from visiting his father in Mexico. He'd gone with Patty Duke and the baby. The young man does have Latin charm, and apparently talent. I ask him a fan-mag query: Is it rough to be the spin-off of such famous show-biz parents?

"Well, I grew up with kids like Dean Martin, Jr., and Tony Martin, Jr., and we had a lot in common." What? "We all had houses in Palm Springs." Any generational problem with Mom? "She's found the thing she's best at, and sticks to it. As long as she has Snowmass, she has an escape, some reality. I realize she lives half in a man's world, and that must be tough on a woman. My father - he worked hard for years, and then he'd had it. This is silly, weird, he felt. He aged more in ten years than he had in 40. I'm like him. I feel life is very short. He's had major operations recently, and he's changed a lot."

Patty Duke is six years older than Desi Jr., paralleling the six-year age gap that separated parents Lucy and Desi. "Patty is a lot like my mother, the same drive, and strong will, a perfectionist...But I'm never going to get married. Marriage is unrealistic, expecting you to devote a whole life unselfishly to just one person. Do you know people age unbelievably when they marry? From what I've seen, 85 percent of married couples are miserable; 14 percent, just average; one percent, happy." (12)

His mother's own childhood, in little Celoron, an outspring of Jamestown, N.Y., was oh-so-different from her kids'. "She was always a wild, tempestuous, exciting child," say Cleo, "doing things that worried people, plotting and scheming, though she knew she'd get in trouble." Interesting, because that's one basic of the Lucy format, Miss B forever finagling second bananas like Vivian Vance into co-trouble. "One summer, she conned me into running away. It was only to nearby Fredonia, but in her sneaky way she really wanted to catch up to a groovy high school principal who was teaching there. He played it very cool, calling Mom and telling her we were staying overnight in a boarding house. On his advice, when we got home, DeDe acted as if we hadn't been away. That devastated Lucille, no reaction, nothing."

The classic Lucy story line also has her conniving against male authority, whether husband or boss, now played by Gale Gordon. "I need a strong father or husband figure as catalyst. I have to be an inadequate somebody, because I don't want the authority for Lucy. Every damned movie script sent me seems to cast me as a lady with authority, like Eve Arden or Roz Russell, but that's not me.

"No, I don't remember my own father," says Miss Ball. "He was a telephone lineman who died of typhoid at 25, when I was about three. I do remember everything that day, though. Hanging out the window, begging to play with the kids next door who had measles... The doctor coming, my mother weeping. I remember a bird that flew in the window, a picture that fell off the wall.

"My brother Fred [who was born after her father's death] was always very, very good. He never did anything wrong - he was too much to bear. I was always in trouble, a real pain in the ass. I suppose I wasn't much fun to be around." To this day, says Cleo, Lucille suspects Fred is her mother's favorite, even though DeDe has devoted her whole life to this daughter.

Family ties were always fierce-strong. After her father's death, "We lived with my mother's parents, for a while. Grandpa Hunt was a marvelous jack-of-all-trades, a woodturner, eye doctor, mailman, bon vivant, hotel owner. [And also an old-fashioned Populist-Socialist.] He met my grandmother, Flora Belle, a real pioneer woman and pillar of the family, when she was a maid in his hotel. She was a nurse and midwife, an orphan who brought up four pairs of twin sisters and brothers all by herself. He took us to vaudeville every Saturday and to the local amusement park. When Grandma died at 51, all us kids had to pitch in, making beds, cooking.

"Yeah, I guess I am real mid-America, growing up as a mix of French-Scotch-Irish-English, living on credit like everyone else, paying $1.25 a week to the insurance man, buying furniture on time. But it was a good, full life. Grandpa took us camping, fishing, picking mushrooms, made us bobsleds. We always had goodies. I had the first boyish bob in town and the first open galoshes.

"My mother then married Ed Peterson, a handsome-ugly man, very well-read. He was good to me and Freddy but he drank too much. He was the first to point out the magic of the stage. A monologist came to town on the Chautauqua circuit. He just sat onstage with a pitcher of water and light bulb and made us laugh and cry for two hours. For me, this was pure magic. When I was about seven, Ed and mother moved to Detroit, leaving me with his old-fashioned Swedish parents, who were very strict. I had to be in bed at 6:30, hearing all the other kids playing outside in the summer daylight. Maybe it wasn't that traumatic, but I realize now it was a bad time for me. I felt as if I'd been deserted. I got my imagination to working, and read trillions of books."

The adult Lucille, talking to interviewers, used to go on and on about her "unhappy" childhood, little realizing that she was reflecting on her mother, to whom she is passionately devoted. "Just how long do you think you lived with the Petersons?" asked DeDe one day in a confrontation. "Three YEARS? Well I tell you it was more like three weeks."

"I left home at 15, much too early, desperate to break into the big wide world. Looking for work in New York show biz was ugly, without any leads or friends or training other than high school operettas and plays and Sunday school pageants. I was very shy and reticent, believe it or not, and I kept running home every five minutes. I got thrown in with older Shubert and Ziegfeld dollies and, believe me, they were a mean, closed corporation. I don't understand kids today who get easily discouraged and yap about doing their own thing. Don't they know what hard work is? Where are their morals? I always knew when I did wrong, and paid penance."

Yet she was venturesome enough to sit in on some recent Synanon group-therapy sessions for drug addicts. "They wanted me to raise some money, and I wanted to find out what it was about. The games were fascinating, wonderful, until I couldn't take it any more. The other participants kept bugging me: What are you here for? Are your children drug addicts? I had to start making up problems."

For two decades, she's been risking her neck in those murderous ratings, outlasting long-ago competitors like Fulton Sheen, and now up against such pleasers as pro football and Rowan and Martin. (13)

Suppose the ratings drop, what would she do?

No idea. "Might take a trip on the Inland Waterway form Boston to Florida. In my deal with Universal, I can make specials, other movies, TV pilots. I wouldn't have to ski 'spooked' at Snowmass." What's that? "Honey, I have to be careful. If I break a leg 500 people are out of work. (14) I'd be happy in some branch of acting with some modicum of appreciation. Listen, it never occurred to me, in life that I'd fail ever, because I always appreciated small successes. I never had a big fixed goal. When I was running Desilu, it drove me wild when people asked, 'Aren't you proud to own the old RKO studio where you once worked as a starlet?' What $50-a-week starlet ever walked around a lot saying, 'I want to own this studio'?

"I don't know what you've been driving at, what's your story line? But it's been interesting, talking."

FOOTNOTES: HINDSIGHT IS 20/20

(1) This refers to a rare 1969 BBC documentary about Britain’s royal family that gave the public an inside look at the life of the Windsors. In one scene, the family was watching television, and on the screen was “I Love Lucy”, much to the chagrin of Prince Philip. Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip were mentioned on the series, especially in the episode “Lucy Meets the Queen” (ILL S5;E15).

