Can I get a bts J Hope imagine where I’m a successful performer like Bts but the hectic schedules and hate from people cause me to snap and have a breakdown but J Hope is the only one who can calm me down and make me feel better
A/N: Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening lovely people, sorry this one took a little while to write I just really wanted to get it right! Requests are closed at the moment so I will be working super hard on the ones I’ve got at the moment. Anyway, hope you enjoy! xx
It had been a long week to say the least. Heck, it had been a long month. When you looked back on the past few weeks it was a blur of flashing lights, microphones, dance practices, interviews answering the same questions over and over: just the thought made your head spin and your throat become dry.
The new trend is black men pretending like comparing more attractive black women to basic white women who get plastic surgery to look like light-skinned/racially ambiguous black girls don’t look as “good” as said white girls. And then when called out, “Oh, I was just playing. I love black women. I just troll y’all to get you in my mentions to fap to because your anger and triggered emotions is sexy and funny to me.” It used to be they were serious about white girls being prettier while dark-skinned/brown-skinned black girls are “ugly” but after the selfie era took over and we were able to see diverse pictures of black girls and women, they can’t pretend we’re “ugly” anymore. Now they turn it into, “It’s not your looks. It’s your attitude.” or “I was just trolling. Y’all are lovely y’all just take jokes too seriously.” But black men still like to knock us down a peg and not “uplift” us if we are attractive because it inflates our ego, and they love “insecure” black women. And they gotta put someone like Beyonce down to make a Kylie Jenner feel better. Tf?
I remember someone saying Rihanna looks “sexier” when she’s angry or arguing with a fan. I don’t think it’s funny because Rihanna obviously has been pushed by many people including someone like Chris Brown, so when people make light of it as just her being “sexy RihRih” I feel uncomfortable. You should like it when a black woman is happy and smiling. That’s why someone said people “love” #LoudBlackGirls because they’re only heard when they are loud. People love it when we’re angry, upset and pissed off. And the only thing they can say is, “Only fine black women wouldn’t get so offended.” Nah, I’m fine and so are a lot of us and I just think it’s ignorant.
I took like 70 pictures with a selfie stick to get good lighting and I end up going with this one because this one captures the real stars of this photo (my babies).
Me: My name is Mykia and I’ve had this blog for 2 years or something. I turned 21 two months ago and I’ve been obsessed with wine for a little while now. I’m a senior in college and I’m majoring in psychology. I graduate in spring 2016 and I’m starting my masters degree the following summer. I want to be a counselor and I’ve recently decided that I want to start a non-profit organization, later in my life. I’m super married to the man of my dreams and everyday I think about how lucky I am to have him. Eventually we plan on having kids, but as of now, I dig being my own kid.
My tastes: At the moment, I am obsessed with NA books, like it’s all I read, like it’s probably unhealthy. Other than that, I loooove horror books and some mystery thrillers as well. Some of my favorite books include Battle Royale, The Troop, Gone Girl, The Opportunist, Feed, The Darkest Minds, Silver Linings Playbook, and some others!
My World – Avril Lavigne, 2002 I never spend less than an hour washing my hair in the shower.
Napanee is a town in Ontario, which is a province in Canada, which is a country floating in the great spherical mass of jellied delight we call home. I’ve been to Canada once; it was a field trip to Montreal in seventh grade. I remember our bus took a wrong turn and we went rattling through the red light district and our teacher stretched her limbs across a small patch of the window while we shrieked at the idea that something that wasn’t supposed to happen was happening to us.
Avril Lavigne’s family moved to Napanee when she was five years old and Wikipedia tells me she didn’t leave it for good until she was eighteen. By that age childhood is still fresh in your mind but you’re just so eager to get away – to go to college, to write your first album, you know, whatever. But they’re unshakeable, those strange and salient memories. They don’t so much transform into the experiences of adulthood as bag you down like jewels, precious even though they’re still stones. But I like to believe that things don’t change too much from coast to coast. She was beating up boys and dipping her greasy arms in the sink of someone else’s kitchen like the balm of a Kentucky breeze; I was hiding in the bathroom during gym class and pretending to practice the piano after school. We had the same dreams.
