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watching-pictures-move · 2 years

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Dispatches from TIFF #1

Hey folks, after two long years, I’m doing TIFF again, so I figured I’d make a little diary out of it with reviews and other thoughts.

Ciné-Guerrillas: Scenes from the Labudovic Reels (Turajilic, 2022)

This was my first screening of TIFF this year (after not having attended the last 2 years thanks to Covid and whatnot), and either I mistimed my commute or they set it up later due to this movie's lower profile, but I miraculously managed to be the first one in line. During the wait, Steve Coogan arrived in front of the theatre, but because I was too slow in pulling out my phone, I only snapped the back of his head as he turned away. Also, it seems like the segment to thank the volunteers gets cringier every year, and I'm glad to see this tradition was continued despite the pandemic. I took a vacation from work to do a whole bunch of showings like I used to do in the pre-'rona days, so expect lots more exciting reportage from the front lines over the week (mostly when I don't have anything interesting to say about the actual movie).

As for the movie, the subject, about Yugoslavian cameraman Stevan Labudovic and his involvement in the Algerian War, is interesting enough to make this reasonably engaging viewing. Like a lot of modern documentaries, there is a certain formal dryness, but I think the access Turajilic had to her interview subjects and the actual footage alleviates that. That being said, I found the film a little frustrating. It reveals towards the end that despite the Labudovic's hero status in Algeria, very few Algerians had actually been able to see his footage. During the Q&A, Turajilic expanded on this, referring to the Algerian government's tight control of messaging around the Algerian War, and her difficulty filming in Algeria until she used Labudovic's name as a way to get access. For a movie as concerned as it is about propaganda and the way media can be an extension of warfare, I would have liked to see it interrogate that last revelation further.

Fixation (Morgan, 2022)

Jittery genre fun with an appealingly twitchy lead performance Maddie Hasson. I found her a bit much in We Summon the Darkness, and that’s probably true here as well, but it serves the material better this time around. This is a about trauma and whatnot like pretty much every modern horror movie is, but works better as it’s more concerned with translating the heroine’s experience into visceral terms than making sure all its themes tie out nicely. During the Q&A the director and cinematographer said they tried to work in a large number of references to their inspirations, but I appreciated that it wasn’t too distracting. I tend to be put off when movies are too studied in their homaging, as I’d usually prefer to watch the inspirations instead. Now, they didn’t cite any specific films in their answer, and I was too embarrassed to ask to confirm, but I’m 90% sure that between the premise and the inclusion of the line “I know you’re watching me” that the filmmakers have seen Nightdreams. I will say that I was less than enamoured by the ending, but I had a good time for most of this.

On a side note, this opens with a trigger warning indicating that the movie contains content some might find triggering, but provides no details as to what that content might be. I’m not inherently against content warnings (I’ll sometimes check the IMDb Parent’s Guide before putting on a movie), but what am I supposed to do with that warning? I imagine most people watching it in this setting bought tickets through the site, which gives more helpful descriptions of what’s in the movie, so it’s not exactly useful for them. And for people who got in from the rush line? The warning has no details. Are they just gonna get up and leave? Okay, rant over.

Sick (Hyams, 2022)

This review contains mild spoilers in the second paragraph and major spoilers in the third paragraph.

The things that stick out the most to me about John Hyams' action movies are the unwavering clarity of the steadicam cinematography and the sheer physicality of the violence, in a way that almost flirts with body horror. Both of those qualities are present here, so Hyams fans will likely have a good time with this. The camerawork is quite a bit choppier, but never hard to follow, as it tends to follow the action in a pretty natural way. In the Q&A, Hyams mentions a reluctance to intentionally shake the camera, and the shakes here feel like a natural extension of the messiness of the action, with confrontations between the killer and their victims drawn out to be much longer and less one sided than is usual in the slasher genre. Which also means that the gnarliest acts of violence make quite an impact (the hooting and hollering by the audience during my screening was well justified).

Now, I'm going to flirt with spoiler territory in this paragraph, so hold off from reading if you'd like to go in completely blind, even though I'll do my best not to give away outright plot points. This is written by Kevin Williamson, whose credit is essentially a spoiler as he recycles elements from the Scream franchise, but applying it to a story set in the early stages of the pandemic (April 2020, to be precise). I've been interested in how movies have been influenced by the pandemic in their production methods and particularly their storytelling. The COVID element is pretty explicit here, with our two heroines heading up to a secluded cottage. The movie presents some of the preventative measures which in retrospect seem a bit excessive (outdoor masking, wiping down groceries, constant spraying of disinfectant), and plays these as punchlines. Some of this is inevitable given that we have more information about how COVID spreads now, and some of that is the Williamson touch. But in the Q&A he discussed wanting to capture the ambient sense of fear in those days into the story, and I don't know if Hyams or Williamson deserve the greater share of blame, but I never felt that the usual slasher sense of isolation ever translated to COVID paranoia.

I am diving into outright spoiler territory in this paragraph, so skip to the bottom if you don't want it ruined. The way the movie tied COVID into the killers' motivations didn't sit right with me, and I'm going to spill over into my personal views here for a second, so bear with me. In the Q&A, Hyams and Williamson spoke about wanting to capture the need to find a specific target to blame to find some catharsis when the threat is more ambient and the causes are arguably systemic. I guess this is where I differ from from them in that I think individual actions absolutely have played a part making the situation worse. It's not an either or situation. I don't think Hyams or Williamson intend to minimize the harm caused by COVID (otherwise they wouldn't have made this a major plot element), but I think of the way the killers in Scream are given time to develop as actual characters ("humanize" seems like the wrong word, but I got a sense of them as people outside the plot). I guess you can blame Hyams' narrow storytelling focus, which arguably enhances the suspense, but I don't think that happens here. Okay, major spoilers over.

In short, this is a pretty effective piece of slashering, even if certain storytelling decisions left me deeply frustrated.

#film #movie review #tiff #tiff22 #Ciné-Guerrillas: Scenes from the Labudovic Reels #Fixation #Sick #Mila Turajlić #Mercedes Bryce Morgan #John Hyams

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tilbageidanmark · 5 months

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Movies I watched this Week # 153 (Year 3/Week 49):

So on Monday morning, as I start preparing my "Viewing schedule" for the week, I stumble on a new space documentary The making of JUICE, and two hours later, I already know that this will probably be my most emotionally-rewarding film of the week. It chronicles the final years of development of The European Space Agency's Jupiter Icy Moons Explorer (JUICE), which took off to Jupiter on April 14, 2023. It’s a deeply technical dive into a topic I know nothing about. But it’s absolutely exhilarating - 10/10.

🍿

I really struggled with Scorsese's new saga Killers of the flower moon. It's an indictment against America's original sin, the genocide and dispossession of the ingenious population, and the systemic evil it shows is deeply unpleasant. Had De Nero ever played such an sinister character? His Jimmy Conway was also a ruthless murderer, but he didn't come across as Machiavellian as here.

It's a stunningly beautiful film, but the tragedy should have been told in two hours, not 3.5.

🍿

While waiting for Miyazaki's latest 'The boy and the heron', I caught Castle in the sky, one of the last Ghibli Studio features I hadn't seen yet.

An imaginative retro-futuristic adventure, its drawing style is somehow primitive compared to his later films. As always, many of its themes and tropes were repeated later nearly-verbatim: The old woman pirate who become Ubaba in 'Spirited away', the many fanciful steampunk airships, the strong female protagonist and her sidekick, the magical journey, the beautiful scenery, the ecological destruction, the sumptuous food.

(Unfortunately I could only watch it in the bad English dubbed version).

🍿

From the '30 best mobster movies' list, the classic French Noir Touchez pas au grisbi ('Don't touch the loot'). Cool Jean Gabin is the honorable gangster, a refined, quiet, responsible, thoughtful criminal with an impeccable looks and manners. 8/10.

🍿

3 by German-born French director Dominik Moll:

🍿 The Night of the 12th, a patient award-winner cop thriller that follows an investigation into an unsolved murder. A young woman is burnt alive, and in the quest to discover who did it, quiet dynamics about misogyny and gender roles are being exposed. Reminiscent of 'Memories of murder'. The rural areas outside Grenoble were mouth-watering beautiful. 8/10.

🍿 Moll’s previous thriller, Only the animals, was even a tighter thriller. Like ‘Rashomon’, it tells seven diverse stories that don't seem connected until the very last scene. This one is worth watching without any knowledge about it beforehand; it's so surprising, and shocking, and fresh. My 6th film with Denis Ménochet. Best thriller I've seen for a while - 9/10.

🍿 His earlier hit, With a Friend Like Harry, disappointed me greatly. "Harry" meets an old high school acquaintance at a roadside restroom, and invites himself to stay with the friend's family. Without any clear motivation, well-to-do Harry decides to buy his struggling friend a new car, and as some days go by, starts killing everybody around him, "because they irritate him (?)". It opens with a long grating scene of the three children crying in the car, and continued with none of the characters becoming appealing or interesting. A terrible Hitchcock at best.

🍿

2 about cute French swimming instructors:

🍿 The five devils, My 5th uneven film with Adèle Exarchopoulos. It's a mixed up magical fantasy which is also taking place in the eastern mountainous part of Rhône. At its core, there's a tender bond between a mother and her daughter, and the 10-year-old has a extra-strong sense of smell. But then a slew of confusing subplots emerge. They include pyromania, clairvoyance, disintegrating marriage, supernatural time travel, lesbianism, trances, and what have you. 4/10.

🍿 Sink or swim, my 10th film with gorgeous Belgian actress Virginie Efira. A low-brow and predictable 'comedy' about a depressed group of suburban, sad-sack losers, each with their own midlife crisis, who join a male team of synchronized swimming. Efira is their trainer, and the whole premise is ridiculous, and sloppily-made. 2/10.

🍿

First watch: Vincente Minnelli's turn of the century Gigi. A lame musical about a teenager prostitute school... Sorry, "Courtesans". Hard to fathom that in 1958 it swept all the 9 Oscars it was nominated for! It opens with 70-year-old grandpa Maurice Chevalier singing “Thank Heaven For Little Girls", an ode to 7 year old girls with a sly smile on his face. Disturbingly creepy, it's explicitly about "grooming", or, how to train a young woman to be a mistress. 1/10.

At least it got me interested enough to read about the "Belle Époque", the "Golden Age" era from a century ago, which had so many similarities to our recent past: A period "characterised by optimism, regional peace, economic prosperity, colonial expansion, and technological, scientific, and cultural innovations". And which ended so brutally by some certain historical calamities, the two World Wars…

🍿

Make way for tomorrow, the "Saddest movie ever made"? An old couple loses their home in 1937 America, and none of their five selfish adult children wants to help them stay together. A real tearjerker that may have been the inspiration to Ozu's 'Tokyo Story'.

🍿

“… This land doesn’t seem to have changed much…”

Vilhelm Hammershøi (1864-1916) was a symbolic, melancholic Danish painter. Michael Palin and the Mystery of Hammershøi is part of the travelogue series that Michael Palin used to host. Palin was fascinated by him, because many of his Vermeer-inspired portraits featured a mysterious woman shown from the back.

He lived mainly on Strandgade 30 in Christianshavn, [which I passed on many times], and painted the interior of his home more than 60 times. Extensive use of Bach's Prelude No. 1. But the documentary itself was not very insightful.

🍿

2 Black Mirror-like Re-watches:

🍿 Melancholic Black Mirror S1, E1, Be right back, voted as "12th greatest TV episodes of the 21 century", an unusually tender story.

🍿 Soderbergh's tight conspiracy fire cracker from last year, Kimi, his nail-biting Covid-19 'Black Mirror'-style thrill-ride. Like Hitchcock's Rear Window about our digital life today. With Derek DelGaudio as the murderous heavy. Terrifying 9/10.

🍿

"Off with everybody's heads!"

A 1915 silent film version of Alice in Wonderland, using faithful costuming to the original John Tenniel's illustrations. Some of the animal characters were creepy.

🍿

Hatchi X 2:

🍿 Hatchiko, a new Chinese remake of the famous real-life Japanese story about the faithful dog, waiting to his owner at the railway station, even years after his death. Adora and I watched the Richard Gere's 'Hatchi' many times. Here, the dog is not an Akita, but a mongrel and his name is BaTong. There's also a scene where he is saved from a dog meat restaurant, just before being made into spicy stir-fry. Very sentimental, with Joan Chen.

🍿 I also tried to watch the original 1987 Japanese original of Hachikō Monogatari, but this turned up to be a insufferable Olde Tyme, super sweet version, and I had to abandon it midstream.

🍿

2 more by The Obama's:

🍿 American symphony documents a year in the life of musician Jon Batiste and his wife, as she struggles with leukemia. I've previously seen five other films that were produced by Obama’s Hollywood company, 'Higher Ground'. But as much I adored him 15 and 18 years ago, this 'heart-felt' documentary was boringly pedestrian. 2/10.

🍿 I devoured Leave the world behind because I always seek realistic stories about the end of our world. It started slow and small, with some highfalutin cinematography and sound edits, surrounding the lifestyle of the upper middle class well-to-do and un-famous. But it quickly lost steam as it turns into a mixed-up conspiracy nightmare, that tries to get all the possible apocalyptic tropes into one giant pot. A generous 5/10.

🍿

The Realest Real, another short parable with Mahershala Ali, about fashion, social media, status. Produced by the Kenzo brand. 2/10.

🍿

Fast Charlie, a new Mississippi/New Orleans crime thriller, with Pierce Brosnan as an aging, omnipotent hit-man, dreaming of retiring to Tuscany. Like a mid-range Elmore Leonard caper with high body count. James Caan's last paycheck.

🍿

"...Wait. Not the homeless person that fell down the stairs?..."

What does it say about me that one of my favorite romantic comedies of late is Long shot, and that I've seen it probably 10 times, including last month, and that I felt 'forced' to watch it again today?

The Boys ll Men groove is how this movie appeals to me. But it's so well-done on every level. 10/10.

🍿

Nahum Gutman and his world, the only documentary I could find about the greatest Israeli painter, my childhood’s hero. But the banal voiceover gave the most incomprehensible gibberish analysis for the visuals: Worst Art Talk ever!

🍿

(My complete movie list is here)

#movies

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libertyxm · 10 months

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[Harry x MC] Rain of stars. Part 1

Hello guys! I'm back again after a looong hiatus. This is the first part of my new fanfic about Harry.I've already told you that it's about the cold and rude Harry from the planet Cloudi, but it will get better and better as the story progresses. I'm also going to publish this same story on planet Sensitive (you can find me there with the same username libertyxm), in case you want to follow it from there. Anyway, I'll stop talking so much and let you enjoy the story. See you soon!

Liberty

"And this is all for today's class" that's the only sentence I paid attention to since the lesson started. I let out a sigh. I was tired after yesterday work shift and the last thing I wanted to do is have to assist a class at 8:00 a.m.