(2) Lucy is referring to a 1967 episode of “The Lucy Show” titled “Lucy The Babysitter” (TLS S5;E16) in which Lucy Carmichael babysits three rambunctious chimps for their parents, played by Jonathan Hole and Mary Wickes. In the final moments of the show, Wickes reveals a fourth sibling - a baby elephant! The animal went wild and pushed Wickes (what Ball described as a “press job”) into one of the prop trees. The trainer had to physically subdue the elephant to get it away from Wickes, who injured her arm. The final cut ends with the entrance of the baby elephant.

(3) Lucy is conflating (probably intentionally) the stories of real-life prohibitionist Carrie Nation (1846-1911), who famously hacked up bars and whisky barrels with an axe, and Lizzie Bordon (1860-1927), who famously hacked up her parents with an axe. (Photo from the 1962 TV special “The Good Years” starring Lucille Ball and Henry Fonda.)

(4) There was never a film version of Thornton Wilder’s play Skin Of Our Teeth which was on Broadway in 1942 starring Tallulah Bankhead as Sabina, the role offered to Ball. There were several television adaptations; one in Australia in 1959; one in England the same year starring Vivian Leigh as Sabina; one in the USA in 1955 starring Mary Martin (above) as Sabina; and a filmed version of a stage production starring Blair Brown as Sabina in 1983. Although it is possible that Lucille Ball might have been considered for the role of the sexy housemaid Sabina in 1955, the article says that the role was “just” offered to her, so it probably refers to a 1971 project that never materialized. Wilder’s story tracks a typical American family from New Jersey from the ice age through the apocalypse.

(5) In 1971, there was a popular revival of the 1925 musical comedy No, No, Nanette on Broadway. The cast featured veteran screen star Ruby Keeler and included Helen Gallagher (playing a character named Lucille, coincidentally), Bobby Van, Jack Gilford, Patsy Kelly and Susan Watson. Busby Berkeley, nearing the end of his career, was credited as supervising the production, although his name was his primary contribution to the show. The 1971 production was well-reviewed and ran for 861 performances. It sparked interest in the revival of similar musicals from the 1920s and 1930s. The original 1925 cast featured Charles Winninger, who played Barney Kurtz, Fred’s old vaudeville partner on “I Love Lucy.” In that same episode (above), they sing a song from the musical, "Peach on the Beach” by Vincent Youmans and Otto Harbach. Like the revue in the episode, the musical is set in Atlantic City, New Jersey.

(6) Lucy is referring to her 1936 affidavit of registration to join the Communist Party. Lucille said she signed it to appease her elderly grandfather. The cavalier act caught up with Ball in 1953, when zealous red-hunting Senator Joe McCarthy tried to purge America of suspected Communists. Although many careers were ruined, Ball escaped virtually unscathed.

(7) The popular big band music series “The Lawrence Welk Show” (1955) was unceremoniously canceled in 1971 by ABC, in an attempt to attract younger audiences. What Lucy doesn’t mention is that four days after this magazine was published, the show began running brand new shows in syndication, which continued until 1982. Welk, despite not being much of an actor, played himself on “Here’s Lucy” (above) in January 1970.

(8) “Let’s Talk To Lucy” was a short daily radio program aired on CBS Radio from September 1964 to June 1964. Most interviews (including Streisand’s) were spread over multiple installments.

(9) To showcase possible new series (pilots) Desilu and CBS aired “Vacation Playhouse” (1963-67) during the summer when “The Lucy Show” was on hiatus. This would often be the only airing of Lucy’s passion projects. “Papa GI” with Dan Dailey as an army sergeant in Korea who has his hands full with two orphans who want him to adopt them. The pilot was aired in June 1964 but it was not picked up for production. “Maggie Brown” had Ethel Merman playing a widow trying to raise a daughter and run a nightclub which is next to a Marine Corps base. The pilot aired in September 1963, but went unsold. “The Hoofer” starring Donald O’Connor and Soupy Sales as former vaudevillians aired its pilot in August 1966. No sale!

(10) Little Murders (1971) was a black comedy based on the play of the same name by Jules Feiffer. The film is about a young nihilistic New Yorker (Elliott Gould) coping with pervasive urban violence, obscene phone calls, rusty water pipes, electrical blackouts, paranoia and ethnic-racial conflict during a typical summer of the 1970s. Definitely not Lucille Ball’s style of comedy! Paper Lion (1968) was a sports comedy about George Plimpton (Alan Alda) pretending to be a member of the Detroit Lions football team for a Sports Illustrated article.

(11) Cecil Smith appeared in “Lucy Meets the Burtons” (HL S3;E1) in 1970 playing himself, a member of the Hollywood Press with a dozen other real-life writers. The casting was a way to get better coverage of the episode (featuring power couple Dick Burton, Liz Taylor, and her remarkable diamond ring). The gambit worked and the episode was the most viewed of the entire series.

(12) Desi Jr.’s 1971 views on marriage did not last. He married actress Linda Purl in 1980, but they divorced in 1981. In October 1987, Arnaz married dancer Amy Laura Bargiel. Ten years later they purchased the Boulder Theatre in Boulder City, Nevada and restored it. They lived in Boulder with their daughter, Haley. Amy died of cancer in 2015, at the age of 63.

(13) From 1952 to 1957, Catholic Bishop Fulton J. Sheen hosted the inspirational program “Life Is Worth Living”, winning an Emmy Award in 1953, alongside winners Lucille Ball and “I Love Lucy.” “Here’s Lucy” was programmed up against “Monday Night Football” on ABC and “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In” on NBC. Instead of ignoring her competition, Ball embraced them by featuring stories about football and incorporating many of the catch phrases and guest stars from “Laugh-In.”

(14) Lucy spoke too soon! Just a few months after this interview was published Ball did indeed have a skiing accident in Snowmass and broke her leg. With season five’s first shooting date approaching, Ball was faced with either ending the series or re-write the scripts so that Lucy Carter would be in a leg cast. She chose the latter, even incorporating actual footage of herself on the Snowmass slopes (above) into "Lucy’s Big Break” (HL S5;E1).

Elsewhere in the Issue...

“This Was Our Life” by Gene Shalit includes images of Lucille Ball in the collage illustration.

A week after this issue of Look hit the stands, the fourth season of “Here’s Lucy” kicked off with guest star Flip Wilson and a parody of Gone With the Wind. Three days later, Ball guest-starred on his show.

Not to be outdone, LOOK’s rival LIFE also devoted an entire issue to television, on news stands just three days later.

Naturally, “I Love Lucy” didn’t escape mention! I’m not sure why the show’s run is bifurcated: 1952-55, 1956-57. Actually, the show began in 1951 and ran continually until 1957.

Click here for more about Look, Life and Time!

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for-fucks-sake-h · 5 years

Text

Let Me Feel You

Imagine Harry coming home from tour and not being able to wait to get you home before having you. A DREAM. Enjoy loves!