“My World” is written the way you write about childhood as you’re in it, as opposed to the way you write about it when you’re finally out. She brags about her difference without a lick of shame — never wore cover-up — and cops to the beautiful grooves of her own self with astonishment — in this head my thoughts are deep / sometimes I can’t even speak — in a way that unmasks the parts of a self that are coming clear, that are already known, the wide and wicked parts she believes will never change. Kids believe that the world around them is the only one; I know I did. The problem of existing within that world is one Avril tackles again and again, a struggle she’ll never grow tired of, an almost-prayer to the wonderful wretchedness of what it means to be young. When I was twelve, the line that hit me like a sugar drink was So I’ll braid it in a zillion braids / though it may take all friggin’ day. Graceless, bossy, and with a word that passed for a swear back then; I remember trying out cursing for the first time, and mumbling the word whore over and over again waiting on line for the bathroom with a girl in my grade who never washed her hair, feeling the way it tasted like junk food, like something we weren’t supposed to have but that no one kept from us. There’s no real reason for it to be friggin’ day instead of merely day, zillion instead of maybe ten; no real reason beyond the sudden explosions that come without warning from the mouth of a teenage girl. You know, boys get boners in science class and we get the full-throated rollicking FUCK YOU BITCH! in a parking lot. Destiny comes for everyone and all that. I picture her braiding her own hair, poorly and vengefully rather than letting a friend do it for her. She needs a zillion braids to pass the afternoon, one for each crazed heartbeat. Town empties out in a midday pool. It takes all friggin’ day.
Small towns feel like suffocation, even when there’s somewhere else to go. You carry their narrow little streets with you, feel the breeze that comes every summer sticking to your shoes like gum that somehow turned up burnt. The way we talk to each other is punctuated by a kind of hellish exasperation — Please tell me what is taking place / ‘cause I can’t seem to find a trace — and although much of life is repetition, never is it so keenly felt as here. There are only three states of being that exist: the pool, your bedroom, and the mall. You see the same people every day, learn their arms and words. Seething together in the vat of childhood, your crumbs of discovery are things like an attic crowded with aimless bodies on the weekend, the passenger seat of a car that has only known and loved one route, the one boy at school who isn’t interested in sports and likes music you’ve never heard of so he becomes a way you force adulthood upon yourself, peeking into the depth and madness of that desire so when you finally leave you’ll know you did more than wear hoodies and drink soda, you’ll be a real person the way they must be in the country or the city. I remember we crept into a drainpipe once to get high. After school — this was senior year, much later, but the feelings never lessened — my best friend would drive us to the parking lot behind the playground near my house and we would sit in the car side by side, listening to the radio and talking about boys, the most stunted state of being imaginable but one that fizzed with the impossible love we harbored in our lanky bodies for the town that would not let us go.
I loved “My World” when I was twelve, before I had an idea what any of this would come to mean. I loved easy guitars that sounded like hills I had never seen; I loved the way my ugly life turned into something beautiful when I tried to write it, the way Avril suddenly bursts into the aching surprise of Where do I belong forever? In whose arms, the time and place? These were the feelings I carried with me when I finally came home, turned off my light, crept into bed, how I knew every inch of my wall and the yards around me and the classrooms where I dug up my heartbeats, where even in the little life I’d lived I could sense the importance of things, if not real at least perceived, the longing to grow and the yearning to stay put. It made sense to me, the way a list of small and staged realities would suddenly give way to the blossoming strands of When you’re all alone in the lands of forever and fall back just as quickly, that a moment of piercing clarity could come from thoughts that meant nothing at all. I had moments in college, years later, when I felt that way, or near enough: leaping across the soccer field in the rain, or lying in the grass with a girl I loved before I knew I loved her, when the sun was bright or maybe the stars and the weight of the trees was almost too much and seemed to cover our skin with certainty. The possibility of leaving, imagined for all those years then finally true, felt right. A train station I’d been meant for all my life. I remembered those separate nights when I was young, when I had a different bedroom and a different heart. It was rarely the case, but there were some nights when I would find myself in a car full of friends or pumping myself full of lemonade in the park and I would think, with unshakeable joy and sureness, I’m not in love this time, this night, and be glad of it.
