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scribblingfangirl · 3 years

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WITH LOVE, THE GOSTS | Julie and The Phantoms - Part Three

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Author’s Note: I decided that this fic trilogy occurs a year after the season one final, making Julie and Y/N almost (or already) 17. Also… this part turned out waaay longer than expected. Which is why there is going to be a fourth part because I have one last idea but didn’t want to rush to write it. And to think this all started because of a rushed (haha) 1k Oneshot. I should really start to write more spontaneously, it seems like good things come out of it. Anyway, Enjoy! :D

word count: ~ 3.9k

summary: Even after meeting the boys they still aren’t tired of helping you out and they each have their own little ways to do it.

warnings: // (english is not my first language, not beta-read)

| PART ONE | PART TWO |

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Knowing that ghosts existed was an absurd feeling (even though you had always believed or hoped that there was more out there than just this world, especially with all those planets that had been discovered by NASA), but knowing that there were three certain ghosts that liked you enough to kindly haunt you, well… that was just plain unimaginable somehow. Yet, still less anxiety awakening than you expected.

After Julie let you meet the guys for the first time you thought you were prepared to accept that you would not be able to talk to them unless they played something (after all, you had Flynn to groan about that), but the occasional giggle from Julie and her glances into nothing still sent chills down your spine.

So you started to always look around very suspiciously whenever you were over at her house and make obscene hand movements just to be sure that the boys would move before you walked somewhere or sat down (which just earned chuckles from Flynn and annoyed sighs from Julie - “Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they can’t see you. They know where you are, so please stop, or else my dad will call your parents and send you to Dr Turner as well.” The boys found it hilarious and liked to imitate you whenever they came too close to you.)

The boys also still kept doing little things for you, just not so in secret anymore (though… Reggie was never one for subtlety). Whenever you seemed to have had a bad day (or whenever they just wanted to make you smile) you knew you could count on them having something prepared for you.

You soon discovered that anything related to food (which sometimes were extremely odd and bizarre combinations) was Luke’s doing (except for pizza and meatballs, according to Julie that was always Reggie). And you knew it was Alex whenever it was something more calm and soothing, yet sometimes a little bit clumsy. And whenever it was blatantly obvious and/or slightly weird (in a good way!) it was Reggie.

Well, no. Not always in a good way. One time you came back from school and your whole room was filled with glitter and butterflies and a small note with a little ‘Sorry!’ on it was pinned to your desk - cleaning that had been a pain in the a-. But you couldn’t be angry at Reggie, even though you weren’t quite sure what his ultimate goal would have been.

Speaking of REGGIE...

All those helpful little deeds and nice gestures were always done within the limits of your house (mostly room) or Julie’s house and the studio, which is why you almost let out a loud yelp when suddenly during a math test your pen started to move on his own, filling out the empty space (because yes, you hadn’t been doing very much other than staring helplessly at the paper in front of you). Quickly you grabbed the pen as well (loosely and while trying to ignore the fact that you were practically holding hands with one of the guys) so that nobody would see a floating pen as you did a few weeks ago at Christmas.

From the corners of your eyes, you saw Julie slightly move her head towards you, as if she was listening to you - or rather someone right beside or behind you. ‘Of course. I can’t see them, so the only way to help me is by physically grabbing the pen, but Julie can hear and see them, so they (whoever this is - because let’s be honest, none of the guys really looks like a math genius) only have to tell her the corrects solutions and how to get there. My money’s on Alex.’

You were kind of shocked, and weirdly proud when Julie came up to you after class and said: “Reggie’s not so questionable after all, huh?” (Though… you should’ve guessed it, you did say subtlety wasn’t Reggie’s strong suit.) So you just giggled and shook your head while leaving some of your books in your locker (alongside the fact that Reggie was probably almost (if not!) hugging you from behind - you shuddered at that thought, it’s not like you were already awkward around living boys your age, no need to add ghosts to that list!)

A week later you and Julie entered the studio with blank faces and hanging shoulders. Julie threw a weak little wave towards the piano and sighed while you threw the blankets and snacks you were holding carelessly on the ground and let yourself fall face-first onto the couch, not being able to hide your smile anymore.

“We got our math exams back… yes the one Reggie helped us with.”

You couldn’t see what Julie was doing, but you heard her gasp and whisper “No! Reggie…” after a while. Then she was standing beside you, nudging your shoulder and willing you to sit up, but you didn’t bulge, needing a few more seconds to wipe the smile off your face again.

Faking to disgruntledly accept defeat as Julie’s nudges got stronger (the couch was really comfortable, you totally understood Luke now) you sat up and looked at Julie. “Who’s going to tell them?” you said with a heavy voice and felt how the couch dipped beside you. Raising your eyebrows you quickly glanced to the side (obviously not seeing anybody or anything) and looked back at Julie questioningly.

She nodded, telling you that it was indeed Reggie and gave you the okay to drop the bomb.

You sighed as you turned back around, facing the wall on the other side of the studio and hoped that Reggie would ignore the fact that you were probably talking to his ear or something. “So Reggie… the help you gave us on the math final? Well…,” you couldn’t keep your face straight any longer and jumped onto the couch, “WE ACED IT! I WOULD HUG YOU IF YOU WEREN’T MADE OUT OF CUTE AIR!” (Okay… maybe there was a little bit too much serotonin involved.)

Julie added smiling, “And I’m happy to announce that due to my good grades my father allowed Julie and The Phantoms to play at the upcoming Summer Music Festival!”

A guitar riff filled the studio, followed by a short drum intro and with a ‘puff!’ the boys appeared in front of you, beaming and glowing at the news. Reggie even threw a wink at you when you smiled back and said: “Thank you!”

Don't look down 'Cause we're still rising Up right now And even if we hit the ground We'll still fly Keep dreaming like we'll live forever But live it like it's now or never!

This allowed LUKE…

The music festival was an experience you would never forget. You were very happy Ray managed to persuade your parents to let you accompany Julie (sadly Flynn had no such luck). Not only did you turn 17 and the boys made sure to have the whole crowd sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you (as soon as you were back home you would add an extra point to your to-do: ‘find out how to kill ghosts a second time’), but the boys rocked the stage and Julie stood up taller and shined brighter than ever before.

Gone (yet not forgotten) were the painful shocks and the fear of never performing again and the serenity of the guys was visible.

It was the last night of the music festival when Julie got the phone call from her father. He would come by to get her the next morning and they would drive directly to visit other family members and spend the rest of the summer holidays there.

Of course, Julie was excited to see her cousins and aunts and uncles again, but she also felt bad to leave you to drive back alone (you had come with your car jam-packed with all the necessary equipment you needed and that wasn’t provided by the festival).

“Don’t worry! It’s only a four-hour drive! I’ve got good music, podcasts and audiobooks to keep me company and back home Flynn will be waiting. It sadly looks like I’m going to survive without you.”

Early the next morning Julie and some newfound fans of Julie and The Phantoms helped you load the equipment into your car and you said goodbye to Julie. Expecting the boys to just directly puff back to Los Feliz you didn’t waste any time and entered your car, connected your phone with the stereo and started to blast your favourite Broadway musicals.

You must’ve been on the road for half an hour when suddenly the playlist stopped and ‘Wake Up’ started to play.

So wake that spirit, spirit!

Confused you scrunched up your nose and touched the touch screen displaying the music system, trying to change it back to your playlist. But instead, the music changed yet again.

(Don't stop me now) 'Cause I'm having a good time (Don't stop me now) Yes, I'm havin' a good time I don't want to stop at all

“What the hell?” you muttered, staring at your stereo for a quick second before focusing back on the road, “Why you always going crazy on me dude?”

Once again the music switched.

Why you gotta be so rude? Don't you know I'm human too?

It took you a hot minute to understand what was going on and then you couldn’t stop laughing.

Don't laugh at me, don't call me names Don't get your pleasure from my pain

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said mockingly, looking at the empty passenger seat, guessing that that’s where your invisible friend was sitting. “Your pain? I’m not the one who is able to puff wherever and whenever their heart desires and who sneaks up on innocent people.”

Silence.

“For what it’s worth. I’m sorry. I really am. It’s not like you choose this life, you deserved better than this. But I’m really glad I was able to get to know you. I’m really thankful for the light and happiness you brought back into Julie’s life.”

Don't you worry 'bout a thing

But I'm still learnin' to

using technology

You laughed. “Impressive skills nevertheless. Knowing three fitting songs and then changing them at the right time? Let me guess, Luke? Because I don’t think all of you three would fit into my tiny car full of musical equipment.”

At first, there was no music yet again, but then the slow melody of a (for you) well-known song flooded your car. It was the one Trevor Wilson song you never understood until you met the boys, the one song that was so totally different to his usual rock sound (except for the refrains, which, as you later would find out, were parts of the original lyrics Luke wrote for his version of the song).

I sing to remember the stories that used to be But I don’t write to create what could have been And as I scream words into the darkness around me They come out like a dying whisper

The kindest thing to do is to silence them and let them die To unleash my heartfelt sorrow into the sky And diminish the will to fight That pulses like fire and screams with pain through my veins

But life’s not always beautiful, it’s rare So I’mma chase it, watch you make it

Don’t need to introduce himself You will want to know his name Pushing your foundations down He is here to stay

Don’t call him a breeze when he’s a hurricane Don’t call him a tremble when he’s an earthquake Don’t call him an inconvenience Please just say his name

Leaving lyrics in my hands That I swallow like pills Like hurtful words, they rip and claw And press painfully against my chest

But no matter how painful they are I will soak them up, thinking of our hopes and wishes And as each word pushes a new pulse through my veins I keep staring out on the grave of our shared space of mind

Life’s not always beautiful, but it’s rare So I’mma chase it, watch you make it

Don’t need to introduce himself You will want to know his name Pushing your foundations down He is here to stay

Don’t call him a spark when he’s a lightning bolt Don’t call him a flicker when he’s a raging flame Don’t you dare to underestimate him Please just say his name

But even when the word flood finally comes to an end Fidgeting hands remind me of music never played

I owe him my voice I owe him my sound

So I give him this time I give him this space To sing it out loud To let him declare And let me be proud

What’s his name? (His name is Luke!) What’s his name? (His name is Luke!) What’s his name? (His name is Luke!)

How long do we say his name? (Until we explode!)

My name is Luke! (Tell your friends!)

Tears were rolling down your cheeks, the song now more emotional than ever before. You couldn’t imagine how this song must affect Luke. Thinking that his bandmate abandoned him (which honestly… he kind of did, only mentioning him in one song, not giving any money to their parents and so on) up until he heard the song for the first time.

“Luke…”

Forget about it Let's forget about it

The ensuing silence wasn’t awkward. You hummed along to the music Luke selected, sometimes it were old classics (probably his favourites), other times it seemed to be random newer hits he probably never heard before mixed with some songs from your favourite playlists.

It was nearing midday and your stomach made itself known. As if on cue a road sign hinted at a diner just up ahead. Setting the blinker you pulled into the parking lot a few moments later.

“I hope you don’t mind. I know home’s only like an hour away, but...” you began to trail off, not knowing where to look at and your stomach finished your sentence. And before you were able to grab the door handle it sprung wide open.

“Uh, what a gentleman. Thank you very much.”

The meal was over in a flash and once more you realised how much the boys actually knew about you without having actually interacted with you (perks of seeing other people without being seen themselves?).

It’s like Luke could read your wishes just from your facial expressions. Whenever you needed salt or pepper they were right there. Whenever something was too salty or had too much pepper on your drink was being pushed closer to your side. And when you accidentally spilt something and needed more napkins they magically appeared.

When you then spotted a cute little guitar keychain that reminded you of Luke that was being sold as a souvenir at the check-out it was suddenly safely tucked into your back pocket (though that was really really risky, and while you did not condone it you couldn’t really stop a ghost).

Back in your car, you didn’t even bother to turn on the stereo, knowing that Luke would take over as soon as your hands were on the steering wheel again.

However, a glance to your right presented you with a map of your surroundings, a big x hastily drawn over the Silverwood Lake in San Bernardino, which was basically just around the corner.

“You want to go swimming? We- I just ate! And my bathing suit is somewhere under that mountain of equipment on the backseat.”

Let's just get naked, just for a laugh Let's just get naked It's a trip and a half

You laughed at that, rolling your eyes and shaking your head, before stowing the map away and turning on the car. “I guess catching Reggie in the shower isn’t enough anymore?”

Hey!

“You started making it weird buddy.”

It had started to rain when you finally pulled up in your driveway, but you couldn’t be bothered to rush inside, enjoying the feeling of the cooling wetness on your skin.

“Look at that,” you said to nobody in particular, not knowing if Luke was still around or if he puffed back to the garage, “I didn’t even need to go swimming after all.”

He was. Sitting in the passenger seat, face on his arms while he leaned on the open car window, he watched you dance in the rain with a smile on his face. He was glad he decided to stick around and keep you company on that road trip. You gave him the courage to listen to My Name Is Luke for the first time (and getting to see you smile while showing off his impressive music knowledge was a bonus too). Because without knowing, you were doing little deeds for the boys too.

And made ALEX…

Whoever wrote that “Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass. It's about learning how to dance in the rain”-quote totally forgot to mention how dangerous small summer storms can be.

Well sure, it might have been your fault for staying out for too long and deciding to let the sun that came out a little bit later dry you instead of changing into fresh and dry clothes, but whatever happened happened and you got sick. (It’s not like you had anything better to do during the last few days of your summer holidays, right?)

Flynn had been a great friend and hung out almost daily at your house, playing board games, watching movies or tv or even just discussing upcoming Julie and The Phantoms possibilities with you. But your dearest little helper had been Alex.

The blond drummer had turned into the tall brother you never had but always wanted (focus on tall because the age thing with ghosts is seriously confusing) even if he was invisible to you 100% of the time. You had the same interests and were able to bond without actually having to say any words, little gestures and reciprocations on your side were more than enough.

Julie had come up with an easy solution and had bought you some of those sound buzzers (like the ones that dogs and cats use to communicate with their owners) and recorded some simple words and phrases the boys liked to use on them. Now the boys just had to press them to be able to communicate with you without having to use pen and paper or Julie herself (sure your parents were a little bit weary and confused, but you said it was for a longer school research project and that shut them up).

Now, feeling way better than during the last few days, but still very tired, you were sitting in your bed, not really focused on the tv show (or was it a movie?) that was playing on your computer. You had been contemplating and mentally preparing yourself to get something to eat and to drink for the past 15 minutes, but the thoughts alone were exhausting and binding you to the bed. Just then a tray with a water bottle, meds and a fruit bowl floated into your room.

Suddenly wide awake and full of energy you clumsily jumped out of your bed and grabbed the tray, throwing a quick glance out of the door to see if your parents were around and slammed the door shut, wincing at the loud sound and hoping that Alex had walked out of the way (not that it would have hurt him, but you know - rude).

“Rude.”

See? He thought the same. (Julie had to specifically add this word for Alex.)

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. But I would like not to get murdered or have Sam and Dean Winchester on my back because my parents think I’m possessed and need to be exorcised.”

“Me.”

“You what?”

“Me.”

“Alex… I need more context.”

“I do. Me.”

You just blinked blankly at the sound buzzers, trying to piece together what Alex was trying to say.

“Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. M-”

“THAT’S ENOUGH Y/N! WHATEVER THAT SCHOOL PROJECT IS, TELL IT I HEARD IT AND I DON’T CARE WHAT IT WANTS!” you heard your father's scream come muffled through the door.

The audience laughter from sitcoms filled your room and you groaned, grabbing a pillow and smashing it against your face.

Faintly you heard the telltale sound of a pen scribbling something on paper and when you peeked from behind the pillow a note was floating in the air in front of you. “You mean exorcise ME! You would be the one surviving!”

“What? Oh my god… yeah okay, YOU get exorcised… same thing. Both aren’t allowed to happen. Forgive my fever brain.”

“No.”

“Fork you, Alex.”

“No.”

“I have Carlos on speed-dial, I’m sure he already came up with other methods to get rid of ghosts other than the salt thing. He already told me that he’s sorry and that he thinks I might get haunted by you too with the amount of time I spend at their house.”

“No. Food.”

Confused at that topic change it took you a few seconds to answer. “What?” Looking around your gaze landed on the tray that you had deposited on your desk. “Oh right! Boy, I completely forgot how thirsty and hungry I am. Did I say thank you? Fang u!” you mumbled with your mouth full of fruit.

“No. Food.”

You swallowed down your food and took a big gulp of water. “Yes Alex, thank you. I am eating. You see? Here I am, here’s the food. The food is here and now whoops - ifs gan!”

You could basically feel the annoyance radiating from the ghost and weren’t really shocked when the pen started to scribble something down again.

“No! Argh!” He really wrote Argh… that dork really wrote Argh! “You can be worse than Reggie sometimes, but you do it on purpose and I’m just sorry for Reggie. A) Carlos thinks he got rid of us by making a french dip and B) You’re awfully lively for a supposedly sick person. I might need to use the buzzers more and see what other reactions I can provoke from your parents.”

Crumbling the note in your hands you thought ‘Challenge accepted’. “You know what? I think I’mma go back on Reggie’s offer and actually let him introduce me to Wilbur. He might know some stuff I could use to blackmail you. And you’re right! I feel much better, just very tired, but that’s nothing a little bit of fresh air can’t fix! Toodles!”

You left your room, leaving a flabbergasted ghost behind who had lost his snapback with the number of times he had been combing through his hair with his hands. And while angrily pressing a pink buzzer, the buzzer wasn't the only thing that screamed “WILLIAM!” after the girl. (That was another important sound Alex wanted to have recorded.)

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Taglist: @sunsetcurvej @ifilwtmfc

#jatp #julie and the phantoms #jatp x reader #julie and the phantoms x reader #luke patterson x reader #reggie peters x reader #alex mercer x reader #jatp imagine #julie and the phantoms imagine #jatp fanfiction #julie and the phantoms fanfiction #jatp one shot #jatp oneshot #julie and the phantoms oneshot #julie and the phantoms one shot #my writing #viascribbles

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undyingskies · 3 years

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Just Fine

Request: yes; “hii, could you maybe write an owen imagine where fans take pictures of his gf kissing a guy on the street so there is rumors and of course owen's pissed, but she was actually filming a scene so everything was fake please”

A/N: I hope you guys enjoy, I have a decent amount of requests I am working through! As well as a two part fic for Owen, they are going to take some time so if you requested please be patient with me! I promise I am working on them!

Warning: None

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Your show, Charmed, season 3 was renewed at the same time as season 2 of Julie and The Phantoms. Which means you and your boyfriend Owen were both incredibly busy filming in two different time zones. You guys tried your best to talk when you were free and keep each other updated with what was going on in your shows, but it got more difficult as time went on.

You loved your boyfriend and you missed him but between your two schedules you felt like you were putting more effort in talking to him than he was you. You guys actually haven’t talked in a few days and you were the last one to text and call him.

You get he was busy, you were too, but it still felt like he wasn’t putting even a little effort into trying to talk to you.

So here you are today, reading lines sitting in your makeup chair getting ready for today’s scenes. This season they introduced a new character to play your love interest and today was the big scene between the two of you.

You were nervous, really nervous. Charmed was your first ever show that you booked and so far you’ve had no love interest so you didn’t have scenes like the one today. You were a professional and you knew you could do it but still you were nervous. It would be nice to tell your boyfriend about it, Owen is usually really good at calming your nerves but he just seems to be ignoring you.

“Y/N it’s your time to shine, let’s go!” You hear Tami your director yell.

You sigh at her words, stand up and shake your hands at your side; before you walk onto the street for your scene.

You think to yourself, you’ve got this, it’s only one scene. You’ve done plenty of other scenes in the past that have made you nervous before so it’s okay. It’s just why did this one feel different?

“Alright, you guys ready?” You hear Tami yell again.

Both you and Jake, your love interest, nod yes and get in your places.

“Okay, awesome. We’re gonna take it from the spot where you guys are talking about how you feel and you’re walking to Lily’s apartment” Tami tells the two of you.

She walks back to the camera and sits in her chair. Everyone on set quiets down as the lights flash, and you see her hands counting down from three to one.

