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not-neverland06 · 5 months ago

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hi!! Given my obsession for Hugh jackman I am CRAVING for some Leopold X reader (from Kate & Leopold)! Maybe with some little angst but happy ending??

I love your blog!! Have a wonderful day 😽💐💓

Leopold Mountbatten x fem!reader a/n: I don’t know how controversial this is going to be and I don’t care. I could never finish the movie because I hated Meg Ryan in it so much. It’s so odd, I’ve loved her in everything else she’s been in but she made it such a hard watch. Maybe it’s because she reminds me of my grandma in the worst way lol, but I finished it for you anon sorry this was a little rushed Anyways, hope you enjoy lovelies Summary: Your neighbor went back in time and dragged someone back with him. He's irritatingly polite and far too interested in your way of life. What are you meant to do when you fall for a man who was never even supposed to meet you?

“Hello, madam, please I need your help!”

You’re used to crazies, it is New York after all. But they’re not usually shouting at you through your window. Especially not when you’re on the sixth floor. You look away from your coffee and glance towards the fire escape.

There’s an oddly dressed man with red eyes waving at you through the dirty glass. You offer him a tentative wave back and he nods aggressively. “Yes, hello, I need your assistance.”

“Um,” you shake your head, “Sorry, I don’t have any drugs dude.”

“No,” he places his hands pathetically on the glass and shakes his head. “Please, I have been kidnapped.” Finally, you take a step closer to him. You can tell now that his eyes aren’t reddened from any medicinal fun, he probably got pepper sprayed.

Your friend did it to you once when you tried to surprise her on her birthday and you’ll never forget just how awful you looked afterwards. You can see him a bit more clearly now. Whatever odd costume he’s got on, it looks good. Genuine and clean.

Not like most of the street performers you see in Times Square. Besides, he doesn’t have that maddened look in his eye that makes you worry he’s going to come inside and kill you. Tentatively, you open the window.

He’s leaping through in a second and you jump back with a yelp. He turns towards you and his eyes widen before he quickly turns away. “My good lady, where are your pants?”

“Uh,” you glance down at the oversized shirt you’re wearing and the tiny shorts underneath. Admittedly, it’s a little skimpy, but you’re not walking around naked. You’ve heard of committing to the bit, but this is a bit much. “On,” you tell him, walking around him and trying to stand close to the phone.

“Ma’am-” He’s cut off as someone slams their fist on your front door. You keep a weary eye on the man while you unlock your door.

“Hey,” Stuart smiles at you. His eyes drift slightly past your shoulder and he goes barging into your apartment. “Leopold! What did I say?”

You huff and glare at Stuart’s frantic back. “This is yours?” Stuart nods and rushes Leopold out the door. You don’t miss the pleading, while slightly scandalized, look he sends you.

You slam the door closed behind them, shaking your head and going back to your morning paper. You doubt you’ll be seeing him around again.

You know, it’s just your luck that your upstairs neighbor is a scientist, one who happens to dabble in the art of time travel. And it’s just your luck that he had to fall down a damn elevator shaft.

Now, according to him, you have to care for someone from a different century so he can make it back to his time portal in, well, in time. This is fucking ridiculous. “I’m going to kill you, Stuart.”

“Look, they’re going to take my phone but he really cannot-”

It goes silent on the other end. You shout his name a few times but hear nothing in response. You assume the hospital staff has finally gotten sick of his shenanigans and has taken his phone. You slam your handset down with a huff and look towards the living room. Leopold hasn’t sat down since you walked in and it’s unsettling.

“So,” you start and his attention snaps towards you. “1876, huh?”

He nods and you roll your eyes with a scoff. “Oh, this is insane. This is insane,” you mutter to yourself, walking towards Stuart’s door. Leopold gives you a concerned look before quickly following after you. There’s a part of you, and you hate that part, that actually believes some of this.

Stuart is a brilliant, though flawed, scientist. You don’t doubt that he might have actually unlocked the secret to traveling back to the past, but it’s such an insane idea to try and wrap your head around.

“Come on, we’re leaving.” You know that Stuart doesn’t want him out of the house. Tough. You’re not going to just stay inside and wait until he can supposedly go back to the past. You don’t give Leopold any time to process your answer, already out the door and heading towards the stairs.

“You know,” he starts as he catches up to you. “You are quite rude.” Your first instinct is to snap back at him. But you take a breath and stop yourself.

You’re desensitized, ridiculously used to just how awful New Yorkers can be to each other. And whether this man is truly from the past or not is up for debate. But he is polite and earnest, and you have no reason to be a bitch to him.

“I’m,” the words are hard to come by but you force them out anyway, “I’m sorry.” He looks genuinely surprised by the apology and it only makes you feel worse. “This is just an insane idea to try and grasp.”

He chuckles softly, smiling as he glances down at his feet. “Yes, how do you think I feel?”

You’re sure it’s not his intention, but you only feel like more of an ass. If this is hard for you, whatever he's going through is a hundred times worse. You weren’t forcefully ripped out of your own time and shoved into another you don’t understand. He’s still trying to comprehend the television.

Though, you’re sure being a scientist has helped him in marginally understanding how all of this is possible. “How do you like the future?” It sounds awkward and stiff, but you haven’t had to talk to anyone in a really long time.

Your interactions are pretty limited at the book shop considering no one ever comes in. They all order online nowadays and all you really have to worry about is organizing shelves. You’re embarrassingly rusty when it comes to conversing.

And his propensity towards eloquence only makes you feel worse. “I must admit, some of your inventions have been quite fascinating. I’m especially fond of your showers.”

Your face scrunches slightly at the mention of hygiene and you nod, “I bet.” Before either of you can attempt to salvage this horrible attempt at conversation your phone starts ringing. “Hold on one second,” you tell him. You walk a few feet away from him but you can still feel his eyes boring into your back as you move away.

“Hello?”

There’s a frantic shout of your name down the line and then the distinct jingling of keys. “I need you to cover the shop. Marcy just went into labor and I’ve got to go!” Paul doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he hangs up.

Your jaw gapes and you stare down at your phone with shock. You know Paul and his wife had been expecting, but had it really already been nine months? Has your life become so monotonous and dull that nine months doesn’t even register for you?

It’s a depressing thought. One you’d rather not linger on. “What was that?”

You scream, though the people passing by don’t pay you any mind, and jump away from Leopold. “Jesus, where the hell did you come from?”

Leopold flinches away from you and his face is just as aghast as yours. “Good heavens, what is the matter with you? Do you respond to anything as a sensible woman might?”

“I resent that.” You tell him bitterly. Though, he does make a good point. You’ve been on edge constantly. You always seem to be more anxious than you are happy. It’s not a good state to perpetually exist in. “I need to go into work.”

You don’t want to outright say that he needs to go back to the apartment. It feels a little mean, but you’re hoping he’ll catch onto your tone of voice.

His entire demeanor perks up and he smiles at you. “Wonderful, I am dreadfully curious as to what you do.”

You open your mouth to correct him, let him know he’s not coming. But he’s staring at you with such hopeful eyes that you cannot find it in yourself to turn him down. He seems so excited, you’re sure he won’t be when he gets to your cluttered little bookshop. You let out a weary sigh, “Fine. Okay.”

You walk towards the curb, hoping to hail a cab. But Leopold’s hand gently wraps around your elbow and tugs you in the opposite direction. Your eyes widen in response to his boldness. You thought touching a woman he wasn’t courting would cause someone like him to combust. Seems he didn’t mind breaking the rules sometimes.

You make a mental note of that for later. You don’t know what you’re going to do with the information, but you find it intriguing. Maybe the modern world was rubbing off on him more than he’d like to admit.

“We should take this,” he stops you in front of a horse-drawn carriage and you immediately begin to shake your head.

“No, Leopold, these are just tourist traps-”

He doesn’t let you finish, opening the carriage’s door and gently nudging you inside. “Nonsense! This is far more enjoyable than those yellow monstrosities.”

“Taxi,” you correct. You turn towards the carriage driver and give him directions to your bookshop. “Ink and Tea on Fifth.” He nods and the carriage rolls forward with a lurch. You grip the cushioned seats and pray you don’t get motion sickness.

“Ink and Tea?” Leopold inquires. “Are you a journalist?”

You smile and shake your head. “No, nothing so fancy. I just help take care of an old bookshop. They were supposed to extend the shop when it first opened. They were going to build a space for people to get pastries or drink tea, but it never happened and the owner was too lazy to change the name.”

It feels a little humiliating to be talking about your minimum-wage job to a renowned scientist. He’s invented or is going to, elevators. He doesn’t care about your stupid shop. But he doesn’t look particularly judgy of you. If anything he seems to be endeared to you the more you talk.

Normally, you’re oblivious to these sorts of things. But it’s nearly impossible for him to hide. He’s not shy with his attraction, never taking his eyes off of you and hanging onto your every word. You’re not used to such outward attention.

You look out of the carriage, pretending to take in views you’ve already seen a thousand times. “This city is incredible,” he wonders aloud. His awe is palpable.

Your nose wrinkles and you shrug. “It’s dirty and the people are intolerable.”

“Must you always be so pessimistic?” You snap your mouth shut and feel embarrassment creeping around you. You’ve never had someone point out when you’re being negative, but he has a point.

You used to view the city through the same rose-colored glasses. Something’s broken inside you in recent years that has just taken the joy out of life. Everything is grey to you now, until Leopold, nothing spectacular has ever really happened to you.

The carriage comes to a stop outside the shop before you can respond to him. You want to deny what he says, but you can’t. Your attitude is almost always unnecessary. You think sometimes you might just be trying to see if everyone feels as miserable as you do or if there’s just something wrong with you.

“Come on,” you tell him, getting out and paying the driver. He wanders towards the shop, eyeing the displays in the window curiously.

“These are wonderful,” he tells you, pointing to the way you’d made the books look like they’re floating above the shelves. It was just some silly little thing you’d tried to get more people in the shop. It’d worked for about a month.

“I did that,” you unlock the door to the shop and open it for him. But he doesn’t walk in immediately, instead, he lingers in the doorway. He offers you a soft smile and you can’t help but return it.

“You’re more creative than you give yourself credit for.”