Requested: yes. Sorry it took me so long to get to this one x
Description: You die while Michael is on tour and there’s nothing he can do to help you
Word count: 1.4k+
Warning: death, murder, being shot, some harsh language
In Michael’s POV
I think what I liked most about (y/n) was that she wasn’t afraid. (y/n) was genuinely, just herself. Her happy, glowing self. I swear her grin could light a room up and her laugh could be just as good as the music Beethoven wrote. (Y/n) never failed to make any one and every one around her happy. When her niece and nephew cried, she held them in her arms and it was instantly like nothing had ever happened. Gosh, (y/n) even made me happy. Before I met her, I couldn’t give a shit about school. I just wanted to join a rock band and travel the world. She was my nerdy tutor girl, who I had no interest in at the time. But with one little push of her glasses on the bridge of her nose and a “Michael, ‘E’ equals ‘M’ ‘C’ squared,” I fell in love. I never thought I’d live to see the day when her smile faded and her eyes fell closed because she struggled to keep them open. But sadly, I lived that day.
I was on tour, living out my dreams and touring with my best mates. She had begged me not to go, since we had gotten into a closer relationship with “boyfriend" and “girlfriend” titles. I told her I couldn’t stay, she knew that would happen when we started dating, right? Silently her tells fell as she zippered my suitcase. I felt bad that I couldn’t stay with her. I wouldn’t be there to protect her at 3 am, she’d have no one to cuddle with, and her favorite thing, we couldn’t go to the dancing classes she made me take with her. All the begging and the tears, for if only she told me what would happen in the future, and maybe I would’ve.
I sat in the back of the tour bus, not talking to anyone or even telling Luke to shut up. I couldn’t get her off my mind. I wondered what she was doing and thinking. Had she found some one else? It had been a few days since her last call. Normally she would call me every single night as she did some wacky night routine. I never failed to watch her every move, the way her slippers sounded against the apartment floor, the way she had to “properly” brush her teeth. (y/n) was something different, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.
“Mate,” Calum called to me as he entered the back area of our tour bus. I stared down at my phone, hopelessly waiting for the call that seemed like it would never come, and ignoring Calum. “You need to pick up your damn phone and just call her,” Calum instructed me. He took my cell phone out of my hands and started to ring (y/n). Maybe this time she’d answer.
“You don’t think I tried ‘just calling her’,” I scoffed as I mocked Calum’s words. “She doesn’t answer,” I angrily spat. I threw my phone across the room. As long as she wasn’t calling, I couldn’t give a shit about that phone. Calum looked at me with comforting eyes and he opened his mouth to say something, but I cut him off. “What if she’s with some one else? What if she isn’t there when I get home? What if she moved out and changed her number? What am I supposed to do?” I yelled.
“Mike, you need to calm down. She is probably at work and her phone died or something. Don’t jump to conclusions,” Calum instructed me. But something didn’t feel right about not talking to her for days. I had a pit in my stomach all week long. This was more than an “I lost my phone” situation.
“You don’t understand,” I mumbled. “It’s been days, Cal, not a few hours. Something is wrong,” I rubbed my temples with my head in my hands. Instantly, my head snapping up as I heard the familiar ring tone. It was “Hold on til May” by Pierce the Veil. (y/n)’s favorite song. (y/n)’s ring tone I had set in my phone.
I must’ve leaped 50 feet out of the air and lunged to my phone that I had thrown. Calum had a shocked expression on his face, but he understood how important this phone call could be.
“Hello, (y/n),” I rushed into saying. On the other line it was pure static with the occasional sound of a car horn honking. Her uneven breaths were also on the line. And I remembered (y/n) suffered from severe anxiety. “Are you there?” I asked worriedly.
“M-Michael,” her weak voice choked out in between her jagged breaths. She sounded so quiet and belittling. Nothing like her usual bubbly, sing song voice. “I-I’m s-scared,” she barely whispered as another car horn honked.
