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fushiguromi · 3 years

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soundtracks — semi eita

synopsis: during your college life, semi eita already likes you. He indirectly confessed his feelings by singing a song to you, but you didn’t realize that the song he sang was his feelings for you.

pairing: semi x fem!reader

genre: fluff; college to timeskip; band au

word count: 3.6k

a/n: all songs and lyrics that are used in this story were my own composition, so i’m sorry if it’s not good HAHAHAHHA well, i tried my best hehe

The sun is up while you grumpily walk around the quadrangle of your school. It’s a hell day for you and you’re exhausted because of the homework, quizzes, and projects that you need to accomplish within a week.

As an honor student, you don’t want to disappoint your parents. You found a bench table beside a tall tree. You sat down and you fixed your hair and wipe your sweats around your face.

This day isn’t going well for you, your favorite sweater almost got ruined by a student that almost spilled a coffee towards you.

You roamed your eyes around. Many students are on the bench tables with their friends laughing and talking.

You took out your books to review for your upcoming quiz tomorrow. You were focusing on studying the book when you heard the strumming of the guitar and a soothing beautiful voice of a man.

Looking annoyed you looked up to see who’s disturbing your study time.

A man with a guitar placed on his elevated thigh singing for his friends. His aura and his looks reminded you of the handsome heartthrob that only knows how to break hearts with just a snap of his fingers.

He was biting his lower lip while his eyes were closed. The way his fingers shifted every time he changed chords and continuously plucking the strings of his guitar amazed you and to think that what his fingers can do to you.

You shook your head immediately because of that thought.

You had seen a lot of people playing with a guitar, but no one looked so passionate and angelic as him. He was like falling in love with music with the way he played each chord to create a melodious sound.

He looked oblivious to his surroundings as he played. Like he has his world just for himself and his guitar.

Music fills the air without effort, the sound rushing in and around every person in the place. Some react to the beat, others continue in chatter.

After his performance, his friends cheered and clapped for him. He just smirked and you didn’t realize that you were smiling widely at him until he looked at you.

“Semi! Your performance was so good!” A girl with short hair said to Semi and clings her arms on his.

Was it double meaning? Wait, what the hell?

You quickly averted your eyes on him and covered your face with the book you were holding earlier.

Until that day, you didn’t see him around the campus. But after he caught your attention, you happened to keep on crossing paths with him.

The next day, you found out that their band is famous around your place because they have gigs every Friday and Saturday at the cafe & bar near your school.

You heard that there is an event that’s happening at the gym tonight, so you went there to watch the battle of the bands. This is your first time to give attention to your school’s event because all you do was to study.

You narrowed your eyes while looking at Semi. They are preparing for the event. He’s holding his guitar while talking to his bandmates.

A lot of people came to the gym to support and watch them. While you stand there, Semi scanned his eyes around and stopped when his eyes met yours.

He looked stunned for a moment but he smiled and quickly averted his eyes.

The event started and you were amazed that a lot of bands participated in this event, but Semi’s band is different than the others.

They were really into it and feels like a concert. They made the stage and crowd theirs, many students cheered for them and the judges even gave them a standing ovation.

You were just smiling and clapping the whole evening, their song covers were on point, so this is what it feels like to watch them play?

You’re doing your essay at the bench table that you found yesterday. It’s peaceful and cloudy outside so you decided to settle there.

While you were typing on your laptop, someone sits down in front of you. Your eyes caught a glimpse of a cool guitar strap and you looked up to see the man yesterday smiling at you.

“You don’t have to be intimidated,” he assured you.

He placed his guitar on the table and you saw that he was also carrying a notebook and a marker.

You stared at him while he’s writing something in his notebook. He felt your gaze on him so he looked up.

“Sorry, am I disturbing you?” He asked while tapping his foot on the ground.

“Uh, no. I’m almost finished with my essay.” You replied. He smiled and nods.

You quickly finished your essay so you can look at him.

You glanced at his handwriting. It looked pretty neat and somehow understandable. You got curious, so you quickly read what he wrote on the page.

Invisible Line

You immediately recalled the lyrics he sang yesterday to his friends and the words written on the notebook was the same lyrics.

“You wrote that song?” You asked him.

“Yes, I did.” He smiled, then turned his head on you. “Did you like it?” You felt your cheeks blushed because you remembered how wide your smile was.

Biting your lower lip, you nodded.

“I sometimes come here to think about and write songs.” He told you. “But right now, I’m having trouble getting inspiration but then I saw you...”

Your lips slightly parted. You could feel your heart beating against your chest so hard. You had crushes with boys, but you never felt this kind of feeling.

You ignore him because you don’t know what to say. He writes so fast but you had a glimpse of the lyrics he was writing.

He grabbed his guitar and placed it on his thigh. He started strumming and looked at his notebook before singing.

We’re close but never together

I have to find a way, to get her next to me

So can we close the space between us now?

The distance that we don’t need

I kept collecting shooting stars

Just to wish for us

She’s everything I need

My safe haven...

He stares at you while he sings but after a while, he closed his eyes and bobbed his head to the sound.

As you stared at him, you realized that the Creator favored him so much that he was given such an attractive look— he has messy ash blonde hair with dark tips, his eyes are brown, perfect naturally trimmed eyebrows, and chiseled jaw.

He ends the song with a beautiful instrumental sound before he opens his eyes and smiled at you.

“What do you think?” He asked you while he put his head on his arm that was on the guitar.

You’re lost for a moment before replying, “I loved it,” you smiled and gave him a thumbs up. He chuckled and nodded his head, contented.

He picks up something from his bag. He suddenly gave out his guitar pick to you.

You only stared at it. You don’t know if you will get it.

“Here, take it.” He urged you. “It’s a thank you gift.” You stared at him confused.

“For what?”

You had no idea why he was giving out his guitar pick as a thank you gift. When you just met each other!

“Thank you for being my inspiration,” he answered. You could feel your cheeks heating up.

He took your hand, laid out your palm, and put his guitar pick there. It was a white guitar pick and it looked like a pearl or marble. There were small letters written on the edge.

S.E

That’s his initials.

“Won’t you be using this?” You asked him, even if you didn’t want to return it.

“Oh, don’t worry. I still have an extra at home.” He replied.

He suddenly holds your hand. Your hand rested on his palm, while he removed the lid of his pen using his mouth. He was drawing something on his guitar pick.

You felt like losing your sanity as you stared at the pick he gave you three years ago. The small heart he drew beside his initials was still there.

You didn’t see him again after that. You tried to go out again to the bench table a few times, but you didn’t see him at all.

Every time you’re stressed or sad, you would listen to the song inside your head. You engraved it in your memory the way he sings it.

I want to cross the line for her

But fate doesn’t want me to

I’ll just stare at her from afar

Even if it hurts...

“Zero Effect’s new album becomes the new best-selling album for the alternative rock band...”

Your eyes widened and you stopped what you’re doing when you heard a very familiar voice and song. It made you feel so nostalgic.

You looked up to the monitor in front and saw the news with a music video of the song playing through the speakers of the cafe.

It’s him! After three years... you finally saw him. Even through the screen.

Your heart gone wild and beating so loudly that you thought it would break.

“Semi Eita..” You whispered his name, after reading a piece of information about him and his band. “Zero Effect...”

You didn’t know how many times you watched their music video after you got home. You couldn’t stop yourself smiling.

You decided to check their social media accounts. Zero Effect have eight hundred thousand followers and it was following all the band members' accounts.

You followed them all before stalking Semi’s account. He had over five hundred thousand followers already.

His pinned tweet was a tweet that was promoting their latest album and his recent tweet was a picture of him and his bandmates.

@ZeroEffectJP

The interview video of Zero Effect’s ‘Fading Polaroid’ album is out now!

youtube./ZEfadingpolaroid

#ZeroEffectFPOutNow

There was a video link for their interview about the concept of their new album. You clicked on it.

The Zero Effect’s members appeared on the screen with the interviewer.

Your eyes immediately focused on Semi. He was wearing a sweater with like a blazer that’s fuzzy and a cross pendant necklace.

“We have here with us, the rising alternative rock band, Zero Effect!” The interviewer announced, and the members clapped their hands while smiling widely.

“Introduced yourselves first before we start our interview.”

“Hello, I’m Eita, the lead vocalist and guitarist of Zero Effect.”

You clapped your hands so hard after he was done with his introduction. You felt so proud. He was just a teenage boy before making music at school and make gigs on the weekends.

“Hi everyone! I’m Ryo, the bass guitarist.” He smiled at the camera and wink.

“What’s up? Hi! I’m Eiji, the leader, and keyboardist of Zero Effect.” Among the four of them, he’s the more serious and uptight one.

“Hellooo!! I’m Shiro, the drummer of the band.” He waved at the camera and smiled.

You laughed. The drummer always had that different effect than the others.

Whenever Semi smiles, you would pause the video to screenshot it. He looked so dashing.

After their introduction, the interviewer asked them questions about their album and personal life.

“So Eiji, how did you four meet?”

“We met during our college days,” Eiji answered. “We play as a band since then and we also had our gigs on the weekends.”

“Oh, okay so well, let’s talk about your new album!” The interviewer shifted the topic, “can you say something about that, Eita?”

Nodding his head, Semi looked at the interviewer. “Well, our first mini album is entitled Fading Polaroid. It contains five songs, and it is about lost love. It is an alternative rock ballad, which is composed and arranged by all of us.” He explained the concept of their album.

“There’s this one song called Invisible Line on the album that makes the fangirls, you know, like mixed emotions because of its lyrics. What is it about?” The interviewer got curious as she looked at Semi.

“Uh, okay..” he said awkwardly, “I wrote it three years ago.”

Your lips parted. You recalled that song because he sang it to you before.

“It’s about liking someone but the two of you can’t be together because there’s this invisible line between you two, but the guy wants to be with the girl.” He said, then smiled slightly.

“What inspires you to write that song? If there is?” She asked.

“Uhmm.. Yes, there is..” he said hesitantly.

Realizations hit you and your lips parted.

“I met this girl at our school where we used to study before,” he started talking about that day. “I always see her but I don’t have enough courage to walk up and talk to her, but one day I saw her smiled while I sing and that’s when I tried to open up to her.”

You stared at him while he talked about that day. You didn’t even know that the song he sang was for you.

“Oh.. So, you wrote that song for a girl, huh?” She teased Semi and made it sound scandalous.

“Yes, you can say that.” Semi answered and shifted on his seat.

“Did this girl get to hear the song?” She asked more.

“Yeah, she did.” Semi nodded his head a bit. “But only the chorus part.”

“Semi... I heard it now.” You told him through the screen. “I love it so much that it makes my heart hurt.”

“Do you still have contact with the girl?”

Semi shook his head, “I... I tried to but I don’t know how.” He explained and it made your eyes widened.

“Oh, then why don’t you use this chance to send a message to her?” The interviewer looked so excited as she looked at Semi.

His bandmates laughed, teasing him. They were urging him to look at the camera and do what the interviewer asked him to.

You don’t know what to do now as you looked at him on the screen. Your heart just doesn’t stop racing.

“Uhmm.. Hello?” His bandmates snickered beside him.