It’s been so long since you last saw him face to face. Months, plural, as in two whole months to be exact. Your time together while he was in London - the quickest flash of two days - long gone now. You got to share a moment of his time while he was in Japan about a month later, but that was it. To say you missed him would be an understatement.

The phone calls and skype dates when he actually had the time to give were barely sufficing. Even though his voice felt like it could wrap you up in a blanket, it wasn’t the same as being wrapped up in him. You smile at the memory of him calling you in the middle of the night, his voice so incredibly deep when he told you, “Miss you so fucking much it hurts, love.”

Now though, now it feels like a distant memory as you drive to the airport to pick him up. You insisted, wanting to be the first person he saw when he landed. Telling him to hush up when he tried to talk you out of it, that he could just have his driver bring him to your place.

Your skin was tingling with excitement, picturing his face and the smile that would pull on his beautiful lips once he saw you. It’s all you’ve thought about for weeks, getting you more and more anxious as the days dwindled down. And now all you could picture was that smile lighting up his eyes.

Your heart was pounding in anticipation as you pulled into the pick up area where he told you he would be, parking the car as quickly as you could so you could lean your head against the head rest and take a few deep, settling breaths. When you lifted your head and exhaled, you saw him. He was walking straight towards you with the most beautiful smile on his face. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses and honestly, that was probably for the best because you knew if you made contact with them now yours would be watering against your will.

He walked past your window to throw his leather duffel into the trunk, each passing moment making your heart feel like it was going to jump out of your throat and explode all over the inside of your car. And when he opens the door and slides into the passenger's seat his scent - a mixture of his cologne and just, him - invades your senses.

“Hi baby,” his tone is low, smiling at you as he pushes his sunglasses up into his hair. His eyes are so bright and glassy, the green nearly translucently accentuated by the setting sun making its way below the horizon.

You can feel your eyes filling as you look at him, tempted to reach out and stroke his cheek. But you know how this goes. No touching until you’re out of sight, not wanting any intimate, private moments being shared with anyone but the two of you. So you settle with a quiet sigh of his name, falling from your mouth like a beg, like the warm hug you so desperately want to give him right now. “I missed you.”

“Missed you, darlin’. So fucking much.” His hand reaching out but dropping onto the middle console takes your attention away from his face for a moment. You already know he wants to touch you, but the reassurance of him almost doing it before stopping himself has your heart fluttering.

“Let’s go home,” you say as you put the car into drive and start to pull away from the curb, “I have to hug you.”

He chuckles lightly before mumbling, “Gonna do more than hug you, love.”

“Oh yeah?” you question with a quirk of your eyebrow as you turn onto the interstate to head towards your home.

“Mhm, thought about it the entire time on the flight,” he speaks slowly. So slow that it’s almost in the tone that his voice takes on when he’s telling you filthy things while he’s wrapped between your thighs.

You swallow thickly before taking the bait, “What exactly?”

He’s quiet for a minute, the only sound in the car being the radio quietly coming through the speakers, so low that you could hear him breathe in deeply. You’re trying to keep your eyes on the road but you can see out of the corner of your eye as Harry squirms in his seat a little, the leather squeaking with his movements.

“How you taste, I miss you on my tongue.” You can feel him watching your cheeks and ears tinge pink at his words. You glance at him quickly before bringing your eyes back to the road. You noticed the arm closest to you is propped up on the center console, his body slightly turned toward you with the other arm resting along the length of his leg, his hand squeezing his knee.

His legs are spread and you catch the movement of the hand resting on his knee moving up the inside of thigh to rest over his crotch. He sits like this a lot, in interviews, on the couch while watching TV, and you’ve told him all it does is accentuate his cock.

What he doesn’t do in interviews though, is give himself a little squeeze through his jeans to relieve some pressure. You glance over again to catch him squeezing his length as he tilts his head back on his headrest as he gazes over at you.

“Thought about your cunt finally being wrapped around me too,” his voice is so deep, trying to lull you into a trance that you so desperately want to dive into.

“Har-” you start to whisper.

“Need you on me, love.” His voice sounds pained. It’s rough, emotional. Like his throat is tight and he’s trying to push the words out so he has room to breathe.

You sigh as you reach up to stroke the back of your fingers across his cheek, running them across his jaw lightly to tuck behind his neck. He lets out a deep breath as you massage his skin, reaching up to play with the hair at the nape of his neck.

Out of the corner of your eye you see him reaching down to unbutton his pants, pulling the zip down a moment later and pushing the hand that’s farthest away from you into his boxers. He lets out a quiet, “fuck” when his hand makes contact with the hot skin of his cock.

He’s trying to kill you both.

You should be able to make it home. You’re taking in slow breaths to keep yourself calm to make it there. He’s watching your face, you can feel his eyes on you as you try to keep yours on the road.

“Baby,” you warn quietly.

“I’m s’hard, love. Feel like I’ve been hard for days.” You can feel him swallow against your hand that’s now resting on the side of his throat. “You’re all I’ve thought about.”

You exhale deeply as you make your way to take your exit. You look over at him briefly, enough to glance down at the movement of his hand beneath his pants that’s slowly tugging his length. You raise your eyes to his face, catching the pink skin of his chest before settling on his tongue as it wets his lips. His eyes are hooded when you flick your eyes back to them from the road. You hold them for a second, seeing the need pouring out of them and into yours.

“Harry, you have to stop babe.” You try to reason with him but you know it’s no use. His eyes tell you everything his mouth isn’t. That he’s desperate. That he needs you. That he’s so hard he really can’t take it anymore.

“You gotta pull over,” he says, his voice deep yet quiet. And then out of the corner of your eye you can see him shuffle to open his pants more and pull his cock from the confines. You know he gives himself a slow pump then, your peripheral vision giving you enough to go off of and the moan that leaves his mouth the determining factor.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath. You begin trying to rack your brain for somewhere you can go.

“Make a left up here,” he instructs in a breathy voice as he continues giving himself slow strokes. His breathing is heavy with his eyes on you and his head tilted back against the headrest.

You can feel how wet you are already just from knowing he’s touching himself. Knowing that you’re so close to having him again. There have been so many nights when all you wanted was for it to be his hands on you. To feel his tongue or fingers or cock between your thighs. You can already feel his breath on your skin and he hasn’t even touched you yet.

You’re not even a little bit familiar with the area when he directs you to a side street. You pass a gas station on your right and neighborhood on your left. You’re coming up to what looks like a small shopping center when he tells you to make the next right. It’s a narrow, windy little road that leads to what looks like a run down park. There’s a small football field on the right with a playground just behind it. And as you make your way around the bend you notice there’s a small building that looks like it could have been a concession stand at one time.

“Right behind there love,” he guides you to park on the other side of the building.