Your eyes widen as you watch him walk inside. He keeps making these oddly astute observations about you and it’s throwing you off your game. You barely know this man and you’ve always been good at keeping yourself aloof and vague. Yet, he seems to read you like you’re wearing your heart on your sleeve.

“Feel free to…” he’s already made himself comfortable somewhere in the back and you trail off. “Look around,” you finish lamely. His form is lost somewhere in stacks of books and cluttered shelves.

You know most of the classics and history books are kept towards the back. You wonder if he’s reminiscing or getting a headstart before he gets back to his time. You smile at the thought and walk behind the counter, sitting on the stool and preparing to finish off the rest of the day.

Leopold is still somewhere lost to you an hour later. Occasionally you’ll hear a page flip or the clatter of a book being reshelved, but there are no other signs of life. Not until the bell above the door rings.

“Clark,” you smile, sitting up straighter as your friend walks through the door. “What’re you doing here?”

He gives you a crooked grin and shrugs. Just over his shoulder, you can see Leopold’s head pop over a shelf, he looks between you both, eyes narrowing with disdain. “Paul told me you’d be here, figured you might want some company.”

“Actually-” you start, but another voice cuts you off.

“Leopold Mountbatten,” he comes around the corner, hand outstretched as he comes in between you and Clark. “And who might you be?”

Your brows furrow in confusion at the interaction. Leopold seems oddly hostile and Clark looks strangely caught off guard. “Um, Clark. Nice to meet you, man.” He shakes Leopold’s hand but his grip is weak and it only lasts for one awkward half-second.

It’s uncomfortable to watch them try and interact and it only gets worse when they turn towards you. Clearly, they want you to tell them who the hell the other guy is. But you feel like that might just make the situation worse.

Besides, you were pretty content with it just being you and Leopold, you don’t need Clark coming in here and riling things up. “You know, Clark, I’m set here. You can just go home.” Your tone leaves no room for argument but you know he wants to.

“Alright, I’ll just call you later, I guess.” He throws one last skeptical look at Leopold before finally slinking back out of the shop.

“Neither of you should be alone without a chaperone present.” Leopold bluntly scolds you without even waiting a second before Clark is gone. It catches you off guard and you scoff.

You motion between the two of you, “We don’t have a chaperone.”

Leopold shrugs, “Yes, well, I’m not courting you.” It shouldn’t, because he’s right, but that stings. He is attractive, surprisingly so. You have this odd belief that anyone from his century had to be at least a little ugly. But he’s near perfect.

Hearing him tell you so bluntly that you’re not courting hurts a little. Though, you can’t blame him. You must be dramatically different than the women he’s used to. From your manners to how you dress, you’re practically an alien.

You stand up from behind the counter and walk towards the cart of books that need to be shelved. “Clark is a friend. Nothing more.” You’ve never once been romantically interested in your friend. He’s attractive, but he’s not really your type.

Apparently, British men from the nineteenth century are. Which does not bode well for your romantic prospects once Leopold is back home. “It is plain for anyone to see how he wants you. Don’t let yourself be blinded by naivete.”

“Naivete?” you scoff and turn around to glare at him. “Don’t pretend to know anything about me, alright? I’m not some maiden in a frilly dress who needs a chaperone.” You can see that your words affect him. He looks a little taken aback by your anger and so are you.

It’s misplaced. You’re not mad at him, just mad that you even like him. “Just go read or something, Leopold.” You dismiss him more rudely than necessary and hide yourself behind a few shelves. The rest of your workday is spent in a tense silence that makes your stomach churn.

You’re nearly ready for bed when something slips under your door with a slight whoosh. You turn towards it, frowning when you see a little envelope with a wax seal on the ground. You pick it up and let your finger slip under the paper, opening it to find a letter with your name on it inside.

The handwriting is impeccable, with a gracefulness to it that you’ve never seen before. You don’t have to read for very long to know who it's from. Leopold writes poetry about the color of your eyes and the way your lips curl when you smile. And then he ends it with a vague, nearly ominous, invitation to dinner.

You can’t help but smile to yourself, changing out of your pajamas and slipping into something a little nicer. A few minutes later you’re climbing out your window and taking the stairs up the fire escape to the roof.

You don’t believe your ears at first, thinking the music must be coming from another apartment. But when you make it up to the roof there’s a violin player there waiting for you. He smiles happily at you as you approach.

You spin in a slow circle, taking in the sheer amount of flowers littered around the roof. You don’t know how he managed to afford all of this. He transformed the barren and empty rooftop into your own little paradise. Candles lit and a live musician playing for you.

You’ve never had anyone do something like this for you, ever. It’s a little hard to accept that someone would be willing to put this much effort in for you. “I wasn’t entirely sure you would come.”

You turn around and Leopold is waiting behind you, that familiar smile playing on his lips. You aren’t aware of the grin forming on your face in response. You don’t have much control over that when you’re with him.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He looks like he wants to respond but at the last moment thinks better of it. He instead pulls your chair out for you, helping you into your seat. “This is nice,” that feels too underwhelming a word for such an incredible gesture.

You sigh and frown as you try and find the right words. You don’t notice him sitting down across from you. You only look up when you feel him placing his hand on your own. “It’s alright,” he assures you.

It’s still so odd how he can know you so well after such little time. “This is incredible,” you tell him, undeterred by his attempts to soothe you. “No one’s ever done something like this for me.”

He looks like he takes personal offense to that and it makes you laugh. “You deserve far more than this. Sadly, it seems Stuart’s pockets do have limits and I’m afraid I would have put him into debt if I’d gone any further.”

You have the perfect mental image of Stuart coming back from the hospital only to find his science project has robbed him. It makes you laugh and you squeeze his hand once before drawing it back into your lap. He lets his touch linger on you for a long moment, seemingly reluctant to pull away.

“No,” you tell him, “this is perfect.”

You fall into a comfortable silence for a little while. Conversation mostly drifting toward what his life was like as a duke. You don’t have much to say about your own life. It’s been incredibly normal and you’re a little sad to find that you don’t have one good thing to share with him.

Nothing comes to the front of your mind.

Inevitably, you drift into the topic you’d both been so adamantly avoiding. “Has Stuart said when you’d need to return?”

Leopold’s grip on the fork tightens and for a moment he refuses to meet your eye. “Monday, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” your eyes widen and you feel something burning at the back of your throat. Monday, the same Monday that’s two days away.

“Dance with me,” the suddenness of the demand catchers you so off guard that you forget the tears. He stands, holding out his hand to you. You almost say no, you can’t remember the last time you danced and you doubt it’s going to be pretty.

But he whispers your name and something about his tone tells you to take the chance while you have it. You slip your hand into his, letting him pull you to your feet. He doesn’t sweep you off your feet and dance the night away.

Instead, he holds you close and you sway together. Like moving even an inch away from each other would hurt. “You could come with me,” he tells you. And you know immediately what he’s talking about.

You also know it could never happen. Going to the nineteenth century is insane. Even considering it should be enough to have you sent to a psych ward somewhere. Especially not for a man you’ve known for less than a month.

You try and tell him that you can’t, but he stops you. “I know, a preposterous idea. I just wanted to think about it.” You look up at him and find that you can’t take that away from him. There’s nothing wrong with imagining what it could be like with him. Even when you know it can never happen.

You dance like that for a little while longer, swaying against each other while the violin plays in the background. He whispers your name and when you gaze up at him this time, there’s a certain look in his eye that you know is reflected in your own.

He dips down, lips caressing yours gently before he’s pushing more firmly against your own. The world stops. Cliche, you’re aware. For the first time in years, though, you’re alive. You feel something other than the dull monotony of life. You feel excited and terrified all at once. Because you know you can never have this feeling again.

You will never meet another man like Leopold who ignites this spark of life and passion within you. Never has a man been able to make you doubt every decision you’ve ever made with just a kiss, but here he is.

Your arms lift like you might try and draw him in closer. His hands come up, taking yours in his gentle hold and squeezing. He pulls away from you and reality comes crashing back down. You’re not in love, you can’t be. You’ve only just met him a few days ago.

Yet, here you are, wondering if you might actually want to leave everything behind to be with him like the great romances authors write about. He smiles at you and there’s a bittersweetness to it, a final farewell that you know will break whatever is left of your heart.

He lifts your knuckles to his lips, pressing his lips against them like he never wants to part. “Goodnight,” he whispers your name and backs away from you. You watch him go, watch him leave, unable to muster up any words for him.

You can’t think of anything that would ease this gnawing ache inside of you. Nothing to soothe the pain for either of you. You let him go because you know if you asked him to stay he would. And how selfish of you would it be to let history unravel simply because you fell in love?

Monday. It is Monday. You’ve been coming to terms with that all weekend. You don't want to think about the fact that Leopold will be gone tonight. Your time together was so brief but you feel like you’re never going to get over losing him.

Before the night was over on Sunday, a note was slipped under your door. This handwriting was messy, it made you think someone other than Leopold had written it down, but you don’t know who it could have been.

It was a date and time, jump off the Brooklyn Bridge at this time on Monday night. Only an idiot would jump off a bridge because of an ominous note slipped under her door. But you haven’t been able to take your eyes off of it, not since you first picked it up.

Leopold had invited you to go with him. And while you might not have said no, the insinuation was clear. Your eyes dart to your clock. If you left now, you could still make it in time. What an absolutely ridiculous thought.

So, why are you running out the door without locking it? Why do you not care who slips into your home now? There’s this sense of finality within you that lets you know you’re never going to see that place again and that’s okay.

You never truly felt comfortable in your life. You always thought a part of yourself was missing. Or that you were always running late for something. You think you understand what you were feeling now.

The thing you’ve been searching for your whole life wasn’t halfway across the world, a hundred thousand miles from you. He was on the wrong side of time, or you were, at least.

You manage to snag a taxi to get to the bridge but there’s a traffic jam. You’re forced to jump out of the car and run through the different lanes of blocked traffic. People shout at you. Your cab driver screaming after you about your fare. You don’t care, the only thing you can think about is the note crumpled in your hands and the clock counting down how long you have to jump.

You’ll either be on the news tomorrow as an unfortunate suicide. An idiot who accidentally threw herself off the wrong side of the bridge. Or, you’ll see Leopold again.

You reach the ledge and you can’t hesitate. If you do, you won’t jump in time. You close your eyes, holding your breath like you’re jumping into your neighbor’s pool. Air rushes around you, whipping at your hair and skin violently.