Semi already stared at the camera and spoke, “If you’re watching this, thank you for inspiring me to write songs,” he said and you felt your eyes are burning.

“Wherever you are right now, I hope you’re doing well and happy and I hope the song that I wrote for you can make you feel what I’m trying to say for you.” His bandmates clapped so hard and they were cheering for him.

Your lips curled upwards and nodded. The interview continued but you couldn’t focus because of Semi.

You had never idolized someone so much in your life. But at that moment, you were determined to support the band in any way.

Your hands trembled as you looked at the screen of your laptop. You just purchased a VIP ticket for Zero Effect’s meet and greet that will be happening today.

It was a surprise announcement for the fans. You’re glad that you immediately saw the announcement and instantly got a ticket.

There were only ten people that will occupy the VIP seats. Your lucky to be the one who got the last ticket.

As time passes by, you’re feeling nervous. What if he will not recognize you?

He’s an artist now, and you’re just his fan.

You’re driving towards the venue and you feel your heart beating so loud. You parked outside and showed your ticket to the guard.

When you got inside, you sat down on the chair for the VIPs and the stage is now fixed. There are guitars, mic stands, a piano, and a drum set.

The venue immediately filled up with Zero Effect’s fans and the chattering was so loud until a woman announced that the meet and greet will begin shortly.

“Okay! Let’s welcome, Zero Effect!” The woman said.

“We’ll be singing our second song from our album called Miss Sweater.” Ryo, their bass guitarist said and suddenly there’s a loud sound coming from the drums.

She said she likes my song

With a smile on her face

Oh, the way her bright eyes looks at me

Makes my heart shakes

The smiles she gives are so contagious

Now, she’s moving close (moving close)

My heart is racing

Head to toe, you know she’s dressed to kill

Semi looked over the crowd. There must have been at least two hundred people watching him, bathing in the dim different colors of lights of the venue, as he clutched tightly to his guitar. Pumping the music through his veins as he lost himself in the performance.

Nerves were trying to take over your body, as you stared at him up close. Eventually, he lost all sense of everything except for the music, it flows through his veins and swirls in his head. It makes his fingers strums and his foot tap.

His velvet voice brings the lyrics, the music is his external heartbeat and the lyrics are your soul in sweet vibrations.

It’s her mouth and those lips

I want to taste ‘em

It’s her eyes and her face

I want to stare ‘em

Can’t tame my heart alone

When she’s this close

Can we stop the time?

Where are we leading now?

The feelings, all of it is right there, when in that momentary exchange of glances when your eyes met and you smiled to him.

He seemed lost for a moment looking at you but he returned the smile, not leaving his eyes on you. So though the world may love their music, their words and their songs, music really only lives in those intense moments of love.

After the short performance, you lined up for the meet and greet. You became nervous as the line moves. And after nine people, it’s your turn now.

You walked to the other members, the first one is Ryo, the bass guitarist. He looked up to look so surprised.

“Hi! Your name is?” He asked while he took your hand to shake. You gave out the album for him to sign.

“Y/n. I really love your music.” While he signs the album he can’t stop stealing glances from you.

“Really? Well, someone is always inspired to compose,” he smirked. “Anyway, thank you for attending here today, I appreciated it.” He smiled and his eyes disappeared and you chuckled.

He stopped smiling as you smiled, “you look pretty while smiling.” Your eyebrows were raised because of what he said.

“Thank you..” that’s the only thing you said and moved on to their keyboardist, Eiji.

“Hello! Wow, that shirt is so cute! Nice choice.” He pointed at your shirt and laughed. You looked at your shirt with their chibi faces. You chuckled and give him the album.

“Yeah, you looked cute here.” You teased him. He immediately coughed, “thank you..” he looked carefully to the side where Semi was.

One more and then you will finally talk to Semi.

“Good Afternoon! How are you?” Shiro, the band’s drummer asked you while signing their album.

“Hello! I’m fine.” He finally looked up and his eyes widened. He quickly looked at Semi but averted his eyes.

“Uhm... Thank you for coming. Hope to see you, uh, soon, Y/n..” He blabbered and you looked at him surprised because he knows your name.

You suddenly got pushed by a woman who excitedly greets the band’s drummer. The guard blocked the girl’s way and kicked her outside because she came back again after her turn.

Your eyes met with Semi who instantly stand up, eyes widened, and looked so lost for a moment. You stared at him and feel the rush of blood to your cheeks.

“Y/n...” He whispered, but you quickly heard it and smiled at him.

“Uh, hello? Long time no see, Semi.” You said nervously. He shook his head to come back to his senses.

He pulled your hand but stopped when he felt something there. He looked at your palm and saw his guitar pick that he gave you.

“You still have it,” he mumbled. You nodded at him. He pulled your hand to go to their tent. You looked at his muscled back and broad shoulders.

“Do you still remember me?” He asked you while he sat down on the chair. He pulled one on his side and tapped it for you to sit down.

“Of course, Semi. You’re the one who liked me back in college..” you chuckled because he looked so shy when you said that.

“Well, yeah. I indirectly confessed to you buy singing the song I wrote for you.” You pursed your lips to prevent smiling.

“I’m so stupid for not realizing it.” He smiled and pouted before averting his eyes when you looked at him.

“So, what will happen to us now?” You asked. He turned his head at you fast.

“What do you mean us? Do you even like me?” He narrowed his eyes at you.

You looked at him straight in the eyes, “I started liking you when we were in college, right when you sang that song for me. But after that, you left.” You explained and he bit his lower lip before standing up.

“I left because I need to fix something first before proving to you that you deserve me. But fate has different plans for me so...” he said and pulled your elbow. He carefully put his chin on top of your head while he wrapped his arms around you.

“I’m sorry that we never happened before,” he sadly said, “but we can start all over again. Right this time.” You pushed him away to look at him.

Your heart was pounding so loudly as you stare at him. Slowly, you nodded. He smiled and hugs you.

“You are the soundtrack of my life, keeps me moving and passionate, and whenever our song plays, you are there, reminding me that you’re whispering in my ears...” You hugged him tightly and felt your eyes tearing up.

You only keep humming while he sings the song he wrote for you. He gently placed his hands on your waist, stared at you before he kissed your forehead.

BONUS:

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surlybobbies · 4 years

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For the Love of the Game [deancas, 1.5k, T]

Summary:

“A tense moment on the field between good friends. Novak has taken Dean Winchester’s legs out from under him - did he get the ball? What do you think, Joe? Yellow card?”

“Looks like he just about got the ball to me. Fair challenge. Though judging by his reaction, it looks like Winchester doesn’t agree."

(Dean and Cas over the course of three years as players of opposing soccer teams.)

Author’s notes: written in the 90 minutes it took to watch a soccer game at 1am. I’m a sucker for athlete Dean and Cas.

Read on ao3 or

“Of course, Winchester and Novak have known each other since they were kids. Best friends, these two, off the pitch. On the pitch, however, as I’m sure we’ll see today, is a different story.”

The loss is a difficult one to take; it means that Cas and his team are now on the bottom half of the league table, a position they haven’t been in for well over a decade.

After the final whistle, Dean jogs to Cas, whose hands are clutching at his hair in disbelief. Dean puts his hands around Cas’s face, forcing Cas to look at him. “You okay?”

Cas closes his eyes and grits his teeth. He’s probably thinking about the goal Dean had scored just 10 minutes before the final whistle, and how he’d been unable to prevent it. “I will be.”

Dean sighs and pulls Cas in for a rough hug. “I’ll tell mom you’re coming over this weekend.”

“How long is she in town?”

“Just a week,” Dean says. “She’ll want to see you.”

Cas shoves him away and scrubs his face with both hands. “Just let me know.”

“Apparently they stay at each other’s bachelor pads over holidays.”

It’s been coming for years, but when Cas pulls Dean in for a kiss on Christmas, it’s still a surprise. Dean takes a few moments to fully register what’s happening, that Cas is really finally kissing him, but once it sinks in, he is definitely on board with the developments, and he pushes Cas against the wall and starts to thoroughly enjoy himself.

A century later, Cas pulls away. “This is unwise,” he says breathlessly.

Dean’s dizzy with Cas’s touch. He touches Cas’s face because he can’t stand not touching him. “You started it,” he says, all he can think of to say.

Cas frowns a little bit, but his nostrils flare with how hard he’s breathing. “How I got here, kissing an absolute idiot, I have no idea.”

“You’ve also got a hand up my shirt,” Dean supplies unhelpfully, “if you wanted to get around to removing that.”

Cas arches an eyebrow, and Dean likes it. “Do you want me to remove it?” Cas asks, leaning in again, dragging his hand down to Dean’s waistband at an agonizingly slow pace.

Dean’s hopeless - absolutely done for. “Definitely not.”

“Good,” Cas growls, and Dean likes that a lot.

“Their rivalry seems to fuel their friendship - or is it the other way around?”

“Just to be clear, this doesn’t mean I’m going to take it easy on you this Saturday,”

Dean’s lounging, one hand behind his head, watching the progress of Cas’s lips down his chest with lidded eyes. “Wouldn’t love you if you did.”

There’s a long pause. Cas lifts his eyes to watch Dean’s expression, but it doesn’t waver. The only sign of nerves is in the way his throat moves. Cas acknowledges the word with a small smile and a lingering kiss to the center of Dean’s chest. Later, he’ll murmur the word over and over and over into Dean’s hair, his hands on Dean’s ass, encouraging him, and Dean will swell and break with it.

“A tense moment between good friends. Novak has taken Dean Winchester’s legs out from under him - did he get the ball? What do you think, Joe? Yellow card?”

“Looks like he just about got the ball to me. Fair challenge. Though it looks like Winchester doesn’t seem to agree.”

“Could have broken my leg, Cas,” Dean spits.

Cas is adjusting his shin pads. He looks up at Dean. “Hardly - it was a fair challenge.”

Dean gets up right in his face when Cas straightens. Cas has seen this face in the throes of pleasure and he knows he’ll see it again; he lifts his chin and smirks, knowing how much Dean will hate it.

“Also, ref begs to differ,” Cas says, winking. “No foul.”

“Jesus, you’re a cocky bastard.”

“And you’re a shit striker.”

“You shouldn’t even be on the field with a challenge like that.”

Cas is getting back into position, walking backwards so he can throw one last remark at Dean: “You shouldn’t even be on the field with skills like that.”

Dean’s face turns red. “What’d you just say?”

In the end the ref has to separate them; no cards are shown, but neither of them talk to the other for two weeks.

It goes without saying that the eventual make-up sex is fantastic.

“It’s Novak’s last game for the Angels - he’ll be officially retired at the end of these 90 minutes, aged 35. Fitting that his greatest rival and friend should be on the pitch with him, albeit playing for the opposition.”

Cas is subbed at 87 minutes for his last ovation from the home crowd. They adore him as he adores them, and Dean knows this last walk off the field has got to be an emotionally harrowing moment for Cas.

Dean hopes his fans won’t give him too much shit for what he does next: he pulls Cas in for a rough hug as Cas walks to the touchline to be subbed. He doesn’t look Cas in the eye, and shoves him away before either of them do something stupid like cry.