Then one hits, that’s your cue.

“You know Steven, you really didn’t have to walk me back to my apartment.” You tell him and turn to smile at him, placing a hand on his arm.

“I know Lily, you can totally handle yourself but it was an excuse to spend more time with you.” He tells you.

You respond with a smile. The two of your characters walking through the street making small talk with one another.

Until the two of you reach the destination of where your two characters were going. This is when it’s gonna happen, just take a deep breath and it’ll be okay.

You stop and turn to look at Jake, who’s character is Steven. You grab one of his hands and say,

“Well thanks again Steven, I appreciate it. I liked having the extra time with you too.”

He smiles back at you and takes a step towards you. He places a hand on your cheek and you lean into it slightly.

“Me too.” He whispers out. You both just look at each other smiling and that’s when he leans in. The two of yours lips meeting for a kiss.

You two stay standing with your lips interlocked for a few more seconds until you hear Tami yell, “Cut.” At her words the two of you step apart.

“That was great the two of you really, perfect! Could have not gone better!” She tells the both of you. You send her a small smile.

You think to yourself that really wasn’t that bad, your nerves no longer getting the best of you. You grab your things and make your way to your trailer; it was a long morning and a nap wouldn’t hurt.

Upon making it to your trailer, you fling yourself onto the bed you have in there. Almost immediately falling asleep, face first in your pillows, letting slumber take over you.

You have no idea how long you had been asleep for but the constant buzzing of your phone on your bed besides you wakes you up.

Rubbing the sleep out of your eye, you reach over to grab your phone. You squint at the sudden bright light from your phone reading the few messages you have. One catches your attention first. It’s from Owen, it reads.

“You should really check twitter. Thanks.”

You think to yourself that’s a lot of periods and does not seem good. You can’t help but panic a little that’s not a normal text from Owen, especially after not talking for a few days.

You close the message app and quickly open the twitter app. It doesn’t take long in your scrolling for you to stumble upon what seems to have upset your boyfriend.

It was pictures of you and Jake kissing in front of the building. The photos don’t show the cast or crew filming the scene, it really is just the two of you. Your heart picks up at the sight of the photo, it doesn’t look good. How did someone get this photo and how did it blow up so fast? You think to yourself, right now that doesn’t matter though. Owen is what matters.

You quickly call Owen wanting to explain to him the reality behind it. Your phone rings twice then it gets sent to voicemail. You scrunch your eyebrows and call him again, voicemail again. You call again and again, and then finally you get an answer.

“What do you want Y/N?” You hear Owen snap at you.

“I wanted to call you to explain what that photo was as I can only assume that’s why you’re so upset.” You tell him, trying to stay as calm as possible.

“Oh what you could only assume is what I’m upset by?? I actually loved seeing photos of MY girlfriend kissing another guy. It was actually really great getting to see that and hear about it from Charlie.” Owen snaps again.

“You don’t have to be so rude about it Owen, it’s not what it looks like. That’s Jake, not some random guy! It was for-“ He cuts you off.

“Oh great to know it wasn’t some random guy. You know what I really don’t feel like talking to you right now. I’ve got to go.” He says quickly trying to get you off the phone fast.

“You better stop that Joyner and listen to me for one second.” The tone of your voice making him stop his movements to end the call. He doesn’t say anything so you take that as your cue.

“First of all that’s Jake, my co-star, and that was a scene for our show. He is playing my character’s love interest actually.” Your frustration building as you take to him. “And you would know that if you took any time to actually talk to me instead of ignoring me for days on end. You don’t put any effort into this like I do, I know what’s going on in your scenes. I bet you could not tell me one thing that’s going on in mine!”

Your met with silence.

“Ya that’s what I thought Owen, so you know what goodbye, have fun learning about my show through the internet.” You tell him before you hang up, not letting him get another word in.

Tears slip from your eyes as you gather your things to go home. You checked the time and it was 6 PM. Your nap was a lot longer than you thought but you could go home now, they told you if they didn’t get you by 5, they wouldn’t need you for the rest of the day.

Tears continue to cloud your vision as you drive through the streets of LA to your apartment. You have music playing quietly during your drive hoping it would help calm you down but the tears still fall.

You feel bad, guilty even. If you were in Owen’s shoes and saw photos like that on the internet with no context you would be just as mad and hurt by it. You shouldn’t have reacted that way, you should have stayed calm but he didn’t give you the time to explain. Your hurt from not talking to him for days and feeling like he was ignoring you just built up and took over.

Once you reach your apartment you quickly shuffle into the building and into your unit. You didn’t want to be far from your bed much longer, the comfort of it calling you. You quickly strip from your clothes and into you pajamas, which was just underwear and one of Owen’s shirts.

You crawl into bed and check your phone one last time, nothing. No notifications, absolutely nothing. You lock it and put it on its charger. You settle into your pillows and pull the sheets over you, covering half of your face, letting sleep take over you and a few more tears slipping from your eyes.

You don’t know how long you were asleep for but a loud banging woke up you, déjà vu. The pounds don’t stop as you turn over and check the time on your phone. It read 6:02 AM. A lot earlier than you would have liked to be woken up.

You stretch and pull your shirt down to cover your thighs. You let your feet lead you to the door where the banging continued. You open the door not even thinking twice, getting ready to yell at whoever decided it was a good time to wake you up this early.

You stop dead in your tracks, the words lost in your throat, your mouth just hanging open slightly. Your face to face with Owen.

He doesn’t say a word, he just pushes past you to get into your apartment. Your left standing at your door alone, still shocked and confused.

“You know it’s probably a good idea to close the door Y/N, especially with the whole no pants thing going on.” Owen says facing you.

You blush slightly at his words, closing the door and tugging the shirt down hoping it would cover more of your skin. It’s not like it’s nothing he’s seen before but his gaze on you right now, left you feeling vulnerable.

“What are you doing here O?” You ask him, walking into the living room and going to sit on your couch. Owen follows your lead.

It’s so quiet, and the atmosphere around the two of you is awkward. It was never like this between you and Owen, neither of you liked it very much.

Owen sits next to you, leaving space between the two of you so he could turn to face you, putting one of his legs on the couch.

“Soooo...” You trail off hoping to start some type of conversation, anything was better than the silence.

“I didn’t like the way we left off on that conversation, both of us obviously hurt and it didn’t feel like something that should have been fixed over the phone.” He tells you, one of his hands grabbing onto yours. “I jumped on the first plane after that phone call, I needed to see you.”

“I-okay...” You say, taking your hand from his to rub your eyes and yawning. The mix of exhaustion and confusion not helping you put together words. You place your hand on his again.

“I’m sorry Y/N, I should have given you a chance to explain or even say something before I got so frustrated. I should have let you talk before trying to hang up on you immediately. I just, it was really hard seeing those photos and knowing nothing.” He tells you, leaning forward a little more. He’s able to catch your gaze.

“No I know, I’m sorry too O. I know I overreacted a bit just yelling and hanging up on you. It was just you called and yelled without giving me a chance to really speak, and that was the first time we’ve spoken in days. I let my own frustration get to me.” You tell him.

“If it was the other way around, I would reacted similarly too. I don’t even want to think how I would feel seeing a photo of you kissing a girl with no context.”

Owen lets go of your hand to push some hair out of your face. He lets his hand cup your cheek after.

“I think we both were upset and instead of talking it out we just took it out on each other instead.” You nod your head agreeing with him.

“You know I’ve missed you love, it’s not easy being so far away.”

“I know Owen, that’s why I was so upset. I feel like whenever I have the chance I’m facetiming you or texting you just to give us some time to be together in some way, but it never felt reciprocated. I know you’re busy, you know out of anyone, I understand that. But baby, I stopped trying and we didn’t talk for 4 days before yesterday.” You’re able to get all of that out without tears falling and you feel proud of yourself.

Owen’s looking at you as you tell him those things. He sees you gulping a little harder and the glaze over your eyes, he knows you’re trying not to cry. He still has his hand cupping your cheek.

“I know Y/N, I want you to know how sorry I am about that. We’re both busy but it’s not okay that I but you on the back burner just because I know you understand. It just work has gotten extra busy it feels like lately and then I’m exhausted, I know that’s not a good excuse but it was never my intention to make you feel not important or like I don’t care about what you have going on.” The tears finally slip from your eyes. His fingers brushing them away as they fall.

He pulls you closer and into his chest to hold you. It breaks his heart seeing you like this and knowing it was because of him.

“I get it O; I miss you so much and sometimes it gets super hard. All I wanted to do was tell you about what was happening in my scenes this week, especially because I was so nervous to do it.”

“I miss you too and completely understand that. You know how much I love to hear about what you’ve got going on in your scenes, especially this week’s scene I would have liked to know that one.” He tells you with a small laugh as his hands rub your back. You lean back a little and leave a small slap on his chest, a small chuckle leaving you as well.

“Trust me I would have liked you knowing what was going on too. I would have liked that a lot more than you finding out over the internet.” You tell him.

“It did get you here though, so maybe it wasn’t so bad.” You offer him with a laugh, him reciprocating.

“Oh whatever Y/L/N.” He says before leaning in to give you a kiss. Your lips meeting his, you melt into the kiss. Oh how you’ve missed your boyfriend and the feeling of his lips on yours.

You smile as the two of you break apart.

“We good now?” He asks you.

“Yes, we’re good now.” You tell him with a smile.

“Also I promise no more ignoring and I will put more effort in. I wanna know what you’ve got going on, that way I can pretend I’m here with you and the distance doesn’t seem so bad.”

You lean into his chest at his words, his arms wrapping around you and squeezes your hips.

“As long as we’re both in this together O, it’ll all be just fine.”

His lips meet yours for another sweet kiss. You lay happily in each other’s arms for the next few hours until you had to go to set. You leave for set Owen in tow, hand in yours, as you update him on everything you’ve got going on and answering all his questions. Both of you happier than ever.

#owen patrick joyner #owen joyner #owen x reader #owen joyner imagine #owenjoynerimagines #owen joyner fic #owen joyner fluff #owen joyner fanfiction #julie and the phantoms #jatp #owen joyner x reader #owen joyner x y/n #julieandthephantomsimagine

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omniswords · 4 years

Text

Chronicles of a Parisian Dumbass 9

pictured: me crawling out of the rubble after yet another set of wisdom tooth extractions

STILL ALIVE, SOMEHOW

anyway, enjoy this update! things have been a bit slow going between this and another project that i haven't started posting yet (along with a brainworm for a different fandom entirely orz), but i'm committed to seeing these stories to the end, don't worry 💙🎶💖

she’s… gone? CBG is gone?

wait hold up, we’re going on a pre-other-job adventure. if you could even call it an adventure.

No, it’s no mistake. Marinette’s not the one standing at the counter this morning. In fact—judging from how much he can see from peering through the window in a totally-not-creepy way—she’s nowhere to be found. Mr. Dupain is there, as faithful to the shop as his apron and his hands are covered in flour. But this time it’s Mrs. Cheng at the register, kissing the top of her husband’s head when he bends it to her and inviting Luka in with a single gesture when she meets his eyes.

Well, now he has to go in.

He tries with every fiber in him to mask his disappointment while he locks up his bike and slips into the bakery-patisserie, and he hangs by the door until she’s finished with a customer and beckons him closer. “Good morning, Luka!” she chirps, and it’s in that moment that he sees all the traces of her daughter in her. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Can I get you the usual?”

Luka gives her a mute smile and a nod, and he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess it has.” Three weeks? Has it really been three weeks? “I heard you went out of the country? How was it?”

“It was nice,” Mrs. Cheng says with her usual warm smile. She’s already busy with a small pastry box and a pair of metal tongs. “Just what I needed for a while, but only for a while. You always have to come back home, after all.”

He nods, despite the fact that his home could be… literally anywhere. Could go literally anywhere. Maybe it’s for that reason alone that he’s had the distinct feeling that home is made up of people and not places.

Mrs. Cheng slides the box toward him, trades it for his card, but she doesn’t let him go just yet. She disappears into the back, and returns with a thick paper cup cradled in both hands, its contents so piping hot that there’s steam rising from the little hole in the lid. “You look like you could use a good cup of tea,” she says, kind as ever—and then, as he takes out his card once more, “It’s on the house, chou. Your constant patronage is payment enough.”

“Wow, that’s…” Luka’s speechless for a moment. “That’s really kind of you. Thank you.”

She smiles at him, and he didn’t really realize how much he’s missed seeing it until now. Maybe it’s not so bad that she came back. (Of course it’s not so bad; what is he thinking?) “The leaves are fresh,” is all she says. Probably because she doesn’t think it’s something she needs to be thanked for. “Think of it as a souvenir.”

Before Luka lets himself out, he stops by the door and tosses a glance back. “Hey, Mrs. Cheng?”

“What is it, Luka?” She had to pause humming as she wiped down the counter and the tongs, but she doesn’t seem disturbed by it. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her disturbed by… anything, really.

His hands are too full to do anything fidgety with them, so he has to settle for scuffing the floor with his heel. “They took real good care of the shop while you were gone. Don’t have to worry about a thing.”

Mrs. Cheng’s expression goes soft. “That’s good,” is all she says, and it’s like she knows what he’s really trying to say—and honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if she did. She’s a mother. She’s Marinette’s mother. Surely there have been plenty of boys, maybe even girls, who’ve spent their fair share of time here, fawning and pining. He wouldn’t be offended if he were just a drop in the bucket.

He doesn’t know why he hasn’t considered, until now as he’s hip-checking the door, the fact that Marinette Dupain-Cheng, with the ocean name and the ocean eyes, might already be taken.

Yeah, he has to tie down the pastry box to the back of his bike, and yeah, he has to walk his bike part of the way to the Champ de Mars and ignore the buzz of every notification in his back pocket. But it’s worth taking the extra time to enjoy the tea; he doesn’t know much about all the intricacies of the stuff the way Mrs. Cheng probably does, but it’s fruity and it smells kind of like flowers and it warms his insides, the way he thinks most tea is supposed to. And it perks him right up. He knows he’s going to need that today.

Not to mention there is, admittedly, a part of him that keeps looking around the city as he walks, and then bikes. A part of him that keeps wondering if he might catch Marinette lingering around the city. Living in it the way he does—forgetting, perhaps for a while, that other people exist. It’s the sort of thing that seeps in at the edges of his mind instead of plaguing his every waking moment. It comes to him the same way he might look at some old sheet music and remember his sister, or the way he might find an unattended mess and think, ah, that’s Ma.

At least that makes him feel… a little less like a creep.

When he gets to the park, he has to pick his spot strategically. Getting time off deliveries hardly ever means it’s time to rest; it’s either time to practice, or compose, or—his favorite—busk in parks, or metro stations, or the Trocadero plaza if he’s feeling particularly fancy. It’s not so lucrative that he can quit his other job and focus just on music, even if that would be the ultimate dream. But it gets some extra cash in his pocket, and he’d be either deaf or stupid if he ever tried to claim that his ma never taught him the value of a euro.

He decides on a bench nearby, where there are plenty of people scattered across the grass, picnicking and laughing and reading under the early summer sun. Sometimes he wonders what it might be like to belong to one of those groups, instead of half-being part of them online, but all it takes is the pop of his case and his fingers on the strings and knobs to remind him that everything he has is right here.

Still, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t take a moment or two after he’s eaten, with his permit clipped to the belt loop of his pants and his guitar in his lap, to fish his phone out of his pocket and scroll through his notifications one last time. It’s funny; when he started up this account, it was mostly to have a corner of the internet to himself, where he could share a few unbridled thoughts and a few more composed ones, maybe throw in a Kitty Section promotion or a clip of his latest project. Now, with a handful of new followers and likes and reposts in the double digits, he kind of has to wonder if this is his brand. Awkward musician mini-posts about a girl he’s not so scared to talk to but can’t get up the nerve to Talk To, just because it’s “wholesome.” Complete with that emoji that looks kind of like the pair of puppy dog eyes Juleka gives him when she tries to paint his nails a color that isn’t black.

And then he has to wonder, yet again, why so many people would be so invested in something like that. Why they’re so bent on following a saga about his…

Well, it’s not really a crush…

Is it a crush?

Oh, Jesus, no. Of course not. It’s not as though he spends every waking hour what it might be like to hold her hand, touch it beyond the occasional brush when they exchange boxes and cards. What it might be like not to have to apologize for bumping into her, or holding her attention for too long. It’s not as though he’s constantly imagined an evening moment that belongs to just the two of them, his guitar soothing her away from the pendulum swing of utter chaos and mind-numbing boredom that lives behind the register. And it’s not as though he’s felt the phantom bumps of her knees against his, or the quiet but intentional stroke of her fingers over his knuckles, or the solid feeling of their heads pressed together just before she tilts her own.

…Well. Not all the time.

Luka stuffs his phone in his pocket before he can think any more about what this is and what this isn’t and what he feels and what he doesn’t. He plucks out a few scales and takes a deep breath or two—sometimes he needs to do that to remind himself that he’s a performer, a musician, he’s doing his job and he can claim this space as much as he likes. And then he starts to play.

That’s all it takes. A few bars is all it ever takes for anyone to get as closee as they can to knowing him.

Within seconds, his fingers are dancing along the fretboard of his guitar, playing fanned-out tunes, drippy arpeggios pinpricks that demand to be heard among the background echo of notes gone by. Every chord with its own texture. Every song with its own color, following the ebb and flow of choked strings. He barely realizes he’s swaying and tapping his heel to his own craft, mouthing the lyrics to songs everyone here must know, until the first person approaches and drops a bill in his case. The patrons trickle in after that: some pass by and pause to spare him the courtesy of a removed earbud; some look up from their books and start to dig around in their pockets or their bags. One girl even kicks off her shoes and pulls her boyfriend up to dance with her, and maybe that doesn’t put food in his belly, but it’s something he can carry with him like the blessed photo of his sister that he kept in his worn-out wallet.

He doesn’t look up or open his eyes often—only to nod in thanks to those who are kind enough to pay him. The one time he looks up of his own volition, he lands on a boy and two girls, seated on a pink plaid picnic blanket and chatting excitedly. One of the girls, who has dark hair in a braid and her back turned to him, suddenly swells and sits up on her knees, all animated gestures as she gets to her feet and rounds her friends, evidently to demonstrate something.

His body remembers to keep playing, but the rest of him stops.

Marinette.

The other girl clicks for him then—the reddish hair and the glasses from his delivery to the bakery—just in time for her to make eye contact with him and for a sly smile to spread across her face. She looks up toward Marinette, says something he’s grateful he can’t make out, and when Marinette looks his way with a dove’s eyes and a deer’s stance, he only winks at her and goes back to his playing and swaying.

GOD, he screams to himself. WHY DID HE DO THAT?

He doesn’t dare look up again at least until the end of the song, and it’s a miracle that he plays even better than before he noticed her. When he does, Marinette is still watching him—has she been the whole time? Eventually, and out of the corner of her eye she kneels to gather up her friends’ trash, and she tosses them into the bin nearby. Very, very nearby. And then she kneels down again—very, very down— and drops a couple of bills into his case. It takes the rest of his bravery to lift his gaze toward her.

“First you ‘tip’ me,” he says, one hand on the guitar and the other making air quotes. “Now this?”

“Oh, come on,” she shoots back, smoothing out her skirt as she sits beside him, in spite of how her friend ribs the boy and nods their way. “This doesn’t even come close to how you’ve basically helped keep my parents’ business in the black. Besides…” She nods toward his case. “Now you can’t say you didn’t work for it.”

“Trust me.” Luka pats the body of his guitar, biting back a told you so and the urge to wonder why he feels so sure of himself. What witchcraft the guitar is working to make him feel this way, or if it’s the guitar at all, or whether all it does is make him look like a total douchebag. “I’ve been working.”

“So you can play.” Marinette crosses her legs and her arms, which accentuates the new jade pendant resting in the hollow of her throat. Probably a souvenir from Mrs. Cheng, or a gift from family she’s never met. “That’s not the same as being in a band.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that I’m still in one. I’ll prove it to you, if you want me to so badly.”