It’s not until you hear someone shouting down at you that you realize you’re not dead. You’re lying in the middle of a dirt road, a group of people staring down at you with concern in their eyes.

You only have to take in the clothes they’re wearing to know you’ve made it. Before they can react you’re leaping to your feet and running off. You know you’re near the Brooklyn Bridge, or where it’s supposed to be at least. You know enough about the area to remember where Leopold’s house is supposed to be.

You’re covered in sweat and red mud. The people you pass by in the streets hide behind their hands and whisper about you. You’re not making a good impression on your future neighbors, that’s for sure. But, honestly, all you care about is making it back to him.

You see people congregating outside his uncle’s home. You know there’s a party inside, that he’s supposed to be announcing who his wife will be. You barrel through the people outside, shoving through the crowd and running up the steps of the house.

You can hear Leopold’s voice as you run, “The woman I’m going to take as my wife is-”

There’s a loud gasp as you come panting into the room. You can’t catch your breath long enough to speak but it doesn’t matter. The crowd is parting around you and Leopold is smiling down at you. He says your name and there’s nothing else that matters about the world around you. Not when you finally found each other.

#leopold mountbatten x reader #leopold mountbatten x you #kate and leopold #I just know this is going to flop lol #hugh jackman #hugh jackman x reader #anon

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inkmonster21 · 3 months ago

Text

Short n’ Sweet💋

Hugh Jackman x Fem!Sister!Reynolds!Reader

Warnings: SMUT

Part 12

Series Masterlist

We Were Going Right Then You Took A Left

💋💛💋💛💋💛💋💛💋💛💋💛💋💛💋💛💋

The filming process went smoothly and efficiently, finishing in no time at all. You and the crew worked together seamlessly, the production running like a well-oiled machine. The atmosphere was focused and professional, and you felt a sense of accomplishment as the shoot came to a successful close.

Marvel expressed their interest in expanding your character and even mentioned their desire to bring you in on a new installment focusing on witches. This proposal excites you, as it means more opportunities to explore your character's journey and potentially delve deeper into the magical aspects of the Marvel universe.

You had returned to New York, and you were set to make an appearance on a popular Late Night talk show. The city bustled with energy as you prepared for the big night, the prospect of discussing your latest project and interacting with the host and audience leaving you feeling both excited and slightly nervous.

Standing behind the iconic blue curtains, mic in hand, you take a deep breath and mentally prepare yourself. The anticipation builds as you wait for your cue to take the stage, the sound of the audience's chatter and applause drifting towards you. It's almost showtime, and you're ready to shine.

“And now performing one of her hits from her upcoming album, (Y/n) Reynolds!” As the host calls your name, introducing you as the next performer, a surge of adrenalin courses through your veins. You take a deep breath, plaster a confident smile on your face, and walk onto the stage, greeting the audience with a wave. The atmosphere is electric, and you're ready to give them a show they won't forget.

You timed your entrance perfectly, stepping onto the stage with a confident and graceful stride, singing the lyrics with precision. As the song progressed, you sauntered around the stage, commanding the attention of the audience. To add a playful touch, you even commandeered the host's desk for a brief moment, bringing a touch of lightheartedness to the performance.

As the song concludes, the room erupts into applause, the audience expressing their appreciation with thunderous clapping. You grin and wink at the crowd, basking in their adulation. This moment is what you live for – the connection with your fans and the thrill of performing.

As the break for commercials approaches, you quickly retreat backstage to change into your dress for the interview portion of the show. The changeover is efficient, with the crew working swiftly and seamlessly to prepare for the next segment. As you make your way back out on stage, now dressed for the interview, you take a moment to compose yourself and mentally prepare for the questions that are to come.

You return to the stage, now dressed for the interview segment, and the audience welcomes you with applause. The host greets you warmly, "Welcome! That was a fantastic performance!" Their praise sends a jolt of pride through you, fueling your confidence for the interview. You smile and thank them before taking your seat.

The host then delves into the topic of your album, asking you to share your thoughts and experiences behind its creation. You eagerly launch into a passionate and engaging response, discussing your inspirations, the process of writing and recording the songs, and the themes that run throughout the album.

"It's called 'Short n' Sweet,'" you explain to the host. "It's inspired by my past relationships, and even though they may have been brief, they've left a lasting impact on me. Each song represents a different experience, and I've poured a lot of emotion and personal growth into this album."

The host nods, a smirk on his face, “would any of the songs happen to be about your current boyfriend?” You can sense the host's playful demeanor as he brings up your current boyfriend, a smirk dancing on their face. With a knowing smile, you respond, "Oh, you know, there might be a song or two that was inspired by the current lucky guy in my life."

The host playfully comments, "Well, I'd say he's pretty lucky too! Is it true he got you into the movie?" You paused for a moment, a bit taken aback by the suggestion. With a confident and firm tone, you respond, "Actually, I got into the movie solely based on merit. My talent and hard work were the driving forces behind my role. While my boyfriend's support is greatly appreciated, I earned my spot through my own abilities and dedication to my craft."

The host presses on with a new question, "Being Ryan's sister must have played a role in your success, right?" You take a moment to compose your thoughts before responding, your voice steady and strong. "I've worked incredibly hard to establish myself as an independent artist and actress."

As the interview progresses, you sense a growing discomfort in the atmosphere. The host's questions and comments, while seemingly harmless, subtly undermine your accomplishments and imply that your success is merely a result of external factors rather than your own merit. You feel your frustration growing, but you maintain your composure, determined to remain professional and defend your achievements.

As you finish the interview, Megan seethes with anger, her frustration palpable. "What an absolute asshole!" she exclaims, clearly upset by the host's attitude during the interview. She quickly ushers you to the exit, determined to get you out of the building and away from the negative atmosphere. "Let's get out of here," she says, her voice dripping with indignation.

The aftermath of the interview is intense as the internet explodes with different opinions. Some believe that your success is only due to your famous brother, while others speculate about the reason behind your relationship with Hugh Jackman, suggesting that it's a strategic move for fame and opportunities. The online community is in a frenzy, debating and analyzing the situation.

The barrage of negative comments and speculation online leaves you feeling angry and saddened. The constant criticism and doubt about your accomplishments hit hard, making it difficult to ignore. The internet's cruelty seems inescapable, and it takes a emotional toll on you, leaving you questioning yourself and your achievements.

Megan witnesses your emotional pain as you silently scroll through the endless sea of negative comments. Tears well up in your eyes as you read the harsh words, your heart breaking a little more with each hurtful remark. The pain of hearing strangers' hateful opinions about your worth and undeserving nature weighs heavily on you, making you question yourself and your relationships.

Megan leaves the room, recognizing that you need some space to process your emotions. While she's gone, she discreetly dials Hugh's number, knowing that you need his support but also aware that you won't ask for it directly. She understands that you don't want to burden him with your pain, assuming he has more pressing matters to attend to. Despite your stubbornness, Megan takes the initiative to contact Hugh, silently hoping that he'll be able to provide the comfort and reassurance you desperately need.

Megan returns to the room, having finished her phone call. She finds you silently staring at your laptop, still lost in the hurtful words you've been reading. Sensing your emotional turmoil, Megan approaches you with a reassuring smile. "I've got some good news," she says gently. "Hugh's coming over."

As Megan announces that Hugh is coming over, you furrow your brows in confusion. "Wait, what?" you stammer, your voice laced with disbelief. "He's still filming in the UK."

Megan nods, a determined look in her eyes. "Yeah, he's still filming, but I could tell he understood how much you need him here. I wasn't afraid to tell him that," she says with conviction, her unwavering determination evident. She knows that your emotional well-being is of utmost importance, and she's willing to take the necessary steps to make sure you get the support you need, even if it means reaching out to Hugh while he's still filming in the UK. Her loyalty and care for you are unyielding.

You remain awake, unable to sleep, your mind still racing with thoughts. Megan, ever watchful and protective, takes the initiative to keep your phone out of reach, shielding you from the ongoing online drama. She recognizes the need to distract you from the negativity, and she begins to engage you in lighthearted conversation, making sure to keep your mind occupied. Her presence is a source of comfort, and her efforts to protect you from the digital storm are a testament to her enduring friendship.

As Hugh enters the room, he finds you passed out on the couch, cuddled up in a blanket, and Megan, visibly annoyed, sitting on the couch scrolling through comments and articles. The atmosphere is tense, a stark contrast to the peaceful image you present while asleep. Megan looks up, her eyes meeting Hugh's, silently conveying the anger and frustration she feels.

Megan stands up and smiles at Hugh, gratitude evident in her expression. "Thanks for coming," she says sincerely. "She really needs you right now." Her voice carries a mix of relief and determination, knowing that Hugh's presence will provide the comfort and support you desperately need during this difficult time. With a final, reassuring smile, Megan takes her leave, giving you and Hugh some privacy.

You lay curled up on the soft cushions of the couch, your body relaxed in deep slumber. The gentle rise and fall of your chest was a soothing sight, and your peaceful expression gave away the blissful dreams you were immersed in. Little did you know, your peaceful moment was about to be interrupted by the man who had been the center of your online controversy—Hugh.

Hugh had been reading the comments and articles. He knew it was difficult dealing with the backlash from fans who doubted the authenticity of your relationship, and career. He knew the truth; the love between you was real, and he was determined to remind you of that very fact. With a gentle smile, he approached the couch, his tall, broad frame casting a shadow over your sleeping form. He knelt by the couch, his touch was light, not wanting to startle you awake, but rather to ease you into a gentle awakening.

As his fingers traced the contours of your cheek, he whispered, "My beautiful love, it's time to wake up. I have something special planned just for you." His deep, soothing voice caressed your ears, and you stirred, slowly opening your eyes to his familiar face. "Good morning, my darling," he said, his warm hazel eyes sparkling with adoration. "I want to start your day with a reminder of how much I adore you."

You stretched, your body awakening from its slumber, and smiled up at him, feeling a little groggy but intrigued by his words.

"I've been reading the hurtful comments, and it breaks my heart that people doubt us, doubt you. But, I want to show you, that our love is real and passionate. So you never doubt us yourself.”