"I need coffee, like right now. A big cup with extra sugar, coffee, and caramel" I smiled at my best friend sitting next to me. "Okey but today's coffee is on you" I replied to her as we started our way to the cafeteria. " I know, I know... by the way, did you hear about that super famous film director visiting our faculty?" "Not really, and since when do you care about these things? " I asked my friend. " Because rumors said he is really handsome but sadly, he almost always covers his face with a horse mask" I laughed " A horse mask? come on, stop kidding me, who would go out with that" She rolled her eyes " I don't know, maybe he's afraid to blind us with his pretty face" We both laughed as the cashier was taking our order " Why is he coming?" I asked, suddenly curious. " It looks like he wants to take some scenes for a university students documentary... oh, our order is here"

After we took separate paths after we had been talking for a while since both of us had different subjects. As I headed to class, I opened my cell phone to check the status of my bank account. Seeing as how the situation was, I would probably have to work more hours or find something that paid me better. As I keep wondering about these thoughts I felt the impact of something (or rather someone) against me and I was near to taste the floor, but thanks to God, I could maintain my balance. The culprit? was a tall guy with short grey hair and deep blue eyes. Wow... so... handsome but guess what, he was looking at me with a frown on his face as if I had been the one who had attacked him.

I pulled myself together and stood in front of him waiting for my apology, but all I got was a snap and him dodging me to keep walking. "Excuse me, sir, have you not been taught manners?" I told him a little bit angry. "Why should I do it?" is all he said.

"Sir, you almost knocked me down" I pointed out the obvious "It was you who bumped into me" and he just walked away. I took a deep breath and tried to count to ten as I imagined what would happen if I threw my bag at him.

After a long day of classes and assignments, I went to the coffee shop I work in. In general, my coworkers are nice but there was this guy called David who always piss me off. For him, I make everything wrong. Somedays I just take it and shut up, but others… well it's better not to talk about it right now.

Today, although I had to work alone for a few hours, it was not crowded and I could relax a little.

"I would like to take an americano and black tea, please" I took the order before I look at the two men in front of me but when I looked up, I was stunned to recognise the same blue-eyed boy from this morning.

We both gave each other withering glances before I start to work on their order. If it wasn't for the workers' code and my contract… I let out a sigh, trying to get out of my state of frustration but, exactly two minutes later, the boy was standing in front of me with that "I hate you" expression of his.

"What's wrong?" I asked and I wish I hadn't. "The tea, it doesn't taste good." "Okay, what have I got to do with it?" "You're the one who made it, so I demand good tea."

I gave her a withering look before taking a deep breath for the fifth time this day.

"Sir, either be more specific with what you want or I won't be able to help you."

"Throw it away, it's useless to come here for a drink" Maybe the best solution would have been to shut up, smile and offer him another one that suits his taste, but by the time I realised, I had already thrown the tea (which was already cold) on top of his shoes. Well... at least I did the shut up part, right?...

#thessum #harry choi #the ssum harry #writing #fanfic #the ssum fanfic

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jilisilver · 1 year

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The lazarus effect cast

DOWNLOAD NOW The lazarus effect cast

#THE LAZARUS EFFECT CAST MOVIE#

She has by far the most intriguing role, taking Zoe from voice of reason to demonic hellbeast. Even playing a vaguely villainous nerd, Duplass remains loose and natural, riffing his way through ludicrous exposition and bantering with the very game Wilde. It’s all deeply unsatisfying.Īt least the actors valiantly labor to breathe life into the limp narrative. A dash of “The Thing” here, a dollop of “The Fury” there - topped with cardboard characters and superficial treatment of Big Questions involving life and death, science and religion. As zombie Zoe develops crazy powers (telekinesis, mind reading, the ability to fully dilate her pupils at will), everyone including Frank just sits around waiting to see what happens next. The answer turns out to be a whole slew of horror tropes (one half expects “Flatliners”-era Kiefer Sutherland to show up ranting, “Our sins have come back in a physical form!”), but no genuine scares, and certainly nothing visceral enough to threaten the bloodless PG-13 rating.Ĭredited scribes Luke Dawson (“Shutter”) and Jeremy Slater (the upcoming “Fantastic Four” reboot) clearly aim to reimagine Frankenstein (down to the name of Duplass’ sorta-mad scientist), but the script is quite literally made up of recycled parts.

#THE LAZARUS EFFECT CAST MOVIE#

That’s when “The Lazarus Effect” morphs from the kind of pseudo-intellectual science thriller that forces its cast to recite meaningless technical jargon in an attempt to sound smart into a full-blown horror movie forcing the same characters to act as dumb as humanly possible. The stakes soon escalate past the point of no return when a covert attempt to re-create the resurrection results in Zoe losing her life, and Frank taking extreme measures to bring her back. Meanwhile, the couple’s support staff - computer whiz Niko (Donald Glover), who nurses a crush on Zoe, pothead idea man Clay (Evan Peters) and newly hired videographer Ava (Sarah Bolger) - don’t seem particularly fazed by the fact that they’ve brought a formerly living creature back from the dead, though Clay has his reservations after a late night alone with the dog. It doesn’t help when she notices the undead pup isn’t exactly acting normal. Zoe is a little more conflicted, thanks to a strong dose of Catholic guilt and mysterious recurring nightmares from her childhood. At least, that’s what Frank hopes to achieve by hooking up various deceased animals, including a pig and a dog, to an elaborate machine and injecting them with a fancy resuscitation serum. When the ongoing trials actually succeed in reanimating a departed canine, Frank is thrilled. Still, even a modest opening weekend will ensure a profit before toxic word of mouth kills this stinker for good.Īs a follow-up to the heralded foodie documentary “Jiro Dreams of Sushi,” this is certainly an odd selection for director David Gelb at the very least, it’s the strangest doc-to-horror left turn since Joe Berlinger’s “Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2.” But as with that notorious disappointment, the offbeat choice of helmer isn’t reflected in the anonymous final product (though “Lazarus” leading lady Olivia Wilde does nosh on sushi in one early scene).įor reasons never made entirely clear, romantically entangled scientific researchers Frank ( Mark Duplass) and Zoe (Wilde) have spent several years at a California university getting closer and closer to their ultimate goal: resurrecting the dead. Completed back in 2013 and originally set for release via Lionsgate, the low-budget pic subsequently landed at Relativity, which just last year teamed with producing shingle Blumhouse to distribute the imaginative and unsettling “Oculus.” No such luck this time around, as “Lazarus” shamelessly steals from superior genre efforts and lacks any distinguishing traits beyond a wildly overqualified cast. Appropriately enough for a horror-thriller about raising the dead, “ The Lazarus Effect” has spent the past few years sitting on a shelf, developing quite a stench in the process.

DOWNLOAD NOW The lazarus effect cast

#The lazarus effect cast

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teawithkpop · 3 years

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[M] - PhysCom - Pt 7

pt 1 - pt 2 - pt 3 - bc 1 - pt 4 - pt 5 - pt 6 - pt 7

Pairing: BTS - OT7 x Reader

Rating: Mature [18+]

Length: 5.4k words

Genre: PhysCom AU - smut with dashes of angst, and a shitload of romance and complicated feelings,, uhuhu (porn with plot??)

Warnings: swearing, a lot of emotional turmoil, talk of pregnancy scares (birth control, contraceptives, etc.), implied discrimination towards sex workers (not by any of the boys dw), mentions of sexual acts

slowly hands you a cake that says "I haven't updated this fic in 14 months and I don't know when the next part is coming but here's an update thanks for being patient" in comic sans

-------

The rush to the hospital goes by in a blur of tears and shouting and panic and questions that you can't bring yourself to answer. The only constant is Min Yoongi's hand, firmly locked in your own throughout the ordeal, tethering you to reality.

You now sit in a private room on a sterile medical table and wait to be seen, too numb inside to feel the sting of the cold metal as it cuts into the backs of your thighs. Yoongi stands beside you, still holding your hand, his fingers are laced through yours and squeezing as if it could sap away the fear that eats away your insides, leaving you hollow and empty.

"It'll be alright. Don't worry about a damn thing, okay?" He shifts his weight anxiously, betraying his own underlying worries.

You barely remember him throwing his jacket over you before being rushed out of the house, and you don't feel deserving of the modest coverage. Though the leather is worn and soft against your skin, all you can feel is the harsh metallic zipper, scratching at your chest as though reminding you of your wrongdoings.

"Yoongi…" you start to say, but he cuts you off, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"Don't you fucking dare. Don't apologize."

You feel tears well up in your eyes. Your chest grows tight with the words he's forbidden you to say.

"I've already called Namjoon, it'll all be fine. Don't worry." He works his jaw and rubs your hand with surprising tenderness, glancing to the little window in the door every other second.

He's been assuring you with those same words for the past half hour, but it feels like it's been an eternity. As you glance at the clock on the wall, watching the hands tick by, you imagine a scene like that of a health documentary. Tiny sperm, swimming up your insides… fertilizing your previously dormant eggs.

Fuck. You've fucked up.

You might be pregnant with Min Yoongi's child. Your Opticon birth control implant could send you into toxic shock at any moment.

You don't see how things can get much worse than this.

The door finally opens, and what appears to be a nurse steps inside. She holds a clipboard, and examines it while she lets the door close behind her. "Let's see now, Miss..." Her shoulders slump marginally as her eyes reach your name. "Oh, right. The PhysCom."

You don't have the energy to ignore the change in her tone from friendly to disinterested, and simply nod. However, you feel Yoongi stiffen beside you.

The nurse lets out a brief sigh and dons a professional expression. "So, what appears to be the problem?" She directs the question to Yoongi.

"We think her birth control implant isn't working." Yoongi explains, his eyes darting furtively between you and the nurse. "She, um… she reached orgasm."

You flush at the memory, ashamed of your failure to adhere to even the most basic of rules set before you.

The nurse makes a noncommittal noise and jots something down. "Says here it’s an Opticon. And you didn't turn it off, sir?"

He shakes his head.

The nurse touches the end of her pen to her mouth, a note of sympathy forming in her eyes. Not for you, but for Yoongi. "How long have you had her?"

"Excuse me?" Yoongi raises an eyebrow.

The nurse tucks the clipboard under her arm, giving him a weary, patient smile. “With PhysComs, we have a list of probable scenarios we’re supposed to check for, to better inform the doctor of the situation, and speed along the treatment process.”

She barely spares you a glance before returning her attention to Yoongi, her voice lowered just a fraction. “It’s not uncommon for newly hired female PhysComs to try and… well, intentionally get pregnant from their clients. Especially if those clients have any amount of wealth or status.”

Yoongi seems lost for words.

She nods as if to agree with his surprise. “It’s some psychosis associated with the job,” she says with a shrug, then straightens her posture once more. “So has she been acting strangely at all? What are her symptoms?”

Your ears burn a bit at being talked about like you’re not in the room, but this isn’t the first time you’ve been in such a position. Oftentimes checkups during training were the same way, the physicians would speak exclusively among themselves and Madame while they examined every inch of you, inside and out.

Yoongi, however, is not used to such an experience.

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” He says, in a voice much calmer than you would have expected. But one glance at his face tells you all you need to know. His eyes are burning like hot coals. Molten and dangerous.

The nurse doesn’t pick up on his irritation, and busily flips through the pages on her clipboard. “I need reliable information, sir. If you please,” she prompts him.

You can feel Yoongi’s hand clench around yours, and you turn to quiet him.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, hoping to reassure him enough so he’ll talk to her, but he stands his ground, his eyes glued on the nurse.

“Get out,” Yoongi says.

The nurse does a double take. “Excuse me, sir?”

“I said get the fuck out of here.” He points to the door. “Send us someone who will actually help.”

She fumes silently for a moment, but decides not to argue with him, and heads for the door in a huff.

Yoongi scoffs as you two are left alone once more. “What the fuck kind of bedside manner was that supposed to be?” He mutters, staring at the door.

“It’s okay.” You place a hand on his arm.

“No, it’s not.” He’s adamant, and you sigh wearily. How do you explain that this is only what can be expected?

You pick out a few haphazard words from the maelstrom in your brain, too tired to find the best phrasing. “Medical personnel… they don’t really get it.”

“Get what?” He asks, turning to you in outrage. “Being a fucking decent human being?”

You flinch, withdrawing your hand. You’re too tired to try and get your point across. But he notices you wilt and immediately comes closer, lowering his voice and placing both his hands on your arms. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, the edge of anger fading away to gentleness. Kindness. “What do you mean?”

You sigh, looking off to the side. You don’t deserve to have him look at you like that.

You carefully remove his hands, trying to maintain some semblance of a professional distance, even in the face of disaster. “Most hospitals don’t look favorably at PhysComs. We were given a few lectures about it in training. We use up their resources and time that could instead be given to patients who didn’t willingly put themselves at risk.”

You remember how your fellow trainees had reacted after those discussions. Many of them found the treatment to be unfair, but you yourself felt that, in a way, the medical field’s viewpoint was reasonable. Your choices are what landed you here.

“What the- what are you talking about?” He huffs, still seemingly in the dark. “You didn’t ask for this… this scare. It wasn’t your fault.” He tries to meet your eyes, but your gaze is fixed firmly to the linoleum floor.

A mirthless smile paints your lips. “But I chose this life. And these risks along with it.”

Before he can question you further, the door bursts open and Kim Namjoon enters the room, both his dress shirt and his hair are rumpled, and his eyes are frantic. “Sweetheart?” He rushes to your side and crushes you in a hug. “Are you alright?”

You hear Yoongi let out a breath of relief. “She’s okay, for the moment.”

Something about the way Namjoon holds you feels like a lamp being held against your cold skin. You’re too damp inside to light a flame yourself, but his own body warms you from the outside in the meantime. You want to let yourself enjoy it, but the memory of your unresolved questions leaves you limp in his arms, filled with nothing but misery and confusion.

He pulls back after a moment, checking you over for signs of injury. His eyes are wide with concern. “What happened? Tell me everything.”

A flare of shame rises up in you at the notion of telling Namjoon about your rule-breaking and everything that occured since this morning.

Thankfully, Yoongi seems to sense your hesitance, and he fills in most of the pieces for Namjoon. Namjoon’s expression remains stoic as Yoongi recounts what happened - you being brought home unconcious, seducing Yoongi - up until the mention of your orgasm. Namjoon’s jaw slackens slightly at this, and his eyes scan your face, searching for something.

It’s at this moment that the doctor walks in, a different nurse at his side. He’s a slightly older man, a few wrinkles creasing his brow, and a smile that appears kind until it lands on you. His face is then tinged with that same indifference that most medical professionals give you.

You wish it was your usual physician, but since this was an emergency, you didn’t have time to take the trip to your usual practice. Whatever hospital is nearest, that’s what Yoongi had told the driver.

The man turns to Namjoon, who arguably commands more presence than Yoongi, and the kindness returns. “Sorry for the delay. Busy night. From what I understand, your PhysCom has malfunctioned, is that correct?”

“Her Opticon malfunctioned, yes.” Namjoon corrects him. His diplomatic tendencies are a blessing right now. You just want to know if you’re pregnant or not. You want to know if you’re losing your job. You want to go home.

The doctor runs a few physical tests on you, feeling your breasts, peering down your throat, and examining your vaginal canal, checking for any other symptoms of malfunction from your Opticon. “All’s well so far.” He says, pulling his forefingers out of you, snapping off his gloves, and disposing of them. “May I take a look at the ComGear?”

You feel a flash of panic, waking you out of your stupor. Fuck, was it still in the group chat? You pull out the slim device, heart hammering as you check. Nope. Just settings. Thank god.

You hand it over, and then remember with a looming feeling of dread exactly why it might have been left on the settings page...