She grins, and it makes every hair stand on end under the heat of the sun. “Oh, yeah? And how are you gonna do that?”

“Come on—a musician never reveals his secrets.”

“That’s a magician, Luka.”

This time it’s his turn to smile, just as he fights back the flare of adrenaline. “Who says I don’t make magic?”

Yeah. It’s definitely the guitar.

“So,” Marinette says. She gives a passerby an admiring look when they stop to drop a few coins in his case, and Luka can’t tell if she’s doing it to thank his patrons or lure them in. “Do you take requests?”

“What’s the matter?” Luka strums a chord, wiggles the fingers that aren’t pinching his pick. “Don’t like my take on popular songs?”

“It’s not that.” She sits back on the bench like she really intends to stay awhile. Like she doesn’t have two friends who are staring at her so intently, either because they’re waiting for her to come back or because all they’re missing is a bucket of popcorn to split. “I guess you just always gave off the vibe that you had some kind of… angle, you know? Like, you’re the type of guy who hears colors, so people can give you a color and…” She shrugs. “You could play it.”

Luka tilts his head. “I can hear colors.” And moods. And hearts. And I’ve been stuck on yours, exactly how you think I mean it, for days. “I just never thought of it as an angle. Just an inspiration.”

Marinette blinks a couple of times in surprise, the sort that only says she wasn’t expecting his answer and thankfully not the sort that might imply that she knows what he’s thinking. “Oh. Well. Um. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“You have something in mind?” He nods toward his case; might as well spare her the awkwardness he knows too well. “You know. So I can work for it.”

She takes a moment to think, seemingly grateful to be relieved of an apology, and she sits up straight only when she meets eyes with her best friend. “Something blue,” she murmurs after a while. “I wouldn’t mind hearing that.”

She says it, and Luka thinks of her without having to look at her. He smiles to himself, adjusting his guitar in his lap and pressing his fingers to the fretboard in the almost-right way. “There’s a saying about that, where my family’s from,” he replies, just loud enough for her to hear, and he begins to play as close to her eyes as he can manage. Pulls her into his world, this place between thoughts where he can get most things just right without having to say anything, where he’s the only person that anything makes sense to—him, and anyone willing to listen.

It feels like Marinette’s willing to listen.

The notes trail off once he reaches the part he hasn’t quite figured out, the sparkle in her eyes he hasn’t , and he’s felt her gaze on him long before he cuts the music and looks her way. “Something like that?” he says. It’s only then that he notices the extra money in his case, and judging from the look on Marinette’s face, she wasn’t the one who put it all there.

But she smiles at him all the same, gets to her feet and dusts off her skirt. “Something like that,” she replies. And then, before she returns to her friends. “I guess this is where I can find you now, huh?”

Like that’s supposed to mean something.

Is it supposed to mean something?

“I mean,” he says. “You could order something again.”

“I mean,” Marinette says back, “I could pick up a couple more shifts at the bakery.”

Luka doesn’t bother with his phone, or any technology, until he gets home—long after he’s settled below deck. It’s only then—because of course it’s right then—that inspiration sparks like a match. Only then that he scrambles for cables and plugs and the laptop he and Juleka used to share until they gifted her a new one for university.

song update. better quality than my phone, even. hit that play button, pals. and thanks for the likes.

#miraculous ladybug #lukanette #luka couffaine #marinette dupain cheng #fic: chronicles of a parisian dumbass #chinhands

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daisylincs · 3 years

Text

get to know me tag

I was tagged by @the-9muses, @missinglittlebritishfriend, @aleksandrachaev - thanks, loves 🥺🥺 Yours were fab!

Name/Nickname: Lily (which yes is short for something, no it's not embarrassing just very British, as Kat LOVES to mock me about)

Gender: Female

Star Sign: Virgo (and fortunately/unfortunately with all the perfectionism typical of that sign)

Height: 166cm (and nO I am not trying to convert that into feet and whatnot. Sorry, Americans, but your system makes NO SENSE. Ugh)

Time: 9:45 AM, desperately procrastinating setting into my final round of prep work for classes starting next week

Birthday: 2 September

Favorite Bands: like my wife, I'm a BIG fan of musicals, pretty much all musicals, so... Hamilton, Hadestown, Wicked, Les Mis, Moulin Rouge!, Evita, Chicago, Miss Saigon, The Phantom of the Opera, Cats, The Lion King. I'm also very into movie soundtracks, basically anything Disney or related to Lin-Manuel Miranda 😝😍

As bands go, Imagine Dragons, Florence + The Machine and ABBA are fab, too!

Favorite Solo Artists: Ed Sheeran, classical musicians do not count shut UP brain, Taylor Swift?? (hissssss @ Kat)

Song Stuck In My Head: Afterglow by Ed Sheeran

Last Movie: The Old Guard, rewatch #4. It's just SO DAMN COOL, guys

Last Show: Us (and no, not just for Iain, either, though ngl he's a big benefit. It's a great show, though, I'm loving it so far!)

When Did I Create This Blog: the 5th of May 2020, apparently! Feels like a lot longer to me, lol, but, yup, I'm a lockdown baby! 😝

What I Post: Fics, reblogs of other people's amazing creations, and occasionally random nonsense

Last Thing I Googled: "Lockdown UK live updates" - because, yes, that's what my TV show binging and spectacular denial levels lately have allll been caused by :/

Other blogs: Yes! I created and am an admin of agentsofchallenges, the Challenges of SHIELD blog we part-run from our fandom friends Discord. I'm also an admin for aos-angst-war, the blog we made for, surprisingly, the AoS Angst War (before we were smart enough to come up with agentsofchallenges, lmao)

Following: 387, apparently - w h o a, how'd that happen?? Too many amazing people out there, that's all I'm saying.

Followers: 237, which makes me think of three things immediately: one, there seems to be a sevens theme going on with "follow-" words today. Cool beans! Two, OH MY GOSH PAST TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY FOLLOWERS Already??? Every time I look at this statistic, it's more, and my eyes want to pop out of my head. I mean, I'm SO flattered, guys, but also w t f!!! Ahhhhhhhh, it's more than a little unbelievable. (!!!) Anyway, and, three, hnsjdskhsghsjhd, I'm an awful person, I haven't even completed my Hundred Followers Celebration yet!! Better get right on that 😬🤦‍♀️🥰

Average hours of sleep: 6/7 in work-time, because teaching is a full-time job and I need to be 100% functional. In the holidays, though... yeek. Anybody's guess!! I often go to sleep in the very wee hours of the night (2, 3am) but then I'm also a lazy ass and only get up at 10, so... About the same, actually!!

Lucky number: ehhh, I don't really have one, I'm not superstitious like that, really - EXCEPT, WAIT, NO, I TOTALLY DO. Of course I do!! 42. The answer to life, the universe, and everything, my friends :D

Instruments: I play piano and violin professionally, and a little bit of cello, badly 🤣

What I Am Wearing: an old grey-green pair of drawstring sweatpants, and an oversized white sweatshirt. My isolation suit, guys!

Dream Job: ohhh, gosh, well. I've always had a passion for both music and teaching, and I've known this is what I want to do for years, so I'm kinda... in it?? Lucky me, I know, lol 🤣😍 If I could have anything, though, I'd probably want to be an actress, or a singer-songwriter. Or both!! Or, I know, a Marvel screenplay writer for the Quake/Secret Warriors alternate universe spinoff 🤣😝

Dream Trip: ohhhh, MAN, well - I'm an incurable romantic at heart, so, the Seychelles with my boyfriend? Or maybe, to be a fangirl and a romantic (which is just goals, honestly) Tahiti!! Yup, yup, that's my final answer. I want an all-expenses-paid, full-luxury trip to Tahiti - I hear it's a magical place 😝😍🏖️

Favorite Food: I've recently been visiting my family in Ireland (before lockdown screwed everything over for me UGH) so, my nan's chocolate shortbread!! The actual BEST biscuits you'll ever taste 😍😍😍

Nationality: British-Irish (yes, I have a dual citizenship, which I think is pretty wicked)

Favorite Song: Impossible. Question. And one you'll get a different answer to every time you ask it!! Currently, though, I'm going to have to say Nancy Mulligan, for all the family nostalgia and happy memories it brings up for me 💜

Last Book I Read: Ugh, this is probably the LEAST exciting answer you could even dream of, but... A2 GCSE Music Syllabus and Teacher's Guide - 2021 Revised Edition. Yeah, prepping for work SUCKS.

Top 3 Fictional Universes I’d Like To Live In: The MCU, but very specifically season 3A of Agents of SHIELD, so I could meet all my babies when they were happy(ish) and tell them how much I adore them 🥺🥺💜 Also, the Wizarding World post-the Second Wizarding War (because if I'm living in the world I'm not affected by JKR's crap). And for number three, OOH!! Storybrooke post-season 6 (and happily pretending season 7 never happens.) Yes please!!

Oooh, gosh, well, this was loads of fun, and a great distraction from work... though, in all seriousness, I should probably get to that now. Before I go, though, I'm going to tag @eowima, @que-mint-tea, @justanalto, @apathbacktoyou, @springmagpies, @maybebrilliant, @loved-the-stars-too-fondly, @nazezdha321, @besidemethewholedamntime and @fitzsimmonkeys, if any of you guys want to do this! 🥰💜

#tag game #get to know me tag #tumblr-ing instead of working is a whole big thing; am I right?#TOO big #*soft sigh* it's so fun though!!#it's SO fun

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thelittleredheadedmusician · 3 years

Text

some original nonsense

“I’m so glad I get to be here for this,” Eve practically flung herself onto the couch, bouncing slightly before settling. She’d just gotten dropped off after rehearsal and was miraculously still teeming with energy.

Clara pursed her lips, an obvious attempt to cover up a smile. They’d spent the day helping Eli and Ann track down paperwork and somewhere between the borough hall and stopping at the deli for lunch had been seen by Oliver’s parents. Who forced him to introduce them to Clara and insisted she come for dinner. Ann managed to talk her way out of it by vague statements of “being with her family right now” that had the McNally’s cooing in understanding. Clara couldn’t manage the same without raising too many questions. At least not that quickly.

So, she’d spent the evening at the farmhouse and then had herself talked into spending the night. The whole experience was odd, Clara settling somewhere between her true sharp self and the doe-eyed charming he’s seen her present herself as. Oliver had the sense that it was strange for her too and that Clara was navigating uncharted waters as she ate his mom’s chicken alfredo.

But after dinner his parents retreated to the office that used to be the dining room, claiming to be going over paperwork but probably watching House Hunters or something. Leaving the living room to “the kids” which fit when Eve came barging in.

“I was so worried you would be gone when I got home,” she told Clara, having latched on to the older girl a few days before.

“I was somehow convinced to spend the night.” Clara narrowed her eyes, brows drawn low as she tried to puzzle out exactly how that had happened. It made her freckles scrunch up into an indistinguishable blur.

Eve nodded sagely and began wrapping herself up in one of the afghans from over the back of the couch. “Yeah, they do that. It’s a weird quirk of being the ‘cool parents.’” Oliver knew by her tone that she was using air quotes but from the cocoon his sister had made herself it was hard to tell.

Oliver finished tweaking the playlist he’d made, deciding to kill as many birds with one stone as possible, and pressed play. Rising from his crouch next to their entertainment center to go sit on the couch on Clara’s other side. The music began to play through the living room’s speakers and Eve giggled madly.

Clara turned to give him the most suspicious look he’d ever seen, and that was saying a lot based on the past week’s events. “I know this song. Maybe. It sounds familiar.”

Shaking his head, Oliver barely managed to contain his laughter. “Nope.”

The lyrics started and the look of baffled confusion that overcame Clara was the best thing he’d ever witnessed. She froze, shook her head slightly, narrowed her eyes, and then finally turned to him in betrayal. “When did this happen? I was just in Constantinople... When was I in Constantinople?”

Eve squeaked, high and long as she inhaled. Unable to hold in her own laughter any longer. Oliver managed to remain silent though he was shaking and his stomach ached at the strain.

“This isn’t funny,” Clara insisted. Her glare wasn’t that harsh though so Oliver didn’t relent. “Oliver!” she scolded. “It’s not funny!”

“No, it’s hilarious,” he said between gasps of breath. “And it only gets better.”

“Russia’s favorite love machine?” Clara looked like she was going to be sick. “I mean, I might have actually met Rasputin but honestly he was disgusting. And smelt terrible.”

It was Oliver’s turn to look on in horror. “Of all the things you managed to miss, you met Rasputin?”

“Possibly,” Clara said sheepishly. “It could’ve just been a drunk.”

One day, Oliver would stop being shocked by things Clara said. But apparently not today.

“Ok,” Eve interrupted, “but thoughts on the song?”

“It’s... good?”

The look of pure offense Eve gave her made Oliver want to whither and he was mostly immune at that point. Eve took a deep breath, seeming to recenter herself. “It’s a certified bop, Clara.”

“Ok, I’m not an idiot. I know about the Battle of Waterloo. And I’ve read Les Misérables.” Clara was unimpressed by Abba.

“You actually read Les Mis?” Eve clearly had her own priorities.

Oliver might not really be into theater but Eve was and he managed to pick some things up. “Ok, hold on.” He tried to do some quick math, but just asking Clara would really be easier. “When did you just... stop following cultural events?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, some point after the second Great War?”

Eve and Oliver shared a look, leaning forward so that they could do so. Eve’s expression said that either Oliver handle this or she would. And also, what the heck was he planning?

“Ok, so World War II, not second Great War. Where did you even get that one?” he tried to be gentle. But honestly, what the heck?

Clara wrinkled her nose. “I’ve outlasted entire civilizations, Oliver,” she hissed. “Cut me some slack for forgetting some terms. English isn’t even my second or third language. And you people keep changing it.”

Oliver lifted his hand in defense. “Ok, ok. Point taken. Still, did you not pay attention to the Broadway or West End theater scenes in the 1980s?”

“No?” Clara turned to see if Eve might be any help. Her slightly manic look meant that probably not.

“So, you didn’t know that Les Mis is a musical?” She gasped.

Clara slowly shook her head.

“Ollie!” Eve screeched, but he was already standing, going to shift through the many DVDs Eve had of various performances.

“Bed,” their mom said, emerging from the office. Their dad had already headed upstairs sometime during One Day More and she was currently in her pajamas.

Eve tilted her head up, shaking off the hand that Mom was combing through her hair. “But, it’s not over!” she whined. The drums of the finale refrain of Do You Hear the People Sing were starting up meaning that it would be over very shortly.

“And you’ve seen it a million times and have school tomorrow. Bed,” she countered.

“Clara’s never even seen Phantom!” Eve tried to counter, which they’d discovered when Eve began rambling about actors sometime during ABC Cafe. Oliver loved his sister, he hated that he knew the names of every song in Les Mis.

“Clara can stay up and watch it with Oliver then. Or just visit another day,” Mom glanced to Oliver with an almost apologetic tilt to her smile.

“I can come back,” Clara offered softly. The effect was immediate. Eve and his mom both had twin smiles of pure glee. Much like Ann a few years earlier, Oliver’s friend had been officially deemed another extension of the family. Well neither girl seemed to mind so far.

Eve launched herself onto Clara in a hug, throwing her blankets to the floor and startling the blonde. Over Eve’s shoulder, he could see Clara’s pale eyes widen and it looked like she was trying very hard not to let her shock get the best of her. They’d managed to keep his parents in the dark about the whole “technically dead” bit but Eve passing right through Clara would kind of ruin the careful charade.

“I’ll wait until next time for Phantom,” Oliver made it sound like a chore, but he knew Eve would be pissed not to be included. And the whole experience would be more enjoyable for Clara because the two girls had talked through the entirety of Les Mis about the characters and changes from the book. He was positive watching Phantom of the Opera would be the same.

“You’re not a terrible human,” Eve said by way of thanks.

Oliver shrugged and their mom rolled her eyes. She started ushering Eve towards the stairs as she said her goodnights. When it became clear that Eve was still occupied squeezing the unneeded air from Clara’s lungs, she gave up. “Don’t stay up too late you two. And Eve, your butt better be in bed by the time those credits stop.”

Clara laughed and finally began to peel Eve’s arms off her. “You should listen to your mother,” she said kindly.

“I’m going, I’m going.”

“If you don’t leave now I will introduce Clara to Drunk Space Pirate without you,” Oliver threatened.

Eve gasped and leapt to her feet. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

The two stared each other down as Eve began backing towards the stairs, almost stumbling over the coffee table in the process. “I knew you like The Mechanisms.”

Oliver smirked. “Space operas, Eve.”

His sister huffed and ran upstairs. Clara started laughing softly. “What was that about?”

“I’ll explain later. I think the novelty of being a ghost would be ruined if I became one too, which would happen if I explained without Eve.”

“Your sister does seem capable of murder,” Clara agreed.

“I feel like all the women in my life are?”

“Yes.”

Oliver started cracking up at that. Clara joined him. It felt cathartic in light of... everything. Then they remembered that the rest of the house had been going to sleep so they tried to hush each other. Only to laugh more.

Finally, they sobered and Oliver went to go get his laptop. “Do you know literally anything about the band Nirvana?”

Clara blinked. “Do you enjoy asking questions you know the answer to?”

Barking a short laugh, Oliver came back over to sit next to her again. “Ok, fair. But I’m going to play an ironic critic of how people respond to the lead singer’s death for you now.”

“Why?” Clara asked incredulously.

“I really just want to see what someone so totally removed from the situation thinks of this song.” Oliver shrugged.

“You are very strange.”

“And you shouldn’t throw stones.”

#hitch hiker #own writing #original writing

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capricornus-rex · 4 years

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Playing Pretend (2)

Requested by: @calkesttiss | Prompt:

Hi! I just watched isi & ossi (rich girl and poor boxer boy AH) on netflix and now i cant stop thinking about cal and fake dating. Do with that what you will😂

Cal Kestis x Reader

Previous: Part 1 | Next: Part 3 | Masterlist

2 of ?

The doors of your closet flung open. You rummaged through the glamorous, glittery, expensive dresses hanging on the rack and felt for the compartment in the back of the cabinet.

In it were the clothes that you really liked. They were simple yet comfortable, tailored for mobility, and that you pull off black so well. It was also the perfect camouflage when you’re out on the streets. Standing out in a crowd is the last thing you want to do.

“I think it’s a great night for a city stroll,” you tell yourself.

You have made an entire escape route from your room to the outside world. The Torvel Manor’s grandeur in size was exploited by none other than you—studying and memorizing the blind spots where the security cameras and guards are absent greatly helped, knowing which direction from the manor led to where, and paths that you have carved over the years.

When you got farther away from the manor, you headed to the direction of the downtown area—where the least “elite” resided. You were simply thankful that no one recognizes you.

Striding through these alleys and annexes, your legs move on their own whenever you come to find a bar to frequent in. One of your favorites was the Tipsy Taun-Taun. You’ve been there many times, you’re practically a regular.

“[Y/N]!!” the bartender, a male Balosar, hollered to greet you upon your entrance.

You greet back with a cool, casual voice.

Music set with a heavy bass blasted through as soon as the door swings open. You made your way into the bar and ordered a glass of Merenzane Gold—your usual. As the amber-colored liquid slithered down to your gut, you savored the spice that lingered at the walls of your throat.

“Another,” you told him, slightly pushing the glass toward his direction.

“Any more than two and that means you got a family problem there, shrimp boat,” his chuckle outweighed his concern.

“Well, you might be right about that,” you smacked your lips and nudged the glass closer to him. “Another.”

The barkeeper didn’t argue and poured you another.

“Was it Mommy or Daddy this time?”

You’ve finished your drink before he could anticipate your answer. This was your third now.

“A little bit of both,” you sarcastically answered.

Looking around the bar, a redhead about your age hunching over the table caught your eye—he had his back turned to your direction, yet he was subtly looking around as if searching for or looking out from somebody. In all your years in frequenting this pub, you could know who comes in here regularly and who doesn’t.

“Who’s he?” you gestured at the redhead, pointing at him with a nod.

“Nah, dunno ‘im. Prolly just some kid that ended up here,”

“You mean, this is the first time he’s here?”