Intrigued and slightly worried about his plan, you sat up, the soft fabric of your silk nightgown sliding against your skin. "Hugh, you know I love you, and I don't care what they say. We don't need to prove anything to anyone. It just hurts my feelings."

He placed a finger on your lips, silencing your concerns with a gentle touch. "I know, my love, but I want to do this for us. To reaffirm our connection and remind us both of the fire that burns between us."

A shiver ran down your spine as his words ignited a spark within you. You could see the determination in his eyes, and the thought of what he had planned sent a rush of anticipation through your body.

"Come with me," he said, extending his hand. You took it without hesitation, feeling the warmth of his rough palms against yours. He led you upstairs to the bedroom, his strong stride belying the tender care he took to ensure you kept up. The bedroom was bathed in soft morning light, and as you entered, you noticed the subtle changes he had made.

Petals of red roses were scattered across the bed, their fragrance filling the air with a sweet, seductive scent. Candles flickered on the nightstands, casting a warm glow over the room. Soft music played in the background, a slow, sensual melody that set the mood perfectly.

"Hugh," you breathed, taking in the romantic ambiance. "It's all for you, my love," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Now, let me take care of you." He guided you towards the bed, his hands resting gently on your waist. As you sat on the edge, he knelt before you, his eyes never leaving yours. Slowly, he began to untie the straps of your nightgown, his fingers brushing against your skin with each movement. The silk slid off your shoulders, baring your chest, and he paused to admire your beauty.

"You are exquisite," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "Every inch of you is perfect, and I want to worship your body today." His words sent a rush of heat between your thighs, and you couldn't help but arch your back slightly, offering yourself to him. Hugh leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on the curve of your neck, his lips trailing a path of fire down to the swell of your breasts. He teased the sensitive peaks with his tongue, sending shivers of pleasure through your body.

As he suckled and nibbled gently, his hands traveled down your sides, tracing the curves of your waist before slipping beneath the nightgown to caress your hips. His touch was electric, and you couldn't suppress a soft moan as he explored your body with such devotion.

"You like that, don't you, my love?" he murmured against your skin. "Knowing that I'm touching you, adoring you, and proving to both of us that our love is real." "Yes, Hugh," you breathed, your voice hoarse with desire. "I love it. Please, don't stop."

His hands slid around to your back, and he gently eased you down onto the bed, the rose petals tickling your skin as you lay back. He followed, his body hovering over yours, his eyes burning with passion. "I want to taste every inch of you," he said, his voice husky with need. "To remind you of the pleasure we share."

With that, he trailed a path of kisses down your body, his tongue flicking and teasing as he went. He paid homage to your breasts, sucking and laving each nipple until you were writhing beneath him, begging for more. He teased your sensitive spots, his fingers and tongue working in harmony to drive you wild.

As he reached your navel, he paused, his warm breath causing goosebumps to erupt on your skin. "You're so beautiful, so responsive," he murmured, his fingers gently stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. "I want to make you feel so good, my love."

You whimpered, desperate for more, and he obliged, kissing and licking his way down to the apex of your thighs. He paused, his breath hot against your moist folds, and you felt his warm, moist breath as he inhaled your scent.

"So sweet," he whispered, his voice raspy. "I'm going to savor every moment of this."

With that, he plunged his tongue into your wetness, tasting your essence as he swirled and flicked against your clit. You cried out, the sudden pleasure overwhelming your senses. Hugh was relentless, his tongue working its magic, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

"Hugh, please," you begged, your hands clutching at the sheets. "I need more."

He chuckled, the vibrations sending a new wave of pleasure through you. "I know, my love. I'm going to make you come so hard, just for me."

He increased the pace, his tongue working in a frenzy, and you felt your orgasm building, a delicious pressure coiling within you. Hugh seemed to sense your impending release, and he sucked your clit into his mouth, sending you over the edge.

Your body arched off the bed, your cries echoing in the room as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. Hugh continued to lap at your sensitive flesh, drawing out your orgasm until you were a quivering mess beneath him.

As your breathing slowly returned to normal, Hugh crawled up your body, his lips seeking yours. You kissed him hungrily, tasting yourself on his tongue, and he deepened the kiss, exploring your mouth with passion.

"That was just the beginning, my love,"he whispered against your lips. "I have so much more planned to show you how much I adore you."

You smiled, anticipation and desire mingling within you. "I can't wait, Hugh. Show me how much you love me." His hands traveled down your body, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin as he spoke. "I love your strength, your beauty, and the way you make me feel alive. I want to worship every inch of you and make you feel like the goddess you are."

As he spoke, he positioned himself between your thighs, his hard length pressing against your wetness. "Let me show you how good it can be when we're together," he murmured, his voice hoarse with desire.

With one smooth thrust, he filled you, his cock sliding deep within your warmth. You gasped, your body adjusting to his size, and he paused, giving you a moment to savor the sensation.

"You feel so good, my love," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "So tight and wet around me."

He began to move, his hips thrusting in a slow, steady rhythm. Each stroke brought a new wave of pleasure, and you matched his pace, your body rising to meet his. Hugh's hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements, and he leaned down to capture your mouth in a passionate kiss.

The kiss was hungry, desperate, and it mirrored the raw need building between your bodies. You could feel his desire, his love, and his determination to prove his adoration with every thrust.

"You're so responsive, my love," he panted between kisses. "So tight and hot. It's like you were made for me." His words spurred you on, and you urged him to go deeper, faster, your nails digging into his back as you encouraged him to take you harder. Hugh obliged, his thrusts becoming more urgent, his body slamming into yours with each stroke.

"Yes, Hugh! Right there!" you cried out as he hit your sweet spot with every powerful thrust.

He grunted with each impact, his body glistening with sweat as he worked to bring you both to the brink. "I love you, my darling," he growled, his voice hoarse with passion. "I love the way you feel around me."

Your bodies moved as one, a primal rhythm taking over as you both spiraled towards an intense climax. Hugh's name was a constant mantra on your lips as you rode the waves of pleasure he created within you. "I'm close, Hugh! So close!" you cried, your body tensing.

"Let go, my love," he urged, his voice strained. "Come for me, and show them all how real our love is."

His words were the final push you needed, and with a final, powerful thrust, you both shattered, crying out each other's names as your orgasms consumed you. As the tremors subsided, Hugh collapsed onto the bed beside you, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. You turned towards him, your body still buzzing with pleasure, and ran your fingers through his hair. "That was incredible, Hugh," you whispered, your voice filled with awe. "I feel so loved and cherished."

He smiled, his eyes shining with satisfaction. "And this is just the beginning, my love. I have so much more to show you, to prove to us both that our love is unbreakable." You snuggled closer, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. "I can't wait to see what else you have planned, my love. But for now, let's just enjoy this moment and each other."

Hugh pulled you into a tight embrace, his strong arms wrapping around you protectively. "Always, my darling," he whispered. "Our love will conquer all, and we'll prove it to the world, one passionate moment at a time." As you lay there, content in each other's arms, you knew that the online hate and doubters would soon fade into insignificance. For now, it was just you and Hugh, lost in a world of love, passion, and the sweet affirmation of your unbreakable bond.

#hugh jackman smut #hugh jackman fanfic #hugh jackman fic #hugh jackman x you #hugh jackman x reader #hugh jackman #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine #logan howlett

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themareverine · 1 month ago

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Toy Soldiers | part one | worst!wolverine x namelessfem!OC

synopsis: He was just a one of those fast food kid’s meal toys from 1993—key word, was. now he’s Hugh Jackman incarnate, standing in the master bedroom of her midwestern apartment, lost in time and infinity. she’s gotta get him back to his world, where he’s the worst Wolverine, where he belongs—or, maybe not?

warnings: Indian in the Cupboard themes (iykyk), fluff, AU, not entirely sure what else at this point, nameless!femOC with blue eyes could be interpreted as reader, mentions of a best friend named Rose, etc, literally based on this silly little toy I rescued and now have crafted extensive lore for.

a/n: i didn't ask for this to become a multi-chapter thing. i really didn't, ok? this got away from me, but i really love these two so much already. this was fun to write, and she's a fun character to develop. worst!wolverine is just occupying too much brain space.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

Dreaming in color is a pro, when you weigh it against the cons—usually.

She’d been dreaming in movie-like quality since she was a kid, could pinpoint almost to the exact timespace when she first realized her dreams were akin to Hollywood flicks roving about her brain like Spielberg classics.

She’d been six, maybe seven. A hopeless crush on Wednesday night’s Steve Irwin had somehow twisted the innocent power of her brain—the only, almost divine dreamstate visit to Australia she’d ever taken. Still she can taste the hot air, thick with sweat and arid desert, from the back of an obscure Land Rover, jostled and bouncing along forgotten roads and who-knows trails. Eyeballing open sky and endless outback sands, the Crocodile Hunter and his darling wife, Terri, vivid imaginations to a childhood fantasy yet, mostly, unlived.

And ever since this God-granted, she’d always assumed it was a gift and thus titled it so, she’d been dreaming vividly most of the last twenty four years. Forgetting her dreams was the exception, black and white—unheard of. Tasting, speaking, reading, touch was wrapped up in REM and weighted blankets, vicarious life she’d never, really, lived in her waking moments—everything from the supernatural to gut-wrenching. Martial bliss and familial tragedy. Combat she could only ever hope wasn’t accurate. Fame and fortune. R rated filmstrips that left her stomach light and fluttery every morning, promptly, at 4:45—alarm shrieking in her ear, viscerally ripping her back to the land of the living with frothing teeth, the Greatest Showman custom alarm all but a slap in the face.

It’s, as usual, dark when the numbers on her phone roll over to 4:45—sucked out of a dream like the vacuum of space itself lays claim to her soul, her eyes flutter open heavily to stare at the alarm. Hugh Jackman would never be so unwelcome as he is now, blaring from little iPhone speakers—she manages to lift a noodle-esque arm to slap at the noise hanging out in the darkness around the vicinity of her nightstand.

Fingers locate the smooth screen, swipe away the prompt for snooze. Roll over. Hand over her eyes—it’s Saturday The day after Friday, her first day alone all week. World beyond is closed away behind walls and empty schedules, priorities otherwise left-fielded for such days as this.