“Back for the second half of the first game of the season, and Dean Winchester’s 37th minute goal is the only thing separating the two sides.

As most know, Winchester announced over the break that he and his best friend and former Angels player Cas Novak have been dating. There’s been quite a bit of backlash, mostly from fans who think their relationship has swayed their performances over the years, but both Winchester’s manager and Novak’s former manager have laughed off that particular suggestion. What do you think, Greg?”

“No, they’ve both been consummate professionals, haven’t they, over the years? Obviously good friends - well, we know why now - but it never stopped either of them from giving it their all on the pitch.”

“They both loved the game too much to let anything affect it.”

It’s not fun, being the only player in the league out of the closet. His teammates don’t treat him any differently, but Dean sometimes feels like he’s slowly being frozen out.

“It’s because you didn’t say anything to us.”

“What the hell was I supposed to say, Benny? ‘I’m fucking a guy, and it’s Cas Novak’?”

Benny sighs. “I don’t know, Dean. They just want to know their captain’s being honest with them. Sleeping with the opposition is pretty shady, alright?”

Dean hangs his head. He understands. He’s still pissed, still frustrated, but he makes up his mind. He slams his locker to get everyone’s attention. “Just figured you all would want to know,” he says loudly, a little angrily, “I’m asking Cas to marry me tonight.”

Stunned silence. Dean stares them all down, daring any of them to say anything. If he has to knock someone out for talking shit about Cas, he swears he’ll do it and damn the consequences.

But nothing happens. Ash grins, scratching his neck. “We’re invited to the wedding, right?”

The laughter that follows breaks the ice. Dean tries and fails to stop himself from crying when they all come forward to congratulate him.

“Dean Winchester made history by marrying Cas Novak over the break. It’s a great moment in sport, but he’s opened up in a recent interview regarding the homophobic abuse he and his husband have received.”

“A shame that. The sport needs to do more to support their LGBTQ+ players.”

“Agreed. But despite all that, Winchester says he’s proud to lead the way for others to come out in his wake. Plus, his husband is here to watch his first game of the season, so that must make up for it somewhat.”

“He’s probably not happy to see Novak in Angel colors, though!”

“The rivalry lives on!”

“Who wants to bet that it’ll be a tense atmosphere in the Novak-Winchester home tonight?”

Cas is solemn as he greets Dean at the door of their home, but Dean scowls at him anyway. “Don’t think I didn’t see you cheering when they scored.”

Cas looks a little abashed. “They’re my friends, Dean.”

“I’m your husband.”

Cas hides his smile in Dean’s neck. “And I love you.” He wraps his arms around Dean so he can’t wriggle away. “But I also love my team. My fans would have rioted if I’d shown up in your jersey.”

Dean doesn’t bother arguing. He played for the full 90, and the emotional toll of the loss is just now sinking in. “I’m ready to go to bed,” he says, his voice raw.

“Alright,” Cas says, kissing Dean on the cheek. “I’ll be there soon.”

Dean is half asleep when Cas walks in wearing Dean’s jersey and a pair of sweatpants - then Dean’s suddenly wide-awake and half-hard.

Cas gets under the covers and leans over Dean, smelling like shampoo and toothpaste. “Good night,” he says cheerfully.

Dean stares at his husband, marveling at the audacity. Finally, he says, “You’re such a jackass,” but diminishes the effect by pulling Cas in roughly by the front of the shirt and kissing him, much to Cas’s delight.

_____________ tag list:

@super-powerful-queen-slayyna @lifeisingrey @fangirlingtodeath513 @levicastho @dontlosethemoon @dmsilvisart @hello-vague-stuff @bold-sartorial-statement @snarkysnartes @massivefaceperson @dontlosethemoon @livebloggingmydescentintomadness @yourspecialeyes @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @profoundnet

(if you’ve asked me to put you on the tag list and i haven’t I’M SO SORRY i was bombarded with a bunch of notifs and may have missed it… send me an ask - replies sometimes get buried esp if you don’t reply on the original post - and i’ll update the list!)

#profoundnet #surlybobbies #deancas fic #destiel fic #deancas #destiel #sports au #athlete au #soccer au #referenced homophobia #friends to lovers #happy ending

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phoenixshine · 4 years

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30 Days of “Ashes to Ashes” - Day 18

What’s your favourite Ashes finale (1, 2 or 3)?

UUUUUUUUUUUUGHHHH!! You cannot do this to me. You just can’t! Wasn’t it bad enough that I had to choose a favourite series? Now I have to choose a favourite finale? You’re cruel!

All of the Ashes finales are pieces of art. They’re masterclasses in all aspects of TV production: performance, music, direction, photography, storyline, structure, character development... I could go on. And they conclude each season’s arc so goddamn well I want to scream at the magnificence. Take the series finale for example. What show has ever ended its run with a finale that made you cry so much, made you feel so loco, but it was so exceptionally good that you can’t say “damn you writers, you ruined this!” but you clap in a standing ovation and exclaim “damn you writers, you are GENIOUSES!”? None that I’ve watched, for sure. (LCDP could go into that category... but then Netflix happened. Poor GOT can’t relate...)

That said... and since I’m obliged to choose... I’ll go back to my Day 2 post and repeat that the series 1 finale is one of the best things that’s ever been on TV. It tricked me until the last moment. It made me cry my eyes out. It made me laugh my eyes out. It made me love Gene and Alex’s unique relationship even more. It made me outrageous that Keeley hasn’t won all the awards just for that scream. It reaffirmed my belief that what I was watching was not just another good show, but a bloody incredible one. And, like I said yesterday, the best part of it is that when you finish it... You know there’s more of this brilliance available for you to watch and you are a happy person because you just don’t want this show to end. Ever.

Ever ever ever...

#30 Days of A2A #Ashes to Ashes #Alex Drake #Gene Hunt #Keeley Hawes #Philip Glenister #I'm beginning to think that choosing a favourite in this show is impossible #I love EVERYTHING about it #except for Keats #Keats can go eff himself with a cactus up his buttocks #but seriously... HOW GOOD WERE THOSE FINALES?#ALL OF THEM #the real answer lies in my tags guys #I LOVE ALL OF THEEEEEEEEEEM #'I was needed and I was there'#'you talk to me Alex. If I mean anything to you at all'#"Do I mean nothing to you Gene?'#like.... UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH DO YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE?#I feel like screaming cause one show can't be THIS GOOD #but hell ASHES IS THAT GOOD MATHAFACKEEEEEEEEERS #watch it guys #WATCH ASHES TO ASHES #then come scream to me for ruining your life #I won't be the least amount sorry #and you won't be either #YES THE HANDS WERE INTENTIONAL

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parkerparts · 4 years

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i’d like to be my old self again (but i’m still trying to find it)

5 Times Peter Parker Dances for Someone Else + 1 Time He Dances for Himself (AO3 here)

O N E

They tell him dancing is in his blood. They say it in high-pitched voices with a smile and a pat on the back, like they can give him talent and technique by patting it into his body and pushing him into a studio with a dozen girls and three other boys who already know that plie means “bent.” The next day at school, Peter trips and falls, skinning his knee. The teacher and his classmates crowd around him, asking if he’s okay, but he’s too busy examining the red liquid gushing out of the scrapes to answer.

“What do you mean when you say ‘dancing is in my blood?’” Peter asks May and Ben on the way home from school. “I thought it would look like pink and glitter, but my blood’s just red. I checked.”

Through the rearview mirror, Peter watches his aunt and uncle smile. “Not literally,” Ben tells him, turning around to pat his knee. “Your mom was a dancer. She was an amazing dancer, Peter. Your mom was planning on enrolling you in classes when you reached this age, and we thought you might want to try it. Who knows? Maybe you’ll become a star like your mom one day. You might be even better.”

“What if I’m not good at dancing at all?” Peter asks, looking up into Ben’s eyes with more fear and insecurity than a child his age should be able to feel. “What if I’m not like my mom?”

“You’re only six. You’ll get there.” Ben smiles at him, full of warmth and hope, and for a moment, Peter lets himself believe that he can dance, that one day he’ll be a star. One day, he promises himself, he’ll make his mom proud.

At class later that day, his hope crumbles into pieces like sand from the playground that’s just not wet enough to be molded into something useful, something beautiful. He can’t make his legs do that move, can’t move his head and his arms in a circle at the same time, can’t keep his back straight at all. He’s so close to quitting, to going home and telling May and Ben, “I don’t think I want to do it anymore,” but they pick him up after class, and while May orders dinner, Ben shows him a video of his mom dancing the final pas de deux from Manon.

She’s beautiful.

Week after week, Peter goes back to class, and he tries to make his body move like the dancers in the video, like his mom, who used to dance with an otherworldly grace. Peter’s still not sure he has an ounce of that grace in his blood, despite the constant assurances that he’ll get there one day, but he tries anyway. He points his feet and holds his head up high. He smiles as he dances until the teacher begins to compliment him for his stage presence as well as his technique.

Peter is six years old when he performs onstage for the first time. The music ends, and the crowd politely claps, and somewhere out there, May and Ben are sitting, probably wiping away each other’s tears. Peter takes his classmates’ hands as they bow, and as they come up, Peter squints at the bright spotlight. If he stares long enough, he can pretend it’s his mom, watching him dance.

This is for you, he thinks. I can’t dance, but I’ll dance for you.

T W O

The day after Ben’s funeral is sunny, like the world is healing and mocking Peter for his inability to stop hurting.

There’s a knock on Peter’s door, and he hastily shoves the scissors scraps of fabric in his closet as he goes to open it. May, her red-rimmed eyes magnified by her glasses, stares at Peter’s face like all she wants to do is hold him close. It’s suffocating. It’s comforting. It’s painful. It’s sad. “Are you going back to dance today?”

Peter shrugs. He hasn’t gone to the studio since Ben died, but it’s been a little over a week, and people are going to expect him back, especially with their performance a month away. “I don’t know.”

“You should,” May says with a strained smile. “He’d want you to.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Peter whispers, voice hoarse from unforgotten tears. “Not without him.”

It’s true. Peter doesn’t know how he’s supposed to continue dancing without Ben, who helped Peter sew all of his costumes, who drove Peter to the studio every day, who volunteered to help tech all of the shows, who took countless photos and videos from backstage, who cried every time he saw his nephew perform, who believed in Peter, even - or especially - when Peter didn’t believe in himself.

May breathes in, sharp and full of pain, and she reaches out, folds Peter into her arms and whispers in his ear, “You can. You have to.”

As it turns out, Peter can’t. He walks into the studio and sets his bag down, only to realize that he left his ballet shoes at home, so he walks right out and blinks back tears at the thought that Ben would have come running after him with his shoes in hand seconds after he left the house.

May is waiting when he gets home, curled up on the sofa in Ben’s favorite blanket. She takes one look at his face, wind-bitten and scrunched up from his efforts not to cry, and she calls in sick to work and makes him macaroni from a box.

“Do you think he’d be disappointed in me?” Peter asks, mouth full of macaroni.

May clicks her tongue, softly chiding. “I think he’d be proud of you. I think you’ll make him proud.”