The barkeeper shrugged and then busied himself with cleaning glasses. You kept your eye on the redhead. When he looked your way, your eyes briefly met, it stayed that way for a few minutes before you casually averted your eyes from him to the stage while sipping on your drink.

The Balosar received a generous payment from your pocket as you proceeded to leave the pub. Shortly after you left, some of the patrons took notice of you—they left the bar and followed you from a less suspicious distance. The redhead sensed the trouble and proceeded to tail you altogether.

The route from the pub that leads out to one of your usual hunting grounds was a maze of dark alleys and unoccupied residential blocks—these were the townhouses that were too expensive for the common folk who wanted a good standard of living, something that you urged your father to develop a reform bill on.

Much later, as you get deeper and deeper into the intricate network of alleys, there was a feeling that loomed heavily over you. You know you were being watched and followed, you hated it; the one cardinal rule is to not look back over your shoulder, otherwise you’ve already started a fight before you could even pick one.

The sinister, disembodied pair of laughter echoed in the hollow walls of the empty slums. The haze have begun to seep in. You continue to walk, simultaneously looking around the buildings in search for another way above the ground.

The laughs become louder and louder. You felt that whoever following you was getting closer. You were running out of ground and hiding places.

“Come here, little chicky-chick,”

“We just wanna talk,”

“Are you lost, honeypie?”

They hollered. Continuing to follow you as they do so. Both of them, whoever they were, cast a long shadow in what little light the lampposts shed in the streets. The panic in your heart was getting too strong for you to suppress, you wanted to fight them but you don’t have the capacity—your fighting skills are amateurish, and they could kill you in a flash if they choose. You wonder if the DL-44 blaster buckled around your waist underneath your jacket would be enough defense.

Can’t hurt to try. You tell yourself mentally.

“Hey!” one of them bellowed.

“We’re talkin’ to you!” the other followed suit.

At the end of their path, they ended up following a phantom… until you fell from above—you were perched on one of the metal emergency exit stairs of the abandoned apartments—and stunned one of them as his forehead hit the cold, damp concrete.

“You little bitch, I’ll get ya!!” the companion growled, pulling out a blaster from his belt holster.

He opened fire the second he clicked the safety, though you were quick to dodge and take cover. Meanwhile, the young redhead who followed the three of you heard the blaster fire. He immediately bolted to the direction where the noise came from; acting on pure instinct, he unclipped his lightsaber from his belt when the sound of the commotion became more apparent.

The redhead arrived at the scene. He saw one of the muggers downed but still moving, he saw the companion and you volleying blaster fire with another.

“Not if I get you first!” the young boy cried.

It drew everybody’s attention—including the nearly-conscious mugger. The volley of blaster fire ceased. The redhead that you found in the pub is standing at the other end of the alley, with an unusual weapon in hand: a glowing beam of blue light in a shining hilt.

Your eyes widened as you recognized the weapon. You’ve heard the stories, you’ve read the books that depicted them in tales and history. You know what this boy is.

You were quick to wake from your awe-stricken state. This sudden break in action was seen as an opportunity. You jumped on the second mugger you were trading shots with and disarmed him—a good sliding kick and a hard elbow to the gut did the trick. When his companion got back on his feet, he set his sights on the redhead; this lumbering mugger charged towards the ginger like an angry Reek but the kid was quick to evade him. The next thing you know, he was standing by your side with the two muggers facing each of you.

“You got something to fight with?” he asked.

“Yeah,”

“Good. Use it,”

Without another word to one another, both of you lunged at the enemy. The redhead with his lightsaber and you with your fists and kicks. At this point, you were thankful that you know something—albeit sloppy—than nothing at all.

These lugs were next to nothing against you and the redheaded boy. Both of you were nimble and quick with your attacks. The fight didn’t last long as you were able to knock them out cold, their bodies fell cold at your feet.

You turn your face to the boy, he looked back you—gasping for air, cold beads of sweat dotting his temples, and a failing grip on his weapon’s hilt.

“Come on, we gotta bail before they wake,” you beckoned.

“Lead the way,”

You figured that he was athletic enough to keep up with you in scaling buildings. You ended up on the roof of the apartment next door. Taking shelter in a rooftop’s tool shed, you fell to the floor and slumped your back against one of the ventilation fans.

“Thanks for back there,”

“Happy to help,” he huffed.

“What’s your name?”

“Cal. Cal Kestis,”

You extended your hand as you said your name.

Cal finally had enough breath to hold a conversation, “Where’d you learn how to fight like that?”

“I had a pretty great mentor,”

“I see,”

The conversation thrived with your questions to each other. Albeit it was only the basic and casual ones, it was nice to have someone covering for you—even if they were total strangers.

“Why’d you help me?” you bring up.

“Because I choose to, ‘cause I want to,”

“Not because I can handle it?”

“Unless you count that incoming blaster fire right into your face,”

A scoffed laugh was your reaction to the latter. You admitted that you weren’t the best fighter around. For the rest of the night, Cal continued bombarding you with questions the same way you did him, until you got to know each other to a certain extent.

Something about him was unusual in a good way. A company that you enjoyed. You’d hate to end the chat too soon but you told him that you had to go.

“See you around, Cal,”

“Yeah, likewise, [y/n],”

You smiled at him and then prepared yourself for the next leap across the next building. Cal watched you close the eight-foot gap between the building where you sat and the rooftop you’ve landed on. You looked over your shoulder as you ran before you vanished into the night—he was still looking back at you.

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komahinasecretexchange · 4 years

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Title: Delicate Cycle

Author: @cellophanerose

For: @akito666us

Rating/Warnings: G/No warnings apply!

Prompt: Hinata helps Komaeda to recover from PTSD

Author’s notes: Hello! It’s my first time writing fic, but I still hope you enjoy! It’s more of “Hinata helps Komaeda recover” in general - I hope that’s ok! Thanks for reading!

Hinata had already known that his past was indelible, even if he couldn’t remember it. This was something that class 77-B all had in common – their lives in despair seemed like a hazy memory of a story someone once told, not the painful truth of how responsible they all were for the effective end of the world. Ironically, most of the class more clearly remembered what had happened in the simulation, even though only the “survivors” left with their memories completely intact. Still, it wasn’t something easily brought up – asking a murder victim if they remembered how they died, or the blackened if they could still feel the phantom pains from their executions. Because that was the thing – although no physical harm was carried over, the mental scars cut deeper than any murder weapon.

Despite all their attempts to move forward and forgive each other, Koizumi still flinched when she ran into Pekoyama alone, and Sainoji surreptitiously rubbed her throat when she thought no one was looking. Hanamura froze up when his batter splashed onto him, and Tanaka clutched his fists hard enough to draw blood when loud stampeding sounded. Truly, even a fictional past was inescapable, but they all silently agreed that this would be their penance.

However, Hinata noted, Komaeda remained virtually unaffected. No panic attacks when walking by the warehouse, no nervous sweating at the sight of ropes or fire, not even the spears they used for fishing or bright red containers..

“It was something I did to myself, Hinata-kun,” Komaeda once tried to explain. “I knew exactly what to expect and prepared myself for that. Besides, I’ve been in plenty of other terrible accidents and trauma-inducing situations!” Komaeda tried laughing it off, but Hinata still felt he wasn’t getting the whole truth. But, since he had nothing to go on save for a gut feeling, Hinata decided to let it go for now. Plenty of his classmates vocally asked for his guidance, so he wasn’t going to pull teeth trying to get Komaeda to reach out for help. He wouldn’t even worry about it! At all!

Or so Hinata had told himself. Until, one night, his mind was screaming at him that he wasn’t doing enough – that he would never be enough – that offering his entire being to the sacrificial altar of Hope’s Peak Academy for a chance to mean something still wasn’t enough – kept him awake. (Between visions of a talentless reserve, a bored god, and a dead digital girl, he hardly ever slept through the night, but none of his friends needed to know this.) Tonight, however, instead of futilely chasing sleep that was never coming for him, Hinata slipped his sneakers on and stepped outside. He figured he could do some preliminary work for the day ahead, namely making rounds and noting any malfunctioning equipment or depleted supplies, but truthfully he just felt the need to move.

Hinata left his cottage and headed towards the communal washing machines when he noticed the light was already on. Not an odd thing, per se – several of his peers also had trouble sleeping, but the quiet music did pique his curiosity. It was definitely a familiar song, but he didn’t connect the dots until he opened the door and found Komaeda kneeling on the ground, looking like a marionette whose strings had been cut. It was then it all came together in Hinata’s mind – the heat from the fire, the smoke causing his eyes to tear, the pounding of feet and the shattering of bottles, and finally the sprinklers turning on, leaving only the overwhelming feeling of dread and anxiety for reasons he was too afraid to confront. So many sensations had led up to that point, but when they pulled back the curtain, all Hinata could remember was ((despair)). The smell of blood, the look of terror permanently affixed to his face, the spear grotesquely impaling his stomach, every nauseating detail came giftwrapped in a single thought, a single moment, a single truth – Komaeda was dead.

Hinata snapped back into the present.

Komaeda was alive, and he needed Hinata’s help. Hinata instinctually dashed to the radio and slammed the power button, then immediately pivoted and fell onto the floor beside Komaeda. Komaeda’s usually crisp and clear eyes were faded and swirling with a slight darkness, and his façade was distressingly blank.

“Komaeda,” Hinata was shaking, but he still placed both of his hands on Komaeda’s shoulders in an effort to ground him. His grip tightened when he received no answer.

“Komaeda!” he raised his voice, panic bubbling inside him, “It’s okay! I’m here with you.” He couldn’t eloquently string words of comfort together, but he tried his best. “You’re safe, you aren’t alone, you’re going to be fine, just please listen to me!” Komaeda offered no reassurance that the words were reaching him and continued staring blankly through Hinata, to a place only he could see.

Hinata’s hands were still trembling when he wrapped his arms around Komaeda. They had never been physically intimate like this, but at that moment, Hinata needed to feel Komaeda’s warmth just as much as Komaeda needed Hinata. “I’m here,” Hinata mumbled, surprising himself when the words, “I’ll always be here,” slipped out. The most shocking part, Hinata found, was that he wanted it to be true.

Hinata had lost many of his friends during the killing game, and he cared about each one of them, but he would be lying if he said Komaeda’s death didn’t leave an especially strong impact on him. Even after it was revealed that Komaeda had orchestrated his own death, Hinata felt a sadness and regret that he didn’t want to name at the time. Nanami paid the ultimate price for Komaeda’s actions when she didn’t get the choice, so it was easy to bury those earlier feelings under anger and frustration. After everything had settled, and Hinata was reunited with their digital classmate in a moment of great distress, he couldn’t ignore those buried feelings.

Hinata didn’t want Komaeda to be alone. Luck had constantly torn those who cared about Komaeda away from him, leaving him with no one who loved him. Komaeda had told Hinata once that he was afraid of dying alone, and though Hinata at the time fell for Komaeda’s lie of “it was something I read in a book!” it wasn’t because Hinata truly believed it, but rather because it was easier to do so. Komaeda had given him an out in the form of a flimsy lie, and Hinata had taken it. Of course Komaeda was afraid of dying alone – after spending as much time as he had with Komaeda, it was an obvious conclusion for Hinata to reach. And yet, Komaeda manufactured a situation where he would not only die alone, but also in such a horrific manner. He chose to die alone, and that was something Hinata could never accept.

So when Komaeda finally raised his arms to return Hinata’s embrace, Hinata felt such a wave of relief and calm that it nearly brought tears to his eyes.

When Komaeda came to, he admonished himself for being so weak, and started brainstorming ways to explain his reaction away. Telling Hinata he wasn’t having problems with his death, and yet here he was, putting on such an unsightly display. …Actually, what was Hinata doing here in the first place? Embracing Komaeda, of all people? Maybe it had something to do with why Hinata was shaking, he thought. He might as well venture a guess (and buy himself some more time in the process.)

“Hinata-kun, why are you shaking so much? Are you getting sick, maybe?” The question was asked in earnest, but Hinata reacted with anger.

“Don’t make light of this! Do you really think I would be so heartless as to not react?” Hinata was still trembling, but he let his arms fall from Komaeda and balled his hands into fists. Komaeda felt a flash of disappointment before curiosity returned. Maybe he was thinking of this the wrong way?

“…Are you angry with me, Hinata-kun?” Komaeda felt a little silly trying to have a conversation while kneeling on the floor, but he wasn’t going to complain.

“Is it really that hard for you to imagine that I was worried about you, Komaeda? That I feel things other than anger and boredom?” Hinata stood up, and Komaeda quickly followed. Hinata looked directly into Komaeda’s eyes, but whatever he was searching for, he must not have been able to find. “…Sorry,” Hinata continued, “this isn’t… I just was scared, all right? Hearing that music, and seeing you like that, I… Actually, it doesn’t matter.” Komaeda was ready to refute that ‘No, it actually matters a great deal,’ but Hinata still continued.

“Are you ok, Komaeda? Does that happen often?” Hinata looked painfully earnest, so Komaeda held back his self-deprecating comments for now.

“Thank you for worrying about me, Hinata-kun, but I’m all right. That song simply caught me off-guard. Up until today, I had completely forgotten it was part of my plan. Only somebody totally useless like me would let such an insignificant thing shut them down!” Komaeda hoped Hinata would let his ‘useless’ slide for now. Hinata sighed and placed his hand on Komaeda’s shoulder.

“It’s ok to not be all right, you know? I know you don’t think you’re worth it, but we’re all here to support each other. You went through something terrible. And don’t say it doesn’t count ‘cause you did it to yourself! You wouldn’t be collapsed in front of a washing machine at 3 AM if you weren’t hurting. Maybe you don’t even realize it, but even if that pain isn’t on the surface, I want to remove it from you.” Hinata held Komaeda’s robotic hand with both of his own. “I won’t let you get lost in despair again.”

Komaeda was deeply shaken by those words, and even if he wanted so badly to believe them, he just couldn’t bring himself to do so. He ached to open up, to lay everything out to Hinata that he couldn’t even tell himself, but he knew he wasn’t brave enough to do so. Instead, he fell back into his failsafe: being contentious.

“Haha…Tell me, Hinata-kun, what makes you think you have the power to do such a thing? What could a failure of a reserve course guinea pig do to help someone like me?” He was on a dangerous line, he knew - already he had slipped up and admitted that he needed help. But the faster he hurt Hinata and pushed him far enough away, the better. “I never asked for your pity.”

The words stung both of them, Komaeda realized. He was so used to pushing away people he cared about, but hurting Hinata felt especially vile. However, Hinata surprised him by doing the exact opposite of what he’d planned - instead of getting angry and storming off, he agreed.

“I guess I am pretty useless,” Hinata started. “I’ve always known I was a failure, and you’ve never hidden your contempt for that part of me. But I won’t let that stop me. Because I know you, and I know you want this,” Hinata laced his fingers with Komaeda’s, “And so do I. You can’t push me away this time, Komaeda.”

Komaeda’s heart was pounding so loudly that he was afraid the roof would collapse from the sound. He looked up into Hinata’s eyes and saw all stubborn determination and kindness and hope. Komaeda’s lips trembled.

How long had he wanted this? Someone to talk to him, someone to comfort him? Someone to take his hand and make silly, irresponsible promises?

“…I guess if you’re going to be that stubborn, I won’t be able to stop you,” Komaeda tried saying nonchalantly, but a genuine smile was sneaking its way onto his face. He still couldn’t bring himself to fully believe it, but looking at Hinata’s expression, he couldn’t not believe it either. Hinata relaxed in understanding of Komaeda’s thinly veiled acceptance. He squeezed Komaeda’s hand once more before letting it drop. Suddenly, it was like the force that was keeping Hinata steady had vanished and his visage changed to one of pure exhaustion. He swayed towards Komaeda, who held him upright.

“Hey, Hinata-kun? Have you been sleeping poorly lately, perhaps?” He paused for a second before deciding to take it a step further. “I’ve also had problems sleeping recently. Do you want to talk about it?” Hinata looked like he wanted to object, but realized the hypocrisy of such and decided to answer honestly.

“A little bit. Nightmares, y’know? Sometimes I can’t get my brain to shut off,” Hinata admitted. “ A lot of the times I can’t remember if what I see in my dreams is real or not.” Komaeda had a hunch on what Hinata was referring to, but didn’t interrupt. “…Sometimes, I dream about you.” Komaeda jolted to attention.

“Ah, my features are quite haunting, I suppose-” before Komaeda could spit any more vitriol, Hinata cut him off.

“About your death,” Hinata clarified. Komaeda’s vision briefly flashed to visions of fire and blood and pain, but a quick squeeze of Hinata’s arm brought him back to reality. Well, that was surprising. Komeada chalked it up to sleep deprivation that Hinata was admitting this, because the thought that he wanted Komaeda to know how much it affected him was too much to handle.

“…Do you want to tell me?” Komaeda didn’t know how far he could push his boundaries.

“No- I mean - yes, but… I do want to talk with you eventually, but I’m not sure if I have enough energy for it right now.” Was his death truly something that haunted Hinata to such a point? Komaeda had no reason to believe he was lying, but still…

“Let’s try getting some sleep, then,” Komaeda suggested instead. “We can always talk more at a later time!” Komaeda gave Hinata a tired, but bright, smile. He was elated when Hinata returned one in kind.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Hinata grinned. Hinata was so bright, like a beacon of hope for Komaeda, but he was still so human and flawed. He had felt a kinship with Hinata from the very first time they met, but through all the trials and tribulations they went through, Komaeda had found himself drawn to something more than a feeling of similarity. He listened to Komaeda’s ramblings, and while he didn’t always agree, he always engaged. It felt like someone was finally seeing him, and that prickly kindness Hinata offered was ‘hope’ in his eyes.

Yes, to say Hinata was Komaeda’s hope wasn’t an exaggeration. Every version of Hinata was dear to him, and the man standing before him despite all odds was the man he grew to love.

Hinata was dizzy with exhaustion and giddiness (at being heard, at finally reaching out and being honest with Komaeda, at Komaeda reaching back) that when Komaeda gave a small wave and turned to leave, he called out to him.

“Komaeda!” Maybe Hinata didn’t want this bubble to pop because he was afraid that, even after tonight, nothing would change, or maybe he could blame sleep deprivation. But when Komaeda turned around in response and Hinata pulled him into a hug and whispered, “thanks,” Hinata realized there wasn’t a reason - he just wanted to hold Komaeda. Hinata was treated to the sight of a slightly red-faced Komaeda, awkwardly deciding how to react.

“Nnnh…No problem?” Komaeda asked, clearly looking for an explanation from Hinata. However, when Hinata dropped his arms and walked away, he left Komaeda with nothing but a ‘good night.’ If Hinata’s ears were burning by the time he got back to his cabin, Komaeda didn’t need to know.

That night, he dreamt of soft touches and interlocking fingers, of white hair and pale eyes.

Hinata wasn’t naive enough to believe that this was the end of nightmares or breakdowns for either of them, but when Komaeda invited him to stargaze and air some more things out before they fell asleep, he had hope that both of them were healing. Even when Komaeda’s luck inevitably brought a storm that covered the stars and drenched them both to the bone, Hinata had never felt as calm as he did when Komaeda dozed off while leaning his head against his shoulder. He spent a long time listening to the soft sound of Komaeda’s breathing and feeling the slight movements beside him before following Komaeda into sleep.

While it was still true that they couldn’t erase their pasts, they can still move towards a brighter future together.

#komahina #komahina secret exchange #fanfiction

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morelike-bi-light · 5 years

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Bingo Fic: Rosalie and Emmett as Parents

So this blog reached 500 followers this week! When I started this blog, it never occurred to me that this would happen, or that I’d find such an awesome fan community and such incredible mutuals, but it did and I did, and it’s kind of changed my life! So much so, that I wanted to celebrate! Those blog bingo sheets have been making their rounds, so I made one for myself, and decided that if anybody filled it out, I’d gift them a 500 word fic (500 words for 500 followers, but that wasn’t planned lol) for a prompt of their choosing!