Warmth simmers beneath heavy weighted covers, trapped against her body. Clawing up through her mattress, threatening to pull her back into oblivion. Pharaoh’s hadn’t been so mummified, entombed as she is now, but that’s the beauty of a queen mattress left unshared—solidarity. Armies only wish they held such control over real estate as she did these sheets, this bed frame—very little could remove her from the ecstasy that is this Eden, the one place that did not require compliance, performance, untenable perfection.

Here she could rot for hours, engage in adventure that the earth would never understand—that man would jeer.

Heaving a sigh melts her deeper into her astronaut-designed mattress, stomach suddenly flatter than it’s ever been as gently fingers tease at the strip of skin exposed. Back arching, stirring nearly-paralyzed muscle. Toes skip over warm satin sheets as she navigates to her side, arm tucking beneath her pillow. Drawing blankets to her chin, another deep breath closes her eyes, shuts off her brain—all but ready to return to dreamstate, the screen on her phone illuminates again—diiiiing.

Light explodes, lighting up the area of her nightstand just enough to give purpose to her surroundings.

Nose scrunching in an effort to unhear and forget the notification, her eyes slowly pull open as she considers the phone. It’s her best friend, she knows it is—Rose is up early. All the time. Taking care of her little family at the base of the Teton mountains, as if this is Little House on the Prairie and such things were the norm.

Her inability to ignore anything from Rose props her up on an elbow, has her reaching for her phone—thumbs the passcodes. Opens the text, eyes scanning the message from last night.

It’s a photo message. She’d sent it last night, proudly showing off the latest addition to her childhood nostalgia collection—a thrift store find, the little McDonald’s toy is hardly noteworthy. Scuffed and worn, it had seen adventures, surely, in its pre-her-possession life. Surprise had knocked her between the eyes like a stone when she’d managed to spy 1993 printed on the little action hero’s foot, in barely-there legalese.

At thirty-one years old, one may have expected the little five-cent made-in-Taiwan to end up in the landfill, rotting alongside near-radioactive diapers or kill-the-turtles plastic straws.

Nope, not this one—Marvel’s very own little Wolverine. Dolled up in a cute little sci-fi bronze suit, ready for a fight. Retractable claws, the hardly-scuffed cowl, a proud encircled X in all its glory—wrapped up in a little sandwich baggie marked down at the thrift. She’d almost felt sorry for him in that cute aggressive way.

And almost giddy at the fluke cocktail of age and condition, she’d pocketed the little guy. A pleased smile, her very own little Wolvie nestled in the leathers of her jacket, then the bottom of her purse. He’d adventured to work with her accidentally on Friday, plastic eyes watching her pass the time at the office from his little perch beside her keyboard and Starbucks. Almost had forgotten him, poor thing—he’d landed on her nightstand among the other needs-put-away items for the weekend, proudly standing in his posed little battle stance.

All he needed was matching Sabretooth, maybe Magneto, and he’d be good to go.

Looky who came home with *me*, shot over to Rose with a little thrill, a Snapchat-like photo of him perched alongside her night cream and phone charger. More of a proud sentinel guarding her bedside table than anything, she’d regarded him playfully, like a child—had told him to close his eyes when she’d undressed. Had asked him about a movie to watch in bed as she managed hip-opening exercises, relaxing breathing techniques. All but kissed him goodnight, promising to get him settled among her other collectable childhood wonders in the morning.

After coffee and cardio, wouldn’t Hugh be proud.

Rose’s LOL text all but smiles back at her, and she’s a little cross-eyed from the brightness of her phone. It improves when her eyes skate away from the phone, to the little Wolverine—wait.

Brow furrowing, his absence from the nightstand sparks more panic than she’d be willing to admit in therapy—she bends over the side of her bed, fingertips skating the floor in search of her little plastic wonder. Nothing but plush carpet, abandoned laundry she’d failed to relocate to her drawers—her phone slips from her hand as she hauls herself over the bedside, to peer beneath.

It’s dark, duh, and she fumbles upside-down with the flashlight on her phone. Sun levels of intense light, she makes arching passes beneath her bed, but no dice. Nada. Zilch–zippo on the Wolverine toy.

“Well this is just a little ridiculous,” her mumble rolls off a dry tongue, from messy hair as she works herself back up from hanging over the bedside.

Forcing off her weighted blankets has never felt more urgent, importance spiking her blood with ill-placed adrenaline she doesn’t understand—why she cares so much about a little three-decade-old McDonald’s toy she’ll never understand, but the thought of him lost in the abyss of her house is more unsettling, again, than she’d admit in therapy.

Legs swinging over the bed, she plucks her glasses from the tray on her nightstand, grabbing for the light robe dragging the floor from one of the nightstand’s knobs.

Wrestling a steer would’ve been easier than un-inside-outing the garment, still hazy and half-asleep and wholly uncaffeinated, but she manages. Another scout under her bed reveals that, no, little Wolvie isn’t among the dust bunnies and lint of her carpeted under-bed floor.

Brow furrowing, her glasses slip down her nose as she hauls herself back to her feet, sleep-stiff muscles protesting as she massages the back of her neck.

Hands on her hips, she reaches for her phone. “Had I known you had teleportation powers, little Lo, I’d have sold you off to NASA—come on,” Triggering the flashlight on her phone again, she dives to check between the headboard and mattress, to see if her Logan lookalike decided to magically dive headfirst into the almost-abyss—

“—you make a habit of talkin’ to open air, girlie?”

Two things happen immediately in her body.

First. Alarm jumps up in her chest like a devil, deep claws sinking into the meat of her chest only to rip away any sense of safety taking up residence behind her ribs, in her bones. Heart forgetting to throb, blood all but stands still in her veins, asystole in her arteries—she can feel the lining of her stomach twist into a viper-like coil so cold, she fears frostbite has set into her organs.

Fear knocks hard on the door of her sternum, ripping the wind from her lungs. Terror opens up her vocal cords and bludgeons a song from her throat, but it’s so dry in her apartment that the fleshy membranes of her mouth have all but become cragged Sahara sands. Tongue swelling to the size of her fist, she fears she’ll choke on it. Forces it against the back of her bottom teeth, jaw clenching with enough force to break open the world.

Legs somehow managing to propel her up onto her mattress, across the bed, to the farthest corner of the space. Cold sweat raises to a dance across her skin, satin sleeping pants clinging to the flesh of her thighs as sapphire eyes attack the figure cutting through the threshold of her door—hands low and open, in placating surrender.

Brow furrowed with canyon deep lines, dark eyes flick over her frame as she takes a step back for each of the ones he cautiously makes into the room. Invading her privacy, an unwelcome intruder.

“Easy, sweetheart,” early morning gravels his words, which hang low in baritones not at all unfamiliar, “‘m not gonna hurt you. You breathin’ ok?” Genuine concern passes through his eyes, deep and alive, but—not in a bright way. The corner of his lip tips up, “Don’t mean to scare ya, pretty.”

Pretty? Sweetheart? Who the hell is this—?

Any familiarity his face holds is lost to the bite of adrenaline, slavering teeth trenching into the back of her brain. Seeming to lap at the spinal fluid all but bubbling down the length of her back. Chest heaving with effort, she fears her ribs might break. Cardiac muscle behind her chest bones all but explodes with every heavy heartbeat, reminding her to stay alive. That she, still, is living.

Stomach sour, twisting like corded steel, she lunges for the foot of her bed—snatched the first thing she can retrieve. Face all but a blazing inferno of heat, nails all but pike into the soft plush of a stuffed animal. Her favorite. Or, rather, was—now little more than a weapon, it stands between her and the invasion like a fortress.

“What the hell are you doing here,”she challenges, taking a half step back. Memories of kickboxing classes, somewhere in her youth, escape through the fingers of memories in the back of her head. More boxing posture than anything, she lifts her arms to chin level. Fingers tear into the stuffie like it’s a lifeline, like it’s protection. And for now, it is.

Not giving him the chance to answer, his mouth hangs open in muted response, “This is my apartment—you can either leave or I’ll–I’ll forcibly remove you.” It would take a 911 call—it would mean grabbing her phone from the nightstand, punching the emergency button, and staying away from him during response time. All unlikely, given proximity. The size of the apartment. How he blocks the only damn exit with his huge-ass frame.

Jaw snapping closed, a thick brow pops up. He chuckles. He think this is funny, “Whoa, take it easy, bub—”

“—shut up! Stop talking!” Pointing a strong finger at him, she shuffles back on light feet. Bobbing as best she can, trying to appear light. Prepared. But everything in every manual in the world wouldn’t have prepared her for home invasion—all those home defense classes. The hours shooting clays and targets with her father. Worthless.

I am so going to die.

Another step into her sanctuary, holy of holies. “Quit moving, damnit!”

The stranger stops mid-stride, brows arched in surprise at her tone of voice. Squinched nose, and tightly shut eyes add to what must be a comical look on her face. Coupled with crimson cheeks and the shake setting into her hands, she surely looks—well. A sight, if little else.

Realizing nothing short of an eternity has lapsed in the cool peace and blissfully ignorant darkness of closed eyes, hers pop open. She watches has near-pawlike hands, mapped with raised veins and pronounced callous, drop to his sides for all of a minute. Her heart cuts against her ribs like an ax laid to roots, willing to break something loose—he chuckles. Laughs. Some faraway light catches the darkness of his eyes, brightens his face in a way that only ever seemed so Hollywood, but is now real.

And he laughs with his entire body for all of a few seconds, wrinkles at either side of his eyes deepening into canyons that seem to fill with his amusement, at her expense.Mind short circuiting, her toes curl into the carpet, calluses on her heels catching frayed fibers as she does her best, again, to stay light on her feet. Nothing about her is light, certainly, and she attempts to calculate distance, how many seconds it would take her launch her body forward, toward the door. Past him, into the corridor, out the front door.

HIs hand extends, palm up. Waving her forward, as if she were some thing to beckon—

—until her stuffie chucks directly at his face, a blur of hot-pink fur and fluff.

The moment she arched her arm and sent Mr. Hearts on his first-ever attempt of flight, her feet springboard off the carpet, launching her forward at a speed she never thought possible. Adrenaline jumpstarts every one of her cells, lacing through her veins like rocket fuel—and the world spins by in a blur of color, her chest racked with pain as her heart racehorses behind bones that are no less than temperatures akin to magma.