“How do you know about this place?” You question as you pull up alongside the small brick building before turning to park behind it.

As soon as you put the gear into park, Harry is leaning over to unclick your seat belt while simultaneously trying to turn the engine off. Once your arm is free from from the seat belt strap you’re grabbing Harry by the back of his head to connect your mouths. His taste invades your senses as his tongue slips into your mouth, his breath warm and minty against your lips.

He’s wrapping his arms around your back, pulling you towards him and then pulling you even more. You clumsily cross the center console, knocking his sunglasses off his head as you settle your knees on either side of his hips with your hands gripping his shoulders. He’s breathing heavily, his breath fanning out across your face as he pulls you closer to rest his forehead against your own.

You push your core against his more, feeling the heat radiating off him. His fingers are wrapped in the back of your hair, the other hand gripping your thigh tightly. His head falls back against the headrest when you roll your hips against him again. “You are, so hard.” You punctuate your words with another small grind of your hips.

“Told you,” he chuckles lightly, his hips pushing up to yours as best he can in the close confines. His cock is tucked so close to your core you can almost feel him between your lips, pushing your leggings against your clit in the most frustrating yet delicious way. He leans up to suck sweet kisses to the front of your throat, nosing along your skin to nip at the side of your neck.

“Where’d you find this place?” You ask again as your head tilts back to give his lips more access. His breath and licks are making chills run down your spine with each kiss he places on your skin.

“Nick brought me ‘ere once,” his lips graze against the side of your throat with every word. “Remember when he was goin’ on about me being a model?”

You chuckle at the memory of the photo Nick posted of Harry being perched on a tree in an all white ensemble as if he was posing for a Gucci advert. He bites your neck in retaliation before pulling his face away to look up at you.

“You wanna keep talking about Grim or you wanna fuck me?”

His hand slipped into your pants as he spoke, watching your face as he glided two fingers between your folds and pushed them into you to his knuckle. The shock of suddenly feeling so full and the coolness of his rings against you made your mouth fall open in a silent moan. He leans up a bit to get his mouth on yours, his lips warm as they suck your bottom lip into his mouth.

“Hmm?” He questions against your mouth, his mobility limited in this position, leaving him to curl his fingers deep inside you.

Your grip on the back of his neck tightens at the feel of his fingers brushing the spongy wall inside you. The hum from his voice making your lips tingle.

“I want to fuck you.”

“You sure? Gonna be deep like this,” he says in a teasing tone.

If there was one thing Harry knew how to do it was bringing your attention back onto what he was doing to you. A second ago you were distracted with the details of the park and now all you could focus on was the slow curling of his fingers deep inside you and the way his breath fanned over your mouth from his words.

It’s like you were completely zeroed in on him. You noticed the heat coming off his neck, how soft his lips brushed against yours as he moaned lightly from your center pulsing around his fingers.

“Can you get these off?” He removes his hand from your pants to pinch the fabric of your leggings on one of the thighs, pulling it towards him slightly before letting it snap back against your skin.

You’re suddenly in an urgent panic to get your pants off as quickly as possible in the small space. You manage to bring your legs between Harry’s one by one to peel your leggings and panties down your thighs. Harry has a hand wrapped around his length, stroking slowly as he watches you with a curl to the left side of his mouth. Once they’re at your ankles you resume your seat on his lap, a little hotter in temperature from the effort you put in to remove them.

You’re wordless when pulling your arm from your jacket as he unhooks your pants from your ankles so they can fall to the floor. You reach down to take his cock into your palm as you let your jacket fall from your other arm.

His head drops back to the headrest at the contact. God, you missed the feel of him. Silky smooth yet so hard, and always so warm. You hold him tight at his base as you lift up enough to slip his tip through your folds, circling his head against your clit few times. You guide his tip towards your entrance, lining him up and releasing your hold on him to grip the chest of his tee shirt instead.

“Come on, love. Let me feel you.”

And you do, in one fluid motion. Steadily taking every inch of his cock until you’re fully seated on him. The stretch of him makes your eyes water at the corners, being so incredibly full after not having him for so long sending tiny shocks through your body.

“God, fuck- knew you’d be tight,” he’s mumbling his thoughts down to where you’re connected, releasing a deep moan when you clench around him tighter. His mouth is hanging open in a perfect oh when he looks back up to your face.

You dig your nails into the back of his neck as you minutely pull your hips away from his, quickly dropping back down, somehow feeling even fuller than a second ago. “Oh god, I missed you,” you moan as you bring your face closer to his, your nose nudging along the bridge of his.

“Missed you, fuck,” he pulls you down onto his cock as much as he can, his fingers gripping bruises into your hips. “Missed this.”

You roll your hips over him, building a slow, deep rhythm that has you tipping your head back on your neck. One of Harry’s hands glide up your body to cup the side of your throat as he leans forward to suck kisses onto the skin of your collarbone. He’s moaning into your chest with each thrust, his tongue sneaking out to lick between your breasts at the top of your shirt.

His other arm wraps around you so that his fingers can press into the base of your spine. His breathing is labored against your neck when he lifts his head to nuzzle into the side of your throat. “So good for me,” he praises against your skin before leaving a soft kiss.

His praise fills you just as much as his cock, making your heart feel full and your desire to please him spill over the edge. You tried your hardest not to let the thoughts of how much you missed him - his touch, his warmth, his love - consume you while he was gone. But being in his presence again, having him whisper love into your skin is making your hips push against him that tiny bit further.

“H,” you sigh as you bring your head down to press your forehead to his. “I needed you, baby. Oh my god,” you choke down a moan as one of your hands take purchase on the head rest, digging your nails into the leather to steady yourself over him.

You’re trying to convey to him just how much you missed him. The words are getting harder to bring out of your mouth the harder you roll your hips into his. All you can do is hope he can feel it in the way you touch him, the way you fuck him. Like your body is doing something so natural, something it needs in order to survive. It feels like you’re recharging your battery with him.

“Needed you too- fuck, I- I need you so bad, love,” his voice is strained. His sentence switching from past to present tense, that he needs you while he’s inside you, has you licking your tongue out to graze his cupids bow lightly. You watch as he pulls his lips into his mouth to wet them, admiring how they glisten once they’re released, shiny from his tongue before his teeth make indents into his plushy bottom lip.

With his feet planted on the car floor, he pushes his hips up to meets yours, his hands gripping your hips again to hold you down on him. He leans in to capture your mouth, sucking your bottom lip away with him as he leans back before releasing it. You gasp into his mouth, your core squeezing him even tighter.

“Feels good, huh?” He questions quietly with his eyes on your face.

“Mhm, so full.”

“Like when I’m this deep?” His voice sounds steady but you hear the shaky breath he exhales as he pulls you even closer on him. “Fuck,”

“H, you gotta let me move,” you beg.

“Gonna make me come?” His eyes are heavy as they gaze at you with a deep line gracing the skin between his brows. He looks so beautiful like this, desperate and fucked out.