“You do so much for us, jagiya.” Taehyung keeps his hands braced on your arms, his thumb rubbing gently against your skin. “You’re always there for us. Always giving… Now it’s time for you to receive.”

“I’m sorry! It’s my fault-” Jimin’s eyes fall to your compromising position, Yoongi’s dick still out, your leaking core exposed, and claps a hand over his mouth. He looks like he might cry. “Oh no...”

The pieces fall into place, and there’s no doubt in your mind. They must have switched it off.

But why? Why, why, why…?

The doctor - you’re too frazzled to read his nametag - pulls out a pair of reading glasses and takes a look at your ComGear, poking around the device with his pointer finger. “Hm. Strange.” He squints. “The Opticon does appear to be switched off.”

Namjoon blinks. “That’s impossible.”

“I’m afraid that’s the case.” The doctor shows him the setting, the toggle very much in the off position. Namjoon takes the device and looks at it in shock.

The doctor coughs. “I know that, um… for some individuals, the temptation and the… risk associated with no protection during intercourse can be sexually arousing. It’s not the first time we’ve gotten a case like this.”

He removes his glasses, folding them back into his pocket. “However, I would remind you and anyone else who uses this one’s services that although Physical Companions may be virtually expendable, it can become quite expensive for your own sake to impregnate them on a whim, using and discarding them, what with the standard fees for breaching their contract and-”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Namjoon interrupts him, and you notice the iron grip he now has on Yoongi’s arm. Likely the only thing restraining him from throwing a punch. “We’ll be more careful.” Namjoon glances at you, confusion making a little crease between his brows. “Is there some sort of morning after pill she can take, or…?”

“I’m afraid the lingering effects of the Opticon implant render any outside hormone blockers ineffective.” The doctor says, his smile turning thin. “It’s a bit of a blessing and a curse. The hormone production and ovulation suppressant in the Opticon normally make the chance of fertilization zero percent while in use. After it’s switched off, chances are still fairly low at 30 percent, for up to 24 hours. But the chances of fertilization after taking a morning after pill are significantly lower than that, at only five percent.”

He shrugs. “We’ll just have to wait and see. Chances are, your PhysCom will be right as rain and ready to pleasure clients again in about a week.”

A week.

First a week of suspension on Namjoon’s terms… Now it’s on medical advisement.

“A week? What should we do until then?” Namjoon voices your very thoughts, Yoongi seething silently beside him.

“Well, we won’t have any results until three to five days from now.” The man clarifies. “But I highly recommend you leave the implant switched off and keep her on traditional contraceptives until we know for sure. I strongly recommend utilizing other PhysComs in the meantime, just to be safe.”

You’re finished.

The doctor hands Namjoon a paper bag, most likely containing birth control pills and condoms. “She may be somewhat volatile for the next few days. You can bring her in for another checkup in a week.”

You’re weak.

“Thank you.”

You’re numb.

-------

It was a silent car ride back to the house, and as Namjoon helps you step out of the vehicle, one hand holding yours for stability while the other rests on your lower back, you can’t help feeling utterly useless. Detached from your surroundings.

What’s the point of any of this now? There’s no way they’ll want to use you until this is resolved. You’re of no use to them as a sex toy until at least a week from now, and by then it’ll be far too late to earn their favor back.

“We need to have a meeting. Call the others into the living room.” Namjoon speaks to Yoongi in an undertone, and you feel a small ache of hope. Maybe things will work out if everyone just talks to each other.

But when you enter the house and Namjoon begins to steer you upstairs, you finally find your voice.

“No.” You resist against him, turning around at the base of the stairs. “No, I want to be part of the meeting.”

The surprise quickly fades from his face, instead turning to concern. “You need to rest."

Something about the look on his face, about being told yet again through his actions that this doesn’t concern you, it causes something inside you to snap, your apathy vanishing in the wake of this new beast beginning to rear its ugly head within you.

Your throat closes up and a scream erupts from your aching chest. "You don't know what I need!"

Namjoon matches your desperation with an infuriatingly patient look of sympathy. He approaches you, his hand outstretched, but you stagger back away from him. He smiles sadly and drops his hand. "Stay here. It's what's best for you."

What's best for you.

The words throb in your mind, like the memory of an old wound. They bounce listlessly off the walls of your grandiose prison long after Namjoon shuts the door, sealing you away again.

You don't know what comes over you as you see visions of launching yourself at the door, pounding and scratching at the wood like a wild animal.

You could just open the door and follow him downstairs. Some part of you does register that.

But you want them to hear you. You want them to hear you rip your throat raw as you exorcise your demons.

You blink and you're standing still.

You haven't moved.

Your spacious room feels stifling. Like the walls are closing in on you, suffocating you.

Silken ropes sway in the dusk, catching your eye from beyond the balcony window. Your escape route from earlier that day.

You don't think twice before stuffing a few meager belongings into the long forgotten backpack kicked beneath your bed.

You need to leave this place.

You can't stay here.

-------

It had started drizzling not long after you left the house, and even now as you sit on the damp curbside, waiting for the next bus to take you far away from this place, it strikes you as funny, in a way, that the weather is crying for you, since you can't muster any tears of your own.

It's cold and misty, a foreboding atmosphere, by all accounts. It makes you question if what you're about to do is the right call.

But you shut down the arguments in your head as quickly as they appear.

Second guessing was what had gotten you into this situation. You need to follow your instincts.

And your instincts are telling you to flee.

It won't be so bad, you try to convince yourself. After the first night on the road, you'll eventually find a new town, a new home, a new place for yourself in this fucked up world. You've done it before, you can do it again.

You're considering suitable aliases for your new persona, when you sense another person approaching, their shoes tramping through the wet grass.

You don't look up at them, hoping they'll pass by and leave you alone. But they come to a stop beside you.

You keep your gaze on the road, droplets rippling the puddled potholes.

Then the stranger goes to sit on the curb too, and you can't help but look at them.

You'd recognize those lips anywhere, even beneath a baggy hooded sweatshirt.

"It's a bit late to run errands, don't you think?" Seokjin says, pulling his sleeves down to keep out the chill as he perches beside you.

He glances at you, then looks ahead at the road, the same way you were. You return your gaze forward, too exhausted to make a run for it. Though you don't get the sense that he would chase after you, even if you tried to escape.

Maybe that's exactly why you decide to stay put, but you don't give the suspicion any more thought.

"What do you want?" You finally ask, your voice croaky from being silent for so long.

"Nothing."

"Liar," you mutter, hugging your knees to your chest. "Everyone wants something."

He chuckles. Rests back on his hands. "I guess you're right about that."

Damn right you are. You didn't study the human condition through your years of training to be fooled so easily by pretty words.

"So?" You prompt him, still staring at the dreary horizon.

He takes a moment to respond. The silence is punctuated by the distant noises of traffic, an occasional car passing by, its headlights shimmering in the mist before disappearing down the road.

“The others are all out looking for you, you know,” he says simply. “Why do you think that is?”

If it were anyone else that had run away - their manager, a friend - you know what the answer would be. Because they care about that person. But how can you believe that about yourself, when you know you can never amount to anyone with that level of importance to them?

Ironic, since you’re the person with which they can be most intimate and vulnerable.

“I’m a liability,” you reply halfheartedly.

His silence serves to confirm your suspicions. A runaway PhysCom? Far too risky for a group at their level. You could become one of those anonymous sources like you saw in the news. A firsthand account of the BTS members’ secret sexual urges. Unacceptable. Snatches of words from the NDA you signed buzz around the edges of your mind like stray flies.

But since you're no longer connected to your network, then your tracker is probably disconnected. If the bus had come just a little earlier, you might already have escaped without a trace.

“You really think that’s the only reason?” Seokjin’s voice pulls you back to the moment.

His abysmal attempt to divert from the problem gets a hollow laugh out of you.

“Any other reason has ulterior motives. It’s just business.” You check the time on your ComGear. The bus should be here any minute. “I’m leaving, and I won’t let you stop me.”

“I don’t intend to,” he agrees, to your surprise. “God knows you’ve been put through enough.” He then leans forward, resting his forearms across his legs. “But for what it’s worth, you deserve to know the truth.”

Your ears perk up at this.

Seokjin seems to take your silence as permission to continue. “The reason we decided to suspend you. It wasn’t… entirely selfless.”

You purse your lips in irritation and fix your gaze upon the horizon, settling your chin beneath your crossed arms. “Right. Ulterior motives, like I said.”

He clicks his tongue. “Touche.”

You wait for him to continue, but he doesn't.

Your curiosity gets the better of you.

“So, what… were you planning to replace me?” You ask, trying to sound contemptuous. “I heard you all having your little group meeting in the kitchen. There are plenty of shiny new whores at your disposal, take your pick.”

He still makes no noise.

You wait, preparing to accept a bitter confirmation of all your fears.

But then he finds his voice. “We could never replace you, dear.”

You stop. Look over at him. His eyes are half lidded, his smile bittersweet as he stares off into the distance. After a few moments, he fishes around in his pocket and pulls something out, then hands it to you.

His smartphone.

“Here,” he murmurs, sympathy in the quirk of his lips. “In case you need to call anyone. Those devices they give you don’t have a cell plan, I assume.”

He seems to sense your wariness, and waves the phone a bit in a gesture of insistence. “I can buy a dozen new ones. It’s no trouble.”

You very hesitantly take it. “Thanks.”

Of course, he has no way to know that your ComGear is now jailbroken, for all intents and purposes. But… is this a trap? What if there’s a tracker in the phone? But why would he need to put a tracker in it if he doesn’t know your ComGear is off the grid?

The rumble of an approaching motor pulls you out of your cyclical thoughts, and you get on your feet, slowly coming out of your dissociative sulk.

But you still feel numb. Nothing matters anymore.

Nothing at all.

Jin gets up along with you, slipping his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Stay safe, alright?”

You give a brief nod of acknowledgment, only half in his direction as you shrug your bag onto your shoulder more securely. The hydraulics of the bus screech as the vehicle comes to a stop and lowers slightly, allowing you to step onboard.

You glance back, fully expecting Jin to stop you. But he doesn’t. He blinks raindrops out of his eyes while you board, and gives you a small smile once the doors close behind you. He lifts a hand in farewell, then turns and starts to walk away down the street.

He’s really letting you go.

You pay your fare and find a seat towards the back of the nearly empty bus. Rain pelts at the windows, picking up in earnest, and it feels like yet another layer, another barrier, separating yourself and creating an ever-growing chasm from the life you knew up until yesterday.

You pull out Jin’s phone, staring at the dark screen and wiping away stray raindrops from the surface with your sleeve. Why had he come to find you, if not to stop you?

“But for what it’s worth, you deserve to know the truth.”

Maybe he felt guilty. Or remorseful for the hell you’ve been put through recently. You would normally have felt immense satisfaction at such a thought.

But you can’t feel much of anything right now.

You don’t think you’ll be able to feel properly again. At least not for a long, long time…

Hm? The screen lit up. You must have pressed a button by accident. You swipe at it again, and to your surprise it unlocks. Who doesn’t put a passcode on their phone?

Is it possible… he disabled it before he gave it to you? Maybe. Whatever. You’re so tired of thinking, playing investigator and second guessing people’s motivations.

You scroll over to the phone icon, and tap on it, briefly considering calling your parents. But the wetness on your fingers messes with the touchscreen and you open the messages app instead.

You’re about to wipe the screen and try again, but… the most recent messages are… all about you. You tap on the group chat among the seven of them, currently bustling with activity.

[ Kim Namjoon ]: has anyone found her [ Park Jimin ]: hyung I’m so sorry [ Park Jimin ]: it’s all my fault [ Min Yoongi ]: she’s not at the studio [ Kim Namjoon ]: we’ll talk about it later Jimin [ Kim Namjoon ]: everyone keep looking [Jeon Jungkook]: manager said they can call her network to track her down [Kim Taehyung ]: should we do that? [ Jung Hoseok ]: no! she could get in trouble :( [ Min Yoongi ]: she’s not a stray pet [ Kim Namjoon ]: exactly [ Kim Namjoon ]: we need to keep this quiet for her sake [Kim Taehyung ]: she hasn’t replied to my texts or calls [ Min Yoongi ]: me neither [Jeon Jungkook]: hyung... will she be okay? [ Kim Namjoon ]: everything will be fine don’t worry [ Kim Namjoon ]: we’re going to fix this somehow [ Min Yoongi ]: whatever it takes [ Jung Hoseok ]: where could she have gone... [ Park Jimin ]: what if she doesn’t come back?

You scroll further up, past days and weeks and months of texts between them… not even a day between mentions of you. Wondering if you’re alright. Hoping you’ve eaten enough. Wanting to do more with you.

The thread of texts Jimin sent to Seokjin just yesterday.

Hyung I wish things were different I want to hold her I want to tell her she’s enough I wish I could kiss her… I think I love her Do you ever feel that way?

And Seokjin’s reply.

I do I know just what you mean Why do you think I turned those secondaries away last night, hm? No one can compare She really is special…

He didn’t… fuck the secondaries? After you broke at dinner, he… didn’t...?

You switch to his thread with Namjoon from a few days ago.

I know you’re our leader but I don’t think this is the way to go You need to be more cautious

Namjoon’s reply.

What we need is action, hyung If we work together on this, we could get rid of these unnecessary rules We could all have what we want Including her It’s what’s best for everyone

Seokjin took several minutes to reply.

You’re going to lose her.

Jin knew. He tried to talk Namjoon out of writing that stupid essay, or maybe it was about your suspension.

Either way, he defended you.

You open his thread with Hoseok. Dimly, you recognize that you shouldn’t be snooping, but you’re too absorbed to stop.

Hyung, I think she really wants this All of us ♡ I don’t know how, but we need to show her that it’s okay That we want it just as much

How do you know that’s what she wants?

I can’t say ♡ But I know now She wouldn’t reject us Our feelings She feels something too

The date and time lines up with this morning. The morning after he made love to you.

He didn’t tell them. He kept your secret.

“Our feelings”? What does he mean? Him, Jimin, Taehyung… Seokjin? Do they all…?

Your head spins, the hollowness of your heart filling with a rush of jumbled emotions, like a tide crashing in. All your numbness is washed out with light, just a pinprick at first, that grows rapidly into a ray of warmth as you consider what all this could mean. The chasm starts to narrow, and you get the urge to jump ship, to turn back and figure this shit out. To know once and for all what they want from you. What you mean to them.

But how can you trust this isn’t a trap? How can you be sure?

The answer is as simple as they come.

You can’t.

You can’t be absolutely certain that their intentions are pure… that this is the right thing to do… that you won’t be hurt again.

But maybe... trust isn’t about being infallible. Being right. Being sure.

Maybe it’s built on what ifs. On trying again, even with no guarantees.

Guarantees are only as good as their word, and talk is cheap. Lies are easy. Your Opticon had a 100% guarantee, and look where that got you.

But you remember the way Hoseok held you that night, and made love to you like you’ve never felt in your life... When Jimin kissed his way down your body, with only the best of intentions. Namjoon’s strong arms embracing you when you felt powerless. Yoongi’s hand never leaving yours, even while you waited in the hospital. Jungkook carrying you home after you fainted, breaking your door to make sure you were safe in bed. The look in Taehyung’s eyes when he finally kissed you, breaking the ice you’d been growing around your heart.

How Seokjin let you go.

Maybe...