Tunnel vision blocks out the world, save the nearly sparkling promise of the room’s exit. Tears bubble up on her lash line, hot and intruders on any clarity of brainspace she’s trying to will forward. Hot, breathy fear closes her throat, nothing but blood rivers through her ears—nothing except the ache of her throbbing heart, the painful push and pull of her lungs expanding and retracting.

They say hearing is the last thing to go when your soul begins to fade into death, but it’s a lie—she can’t hear a damn thing. And she’s more than alive.

Missing completely the soft snikt!, the what-would-usually-be unmissable split of skin, there’s a muffled tearing of fabric as once beloved Mr. Hearts suddenly becomes two halves of himself. Puffy stuffing explodes into the air, faintly she can feel her beloved stuffed animal hit the floor mutedly. In some back door of her brain she knows what’s happened, but survival carries her feet—pumps her arms. Zeroes her gaze on the door, blocks out anything other than the gut instinct to run, run, run hard.

Finger reach to grab the doorway, hurl herself around the corner—but it’s too late. Electric movement snaps through the air, a microsecond passes before a thick, heavy arm catches her around her waist. Hauls her backward, sucks her from the door like something from Star Wars, the world spinning by in a Picasso of color and tears as she’s manhandled, forced back. Kicking her feet into the air, she wills him to break, throwing her body mass back, against him. Arches her back. Wrangles and claws at the hair on his arm, the muscle that is taught against her rebellion.

Throat splitting with a shriek, she’s silenced when his enormous palm claps hard over her mouth. It feels like centuries have passed, but in reality, it’s been seconds. Breaths and heartbeats. Tears trailblaze hot down her face, her throat all but reverberating with sobs. Body heat wraps around her, butter down her spine as the arm around her middle pulls her tighter. Closer. Keep your enemies close—

And he’s tall, legs anchored behind her. Like a brick house. Snot begins to empty her sinuses in a slick, sticky mess. Her mouth attempts to open behind the palm of his hand,all saliva and spit. Doesn’t seem to do much. Digging her heels into the floor, her foot skims the floor. Looks for one of his. Finding it, she slams her heel against would-be soft bones, and he hisses. Grunts like an animal.

“Knock it off,” his baritone rumbles, a dangerous growl over her ear, “not here to hurt you, darlin’.” A lie. She doesn’t believe him, digs her heels farther into the soft flesh of his feet. Buries her nails into his muscle, the soft flesh of that tender spot under the wrist. Veins, lots of blood there.

Something obscene slips past his lips. Fighting back more stinging tears, his fingers curl around her wrist bruisingly, and with herculean strength, he whips her about-face, suddenly chest-to-chest with her as his fingers fist in her hair. Pulls sharply, “fuckin’ hell—calm the fuck down,” his fingers fall from her hair, instead grab her chin with an almost bruising grip, “stop bawlin’, for Christssake,”

Her nails milk as they dig into his wrist, deep red lines canyon the hand holding her face with a patience lost to most members of his sex. Hard, dark eyes hold hers with a fierceness that numbs her intestinal tract. For a moment, an arctic swirl is born and dies in his gaze, resurrected instead a hint of grief and—empathy, maybe. A lostness she can’t describe. Confusion punches lines between his knitted brows, etching deep into ruddy, masculine features a kind of unwordly handsome, had he not been sent to kill her.

Oh God, please—Shaking, her eyes pinch closed again, unwilling to let him see any more of her soul. More snot and tears, saliva pearls between the seam of her lips as she tries, and fails, not to blubber. Knees buckle. Hangs there, full weight of her body supported on her chin between his fingers, jaw suddenly alive with inferno pain. It lasts seconds before he lets her go, and she sinks to the floor, slackdoll and sobbing. Staring across the floor, her cheek burns against the harsh fibers of the floor.

Her belt. Abandoned, on the floor last night after a work dinner. It’s the only thing, and her brain conjures images of just exactly how she’d use it, suddenly Jackie Chan or GI Jane or some shit she’s seen a thousand times on film, has never executed. Hiccuping in short breaths between sniffles and sobs, tears leak into the carpet off her cheek. Her heart pumps blood that may as well pool into her chest, leak between the cracks in her confidence.

Stepping back, he looks at her. A cocktail of surprise and irritated, he sinks to a crouch. Shakes off red marks that still linger on his arm, wipe her snot and saliva on his-–are those yellow?-–pants. No time to notice, to care—her nails catch against the fibers of the carpet. Begin to push her bodyweight up, on an elbow.

Unburdening a sigh, his hand scrubs his face as hers darts across floorspace. Snatching the belt with a speed she’s never fostered, he doesn’t even have time to put two and two together before the leather snaps like a whip, thick silvers from a rodeo buckle landing fully on the bone of his jaw. Cuts a deep line that flashes scarlet, rips open flesh like a fillet knife.

“Fuck!” it’s harsh, bestial.

Reeling back, she finds time to scramble to her feet like a clumsy foal, looping the belt around her fist once as he pops tall. Backpedaling away from arm’s length, she pistons towards the door, on fire and pumping adrenaline like a sieve.

And she flies. Out of the bedroom. Down the corridor. Somehow she manages to find her keys on the kitchen table as his heavy, earthshaking feet pump down the hall. Fumbles over her own feet at the front door, slams into it hard, bounces off. Fingers suddenly unable to communicate coherently with her brain, the chain lock on her apartment door is all but burning as she tries, and fails, to work it just so.

“Come on, come on! Work, you piece of shit—” she’s never sworn more in her life than she has now, and it’s sour, like bile splashing up on her back teeth. But it rips from her throat all the same, bitter and hot, as she mutters fuck, fuck, fuck me! under short, airy breaths that do nothing to put oxygen back into her body. May as well be a drowning soul, the way she sucks in air. Gasps for breath. Drowning or an emphysemic.

Ignoring the hard breathing behind her is impossible. Whirling around on the ball of her foot, he’s close enough to lock her against the door. Her head falls back hard enough to knock against the door, rattle her teeth. And as her vision begins to settle from the bouncing in her cranium, she sees the three blades bury to the knuckle—the knuckle?—in her heavy, pristine oak front door. Rattles the wall, splits the sheetrock.

Pupils blown wide, she can feel all the blood leave her body. Terror locks her spine between slavering, hungry teeth. Gaze welded to the blood pearling from fresh wounds between white knuckles, the hinge of her jaw fails. Her mouth opens mutedly, enough for him to count her teeth if he so desired.

And maybe he does. “Goin’ somewhere, honey,” it isn’t a question. That grin is animalistic. “Stay awhile, huh?”

He closes in. Her head snaps forward to find him. Nose to nose, he sneers at her, and her eyes think to move to the fillet of open flesh her attack has left on his jawline—or, had. No evidence of even so much as a mark on the sharp line of his jaw, just dark facial hair and sweat that’s bubbling up on his skin, angry red that fans up his neck. Swearing to God she can see the vein in his temple throb with blood, her grip on the leather belt tightens before reality sets in.

Ohmygod, ”You’re—” her stomach resurrects up her throat. ”—Jesus,” and it isn’t so much a curse as it is a prayer, a hope. A lifeline—grasping at straws, praying something sticks.

Reality begins to fall away, through boneless fingers. Feeling the belt slip from her control, her throat suddenly constricts to the point of oxygen deprivation. Gaping like a fish, her tongue swells to a thick cotton she can no longer feel.

Numb—everything buzzes with that painful, white-noise needling.

And she does the only thing her body can manage. Shoves past him just enough to upset a chair—

—-and throws up.

still working on my taglist but: @thevoicefromanotherworld @sidkneeeee @misscrissfemmefatale @eternallyfrustratedwriter and those who showed interest: @ayamenimthiriel @pandapetals @theoreticalfreak @definitely-not-chill @ghostytoasty17 @werewolfpilar

#hugh jackman #wolverine #logan howlett #logan #x men #worst!logan howlett #worst!wolverine #worst!logan x reader #worst logan #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x oc #logan howlett oneshot #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett imagine #wolverine logan #hugh jackman wolverine #deadpool and wolverine #worst wolverine #wolverine x reader

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schmergo · 2 years ago

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My bizarre real-person headcanon: Josh Groban and Ben Platt are mortal nemeses. Here's the timeline behind this theory, beginning with the known and branching off into the possible future. 2017: Josh Groban makes his Broadway debut in Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet to much critical acclaim. At the Tony Awards, Ben Platt, starring in Dear Evan Hansen, wins Best Actor and Dear Evan Hansen beats Natasha/Pierre for Best Musical. 2023: Josh Groban makes a triumphant return to Broadway, headlining a revival of Sweeney Todd. Surely this will be his year? Nope. Ben Platt's limited run production of Parade transfers to Broadway, making his own triumphant return to Broadway after a hiatus of the same length. Neither wins the Tony Award this year (J. Harrison Ghee does), but Parade wins Best Revival of a Musical over Sweeney Todd. Later in 2023: Josh Groban goes full method and immerses himself in the murderous, vengeful instincts of Sweeney Todd. Revenge against Ben Platt will be his! But he can't be too obvious about it. He's playing the long game. 2028: Surprise! There's a revival of Phantom of the Opera announced! Both Ben Platt and Josh Groban are considered as potential Phantoms. Unknown to anyone, Josh Groban has been perfecting his own Phantom-like skills of appearing and disappearing into thin air, throwing his voice, and murder. Oh yeah, and he plays the pipe organ. He gets the role! But wait, what's this? Hugh Jackman was eaten by a crocodile mere weeks before he was supposed to headline the new Broadway production of The Greatest Showman? Ben Platt heroically steps in to save the day and takes the title role! He wins the Tony Award for Best Actor in a Musical, but not Best New Musical (the critics say, "We love Ben Platt but this show is clearly just a vehicle for Hugh Jackman [RIP].") The Phantom revival wins Best Musical, but something terrible happens at the Tony Awards! There's a technical glitch when the Phantom performance is due to start and they move it to the end of the awards ceremony. But right as everyone's marveling at the artistry of the production at the delayed performance, something Totally Unpredicted happens. The chandelier crashes... INTO BEN PLATT!!! 2030: Ben Platt survives the chandelier attack but he loses his entire memory and has to relearn everything, including how to sing! He can no longer recall the moment that the chandelier crashed into him-- nor the moment that Josh Groban looked at him from the stage and mouthed 'Long live the king!' In a startling and bold act, Ben Platt returns to Broadway in a one man autobiographical show about living with amnesia and relearning to perform. He wins the Best Actor Tony Award! Josh Groban is away doing Phantom in Europe. 2040: There's a high profile immersive revival of Les Miserables on Broadway! The producers consider both Ben Platt and Josh Groban for Jean Valjean. But Josh Groban gives off such an in intense murderous energy when they find him in the same room as Ben Platt that they get a brilliant idea and offer him the role of Javert and Platt as Valjean. The production is a hit. The tension between Platt and Groban is off the charts. When it's time for the Tony Awards, both are nominated for Best Actor in a Musical (ala Colm Wilkinson and Terrence Mann in the original Broadway production). On the day of the Tony Awards, an astonishing thing happens: Platt and Groban TIE for the Best Actor in a Musical Award! The crowd goes wild! Everyone is cheering! The theatre... the cheers... it triggers something long-buried in Ben Platt's mind. Suddenly, he remembers the night the chandelier fell on him at the 2028 Tony Awards.... Josh Groban was looking right at him as it happened.... Ben Platt snaps and begins to clobber Josh Groban onstage. In his fit of rage, he doesn't see Josh Groban pull out a gun. Is this finally the end of this age old rivalry? BUT WAIT, WHAT'S THIS? IT'S J. HARRISON GHEE (SNUBBED STAR OF THE REIMAGINED REVIVAL OF LA CAGE AUX FOLLES) WITH A STEEL CHAIR!!!! At least, this is what I imagine.