He barely has his hand slipped between your bodies before you’re lifting up to his tip and dropping back down with a breathy, “Yeah.”

His first two fingers immediately pinch your clit lightly, watching your face as you suck in a breath and let your head fall back on your neck as he starts to circle them slowly. “Wanna feel you come first. Shit, you have to come on me.”

His words egg you on, your hips grinding into his at a quicker pace. Your need is limiting your range of movement to quick, short rolls of your hips, barely lifting off him at all now. Your chest is flush against his, your hands threading through his hair, squeezing the thick strands between your fingers.

“Yes, fuck me, yes baby,” his voice is so low, barely above a whisper before his lips are on yours and you’re moaning into his mouth. He stills his fingers on you, pushing his middle finger against your clit more, letting you grind against both his finger and his cock how you want. His hips are barely pushing up to meet yours but giving just enough so you can feel that last little bit of him inside you. He’s everywhere - his lips, his breath, his hands, his cock.

“Feels so bloody good,” he says in disbelief, having not felt you for so long making all the passion you’ve shared, the reminder of how good you make each other feel, flood back into his mind. It’s as if he’s been suppressing it into his subconscious to help him get through being away from you. And now that he has you, he’s feeling it more and more with every twist deep in his belly.

You press your face into the side of his neck, panting against his hot skin as the curls wrapping around his ears tickle you. “I’m gonna come,” you barely choke out as you circle your hips with Harry as deep inside of you as you can get him.

“Yes, let me feel you,” he begs. His fingers beginning to circle your clit again as yours tighten in his hair, making him moan into your neck. His other hand is tight on your hip, aiding you in the quick glide against him. And when he turns his hand sideways so he can quickly flick his first finger against your clit, your orgasm explodes from your spine to travel throughout your body. Your core clenches down on him even more, making the deepest, most guttural moan fall from his mouth as he pushes up into you and thick streams of cum coat your quivering walls.

Your pace slows considerably, wanting to ride out your high, and his, as long as possible. It feels like you’re in slow motion, pulling back to watch his face with his eyebrows pulled tight and his mouth hanging open in pleasure. You’re barely moving over him but the tremors of your orgasm are still running through you, each one making you squeeze your core around him.

His hands move to cup your face so he can pull you in and cover your mouth with his, moaning low in his throat as you both start to come down. His tongue is strong against yours as he pulls kiss after kiss from you. When he pulls away, the fingers from one of his hands are tucked behind your neck, his palm exceptionally warm as it rests on the side of your throat. His other hand pushes some hair back from your face then pulls your shirt down your shoulder, leaning in to press a kiss to the cap. And when he pulls back again, his eyes are as bright as you’ve ever seen them, pale green glass caressing your face with admiration and love.

You release a deep sigh before pushing forward and wrapping your arms around his neck, sinking into him and pushing your face into his neck. Inhaling quickly as he wraps you up in him, the thought of his cologne lingering on your skin making your breathing pick up.

“You’re not allowed out of my sight,” you mumble into his hair as your voice cracks. His deep laugh makes you smile and squeeze him tighter.

He breathes his response against the skin of your neck with his hands gripping you tightly, “I’m okay with that, love.”

***

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duhragonball · 4 years

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Dragon Ball Super Movie 1: Broly (1/2)

This ended up taking longer than I expected, so I decided to break it up into sections. The first Dragon Ball Super movie premiered in Japan on December 14, 2018, and then in the U.S. and Canada on January 16, 2019.

After Resurrection F, just about every episode of Dragon Ball Super aired, and this movie takes place after all of that. So just to get everyone up to speed: Beerus had a friendly tournament with his counterpart in Universe 6, and the King of Everything liked the idea so much that he threw his own event called the Tournament of Power, which saw eight universes square off in teams of ten. But our universe was short-handed, so Goku arranged for Frieza to be brought back to life for one day so he could participate, and then Whis revived Frieza for keeps after Beerus was pleased with Frieza’s performance.

This movie is important for a few reasons. First, it features Aya Hisakawa as Bulma, the first time the role has been recast following Hiromi Tsuru’s tragic death in 2017.

Second, this movie reintroduces the Broly character. In the DBZ films, he was a side-story, non-canon villain, but this movie works him into the main canon. Well... as canonical as Dragon Ball Super gets, I suppose. Similarly, this movie also does the same thing with Gogeta.

Third, this one currently stands as the highest-grossing Dragon Ball movie ever, and one of the top-grossing anime films of all time. I looked at the Wikipedia list, and it’s at #12. But Resurrection F is at #19, so I think it’s safe to assume that any future Dragon Ball movies might break the record. Even so, I knew this one was a bigger deal when I went to see it. Res F only played in my town for three days, I think. Broly ran for maybe three weeks and I couldn’t see it on the first try because it was sold out that night. If it’s true that Akira Toriyama came out of retirement because of how bad Dragon Ball: Evolution was, then I think it’s safe to say that he’s exorcised that demon.

Fourth, this movie’s box office success and popularity led to the downfall of American voice actor and sex pest Vic Mignogna. Vic has played Broly in all of his past movies, as well as the video games and any other localized Broly media. But he’s also garnered a reputation over the decades for creeping on women and girls at fan conventions. DBS: Broly put him in the limelight again, and I’m pretty sure this caused a lot of people to ask why we’re still putting up with this perv in the year 2019. A few weeks after the movie premiered in the U.S., RoosterTeeth cut ties with him and re-cast all the parts he played for their shows. A week later, Funimation did the same thing. Quite stupidly, Vic tried to sue his way out of this mess, taking Funimation and two of its voice actresses to court for defamation and conspiracy, and the case was dismissed with prejudice on October 4. The last I heard, he was doing public appearances in the basements of creepy malls. Maybe there’s still venues willing to do business with him, but as I understand it, most anime conventions have recognized that he just isn’t worth the bad publicity.

Anyway, it’s kind of weird to be doing this with a movie that just came out eleven months ago. This will probably be more text-heavy than usual, since I have a lot of things to say about this movie that I never got around to earlier in the year.

For example, what the hell is this thing?

All right, so the first... I dunno, fifteen minutes?... of this movie is a flashback of what Planet Vegeta was like before Frieza destroyed it. For clarity: the main story of this movie is set in Age 780, the same year as the Tournament of Power in the DBS TV series, while this flashback takes place in Age 739.... I guess? The Dragon Ball Wiki contends that Goku and Broly were born in Age 737, and they look about two years old in this part, but I dunno.

Anyway, King Cold has come to Planet Vegeta to inform King Vegeta that he’s retiring from the space-villain business and putting his son Frieza in charge. This was always very satisfying to me, because I never quite understood King Cold’s role in the Frieza organization. Turns out he used to run the whole thing, and then he handed it over to Frieza, which allows him to retain a lot of power without actually having to run things directly.