One of my fav mutuals @rosalie-stan was the first to reply, and thus, the first bingo fic is all for her, for the prompt in the title! Hope you don’t mind - I went a little over 500 words, and then added some headcanons, because I honestly loved your prompt way too much. Hope you like it!

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It's a quiet summer afternoon for the first time in almost a decade. The air conditioner is whirring gently, even if Rosalie and Emmett can't feel it. It's not for their sake - Bree volunteered to take the kids out to a movie, but little Alicia was still too young for the theater.

Not that Emmett minds - in fact, he can't think of anywhere else he'd rather be, than plopped down on the couch with his exhausted baby in his arms, and his soulmate tucked against his shoulder as she fingers through a piece of historical fiction that Carlisle had called 'certainly' entertaining and 'passably' accurate.

"Aw. Blinky," he grins, cradling the baby’s curl-covered head closer to his chest as she gurgles sleepily. His brows furrow for a moment. "That is crazy. She's like a little mini Rose."

Rosalie glances up to shoot him a dry look before going back to her book.

"Why do you insist on doing this?"

"What, tell the truth?" He shrugs, carefully so as not to jostle either his daughter or wife. "It's not my fault you married an honest man."

"She's a baby."

"So?"

"So, she looks like a baby - which I'm not."

Emmett springs for the throat. "You're my baby."

Rosalie bites her lip, smothering a grin. She shouldn't reward his bad behavior.

“Don't be funny," she huffs, batting at him absently.

"Impossible," he declares with a smirk. "And you know how many little brothers and sisters I had. I'm a certifiable baby face expert. Trust me, she's almost as close to you as Donnie."

"I trust you more than anyone else in the world," she deadpans. "Doesn't mean you're right."

"But you haven't disagreed either," he points out. "Not that it matters. Whether you disagree or not, she still looks like you."

Rosalie turns on him, closing the book. "You say that about all our kids!"

Emmett shushes her, pressing a cheeky finger to his lips and nodding at the drowsy baby curled in the crook of his arm. Rosalie rolls her eyes - Lisa could sleep through a hurricane - but lowers her voice just a bit.

"A few months ago, you tried to convince me that Bree has my smile, and she's not even related to us."

"I didn't say that," he snorts. "I said you smile the same way."

She raises a perfect brow in disbelief. "And that's different?"

He's as unaffected as she is unimpressed. "Totally."

"Well, I'm not buying it."

"No, really," he drawls. "You both do that cute little thing where you clamp your mouth shut like you're trying to hold it in, but then something will make you laugh, and it'll stretch real wide and get all dimpley."

If she could flush, Rosalie thinks she'd be beet red. Emmett's eyes are crinkled, glimmering like stars. Home, they say, I'm home when I see you, when I see our kids. It should be impossible to say so much with a simple look. She has to duck her head, look at her book's cover instead. "Is that so?"

"Yeah, it's so," he murmurs softly, and sits up straight. "And I can prove it... 'cause you're doing it right now."

The dam breaks, and she can feel the truth of his words as a smile blossoms on her lips.

"You're ridiculous," she says.

"You love it." He's right again.

She shakes her head, sighing as she leans against his shoulder, looking over their fourth child carefully.

"You're wrong about this one though. If anyone, she looks like you - the little button nose, and those same curls like you and Beth." Her smile softens. "This one's all yours."

Emmett shakes his head right back. "She might have my hair, maybe my nose, too. Hard to say - but look."

Alicia's eyes flutter softly as she pries them open, a sweet, familiar blue. Her gaze wanders a moment then settles on her parents, before she babbles a short hello.

"Look at those baby blues. Those are yours, right?"

Rosalie stares for a moment. A phantom pain burns like ice in her throat, but just for a moment.

"Right." She swallows, but she doesn't try to hide her smile this time. "Right. Those are mine. I guess she's both of ours."

“Course, she is,” he hums. “They all are. Always will be.”

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As I mentioned, in the process of writing this, I accidentally created a whole Rosalie-Emmett family, so paragraphs of headcanons for context galore under the read more! Otherwise, hope you enjoyed the fic and thanks for following!

So as you probably noticed, Bree is alive and well and a part of the family in this AU. She not only lives and is a Cullen, but Emmett and Rosalie have adopted and adore her just like their own. Thus, she’s the oldest kid in the Rose-Emmett fam. They've had her for about a quarter of a century during this fic. Eight years ago, Carlisle discovered that a vampire couple could genetically have a child by using a surrogate. After some discussion between Emmett, Rosalie, and Bree, the family decided to expand. Yay!

With this, the second eldest kid is Elizabeth Cadence 'Beth' Cullen, age seven. When she was a human, Rosalie had always pictured naming her first daughter Elizabeth, and her middle name comes from her father's favorite human sister whom he'd once promised a goddaughter. Seeing as he’s the only Cullen with a happy backstory, I like to think he’d want his kids to have ties to his human family, even if he’s outlived them by a century. Anyways, they call her Beth. She has black curls, big wide eyes, and an easy smile like her father, plus the small, straight nose and excellent bone structure of her mother.

Beth is a goofball who loves to get herself into either trouble or danger, though the latter of which is hard to come by with an extended family of vampires and werewolves at her back. However, she is also incredibly generous, whether with her toys, her time, or her patience. She has a quick temper, though, and goes cold when she's angry, like her mom. Her favorite activity is running with her family, especially when Bree picks her up and carries her on her back, but she's also fond of music, and is passionate about dance. Her favorite babysitter is either Aunt Alice or Uncle Jasper, both of whom coddle her immensely, and her role model is definitely Aunt Leah.

Their third child is Donovan Matthew Cullen, age three. He gets his first name from a baby book, but his middle name is that of Emmett's eldest human brother, who always looked after the rest of the Masen clan. He has soft, wavy dark blonde hair, doe eyes, and a full pout like his mother, but he shares Emmett's button nose. During the summer, his cheeks get freckly and the tips of his hair gets sun-bleached almost white. (He also needs glasses as he gets older.)

Baby Donnie, as his older sisters call him, is a serious little fellow, very polite and horribly gentle, who likes to read - which is why he gets on with his aunt Bella so well. However, he can get just as rowdy as his sister, though he is greatly less likely to get messy due to his thoughtful nature and sensitivity to criticism. He gets along perfectly with both Grandma Esme and Uncle Edward, who is dying to teach him the piano, but secretly his favorite is probably Uncle Seth, who always knows how to make him feel both good and normal.

Their youngest, and the topic of this ficlet, is Alicia Esme 'Lisa' Cullen, not yet one. Obviously, her first name is derived from Alice, and her middle from Esme. They chose a slightly different name for her first because as Rosalie puts it, she should always remember to be her own person, even as she learns from others. Emmett assures Bella she has dibs on the next daughter, but I think four is enough for them - and she tells him as much. From Emmett, Lisa inherited dark, wavy hair, a button nose, and a round babyface, but she has her mother's eyes and full, solemn mouth.

Lisa grows up to be a mellow kid, partially due to nature and partially because she's had to learn to adapt on the fly without breaking too much of a sweat. She has the best sense of humor in the family, and the sharpest wit, due to observational skills and an impeccable sense of timing honed by years of living with the boisterous extended family she has (which includes the Clearwaters as step aunt and uncle, and through them, the wolf pack.) Out of everyone, she is the most down-to-earth, but also has the hardest time initiating confrontation when she’s hurt or upset. She has a very special bond with Grandpa Carlisle, and she adores her Aunt Victoria (because why not combine all the AUs?).

Whew, that was a lot! I would not blame anyone who took one look at those blocks of text and ran the other direction. But I enjoyed writing them, so it’s all good! If you actually made it this far, I am very impressed, and flattered, and I love you and thank you with all my heart. Hope you had fun reading!

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honeybee-babe · 5 years

Text

Luther's cold is worse than Klaus thought, OR:

Finding out Luther is Immunocopromised (Part 1/?)

**note: I know Klaus seems a bit insensitive at first but he gets better I promise. He is a good brother <3

Also my answer to no cell phones = pagers

Klaus danced freely in his room, one of Allison’s skirts billowing around his knees with every movement as he hummed along to the Fleetwood Mac he was blasting from his stereo. Music was really helping him with this whole sobriety thing.

The only thing putting a damper on his mood was Luther and his stupid cold.

Luther: turn the music down

He rolled his eyes, but didn’t stop dancing as he typed up a response on his pager.

Klaus: come on you love music! i put it on to make you feeeeel better

Luther had been sick for about three days, and though he was putting on a show of denial (“No, I’m just tired,” “No, it’s just a little cold, don’t get Mom,” “Worry about yourself, Klaus, you’ve got bigger problems”), Klaus was convinced that underneath the act he was milking a tiny case of the sniffles into the plague.

An ear-shattering sneeze from the other end of the hallway confirmed his suspicion; Luther had never sneezed like that before, even when he had that sinus infection when they were seventeen. Now all of a sudden his sneezes were ten times louder – and he was doing it constantly, too. Klaus had never known his brother to be a very sickly or sneezy person, but now it was like he was trying to set a new world record.

The sneeze was followed by a pained groan. That was one thing that really tipped Klaus off; every twenty minutes or so, Luther would groan like he was on his deathbed. Klaus just rolled his eyes every time he heard it. He was the dramatic one?

Luther: well its giving me a headache so good job

Klaus didn’t buy that for one second. Luther was just being a big baby because he didn’t feel well; if he couldn’t be happy, no one was allowed to be. Or maybe he was just that starved for attention after being alone for so long, that he wanted to start drama. Whatever it was, it was annoying and it was totally killing Klaus’ vibe. And now Luther wanted him to turn off his music, his one remaining sanctuary? No way, Jose.

Klaus: come dance the germs away!

Klaus tossed his pager down onto the his bed and spun around wildly, skirt whirling around his knees until finally he grew dizzy and had to sit on his bed. Just as his pager beeped again; Luther had taken an uncharacteristically short amount of time to respond (large fingers are’t very conducive to using pagers).

Luther: you know i can still crush your stereo with my little finger

Klaus snorted. Good ole Number 1 resorting to violence, what a shock. That right there was all the proof he needed that Luther was just fine. In response to the text, he turned the music up a few notches, and sang along at the top of his lungs as he danced around his room again.

“Klaus.”

Klaus turned around to look at Ben, who was shooting him a reprimanding look from the corner.

“What’s the dealio?”

“You know, you’re being kind of shitty.”

“What?” Klaus held a hand up to his ear. “I can’t hear you, brother, this music is sooooo loud!”

“Klaus,” Ben repeated. Klaus heaved a sigh and waltzed over to his stereo.

“Relax! I’m turning it down, see?” He turned the music down just a notch, only to immediately hear another harsh sneeze from Luther’s room not seconds later. Even Ben flinched. Klaus just chuckled and picked up his pager.

Klaus: i think that sneeze just broke something in Five’s room.

“What did you say?”

"I asked if he was okay.” Ben crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not lying!” Ben came around his shoulder and read the screen before he could shut it off.

"Really, Klaus?”

“What, it was funny!”

Luther: shut up

Klaus grinned down at his pager.

“He wants me to shut up? Okay.” He turned the music up even louder than he had the first time, but still not loud enough to cover up the groan that sounded from Luther’s room. This time, it was followed by painfully raspy whine.

“Stoooop!” Yelling was probably not the wisest choice for Luther, as it was followed by a harsh, chesty coughing fit; you could practically hear the mucus rattling in his chest from across the hall. Klaus actually cringed. He avoided eye contact with Ben, knowing exactly what look he was giving him.

“Go check on him.”

“What? Why can’t you?”

“Go.”

Klaus huffed and went back over to his stereo, turning the music off completely. He wasn’t in the mood to dance anymore; thanks, Luther. He flopped down onto his bed and picked up his knitting.

After a few moments of silence, he was interrupted by yet another groan from Luther’s room. But unlike the previous ones, there was a tiny whimper at the end. Oof, that did not sound like Luther. Maybe he exaggerated sometimes, but he wasn’t a whimperer.

“Go check on him now or I’ll start screaming,” Klaus opened his mouth to protest, but Ben held a phantom finger up to his lips. “And I won’t stop until you do.”

“Ugh, fine!” Klaus heaved a sigh and got out of bed, padding down the hallway to knock on Luther’s door.

“Luther?”

Klaus paused in the doorway for a beat; maybe Luther had fallen asleep. He was just about to leave when a hoarse, barely audible “…come in” sounded from within. Jesus Christ, Luther had just yelled at him not five minutes ago. Whatever, he might as well play along.

Klaus toed the door open, and peered inside with a melodramatic flinch; Luther was sitting hunched over at his desk, wrapped up in a blanket with his head buried in his arms. A few inches from his head lay whatever book he must have been reading, reading glasses hanging off the side (probably sneezed off at some point).

Slowly, Luther lifted his head and spun around on his swivel chair to face Klaus. He looked up at him with tired, unfocused eyes. He was pale as a sheet, and he was shaking. He looked truly miserable. Klaus’ brow furrowed in concern and confusion for a moment. Was Luther telling the truth? Was he seriously this sick? There was no way. Logically, it made no sense. It had progressed way too fast, and it was lingering way too long. Klaus had been sick enough times to know it didn’t work like that.

A shiver coursed its way through Luther’s body as the cold air from the hallway seeped in.

“C-close the door?” His teeth were chattering. Seriously? There was no way that was a hundred percent genuine.

Klaus wasn’t going to waste his time worrying over Luther when he was clearly putting on a show of exaggerating his symptoms – but that didn’t mean he couldn’t play along. He shut the door and flounced into the room, sitting on the edge of Luther’s bed.

“Christ on a cracker. You look like death, Lulu. And believe me, I know.” Luther just groaned in response, that same whimper-y groan, and put his head back in his hands, not looking up at Klaus. “You really should let me get you some orange juice, you know. Ooh! Or brandy! Isn’t that what they used to give babies when they were sick in,” he gestured dramatically, “…the olden days?”

“Well I’m not a baby, so I don’t know, Klaus!” Luther snapped, whiny tone ironically making him sound pretty akin to the baby his brother had just not-so-subtly implied him to be. The hoarse half-shout ended in a wheeze, and another shiver worked its way up his spine. He still didn’t look up at Klaus from his hands.

Klaus bit down on his lip; you can’t really fake a wheeze. Goddammit, Luther better not actually be this sick, because if he was, then there was something going on beneath the surface that was very, very wrong. And Klaus didn’t want to think about that possibility.

Klaus was pulled out of his thoughts by a sharp intake of breath. He watched Luther steeple his hands over his nose and duck forward with a stifled sneeze, followed by a practically inaudible whimper as he brought his hands up to his temples. Klaus flinched.

“Did that hurt?” he asked softly, guilt washing over him in waves when Luther just nodded behind his hands and whimpered again.

Shit.

Klaus’ head tipped to the side as he crawled across the bed to sit on the edge closest to Luther. Leaning over, he reached out and touched the back of his hand to Luther’s forehead as best he could.

He gaped at he warmth he felt radiating off his brother’s clammy forehead. He instantly pulled away his hand when he saw how Luther flinched away from his touch with another shiver and curled in on himself even further.

“Your fever hasn’t broken yet?” He was shocked and more than a little awed. He had really thought Luther was exaggerating, at least to some extent. Now he couldn’t suppress the concern that seeped into his voice. “You really are sick, aren’t you?”

He slid off the bed and approached his brother, until:

“Did you think I was making it up?!” Luther snapped in response, whining hoarsely into his hands; as if Klaus needed to feel more guilty. And just like earlier, yelling triggered another violent coughing fit. He swiveled his desk chair backwards, turning away from Klaus, and buried his face in his arms on his desk as the convulsions continued to seize his body.

Klaus just stood there like an idiot, feeling like he’d just won an Asshole Of The Year award. Finally, after moments of deliberation, he put a tentative hand on Luther’s back.

He expected him to flinch away again, but instead Luther let him remain there until it was over. And when it finally was over, he whined and mumbled pathetically into his arms.

“Klaus, I don’t feel good.”

Klaus moves his hand up to Luther’s shoulder and squeezed.

“I know, buddy."

#luther snz #sick luther #tua klaus #sickfic #umbrella academy fanfiction #snzfic #luther hargreeves #klaus hargreeves #ben hargreeves

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frenchibi · 5 years

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top 5 books

Hello friend!!!! This is areally really tough question bc I read so many different genres and have SOMANY FAVORITES so I’m going to cheat a little bit… I’ll give you Top3 or 4 (I have no impulse control) for several genres so you’ll get more than 5total but not like.. an inordinate number of books, ok? xD (Who am I kidding I’mgoing off the rails, no apologies)

Fantasy

The Name of the Wind(Kingkiller Chronicles Book 1) and sequel(s) by Patrick Rothfuss. Has beentalked about loads in fantasy circles and I have nothing to add other than“this is the best fantasy book I have ever read, and probably in the top 3 ofbest books I have ever read, period.” The style blew me a way, the characters are fantastic, the system of magic/power in this world is the coolest I have EVER SEEN and… yeah. I’m invested.

Howl’s Moving Castleand sequel(s) by Diana Wynne Jones. Y’all remember the ghibli movie? This isthe book this is based on and it is way, way better than the already fantasticmovie. It is ridiculously charming and witty and lovely and I recommendeveryone read it. You will not regret it. This is my ultimate comfort book, if that makes any sense.

Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett – a hilarious bookabout the apocalypse with absolutely amazing characters and incredible styleand wit. We’re getting a TV series this year and I am beyond stoked. Pleaseread this. It’s… just… yes. British fantasy is SO GOOD.

Honorable mention: Die Stadt der TräumendenBücher by Walter Moers. Theremight be an English translation of this, but honestly I only recommend you readthis if you can read it in its original German – I’m not gatekeeping, it’s justthat so much of its brilliance relies on in-depth knowledge about German culture,history and language and it’s inevitably gonna lose that in translation. It’sone of my absolute favorite books ever and it pains me I can’t share this withmy English-speaking friends :/

The Knife of Never Letting Go (Chaos Walking Book 1) by Patrick Ness. It’shands down the coolest YA book I have ever read and it doesn’t even… feel likeYA at all, more like sci-fi? It could just as easily have gone in the “experimental”category and I don’t wanna give too much away but… the typeface of this book ispart of its charm? Different characters have different fonts and shit? Definitelyread a physical copy of this. Also, the narrator is illiterate so he writeswords by sounding them out – and I know that sounds like that would bedistracting but trust me it’s fantastic??? Please please PLEASE give this atry.

The Watchmaker of Filigree Street by Natasha Pulley. Y’all want a good queerstory that’s not romance-heavy but instead has intricate worldbuilding and really cool magic? Pleaseread this, you will not be disappointed. This is a more “adult” version of YoungAdult Fiction and I absolutely love it.

A Darker Shade of Magic by V.E. Schwab. Is this fantasy, actually? Probably. Does it haveissues? Yes. Is it still a very fun ride with a cool magic/power system? HELLYES. Also the characters are a bit older, which works very well. It’s like YAafter you’ve kind of outgrown YA.

Murder/Mystery

The Strings of Murder (& sequels in the “Frey & McGray” series) by Oscar de Muriel –listen, the main character is a little SHIT and that’s absolutely fine? Themysteries are kind of convoluted but not in a distracting way, it’s just a funseries with fun characters that I really enjoyed!

The Seven Dials Mystery by Agatha Christie (and honestly pretty much everything she has everwritten) – I have nothing to say about Agatha Christie that has not been saidbefore :’D

Phantom bySusan Kay. Now this is kind of also a drama and it’s been a while since I’veread it so idk how well it fits into the murder/mystery category but it’s aboutthe Phantom of the Opera before he became the actual Phantom (or rather, thepath to how he became the Phantom), and I have endless love for this verydramatic and mysterious and misunderstood character so… yeah :D

Collections of Short Stories

Topics About Which I Know Nothing by Patrick Ness. Yes, this is the author of “ChaosWalking” (see above), and this is a collection of a VAST variety of shortstories he has written, all of which are insanely creative and so, so fun??This man has an insane imagination and I love it, instant recommendation toanyone honestly.