#musicals #broadway #josh groban #ben platt #real person fiction #rpf #theatre

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fanhackers · 8 months ago

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On Thirsty Audiences

Dramatic literature and theatre is my first field: though I was a fan before I was anything else, I wasn’t a fan studies scholar till later in my career. But, like many academics, my interest in the subjects I’ve studied borders on fannish interest, and so theatre is one of my fandoms.

Kirsty Sedgwick is a major figure in audience studies, and she’s recently crossed over from academia into more general public intellectual spaces with her latest book, On Being Unreasonable: Breaking the Rules and Making Things Better (Faber & Faber, 2023.) There’s always been an overlap between fan studies and audience studies, and Sedgwick is a scholar of theatre audiences. Her work frequently questions the rules (explicit and implicit) of being an audience member and asks who those rules exclude: for instance, mothers with small children. In her 2018 book, The Reasonable Audience: Theatre Etiquette, Behaviour Policing, and the Live Performance Experience, Sedwick talks about the ways in which behavior standards can be sexist, racist, ableist, and otherwise exclusionary of the very diversity of audience members that theatre-makers claim that they want to attract.

I thought that I would highlight a different essay from Sedgwick’s oeuvre: 2018’s “How can we talk about ‘thirst’ in theatre?” written for Exeunt magazine. In it, Sedgwick talks about the ways in which women are seen to enjoy theatre for the “wrong” reasons, stinking up lobbies with their love of Benedict Cumberbatch or Hugh Jackman or Tom Hiddleston or Kit Harrington. Sedgwick describes how “the fear of female audiences reached its peak recently in the handsome-celebrities-onstage trend – like when the theatresphere nervously anticipated how swarms of Benedict Cumberbatch fans might ruin the star’s 2015 Hamlet with their tardiness and addiction to instagram, or when Tom Hiddleston’s fans were criticized for “colonizing the pavement” after Coriolanus. Sedgwick argues that “the real mystery is how theatres have been able to get away for so long with using the desires of girls to fill their seats while simultaneously shaming them for it.“

Sedgwick also argues that not all forms of thirst are equal, and that while male thirst can be dangerous because of how it keeps women down, “female thirst almost always operates to build men up.” In particular, she cites the ways in which fans work to “give underappreciated actors of colour the attention they deserve.” She quotes Bim Adewunmi and Nichole Perkins of the Thirst Aid Kit podcast talking about John Cho. The podcasters explain that:

“every time we saw him, we’d say, ‘Oh my gosh, he’s so amazing, he’s so hot.’ We really wanted to give him some shine. We see you–not just because you’re beautiful, but because we see what you’re doing on and off screen, and we want to amplify that.”

Sedgwick concludes that “If male thirst simplifies women to bits of flesh, then female thirst tends to be all about fleshing out the person inside,” and concludes that thirst can be radical. The whole article is worth a read, as is much of Sedgwick’s other work.

–Francesca Coppa, Fanhackers volunteer

#author:francescacoppa #theatre fandom #thirst #BSOs #here we go again: women #doing it for the wrong reasons #interrogating the text from the wrong perspective #same old same old

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luminianna · 4 months ago

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Twirl

Hugh Jackman x fem!reader (no Y/N, first person pov)

Warnings: implied smut at the end 18+

Summary: reader has taken up pole dancing classes. Hugh wants to see your progress and isn’t disappointed.

AN: I recently took up pole dancing lessons for fun so I figured I’d write about it. I added the song Apologize because the first time I saw a YouTube video on competitive dancing, it was to this song so it always stuck with me.

Let’s just say I have a new found respect for pole dancers.

I always saw the art form in it. I never saw it as something erotic. The way they twirl and move to the music. The amazing amount of strength and confidence to perform. I always wanted to try it out. I brought it up to Hugh and he was nothing but supportive. He fully encouraged me and even helped me find a reputable studio and trainer with his dance connections.

Hugh of course wanted to come and watch me practice but I was firm that for the first little bit, I did not want an audience. I wanted to build my confidence and have the moves flow smoothly.

“Do you have any idea how many times people have watched me stumble and fall while I practiced?” Hugh asked with a bit of a pout.

“Jackman, I don’t have your confidence”, I replied, rolling my eyes while I gave him a playful shove. “You’ve always known you wanted to dance and perform. Just give me a few weeks, and let me get my feel for this. Then maybe I’ll put on a show for you.”

I gave him a little wink while he arched an eyebrow and smirked at my comment.

“I’m going to hold you to that, darling”, he said while grabbing my waist tight.

It’s been 4 weeks since I started. In the beginning I had never been so sore in my life. I was working out and lifting regularly but pole dancing works muscles I never knew I had. Hugh would always give me massages after practices, which were very much welcomed. Over time, I was getting less sore and more strong, moving and twirling with more ease. The music would set the tone for the moves I would perform, and my confidence was evident.

It was late at night. I told Hugh not to wait up for me, that I would take an Uber back home when I was practice. I had spent so much time at the studio the past week, emerging myself in my new obsession. Pole dancing made me feel so good about myself. I felt empowered and beautiful, holding the pole with one hand and booking my leg onto the metal and spun around. I was able to use the studio tonight alone after hours to just do my own thing.

I heard the front door click as it was being unlocked. It was probably Yelena, your trainer; maybe she forgot something and had to come back. I peaked around the corner towards the door. It was a much larger figure walking in. It was Hugh.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, shocked to see him. “How do you have a key for the place?”

“ Well, I know you said don’t wait up tonight, but I felt like I haven’t seen you much the past week”, Hugh replied, walking towards me. “ So I stopped by Yelena’s since she lives a block away, asked for the key, and I figured I can pick you up and stop to get some take-out.”

A smile spread across my face and my heart swelled. I hadn’t realized I’ve been at the studio so much lately.

“That sounds wonderful,” I said, letting out a small sigh as I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand.

I walked towards Hugh to head out the door, but to my surprise, he reached out and stopped me by grabbing my hip. He looked deep into my eyes, a flicker of lust and mischief in his.

“Just before we leave, I was wondering if you’re confident enough to give me that show yet ”, he whispered as he squeezed my hip a little tighter.

I couldn’t help but let out a giggle. Of course he hadn’t forgot about what I said to him when I started dancing. I’m sure he was patiently waiting for it. It would be cruel of me to make him wait longer, I thought.

“Grab a chair, Jackman”, I whispered back, matching his tone.

A smug grin plastered his face as he wanted no time finding a folding chair and placed near the pole. I shuffled through my phone to find a song to play on the speakers as he was settling into his seat. I settled on ‘Apologize’ by One Republic for the song. As I got into position beside the pole, I met my eyes with Hugh’s. He couldn’t hide his anticipation.

When the music started, I began my routine with body and leg waves. Slowly waving my left leg towards and away from the pole, then moving on to lowering my body down, then grinding back up, throwing my head back. I could feel Hugh’s gaze on me so intensely. I didn’t have to look at him to know he was staring hard. I grabbed the pole with both hands, right foot forward and swung my left leg around, hooking it into the metal. I twirled around to hook it with my right leg and dip my torso backwards. Standing up, I repeated my previous moves, only to hold the pole with my hands and legs to twirl around while straddling it. For my final move, grabbing on with both hands and my right leg, I twirled around, moving down to grab my right calf and move a hand down the lower part of the pole to support myself. While I was very slowly spinning, I looked at Hugh. I managed to catch him shifting in his chair, becoming obvious he’s getting wound up. I turn to gently land on my feet, but not before giving Hugh a final tease and do another grind and head throw while standing up.

Once on my feet, Hugh stood up and walked over to me with incredible speed, practically gripping my waist tightly as he closed the gap. There was an undeniable hardness in his lower torso.

“Home.. now..” he growled in my ear. His grip on me even tighter.

“What about the take-out?” I coyly asked, knowing full well he wasn’t going to stop for food.

“We can order it for delivery. I’m sure we will be very hungry later”, he replied, pulling my hand towards the door.

#hugh jackman #wolverine #hugh jackman edit #hjackmanedit #i love you in every universe #in another universe #Spotify

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godmerlin · 15 days ago

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First pic: me meeting Rob in March of 2019- him remembering me from Instagram (the bottom picture)- "come here, baby, let's have a cuddle" and he hugged me. It was surreal. I've loved him since I was 5 years old. I never thought I'd ever see him live let alone meet him but then the Vegas residency happened. Curse covid for taking away a 2nd time for me. But there is rumour he's to have another one in 2026!!! I will be there. I do hope to one day see him live in the UK though. I just never thought it possible because I grew up poor and was always poor. I'm still pretty much poor but able to save money and travel on a budget. 🩷

2nd pic: me next to the stage as he performed "My Way" (in my eyes rob is the only one other than frank that this song belongs to.) Saw him 3 nights in a row and it wasn't enough.