“He always believed in me. I can’t even believe in myself, but he always did.”

“I believe in you.” Peter looks up from his empty bowl and catches May wiping away her tears, the heartbreak on her face so raw, so overwhelming that he forgets how to breathe for a moment. “You just keep dancing, baby. I’ll believe in you enough for the three of us.”

Peter goes to dance the next day, and his muscles, reborn with spider DNA, still remember how to dance, even if his foggy, grief-stricken brain cannot. For the first time, Peter lets himself coast through class on autopilot, lets his body take over while his brain crumbles, and somehow, by the end of class, he’s built his brain back up again.

His soul was still shattered, shards of it scattered to the winds like ashes from an overturned urn, but that was a problem for another day.

By the time the show rolls around, Peter has collected nearly all the pieces of his soul. Some of him is lost forever, left behind in a time before the spider bite, the time before Ben’s death, but he’s somewhat whole again, whole enough to dance off autopilot, to dance with a semblance of emotion and depth. His body processes the emotions that his brain can’t.

The last piece in the show - a contemporary showcase of student-choreographed pieces - is one that Peter worked on himself, along with the senior boy who taught him how to do a la seconde turns. The dance ends with Peter falling off stage as the lights turn black. The music builds, and dancers leap across the stage in time to the flickering lights, and Peter runs, sprints to the edge of the stage, holds out his arms, and when the music suddenly fades, he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and falls backwards.

A strong pair of arms catches him before he hits the ground. The audience is still and silent, and the theater is dark, and in the few seconds after the dance ends when the world comes to a stop, Peter thinks Ben is back, here to catch him as he always promised he would.

Then the audience begins clapping, a standing ovation that ripples through the crowd, and Peter has to open his eyes and thank the tech guy who caught him, the guy that would have been Ben if Ben had still been alive. Peter boosts himself back onstage to bow, and as he turns to face the audience, he catches sight of May in the second row, clapping furiously with tears streaming down her face.

He would be so proud of you, she mouths, half-whispering the words, and Peter’s super-hearing picks up the sound.

I know, he mouths back, not caring if the director will call him unprofessional. I know he would.

He’s doing it for Ben, after all. He’s dancing for Ben and for May, for believing in him and challenging him to never stop dancing, even when the memories and legacies in it are too much to bear.

T H R E E

Peter should have known better to try to hide something from Tony Stark. If the man had been able to find out he was Spider-Man, his best kept secret of all time, then of course he’d find out about Peter’s senior recital.

“I should have known you’re a dancer,” Tony told him, draping an arm around his shoulders as they walked. “I thought those flips and that agility came from the spider DNA, but I guess you’ve got your own DNA to account for that. Mary Parker is your mother, am I correct?”

“Principal dancer of New York City Ballet at only twenty-one years old,” Peter said with a smile. Since first hearing of his mother’s career as a dancer, he’s done his research, and he’s proud of being part of her legacy. “Did you know her?”

“Not personally, but I’ve seen her perform as Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I was drunk at the time, probably, or maybe high on something, but I remember parts of it vividly. She was a beautiful dancer, your mother. I think watching her when I was in my early thirties was part of the reason why I love ballets and dance now. It just manifested itself twenty years later.”

Peter wants to ask more about his mom, wants to listen to Tony talk about her forever, but the man ushers him through a door, and he’s inside a glittering studio with barres lining the walls and mirrors stretching from the floor to the ceiling. Skylights bathe the room in bright morning light, shining on a sleek sound system that Peter instantly recognizes as Stark tech.

“What’s this?” Peter asks, stepping out of his shoes to reverently slide across the marley panels in his socks. “Is this for me?”

“Technically it’s Natasha’s. I had it built for her when we built the Compound. Barnes uses it too sometimes, which shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did the first time FRIDAY told me he was here. But yes, it’s for you too.”

“Why?” Peter turns to face Tony with a wide-eyed stare.

Behind his tinted glasses, Tony blinks slowly, fishing for words in a way that makes Peter nervous with anticipation. “I want you to feel included here. I know you don’t live here, but this is your space too, regardless of whether or not you choose to use it. Your studio is fiercely competitive, and when I last spoke with the director, private studio time was fully booked. This is yours to use if you want to practice a little extra or if you just want a space to dance in. I was also thinking you could talk to Natasha or Barnes if you really want to. They’d probably be interested in teaching you a few things about dance, both in the studio and out fighting on the streets.”

Peter’s overwhelmed by the thought Tony put into this, even though the man plays it off with an air of nonchalance. However, the subtle undertone of heavy expectations weighs him down, and he does his best not to panic in front of his mentor. “Thank you, Mr. Stark, but you really didn’t have to.”

“I know. I don’t do things because I have to. I do them because I want to,” Tony says, the corner of his mouth curled up in an affectionate smirk.

“Thanks,” Peter whispers again, feeling small and scared and stressed for no reason at all. He’s never been very good at receiving gifts, never been very good at receiving expectations. “Thank you so much.”

Tony just hums and flashes him a smile. “You’re welcome, kid. You want to stay here for a little bit? If not, I can have Happy drive you back and you can catch your afternoon rehearsals.”

“I think I’ll stay here, if that’s okay with you?”

“Sure thing. Team dinner is at five. Don’t be late.” Tony closed the door behind him as he left, and in the grandeur of a studio, his very own studio for the rest of the day, for as long as he wanted, Peter lets out a slow, shaky breath.

An hour later, after changing into tights and his warm-ups and doing a quick barre, he’s working on choreographing his senior solo. Something Old and Something New, he calls it, writing out counts in quick strokes as he marks his thoughts on the floor with his feet. There’s a video of his mother in NYCB’s studio, working on a piece set to the same music Peter chose, a piece she never got to debut because she fell in love and got married and had a child, and by the time she was able to return to dancing, she had already forgotten about the piece.

Peter, however, picks up where she left off. He’s adapted the pointe work and made it more contemporary, filled in the gaps of choreo the video doesn’t show, and now he has this piece that’s mostly his, but there’s something about it that’s also not his own, a part of his dancing that never really belonged to him anyway.

Every other weekend, Peter begins spending nights at the Compound, having Happy drive him straight over Saturday after rehearsal ends and driving back late Sunday morning to get to the city in time for Sunday afternoon rehearsals. Even though he’s exhausted, he works hard on these weekends, training and choreographing and working on his technique late at night and early in the morning. He takes up Tony’s offer and asks Natasha for help, who ropes Bucky into the deal, despite Peter being too scared to ask. Some days, they’ll help him refine his art, give corrections on his classical technique, and offer opinions about his choreography. Other days, they’ll train him, teach him to use his body and his art as a weapon.

As a result of spending more time at the Compound, Peter meets the rest of the team and gets to know them. Among the new faces is a boy Peter’s age named Harley Keener, who dropped out of high school when they wouldn’t let him graduate early and drove up to New York, calling in a favor with Tony Stark. He’s a genius, Peter discovers, but not in the naturally gifted way that he seems at first. He works hard, harder than anyone Peter had ever met before, and he loves what he does. He lets Peter talk about anything, about the latest high school gossip, about chemistry and thermodynamics, about dance. Anytime Peter is at the Compound and he’s not in the studio, he’s with Harley, either hanging out or working in the labs.

“Do you like him?” Tony asks one day as Peter warms up in the studio. Sometimes Tony asks to sit with his work in the studio while Peter dances, and sometimes Peter lets him.

“I don’t know,” Peter says in between sautes. “If I think about it too much, I get anxious, so I just stopped thinking about it at all. With him, I don’t have to think anyway. I just get to be, you know? It’s sort of like dancing. I just get to be and do what feels right.”

Tony hums knowingly, and Peter fights the urge to blush. He’s pretty sure he fails by the way Tony looks at him over the edge of his glasses. “That’s how Pepper makes me feel,” he says, and he leaves it at that, the seeds of implications left hanging unsaid in the air.

Peter swats at them as he presses play, and by the time the song ends, the seeds have mostly dispersed, but some of them have taken root in his heart, and Peter has no choice but to let them grow.

All of Peter’s extra training at the Compound has made him an excellent dancer. He’s no match for the natural talent at the studio, but his hard work has paid off, and he’s rising in the ranks, slowly but surely.

It’s also made him a better fighter out on the streets, just as Tony had said. He could dance circles around Big Man and his men, and he had defeated Kingpin single-handedly with tricks he learned from Natasha and Bucky.

One night, about a month before his senior recital, a month before he graduates high school, Peter goes out on patrol in the precious two hours between school and dance. He’s exhausted, burned-out, and he’s close to calling it quits after thirty minutes, but when Karen alerts him of Kraven the Hunter’s presence in Central Park, Flushing Meadows, Peter swings his ass there with little more than a sigh.

“Spider-Man,” the villain greets, but Peter’s not there to banter with his words. Instead, he banters with his body, dancing past charges and blows and landing a few of his own. He falters once when Kraven pulls out a blowgun, and it’s his own demise because seconds later, he feels the poisonous dart find a home in his thigh.

But Peter’s used to fighting through pain, through injuries. He once sprained his ankle during an adagio and had to dance through his subsequent variation on the ankle. It was relatively healed by the end of the coda, but he knows the feeling of pain, knows how to fight through it and do what needs to be done, knows how to do it with art.

He wishes he could say defeating Kraven was as easy as plie, but it’s more like petite allegro, seemingly quick and seemingly easy but surprisingly hard and requiring more energy and control than any sane person should have at that point in a class. It hardly matters. The fight lasts no more than half an hour, by which time Kraven is webbed up in a Queens Zoo enclosure and Peter is at last felled by the poison in his blood.

Tony finally arrives, flying in with an urgency that makes Peter laugh because it’s a little too late, but he’s grateful for the help that Karen apparently called because his vision is going fuzzy.

“You did good, kid,” Tony says, and the way it makes Peter go warm feels like an antidote in its own right.

“Did it for you,” he mumbles into Tony’s shoulder. “I danced it for you.”

Peter awakes hours later to the sound of a door opening. Tony and May walk in as he slowly becomes more aware of his surroundings. He’s in a hospital bed in the medical ward of the Compound, and there’s a warm pressure on his hand.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Harley says, squeezing his hand lightly. “Guess you don’t need a true love’s kiss to wake you up after all.”

“It wouldn’t go amiss,” Peter snarks back, and even though it doesn’t actually earn him a kiss from the other boy, he gets a laugh, so he calls it a win in his book.

F O U R

“The whole point of college is to try new things,” Ned tells Peter, dragging him through the door of whoever’s house the party of the night is being held. The two of them are in their freshman year together at NYU, inseparable to the very end. Besides, with Peter’s whole Spider-Man thing, Ned was the logical choice for a roommate. “Yeah, we’re not really party people, but we could be, right?”

“I don’t know, Ned. I’ve got, you know, spidery things to do tonight, and I have a super important lab write-up due Monday,” Peter replies, but the point is probably moot because he’s already dressed up and there, so he might as well stay. Ned must realize that too because he grins at Peter and hands him a beer.

“Even superheroes need a break. Come on, Peter. Live a little, okay? Partying is self-care.” The notion is so ridiculous it makes even Ned laugh, but as always, Peter’s best friend is able to lift his spirits and make him feel more comfortable in a situation that’s anything but comfortable.