You get up with a start, rush to the front of the bus, and hastily ask the driver to let you off, much to the old man’s disgruntlement, but the moment the doors whoosh open, you take off at a run.

You want to go home.

You want to try again.

No matter how much you try to bury it, to forget the way they make you feel, you care about them. All of them. On a much deeper level than that of a PhysCom and client. And it scares you.

But you’re done running from fear. From uncertainty.

Now you’re running towards it willingly, as you give chase down the torrential streets, searching for that familiar hooded figure and hoping you’re not too late. You’re embracing the doubt, the fear, the uncertainty, the paranoia... letting their shadowy claws sink into you until they can’t hurt you anymore. Until they fade away, cowering under the glow of your determination.

You’re setting some new rules for yourself, no longer letting fear control your thoughts and actions, barring you from any chance of happiness.

You see Seokjin in the distance, trudging home through the pouring rain. You run faster.

You’re fucking terrified. But you’ve never felt so free in your life.

“Jin!” You shout to get his attention, still a block away. He turns around, and shakes his head, seemingly confused, but a smile starts to appear. You smile too.

Finally, you catch up to him, and without warning, you throw your arms around his shoulders. Damn, he’s always taller than you remember.

He laughs, shocked by your change of heart. “What are you doing?”

“I want to hear you say it.” You reply, looking up at him as rain dashes down your face. You don’t know when you started crying, but you’re grateful to the weather for masking your tears.

“Say what?” He asks, his hands resting on your waist to support you. Thunder rumbles in the distance, rain sliding down his perfect face.

“How you feel about me.” You reply, studying his eyes. “Be honest.”

He seems to sense the gravity in your words. He holds you closer. His eyes soften.

“I think I’ve fallen in love with you.”

For the first time since all of this started, you sense no deception in his words, no double meaning, no hidden agenda.

Because you aren’t searching for reasons to doubt this time.

You’re searching for reasons to trust, and you find them.

You want to kiss him. So you do.

#bts #bts smut #bts fanfic #bts x reader smut #bts x reader #bts fanfiction #bts ot7 #bts ot7 smut #bts smut fic #bts fic rec #yoongi x reader #namjoon x reader #seokjin x reader #thank you all for waiting ;w;

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dreamwritesimagines · 4 years

Text

Twisted 17 - Mind Games [Spencer Reid x Reader]

A.N.: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves! Here’s the next chapter, I hope you will like it as well, and please let me know what you think of it! ❤❤ Ily, kisses! ❤❤❤

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Murder, serial killers, violence, manipulation, mentions of sex, drinking, smoking, angst.

Word Count: 4700

Summary: Love demands sacrifices.

Not even once in your life had you ever imagined yourself in handcuffs, in an interrogation room on the wrong side of the table.

You weren’t even at the FBI headquarters though. The police had taken you to the station after the hospital, taking a blood sample and your fingerprints, then they had handcuffed you and left you there with a glass of water.

Of course they suspected you. Of course they thought you had murdered him.

Murder was your father’s legacy, after all.

You traced the handcuffs over your wrists, already feeling the bruises forming there. The shock still hadn’t worn off but you were starting to think it was a good thing. It felt as if you were watching all of this from behind some kind of glass window, perfectly aware of every single emotion but unable to actually feel them.

Spencer had said when you felt threatened, your body produced nervous energy, some sort of a fight or flight reaction but for once you weren’t trying to do any of that.

You just sat there, completely frozen.

“You look calm,” the police officer spoke, making you look up, trying to ignore the faint yelling coming from outside, possibly from the end of the hall.

“I’m sorry?”

“Most people would be traumatized if this happened to them, they’d be crying, shaking…” he motioned at you, “But look at you. Still as a statue. You look pretty calm.”

“Would you rather if I were crying?”

“I’d rather if you were acting like a human being,” he said, “Why are you so calm?”

Why were you so calm?

Because your mother had taught you this much. Showing emotion when you were afraid meant weakness.

“My father was a serial killer,” you stated, looking him dead in the eye, “I’ve had a complicated childhood.”

“Yeah, I’d say…” he leaned in slightly, “You know, I’ve watched that documentary about your father. His interviews too.”

You raised your brows as he sniffled, trying to look like he was nonchalant about this whole situation.

“And I’ve spent sixteen years on this job,” he said, “After a while, you don’t even need anyone to speak for you to know what they’ve done. It’s all in their eyes and little girl,” he clicked his tongue, “There’s nothing behind your eyes but ice and death.”

You couldn’t cry. You wouldn’t cry. Not in front of people, not even if they tried to kill you. No matter how much they tried to hurt you-

No emotions.

“Impressive,” you managed to say, “Very poetic. Have you ever considered changing your career?”

“You know what I think?”

“I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me.”

“I think you wanted to follow your father’s footsteps,” he said, “I think you killed Anthony, and all those other people. It’s not even your fault, is it? Some people are just born broken.”

That was more than enough to make your eyes snap up to his and you could feel the lump in your throat but you bit your tongue so hard that you swallowed blood, making sure to keep your expression still.

“Nothing to say?”

“You’ve already decided what to think of me,” you said, “And I already told you what happened. What more do you want to hear?”

“Right,” he scoffed, taking a look at the file in front of him, “You went to bed around 12, didn’t wake up whole night, when you woke up you found him like that. Lying in a pool of his own blood, in your kitchen.”

“You don’t look like a whiskey girl.” an unfamiliar voice made you turn your head and you lowered your glass, tilting your head. The guy smiled at you, and stole a look at the whiskey glass you had put on the bar.

“Yeah?” you asked, “What girl am I then? If you’re such an expert?”

He thought for a moment, “Hmm, wine?”

“Depends on the occasion.”

“What kind of an occasion does whiskey call for?”

“Apparently an occasion for meeting guys with bad pick-up lines.”

He let out a chuckle, “Yeah, I swear I’m normally smoother than this.”

“I would hope so,” you grinned, and offered your hand, “Y/N.”

“Anthony.”

“But you failed to mention the part you texted him to come to your apartment.”

“I didn’t text anyone.”

“We have your phone Y/N.”

“I didn’t text anyone,” you repeated, “Someone must’ve drugged me and taken my phone, the same person who killed him, the same person who obviously broke into my apartment.”

“How convenient.”

You clenched your jaw.

“I always wake up during night,” you said, your voice completely calm and controlled. “Always. I never woke up last night, there has to be a reason for that.”

“If you’ve been drugged, it will come up on the blood tests.”

“Good.”

“While we wait for that,” he said, “Why don’t we go over what you did last night?”

You took a deep breath, “I woke up,” you said “Went to work. I left work at 7 to go to my sister’s place. I left there around eleven, came home and went to bed.”

“Nothing else happened.”

“Nothing else happened,” you repeated and he sat up straighter.

“Okay. Well just so you know, Dr. Spencer Reid—” he started and your head shot up, your heart slamming against your chest, “He is giving us his professional opinion at the moment, about this case and what might have really happened this morning. Do you have anything you want to change in your story before he’s finished?”

You gawked at him, blinking a couple of times before you turned your head to look at the one-way mirror on the wall.

The BAU was there, behind the mirror.

“….They came back?”

“We’ve sent them the report, yes. They landed an hour ago.”

It was as if somebody was trying to claw your stomach out of your body as you stared at your reflection in the mirror, trying to ignore the burning behind your eyes before you turned to the officer.

“I don’t have anything to change,” you managed to keep your voice stable, “It was a terrible thing, it definitely was but I didn’t do it.”

Someone knocked on the mirror, making you and the officer look that way before he pushed his chair back and left the interrogation room. You closed your eyes for a moment, focusing on your breathing through the blinding headache but opened your eyes when the door opened again.

Luke.

He offered you a small smile and pulled himself a chair.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” you swallowed the lump in your throat, sitting up with your back straight, your hands clasped.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you stole a look at the one-way mirror, “Is he there?”

“Reid?” Luke asked and shook his head, “I had to basically wrestle him out of the hall, he’s…he’s not allowed here. Conflict of interest. He’s giving his statement at the end of the hall as we speak.”

You nodded, digging your fingernails into your palms. “Okay.”

“He also called your sister on our way here. Couldn’t reach her, but left a message. Listen, he can’t request it on your behalf, but you need to ask for a lawyer.”

“I didn’t kill Anthony.”

“I didn’t ask if you killed him, I’m saying you need to ask for a lawyer.”

“Does he think I did it?” you asked and Luke shook his head again.

“No,” he said, “But it doesn’t matter what anyone else believes at this point, Y/N. Ask for a lawyer.”

You kept your back straight, rolling your shoulders. “If Spencer left a message to Mina, she’s coming.”

“Is she a defense lawyer?”

“No but she knows a lot of them.”

He took a deep breath and put the bottle of your pills on the desk, “The officers also found this.”

You tried your hardest to focus, moving your wrists to help with the soreness of the handcuffs. “They’re prescribed.”

“I can see that. The side effects say confusion?”

You arched a brow, “I’m sorry, do I sound confused to you right now?”

“No, you sound way too controlled right now, I may as well have been talking to a robot.”

You gritted your teeth, trying to control the panic bubbling at the pit of your stomach, sending anger through your veins.

“I’m not confused,” you stated, “Besides, I haven’t been taking them lately.”

He threw his head back, pressing his lips together, “God, Y/N, you can’t say that. A psychiatrist prescribed you something and you—“

“They’re just for nightmares, they don’t make you…” you took a deep breath, commanding yourself to stay calm, “I didn’t kill him. I found him like that. It was terrible, but I didn’t do it.”

Someone opened the door again and Emily Prentiss cleared her throat.

“Luke,” she murmured, “Spencer.”

You could feel your heart skip a beat upon hearing his name but kept completely still as Luke left the room and Emily and JJ walked into the room.

“You’re taking turns now?” you asked and Emily cleared her throat,

“Me and JJ are the only people in our team who haven’t spent as much time with you, so we figured it would be better if we interrogated you.”

“I didn’t do it.”

Emily pulled herself a chair as JJ crossed her arms, standing by the wall.

“Can you walk me through what happened this morning?”

You took a deep breath, “I woke up,” you said, “With a headache. I knew something was wrong, I felt it. My window was open, the front door was half open and my phone wasn’t where I left it. I stepped outside my room, saw the blood, went to the kitchen and saw—“ you gritted your teeth and clenched your fists, “Saw my ex-boyfriend there. Dead. Lying in a pool of his blood.”

“But you heard nothing.”

“I never sleep for the whole night,” you said slowly, “Check my blood test. Something happened last night.”

“We don’t have your blood test results yet, but there was no sign of any sexual—“

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” You cut her off, a shiver running down your spine, “That’s not it. Whoever it was, they didn’t touch me, they wanted…”

“What did they want?”

You shrugged slightly, “I don’t know. They wanted me to see it I think. My…my father’s crime scenes.”

JJ took a deep breath and pushed herself off the wall.

“And you don’t think it’s a little too convenient?”

You pulled your brows together, looking at her and she stepped closer to the table, her eyes fixed on you.

“Two victims so far,” she said, “The ones that we knew that were in the same place as you, they had some connection to you. That woman who was killed at the charity ball, you didn’t get along when you were kids, you turned her down as a client before she was killed, and now your ex-boyfriend ends up dead, in your apartment because you sent him a—“ she scoffed, “I’m sorry, someone sent him a late night text, inviting him to your apartment.”

“JJ,” Emily started but JJ held up a hand while you tried to wrap your head around it.

She had a point. Two victims so far had some connection to you and that was not a coincidence, it couldn’t have been.

“You think I did it,” you rasped out and she scoffed.

“I think you had something to do with all of this,” she said, “I think you’ve been trying to manipulate Spencer for something. The best case scenario, you were cheating, that’s why Anthony was there and something went bad, the worst case….” She shook her head, “You’re behind every single murder we’ve been looking into, and Spencer was just a tool for you. He’s my best friend, and if I find one single proof that you put him in harm’s way, I swear to God I will destroy you.”

Two people had ended up dead, and that was your fault. The copycat was going after people who had some kind of connection to you, and apparently no one except you and your family was safe.

The idea was way too painful to even exist inside your head, but it was clear as day. JJ was right, you were putting Spencer in harm’s way just by being with him, and if it were him, if you had seen him lying in a pool of his blood, his eyes wide open—

You dug your fingernails into your palms until it hurt before you managed to lift your head, that invisible wall which kept you safe from anyone and everyone who could possibly see anything you felt going up again.

“You…” you trailed off, your throat burning, “You don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“What does that mean?” Emily asked but before you could say anything, someone slammed the door open, making you and the agents turn.

Mina.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” she asked no one in particular and stepped aside so that 4 lawyers could walk inside before the police officer rushed to you to remove the handcuffs off your wrists.

“You’re not saying another word,” she snapped her fingers, “Come on, we’re leaving.”

“We’re going to need her to sign some papers,” the officer said as Mina grabbed your wrist to pull you out of the room, making you hiss in a breath and she froze, lowering her glances to check your sore wrists for any bruises.

“What did they do to you?”

You shook your head silently, and something in Mina’s gaze shifted. You had seen it only a couple of times, including that time you were getting stitches after some girls in your classroom had ambushed you in the bathroom, and more importantly, you had seen that look on her face when Lily had fever that one time and you all had to rush to the hospital and the doctors said she couldn’t see her.

It was fire, similar to yours, ready to burn everything in its path.

“Don’t say anything to anyone. You two,” she motioned at the two lawyers, “Read whatever she’s supposed to sign.”

The lawyers approached the desk by the door as Mina put her coat over your shoulders, rubbing at your arms as you swayed slightly on your feet, trying to focus.

“We’re leaving, okay sweetheart?”

“Miss—“

“No,” When Mina turned to the police officers and the BAU team, any trace of softness in her voice disappeared, “You don’t talk. If you don’t want to get into even more trouble, you’re going to listen to me right now.”

The officer that had been with you at the interrogation room just blinked a couple of times, obviously taken aback.

“Do you have any idea what you just did to yourself?” she asked, “What you did to this whole precinct? Because allow me to explain, my sister was a victim in this scenario, and you tried to pin this shit on her to make her a scapegoat,” she shook her head, “We will be suing you for defamation of character—“

“Mina, your sister—” JJ started but she snapped her fingers at her.

“I haven’t even started with you yet, wait for your turn.”

“Mina…” you murmured but she didn’t even look like she could hear you,

“Where was I? Defamation of character because press will be all over this, intentional infliction of emotional stress and wrongful arrest and hey, to make things fun we will also be requesting the security footage in the interrogation room and if I see one very small slip of anything that wasn’t supposed to be said and done in that room…” Mina tilted her head, “Well, let’s just say that by the time I’m done with you guys and this whole precinct, the only thing you will be able to afford is going to be a typewriter and a desk.”

One of the lawyers came to tell you the document was alright to sign and as soon as you approached the desk, a door by the hall opened and Spencer stepped out.

It was almost excruciating not to be able to run to him. He looked as shocked as he was and he took a step towards you but JJ stepped in front of him as you grabbed the pen, ignoring the way your name spilled from his lips in a whisper.

“Oh, hi genius.” Mina called out, “Were you getting a glass of water while your team was hounding my sister or something?”

Spencer looked almost confused only for a moment before he turned to look at JJ who deliberately averted her glances from him.