Dear Life byAlice Munro – another one that I read a while ago and don’t remember that muchabout, but I remember absolutely loving this book, and that it’s one of thebooks that made me want to read more short story collections :D

The Refugeesby Viet Thanh Nguyen – an interesting bit of perspective, this book centersaround different characters who are Vietnamese or of Vietnamese descent in theUnited States. I loved how eye-opening it was tbh?? I love reading books byauthors from cultures vastly different from my own and this was wonderful.

Poetry/Experimental

Milk and Honey / The Sun and Her Flowers by Rupi Kaur – two collections of very personaland touching modern formless poetry that honestly blew me away. I’m not a bigfan of classic poetry, or poetry in general, but these two books are justincredible.

Good morning, Good night by Lin-Manuel Miranda – a collection of Lin’s “good morning”/ “goodnight” tweets that, idk, give me hope for humanity? Ideal for perusing if youneed cheering up and just an all-round wholesome book to own.

Ella Minnow Pea by Mark Dunn – a “novel without letters” I wouldn’t know where to placeexcept under “experimental” because its premise is basically… an island thatslowly bans more and more letters from everyday use? It’s told in the form ofletters between the characters and it’s just… such a FEAT of writing, the waythe author forces his characters (and himself) to get by with fewer and fewerletters of the alphabet? Fascinating, from a writer’s perspective, and anabsolute recommendation!!!

Sleeping Giants (Book 1 of the Themis Files) by Sylvain Neuvel. This is a sci-fi book,but it’s under “experimental” because, well – it’s told through interviews. Iwas a little confused/put off in the beginning by this style, but the jaw-droppingstory pulled me in and hooked me. It’s a sci-fi EPIC… don’t get too attached toanyone because the apocalypse is coming for them all - and you’ll be at theedge of your goddamn seat. This is a fantastic series.

Drama

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. Honestly, anything by Khaled Hosseini, unsurpassedauthor of dramas that will rip your heart to shreds, and you’ll never be thesame after reading them.

Everything I never told you by Celeste Ng. This is one of those books that will never leave you afteryou’ve read it. It starts with “Lydia is dead. But they don’t know this yet.” –unravelling the mystery and consequences of the death of a Chinese-Americanfamily’s teenage daughter in gut-wrenching detail. A family story that willleave you sobbing on the floor but also filled with such profound hope forhumanity – I don’t even know. This book eviscerated me.

Homegoing byYaa Gyasi – the story of two sisters, one a slave and the other a slave-owner’swife, and their descendants. A family history of choices and consequence thatis… raw and personal and a very, very important book.

Home Fire byKamila Shamsie. The story of a British-Pakistani family – more specifically,the story of three children whose father was a terrorist. I am weak for familystories, and this one is politically charged and relevant and gut-wrenching aswell.

Novels/Fiction

The Hours byMichael Cunningham. The first book I read in a stream-of-consciousness style,and I still really enjoy the plot of it, too: The story follows three women;Virginia Woolf writing a novel in the 1920s, a woman reading this novel in the40s, and a woman basically living the plot of this novel in the 90s. It’sfascinating, really? I highly recommend it.

The History of Bees by Maja Lunde. Another story told in three time periods – a man whoinvents a new type of beehive for beekeepers in the 1800s, a beekeeper whosebees are dying in approximately present day, and a woman 100 years in thefuture who pollinates plants by hand because all the bees have vanished. It’s…fascinating, again, and a really good story. I also feel like it was quiteeducational? I enjoyed it a lot.

Small Great Things by Jodi Picoult. Technically this is a drama too (but shh) – it followsa black delivery nurse who is charged with a serious crime after an incidentinvolving the baby of a White Supremacist couple. It’s an explosive topic butit’s handled with a lot of nuance? Reading this book will frustrate you greatly,but I think it’s… idk, important? It shook me.

Eyrie by TimWinton. I have never seen depression portrayed more accurately than in thisbook. I was highlighting passages on almost every page – also the style ispretty cool? Snappy? Sharp? I’m not good at describing it but… yeah this leftan impact.

Non-Fiction (listen I knowthese are all by youtubers but hear me out)

So Much I want to Tell You by Anna Akana – letters written by Anna to her sister, who committedsuicide when she was 13. It’s raw and personal and important, stories aboutpersonal growth and lessons learned, about grief and regret and moving on. Irecommend this 100%.

Secrets For The Mad by Dodie Clark. A collection of charming stories and anecdotes and songlyrics and doodles – a book that reads like what watching dodie’s music videos andvlogs feels like. Safe and soft and personal. I love this.

Doing It byHannah Witton – a book about sex education that honestly everyone should read.Hannah blazes through taboos like they’re nothing more than hot air – as theyshould be. (Also, watch her videos.)

Bonus

The Alchemist by Paolo Coelho. I don’t even know what category to put this in? It reads like a fable and it is just... so beautiful and enchanting. Please read it, you will not be disappointed. It’s a story of chasing your dreams and self-discovery and it’s... just wonderful.

Did I make this entire listas a means of procrastination? Yes. Am I sorry? No.

Listen I have been wantingto blog about books for the LONGEST TIME but I never took the time to because…idk, I am not involved with the book reviewer community on any platform andhonestly I’m intimidated? But I do have a lot of Thoughts so if you’ve read anyof these and want to yell about them with/at me please dm me??? Or send me anask if you want to hear more detailed opinions about any of these from me????

…yeah. Thank you for this question,man. I love books.

Send me “top 5″ of anything and I’ll respond with my favorites!!!

#French speaks #books #book recs #rec #answered #ask me stuff

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letterboxd · 5 years

Photo

Life in Film: Michael Tyburski.

The Sound of Silence director Michael Tyburski shares some insights into the making of his debut feature, and answers our new “life in film” questionnaire.

In The Sound of Silence, Peter Sarsgaard is Peter Lucian, a house tuner in New York City who believes that the notes emitted from a household’s appliances must harmonize in order to bring peace to its residents. However, his state of mind collapses when he struggles to apply his methods for a new client, Ellen (Rashida Jones).

Directed by Michael Tyburski and based on a short film he made with co-writer Ben Nabors in 2013, The Sound of Silence debuted at the Sundance Film Festival and stood out for its “remarkably silly” unique premise and strong performance from Sarsgaard. Fans of ASMR, get your headphones out; the film’s sound design will trigger those sensations.

The Sound of Silence started life as your short film Palimpsest. Is the ‘house tuner’ occupation at all based in reality? Michael Tyburski: The short answer is no, it’s a fictional profession. The character idea is something that my co-writer Ben Nabors brought to me. Right away, I loved the idea of a practise where someone shows up at your door and offers you a solution to the emotional problems that you’re having.

A lot of alternative therapies exist in New York City so it didn’t seem so far from reality that people would take someone intellectual, dressed well in a tweed blazer, with professional-looking tools, seriously. I really liked that as a conceit. We tried to base it in real science and looked at sound engineers and acousticians for what tools they would use. We tried to make it exist in a very real New York City; that’s why we have touchstones like the character being profiled in The New Yorker.

How has your research into music theory affected your own domestic space? Actually, I moved, for the first time in ten years—after living on a pretty noisy commercial street—during the course of developing and making this movie. Somehow, during the edit, I made my first apartment move within New York City, to a much quieter street. I also took a cue from the main character, Peter Lucian, because I moved my office below my apartment, in a subterranean space. At least I can control the sound a little bit more now that I’m cut off from the surface level, similar to the way Peter does it in his “fallout shelter”.

Michael Tyburski and Peter Sarsgaard on the set of The Sound of Silence. / Photo: James Chororos

The character Peter Lucian feels like a perfect fit for Peter Sarsgaard. When did you have him in mind? He was my first pick. I knew I wanted him from the beginning when I first started thinking about who would be the perfect house tuner. I feel so lucky to have him and fortunately the script resonated with him right away. He’s someone who’s very musically inclined and he plays a number of musical instruments. I was so gratified that he connected to the part so closely.

He’s such a chameleon of an actor. He can play a lot of dark roles, but also he has a very scientist-like intellect. I also think he has one of the best voices, it’s very unique and I enjoy hearing him. So for a movie about sound, it kind of seemed fitting that someone with those types of qualities would work for the role.

What was important to you about keeping Peter’s house-tuning technology analog instead of digital? I think he’s just someone who has the philosophy of “if it’s not broke, don’t fix it”. Even though his tools are a little more dated, they’re still as effective. They might not be as efficient as digital technology so he’s a little slower, but they still work. There is at least one sound engineer in New York City who we found in our research who measures the sound in rooms, and there’s one thing called a spectrum analyzer that we use in the film that we completely got from this guy’s tool bag.

Director Michael Tyburski.

The film is carefully crafted and you have Peter obsessing over every inch of New York City. What degree of obsession did you have in the making of the film? I’m pretty obsessive as an individual in general. I like to be very organized and have everything mapped out. We had been developing the screenplay for so many years that I got tired of reading it, so before we made the movie, the first thing I did after Peter came on board was sit down and record the entire script in audio format. I kind of had this radio edit of the movie. That transitioned into a rough animatic of the film that I put into the timeline and I was able to add in location references, tonal reference photos, dialogue in different room tones, and then music.

Logistics-wise, we only had 21 days to shoot the movie which is very conservative especially because we had a lot of ground to cover, but I just needed to be as efficient as possible, so it was helpful to have that thorough, animatic tool.

With all the technical departments it was a very close collaboration and I like to be very involved in all details. For the sound design, I wanted to re-record all of the tuning forks, which were kind of an aural motif through the film. When you’re shooting in the elements, you don’t always have the control over the environment, so I hand-recorded each one of the tuning forks myself. We were aiming for that level of precision.

We’d like to ask a few questions about your life in film. What was the film that made you want to become a filmmaker? My choice is probably not that unique but when I was 13, maybe a little too young, I got a VHS copy of Pulp Fiction. That stunned me and took me from A to B. It shook up how I thought contemporary American stories could be told.

Which film do you think is the best love letter to New York? Annie Hall, closely tied with Midnight Cowboy. I suppose I love that era of New York.

Which film has the greatest sound design work of all time? There’s a lot, but one of my favorites is Play Time.

Nice choice. Greatest production design of all-time too. Yeah, not bad. I used a few frames for my look book.

Jacques Tati’s ‘PlayTime’ (1967).

Which is the most overlooked performance from Peter Sarsgaard? I loved him in Experimenter, which I think is an underrated film. More recently too, Errol Morris’s Wormwood. I don’t know how many people went down that rabbit hole because it was long, but I think he was so good in it.

What films did you watch to prepare you for The Sound of Silence? There were three that we were looking at, for a lot of different reasons. We watched Jonathan Glazer’s Birth for the mood and that fairytale vibe it has in a mysterious, alternate New York City.

Being John Malkovich for its bizarro version of science, and I love the naturalistic quality to that film. And obviously The Conversation for its production design and how it follows a man obsessed with sound.

This is a nicely-timed, autumnal, gentle film. What films give you those peaceful autumn vibes? My favorite is Hannah and Her Sisters.

What mindfuck movie changed you for life? I’ll have a couple Kubrick on this list, but for this probably A Clockwork Orange.

It’s Halloween next month. What movie do you watch every Halloween? The Shining! There’s my next Kubrick.

As a teenager, what film character felt like a total mirror to what you were feeling at the time? One of my favorite coming-of-age films is Harold and Maude. I definitely identified with Harold.

What’s your go-to comfort movie? And how many times do you think you’ve seen it? My favorite film of all time, which I promise will be my last Kubrick, is Barry Lyndon. I think it’s just a perfect movie and I’ve certainly seen it dozens of times. I think it does everything I want in a movie. I don’t even know what genre to call it because it’s funny, it’s dramatic, it’s an epic. I love the idea of doing a perfect epic movie that covers a lot of ground.

Stanley Kubrick’s ‘Barry Lyndon’ (1975).

What film do you have fond memories of watching with your parents? We were a big Chevy Chase household and National Lampoon’s Vacation holds up as a fine movie.

What’s a classic you could just not get into? Maybe Brazil. Admittedly I think I need to rewatch it because I first saw it when I was 14 or 15 and I just didn’t quite get it at the time.

What classic are you embarrassed to say you haven’t seen? Two Kurosawa films; Rashomon and Seven Samurai. They’re always on my list to brush up and they seem to come up in conversation more and more.

Which movie scene makes you cry the most? Definitely the holiday classic It’s A Wonderful Life.

What film was your entry point into non-English language cinema? That was a good one, I like that question. I remember when I was in my freshman year of high school I was given two VHS copies from someone who knew I was getting into film. One of those films was Persona, but then the other one, which I knew I watched first, was a film called Woman in the Dunes.

What filmmaker—living or dead—do you envy the most? If Kubrick, go for living… If it’s Kubrick go for living? Oh my gosh.

I feel like you’re going to say Kubrick. Yeah. Envy is a funny word. Kubrick has an admirable career for the depth of his filmography. You know, like a lot of film nerds I’m a huge Paul Thomas Anderson fan.

Christopher Nolan’s ‘The Prestige’ (2006).

What’s a film that you wish you made? I would love to make a movie about magic but ever since I saw The Prestige I think it would be hard to compete with that. That period, that Victorian era of illusion, I don’t know if you can top that.

It’s time for best-of-decade lists. What’s the greatest film of the 2010s? If we went back even further it would be easier. For the last 10 years, I think Phantom Thread is pretty great.

‘The Sound of Silence’ was released on September 13 by IFC Films and is in select cinemas now.

#the sound of silence #michael tyburski #peter sarsgaard #new york #kubrick #filmmaker #director #best of #letterboxd

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chiseler · 5 years

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An Interview With Screenwriter Louisa Rose

In 1973, Brian De Palma released Sisters, his Siamese twin mystery thriller starring Margot Kidder and Charles Durning. After a string of social satires which, to be honest, haven’t aged very well, Sisters was De Palma’s breakthrough film, the one that would cement the form and style for which he’d come to be known. A year later he released the horror/comedy/glam rock opera Phantom of the Paradise starring the great Paul Williams. Hitting theaters more than a year before Rocky Horror, Phantom combined elements from Faust, Phantom of the Opera and about a dozen other sources into a bright, fast, wicked comic book satire of the music business. The film went on to become a cult favorite.

Both films were written by screenwriter Louisa Rose, though she is rarely credited for her work on Phantom. After some reputed and proverbial creative differences, De Palma removed her name from the film and rewrote the script, taking sole screenwriting credit. Although Rose disagrees with me, I think it can be argued it was her work on these two scripts, particularly Sisters, that drew attention to De Palma as a director.

After spending the first 20 years of her adult life in New York City, she and her husband relocated first to Spokane and then to Seattle about a decade back. Not long ago, I spoke with her via phone about her career as a playwright and Hollywood screenwriter.

Jim Knipfel: How did you get started in screenwriting?

Louisa Rose: {Laughs} By accident. I was one of those kids who wrote poetry in high school. I went to college thinking I wanted to be an actress. Theater was my primary interest. I found that I really enjoyed the rehearsal process, but really did not enjoy acting for an audience. That was not a recommendation for a career on stage, so part of my theater concentration (we called our majors “concentrations” at Sarah Lawrence) was writing for the theater. And that’s what I really loved. Brian De Palma was at Columbia, and though they had extra-curricular student theater, they did not have the intensive program as part of the curriculum that SLC did, and does.

At any rate, Brian and another Columbia student came to Sarah Lawrence to do theater and some film projects, because the head of the theater department, Wilford Leach, was interested in film as well. He was a mentor for Brian. The first film project, I believe, was a short piece called The Wedding Party. I don’t know if you’ve heard of that.

JK: Oh, yes, I’ve seen it.

LR: After that Brian made Murder a la Mod and Dionysus, I think it was.

JK: You mean Dionysus in ’69?

LR: Yes, Dionysus in ’69 started out as a theater piece. Scared the shit out of me when I went to see it. It was created by an interesting experimental director, Richard Schechner, as a mass quasi-orgy experience. The venue, The Performing Garage, had stadium seating, actually more like large long shelves almost to the ceiling – and you had to climb ladders to reach them. Then the actors would climb up and invite you to “join the dance.” And I saw one coming toward me… “No, I am not joining the dance. I am an observer” {laughs}.

Brian did his Masters at Sarah Lawrence, and one of his projects was to direct my senior play. That’s how I got to know him. I then went on to get my MFA in theater. So he knew me and he was looking for someone to write a script for Sisters. He felt his idea for the film would be marketable, but he needed a script. It sounded like fun, and actually became my Master’s thesis.

JK: Really?

LR: Yeah, so that’s how I got to work on Sisters.

JK: So he came to you with the story?

LR: He had kind of an outline. He had this idea that it would be twins, one evil and one good sister…You know, it’s just so long ago it’s hard for me to remember. There were certain points, certain visual things he wanted. We worked together on the story, and then I wrote the script.

As for Phantom of the Fillmore …

JK: Um, you mean Phantom of the Paradise?

LR: That’s it, Phantom of the Fillmore. It became Paradise.

{Note: After catching wind of the film’s original title, the owners of The Fillmore filed a lawsuit, forcing the change. Another lawsuit, this one filed by Led Zeppelin, forced the name of the films central record company, Swan Song, be changed to Death Records.}

LR: I took time off from working in NYC to go to LA and write scripts for Sisters and Phantom. At that point, I was a single mother, and my daughter Alissa was two and a half. I brought her with me and had her in day care. I had a contract for a total of $80,000 for the two scripts. But when it came to getting paid, Brian delayed and delayed, told me it was not a good time and that I needed to wait. As usual, actors, director, camera persons, etc. were paid. I needed the money, had to sue to be paid, and only received a quarter of the contract money. Brian had been a friend, and it felt like a betrayal.

But back to the movie, what is your take on Sisters? What are the things you notice about it?

JK: I went back just a couple days ago and watched it again. Just in terms of De Palma’s career, it was a big turning point for him. Discounting Murder A La Mod, he’d been doing all those goofy satires like Greetings and Hi Mom! And Get to Know your Rabbit. Sisters was the first of his thrillers and the first of his Hitchcock homages, the things he’d come to be known for.

LR: Right.

JK: Ignoring the Psycho model at play, one of the things that always struck me about Sisters was that in lesser hands the big Siamese twins reveal would have been saved until the last ten or fifteen pages of the script, but here we get it about forty minutes in. Even before that, they gave it away in the poster; they gave it away in the tagline. There was no secret the killer—or killers—were Siamese twins. But then of course there’s the later twist, which brings us back to Psycho.

LR: Mm-hmm.

JK: What really sticks with me, though, is the whole final sequence from Jennifer Salt’s hypnotism to that final shot of Charles Durning staring through the binoculars at the couch. It’s so good. I love that ending so much. Also, having come to know of her only later, I was amazed to see what a good actress Margot Kidder was.

LR: I thought she was very appealing and a really good choice for the part.

JK: In the end Sisters, more so than the thrillers that would follow—Dressed to Kill, Body Double, Blow Out—is the one I always go back to, because even the Hitchcock stuff is still fairly understated at that point. So I’m wondering, how much of that final script, what made it to the screen, was yours?

LR I think I have a copy of my original script here, if I could find it. It was much longer and needed to be cut. I really don’t know. It was a long time ago and I’d need to re-read it.

There is a Blu-Ray copy of Sisters put out by Arrow that has interviews of some people who worked on the film.

I’ve got it somewhere.]

My husband keeps saying I should show it to our teenage grandchildren, but it might destroy their image of me as nice old grandma. On the other hand, some years ago, our two nephews watched it as young teenagers and looked at me with new respect—or was it fear?

Now, what is funny is that Sisters is kind of a cult film, and so is Phantom. About ten years ago, shortly after we moved to Seattle, I got a call from a young woman originally from Winnipeg.

JK: The one city where Phantom was a big hit when it came out.

LR: Yes, it was a cult film there, with a festival and now possibly a documentary about the festival. We had a visit, and she mailed me – I believe it was a production copy of the script for Sisters.

JK: So what was it like for you, a young woman writing films in the Seventies?