By the time Peter has had his seventh beer, his spider metabolism finally gives in, and he feels drunk enough not to care. Ned ditched him for a group of kids in his computer science class, and they’re doing shots by the bar. Peter’s dancing with a few girls from his composition class, cheering with them when the music changes to a remix of a song they improvved to last week.

“You can really dance,” someone tells him, voice low and far too close to his ear. Peter whips around, ready to tell some creep to back off, but he’s blown away by windswept, blond curls and a glimmering smile.

His eyes are the wrong color, he thinks, and he immediately hates himself for the thought. Harley is probably batting his deep green eyes at his latest hook-up, whose name is Eugene, and Peter shudders at the thought that it might be Eugene Thompson.

“Thanks,” Peter says, staring into steel grey eyes instead. “I’m a dance major, so it’s kind of my thing.”

The not-Harley stranger laughs, and he smiles at Peter in a way that makes him feel appreciated in a way he hasn’t felt in months, maybe years. “So will you dance for me?”

“Only if you dance with me too.” Not-Harley lets Peter drape his arms around his neck as they swayed to the music, some early 2000’s pop song with dirty lyrics and a dirtier beat.

Not-Harley dances even dirtier, and after one song, Peter is more than uncomfortable and ready to deck the guy and leave, but then he offers Peter a drink, and it’s strong and smells good, so Peter drinks it and lets the guy lead him out to the dance floor again. It takes two more drinks for Peter to start dancing back, to lose himself in the rhythm and the feel of human contact, no matter how dubious it may be.

Then the guy kisses Peter, slams his mouth against his in a sloppy move that makes Peter moan anyway because he’s riled up on touch and taste and alcohol. “Harley,” he murmurs into the kiss, barely registering the guy pull away. “Harley, please.”

“I’m not Harley,” the guy says, and Peter’s eyes snap open, the world rushing back to him in overwhelming waves. “My name is Hayes.”

“I’m so sorry,” Peter mumbles, and although his voice is soft, he feels like screaming.

The guy, Hayes, just smiles at him with a look disguised as kindness as he says, “It’s okay. If you dance like that, I’ll let you call me any name you want in bed.”

In an instant, Peter feels shame and guilt crawl over his skin like bacteria, like parasites come to leech away all the good things in him, if there’s anything left. “I should go.”

“I don’t think you should,” Hayes says, tightening his grip on Peter’s waist, and in a flash of panic, Peter rips himself away with a bit of his super strength, tipping Hayes to the floor.

“Sorry,” he says half-heartedly. It’s all he can manage before the urge to sprint out of the party overtakes him, and it’s only when he’s in the cool night hair that he breathes, a deep shuddering exhale that leaves him feeling empty.

Is this what dance is for? he asks, looking up to the sky and spinning in slow circles. He knows it’s not. He knows dance is an art form, not some party trick to get into people’s pants, but Hayes’ cologne lingers on his skin, whispering that he’s nothing more than an object programmed for people’s pleasure.

Will you dance for me? say the demons in his head. Is dance really as sacred as you think, or will you dance for anyone who asks?

Not just anyone, he tells himself. Just my parents and my aunt and uncle and family of superheroes I’ve somehow found. Just for my classmates and my teachers and boys in clubs who look like Harley Keener and smile at me like I mean something to them.

F I V E

A scream rips unbidden from Peter’s throat as he hits the ground. They always say that beauty is pain, but he’s feeling decidedly unpretty as he cradles his sprained ankle, weak from years of never letting it heal properly, ever since that first pas de deux. Admittedly, it doesn’t hurt that bad. His body is already working on stitching itself back together again, but it feels good to scream, so he does it again, letting it taper off into a dry sob. The tears he needs to cry never come, and he wonders if he’s broken or just accustomed to this feeling.

The door to the studio in the Compound slams open, and in runs a sleep-rumpled Harley Keener, wide-eyed in confusion of the sight of Peter on the ground. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Peter grits out, sitting up. “Just panicked when I fell, that’s all. Did I wake you up? Did I wake anyone else up?”

“Just me, I think,” Harley says softly, slipping on the marley in his woolen socks to fall gracefully to the floor beside Peter. “And I was already awake.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispers.

Harley’s gaze turns sharp. “For what? Falling?”

Yes, Peter thinks, fighting a sarcastic grin. Sorry for falling in love with you. “No. Yes? Sort of. I’m feeling kind of like a failure tonight. And every night, really, but that’s trauma we don’t have time to unpack right now.”

“It’s only one a.m.,” Harley says. “We have all the time in the world, if you want it.”

Peter, who knows how short life truly is, wants to take Harley’s offer, to cherish his promise of more time, of all the time in the world, but he’s tired and in pain, and he can hardly form coherent thoughts, let alone words. “Another day,” he says. “When it’s actually daytime, not some stupid hour of the night.”

Harley laughs, soft and sweet and reverberating around the room. Peter melts at the sound. He wants to dance to it, almost gets up and does. “What were you working on anyway? It’s winter break.”

“The latest piece for my composition class. It’s due when right after break because we have a showcase coming up.”

“Send me the dates. I love watching you dance,” Harley says, and the words make Peter sad rather than happy, and he doesn’t know why.

“I don’t know why you do. I mean, I don’t even like watching myself dance.”

Harley’s quiet for a moment, and Peter wishes he could take the words back. “I wish I could show you what you look like. You’re normally a swan, or some old cliche of grace, but when you dance? You turn into an angel. It’s breathtaking.”

Peter’s breath hitches, feels the warm glow of praise flow through his veins and lighten his heart. “Oh, Harley,” he says, and all the words he wishes he could say hang in the air. He’s never been very good at saying what he really means with words, fickle and fleeting. Dance, on the other hand, is emotional and eternal, and it’s his way of saying without speaking, of conveying the emotions that linger in his heart.

Harley cups his face in his hands, frozen fingertips leaving burning trails of warmth in their path as they trace along his lips. “Try again,” Harley asks, though it feels more like a command. “For me?”

Peter has never been able to deny Harley. With surprisingly stable legs, despite a swollen ankle, he stands, limps to the center of the room, and breathes.

That’s all dancing is, after all. It’s easier than breathing, yet the hardest thing he has ever done.

Harley starts the music, and all Peter has to do is breathe. He’s lifting up and sinking down and running and twirling around, and a minute into the piece, he’s forgotten about the pain in his ankle, about the misery that weighs him down. He almost forgets about Harley, but it’s hard to ignore his gaze, burning bright trails against Peter’s skin.

Peter faces the mirror in a lull in the music, stares wild-eyed at his own reflection, battered, bruised, broken, and beautiful. Harley said that when he dances he turns into an angel, and Peter sees it now, the otherworldly glow that dancing gives him.

Then the music pushes on, pressing him forward and he falls on his knees, the counts of floorwork giving him an opportunity to center himself again before he stands, preps, and turns, spiralling his leg up in the air and down again.

He’s about to fouette into the second set of pirouettes, but on the plie, he catches Harley’s gaze, burning brighter than Peter has ever seen it before. He stumbles, his weak ankle gives out, something cracks, and he falls again to the floor, staring up at the ceiling, defeated.

“Do you still think I dance like an angel?” he asks, feeling Harley kneel next to him.

“The most beautiful angel of them all.” Harley places tender hands on his leg, carefully probing and watching Peter’s reactions. “I think your ankles broken.”

“You’re probably right.” For some reason, he begins crying, quiet sobs of vulnerability, which hurts more than the physical pain. “Do you mind leaving me alone?”

Harley falters. “You need help.”

“FRIDAY will call someone, but I need a moment alone. Please?” Peter looks up at Harley, reaches out a trembling hand to caress the other boy’s face.

At Peter’s touch, Harley concedes. “Okay,” he murmurs, getting to his feet. “I mean it, you know. Every word I said.”

“I know,” Peter replies, and he does. Some people are hard to read, but Harley’s truth is written all over his face. “Maybe one day I’ll believe it.”

“One day,” Harley echoes. “I’ll see you around, Peter.”

Peter says nothing, merely giving the boy a weak smile. Harley flashes one back before finally leaving, letting the door hiss shut behind him.

Alone in the studio, Peter breathes easier, but at the same time feels the oppressive weight of some grief settle on his shoulders. Remorse, regret, guilt, goodbyes: they all pile on him, pinning him under their burden.

Farewell. It feels like a farewell.

+ O N E

In many ways, it was a farewell. It’s been a year since the incident in the Compound’s studio when Peter broke his ankle. It’s been a year since Peter has talked to Harley any more than bland small talk at team dinners and the one time they ran into each other in the hallways of one of Tony’s charity galas. Peter doesn’t remember much about it, couldn’t say what they talked about, but he remembers the heartbreak that flashed across Harley’s face when he first laid eyes on him.

It’s been a year since Peter last danced.

At first, he took time off to heal, partly because a broken ankle healing in less than a week would look extremely suspicious, but also partly because he did need to heal, emotionally as well as physically. A two-month-long break turned into a six-month-long break, and when Peter returned to NYU for his sophomore year, he changed his major.

There’s more to his year-long sabbatical from dance than an injury. There’s a history of doubt, of self-loathing, of feeling like dance was simultaneously what he was meant to do and what he wasn’t born to do. There’s a history of dancing for other people instead of dancing for himself, and the moment he decided to do something for himself, he stopped dancing. For Peter, having danced nearly his entire life, not dancing feels like he’s missing a piece of himself, a piece of himself he’s been trying to grow back with limited success.

He wonders if he’ll ever be able to dance again. He doesn’t even know if he wants to dance again.

It’s winter in New York City. It’s cold and windy and snowing and cruel, but Peter finds himself walking through Times Square because he’s tired and numb and thinks that maybe if he stands in the brutally cold air in the middle of a crowd, he might feel a little less alone, a little less dead, might feel a little something at all.

Something at all comes in the form of a piano and a voice and hazy memories of a childhood spent dancing in his bedroom with the CD player on full volume. Peter walks through the crowds until he finds the source, a girl his age playing a keyboard and singing gently into a microphone as people passing by drop spare change in the cup on top of the keyboard. As people jostle him in their haste to keep up with the pace of the world turning, closes his eyes, Peter stands still, closes his eyes, and listens.

And then he begins to dance.

In his jeans and boots and knitted beanie, jacket and scarf discarded on the dirty city street, he dances. His body remembers what his mind wants to forget, so he lets himself move to sweet, sad chords and the voice of a girl who smiles at him once in between the chorus and the second verse. She knows what it feels like to fall out of love, out of love with yourself. She hopes he will fall back in love.

When the song ends, the small crowd that formed around them claps. The singer stands and takes Peter’s hand, her cold hand frigid enough to be felt through Peter’s glove. He squeezes it tightly as they bow, laughing and breathless, and Peter’s trying not to cry because the tears will freeze to his face.

The crowd disperses when they straighten up and the girl goes back to her piano with one last smile at Peter. One person remains, the bundle of Peter’s discarded clothing tucked under his arm as he claps a few more times. Peter watches him as lifetimes of repressed memories and emotions flood him, and when Harley catches his eye and smiles, that same smile Peter fell in love with in every lifetime before and will continue to love in every lifetime after, it’s impossible not to cry.