“Mina, this is not necessary,” you croaked out as you signed the papers and she shook her head.

“No, this is very necessary, trust me. You need to show these people what you’re capable of or they will try to fuck you up, case and point.” She turned to Emily, “You’re the one in charge, I suppose?”

“I am.”

“Good. Consider this your warning, because the next time anyone in your team, including the puppy dog eyes over there gets any closer to my sister, we will be getting a restraining order for each and every one of you.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, still swaying on your feet and you hugged the coat around you tighter.

Not that you could do anything other than watching this.

“Your sister is an active part of this investigation, your father specifically asked for—“

“My sister is a civilian,” Mina growled, “She has no responsibility for this case, you do. How about you surprise me and do your fucking jobs?”

You took a breath to say it wasn’t fair, that it wasn’t their fault but Mina turned to look at you.

“Get in the elevator, we’re leaving.”

You were way too tired to fight her, way too tired to even stand there so you followed the army of lawyers to the elevator, while Mina shot the officers and the BAU members a fake smile.

“Pleasure, let’s never do this again,” she said, and got in the elevator with you, and you tried to keep your expression still, Spencer staring at you until the doors slid close.

“4 lawyers?” you managed to say, “I don’t think even Bundy had four lawyers.”

“Tell that to mom,” she said, “She was on the phone with a congressman the last I checked.”

You couldn’t even smile at that, but Mina let out a breath before pulling you into a bone crushing hug, making the tears rush to your eyes as you wrapped your arms around her.

“Never do that to me again, you hear me?” her voice cracked for the first time and you nodded slowly.

“I won’t,” you said, “I promise.”

***

It was as if someone had pulled all your energy out of your body. You were exhausted, you could barely understand what anyone was saying but you knew there was no way you could sleep anytime soon.

The blood test, as the lawyers had informed you, finally came back and just like you suspected, they had found traces of chloroform in your system. That and your team of lawyers combined were more than enough to get rid of any kind of accusations against you, so at least you had that.

On the other hand, the fear, the guilt, the sadness were still there inside of you, even if you felt way too numb to reach it.

You wondered if Spencer would have a scientific explanation for that.

Your mother had insisted you would never step a foot into your apartment again, she was already looking for a new apartment for you, one with multiple security systems and until that happened she had told you you would be staying at her house.

The damn thing was way too big anyway and you and Mina had grown up there so you figured it would serve as some sort of shelter.

If it even existed for you.

“Here you go sweetheart,” your mother pushed the tea cup towards you, “Drink it, it’ll make you feel better.”

“I’m fine.”

Kenzie heaved a sigh, “It’s okay if you’re not,” she said, “No one expects you to, anyone would be traumatized.”

“The real estate agent already sent me three apartments,” your mother said, “Huge windows, you love a bright apartment.”

“Mom,” Mina said silently and she heaved a sigh.

“It could help her distract herself,” her head shot up, “Y/N, you should go on a vacation! Somewhere far away from here.”

“Somewhere peaceful could be nice?” Kenzie added, “I think that’s a good idea.”

You and Mina exchanged glances.

“I heard Fiji is lovely this time of the year,” your mother said and you let out a breath.

“Mom, two people died because of me,” you croaked out, “I’m not going to Fiji for vacation.”

“Honey, you could use some peace,” she held your chin carefully and lifted it so that she could look at you better, “You look so…”

“I look like how I feel,” you said and turned your head when the doorbell rang, making Mina sit up straighter.

“Who’s that?” she asked when the maid walked in.

“Spencer Reid?”

“What?” you and Kenzie asked at the same time, your heartbeat getting faster and Mina jumped on her feet but you stopped her, shaking your head.

“It’s okay,” you sniffled, nodding to yourself, “It’s….it’s fine. There’s no point in dragging it out.”

“Dragging what out?” Mina asked you but you walked out of the living room and reached the front door, trying to ignore the warmth filling your system as soon as your eyes caught the sight of him. You stepped out of the house and he pulled you into a tight hug, burying his nose into your hair and inhaling deeply as if it helped him calm down while you just stood there, desperately trying to keep the tears at bay.

You had to do it. No matter how much it hurt you, no matter how much you didn’t want to.

No matter how badly it would rip your heart out.

“You okay?” he asked you, his fingers pushing your hair behind your ear, “I tried your apartment but I figured…”

“Yeah, I’m not going back there,” you shrugged your shoulders, “I’ll move out, it’s fine.”

“Do you want to stay at my place?” he asked quickly and you closed your eyes for a moment, every cell in your body begging you to change your mind.

You couldn’t though. You’d rather die than see him lying in a pool of his blood, all because of you.

“Don’t say that,” you whispered and opened your eyes again, “Please don’t say that.”

He looked almost confused, tilting his head to the side like a puppy before it dawned on him.

“Is this about the file on me?”

You shook your head and he took a deep breath.

“About today?”

“I didn’t send that message,” you said, “To Anthony, I mean. I wouldn’t…. I wouldn’t cheat on you.”

“I know that.”

“And I didn’t kill him. I don’t know if you heard, but the blood tests came back positive for—”

“I never doubted that, not even for one second,” he insisted, “With or without blood test.”

“You might be the only one,” you murmured and he paused for a moment.

“What did JJ say to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Because we had an argument on the jet on our way back here and whatever she said…”

You shook your head again, trying to smile.

“I get it,” you murmured, “She’s your best friend, she’s protective of you. That’s normal.”

“Yeah but if she thinks that you’re capable of—”

“I want to break up.”

You could swear the words burned your mouth, some invisible hand clutching your heart tighter and tighter as you willed yourself to keep your eyes on the street, because you were sure that every wall you built to keep your emotions under control would crash down the moment you looked at him. Out of the corner of your eye you could see that he froze and he blinked a couple of times, as if he was lost.

“What?” he asked silently and you tried to swallow the lump growing bigger and bigger in your throat.

“Y/N, wait—no,” he said quickly, breathing hard, “Listen, whatever they said to you today during the interrogation, if that’s what this is about—”

“It has nothing to do with that,” you forced yourself to say, crossing your arms and he took a step closer to you.

“Whatever the problem is,” he rasped out, “We can solve it, okay? Don’t do this.”

That was when it dawned on you.

It wasn’t enough to push him away. You had to make sure to burn that bridge so that neither of you could ever find your way back to each other.

“It’s not one of your cases Spencer, you can’t solve this one,” you muttered and finally turned your head to look up at him, your stomach churning at the sight of betrayal on his face.

“I don’t understand.”

“You—it’s—“ you stammered, trying to find the words, “It’s going way too fast, alright? It’s going way too fast and it’s going to fucking crash, and I can’t—“ you cleared your throat when your voice cracked, “I’m not going to crash with this, I can’t.”

Your father had taught you this way too long ago, when you were too young to even question it.

Stab the prey, twist the knife, pull it back and watch them bleed.

Stab the prey.

“I mean come on Spencer, we’re not in love or anything,” you shrugged your shoulders, “Should be easy enough.”

He stared at you for a couple of seconds, his mouth slightly agape and his brows furrowed, shock written all over his face.

“We’re not in love?” he repeated, “You…you don’t love me?”

Twist the knife.

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

His eyes searched your face, as if looking for any kind of clue that could tell him you were lying, or that it was a trick but for once, it was in vain.

You’d had spent years learning how to control your emotions and your expression when it came to heartbreak.

Pull it back.

“It’s not my fault if you’re in love,” you said, each word making you hate yourself more and more, “I can’t be held responsible for that.”

Stabbing yourself would’ve been less painful, you were sure of that but you knew you had to keep going. One last step, one last sentence and you would be done.

Watch them bleed.

“I never told you to love me.”

Then, silence.

You had to give it to him though, it took him faster than it would’ve taken you to pull yourself together if you were the one on the receiving end of this. He blinked back the tears, clenched his jaw and in a second, his gaze turned cold, exactly like yours.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, nodding, “You didn’t.”

But you had forgotten one small detail.

Spencer knew how to withdraw that knife and stab back.

You cleared your throat and turned around to get inside the house but before you could step in, you heard his voice.

“I was wrong.”

You looked over your shoulder, clutching at the straws to keep it together, “I’m sorry?”

“I was wrong,” he stated, his voice was distant and held no trace of its usual warmth, “Before, I mean. In terms of behavior and psychology, you’re exactly your father’s daughter.”

With that, he walked away from the house, and you just stood there for a moment before stepping into the house and closing the door behind you, that comfortable haze of shock slowly withdrawing from your mind like mist. That hand squeezing your heart twisted it in your chest and you tried to breathe, pressing a hand on your chest.

“Sweetheart?” your mother called out as she stepped into the hallway, then slowly approached you, “You okay?”

It was impossible to stop the tears rushing to your eyes now and a gasp escaped from your lips as you shook your head.

“Mom,” you whimpered, “Please, my—my heart hurts...”

She rushed to you and shushed you gently, pulling you into a tight hug and caressing your hair as you slipped to the ground and you buried your face to her shoulder.

Then the sobs came.

Chapter 18

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid imagines #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #spencer x reader #dr spencer reid #spencer imagine #spencer imagines #reid #spencer #reid x you #reid x reader #reid imagine #criminal minds imagines #twisted

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sideways-writes · 3 years

Text

5 times the sides were waring someone else’s cloths and one time they all were

Title: 5 times the sides were waring someone else’s cloths and one time they all were

Fandom(s): Sanders sides

Description: There were very few things all the sides could agree on. One of those things was that Thomas was terrible at giving them warning before summoning them, which resulted in some rather interesting and somewhat embarrassing moments. Be that missing items of clothing or wearing pyjamas.

Characters: Virgil, Roman, Patton. Janus, Remus, Logan, C!Thomas

Parings: intrulogical, Analoroceit, moceit.

Individual bits as induvisual ships: anxeit, parental moxiety, roceit, intrulogical, logicality, analogics & prinxiety & moceit & demus [this was confusing]

Tags/warnings: can’t think of any warnings, implied making out at the end, kinda fluffy, 5+1 things, sharing cloths

~•~•~•~

~~1~~ Things had been pretty hectic over the past week, and everyone needed a break. Which, of course, meant no one was, and Thomas was making a video. Logan, Patton and Roman were all arguing over what they should be spending time on. Patton was pushing him to help his friends, Roman telling him to go dream chasing and Logan failing to find a balance between them. Thomas was expecting Virgil to rise up any second as he had done many a time before, but it wasn't the anxious side that appeared. "Well, isn't this lovely. Totally productive and very useful bickering." It may not have been who he expected, but Janus had the desired effect, and the sides were able to begin to work towards a solution. Looking over, Janus realised Thomas wasn't paying much attention. Snapping his fingers, he got said man's attention. "Sorry, just. What are you wearing?" Logan cut in before the yellow side could answer "He is waring Virgil's hoodie, surely you can see that?" "No, no, I see that but... why? Never-mind, what were you saying Janus?" Janus restarted his point, and things continued as usual. ~~2~~

The sides had materialised to watch another movie. Thomas had found a behind the scenes Disney documentary which had done the near-impossible task of appeasing both Roman and Logan while still engaging all the other sides. Logan and Remus were off in the latter's room presumably working on their recreation of Frankenstein's monster; assuming Remus hadn't distracted the logical side. Patton and Janus were making another batch of cookies in Thomas' kitchen; Thomas himself was chatting with them and making a note to buy more flour, sugar and eggs. Again. Roman was adventuring in the imagination, and Virgil was presumably on Tumblr in his room. An hour later, the sides to congregate in Thomas' living room scattering all about the place. Janus was lazing on the sofa, next to Patton in his cat onesie, looking surprisingly comfortable given he was still waring slacks and a buttoned-up shirt. Roman leaned against the yellow side's legs and practically vibrating with excitement. Logan was sitting in his usual spot having lost his tie at some-point but still looking very put together. Remus was lurking behind the sofa in his birthday suit. Virgil appeared on the arm of the couch in Patton's cat hoodie. The sides all greeted him, and the Moral side could not stop cooing at how adorable he looked in his hoodie. Janus looked at their human with a raised eyebrow as he walked and received an eye-role in return. "You do look adorable Virge." ~~3~~ Finding the sides in the kitchen at random hours wasn't particularly surprising anymore. Between Patton's baking, Janus' cooking, Logan's love of crofters and Virgil's random snacking there was usually someone there and if there wasn't you didn't have to wait long. However, what was unusual was the two most dramatic sides appearing singing some kind of competitive duet. Once Roman and Janus had reconciled, they took bickering to the next level. If the others thought he was bad with Virgil, Roman took it to new heights with the deceitful side. Competitive Disney mealies was a new one though. Somehow Janus had lost his cape, and Roman's sash was nowhere to be seen. What was most surprising, however, was that Janus' hat had found itself onto the prince's head. Given how protective, said side was of his hat it was unexpected but the two sank out before anything could be said. ~~4~~ [Remus' sash is absolutely massive when unfolded and I WILL die on this hill] For once, Janus had managed to get everyone to listen and actually take a break. Said side was cuddling with Roman and Virgil back in the mind-palace commons and Patton was knitting in a chair next to them. The last anyone had seen of Logan and Remus was them talking excitedly heading off to the latter's room. A few hours later Patton had finished up the beanie he had been knitting and had moved I join the others' cuddle pile. At some point, Virgil had fallen asleep with his head on Romans shoulder to the creative side running his fingers through his hair. Janus was starting to doze off curled around Patton. He raised his head sleepily when Logan shuffled into the room and flopped onto the couch with a book in hand. He pulled the Duke's sash tighter around his shoulders and cracked open the hefty tome as the Moral side ruffled his hair. The owner of the sash around Logan's shoulders slunk into the room to steal Janus' hat and lie across the back of the couch. ~~5~~ The sides were sitting around having a far more relaxed debate than usual. There was no one specific topic, the conversation drifted from the mundane to the ridiculous. Other than a brotherly spat that had left Roman sulking for a short while things were thankfully drama free. Or, well, they had been before Logan had accused Patton of not taking things seriously. There was a tense moment before the latter snapped his fingers. "Pat, what?" Then Virgil started snickering and pointed to Patton's neck. "Well, Lo, I'd say I'm being plenty serious. See, necktie!" Sure enough one of Logan's old ties had materialised around his neck. Even the logical side couldn't keep a straight face and they all burst out laughing. ~~+1~~ Thomas was getting used to seeing his sides in clothing other than their usual attire but he was still rather surprised when he summoned them to start recording and they were all each-others clothes. Patton and Janus appeared together, the yellow side in the others hoodie with his arm over his shoulders. Remus had popped up with Janus' hat next to his brother who had Virgils hoodie on and was looking a little awkward. Virgil had Logan's tie draped around his neck and blush on his cheeks as he glared at the human who had summoned him while the Logical side just smirked.

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justforbooks · 3 years

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The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did. But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

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themagicalmysticalboy · 3 years

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Rarepair week, george&paul? Angst/comfort maybe? Let it be era? Hurt my soul :)

a/n: you’ve got it babe! i actually did some research for the flashback scene so it’s pretty accurate to reality, according to Ringo’s and some crew member's accounts.