LR: There are things funny and not funny that happened…Nothing about the movie business appealed to me, based on my very limited experience. The people were kind of awful. I have memories of someone from the studio, a married accountant. He said, “Oh, I have to go to San Francisco to scout locations, and you could come with me.” The whole approach was making me nervous, and I said, “Well, I have a two-year-old daughter with me, so, uh, no I can’t do that.” And he said, “Well, we could bring your daughter and get baby-sitting for her, and then we could have a Really Good Time.” I thought, oh, just leave me alone—I’m not a gorgeous actress, I’m a writer.

JK: Not that long ago I interviewed an actress from the late Fifties who up and left the movie business for twenty years because she wouldn’t put up with that.

LR: Women were treated horribly in Hollywood as elsewhere. When I went to look for a job in New York after college, there were separate job listings for men and women. Men could apply for management-track jobs and women could be a “Gal Fri” or a “Secy.”

I was very taken by a piece in Ms. Magazine about a woman who worked in a factory that made plutonium pellets and who became a whistle-blower. I thought it would make a good movie.

JK: You mean Karen Silkwood?

LR: That’s it. So I met a woman who worked at New Line Cinema, who got me an interview with a producer there. I came in and I was supposed to pitch my idea. It was almost like a parody of a scene in a Hollywood movie about a Hollywood movie. The guy is sitting there with his feet up on the desk and he has these three or four male cronies sitting around, and he’s cracking jokes and they’re all laughing heartily at his jokes. Eventually he said, “So you want to write a script,” and I said “Yeah.” I started telling him about it, and he kept interrupting me. He was horrified to learn that Karen Silkwood, a single mother, had left her children with their grandparents so she could take a well-paying job at the plant. “No one would ever go to see a movie about a woman who leaves her children,” he announced. Basically, the interview was over at that point. He looked at me and asked if I knew how to type. When I said yes, he said,

“Well, you could come and be a typist here.”

JK: My god.

LR: At that point, I said, “I think you’ve really got too much going on here to pay attention, so I think this isn’t working too well.” He sprang up from his desk and stalked off, bright red, furious. He came back and said, “I have never been so insulted in my life.” That was the end of that. {Laughs.}

{Note: For what it’s worth, Rose’s instincts were good. Director Mike Nichols’ take on the Silkwood story, starring Meryl Streep and written by Nora Ephron, was released in 1983.}

LR: Then, because I’d written a horror movie, I was offered other projects. One was to be a murder film involving Debbie Harry, the lead singer with Blondie, the rock group. The only requirement as far as the potential director was concerned was that it needed to have seven or eight murders. The rest was up to me. I met Debbie Harry and talked to her to get a sense of what she could do. You just get a sense of what people can do. She had no acting background.

JK: Would this have been her first picture?

LR: It would have been, I think, but it was never made. At one point, she said “Well, I just want to play the part of a housewife in the movie.” And I thought she’d be more believable as the person she actually was. So I made it about a rock group beset by a number of murders. I think it had seven murders. Then I came back for the next meeting. She’d read the script and said, “I can’t do this movie; it’s the story of my life.” And I thought, WHAT? {Laughs.}. I mean, WHAT? So that one didn’t happen.

JK: So that was, what, around 1980?

LR: I think so, late Seventies or early Eighties. Something like that.

JK: So that was after Monique was made?

LR; {pause} So you know about that.

JK: Yes.

LR: How did you find out about that?

JK: Well, it’s listed on your filmography online, and I’ve seen it.

LR: {Sighs heavily and laughs} It has very little to do with me. Believe me, I’ve seen it also. That’s the thing about screenwriting. Who knows? You sit at home and do your writing, but who knows what will emerge?

I was hired by a French would-be feature film director who had done film work for a famous French fashion house. He wanted a story about a woman who becomes psychotic when she learns her husband is gay and proceeds to murder a bunch of gay men.

I don’t recognize the script part of it and wish I didn’t have a credit on it. It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever seen, and I think you can agree with me.

JK: I was going to hold my tongue.

LR: Well, don’t.

JK: It was pretty bad. But I will tell you, it is extremely hard to find nowadays.

LR: Good.

And then there was the time an agent called and said she had a project for me, and that I didn’t have to do my best writing; I could do my second best writing.

JK: That sounds promising.

LR: Well as a writer if someone called and said they had a project but that you’d only have to do your second-best writing, what would you say?

JK: I think I’d ask how much it paid.

LR: But what would be you’re “second-best writing”? It’s like we have it in categories. It’s like, do I want Double A grade eggs? Should they be certified, “humanely raised”? Or do you just want ordinary eggs? How do you apply that to writing? Sure. I can write bad scenes, but I don’t have a special price category for them.

There was another project that I thought was extremely funny. Somebody, God, I can’t even remember who it was anymore; a producer had bought the rights to The Sensuous Woman. Have you heard of that one?

JK: Oh, sure, yes. It was a huge bestseller back then.

LR: It was written by someone only identified as “J” at the time and was supposed to be an advice book. I think one of the funniest suggestions was supposedly made by a woman who found she could have an orgasm by leaning against the dryer when it was running—or maybe it was the washing machine during the final spin cycle. {laughs}. My job was to take the book and think of some way to dramatize it and turn it into a movie. The producer, it turned out, had a history of hiring writers and refusing to pay them by claiming that they had not given him a satisfactory script. The previous writer had been a well-known playwright.

JK: So it was around that point you decided to walk away from films?

LR: I didn’t walk away in the sense that I said, “I’m not doing film-script writing anymore.” But, I wanted to do theater, and I was also trying to bring up a daughter. The head of my college theater department, Wil Leach, had gone to work as artistic director at Joe Papp’s Shakespeare Festival. Wil decided to do an all-black version of Mother Courage. It was to be set in America at the time of the Indian Wars. Post-Civil War. Everything was recast, and he didn’t use the Brecht score. He had a composer to do a new score, and he had a black lyricist, who said, “I’m not doing this, it doesn’t pay enough.” Will knew that I had done lyrics for a couple of theatre pieces I worked on in college. So he asked if I would like to do it. It was a really interesting project, taking the Brecht lyrics in German and finding an equivalent way to do them for this production. I don’t know German, so they gave me a German professor from Wesleyan, and we went over the lyrics word by word. We talked a lot about the connotations of the words. I had a Black English dictionary, and I had all kinds of materials. I just loved doing that.

JK: Now when was this, roughly?

LR: In 1980. Before that I also did a couple of plays at La MaMa, one of which went to Off Broadway. It seems when I look back at the things I’ve done, so many of them involve really painful experiences. I think I’m not well suited to keeping my eye on the ball. I keep getting sidetracked, thinking I don’t want to lose friends, don’t want to make anybody miserable and don’t want anyone to make me miserable. Some people have been able to somehow find a home, a theatrical home. I did not. My last production was in Seattle.

JK: What was the play?

LR: It was a play about Catherine the Great. I wanted to write a reflective two-character play based on Catherine’s own writing about her life before she became an Empress. She was a teenager when she went to Russia to marry the heir to the throne, an alcoholic teenage boy from Sweden. Somehow it morphed into a much bigger deal, a costume extravaganza. I had a wonderful director, Elizabeth Huddle, who was Intiman’s Artistic Director. But, I had horrible reviews in the Seattle papers, and so that was when I gave up.

I’ve written three non-fiction books with my husband, who is a physician.

JK: What were they?

LR: The first one was for consumers about how to use healthcare, how to talk to doctors, what to do when a hospital admission was necessary. The second book was called The Too-Precious Child, and it was about parents who become so involved with their own wishes and fears about their child that they are unable to experience his or her needs. They might be very loving or not but they are unable to take the child’s actual self into account. The book was published in 1989, and the problem we discussed seems to have gotten massively worse.

We wrote the third book for Consumer Reports to help people understand the basic types of health insurance, how to choose the best plan for one’s circumstance, and how to get the most out of its coverage. My husband was CEO of a health plan and understood the issues, but I could identify with consumers who were trying to figure out how things worked. It took me two weeks and tears of frustration to understand how a family benefit works. Insurance terminology was painful, but I figured if I could be made to understand it, I could explain it to people. Maybe I could turn that into a movie {laughs}. I’ll go pitch that one.

by Jim Knipfel

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lydiaandarry · 5 years

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{The Murder of Alternative Character Design}

Hello there!

My name is Arabella, but you can call me Arry if easier. You may be looking at the title and feeling a bit confused by it. “The Murder of Alternative Character Design” may be quite a confusing title and leave others wondering what the hell it even means. But that is why I am here to spread awareness about this horrible phenomenon that is going on in recent pop culture. Especially with superheroes. ‘Alternative Character Design’ to me is when a character (usually a superhero) looks different from the traditional standard of the type of character they represent. I can name quite a couple of alternatively dressed superheroes who get made into more traditional wear or boring wear in their live-action debut. So let’s invade the topic!

(The poor costume design recently...)

I don’t know if you have noticed but the quality of costume design and the importance of comic accuracy has lowered in demand. It seems now like live-action adaptations of a comic book character just throw whatever they can to seem “different” or “out there”. Yet it murders the costume design to begin with. Recently in “Birds of Prey”, one of my favorite DC female characters ‘Black Canary’ has had her main outfit leaked on set. And there are no fishnets to be seen or a bodysuit or anything that represents the character in the comics. I personally love Black Canary for that reason with how different she looks and how she isn’t afraid to wear leather, fishnets and reveal skin, things that could be seen as hooker-ish. She rocks and makes it look stylish and badass. Yet in Birds of Prey, it seems like they went for a more ‘preppy’ approach where nothing about her screams ‘Black Canary’ but perhaps the colors. Even then, black and yellow in DC and especially to non-comic book readers just screams Batman. Netflix recently released a show called “The Umbrella Academy” and I don’t really know much about the comics except that it was created by My Chemical Romance babe Gerard Way who I grew up listening to his music. Even after they broke up. It saddened me to see the complete difference from the comics to the actual live-action adaptation. The art is nearly killed with the inaccuracy as Allison Hargreeves doesn’t have her awesome purple-blue hair. Klaus didn't have his awesome skull shirt, ouija pendant necklace and signature bright orange hair. Diego’s long, blond hair is completely disregarded despite the lack of longer hair on dudes in superhero shows. All of this is disregarded for a more preppy, modern and “up to date” look that kills the character design that made the comics look so different in the first place. And it’s Gerard Way’s creation for crying out loud! He was part of an alternative group! They didn't look nearly as normal as the people in the show look. Even Klaus looks normal compared to how these people used to look. It’s changed for diversity and relatability to other characters but where’s my representation? Where’s my second personality’s representation? And this isn’t just on DC’s end. Marvel does this as well with my favorite X-Men character, Kurt Wagner, a.k.a Nightcrawler. Who seriously wore a Thriller jacket in X-Men Apocalypse. It was the worse outfit I have ever seen on Nightcrawler. Nightcrawler in the comics is basically Gothic. He wears dark clothes, looks kind of scary to the point where people fear him on a daily basis, and has hints of red here and there. The usage of color in Kurt’s design is usually creative and done justice. Now I could understand if they were going for a more X-Men Evolution Kurt but even then, the outfit was better and Kurt is rarely seen as blue in that outfit because when he is blue, it is shown to hardly work with being blue.The colors don’t go well with his skin. Also, his personality is a lot different to X-Men Apocalypse’s but we are talking about character design not writing. And can someone please show Legion FX how to dress punk people? Don’t say David Haller is punk when you hardly dress him as punk.

(Why is this an issue?)

So, why is this an issue? You may ask me when reading this post. They’re characters, Arry. They aren’t always going to be comic-book accurate. Why are you so upset over all of this? As an artist, to me, character design and clothing choices is just as important as personality. Appearance is the first thing you see of anyone and it can say a lot. You express yourself through your appearance more than you think. When creating a character, I always make sure that I have the character design down pack. It’s my favorite thing to do. I am not against preppier clothing or modernizing things. I understand that this is something that has to be taken into consideration when taking a character and placing them in live-action. There are some things that are too difficult to carry over. But why make a live-action adaptation of something if you are not going to use the version that everyone who reads the comics is familiar with? What’s wrong with having abnormally colored hair? I get that diversity is a hot topic right now and it’s amazing that everyone is getting representation in one way or another. But diversity goes deeper than just skin tone. I have never seen a true alternative like character outside of cartoons that was done right. And I have tons of favorite goth girls in cartoons (Gwen & Crimson from Total Drama, Sam Manson from Danny Phantom, Mandy from The Grim Adventures of Billy & Mandy, Triana Orpheus from Venture Bros, Jinx & Raven from Teen Titans, The Hex Girls from Scooby Doo, Rogue from X-Men Evolution, Joan of Arc from Clone High, Marceline from Adventure Time, Marie from Ed, Edd, and Eddy.) the list goes on. These aren’t characters you see in live-action though. These aren’t female characters that are even considered in live-action or even superheroes for that matter. And comic books are incredible for the reason that you don’t have to conform to normality. You can make any character you want. That’s why we have such unique characters in comic books and even in cartoons. Justice Friends has a colorful witch named Miss Spell and Valhallen is a metalhead. This is one of the many reasons why Neil Gaiman has been picky and harsh over making his Sandman comics into live-action because Sandman features so many subgenres of styles. Goth and punk, mostly. These characters aren’t represented in live-action adaptations. They are forgotten about or normalized. Kurt Wagner is a background character and they still couldn’t dress him how he is in the comics. The Umbrella Academy normalized its characters a lot in clothing choices. And it’s sad. There are people who dress like this and should be able to see themselves in at least one superhero. Kurt Wagner teaches us that not all goths are gloomy and depressed or dangerous. He’s a goth with a pure soul and good heart. Sandman comics make Death and Dream and Delirium seem normal, like they don’t have to change to be liked or good-hearted. They are who they are. The Umbrella Academy basically showed that you could wear abnormal costumes, have colored hair, have longer hair for a dude and still be an awesome superhero. X-Men has tons of abnormally colored hair characters that rarely make it onto the big screen, they are usually brought to small screen like Blink and Polaris in The Gifted. And in Legion FX, the most evil and villainous character is a punk. David Haller is not a good person on Legion nor can he be considered an anti-hero anymore. He is a despicable being with a god complex. Punks already get the bad rep of being dangerous, angry, and mean-spirited. Do we really need a character in mainstream media to be punk while also had killed multiple people and raped his girlfriend? That’s not progressive, that’s moving backwards. Superboy doesn’t even have his leather jacket, leather gloves and black circle sunglasses anymore with his undercut. He’s just narrowed down to a tee shirt and jeans most of the time.

(How can we change this issue?)

I am not exactly sure. I know it seems kind of lame to like… bring up an issue and then not offer a solution. I feel like the best way to fix this problem is to hopefully notify costume designers that the world is in need of different styles. Their designs are not “out there” or “different”, as the comic book characters designs were already out there and they completely changed them. I am a huge judge when it comes to costume and character designs in live-action adaptations and I may make a post on why that is. I feel like we need to open our eyes to newer looks. To give some representation to those who dress differently from others. The issues that I brought up are already done and over with. Bad representation for punks as evil and villainous. The Umbrella Academy normalized every character, even Klaus. And hopefully Marvel can give us the Nightcrawler that we deserve as Fox no longer has the rights. All we can do is hope that this comic inaccuracy is a pasting phase and that creators will soon give the outcasts a voice and a chance for better representation. To stop being the villains or bad guys.

This was a short rant that I felt had to be done and I had to explain some issues. I hope you enjoyed my post and agree with some points that I made. If you have any questions on the matter, feel free to message me. If you like this post and want to see more like this, feel free to follow our Tumblr! And if you liked the post, feel free to reblog and like. I post every Wednesday and Saturday! I will see you on Wednesday. Peace out!

#character design #characters #cartoon characters #dc comics #marvel comics #x-men #rant #the umbrella academy #birds of prey #black canary #superboy #nightcrawler #kurt wagner #alternative #alternative fashion #post #my opinion #my post

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psychnerd47 · 5 years

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Monster College Part 3

Rating PG, warnings mentions of underage drinking (not portrayed positively), and prescription medications (used as prescribed).

Characters: Deuce Gorgon, Jackson Jekyll, Operetta, Cleo de Nile, Invisi-Billy, Frankie Stein, Robecca Steam, and Toralei Stripes

After convincing Jackson to come out from hiding, Deuce decided to go back to his dorm room to meet his overly clingy girlfriend, Cleo de Nile. She insisted on spending every free moment with him.

The mummy princess laid sprawled on her back on Deuce’s bed. “We are totally going to Operetta’s party tonight, and then we need to have to throw one of our own,” Cleo told her boyfriend.

Deuce sighed, “Things are different now. I am going to have a lot of homework for my culinary arts degree. I also am going to have bi-weekly labs I need to be prepared for, and I still want to play basketball with Clawd and Heath sometimes, so I won’t always be able to be at your beck and call,” the gorgon boy explained.

“But Deuce,” the mummy princess cried, “we always do everything together.”

“Not everything,” Deuce countered.

“You know what I mean,” Cleo looked like she was about to throw one of her famous royal hissy fits.

Before Cleo could escalate, Jackson burst in through the door. Catching both Cleo and Deuce by surprise. Deuce turned towards Jackson and whispered, “Thanks, I owe you bro,”

The nerdy human boy shrugged his shoulders and sat down at his desk, he began to pull out the note books where he had written down all his homework.

“You’re just going to let him sit there, while we are in here?” Cleo asked Deuce with disgust.

“Well it’s his room too,” Deuce explained, “I’ve been thinking Cleo, it might be best if we have some space from each other.”

Cleo got a dumbfounded expression on her face. “I give you space,” Cleo was horrified that her boyfriend would make such a statement. “I always give you space,”

Deuce clicked his tongue, “No you don’t, when we were in high school you would barely let me leave to go to the men’s bathroom.” Deuce knew he wasn’t going to win this, but he could make it sound less bad. “I’m not breaking up with you, I’ll even go to Operetta’s party with you. I just can’t spend all my time with you,” the gorgon boy explained. The look Cleo got on her face suggested that she might have actually understood him.

* * *

“I didn’t realize you were throwing a party,” Invisi-Billy admitted.

“Well, Johnny and I thought it would a clawsome way to start the school year before we hit the grind. You can invite Scarah, she’s still your huckleberry, ain’t she,” Operetta shot Billy a sassy glance.

“Um, yes. I just don’t know if this kind of party is really her thing.” The disappearing boy admitted.

“You don’t have to worry. It’s not some crazy party, just some cool music played by Johnny and me and some pizza and soda pop. There absolutely will not be any booze, everyone but Johnny and Valentine are underage. I may not like rules, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my days doing the jail house rock.” The Phantom’s daughter gave Billy a great big smile as she started to walk away she called out one more thing with a laugh, “Be there or be square,”

Back at the dorm Deuce and Cleo were helping Jackson decide what to wear to Operetta’s party in hopes of impressing Frankie. “Jackson, why are all your clothes almost the same,” the mummy princess said with disgust in her voice. Jackson awkwardly shrugged his shoulders. Cleo pulled a pair of blue plaid shorts and a yellow polo shirt from Jackson’s dresser, “These will be prefect. Put them on a see how they look,” Cleo ordered the human boy.

“Just don’t look while I change,” Jackson snapped.

Jackson felt awkward in the clothes, “I look stupid,” he lamented.

“You look amazing,” Cleo gushed, “now we just need to slick back all your out of control hair.” The mummy princess sprayed some sort of gel like substance in Jacksons black hair with yellow tips that were caused by a lab accident. She pulled hard with a comb until his hair finally slicked down. “Do you have any contacts?” she asked him,

Jackson sighed, “No, my eyes are to sensitive for that. But I do have prescription sunglasses,” the nerdy human boy offered.

“It’s at night and you don’t have Deuce’s petrifying ability, stick with the regular glasses. I’ll just put some of this magical acne cream invented by Great Uncle Tut. Then you will perfect. Frankie will be so impressed.”

Meanwhile, Invisi-Billy sat in his room. Heath was playing Graveyard Dash 5 on his x-box. Robecca Steam sat next to Billy on his bed. Robecca was a steampunk robot who had been built in Victorian England, though she was technically really old she was young at heart and an amazing listener.