3rd pic- as stated above. Me on an Instagram live with him. We talked for like 15 minutes. Just chatted like old friends after my initial omg! Moment. He was so happy I was American. It was so funny when he asked where I was and I told him New York. He looked at the camera strangely and said "what are you doing there? Wait- are you an american!?" 🤣🤣🤣 i was like YESSS WE EXIST!!! and then prodded him to perform in the states and he basically alluded to Vegas. We talked about marvel..I accidentally spoiled infinity war. 🤣 and then he proceeded to tell me how amazing Hugh Jackman was. It was great. He loved my glasses. Then he saw my lip piercing and asked if I had any tattoos and when I said yes, 3 (i need more!!! I need a panda for my mom and a tinkerbell for my friend) he asked what they were so I told him. A 4 leaf clover for luck, RIP which was for my grandmother's, and the number 1. He asked first why the number 1 and I told him it was an inside joke with my sister and cousin- that I'm the number one dumbass! He got laughing and he was like whaaaat hahaha so I explained it and in the long run he told me to tell my sister she needed to tattoo a number 1 on her forehead because SHE was the number one dumbass 🤣🤣🤣 and then he asked again about my RIP and he asked me if I was close to my grandmother's and I said yes very. And then he started talking about his nan. And he mentioned nan's song and I'm like yes I love that song but it makes me cry and he's like good hahaha we were like bonding over grief. Which is another reason why im so mad covid took my 2nd trip/concerts away from.me. it would have been a month after my mom died. She had given me some money to be there. It was one of the last gifts she ever gave me. I was going to tell him that and that his performance of Angels was going to be extra special for me that night. But nope. Didn't get to happen! Ugh! Anyways back to the story. He started asking me about myself and what I did. At the time I was a full time care giver for my mother so I told him that and then he asked me questions about my family. I'm not sure how i managed to tell him my dad was a Vietnam veteran and he was like thanking him for his service and such. It was just a surreal experience. Like I hold it so dear to me. And some very nice person recorded the whole thing and sent it to me so I have it for always! These are just screencaps I took. I only managed 2 because I was more focused on talking to him. Haha

Anyway, the whole point of this was to just let people know that he's honestly the sweetest and kindest person. His movie deserves to be watched. Even if you don't know who he is. You will walk away with a sense of it. He's a hero of mine as he's been through hell and back and shines through. He also was talking about mental health long before it was an acceptable thing to be talking about.

One of my faves is from the Stephen Fry documentary from 2006.

youtube

But yeah

I keep going on about Better Man and I mean it from the bottom of my heart, it's a genuinely great movie. Get past the monkey.

#robbie williams #my face #better man #Youtube

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weclassybouquetfun · 10 months ago

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Phil Dunster is following in the footsteps Gordon MacRae and Hugh Jackman (for at least two nights) and will play Curly in an upcoming performance of OKLAHOMA at Theatre Royal Drury Lane.

Tom Hendryk loves him some Philip.

-While Phil is going very live, a few other AFC Richmond-ers are going animated. Cristo, Hannah and Brett with Cristo providing the voice of Chipiri in THE CASAGRANDES MOVIE on Netflix;

and Brett and Hannah (who recently won a Royal Television Society Award)

in the upcoming THE GARFIELD MOVIE.

-Also, for the children is James Lance, who appeared in the second installment of THE FAMOUS FIVE: PERIL ON THE NIGHT TRAIN.

James is living for this hat/scarf combo, isn't he?

Still in the kids realm, Brett has conquered the Muppets, now he is on to Fraggle Rock!

Appearing as Pryce, Brett also gets to sing in the episode.

-On the live-action side, we now have a release date for Moe Hashim's next project; the Anthony Hopkins gladiator saga THOSE ABOUT TO DIE - coming to Peacock on July 18th.

youtube

-David Elsendoorn has been hanging out with the Boom Chicago crowd in Amsterdam, but took time out to visit Stephen Manas.

#ted lasso #ted lasso cast #james lance #brett goldstein #phil dunster #hannah waddingham #fraggle rock #garfield movie #the famous five #ted lasso alums #cristo fernandez #moe hashim #david elsendoorn #stephen manas #the garfield movie #those about to die

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queen-daya · 1 year ago

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Come Alive Live Performance (3/?)

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fans4wga · 1 year ago

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Hollywood Stars Donate $1 Million Each To SAG-AFTRA Foundation To Aid Fellow Performers During Dual Strikes

$1 million donors: George & Amal Clooney, Luciana & Matt Damon, Leonardo DiCaprio, Hugh Jackman & Deborra-lee Furness, Dwayne Johnson, Nicole Kidman, Jennifer Lopez & Ben Affleck, Ryan Reynolds & Blake Lively, Julia Roberts, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Meryl Streep, and Oprah Winfrey.

“The entertainment industry is in crisis and the SAG-AFTRA Foundation is currently processing more than 30 times our usual number of applications for emergency aid,” said SAG-AFTRA Foundation president Courtney B. Vance.

“We received 400 applications in the last week alone. Our Emergency Financial Assistance Program is here to ensure that performers in need don’t lose their homes, have the ability to pay for utilities, buy food for their families, purchase life-saving prescriptions, cover medical bills and more. It’s a massive challenge, but we’re determined to meet this moment. For more than 38 years, the Foundation has been a safety net for our community during its most challenging times, and much like the Covid pandemic, this work stoppage magnifies the precarious living conditions and financial distress of many actors living paycheck to paycheck.”

#sag-aftra strike #sag strike #actors strike #union solidarity #sag-aftra solidarity

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willymontana · 6 months ago

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[REVIEW FOR DEADPOOL & WOLVERINE, SPOILER ALERT FOR THE CAMEOS BUT NOT THE PLOT]

Okay, I wanna start this out by saying that I am NEITHER a professional movie critic NOR a huge movie geek NOR a comic book geek. I'm just someone with some thoughts about a movie I enjoyed recently and wish to share. My opinion doesn't reflect the general consensus and y'all can agree or disagree all you want, just be nice about it, please🥲

I've anticipated this movie for a long time as a casual Deadpool fan. When Disney acquired the rights to the character, I, like many, was worried that Mr. Bob was gonna try to family-friendly-ify Deadpool. There was also the fact that the quality of many Marvel projects since Endgame has gone downhill, which made me stop keeping up with them for a while. But Ryan Reynolds is passionate about Deadpool, he said it himself (I believe), and I quite enjoyed the first 2 movies despite not having seen them in a while. So I, with a couple of friends, walked into the cinema last Monday with a pretty high expectation. And oh boy did I come out feeling so goddamn high.

First of all, the CHARACTERS. The man of the hour, Deadpool, still has all of his charms. The jokes, narration, fourth-wall breaking, violence, dirty-ass innuendos, etc. are all very much still present. His growth from the previous movies carried on in this showing. Of course, he's still your good ol' merc with a mouth but now rather than acting out for selfish reasons, he always puts his found family and friends first, even if it means stop being Deadpool or losing them and never seeing them again (this growth might have been present already in Deadpool 2 but hey, like I've said, it's been a while). Another thing I'm utmost joyful about his characteristic this time around is that Deadpool is finally fruitier🤭. For those who don't know, Deadpool is canonically pansexual (don't believe me, look up the Deadpool/spiderman 2016 comic run, the girlies in dying of a new otp; you'll thank me later). And seeing such a big part of his character unapologetically being represented on a big screen is truly fulfilling. Ryan really pulled off one heck of a performance here and it really shows his passion and dedication for the character.

Next up is Wolverine. I've got to be honest with y'all: I wasn't a big Wolverine or X-men fan, not for any particular reason besides many fans and critics alike weren't too fond of the live-action movies. So I've passed out on the X-men franchise, even the highly-regarded Logan from 2017. This movie is actually my first introduction to Hugh Jackman as Wolverine and I must say, he REALLY did the damn thing. The gestures, his accent, the aggressiveness, they told me exactly who this character is. And I really was just blown away by Hugh's performance. I've only seen him through The Greatest Showman and some interviews, he seems like a pretty nice guy. So, to see him pull off the whole aggressive act and do it so well and flawlessly, I was speechless. I also love the redemption arc the writers gave to 'The Worst Wolverine'; it might not have been as epic as Logan from what I've heard, but it was solid.

The plot, what is there to say about it except EVERYTHING. Ryan Reynolds really gets the audience and also pop culture in general. I understand and hollered at most of the jokes and references. The soundtrack is absolutely FIRE. We have the mesmerizing BYE BYE BYE by NSYNC dance sequence at the beginning, the suit-up scene with GLAMOROUS by Fergie in the background, a road-trip montage with I'M WITH YOU by Avril Lavigne playing on the radio. Heck, there's also a lovey-dovey-stabby-bloody scene featuring YOU'RE THE ONE THAT I WANT from Grease for all the goldies out there. As a US-UK pop music enthusiast, I was like a kid in a candy store. And also, how can I forget about the EPIC battle near the end that used LIKE A PRAYER by Madonna?😩 All I have to say is 'fantastic, glorious, EXTRAORDINARY'. Ryan went through one hell of a journey just to get the license to the song and he sure did make the most out of it. I'm not kidding when I say that that montage is probably one of the best I've ever seen (I might be a little biased 'cause I love that song but the scene, overall, is truly incredible). And while we're on the topic of action and montages here, everything was beautifully filmed. The fighting sequences were such a treat to watch, nothing ever felt too busy to the point of not being able to focus on anything. Also, Ryan and the Mouse did not spare any expenses when it came to cameos. My gosh, like I've mentioned above, I was in the dark when it came to everything mutants-related, but even I was able to recognize a few familiar faces that fans online would go crazy over. And in addition, when Blake Lively came out as Ladypool, I literally lost my shit. She looked so good, her body was SNATCHED, like HELLO MOTHER???💅 But all these amazing cameos and jokes brought out what I considered the downside to the movie. I felt that the plot was outshined by them. To be clear, the plot was not bad but it wasn't that spectacular either. And when the credit started rolling, it was the thing I remembered the least.

Overall, I really enjoyed this movie. I had a great time at the cinema and laughed out loud with friends. Sure, there might be a few flaws, but the product, in general, is truly outstanding and worth checking out. I, your casual movie enjoyer, rate this movie 9/10❤️

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