Don’t Let Me Down

For as cold as it had been for the last month, the sun was shining high in the sky. A peculiar sight that brought a hint of warmth to Paul’s face but did not extend further than that. He could be in a summer's day desert and still feel the cold churn in his stomach. Looming tall and strong over him was the Abbey Road studio. The uncharacteristic beams of sunlight lit the many windows with a yellow glint. A million-eyed monster ready to tear him to shreds if he dared step closer. And he did dare. He peeled himself off his car and stiffened instantly. He’d been leaning against the passengers' door so long that when the wind hit his back it sent a shiver right through him. Or maybe it was solely his nerves. Either way, he didn’t plan to dwell on it.

A few Scruffs were waiting outside with paper coffee cups in hand and drink carriers stacked against the wall. So George was in. He had really come back. The cold churn rose to his chest. At this rate, he’d be a human popsicle by lunch.

There was a disjointed chorus of “Hi Paul” and “Good Morning” which he replied to with a courteous wave. He’d been largely turned off by the Apple Scruffs for some time now but there wasn’t really any malice. Having your house broken into was more than a bit off-putting, though. So he felt justified. George was the most tolerant of them, buying them coffees and breakfast foods every so often. They must have missed him while he was gone. Yeah. Surely they did. Because I did. Paul pushed the sentiment to the wayside. They still had an album to make. They still had songs to record and a documentary to be part of. He couldn’t let his emotions get the best of him again. That had only led to an explosion.

Preparing himself with a stiffened posture and pushed back shoulders, he walked into the studio with a smile. It was almost painful to keep up but the cameraman was already in his face and he refused to let on to his nerves. He needed some inkling of control here and there was so little of that to grab hold of these days.

When he walked into the recording room, he found people scattered across the room but he didn’t find John or Ringo. It was still early in the morning so it made sense but he was undoubtedly rattled by the realization, becoming more rattled when he noticed George looking at him. Paul didn’t dare meet his eyes, drifting down to his feet. He looked soft, despite his sharp features. Cozy in his furry boots and warm jumper. He missed looking at that face and touching that body and kissing those lips. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d been able to do any of that. Too long.

George gave a thin-lipped smile before turning to Billy Preston at the piano. Was that a good sign or was this small sign of grace feigned for the cameras?

Whatever it meant, it drove Paul mad. He didn’t think he deserved forgiveness but he sure as hell would take it. There was no helping the intrusive memories of the aftermath of George walking out. He had done it so nonchalantly that no one was sure he had actually left until they got to the recording room and found him and his guitar missing.

Something had shifted in the room as soon as the three remaining Beatles looked at each other. John was breathing heavily with an icy glare. There was a glint in his eye that screamed danger. It was focused on Paul. Picking up the bass with a death grip on the neck, Paul just stared John down. There was a mutual understanding in the moment. The rage in both of them was bubbling over more and more by the second.

John yanked his guitar from the rack and they both plugged into the amps. No one seemed to remember the camera crew was still around. They just turned to Ringo, who was already at his drums, drumsticks in one hand, rubbing his eyes with the other. He was pushing so hard it had to hurt. And that was it. John squared up to the mic and began to scream the lyrics to a song they'd already wrapped up but they all threw themselves into it without question. Screaming, banging, and heavy riffs filled the studio. Nothing made sense and every fiber of Paul’s being hurt so much that he didn’t care. He wasn’t alone in the feeling, at least. They all felt some level of hurt.

Ringo was even mad- at the situation or at George or at Paul, it didn’t matter. He banged and slammed away like never before. It sounded so wrong coming from him but at the moment it was the only right thing to do. They sounded perfectly horrible. There was a distinct addition to the vocals and Paul turned to find Yoko sitting on George’s little blue stool, wailing along with John’s screams. Yes. Perfectly horrible.

When the song was up the energy was still poisonous and thick in the air. They weren’t done, not by far. Paul stepped up to the mic and John did not move away. With little notion of what he was doing, he went at the lyrics of another song. The words spat from his tongue with vitriol and fire.

They all needed to scream. Ringo was at the mic at some point, coming up with random words on the spot. Really just to have something to yell about.

When they finished, panting out the last seething breaths, Paul felt empty.

“Way to fucking go,” John yelled, eyes fixed on Paul. “Way to go.” his voice was drastically quieter, more tired and sad and hoarse, eyes drifting to his feet.

Paul’s bass suddenly felt a thousand pound heavier, pulling the strap down against his shoulder painfully. Maybe it was more the weight of his mistakes than the bass. Everything felt painstaking and dreadful for the rest of the day. The anger was gone and the screaming was done. There was nothing else to keep his mind from wandering into a wall of depression.

In the present, sans John and Ringo, he shyly grabbed an acoustic guitar and went to sit in a corner. He worked on one of his own songs, quietly strumming and murmuring. He didn’t like it yet, keeping it to himself. The awkward air in the studio only exemplified his need for privacy. So he stayed tucked away, only speaking when spoken to, like a good little schoolboy. George had even come over to ask about the song but Paul told him it wasn’t right just yet. There was no way he was about to embarrass himself on top of all this.

He went back and forth for most of the day. Playing several takes of various songs before turning back to his own song. There was a part on one of the songs that Paul found needed a quieter guitar part. The thought of addressing this issue to George was met with resistance. Was he really ready to address him? The guitar part could be addressed later, maybe. He could suggest another take tomorrow. But the song. It just wouldn’t be right. And maybe no one would be willing to do another take later. That struck a nerve in Paul that rang louder than the rest of his rationale.

“Maybe,” Paul started, resolving to look directly at George for the first time since he walked in. “The guitar could be a bit quieter next take, y’know? Just sounds a bit heavy.” He tacked on quickly, glancing at Ringo, “The drums too.”

Ringo gave him a pained expression. Paul looked George dead on with a weak smile, though he could see John’s cautioning glare in his peripheral vision. George’s eyes were dark and apathetic. His jaw was set tight.

George Martin came over just when he was about to respond. Oblivious to the tension between them, he clapped a hand on John’s shoulder with a grin. “That was a great take, lads. Why don’t you take a lunch break with the film crew.”

“Wasn’t good enough for Paul,” George huffed, leaving first. “But what is?”

George Martin didn’t hear the remark and walked off to talk with Mal.

“You’re really going to cock it up already?”

“What!” Paul went quickly to his own defense. “It was a suggestion, is all. I’m not treating him with kid gloves just because we had a row.”

“A row? He left the bloody band.”

“Not being a prick for one day isn’t kid gloves,” Ringo suddenly chimed in.

Paul gaped. “Caring about the songs is being a prick now, is it?”

John huffed an indigent laugh. “You’re painfully stupid.” He left with Ringo in tow before Paul could ask for any clarification. Not that he was sure he wanted any.

Stunned by the attacks, he stared blankly at George’s guitar. He had absolutely none of his friends at his side. He had managed to push them all away when all he wanted, so desperately, was to bring them together. They were slipping through his fingers like grains of sand and all he could seem to do was open his hands to quicken the fall. He’d lose them forever. It was all his fault. How long would it take? When would they figure out he wasn’t worth the trouble?

He just wanted them to be alright. He wanted to go back to how they were and just tour a bit. Play on stage like they all used to love. The band couldn’t rip apart. It just couldn’t because Paul would tear apart with it. And yet here they all were, at wit's end with one another. The connecting link to this free fall was Paul, of course. He had made Ritch leave and then George. It was all too obvious that John wanted out - surely Paul’s fault as well.

He couldn’t imagine a world without Ringo, John, and George playing at his side. He didn’t want to. It was something new and terrifying that had no qualms with keeping him up at night, even when three glasses of scotch in. He couldn’t recall the last time he slept without drinking. Even still, nightmares filled his dreams and made sleeping seem worthless and just as tiresome as not sleeping at all. What a poor excuse of a man he was becoming.

With a tight chest and burning eyes, he got up. Thankfully, the film crew had truly gone to lunch. He was mostly alone with a few straggling technicians in the booth.

There was no way in hell he could go to lunch now. Not while it felt like the world was out to get him. Not while he felt on the verge of crying. Instead, he decided to go outside for a smoke. The cold winter wind cooled his hot skin. He fell against the wall with a thud and bit his lip. His eyes were pricked with tears but he wouldn’t let them fall. Not here. Not now.

Dragging a hand down his face, he dove into his pocket and pulled out a spliff he’d rolled that morning for this very reason. His hand was caught on his chin as he eyed the thing. A beacon of hope.

He wasted no more time in lighting it. The earthy taste coated his tongue and warmed his throat. He relaxed on the exhale and repeated the process until his mind was a little numb. The carefree smoke floated high above before disappearing into the brisk wind. It would be so much easier to disappear with it.

“Stay gone too long and they’ll think you quit too.”

Tension pulled at his neck and traveled down his body. With an involuntary jerk of his fingers, the spliff fell to the concrete. He didn’t look at the newcomer and didn’t need to. The calming drawl could only be from one person.

“So?”

Paul reluctantly turned his head to find George’s steady gaze on him. Words abandoned his brain. “So,” he asked stupidly.

George’s features suddenly dropped and Paul noticed there had been a hint of lightness seconds before. Great. Already cocking it up.

“Oh, fuck you, then.”

“George! No, no!” He jumped forward and grabbed George’s wrist. “Please, love.”

There was hesitation in George’s step. He shook Paul’s hand off but did not leave. “Do you even care? Care that I left.”

His brow furrowed and his mind swirled back to life. “Of course. We were all-”

“I didn’t ask about the others. Did you care?”

It seemed like such an absurd question. There was nothing to suggest he didn’t. He was downright miserable. Was that not plain to see? Something inside him made him want to switch back on the defense. Deflect and reject. But he couldn’t let himself slip anymore. Everything was on the line now. His entire relationship was up to bat. He’d just be honest. And honesty wasn’t all that hard when your heart wrenched at the thought of this charade continuing for another second.

“Yes! I cared. I thought you’d never come back and I was terrified.” He was desperately searching George’s face for any recognition of belief. “You didn’t answer my calls for weeks and I thought you wanted nothing to do with me. If you don’t I can't even blame you at this point. Just tell me what I did wrong.”

There was no hint of emotion from George. He had a corked brow that could mean anything. The time passing with no answer couldn’t be good. Maybe he wouldn’t answer at all and just leave Paul standing here like an idiot.

“You want to know what you did wrong?” A look of contempt screwed up George’s features. “I don’t even know where I’d start.”

A weight crushed every bone in Paul’s body. He deserved this. He deserved the heartache and pain. The more it hurt the better George might feel. He just had to hold his asinine tongue.

“You treat me like I couldn’t find writing talent if it bit me in the arse.” Paul tried to interrupt, despite himself, with an explanation. “Shut up and listen!” George moved closer, sizing Paul up. “When’s the last time you took any suggestion I’ve made seriously? You’ve been screaming from the damn rooftop about staying together and getting back to basics yet you sit in your little fucking corner like a punished child, ignoring us to work alone. What’s the point, then? Just to show how much of a pain you can be? You act like you don’t want me- any of us- near your songs and then boss us around on our own.”

George was pulling in unsteady breaths. He leaned forward slightly, really looking into Paul’s soul.

“You weren’t even the one to ask me back. Had Ritch do it for you, you coward.” George pushed him into the wall and Paul took it. “And you have the gall to ignore me! Even when I came to you like a stupid loyal puppy! That’s how you see me, isn’t it? Your little puppy that you get tired of when it makes too much noise. Well, fuck you and your damn songs. Fuck whatever you think you’re doing. You’re not keeping us together and you never could.”

Just punch me. The thought was screaming at the forefront and wouldn’t settle. Too angry with himself to stop, he yelled back, “Don’t you think I know? I see everyone slipping away and turning from me and all I can do is push you further! No matter what I try or how good I think I’m doing, you’ll just leave me out cold.” Caught up in it all, he shoved George back. “And you’re not a puppy! You’re my mate. You’re- I love you, alright.”

His voice cracked and, god, he was crying. He was actually crying and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Really just didn’t think you’d come back if I asked. And if that makes me a coward then sure. That’s what I am. If being a coward is what I need to have you near, fine.”

A muscle in George’s jaw tightened. He was stiff and his eyes were damp. His voice was so soft when he said, “Why didn’t you look at me? When you walked in you wouldn’t even really look at me. And when I tried to talk you just buried your head in your notebook.” He laughed mirthlessly. “But as soon as you have an issue with a song you go in with those big eyes of yours and I don’t want to hate you. It’s not fair.”

“You’ve said it, y’know. I’m a right coward. Scared to lose you if I speak and losing you just as fast when I don’t. Shouldn’t have turned you away. I shouldn’t have ignored you. The song- the stupid song. Don’t know if I even cared about how loud your guitar was. I just wanted to look at you, I think.”

“Looking at me now, aren’t you?”

And he was. They had been staring relentlessly and it felt good, no matter how much yelling they’d done. He wiped harshly at his cheeks to clear them of tears. “I’m sorry for being a prick.”

“Aye. You should be.” The words might have hurt if the corners of his mouth didn’t twitch up. He rubbed Paul’s shoulders and arms. “Just talk to me, okay? I won’t disappear, I promise.”

His smile was sad but genuine. All Paul could ask for. He nodded but then realized he already missed the point. “Okay,” he voiced. “Talking. Always been my strong suit.”

George’s smile grew and he pulled Paul into a hug. He hugged back fiercely, balling his hands up in George’s jumper.

“I don’t deserve this.” The words weren’t meant to leave his mind but they seemed to come of their own accord.

George moved him back and Paul almost pulled them right back together. “What do you mean?”

Bringing a hand up to caress George’s cheek, he tilted his head. “I don’t deserve to have you. Don’t deserve to have this band. Wouldn’t you be better off without me? I’m just here to cock it all up.”

“You… really mean that, don’t you?” With a shaky breath, George brought him back into the hug and gently held Paul’s head to his shoulder, petting down his hair. “No matter what happens to the band, it’s not because you don't deserve to have it. It’d be because we all need space, alright?” He held Paul a little closer. “And you don’t get to decide if you deserve me. That’s my decision.”

Paul nestled into the crook of his neck, scared to ask but not willing to keep it back. “And you think I do?”

“No. No. I just fancy hugging people I hate.”

Paul smiled into his neck. “Arse.”

#beatlesrarepairweek #mcharrison #mcharrison fanfiction #the beatles #George Harrison #paul mccartney #John Lennon #Ringo Starr #the beatles fanfiction #the beatles one shot #the beatles rare pair week

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libra-kirishima · 4 years

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Kinktober Day 8- Masks/Costumes (??? x Reader)

(It's one of these four idiots.)

Warnings: NS/FW Content. (It's not quite dubiously consentual but it can be interpreted as sex under false pretenses? Imagine that scene in Revenge of the Nerds but consentual. I figured I'd put the warning at the top just in case the content is triggering to someone. Also dacryphilia if you squint.)

"Did you lose your Gomez, Morticia?" A muffled voice asked you. Shortly after, a man in a Darth Vader costume sits beside you on the couch at the edge of the room which you've situated yourself in.

"Huh?" Oh, your costume... "No, I came alone." You laughed. "Well, actually, I came with one of my best friends, but I think he might've left to hook up with this boy in Gen-Ed that looks like he hasn't slept since 2008." He laughed. "So I'm here alone now. What about you, Vader? You with someone?" He shook his head. "How sad..." You cooed. "Will you stay and keep me company then?"

"Of course." The man in the Darth Vader costume moved closer to you so you were sitting shoulder to shoulder.