“I don’t know how to tell Scarah that I want to change my major?” the invisible boy asked his robotic friend, “She was so excited about me wanting to become a doctor. I don’t know how my parents will feel about it either.” A small tear rolled down Billy’s pale face.

“If they truly love you, they will support you in whatever you choose to do educationally.” Robecca said in her in her charming British accent.

“Thank you,” Billy said with a smile, “you are a great listener.”

* * *

Operetta’s party at the student union was up to an awesome start. She was playing a gentle Rockabilly tune on her bass guitar, and Johnny Spirit accompanied her on his fiddle. The Rockabilly phantom and the ghostly greaser were taking care to not play there music too loud for Jackson’s sake. Cleo and Deuce, Lagoona and Gil were dancing in pairs to the music. Billy and Scarah were talking to each other by the food table, and Heath was trying to flirt awkwardly with Abbey Bominable.

While all this was going on, Jackson sat by himself away from the stage. Frankie, the daughter of Frankenstein’s monster, spied him right away. She was wearing a blue plaid print party dress with a yellow sweater. Frankie’s black and white hair was styled in away that Jackson found beautiful. “What are you wearing?” she asked with a laugh.

Jackson gave a small chuckle, “Cleo chose this outfit.”

“It shows. It looks a bit flashy for you,” the stitched together girl explained.

“You don’t like it?” Jackson asked with a tone of concern in his voice.

“I do like it, I love anything you wear, because I love you,” Frankie explained.

“Have you been taking your anxiety medication? You’ve seen a bit more high-strung than normal.” The Frankenstein girl explained.

“I’ve been taking it as prescribed” Jackson explained, “I’m just having a difficult time adjusting to the changes of going away for college for the first time.”

Frankie looked at Jackson sympathetically, she reached out and gently touched his hand, “We’ll get through this together”.

A young male vampire walked up to the stage. His was dressed in black dress coat, crimson waist coat, paired with a white ruffle shirt accented with gold jewelry, all trademarks of Valentine, a once suiter of Draculaura who had once liked to collect broken hearts. “I would like to request a song,” he called out in his Southern accent.

“Ok, sugar plum, but me and Johnny here have one more in our line up first,” Operetta called out.

The Rockabilly phantom and the ghostly greaser started to play an upbeat toon. “Deep down in Louisiana close to New Orleans, way back in the woods among the evergreens, There stood a log cabin made of earth and wood, And lived a country boy named Johnny B Goode,” Operetta and Johnny Spirit sang together, “ he never learned to read or write to well but he could play a guitar like ringing a bell, Go Johnny Go, Go Joh—” a loud noise interrupted the song.

It sounded almost like gunshots at first but then became it was terrible hip-hop music being blasted through a boombox. “You didn’t think you could have a party and not invite me,” Toralei the catty and conceited orange were-cat meowed.

Operetta grew mad, “I didn’t invite you because you remind me of a word that begins a “B” and rhymes with “hitch”, you are selfish and think it’s fun to ruin things that are important to other people.” The Rockabilly phantom was getting steamed, her light lilac color face started to turn red.

“But Operetta,” Toralei said coyishly, “ I don’t think only of myself. That’s why I had Manny bring the booze.”

A look of horror came over the faces of many of the monsters at the party. Before anyone could say anything, the large Minotaur burst in with a keg over each shoulder, followed by some fraternity goons carrying other cases of alcoholic beverages.

“Please take your booze and leave,” Robecca demanded. But unfortunately, her voice was drowned out by the goons yelling, and the booming hip-hop music.

“Please stop!!!” Jackson yelled out in panic as he tried to cover his ears, but it was no use. He had already started to transform.

tags @queenofworry

#monster high fanfiction #monster high #my fanfiction #monster college #operetta #deuce gorgon #cleo de nile #johnny spirit #jackson jekyll #frankie stein #robecca steam #invisi billy #mh fandom #monster high doll #holt hyde

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bbclesmis · 5 years

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King Of The Castle: At Home With Dominic West

As the star of HBO's The Wire and The Affair, Dominic West made his name playing conflicted Americans battling their demons and struggling to find their places in the world. And cheating on their women. In real life, he's a self-deprecating father of four from outside Sheffield, and among his chief preoccupations is how to preserve the 800-year-old Irish castle inherited by his wife.

"Excuse me," says Dominic West, "I’m just going to wipe this so you can sit down and you won’t be infected with disease." About seven crumbs on his otherwise clean kitchen table disappear with the swipe of a tea towel, and he gets back to the business of making lunch. We’re in the kitchen of his house in Wiltshire, where he lives with his wife Catherine and their four children.

His head turns from cupboard to cupboard, like he’s watching a tennis match. “Where has the rice gone? Would you like rice?”

Yes please, if that’s what you’re having.

“I am, if I can fucking find it.”

He fucking finds it and a pan of rice goes on the hob next to the pan of leftover beef stew. “So I’m on the cover?” he says, looking out of the window. “But doesn’t that mean you’ve got to try and make it interesting?”

In 2000, Dominic West joined an Argentinian circus. This was the year before he auditioned for and won his breakthrough role of Detective Jimmy McNulty on The Wire and the year after he had a single line (“The boy’s here to see Padmé”) as a guard of one of those science-fiction sliding doors in Star Wars: Episode I — The Phantom Menace. He was 30, five years out of drama school and father to a one-year-old daughter.

The circus, De La Guarda, had a show, also called De La Guarda, at the Roundhouse in Camden. It was the hottest ticket in London that year. The audience entered the round to ambient music under a low paper ceiling. Performers would burst through the paper, on ropes, and eventually a pounding live soundtrack accompanied a dozen or more roped performers as they ran around the walls of the circular venue. Water rained down. Some audience members would be lifted into the air; others, perhaps more fortunate, would be pressed into urgent dancing with attractive, adrenalised Argentinians unclipped from their shackles. Or indeed, West himself.

‘What’s amazing,’ says Keira Knightley, ‘is that Dominic can play characters who should be total dickheads, yet he manages to give them a point of view and his own incredible charm. It is a great skill’

“Why did I do it?” says West, somewhat incredulously. “You saw it! Wouldn’t you want to run away and join that circus? It was such a sexy show. I saw it in London and New York, then heard they were auditioning in London and I had to do it. I did a lot of shows in five months with those amazing men and women, then they went to Vegas. It was a disaster there. The water. People dressed up for a Vegas show — of course they didn’t want to get wet.”

West didn’t want to go to Vegas. But he would end up spending a lot more time in America, filming five seasons of The Wire and four seasons of The Affair, with a fifth and final one due to start filming a couple of days after we make lunch.

“The toughest part of making these big episodic American television shows is missing my family and the boredom,” he says, gearing himself up for the process to begin again. “Sitting around waiting and not being bored is hard. There was a time when I had a play in the West End [Butley, 2011] and was learning Iago [for Othello] and I had more on than usual. That was hard work, but the harder that aspect of the work gets, the more enjoyable it is. Actual graft is what’s great about acting. That’s something I relish, because most of the time, it’s about coping with tedium.”

To stop himself being bored on set, West likes to have fun. “You can’t not have fun with him,” says Keira Knightley, soon to be seen alongside West in the film Colette. “I think fun is something that Dominic brings to everything. He very much likes a night out, is always up for a laugh and is, in the best way, wicked. And he is a phenomenally good actor, he really is. So effortless.”

“For a lot of us,” Knightley says, “who do actually need to concentrate when we’re working, it’s, ‘How are you that good when you're chatting and joking until the very last second?’ Even I had to tell him to shut up so I could concentrate. Which I had to do quite a lot.”

West is not about to shut up. And he’s not the only one. “I just did a thing with Olivia Colman [a BBC mini-series adaptation of Les Misérables] and: fuck me! Ha ha ha! The whole thing is like playing top-level sports with her. How frivolous can you be up to ‘Action!’ and then be amazing. She doesn’t do that consciously, she is just really fucking good. She is way, way, way better than me. I had to stop listening to her because she is so funny.”

Then a more serious thought occurs. “Malcolm Gladwell’s thing about 10,000 hours [the writer’s theory, from his book Outliers, that to be expert in any field requires that exact amount of practice time]? I worked it out and I’ve had at least 20,000 hours. I’ve acted so much now I can turn it on and off, and that’s maybe where the humour thing comes in. I have had an awful lot of practice at this.”

Dominic West first got the taste for drama when he was nine years old. His mother, Moya, gave him a part in her amateur production of The Winslow Boy, at Sheffield University’s drama studio. His father, George, had a factory in Wakefield that made vandal-proof bus shelters. George’s father, Harold, a managing director of a steelworks in Barnsley, fought in WWI and was wounded at the Battle of Vimy Ridge. “After, he wrote a note to go with his medals,” says West, “that said, ‘Here are a few mementos from a deeply happy part of my life’.” West has found documentaries commemorating the centenary of the Armistice “deeply moving.”

He is the sixth of seven children, with five sisters and an elder brother. They grew up in a large house on the edge of the Peak District, about 10 miles southwest of Sheffield. He boarded at Eton and hated it to begin with. “I was very homesick, had no reference to it, didn’t know anyone who had gone and I felt I was in the wrong place.” Inspiring teachers and school plays gave him something to be excited about and set him on his path.

“It’s pretentious to say, really, but my acting education was defined by doing Hamlet at Eton, reading Ulysses when I was doing my English degree at Trinity College in Dublin, then War and Peace, which we put on at Guildhall [School of Music & Drama in London]. That’s it, really. All I learned anywhere.”

Legend has it that in the audience watching his Prince of Denmark was Damian Lewis, a couple of years behind West at school, and later the star of Band of Brothers, Homeland and Billions. So taken was the younger lad by what he saw that he decided to become an actor.

“Categorically: no,” Lewis tells me, over the phone from Los Angeles. “I had always acted at school and always enjoyed it. Me thinking it was something I could do more seriously didn’t happen until I was 16 years old, after seeing Dom do Hamlet. He was very charismatic. A big, booming sonorous voice, especially for a 17-year-old. I was very taken with him, he was very captivating up on stage.”

Since graduating from Guildhall, West has worked solidly. He is not a huge movie star but is highly successful and versatile. There aren’t many men who could convincingly play both Fred West and Richard Burton, as West has done. He won a Bafta for his Fred West. He’s most memorable as Jimmy McNulty, not least because he and The Wire are so good, but also because constant reminders of those two facts have become standard reference points in the increasingly vast conversation about the New Golden Age of TV.

He has, in his own words, played “a long line of philandering cads”, from McNulty on to Hector Madden, the Fifties news anchor in two seasons of The Hour for the BBC, to Noah in The Affair and Willy in Colette. “What’s amazing,” says Keira Knightley, “is that he can play characters that should be total dickheads, yet he manages to give them a point of view and his own incredible charm, so you sort of forgive them for how terrible they might be. It is a great skill.”

But he is far from typecast. His five film roles previous to Willy in Colette are: Lara Croft’s dad, a sort of country-gent Indiana Jones, in Tomb Raider; a quietly pompous pyjamas-wearing modern artist in the Swedish film The Square, which won the Palme D’Or at the 2017 Cannes Film Festival; Rudder, a comic-relief Cockney sea lion in Pixar’s Finding Dory; a Teflon swine of a CEO opposite George Clooney and Julia Roberts in Money Monster; and, in Genius, Ernest Hemingway.

There have been stage successes, including star turns in the West End. Following up the blockbuster and critically lauded play Jerusalem, the writer Jez Butterworth and director Ian Rickson could have done any play with anyone on any stage. They chose Dominic West to star in The River, a short, intense play with one man and two women in the 90-seater upstairs room at the Royal Court Theatre in London, for which West won universal praise.

‘It is a bad thing to be self-deprecating. It’s quite an English thing, which you become very aware of in America. People don’t understand: why do yourself down? I sort of agree with it, now’

“Dominic is able to unleash his unconscious in a really ‘present’ way,” says Ian Rickson. “It allows him to fuse into the darkness of Fred West, for example, or the troubled soul of McNulty. In terms of archetypes, he has a trickster quality hiding a warrior/lover inside. That’s exciting. There’s very little ego and a lot of generosity of spirit. He actually has a refreshingly comic sense of himself, so he does really value the opportunities he has, and doesn’t take them too seriously.”

West feels he does and he doesn’t. “I suppose deep down there’s a feeling that what I do isn’t desperately serious. It might have been Mark Boxer, the cartoonist, who said he went to some lunch for cartoonists, an awards maybe, and he was having a piss and the guy next to him said, ‘Cartoonist. It’s not a real job, is it?’ And he said, ‘No, it’s not. Isn’t that great!’ He took great comfort from that and I feel the same about acting. But there is something in me which feels, partly because I have been doing it all my life and did as a hobby before I did it professionally, that this is not a serious job for adults.”

Perhaps this is why he’s so self-deprecating. Twice during our conversations, he says that he’s not a “real actor”, bringing up Daniel Day-Lewis’s commitment to doing an accent the entire time he makes a film, on and off set, and his own inability to match that; and pointing out Robert De Niro’s weight gain for Raging Bull. For Colette, West wore a fat suit.

And yet, during our conversations, he trots out seven perfect accents and imitations: Mick Jagger, the German film director Werner Herzog, Northern Irish, Irish, Australian, New York and a deep, thespian-type voice to convey mock indignance. He’s not showing off. Some of the voices were to make anecdotes funnier and others were just as anyone might do an accent subconsciously when you think of someone with an accent. You know, for fun.

But he can be serious. “It is a bad thing, to be self-deprecating,” he says, a little bit disappointed with himself. “Maybe it’s an educational thing. It’s quite an English thing, which you become very aware of in America. People just don’t understand why on earth you would do that. There are enough people who would do you down, why do yourself down? I sort of agree with it, now. It is tiresome.”

Clarke Peters, who played Lester Freamon in The Wire, and Othello to West’s Iago on stage in 2011, has a different view of his friend’s dilemma. “As good an actor as he is, his self- deprecating comments are his truth. He would prefer to be playing than talking about himself; exploring a character, discovering nuances, dissecting a character’s arc, is where he’s comfortable. Presenting all that unseen work is nerve-wracking. And actors are never the best judges of their own work. So, to be safe from criticism and microscopic scrutiny, self-deprecation is the best defence."

The fat suit in Colette was no cop-out. “I was then about to play Jean Valjean,” West says, more forgiving of himself now, “a man who has been in prison for 19 years, so there was a clash of waistline imperatives.” He plays the lead in a song-free, six-part Les Misérables — the project in which Olivia Colman out-joked him — the BBC’s first big drama of 2019, with the opening episode broadcast on New Year’s Day.

According to Keira Knightley, the extra padding, and a walrus moustache, did not mute West’s physical attractiveness. “Nobody looks good in that,” she says, “but he somehow manages to be dangerously sexy through it. It was a main conversation between the rest of us on set: how he managed to ooze sexuality while he was farting in two fat suits. Quite extraordinary. I can’t think of another actor who might be able to do that.”

Sarah Treem, the showrunner of The Affair, could not conceive of anyone else but West as her leading man, Noah Solloway. “He didn’t audition. I wrote it with him in mind,” she says. “I was a huge fan of The Wire and I just loved how complicated he could be — both likeable and unlikeable at the same time.”

The Affair begins with Noah, a married father of four, embarking on a fling with a waitress, Alison, played by Ruth Wilson, and then follows the fall-out for the two of them, their spouses and extended families. West, Wilson and the wider cast are terrific, as is the show’s central conceit of telling the story from the point-of-view of different characters, usually two in each hour-long episode.

“Dominic is so good at playing all different facets of Noah,” Treem continues. “His intelligence, his lust, his insecurity, the pain of his childhood, his love for his children. He lets Noah be a very complicated, sometimes deeply generous, sometimes horribly selfish, man.”

West concurs, with a caveat. “I have had difficulty wondering why someone who I can identify with — he’s my age and has a bunch of kids — would do the things he does. Sarah, a very brilliant woman younger than I am, looked at me with a raised eyebrow when I said, ‘Men my age just don’t do that. Why leave your wife and kids for a waitress and start another family?’ She told me the stories of several real people who had. Not that I want my characters to be sympathetic, but I want to give them the benefit of the doubt and I have struggled with Noah in that regard.”

West has five children: a daughter, 20, with former girlfriend Polly Astor, and two sons and two daughters aged 12, 10, nine and five, with his wife, the landscape designer Catherine FitzGerald. It is Catherine’s beef stew we have been eating for lunch, their children’s clothes drying on the Aga behind us. On a smaller table in a nook in the corner of the kitchen, next to some half-completed maths homework, is a pile of dad’s hardbacks: The Flame by Leonard Cohen, William Dalrymple’s retelling of the Indian mutiny of 1857, The Last Mughal, and Changing Stages, Richard Eyre and Nicholas Wright’s history of 20th-century theatre.

Out in the driveway, a small child’s BMX has been discarded in front of mum’s Audi A3, in perfect position to be crunched into the gravel next time the car sets off. At lunch, West didn’t know where the rice was because he and his family have only lived in this house, a former brewery in a Wiltshire hamlet, for a few weeks. They used to live in Shepherd’s Bush, in a house that once belonged to another actor from Sheffield, Brian Glover.

“I have led my family out of London slightly against their will,” West admits, “and quite legitimately want my children to be around plants and animals more than they perhaps might be in London. My wife said I’m trying to create my childhood home here and I said, [now, the thespian accent] ‘No I’m not! Preposterous! What do you mean? It’s nothing like that!’”

His wife’s childhood home is Glin Castle in County Limerick, Ireland, a true country pile (15 ensuite bedrooms, 380 acres, secret bookcase doors) that, in various versions, has been in her family for nearly 800 years. (It’s the house you can see in the background of the photographs on these pages.) She and West want to hold on to it. To do so, the house needs to become a going concern as an events and private hire venue to cover its annual £130,000 running costs.

“I do like history and I do like old buildings,” West says. “I’m also conscious of my wife’s father and his and her legacies. He worked in conservation in Ireland, to try and preserve these old buildings, which were out of favour for many years. It’s up to us to try and keep that going, because when they’re bought by hotels and the like, they’re often destroyed.”

This Christmas and New Year, he says, “we have a super-A-list celebrity taking it. Who, I can’t possibly divulge. Actually, can you do us a big favour and put the website, please, at the end of the piece? ‘Glin dash castle dot com.’ It would make my life easier.”

It’s time to do the school pick-up. “We can keep talking in the car,” he says, and leads the way to a silver Chrysler Grand Voyager. “It has,” West says, buckling up, “the biggest capacity of any people carrier.”

Precisely something a turning-50-next-year dad-of-five should say. “I have no problem getting older,” he says. “For male actors of my age there is less emphasis, and I have already started to play the dad of the lover instead of the lover. The pressure is off. Some swami said that the key to happiness is ‘I don’t mind what happens.’ You mind less about things, let go of them. Turning 50 is great. My daughter is also turning 21, so we should have quite a party.”

He has regrets. “I suppose I wish I had played more Shakespearean roles.”

What about the old-man ones? “Only Lear is as good as the young ones.”

What about not being James Bond? “Fuck no! I’m delighted now that I didn’t get it.”

Auditioning for Bond, in 2005, West turned up in a T-shirt and tatty jeans. “I remember the director, Martin Campbell, saying, ‘Thank Christ you haven’t turned up in a tux like everybody else’. It was for Casino Royale. At the time, I really wanted to get it. I love Bond, and I was the right age for it. They asked me, ‘What do you think should happen with Bond?’ And I said something deeply uninspired like, ‘I think he should go back to being more like Sean Connery’. I thought then that it was the best job you can do. Now, I’m not so sure. You have a year-and-a-half of hell doing publicity.”

West pulls up opposite the school. “Wait here. Enjoy the smell. Kids’ banana skins,” he says, opening the driver’s door. Puzzled, I sniff the air. There is no unpleasant aroma. The interior of Dominic West’s car smells perfectly fine. But, of course, he claims otherwise. He’s a terrific actor and a thoroughly likeable chap, but that self-deprecation still needs some work.

Colette is in cinemas on 11 January; glin-castle.com (https://www.esquire.com/uk/culture/a25557268/dominic-west-interview/)

#les mis bbc #bbc les mis #dominic west #Interviews

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