It also explains why the Saiyans lasted as long as they did under Frieza’s rule. Conquering the Saiyans happened under King Cold’s regime. Once Frieza took over, he spent some time reconsidering that decision. Anyway, Frieza hands out scouters to King Vegeta, explaining that they’re the new latest and greatest technology for detecting and quantifying powerful fighters. He even shoots down some Saiyan snipers just to demonstrate how well they work.

King Vegeta doesn’t like this turn of events, maybe because he had hoped King Cold would grant the Saiyans independence when he retired. But there’s no much he can do about it, so he consoles himself in his son, Prince Vegeta. The tests show that Vegeta has enormous potential, and the King is certain that his son will one day grow powerful enough to overthrow Frieza and rule the universe himself.

Then he sees another life support tank with another Saiyan baby in it, and he throws a hissy fit about it. See, Saiyans in this era raise their newborns in these tanks, and this particular tank farm is for babies singled out for having elite fighting potential. The guys who run the place explain to him that Colonel Paragus’s son had exceptional test results, which may even exceed Prince Vegeta’s. The King tries to see for himself, but the measuring device overloads and explodes.

Then this lady walks up and tells him Broly might possibly become the next Legendary Super Saiyan, which doesn’t exactly put the king at ease.

So King Vegeta orders Broly to be shipped off to the planetoid of Vampa. When Paragus learns of this, he demands an explanation, since you only do that sort of thing for weaker, low-class Saiyan babies. That’s what Raditz said way back in DBZ episode 2, you know, but Broly’s already been shown to be far stronger than this. Also, Vampa’s a dump and everyone knows it, so even if Broly subjugates the planet, no one would want to buy it, so what’s the point. King Vegeta explains that Broly is probably some kind of mutant, and no matter how strong he may be, he’ll eventually lose control of that power and become dangerous. At least this way he’ll be on Vampa instead of being dead. But Paragus thinks the king is only doing this out of jealousy. He can’t handle that a mere colonel’s son tested better than the prince, so he’s sweeping Broly under the rug.

So Paragus hijacks a spaceship and flies to Vampa himself to rescue Broly. His plan is to desert King Vegeta and the Frieza Force and raise Broly on some other planet until he can make Broly into a great warrior. Another Saiyan named Beets tries to talk him out of it, but ends up getting roped into the hijacking. Paragus foolishly crash lands the ship on Vampa, and when Beets says he can’t repair the ship, Paragus shoots him so the rations will last longer. I like this scene, because when they first arrived on Vampa, Paragus made Beets come with him, fearing that he’d take off and leave them if he stayed behind. Beets swore he’d never do that, but Paragus doesn’t believe in trustworthy Saiyans. So his shooting Beets is just proof of his cynicism towards his own people.

Then we flash forward another five years. That seems kind of fishy to me, but okay.

Bardock and his comrade are on their way back to Planet Vegeta, because Frieza ordered them all to come home. Bardock is suspicious, because if Frieza had orders for them, he could have just relayed them by radio, and if he has weapons to distribute, then there’d still be no need to have every Saiyan on the planet at the same time to hand them all out.

I know people don’t care much for the Dragon Ball Minus version of Bardock, but it does make a lot more sense than the “Father of Goku” version. This movie expands on the Dragon Ball Minus comic by explaining Bardock’s reasoning in greater detail. The other Saiyans simply can’t believe that Frieza would do anything drastic to them, mainly because they work for Frieza and do what he wants. But Bardock knows that the Saiyans dislike Frieza, and that the feeling is probably mutual, and he might just be planning to do something about it.

Then one of his pals mentions that Frieza’s administrators have been asking around about the Super Saiyan legend, and that’s the final piece of the puzzle. Bardock realizes that Frieza’s worried about a Saiyan uprising, which normally wouldn’t be a threat, unless a Super Saiyan emerges.

The point I’m driving at here is that he doesn’t really need psychic powers to see all this coming. He just happens to be smart enough and paranoid enough to figure out how Frieza thinks. It’s not as dramatic as “Father of Goku”, but it’s still effective.

The thing I tried to do last year was to write a fanfic that combined this version of Bardock with the “FoG” version. Basically, to have Gine in the story and have her cope with her husband having doomsday visions. I really ought to get back to that sometime.

As for Frieza, his people report that the Super Saiyan and Super Saiyan God are nothing more than old stories, but Frieza insists that he had to be certain. Even so, he plans to blow up all the Saiyans anyway, since he’s got them all together in one place. I don’t know, maybe he only asked about Super Saiyans because he was afraid this upcoming attack might provoke a Super Saiyan survivor.

Moving on, if you know the story of Dragon Ball Minus, you know what’s coming next. Bardock meets up with his wife Gine, and I dig this chubby Saiyan working at the meat-packing place. I think that’s my favorite part of this movie, really, just seeing all the diverse kinds of Saiyans running around on this planet. Fat ones, thin ones, weak ones. That one lady looked like some kind of scientist, and the guy in King Vegeta’s court looked like a butler or something. It’s a nice change from DBZ, where every Saiyan extra ended up looking like Raditz, more or less. And every Saiyan from Universe 6 looked like they were made of noodles.

Bardock asks about their kids, and Gine explains that Raditz has been assigned to off-world duty with Prince Vegeta. As for Kakarot, he’s still in his tank, which just sort of sits in the middle of their home. Bardock plans to steal a space pod and send Kakarot to another planet, since he thinks Frieza’s going to blow up Planet Vegeta soon, because he believes the Legendary Super Saiyan might appear.

Gine is upset with this, obviously. What really threw me when I first watched the movie was how all these characters speak of the Legendary Super Saiyan. No one seems to quite believe in the idea, or maybe it’s more accurate to say that they don’t particularly care if it’s true or not, since it would have happened so long ago. But there’s a forboding sense that it could happen again. King Vegeta are looking forward to it, because they think their sons could fill that role. But Bardock and Gine dread it, because that dumb story convinced Frieza to kill them all, and it’s going to get their son shot into space. Anyway, anytime someone mentions the Super Saiyan in this movie, someone else always goes “You mean the Legendary Super Saiyan?” No, mate, I was referring to the ordinary kind you see on every street corner.

Anyway, this was why I started writing my fic, because this legend was such a big deal in early DBZ. No one in-universe seems to know anything about the previous Super Saiyan. Even if the guy never existed, you’d expect there to be some details. My assumption is that this was all lost over the past thousand years, to the point where all anyone remembers is that some Saiyan got tired of being nice and decided to go ape shitt. And that run of destruction was so memorable that people still talk about it a thousand years later, even after everything else got forgotten. For me, that’s a writing prompt, and I’ve spent the last four years trying to write a story and build an OC who could make Frieza nervous enough to blow up an entire planet of his own henchmen.