The evening seemed to fly past you while you talked to the man beside you. After two hours debating whether or not Leia was force sensitive, and if she could have been a Jedi in Luke's position if he had died, you found yourself with your head resting on his shoulder, with one of his arms languidly wrapped around your shoulders.

"Tired?" He asked.

"Physically? No. But parties aren't really my thing." You answered with a small giggle. "My friend- the one I mentioned earlier- he got me to come with the promise that this guy I'm interested in would be here, but I guess he changed his mind." He took a lot of interest in what you were saying, but you didn't seem to notice. "Maybe he's just not that into me. I should probably move on."

He bit his lip inside of his mask to keep from letting out an audible "fuck yes!"

"But that's alright," You continued. "Because I met you! Hey, I don't normally do this, but will you drive me home? And if you want, we can watch a movie or something? Nobody's home right now."

You didn't have to ask him twice.

One short car ride later, in which you got very handsy as he tried desperately to keep from crashing due to both the limited vision of his mask and the feeling of your hands on his body, you made it home. Very little time was wasted opening Netflix and selecting a nature documentary series about sea creatures before your hands returned to his clothed form like they were moments before.

Behind the mask, he was convinced that he'd died and gone to heaven. He was normally a pretty unassuming guy. No flashy quirk or bold personality. Not particularly good looking. Plain was how Bakugou described him once. And his friend was right.

Yaoyorozu's Halloween party was a blessing in disguise. If he had known earlier that by the end of the night the girl of his dreams would abandon her crush on some other guy for one night to take him home without questioning who he was, he would have put up much less of a fight with Kaminari about going.

His gloved hands fisted your hair as you took his cock into your mouth, all the while he wished that he could take his stupid helmet off and get a good look at you. You pulled back all the way to flash him wide, innocent eyes as your tongue circled the tip. You were going to be the death of him. He thought to himself as you sunk all the way back down until your nose met his pelvis, and he felt your throat constrict around him. Watching you slip one hand under that tight dress of yours while you sucked the soul out of him was enough to send him over the edge. You once again took him back as far as you could when you felt him on the edge, and swallowed every drop when you felt his hot seed pour into your mouth.

He slouched back on your couch, still shaking and trying to catch his breath. Meanwhile you wasted no time once again, using your dominant hand to give his cock a few strokes while your other hand reached for the remote to click the "Yes, I'm Still Watching" button. It took only a few more flicks of your wrist and another flash of those babydoll eyes (now with makeup smudged in a ring under your eyelashes) for him to feel himself getting hard again.

"You're killing me, (Y/N)"

"Good." You answered with a grin.

"Is that dress comfortable?" He asked, moreso a question as to why you haven't taken it off yet.

"No!" You giggled. "But I look fucking hot, don't I?" You were so correct in that statement that he couldn't even find the words to answer your question. Instead choosing to nod enthusiastically as he tried to catch his breath.

You slid up off your knees to straddle his lap. Nimble fingers reached out for the base of his helmet, but he moved away. Your brows knit together as you tried again, met with the same result as last time. Your hands slid back down to rest on his shoulders.

"What? You can call me by my first name but I don't even get to see you?" You teased. He panicked when he realized he used your given name, trying (and failing) to keep you from noticing. "C'mon." Your hands moved to try a third time, but we're halted by the feeling of his fingers gripping your wrists. "Why not?" You whined.

"I don't want to ruin it for you." He answered sincerely. You rolled your eyes dramatically as you lined his cock up with your entrance.

"You're too tall to be Mineta. It's literally impossible for you to ruin it for me." You explained before lowering yourself down onto him. "Besides, you're comfortable enough with me to call me by my first name so that narrows the list of people you could be down to, like, five people." He said nothing as you bottomed out, and you took it as an invitation to pull his mask off.

His wide eyes met yours. All either of you could do was stare at each other in bewilderment. It was only a few seconds but to him it felt like years.

Finally you broke the silence.

"Sero you son of a bitch! I thought you didn't come to that stupid party!" You kissed him roughly, but pulled away far too quickly for his liking. "I was so disappointed. Do you have any idea how mad I was that you weren't there even though Kaminari said you would be? Don't answer that. Yes you did! Because I told you about it before we left." You kissed him again, pushing your tongue into his mouth before he could fully process what you had said. You rolled your hips once and he stopped you. Wide hands gripped your thighs tightly.

"Wait, that was me you were talking about?" He asked, absolutely bewildered.

"Duh. Who else would I be talking about?"

"I don't know. Kirishima?"

"Actually," You laughed "I thought you might be Kirishima, because he's the only other person that knows me by my given name who would have black body hair. And I am so glad that you're not because it means that I don't have to tell him that I'm sorry but I'm still interested in Sero." You both laughed for a while until you cut him off with "So can I please move now? Because this is killing me."

"Please do." He answered. You hurriedly lifted yourself up before sinking back down. His hands slid up from your thighs to pull that tight dress off of you, tossing it in the same direction that you tossed his pants some time ago.

Sero's fingers made quick work of removing your bra and playing with your nipples as he watched you desperately chase your own orgasm. Your lips caught his in a messy kiss, all teeth and tongue. Sero could taste himself on your tongue, but to him it was still perfect. Your skin was soft under his touch and your cunt seemed to pull him back in with every roll of your hips as though he belonged there. Your mascara was in streaks down your face and your lipstick was smeared across one cheek from earlier. What little remained on your lips was swiftly transferred to him when you pulled him in for another kiss. You were a mess, riding him like you were born for this. And as Sero watched you cum while on top of him, he knew he wouldn't want it any other way.

"So can I take you on a date after this?" He asked after you had stopped shaking.

"Hanta, it's 3 in the morning."

"Not now." He rolled his eyes.

"I would really like that." You answered, hands moving to peel his shirt off. With a small smile, you curled yourself into his now bare chest. "You're fucking sexist for thinking that Leia couldn't be a Jedi, by the way."

"How is that sexist?!"

You had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

#written before we all had to wear masks and there were no parties 😔#sero x reader #sero hanta x reader #sero hanta #bnha imagines #bnha x reader #mha imagines #mha x reader #bnha smut #ns/fw #kinktober #pronouns used: she/her/hers

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couldnt-think-of-a-funny-name · 4 years

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how would you do a percy jackson adaptaion?

okay, so I know this is a controversial opinion right off the bat: I really don’t think it should be an animated series.

A large part of the appeal of the series is that it’s a fantasy series set very very firmly in reality. Literally, apart from the camps, you could go to every location hit in the books. Riordan mentions specific streets, buildings and landmarks, and that was cool when I first read them. I remember being a kid and waiting for him to set a scene in a place near where I lived! I remember trips to New York and being able to envision an epic war happening in the streets. So I think any adaption needs to be live action just to keep that same feeling alive, while I’m not knocking on animation, I just feel like taking the story out of real life would make it loose a little of the charm. Like, the scene where Manhattan is completely frozen in time? It would be haunting to see that in real life, but I feel like it would be less impactful if it didn’t…you know…look real? The series should be done in a way that makes you truly feel like you could just turn a corner and walk straight into a snake woman going about her day.

Now: another large part of the appeal of the series is how funny it is, but a lot of that…is Percy’s inner monologue. He doesn’t actually voice most of it, there was even a book where Annabeth described him as being quiet. So, I think the best way to work around this: make it Interview With A Demigod.

Imagine it’s got an interview with a vampire-esque setup- and this even works because within the riordanverse, the books canonically exist because Percy sat down with a ‘camp scribe’ and had his quests recorded. So, like, this isn’t even entirely out of left field. But just imagine, a college-aged, maybe a little older Percy, I can see it so clearly in my head, he’s wearing a sweatshirt that at first glance looks like it says NYU but a trained eye will see it actually says NRU for a camp jupiter easter egg, he’s sitting in some dinky little diner (maybe it can even be a monster donut or something with a clever greek myth related name) with a guy who’s recording the conversation on some old-ass tape recorder that keeps acting up but they can’t record on a phone because of the whole technology thing. Every now and then it’ll cut back to them to get some great Percy thoughts out there. They open with older Percy saying the ‘look, I didn’t wanna be a halfblood’ and then explaining where he was when the whole mess started. Once he get’s to “was I a troubled kid?” the screen fades from older Percy to 12 year old Percy getting in a fight with Nancy and her gang, and the voice over says the ‘Yeah, you could say that’ part as we see him get threatened by the principal to behave on the field trip. Boom, we’ve got an opening. Lowkey….I’m seeing Jordan Fisher as older Percy, but I’m not 100% married to the idea.

And before anyone tries to argue that showing an older Percy would spoil he’s not gonna die in last olympian- like, reading the books, we all knew he wasn’t going to die. It was a first person narrative and he was consistently speaking in past tense lmao like we Knew he was gonna make it. We still enjoyed the series. It won’t ruin anything.

I want part of the score of the adaptation to be instrumental versions of songs from the musical, I think that could be a sweet nod to that team.

They really need to nail camp halfblood. I know that goes without saying, but in order to keep the pacing of the story decent we can’t spend as much time falling in love with it like we got to with the book. The book is like, 24 chapters and the quest starts at chapter 12- for a movie or tv show, that’s just gonna feel like it’s dragging. So, the insanity of the camp needs to smack you in the face right away, and then it needs to endear itself to the viewers quickly after that. Don’t try to ease the viewers (or Percy) into the mythology is real thing, rip it off like a bandaid. He’s on his way to meet Chiron and Mr. D for the first time and even if he’s not comprehending what he’s seeing, there’s nature spirits and harpies all around going about their day. Hestia waves at him and then disappears into the flames. Hecate kids can be seen casting a spell on the porch of the Hermes cabin. The Stolls are seen pranking some Aphrodite kids. He sees someone surely die on the climbing wall but then you hear a faint ‘I’m okay!’. The Apollo kids put a rhyming curse on another cabin. Pure chaos all before he gets the ‘so, gods are real’ speech. And then after that…show how warm Luke is to him at the cabin and at dinner. Show the kids all goofing off at the campfire and really make it clear that they’re children. Show the strawberry fields rolling in the wind and Percy sitting on the beach. The whole couple weeks where he’s searching for powers and learning greek and latin with Annabeth can be a montage. Make it clear how hurt and scared he is when he finds out he needs to leave.

It needs to really get you feeling how Percy’s feeling, every laugh, every tear, every moment of fear or confusion needs to shine clear through. Like…think of Spider-Man Homecoming, the Washington monument scene. All things considered, it’s not the most high-stakes scene we’ve ever seen in that franchise, and when it cuts to the kids in the elevator, they’re worried but not quite freaking out, but that scene feels very high stress to watch because the movie is good at getting the viewers to feel what Peter feels. A Percy Jackson adaptation needs a touch like that, because Percy’s a very emotional kid and that’s what a lot of the scenes hinge on.

Lowkey- I’d love it if the casts of both the previous movies and the musical had cameos or bit parts (the movie cast did Nothing Wrong, it was the rest of that team). It’d be hilarious to see, like, Jake Abel as the owner of the poodle, or Logan Lerman as Older Percy and the reporter’s waiter that keeps trying to get in on the conversation, or Brandon T. Jackson as a satyr who’s still stuck grooving out in the Lotus Hotel and Casino. Kristen Stokes as a nature spirit, Chris as one of the ghosts stuck in the waiting room of DOA Records, just like any of those casts having small parts would be fun and sweet.

There should be a lot of easter eggs for the bigger riordanverse. Promotions in the background for the new Tristan McLean movie. Gabe’s got a true crime documentary about the missing Grace children playing during his poker game. Mr. D is reading a paper about Rachel Dare’s father’s newest project. At some point while they’re still in New York they pass the Kane family’s mansion or whatever it was called. Annabeth keeps a picture of little her and Magnus on her nightstand. The barest of hints about the Triumvirate. Seeing kids in camp jupiter gear in some background shots, just out of notice of our main characters but implying the camps are going through similar problems (BITCH….if we got a titan’s curse adaptation…and we had a shot of Thalia in the foreground….but in the background we saw a blond boy in purple with a golden sword….well I would simply loose my Goddamn mind).

And show us how easily the mist lets things blend in, too- like, everyone thinks ‘Monster Donuts’ is just a normal chain, it’s just on an average street block, but if Percy looks through the window he can see who’s behind the counter. Show someone swindling some guys in a park and you have to look twice to realize he’s a gegeines. Like…how people are still trying to find all the background ghosts in haunting of hill house. I would LOVE to see a bunch of background monsters and mythical beings just going about their day as much as the mortals are while the gang’s questing.

The effects need to be fun. The whole story needs to be fun, but one weird thing about the past movies are that like…in their attempt to make it gritty, none of the fantastical things happening on screen actually felt that exciting. We need bright colors and interesting choices, consistently cool action shots, a liveliness that makes you feel like you’re in the center of the action. I have absolutely no doubt Disney easily has enough funds to pull off great effects.

The characters need to be….in character lmao. Annabeth needs to be cocky and bratty with the skill set to justify it. Percy needs to be a sweetheart who pretends to be hardened because that’s what people assume he’s like. Grover needs to have dry humor and a Too Old For This Shit attitude whenever percabeth start bickering. Luke needs to be nice and friendly but in a specific way that you can look back after the betrayal and see he was trying to groom everyone. Sally needs to be loving, protective and strong. Chiron needs to feel defeated and determined at the same time. Mr. D needs to….be Stanley Tucci lmao

Also, I’d love if the adaptation could expand more on things that got brushed along in the books- Percy and Beckendorf’s friendship, Silena and Clarisse’s dynamic, make Nico’s crush on Percy a little more obvious, give Rachel some more development. One thing that haunts me about the books is Sally never found out that Gabe hit Percy. Absolutely they don’t need to make the abuse explicit, but I also personally feel like a lot of Percy’s mindsets throughout the series are somewhat a result of Gabe, and I’d like if that got, you know, acknowledged. Maybe in the scene where he figures out Gabe abuses Sally he could say ‘does he hit you too?’ or something to that effect. They could also go more into detail about Annabeth’s family, give Zoe some more depth….like the possibilities I’m screaming.

Okay this is already long and I’m getting tired but I can so clearly see a great adaptation in my mind….Disney please come through….It’s what we deserve….

#percy jackson #disney #rick riordan #pjo #hoo #toa #asks #molly mumbles

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tilbageidanmark · 2 years

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Movies I watched this week # 54

I never heard of Aniara, a book-length epic in 103 cantos and a symbolic science fiction poem that was written by Swedish Nobel winner Harry Martinson in 1956.

Because I don’t watch nearly any SciFi movies, I can’t tell how innovative the 2018 Swedish Aniara high-concept adaptation is, but for me it was the most amazing film I’ve seen this week. Philosophical, poetic and unusual, it reminded me of Ingmar Bergman existentialist dramas - in space. A luxurious spaceship carrying settlers to Mars is knocked off course, and is destined to fly indefinitely toward interstellar space. 9/10.

The trailer.

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The second Swedish film I saw, the off-kilter The 100 Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared, was the third highest grossing Swedish film of all time (?!), only beaten by two of the Lisbeth Salander saga. It’s a broad comedy, a bit like Forrest Gump, in that the feeble-minded 100-year-old man had many adventures in his life, from the invention of the condom, fighting in the Spanish civil war, meeting Stalin and Robert Oppenheimer, etc. But it wasn’t funny, or insightful, or suspenseful. 3/10.