“(y/n), where the hell are you?” I shouted. The concern was evident in my voice. There was a moment and she didn’t answer. “(y/n), come on, answer me,” I yelled. I wasn’t yelling at her in particular, I was just very frustrated.
“I’m…. not sure,” her broken voice spoke. I heard her keys rattling in her pocket. “I- I was on the way home form that new job in the city…”
“Continue,” I egged her on as she paused.
“There was a man following me. He was like 3 feet behind me, and he was w-watching me. So I started running and turning trying to lose him, but I can’t. He’s following me again from 50 feet away and I’m no where near my car,” she told me. She was trying to keep her tone down incase the man had heard. After a moment it sounded like she was crying. I could hear her sniffling.
“What street are you on?” I demanded. I had no clue what this man would try to pull with her. Anything could happen. Calum left the room, leaving me to pace back and forth all on my own.
“35th,” she said, not sounding too sure of her location. “I parked on 2nd I think,”
“(y/n), listen to me. Keep the same pace, do not make anything look suspicious. Go into a restaurant a bar, anything that is open. Act like that is your destination. If this man is smart, he won’t pull anything in public. Do you understand?” I instructed her, trying to get her to follow exactly every word.
“Y-yeah,” she whispered back to me. “I think there’s a pub a few buildings away,” her voice cracked.
“I love you,” I told her. But she never got the chance to say it back. I heard heavy footsteps running towards her and her small high heels trying to run away on the city sidewalk. “(y/n),” I called her name. But the only sound was her sobs of fear.
“Stop right there or I fucking pull the trigger,” a very intimidating male voice screamed. I could hear her foot steps slow down and come to a halt. He walked closer. Every step he took, making me sicker to my stomach. “Drop down to your knees and give me your purse,” he yelled. No, this wasn’t happening. I winced, as if in physical pain.
“O-okay, sir,” her quiet voice cried. I heard something slide across the ground, probably her purse. Other than that, her sobs were only heard.
“You don’t think I hear you talking on the phone?” he laughed, mocking her. “Who’s on the phone, sweet heart?” he mockingly asked.
“My boyfriend,” she whispered. He let out a merciless laugh. And she cried harder. By now my chest was tight and my heart was leaping out of my chest.
“Would your little boyfriend like to hear his girlfriend get shot?” he asked in a way too happy tone. It was so sick what this guy was doing.
“No, sir, please don’t. I have a family, I can pay you, I’ll do anything,” she sobbed as she pleaded for her life. I should’ve said something, but I couldn’t. I was too much of a coward to defend her. I was too scared to help her.
“Too bad,” he laughed as a gun shot sounded. For a moment my heart stopped. Maybe there was some way he missed. I heard his foot steps run away. I could hear the sounds of the city, but no noise from her.
“(y/n), please tell me your there,” I cried, wiping furiously at my tears. Silence. “(y/n), please, baby, say something,” I sobbed.
I heard a quiet cough. Then she gasped for air. Air that wouldn’t fill her lungs. “(y/n), no no no no,” I rushed out, as more tears came. “Your okay, right?” I screamed. “I love you,” I cried, as all my hope was lost.
I was just out driving and A Great Big World’s new song “Hold Each Other” started playing on the radio.
So I’m just driving around enjoying this seemingly typical, cliche love song… when suddenly I hear the male singer sing the words “Something happens when I hold him. He keeps my heart from getting broken”. And honestly my heart exploded with feels. I was stuck at a red light and I just took in those lyrics and it made me feel so good. This was the first time I’ve ever in my life heard a song on the radio where the male singer uses the “he”/”him” pronoun to sing about his lover.
Representation matters, I don’t care what anyone says. For 25 years I’ve listened to thousands of different love songs on the radio about straight love. Yes, there was “Same Love” by Macklemore a while ago, but that was a girl singing about her female lover (which is still amazing of course, but being a gay man I couldn’t 100% relate), not to mention that that song is specifically about homosexuality and gay/queer love.
But “Hold Each Other” is not about that. It’s just a typical, regular kind of love song, which in this case just happens to showcase gay/queer love in such a simple, real way. And as dumb as it may seem, it means so so much to me.