So when I watched this movie, I sort of worried that one of the characters might drop some new, unwanted lore about the Legendary Super Saiyan. Up to this point, all we knew about the legend was what Vegeta recalled, but for all I knew Gine studied up on the subject when she took that mythology course at Saiyan University. “Super Saiyan? You mean like Topotay, the seven-foot-tall heteronormative man who hated cooking and never left his home planet?”

So Bardock prepares the pod, and when Gine asks him why he’s bothering, especially when they can’t save themselves, he explains that it’s because he spends all his time fighting that he wants to try to save something for a change. I like that a lot, because so much of the Saiyan culture in DBZ is extrapolated from Raditz and Vegeta’s perception of it, which is slanted towards ultra-violence and ruthlessness-as-virtue. And sure, there’s plenty of that. We get a lot of it in this very movie. But there’s two sides to the coin. Paragus was genuinely worried about his son, and Beets seemed to be sympathetic to him as well. Bardock embraced his wife in front of someone, and now this. Character traits aren’t hard rules. It isn’t out-of-character for a violent man to crave peace once in a while, or for a brutal warrior to finally appreciate compassion, especially when he thinks he’s about to die.

The big twist here is that Bardock sent Goku to Earth to save his life. He was not, as Raditz assumed, deployed to Earth by the Saiyan government to conquer it. In fact, Bardock chose the Earth specifically because it was far enough out of the way that he didn’t think Frieza would bother with it. Gine would later contact Raditz to inform him of all of this, but she left out the details of why they did this, probably for fear of being overheard on the communicators.

In orbit, Frieza’s aides point out that the Saiyans make up half of their fighting force, but Frieza doesn’t care. He knows the Saiyans aren’t going to quietly tolerate his rule forever, so it’s better to deal with them now. That’s how afraid of the Super Saiyan he is. He’d rather blow up half his military than worry about it. Presumably, King Cold never cared in the first place. He could barely rememer what a Super Saiyan was, even while he was watching Trunks turn into one.

Anyway, Frieza does the fingerbang thing, Bardock tries to stop it, but he fails and gets zapped back in time to the Episode of Bardock special, and the planet explodes. We’ve seen this moment maybe a dozen times by now, but I do like the part where Frieza monitors the destruction on his scouter, and the number of power signals coming from the planet count down to zero.

Elsewhere, Prince Vegeta’s group hears about this, and they find the whole thing suspicious, because the official story is that the planet got hit by a meteor. Vegeta and Raditz don’t particularly care. They both have brothers off-world, but they dismiss them as unimportant weaklings.

Then we finally flash forward to the main story of the movie. Baby Kakarot has grown up into Son Goku, the hero of Earth, and Vegeta lives here too, and he’s married the richest lady on the planet. They both turned into the next Legendary Super Saiyan, and recently they just got done teaming up with Frieza to win the Tournament of Power, proving that their universe deserves to exist. But Goku and Vegeta still want to get stronger. Goku, because he wants to fight all those strong guys he met from the other universes, and Vegeta because he’s convinced that Frieza will attack the Earth again now that he’s returned to life. Also, Beerus and Whis are here, for no particularly good reason. That seems to be the Dragon Ball Super brand in a nutshell. What made Movie 14 so good was how they introduced them as new characters, made them the focus of the story, and had them shake things up. Since then, they just hang out on the sidelines and eat snacks.

This works out, though, because Bulma gets a call from Trunks about someone breaking into her lab and stealing the six Dragon Balls she had collected, as well as the Dragon Radar. They quickly realize it was Frieza’s henchmen who did it, and so they head off to find the 7th Dragon Ball before they do. Whis wants to tag along, but Beerus doesn’t, so she leaves her baby behind and asks him to keep an eye on her. D’awwwwwwwwww.

On the way to the ice continent where the last ball is located, Goku asks why Bulma was collecting the Dragon Balls in the first place. She admits that she wanted to ask Shenron to de-age her by about five years. Just five? Bulma figures that if she makes herself too young all at once, people will think she had plastic surgery. Why not just get plastic surgery? Wait, I’m asking the wrong question here. Don’t people already think Bulma already had work done? She hasn’t aged since the Cell Games.

So what does Frieza plan to wish for? When he first appeared back in early DBZ, he wanted to become immortal. His aide, whose name I have forgotten, asks if he’s going to try that again, but Frieza says no.

I’m confused by his reasoning, but Frieza explains that while he was dead and in hell, he realized that it was torture being unable to die or move, so immortality holds no meaning for him. Okay, but that only happened to you because you died. Does Frieza think that becoming immortal would leave him unable to move? Or is he just afraid of getting trapped in some situation where death would be the only release, like when Garlic Junior got trapped in the Dead Zone?

At the very least, I’ll give credit where it’s due: it looks like Toriyama finally gave Frieza a bit of character development to play into his resurrection. My big complaint about Resurrection F was that Frieza came back to life and immediately went right back to doing all the stupid shit that got him killed in the first place, and it seemed like the 15 years he spent in hell had no effect on him whatsoever. He wasn’t afraid of dying again, nor was he dismayed by the knowledge of what awaits him on the others side. Now, in this movie, he at least has some perspective. Shenron could make Frieza immortal, but he can’t make him stronger than Goku, so maybe he’s worried that Goku might throw him into a black hole or something.

Even so, it was weird to watch this movie and see a Frieza who utterly does not care about becoming immortal, because he seemed so obsessed with it back on Namek. But now that I’ve watched DBZ in Japanese, I’ve noticed that Frieza never seemed all that concerned about it. He’s not Voldemort, who was terrified of death and sought to conquer it, or Kars, who wanted to eliminate his few remaining weaknesses. Frieza only seemed to want immortality back then because it was the only thing he could think of that he didn’t already have, and maybe to screw with Vegeta, who saw the Dragon Balls as the only way to beat Frieza. Still, I find it odd that Frieza isn’t even a little worried about what’ll happen to him when he finally kicks the bucket. His aide suggests that he might wish for an invincible-but-still-mortal body, and Frieza says that would take all the fun out of “the game”. So I guess he’s adopted an Android 17 outlook on life? Well, so be it, but he knows he’s going to get hung up on the happy fun tree again whenever he dies of old age, so why doesn’t that weigh on him? In Movie 15, he seemed to think he only ended up there because he died on Earth. Does he think if he dies someplace else, that he’ll go to a better hell with free wifi and room service? If I were Frieza, I’d be doing some serious churchin’ up.

Anyway, his other, cooler aide, Berryblue, already has this figured out: Frieza wants to wish to be taller. Specifically, five centimeters taller, so that it won’t be too conspicuous. I really like Berryblue, even though this is about the only thing she does in this movie. Both of these aides appeared in the flashback, implying that they’ve been with Frieza for decades and somehow survived his fifteen-year death. There would have been no need for someone like her on his Namek campaign, but the absence of characters like her was exactly why I never cared much for Frieza’s classic henchmen. They were all jacked up thugs constantly licking Frieza’s boots and not much else. Berryblue’s not afraid of this guy at all, probably because she changed his space-diapers when he was little, and if he kills her, he won’t have anyone to bring him space-wine from the ship’s space-cellar.