A familiar warmth envelopes Peter, as he sobs, and dimly he registers Harley’s own tears falling into his hair. “Harley,” he says. “Harley, it’s you.”

“It’s me.” Harley pulls back and cups Peter’s wind-bitten face in his warm, gloved hands. “And Peter, it’s you.”

There’s a story behind those words. It’s a story of a boy who loved to dance, who danced for others because it filled the holes in their hearts but ripped his own heart to shreds. It’s the story of a boy who, on a windy winter day danced in the middle of Times Square, who stitched together the remaining pieces of his heart with the chords of a forgotten song, who spun silk patches to fill in the gaps with the language of a forgotten art.

It’s a story that doesn’t end with a happy ending but a hopeful one because there, that day, with the wind and Harley’s arms encircling him, that boy was reborn.

#harley keener #peter parker #spider-man #parkner #harleypeter #dancer peter parker #may parker #ben parker #tony stark #ned leeds #ballet #angst #hurt/comfort #5+1 #5+1 fic #bella writes

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edharrisdaily · 4 years

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Actor Ed Harris and the Lure of the Oklahoma Stage

The ‘Kodachrome’ star left behind music, football and an Ivy League education in New York to pursue a career in theater and film.

Ed Harris, 67, has starred in more than 70 films, including “The Truman Show,” “The Hours,” and “Pollock” and “Appaloosa,” both of which he also directed. He currently stars in “Kodachrome” (Netflix), due April 20. He spoke with Marc Myers.

My father had a younger sister who didn’t live very long. As a result, his mom wouldn’t let him play sports. She was afraid he might wind up injured and she couldn’t bear the thought of losing another child.

So my dad, Bob, loved sports from the sidelines. His passion for all sports and for coaching is one of the reasons I played football and baseball in school.

Both of my parents were from Oklahoma. They moved to New Jersey shortly before I was born, in 1950. When I was 4, we moved from Dumont to Tenafly.

My father was a singer who initially worked with Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians in the early days of television. Then he landed a job with the Ray Charles Singers. This was the other Ray Charles, the guy who led a large pop choir in the 1950s and ’60s. The group appeared on TV’s “Perry Como Show.” When the show expanded to an hour on NBC in ’55, my dad was on each week. At home, we’d tune in to watch him sing.

In Tenafly, we had a very small one-level, three-bedroom house on Louise Lane. I roomed first with my older brother, Robert, until he had his own room. Then I roomed with my younger brother, Paul. In our bedroom, we had a model railroad with scenery set up on a panel of wood. My father had rigged the set on a pulley system. When we finished playing, we could pull the panel up to the ceiling.

My father didn’t talk much about himself or his feelings when I was growing up. He suffered from depression through much of his life. I didn’t find out about this until my 20s.

My mother, Margaret, was a homemaker. When I was in junior high school, she began working at a nearby travel agency.I was never afraid of expressing my emotions. I had a violent temper from age 14 to 16. I thought I was the most important human being on the planet. If things didn’t go my way, I was a pain in the ass. Fortunately, I sort of got it under control by 18.

In 1969, in the middle of my senior year in high school, my parents moved back to Oklahoma. My father’s singing job had ended, and most TV opportunities were relocating to Los Angeles.

Instead of leaving with my parents, I finished high school in Tenafly. I lived with family friends. I drove to school in an off-white MG Midget convertible I had bought by selling my baritone horn. By then, I was playing football rather than marching in the band.At Columbia University in 1969, I played freshman football as a halfback and defensive back. During the summer before my sophomore year, I went out to Oklahoma to see my folks. One day, while working out in preparation for my sophomore year of football, I realized I had lost my desire to play.

That summer, I saw “Tartuffe” and “Man of La Mancha” at Oklahoma University. This actor, Pat Rucker, was in both plays. Pat was hysterical. He received a standing ovation at the end of both plays. I thought if I could do that, wow.

One night I was so immersed in the character I didn’t remember doing the show.

— Ed Harris, on one of his first stage roles

Back at Columbia in the fall, there was no real theater program. So the following July, I joined a summer theater program in Oklahoma. My first acting teacher said, “Acting isn’t fun and games. It’s a way of looking at the world.”

I transferred to OU in my junior year to study acting. They had a full-fledged theater program. After college, I worked odd jobs while performing in local theater.In ’72, I was cast as King Arthur in “Camelot” at the Jewel Box Theatre in Oklahoma City. One night I was so immersed in the character I didn’t remember doing the show. When I got off stage, I heard a roar and 200 people in the theater were on their feet applauding. I was in a state of ecstasy.

I went out to L.A. to the California Institute of the Arts. After graduating in ’75, I spent the next three years performing in more than a dozen plays at L.A.’s Equity Waiver Theatre. Gradually I began to get roles in television and film.

Today, my wife, Amy, and I live in the same three-bedroom house we’ve had since 1985. It’s a ranch house in Los Angeles on 5½ acres with a separate guesthouse and gym. We’re up on a hill, so our entire backyard has a view of the Pacific. When I’m home, between projects, I love being outside working on the property and looking out at the ocean.

My mother just turned 90. My father died in 2014. He was very proud of me, and I was proud of him. He had parts in several of my films. He hated mediocrity. He’d say to me, “If you’re going to do something, do it well” I never forgot those words. Whenever I work, I take a vial of his ashes with me.

#ed harris #wall street journal #article #oklahoma #q

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bananaofswifts · 4 years

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Taylor Swift is free. Free to say whatever the hell she wants, even if it pisses off some of the record-buying public, her parents, and the president. (Especially the president.) Free to stand up for causes she believes in, like gay rights. Free to not let the ravenous, snickering, snarky beast we call “the internet” get her down. Free to own up to what she feels are her deficiencies, hypocrisies, and examples of unhealthy behavior (mentally and physically), and to try being a better version of herself. Free to no longer be the 13-year-old with the Disney-princess blond curls living for applause, or the 19-year-old who made sure she didn’t rock country music’s boat, or the twentysomething who felt she had to smile for the camera when she didn’t feel like it. Free to not be “Taylor Swift,” a persona of both the industry’s and her own making, but just be Taylor Swift, the singer-songwriter-insanely-famous-person who occasionally likes to lounge in her pajamas, play with her cats, and drink white wine with ice cubes.

This is the takeaway from Miss Americana, Lana Wilson’s chronicle of a particularly tumultuous period in T-Swift’s life, and there’s the sense that you’re watching someone finally get to the point where she can, to quote the woman herself, “take the muzzle off.” Consequences be damned. It’s designed to look less like a comeback victory lap than a coming out of sorts, a behind-the-scenes psychodrama that ends with an empowered phoenix rising from the ashes.

It’s also very much a typical modern-pop-star-confidential documentary, the kind that takes its cues from Madonna: Truth or Dare and “reveals” just enough vulnerability, messiness, and shouting matches to not fuck with the brand or feel too stiflingly stage-managed. (See also: Katy Perry: Part of Me; Gaga: Five Foot Two; Beyoncé: Life Is But a Dream.) There’s the paradox. The movie’s aiming for raw, intimate, authentic — all words Swift used after she walked out onstage at the film’s Sundance opening-night premiere to a standing ovation. The result is definitely honest but just north of overly cautious. You wouldn’t call it unfiltered by a long shot. It’s a peek behind the curtains that knows when to subtly, slyly slip the blinders on.

Access is, of course, what you come to these movies for — who wouldn’t want to be a fly on the wall of the 24/7 Taylor Express? And access is what Miss Americana gives you, even if you’re steered away from some of the narratives she’d like you to be excluded from. You get to see her on planes, in living rooms, giving manicures (“Give me a good review on Yelp,” she says while painting a friend’s nails). You hang out with her in the studio, recording Lover and sharing burritos with producer Joel Little, and watch her creative process happen in real time. Jack Antonoff and Brendan Urie drop by; the two share exasperation over rabid fans and stalkers. She traces her ascension to megastardom via archival clips and awards-show montages, then points out “the view from the mountaintop” after she attained her dreams felt a little existentially lacking. Kanye’s infamous VMA bumrush and the way it shook Swift gets dissected; so does #TaylorSwiftIsOver and her subsequent disappearance from the spotlight.

The big talking point will be Swift opening up about an eating disorder, a genuine confession to the camera that plays against a flipbook of her red-carpet appearances. You don’t need to be a genius or, God help you, a film critic to see the connection between the expectations thrust upon her as a female performer (and a female in general) and the pressure to live up to impossible expectations at the risk of health and sanity. This leads into Miss Americana‘s superior last third, in which Swift becomes radicalized and you feel like you really are watching somebody go through a chrysalis moment. It starts with her showing up in court and winning a lawsuit case against the Colorado DJ who blatantly groped her in 2013. It climaxes with her sending an Instagram supporting Democratic candidates in Nashville during the 2018 midterms — another you-are-there moment that justifies some of the more slogan-heavy recitations about not taking it any longer, etc. “How can I stand onstage and say, ‘Happy Pride Month, everybody!’ and not do anything as people literally come for [the LGBTQ community’s] necks?” she wonders, then puts her platform to use. An argument with her team peaks when someone mentions she stayed silent during the 2016 election. “I’m sad I didn’t come out against Trump, but I can’t do anything about that now,” she admits. The pain in her statement is palpable.

It ends with T-Swift back onstage, looking like “a melted-down disco ball” but still beyond fabulous, ready to show the world her straight-outta-the-cocoon butterfly wings. And when she joined Wilson in front of the Eccles Theater after the film ended, with everyone on their feet and cheering, some folks whooping and others crying, she did seem like a more mature, righteous version of pop royalty. Not even their mutual schoolgirl gushing over each other’s work (Swift asked Wilson to follow her around after seeing her co-directed doc After Tiller) or a truly dead-on-arrival Q&A could dull the feeling that you were looking at someone who was done trying to conform to “good girl” expectations. Miss Americana may not be anywhere as open and gut-spilling as Swift’s duly celebrated lyrics (writing-wise, she’s a strong candidate for the second coming of Joni Mitchell). But as an extremely curated time capsule of a transition, it gets the job done. Don’t expect her Dont Look Back. Be thankful you got her Truth or Dare.

#taylor swift #spolier #miss americana spolier

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cabaretcal · 5 years

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you’re the one that i want - a.i.

I’m finally continuing the broadway series after 2653578 years! I’ve been having writers block, sorry about the lack of posts! This is based around Grease, y/n is Sandy, Ashton is Danny. Basically y/n is new to showbiz and Ashton shows her the ropes, friends to lovers trope, you know how we do.

2.5k words

You paced around your small apartment anxiously: it was callback day. Callback day was the most stressful time for anyone in the theatre world. Today was the day you find out if you made the cut to be apart of Grease or if you didn’t do good enough to make the director even bat an eye. You did a lot of theatre back when you lived in Chicago, but New York was different. More competitive. Thousands watching rather than a few hundred. Tourists traveling and spending hundreds on a good seat rather than some regular Chicagoans buying a ticket for twenty dollars. New York was showbiz central.