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In the first scenes of Michael Haneke’s pessimist Time of the Wolf, Isabelle Huppert and her family arrives at their vacation cabin in the wood to find that it been occupied by another family. Without any warning, her husband is shot dead. The three survivors must fend for themselves in a bleak, desperate countryside that was devastated by an unexplained catastrophe. Reminded me of a dystopian ‘Waiting for Godot’ as written by Cormac McCarthy.

What is the meaning of Haneke naming many of his main characters Anne and Georges Laurent? 8/10.

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Let the sunshine in, my first Claire Denis film. Sensuous, vulnerable middle age Juliette Binoche flounders in her search for sex and romance like a clueless teenage, bouncing from one worthless lover to another, not able to figure out how to find a man worthy of her appeal. Considered a feminist masterpiece, it did not exactly connect with me. It was hard to imagine that only inauthentic men will fall for the wondrous Binoche. 2/10

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Vignette Robinson X 2:

🎦 🎦 🎦 In the new Boiling Point stressful pressure cooker she plays a sous-chef in an hectic restaurant kitchen run by an Anthony Bourdain-type chef Stephen Graham ("Tony Pro" Provenzano in ‘The Irishman’). Tight, anxiety-inducing drama.

Like ‘Russian Arc’, ’Rope’ & ‘1917′, Etc. it is shot in one smooth single-take shot, which is a gimmick but is nearly unnoticeable. 8/10.

(Photo Above).

🎦 🎦 🎦 Hated in the nation - 3rd re-watch in one year (!) and one of my all-time favorite “Black Mirror” episodes, a perfect full-feature thriller. Vignette Robinson was the teacher who sent the Iced Hate Cake to Jo Powers. Like I mentioned before, DCI Kelly Macdonald (AND “Blue Coulson”) were both terrific, and deserve an extended series.

"I didn't expect to be living in the future but here I fucking well am..." 10/10

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I didn’t know anything at all about Enfant terrible fashion designer Alexander McQueen, so McQueen was all new to me. A first-class biography about the young and talented couturier that proves that fashion is art.

7+/10 - highly recommended!.

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Anthropocene: The Human Epoch, a beautifully bleak documentary by Canadian photographer Edward Burtynsky, about the environmental crimes & irreversible devastation caused by grand scale industrialization on earth.

It opens with a tragic scene in Kenya, with 10,000 poached elephants tusks gathered in giant piles for public burning, and gets even more depressing with each new chapter: Extraction, Terra-forming, Techno-fossils, Anthro-turbation, Extinction...

Humans deserve so much to perish from this earth. I truly wish it happens soon.

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2 X Coen Brothers:

🎦 🎦 🎦 ...By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes...

The Tragedy of Macbeth, Joel Coen’s cold, new Shakespeare-based adaptation. Since I’m not too versed in The Bard’s actual works, I cannot judge it on its face. But its empty German Expressionistic production design and serious playacting are beautiful and captivating.

🎦 🎦 🎦 Friday Night Re-watch Special (No. N+1): It was the first time that I introduced and enjoyed together cult-favorite The Big Lebowski to a young stoner friend who had never seen it!

His comment, which I never noticed: We actually know nothing about Donny Kerabatsos, where he’s from, what is he about.

...No, Walter, it did NOT look like Larry was about to crack! ...

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Billy Wilder’s film noir Double Indemnity, with a cameo by Raymond Chandler, the only footage of him known anywhere. There must have been a time when the concept of insurance salesman hero Fred MacMurray planning a murder for money was considered cutting edge. Curiously, the whole insurance game is described here as a racket built on denying clients their claims ,not as a way to compensate them after various losses. Re-watch.

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Stine Fischer Christensen X 2:

🎦 🎦 🎦 I “had to” see Susanne Bier’s sensitive After the wedding AGAIN (5th time? 6th time? this year). Economically-written by Anders Thomas Jensen, with the delectable couple Sidse Babett Knudsen & Mads Mikkelsen, and a unpredictable story of love, mortality and reunion. I could just watch it again & again.

🎦 🎦 🎦 The young daughter from ‘After the wedding’ is a pregnant wife in the 2017 crime story, Darkland (‘Underverden’). Another interesting, Danish crime drama about the conflicts of the Arab minority in Copenhagen. A successful RigsHospital heart surgeon becomes a killing vigilante after his young junkie brother is murdered by an underground gang.

This is another in a series of Arab-Scandinavian filmmakers who tell stories about Iraqis (Palestinians, Etc.) as marginalized criminals. On the one hand, it’s a standard revenge-action film. If it was American, I would dismiss or ignore it. But it was well made, with the fascinating-in-real-life Roland Møller, in neighborhoods that I've been to often.

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Fabrice Mathieu’s The End, a supercut short made with 500 movies gifs. (Similar to György Pálfi's 2012 Final Cut, Ladies and Gentlemen).

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Throw-back to the art project:

Shakespeare Adora.

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(My complete movie list is here)

#movies

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thepointoftheneedle · 3 years

Text

Fragment

I’m really enjoying the fragments (and I freaked myself out with that word count thing so I’m taking some time off from writing....note to self -NEVER look at the stats page.). Anyway I keep trying to write this little soulmate thing but, without me intending it, it always becomes an academic paper on the philosophy of colour perception. And I can’t imagine anybody but me is interested in that!

Below the cut anyway....(I guess this should have been for Friday but what the heck...)

His eyes fluttered open as he awakened but, feeling the warmth of the sleeping girl by his side, he closed them tightly. He wanted them to have this experience together. Nothing would ever be the same for them again. It was a special moment for a couple and he wanted it to be perfect. He had installed the app on his phone so he fumbled for it, knocking some loose papers from the nightstand and cursing gently. She mumbled and stirred so he put his hand over her eyes. “What the hell J? What’re you doing?”

“I’m opening up ‘Soul Truth.’ We can look together.”

“Oh J, no, don’t do that,” she moaned softly, beseechingly.

“Ssh, don’t worry. It’ll be great.” He kissed her gently, voice-activated the app and removed his hand from her eyes. She was looking at him, not the screen so he gently turned her head and looked down as she did. The screen was a uniform blue. His stomach lurched. It must be a glitch. “Wait, wait a second,” he muttered, clicking the app closed and reopening it. Solid blue. He looked at her and saw the sadness in her beautiful dark eyes. Sadness but not surprise.

She reached out a hand and stroked his cheek softly, “Hey, I’m sorry J. I didn’t want to disappoint you but I already knew. I just didn’t feel it last night.”

“Jeez Rox, I’m so sorry. I can do better, you just have to tell me what I did wrong. I know I can be what you want. I thought you’d…I thought I felt you...”

“I did, Jughead, of course I did. Listen. It was great. You were great. So tender and kind. It was beautiful and I really had a good time but it wasn’t…I don’t know. It wasn’t whatever soul mates have. You’ve heard Fangs talk about it. It’s next level. Transcendent. What we had was great sex, but it was just great sex. No angelic chorus. You had to feel that?” She was normally tough and streetwise but now her voice was gentle, trying not to hurt him. There was a painful lump in his throat.

“I thought it was transcendent, you were anyway. I think I’m falling in love with you Roxie.” His voice was quavering. He was ashamed of his weakness. “It has to be a mistake. It’s the app. It has to be.” Abruptly he was up and heading down the hallway before she could say another word. “Fangs, “ he yelled. “You in there?” He stood waiting, shivering, in his boxers, while disgruntled groaning emanated from the room, until eventually the door opened a crack and Fangs peered out at him.

“Jones, the building better be on fire. We didn’t get in til four. What time is it?”

“Just after eight. Look, is this broken?”

Fangs looked at the proffered screen blearily then a small smile appeared on his face. “Aww cute bunny.” Jughead snatched the screen back and swiped up. An image appeared in his visible spectrum of a cartoon bunny rabbit holding out a carrot. The legend underneath read “I wuv you.”

“Uggh, why don’t they have something with a bit of gravitas? Shit. Fuck it!” Jug turned around just as Fangs understood the situation.

“Oh my god Jughead! Did you and Rosaline finally do the do? Oh shit…you can’t see that can you? Oh Christ man, I’m so sorry.”

Jug swallowed down his disappointment, just like he had been swallowing down his anger and sorrow and guilt and sadness for most of his life and shrugged at Fangs. “No biggie. Apparently I’m destined to die alone. Whatever.” He stalked off back to his own room only to find Roxie already getting dressed. “Roz, shit, can’t we talk about this? Don’t go. Maybe it’ll happen later, perhaps it’s not always instant?”

Her voice was low and mournful when she spoke. “J I really care about you, you’re my good friend, but we’re both searching for something that we’re never going to be able to give each other. Let’s just take some time apart. Maybe in a few months we’ll be able to go back to being pals again. I’m really sorry that you’re disappointed.” With that she was gone in a whisk of magenta hair and Cabotine perfume.

He sat on his bed and stared into space. He’d been so sure. She was a dear friend, she understood him, laughing at the same things, enjoying the same movies. There was never any stress or conflict with her. It was easy. She indulged his bad moods and cajoled him out of sulks with food and silly jokes. He knew enough to leave her well alone when she was getting into one of her rages. Then gradually, as they worked together on the documentary project, he found himself wanting to touch her hair, wanting to hold her tiny body against his in a protective embrace, wanting to make her feel good with his touches. She’d seemed uncertain but he’d persevered, wooed her really. Then finally, excited and giddy after the showcase where their documentary project had taken first place she’d kissed him and whispered, “Do you want to go back to your place?” He’d been so happy as they’d crunched back to his apartment through the first snow of the winter. He’d wondered if it might happen when they finished the film. While sex tended to be the main way that a soul bond was revealed, a lot of soul mates actually bonded on completion of some other kind of shared project. It hadn’t happened then but he’d been so sure that, if they made love, it would click and the missing shade would be revealed to them. And then it hadn’t happened.

The app was pretty new. Before the advent of the smart phone, folks would have a painting or a poster in their homes. To those who were not matched it would look like an ordinary scene but once a soul bond was formed, the missing colour in the spectrum was revealed, and the soul mates could read the message in the image. It was a little like a magic eye poster. You looked at it for a moment or two and then the missing colour reconciled itself into words or an image. Originally they had some gnomic inspirational quotation. The one in the trailer he grew up in had, his mom said, had the Rolling Stone’s lyric, “You can't always get what you want but if you try sometime you find you get what you need.” Ironically FP and Gladys had been neither what the other wanted nor what they needed. Later it would turn out that FP had lied when he stood in front of that poster and told the innocent, love-struck young girl, wrapped in the sheet from his bed, that he saw it for the first time too. Actually he’d already bonded with someone else, someone who had no intention of getting tied up with a guy in a gang from the wrong side of the tracks. He must have thought it was his lucky day, a second chance for happiness, when the beautiful girl he’d been romancing excitedly admitted that she could see the colour for the first time. He’d nodded enthusiastically, said, “Yeah, me too,” and whisked her away to a world of damp trailers, drunken arguments and angry guys repossessing their truck, or the tv, or the kids’ toys. She’d stayed because she believed he was her soul mate. She thought she had no other options until, in a drunken rage, he’d revealed that it had always been a lie. She snatched up her daughter and left him. And left the boy too, unwilling to take a kid who looked so much like the man she had been fool enough to trust and who had ruined her life with his lies.

The fact that scumbags with no moral scruples lied about this shit had led to the development of checking apps like Soul Truth, “the truth, the soul truth and nothing but the truth” according to the tag line. You both looked at the screen and noted down what you saw, then swiped up and the image was revealed in ordinary unbonded colours. It made it harder for predators and perverts to take advantage of young innocents while their good sense was overwhelmed by romantic dreams. It also revealed that about ten percent of bonds were unreciprocated like Jughead’s parents, one of the couple bonded and the other didn’t. Those couples had to decide if they would make that work, aware that one was more invested than the other, or if it was better to simply part, the bonded still feeling that desperate pull to their mate even decades later. Jug guessed he should be relieved that he hadn’t seen the colour that morning since, clearly, Roz was just not that into him.

He’d been sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the rug like that for thirty minutes when Fangs tapped softly on the door. “Not now,” he snapped but Fangs ignored him and pushed open the door.

“Ok Jug. I know you’re upset but it just means you haven’t found her yet. She’s still out there and if you go into one of your epic sulks you’ve got less chance of meeting her. What classes have you got today?”

“Nothing I can’t cancel. Everyone’s cramming for Finals. I was supposed to meet the princess to go over the final layout for the literary magazine. She can do it on her own. She’ll like that better anyway.”

Now Kevin joined his boyfriend in the room, both of them making him feel self indulgent and guilty with their solicitousness. “You shouldn’t shut yourself away and mope, Jughead. Go and edit like a champ and then come by the theatre for us and we’ll go for burgers. We’re striking the set but we can take a break. Our treat. What do you say?”

Jughead pondered for a moment. Nothing was going to change if he sat here, the princess would be unbearable if he blew her off, and burgers on someone else’s tab were his favourite kind of burgers, so he grudgingly allowed himself to be persuaded.

An hour later he was in the midst of a heated argument with the princess about his perfectly legitimate decision to kill a terrible poem about the fall which she, inexplicably, had marked for an already overcrowded page four. “You can’t just take things out without consultation Forsythe. We’re an editorial committee, we make decisions together. It’s supposed to be a collaboration.”

“What, you want to keep this pile of third grade horseshit do you? And you’re just calling me that to make me mad. Don’t think I don’t know.”

“I didn’t say that. It’s terrible. It obviously has to go. But you can’t just do it unilaterally. And you can’t call me Princess and not expect me to retaliate. You know my name.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake Princess... sorry, my humblest apologies, for fuck’s sake Betty. What the hell are we arguing about if we both think it’s bad and needs to go? And why is it even in here in the first place?”

“It’s in there because we were waiting on your egregiously late piece of sub Lovecraftian geek porn. I was filling space. Since you finally got your ass in gear we don’t need it anymore. So spike it.” She had this way of making him feel like he lost, even when he won an argument. It was infuriating.

They worked on pagination for another couple of hours with surprisingly little conflict, and then he wrote kickers for a few of the longer submissions, hoping to tempt the reader to give a story a chance. She made sure the submissions were correctly attributed and that the running heads and page numbers and folios were in place. Finally it seemed that they were done. He clicked back to the front page, checked the position of the artwork and the masthead and looked over at her with a questioning expression to see if she was satisfied. She nodded her approval and, at last, under the words “Joint Editors”, he typed "Betty Cooper & Jughead Jones.” As he clicked ‘save’ something shifted in his field of vision. He was alarmed, pushing back from the desk and looking around, meeting her startled eyes. Her green eyes, which weren’t green anymore. He couldn’t describe what colour they were, there were no words.

“What just happened?” she whispered, obviously badly frightened.

“Does…does anything look different to you?” he replied, hesitantly, reaching for his phone.

“Yes, everything. What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure. Look at this.” He pulled up the app. On the screen he could see, without difficulty, a cartoon cat, Pusheen maybe, its paws deep in some dough. The caption read “I knead you.” As he read the words in his head, she said them aloud. “Fuuuuck,” he murmured. “I think we’re soulmates, Princess.”

#fragment #bughead fan fiction #bughead fan fic #colour perception is way interesting #pink is nearly always the last colour word in a language

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