So why doesn’t Frieza just use his second form, the one he used to fight Piccolo on Namek? That form was like eight feet tall, but also fuck Frieza’s second form. He only had those forms to regulate his power, and these days he doesn’t even use them. He wants to be taller in his default state. But he doesn’t want to be too tall all at once, or it wouldn’t look natural. This from the guy who went out of his way to turn mustard yellow at full power.

Personally, I’m torn on this whole gag. It is kind of funny that Frieza is after the same dumb kind of wish that Bulma was, but it’s also kind of stupid that Frieza is after the exact same thing that Commander Red wanted way back in the original Dragon Ball. The problem with bringing Frieza back is that no one knows what to do with him. They already had him attack Earth again, die again, and come back again. We’ve even seen him team up with the good guys. But DBS ended with him going off on his merry way, and it looks like he’s rebuilding the Frieza Force, but that feels kind of hollow while he has Goku and Vegeta on his mind. Having him make another go at the Dragon Balls is a solid move, except the Dragon Balls alone aren’t a motivation because you still need to have something to wish for. This whole “5cm taller” thing just feels like a gag to cover the lack of an actual answer to the problem.

Meanwhile, let’s check in on these two. The green lady is Cheelai, and the orange guy is Leemo. They’re in the Frieza Force, but not as warriors. Leemo’s just a transport pilot, and I don’t really know what Cheelai’s official job is, but their current assignment is to search the galaxy for strong warriors to recruit for Frieza’s army. When you think about it, Frieza’s pretty bad at this whole “private army” business. King Cold left him the entire Saiyan race, the Ginyu Force, Zarbon, Dodoria, and whoever else. First, Frieza wiped out the Saiyans, which made up half of his soldiers. Then he deployed his finest troops to Namek, where they al got taken out by Goku and Vegeta, two of the Saiyans he neglected to kill. Then Frieza gets himself and King Cold killed on a pointless revenge mission, leaving Sorbet to try to keep the whole thing going. Across a fifteen year period, Sorbet probably loses a lot of good soldiers to insurrections and desertion. Then Frieza comes back and assembles an army of 1000 warriors, and he kills all of them on another pointless revenge mission.

So yeah, in this scene, Cheelai laments that there just aren’t many warriors out there with a power level greater than 1000. Well there used to be, until Frieza got them all killed. Now he’s down to scrubs like Leemo, who’s worked for Frieza for decades, but can’t fight worth a damn. According to Cheelai, she only joined up because she stole a spaceship or something, and knew the authorities wouldn’t chase after her if she was in the Frieza Force. Really? I don’t think Frieza would go out of his way to personally avenge or rescue her if the Galactic Patrol caught her.

There’s a cute gag here where Cheelai mentions how Frieza turned out to be shorter than she expected, and Leemo warns her never to say that again if she values her life, recalling how Berryblue mentioned that Frieza used to execute some of his men for mocking his height behind his back. Gee, why could Frieza have a staffing problem? This is why Cell is the best villain. He’s plenty tall, and he’s not so friggin’ insecure, and he can handle his own shit.

Anyway, the pair pick up a distress signal and it turns out it’s coming from Vampa, where they find Paragus striking... a pose. Yes. It’s like he knew he’d be wearing a shower curtain over his legs for the rest of the movie so he wanted to flaunt his goodies now while he still had the chance.

Paragus is now old and grey-headed, but he still has a power level of 4200, which is weaker than Nappa, but still good enough that Leemo and Cheelai are thrilled to take him back on their ship. But then they get attacked by the giant head lice on Vampa, and Paragus calls for Broly to save them...

...And Cheelai is astounded by his power, which is too high to measure on the scouter. That... doesn’t mean a whole lot these days, unless they increased the scouters’ range since the Freiza Saga. Hers doesn’t explode, at least, so they managed to improve that much in the past twenty years.

So on the ride back, Cheelai spends some time with Broly and gives him ration bars, or maybe it’s just candy, I dunno. Paragus tells Broly to thank her, but she finds it too formal, and teaches the “Okay” sign as she tells Broly to just say “thank you” and leave it at that.

Aboard Frieza’s ship, Paragus explains that he had to cut off Broly’s tail because he was getting too powerful, and that Broly would have these surges in power where he would lose all control of himself. To deal with these, he put a shock collar on Broly’s neck, and he keeps the remote in his fanny pack. He demonstrates how it works, and Leemo and Cheelai are horrified.

But they’re not so horrified that they balk at their reward for finding these two. Apparently everyone in DBZ outer space gets paid in ball-point pens.

After Leemo and Cheelai leave, Frieza explains to Paragus that Planet Vegeta was destroyed a long time ago, though he neglects to mention that he did the destroying. Not that Paragus cares, since he gave up on ever going back there because of King Vegeta. Frieza mentions that Prince Vegeta is still alive on Earth, and offers to help him get revenge.

Notably in this scene, Frieza refers to Prince Vegeta as “Vegeta IV,” which makes his dad King Vegeta III. It’s nice to finally have that settled after all these years.

I hadn’t noticed this until now, but there’s another lady on the ship besides Cheelai and Berryblue. Probably not that remarkable, since Cheelai already explained that Frieza was hiring more women now that he couldn’t afford to be picky. There are sources that say Frieza’s organization just didn’t allow women, period, but I always find those sort of absolutes hard to believe. There’s also been talk that Frieza’s species has no gender, which is entirely plausible, but then why should Frieza bother with making sexist hiring policies?

Wait, maybe Frieza got frustrated with it. Like, he kept misgengering his staff, and he didn’t like looking foolish, so he just went, you know what, no women. That actually makes some sense, especially in light of this movie, where he’s on a hiring spree for his ultra-important campaign to grow two whole inches.

Oh, wait, I just remembered that tough-looking lady they introduced for Dragon Ball Z: Kakarot. I guess she was working for Frieza the whole time, but maybe he made special exceptions for quality talent. Or he separated his crews by gender, so whenever he boards a different ship someone has to tell him which pronouns to use. This is why Cell’s the best villain, because if you tell him your pronouns, he’ll just fucking remember instead of being a jackass about it. All thanks to Piccolo’s cells. Also Nappa’s.

When Broly and Paragus come down for some food, Cheelai invites them to their table, but Paragus isn’t interested in chatting, and Broly doesn’t seem to know how. Cheelai asks him why he’s still wearing the green fur around his waist, but when she tries to touch it he flips out, and she backs off. Mostly, I just like this shot of Cheelai here.

Also this one, where she gets upset with Paragus for not allowing Broly to tell his tragic backstory. But we’ll have to save that for the second half of this review.

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