You took pride in your acting. Back in Chicago, you had countless roles you loved playing: Sally Bowles in Cabaret, Elphaba in Wicked, Zoe in Dear Evan Hansen, and more. But Chicago is way less competitive than the big apple. You knew the theatre world back home, but you didn’t know it here at all.

Your phone rang and you scrambled to pick it up and answer. You contain yourself and say a simple hello. A man's voice is on the other line. You’ve been offered another audition to further your audition process for the part of Sandy. You gladly say yes and end the conversation. You were relieved that you had another audition, but it was still terrifying. You could screw it up and lose your chance. Grease is a classic, and it has to be perfect. Callbacks were the next morning, so you went to bed early and waited for what was to come.

—

You arrived with an open mind. Around ten other girls were there. 10 girls who want to be Sandy. 10 girls who want this role just as much as you. Maybe more than you. If you were lucky you’d get a chorus member at this rate.

A tall man with light brown hair and hazel eyes walks around, greeting the girls. He has a kind smile paired with a silk red shirt and tight black pants, iced coffee in hand. You see him start to walk towards you and you’re slightly confused.

“Hey, how are you? I’m apart of the cast and could possibly end up being your Danny, and we’ll be performing some scenes together for your 2nd audition. I wanted to introduce myself, I’m Ashton.” He holds his hand out and you take it, shaking it and smiling.

“I’m y/n, it’s nice to meet you. Is this your first broadway show?”

He ponders for a moment, “This is my 5th, actually. I did stuff back in Sydney though before I came to New York. You?”

You begin to feel embarrassed. You have absolutely no broadway experience whatsoever. “This is my first broadway show… in Chicago I did stuff though. But nothing here in New York yet.”

“Well you got a callback for the lead so I think you’re in good shape, y/n.” He smiled warmly.

He was different from other actors you’ve met. Many were arrogant and were only there to do their part and leave. He cheered you on despite never meeting you. It was a pleasant surprise.

“Perhaps I am, Ashton.” He smiled and walked to a seat, and you did the same. The director handed out excerpts and began calling names. You watched some of the girls perform scenes and they were all quite impressive. You were very unsure of yourself. You kept growing more and more nervous and you didn’t know if you’d compare to everyone else.

“Y/n! Scene 11, the drive in scene.”

You stand up from your seat and take a deep breath, walking up to the stage.

Ashton cleared his throat, looking at the script then into your eyes, “Hey, you’re not with another guy, are you?”

“No, why?” Your eyes glance down at the script and back into his eyes.

Ashton acts nervous and nonchalant, “No reason… I uh wanted to ask you to take my ring.” He holds out his hand as if there’s a ring there and pretends to put it on your finger. The scene continues, and before you even have a chance to read the stage direction he kisses you. Your cheeks burn and you continue the scene, finishing it out. Ashton smiles at you and goes back to his seat as you do your singing portion of the audition to the song Hopelessly Devoted To You. You go back to your seat, wondering if what you did would be enough.

The last few girls perform and everyone is dismissed. As you put your jacket on, Ashton walks towards you with a soft smile.

“You did really good, I told you it’d be fine. You wanna maybe get lunch? There’s this place down the street you need to try if you’re gonna be a true New Yorker!”

“Sure, why not?” You walk with him to the small restaurant, talking as if you have known him your whole life.

—

“Your favorite movie is Kill Bill? I never would’ve guessed that…” Ashton was sat across from you at the sandwich shop, asking you a series of ‘get to know me’ questions.

“Uma Thurman is my girl crush,” You smirk, “what’s your favorite show?”

“Definitely Brooklyn 9-9. It isn’t deep or anything and it’s just a comedy, but it’s my happy place, what about you?”

“I love Gossip Girl… I know it’s such a girly show but I really like it.” You blush out of embarrassment, but he breaks out into a grin.

“I love Gossip Girl! I watched it with my sister all the time back home. It’s a great show.”

Surprised is an understatement. You never knew a guy could be such a softie. You smile out of relief and drink your tea as He rapid fires questions to you for the next hour.

—

You got the call the next morning. You were officially Sandy. In celebration, he’s hanging out at your apartment and he brought cheap boxed wine.

“What if I’m not cut out for broadway, Ash? What if everyone walks all over me? I don’t know anything about showbiz here in New York.” All you had in your mind was doubt.

“I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. People will be jealous. People will talk about you behind your back. Critics will rip you to shreds. But all that matters is your performance. That dumb, bald critic isn’t the one getting that paycheck and that standing ovation. It’s you. You have to give your all every night. But it’s always worth it. I’ll be with you every step of the way for this show. I’ll guide you. I’ll be like the guy in Pretty Woman! Guiding you through life…”

“Oh Ashton, I’m so lucky you’re my friend. I never thought I’d meet anyone here honestly. You really are the Edward Lewis to my Vivian Ward.” He laughs and clinks his glass with yours.

“First rehearsal is gonna be splendid, darling.”

—

The first rehearsal began at 7:30 am sharp. The first priority was choreography of “Summer Nights”. You met the girls playing Frenchy and Rizzo, and they were very welcoming. Now whoever was playing Jan, however, was a bit snarky. She didn’t even give you a simple hello. You decided to think nothing of it and just go on with rehearsal.

The tech crew brought out some makeshift temporary bleachers for the choreography and everyone got to work. The T Birds and Ashton went to the other side of the stage where the women were all to the other side. You held your music in hand and began your first note while also mirroring the choreographers directions. All was going well until you accidentally stepped on Jan’s foot, causing her to glare at you and yell, “Watch it!”.

You were taken aback. Everyone stopped suddenly and the pianist came to an abrupt halt.

“I’m so sorry-“ you started to say, but was interrupted immediately.

“Maybe you should know what you’re doing if you’re going to be the lead, or were you not aware that you should actually have some experience?”

You mumble barely loud enough for anyone to hear, “I won’t do it again…”

Rehearsal continued, and the room was tense for the remainder of the choreography portion.

“Alright everyone take 5!” The director's voice loudly remarked. Before you knew it, Ashton was walking towards you. His hair was a bit of a mess and his sleeves were rolled up.

“So how was your first choreography session, Sandy?” He grinned, taking a long drink from his water bottle.

You weren’t sure if you should tell him you actually were on the brink of tears. It was way too early to already have complaints, but you were sure that that one girl already hated you and you didn’t even know why.

“It was great, amazing.” You forced a smile and he broke out into a grin. You just couldn’t tell him you were already upset.

“I knew you’d be amazing! I told you it wouldn’t be so bad. We’re doing a run through of the song with everyone next. I’ll get to see you rock it.” He smiled and walked back towards the guys. You sighed, walking back to the group of girls. This would be a long 3 months of rehearsal.

—

You opened the door to your studio apartment and collapsed on the bed, burying your face in your pillow. Then the tears came. You couldn’t believe how upset you were. You didn’t think it would bother you as much as it did, but you felt like you already blew the role of your dreams. You decided to call Ashton, hoping he could lift your spirits.

“Hey y/n, what’s up?” He had his usual cheery tone of voice and you already felt better.

“I know I said rehearsal was great, but the girl playing Jan was really terrible and hurt my feelings really bad and maybe she’s right maybe I don’t have what it takes, Ash. What if she’s right?” At that point you were crying even more. You didn’t expect to cry even more, but it was happening.

“Woah woah woah. The real Sandy Olsson would never take anyone else’s shit. Y/n, you’re one of the most talented people I’ve ever met. You’ve forced me to come over now. I’m gonna make you feel better. Leave the door unlocked and just be expecting me.” He hung up before you could even argue. But you were glad you didn’t have a chance to argue.

—

About an hour passed and your door opened. Ashton walked in, closing the door behind him. He had 2 pints of Ben and Jerry’s and two 4 packs of Smirnoff in his arms. He kicked the door closed gently and sat at the foot of your bed.

“There’s my favorite broadway sensation.” You mumble from under your covers, grinning when you lock eyes.

“Here I am!” He smiled, handing you a pint of ice cream and a plastic spoon, “I also have alcohol.”

You smile, opening the ice cream and wrapping your arms around him, “Thank you for coming here… I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

“Well I was planning world domination but I’ll get back to that.”

You laugh mad shake your head, “Well… let’s watch Gossip Girl and get drunk then, shall we?”

“We shall.”

—

“She’s just jealous that you’re the lead! Did you see her callback performance for Sandy? It was so half assed! You definitely were the best.” Ashton was on his third drink and there was no hiding it. He was slurring all of his words and laughing at every little thing. You found it adorable.

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” A blush crept across your cheeks and you looked down at your cup.

With his hand, he pushed your head up from your chin, “I’m not blind, i know a good actress when I see one, silly. Also, it’s cute when you blush,” He smirked when you blushed even more, “I mean if you want we can practice scenes together outside of rehearsal. We could now! I have my script in my bag…”

Before you could even begin to say no, he was already reading out one of his lines.

“I really like you, Sandy.”

You sigh and grab your script, opening to the right page and sitting across from him on your bed, “Danny, take it easy! What are you trying to do?” You glance down at the book, seeing what his next line is and look back up.

“Can I try something out?”

“Um, that’s not your line Ash-“

His hand comes up to your cheek and before you know it, his lips are on yours. Taken aback, your eyes widen, but then slowly close. You wrap your arms around his neck and twirl the hair at the nape of his neck around your finger and his hands grip your waist. He pulls away and you catch your breath. He smiles at you, “But you enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s a yes I take it.”

You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol talking, but you were sure that you were falling. Hard.

—

“You’re the one that I want, you are the one I want, ooo ooo ooo honey…”

Everyone had gotten down the choreography to this scene, so everyone was just doing a run through without instruction. Before rehearsal even started, you talked to Ashton as usual. He didn’t even mention the night before. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was for the best. Some friendships need to stay friendships. And that was fine, but a part of you didn’t want that to be true. But what could you do? You never mentioned it again. You decided it was for the best.

Countless deli lunches together passed, dozens of coffee runs continued, about 100 more rehearsals occurred, months passed and the day came. Opening night. It was a full house.

You were in your dressing room, finishing up your makeup. A knock took you out of your trance, and you told them to come in.

Ashton came through the door, “Opening night! Are you ready?” He sat on the couch in the dressing room, wearing a tight white shirt and leather jacket, hair slicked back. He looked so good that it physically hurt.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” You weakly smile, “ya know I heard Rizzo has a thing for you.”

“Too bad she’s not my type… I’m into girls named Sandy.”

“Haha very funny, Ash, I mean like in real life.”

“Yeah so do I. A wise man once said, ‘you’re the one that I want, you are the one I want, ooo ooo ooo honey.” You laugh, and look into his eyes.

He’s not drunk right now. He’s sober. He is in your dressing room, telling you he is into you.

“Break a leg, Sandy.” And then he kisses you. And this time you know it isn’t the alcohol talking.

Summer loving. Happened so fast.

#ashton irwin fic #ashton irwin imagine #ashton irwin #5sos imagine #5sos ashton #5sos #5sos fic #5sos blurb #5 seconds of summer imagine #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer fic #broadway!sos

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miafic · 5 years

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During quiet time, out of EXTREME boredom, Awsten puts together a dance... to Wannabe.

They have to teach Travis the words, but awsten Jawn and ash know all the lyrics already. Awsten pulls the bottom of his shirt through the collar and leads the charge downstairs to show Lucas and Zakk the performance. There’s lots of hip shaking and spinning around and posing and arm waving.

Lucas could hear the whole rehearsal so he knows generally what to expect but Zakk is crying with laughter and gives them a standing ovation even though the whole thing is terrible.

#hcs

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hardlyinteresting · 5 years

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Maybe

based on this blurb by @cal-puddies

Ashton Irwin x reader

Trigger warnings: None

It's 2014 when they first meet. She's on the way to the stage; he's running to make it back to his seat before the ad break is over. When they collide she apologises immediately, blaming her high heels for making her so clumsy, he's helping her up and looking her up and down to help her check for any damage to her outfit. "I'm so sorry," she tells him. "You have nothing to worry about," he assures her picking up her custom silver mic from the ground. "Thanks--I've never done this--been on TV like this," she explains straightening out her top and adjusting her shorts. "You're going to be fine y/n". At first she shocked by her name leaving her lips, but then it hits her that whether or not she likes it, she's famous now; of course, he knows her name; she knows his name too. "Thanks, Ashton". She gets a standing ovation at the end of her performance, and a tiny trophy for breakout artist of the year. She smiles and cries a little bit, thanking her friends and family and the poor guy she knocked over backstage.

________ It couple months later when he sees her again. He smiles when he passes her on the red carpet, and she smiles back. "Anyone you're looking forward to seeing perform tonight?" she's asked by her interviewer. "I've been waiting to see 5sos for a while now; I can't wait to see what they have up their sleeves for tonight". ________ "So boys, any celebrity crushes?" "We've been listening to Y/n a lot on the bus lately," Luke tells the interviewer. "Ashton's got a big-- massive crush on her," Michael laughs. Ashton laughs along with his band, but he can't help the blush that reaches his cheeks. Looking up from playing with his rings he sees her only a couple feet away, she's looking at him with a matching blush on her cheeks, and he wants the ground to open up and swallow him. She smiles, giving a small wave before her boyfriend comes to guide her further down the carpet towards the flashes of the cameras. _______ It's 2018 when he sees her at an award show after party. She's sipping her drink, away from everyone else. She avoids the cameras, and he can tell she's tired. Sneaking over behind the crowds on the dance floor, he comes to stand next to her. "Hey". "Hi, Ashton". Her mascara is smudged, and he knows she's done her best to look presentable--but it's obvious she was crying at some point earlier. "Do you want to get out of here?" The question takes her by surprise, but immediately she's nodding. Her drink left on a table, her hand in his as he guides her out of the venue without anyone noticing. "Are you cold?" he asks as they walk through the underground garage towards his car. "A little but it's fine," she tells him, though her strapless gown does little to keep her warm in the nighttime air. "Here," he murmurs, his black suit jacket getting draped over her shoulders. "Thanks, Ash".

In the car, she asks if she can put the radio on. He groans and laughs when the first song that comes on is his own. He wants to turn it off or down at least, but she grins and sings along, and suddenly he cares much less. "Where are we going?" she asks. "I was going to take you back to my place if that's alright with you. We can sit in the backyard," he suggests. "Do you have a pool?" "Yeah, why?" "Just curious".

"Coffee, tea, water?" he offers when she comes into the kitchen. He notices that she's elected to remove her makeup during her trip to the washroom. His breath catches a little bit when she looks up at him, with or without makeup she's just as pretty. "I'm good--thanks though". He sees the dark circles under her eyes, and he wonders if she's as okay as everyone thinks she is. "After you then," he smiles sliding the backdoor open. She looks around at the garden taking note of the high walls covered in ivy and vines, the grass perfectly cut. She toes off her heels making her way down the patio stairs towards the pool at the back of the property. Sitting at the edge, she bunches her dress up around her thighs dipping her feet in the water. Removing his shoes and socks, rolling up his pant legs he joins her. "I'm glad we finally got a chance to do this--to actually hang out". "Me too". "I thought you guys looked really cool on the carpet tonight." "I thought you were stunning," he confesses. "Really?" she asks her hands resting next to his on the pool wall. "Yeah, really". "After all these years I'm still your celebrity crush?" she teases. "Maybe". "You're mine too," she tells him. Turning to look at her he finds she's already looking at him. Her eyes are fluttering from his lips and back to look him in the eye. Reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear he leans in closer. His breath is warm against her cheeks, and she can smell his cologne. She leans in closer, their lips pressed together.

MASTERLIST

Tags: @irwinkitten @sophiealiice @asht0ns-world @lilytalebi @therainydays4 @negative-love

#ashton irwin x reader #ashton irwin #ashton irwin imagine #ashton irwin 5sos #ashton 5sos #5sos imagine #5sos x reader #5sos #ashton 5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer imagine #ashton irwin one shot #ashton irwin angst

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torestoreamends · 5 years

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Olivier Awards 2019: The Inheritance, Company, and Come From Away

This year’s Olivier Awards have just been handed out in an evening that seemed (over the radio) to be warm, equitable, fair, and celebratory. For me, having seen the vast majority of the nominated shows, there didn’t seem to be an award that went to the wrong place, and I was delighted to see such a range of different shows acknowledged.

I was particularly pleased that A Monster Calls won the Entertainment and Family category – it was a powerful and beautiful show, and I hadn’t really expected it to be honoured, even though it thoroughly deserved to be. My other shout out goes to Six which, although it didn’t win, is one of the most joyous and uplifting experiences I’ve had in the theatre this year. Tonight’s performance of the opening number slayed so hard it reduced me to tears even just listening to it on the radio.

The three shows I really want to talk about though are the three which each received four awards, and tied as the most rewarded shows on the night: The Inheritance (Best Lighting Design, Best Actor, Best Director, Best New Play), Come From Away (Outstanding Achievement in Music, Best Choreography, Best Sound Design, Best New Musical), and Company (Best Supporting Actor in a Musical, Best Supporting Actress in a Musical, Best Musical Revival, Best Set Design).

I saw all three of these shows – The Inheritance twice (once at the Young Vic back in May and once at the Noel Coward in January), Come From Away twice in just over a week (just after it opened in March), and Company once (on Thursday night during its closing week) – and even though I didn’t love them all, I can see why they won. Let’s start with Company.

Company

Actually, to say that I didn’t love this show is a bit of understatement – I didn’t get it at all. I found it intensely frustrating and lacking in plot, even though I was aware that it’s so widely beloved, and I wish I could have seen in it what so many others did. But it truly wasn’t for me.

Having said that, I understood that it was a landmark production of an iconic musical. Watching it, it was impossible to imagine it ever being performed with the original gender configuration: I can imagine that it must have been interminable.

I also appreciated the artistry of it. The lighting design was beautiful, the book immaculately crafted, and Sondheim’s music has been stuck in my head ever since. The set design and staging were also fascinating and reminded me why it’s so much fun to see be a regular theatre goer, because it allows you to see threads in people’s work – this one had subtle hints of Bunny Christie’s design for Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, and Marianne Elliott’s staging reminded me so much of Angels in America, with the way pieces of set seemed to disappear into a void at the back of the stage.

As for the performances, Jonathan Bailey absolutely stole the show as Jamie, and his Olivier win was one of the most effortlessly justifiable of the night. It was a physical, wordy, complicated number that he delivered with impeccable panache. Easily one of the best individual performances of the year, and I wish the show had featured him and his character more.

Although I didn’t get the appeal of this show, it was a valuable lesson for me in theatre as a craft, and in classic musicals. I’m glad I saw it and I’m glad it won the awards it did.

The Inheritance

This show – particularly its Part One – was one of those shows that speaks to the heart. Brutal in its imagery and interval placement, I found myself sobbing into my hands as the house lights came up at the end of three out of its six acts.

The image that will always live with me is the one at the end of the second act. As the name suggests, this is a play about inheritance and legacy – the inheritance of collective memory and knowledge, as well as a physical inheritance – and at the end of act two we see both literally go up in flames. The AIDs crisis laid waste to an entire generation of the queer community – it saw the loss of thousands of people who would have been our role models, writers, activists, friends, lovers, and mentors – and in the play, the main character is left a house that is a touch point with that generation, but before he finds out that he’s been given the immense gift of this inheritance, the deeds to the house are burned. Seeing the flames catch on those papers and reduce them to ash, robbing this young, gay man of yet another opportunity to meet with the lost generation, is one of the most heart wrenching expressions of loss that I’ve ever witnessed in the theatre.

I am grateful to this show and all who worked on it for bringing this dialogue between the queer community’s past and present to the stage. Although I yearn for a wider range of queer stories to be told on stage, nothing can be taken away from the power and beauty of this show. I am glad it was told to the world, and I hope it has further life in the future.

Come From Away

I first saw this show at the end of miserable week, on a Friday night, which also happened to be International Women’s Day. When I first heard of it I wasn’t very interested to see it, but when it came to the West End and I read more about it I grew curious. The ticket I bought that day on a whim came at the perfect time.

It’s 100 minutes in length and I can honestly say that I cried for the entire duration of the show that night. The sheer beauty of the music, the warmth of the story, the way it faces grief and loss with honesty and hope, all make it a truly special show.

One of the things I love about it (and the reason why I’m particularly pleased that it won the specific awards it did), is the way the music is used throughout the show. The music has a real narrative function. Every song is essential to the plot and drives it forward. Music and dialogue are seamlessly interwoven, to the extent that I couldn’t imagine how it would possibly work as a soundtrack.

It also feels important to mention the real life stories that have inspired the show. Nick and Diane’s story is one of my favourites, and I’m also truly grateful to have been introduced to Beverley Bass by the show. I mentioned that I first saw the show on International Women’s Day, and there could not have been a more perfect moment to hear the story of the woman who led the first all-female crew in the history of commercial jet aviation. There’s a moment during the song which focuses on Beverley’s story in which the women of the company stand and seem to be applauding her, and applauding themselves, and it’s one of those moments that gives you real hope as a woman – hope that the world will be better, that we can lift ourselves and each other up, and that we can achieve our dreams and fearlessly raise our voices.

People have said that this show gets one of the fastest standing ovations in the West End at the moment, and having seen it twice I can attest to this. Right now we need a reminder that there is kindness and goodness in the world, and that communities can come together to welcome strangers, no matter where they’ve come from, how they look, or what language they speak. This show is that, and it could not be more timely.

I truly think that tonight’s awards did justice to the breadth, diversity, and brilliance of this year’s London theatre scene. The fact that the big winners were a gender-switched show putting a woman at the heart of her own narrative, an epic story about queer existence today, and a musical about a community opening their doors and hearts in the face of tragedy, suggests that there is some justice in the world.

It’s been a great year, and here’s to the next. My money’s already on a Dear Evan Hansen sweep, but time will tell!

#My writing #Olivier awards #Come From Away #Company #The Inheritance #Theatre reviews #Not Cursed Child!#Surprisingly I do see other shows #lots of them...#it's a problem #but it made watching this year's Oliviers kind of fun!

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