#I swear I could see the green screen in between some of the actors hair. it looks like a 2010 low-budget Disney channel movie

[katethevampire]

Wait the Minecraft movie teaser is real I thought that was fake. It looks AI generated or something, why is it animated like those Minecraft in real life videos.

[creativeashproductions]

What's a Knife Between Onscreen Family // Charlie Gillespie

Summary: Filming an emotionally wrought scene on the set of your current role as a regular goes very wrong very fast. Expecting the scene to be the most taxing of the day you find yourself in the ER getting a transfusion. It’s all fun and games until someone’s holding a sharp knife incorrectly, guess it’s just something in common with co-star Jared Padalecki.

Warnings: Swearing, blood, fear, injuries, hospital, needles, angst, and fluff

Words: 3.5k (including lyrics)

A/N: I watched a part of a panel from a Supernatural con and found it hilarious that Jensen accidently stabbed Jared. So I had to write that for a Charlie Gillespie fic. Link to the video talking about the stabbing is right below this message.

Jensen Ackles Accidentally Stabbed Jared Padalecki during filming From 1:00-6:00

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Masterlist

It had to be one of the most emotionally taxing scenes in your entire career as an actress on a physically demanding show. The scene had been incredibly mentally draining the daughter of a Winchester. It had been once season recurring, one series regular and now filming the third season. As the teenage Winchester, it threw a wrench in all the plans and the reckless character gave no shits.

“Okay, this is our last scene for the day!” Robert Singer, the director of his episode, called out from off stage. Standing at the top of the stairs in the Bunker, you jumped in close with a scrunched nose at the squishy sound.

Over the railing, both Jared and Jensen nodded their support from the ground level with concerned expressions. Ever since you joined the cast in season 13, they had become fathers to you. The sight of you drenched in stage blood was enough to churn their stomachs.

“I gave you the barebones of the scene so work with it. Briar’s traumatized after fighting for her life and has been gone for a while.” Robert explained, “Cas couldn’t find her. I want this to be a tribute like Dean in season 10 episode 14: The Executioner’s Song.”

Taking a deep breath in your emotions channelled into a hurricane in your chest, clenching your fingers on the knife.

“Action!”

Pacing the floor plan of the Bunker is two brothers bonded by sorrow, pain, sacrifice and love. Each throwing out locations on where Briar could be, Jack and Cas had been little help. Sam’s heart clenched tight bypassing images straight to torture. The kind of torture he had endured over the years.

Dean’s mouth opened to suggest another place when the Bunker door creaked open. The red converse appeared before the soggy jeans as the teen slowly made her way down the steps. Briar Winchester shook like a leaf staring off in the distance as the blood congealed on her face and hands.

“Briar.” Dean slowly spoke, moving towards the girl. His green eyes lit up in fury as the seventeen-year-old flinched back. Dean’s hand gently took the stained knife from the young girl.

“I-I didn’t mean to do it.” The meek voice appeared so unlike the usual confidence Briar talked with. In exhaustion, Briar’s knees collapsed, sending the teen right into Dean’s arms.

The stoic man gripped the youngest Winchester as his waist bearing her weight against his while Sam circled to be behind Dean. The choked sob echoed by another escaped the family huddle; one from Briar and the other from Dean.

“Dad.” Briar choked clenching her arms around the green-eyed adult’s shoulders, craving the safety of her father.

Ever since Dean could remember he had had a strict rule of always practising safe sex, he didn’t want a kid. Not in a world that had it out for Winchesters and not one where he might hold his child’s dead body in his arms. That all changed when Cas delivered Dean to a county jail where Briar was held just for a minor assault charge on a wealthy bully.

Dean never let himself want a future with the picket fence and the dog in the backyard but when Briar changed that. Dean would do anything for his family no matter the cost. Example: Selling his soul for Sam.

“Sh.” Dean spoke kissing the crown of her hair he savoured having his child safe in his arms, “I’ll help you to the bathroom to get cleaned up. We’ll heat some soup and toast.”

On autopilot, Dean helped Briar down the hall to the bathroom where she would freshen up and later burn the unsalvageable clothing. As Dean returned to Sam’s side, Castiel came with a sombre expression and an explanation.

“Dean. Sam.” Cas greeted them, flicking his blue gaze between the two brothers. The faint sound of the shower only picked up by the trained heightened sense of hearing from years of watching over their backs.

“Cas what the hell happened?” Dean demanded, “Why the hell is my little girl bruised and coated in blood?”

END FILMING SCENE

“Cut!” Robert called out to the large room with a big smile on his face, “I’ll watch it back. See if we need more takes.”

Jared and Jensen wiped the tears that fell from their cheeks just thinking on how wrought that scene felt. As fathers seeing a young adult in such a state severely agonized them. The duo jogged to see your back against the cold wall—a pinched expression marring your young face.

“How are you feeling after that?” Jensen asked, coming closer to squeeze your shoulders unfazed by the sticky fake blood. It was already all over his clothes from hugging you in character.

“You shouldn’t be allowed to have sharp objects.” You spoke glancing down at your knee that had been punctured by the knife. The dark jeans soaked in stage blood now concealed the real blood.

 “Jensen, did you really stab another person.” Jared deadpanned his best friend referencing back a few years. Jared shoved one hand through his hair, receiving a nasty glare from the hairstylist on call.

The glare on Jensen’s face blistered the taller actor, “I didn’t stab you. You walked into the knife.”

The two bickered as they guided you back to the main stage where Robert had reached a final verdict. He had watched the replay twice along with his crew finding the raw emotion to be perfect. The little detail the three had added was well played. Dean unexpectedly consoling his daughter in tears; no threats to kill or push her to tell him what happened. The first time Briar referring to Dean as her father. Lastly, Sam’s unsure actions in consoling a young girl sucked into life like he was in his youth.

“We got a one-take winner!” Robert called out sending the entire crowd into loud applause and cheers. Jared taking most of your weight as you hobbled to the costume trailer.

The lovely costume designers helped remove the sticky shirt, jewellery and the red converse that had once been white. Only the jeans remained on your body to not mess with the wound. As much as you’d love to shower the blood off, it was near impossible, moving your knee stung and it was best to avoid aggravating it.

“Someone needs to ban Jensen from knives. Just wait till his wife finds out about this, she adores Y/N.” Martha chuckled from her sketches she designed on her breaks for a future in fashion design. Often in your free time, you would be her guinea pig with her designs using refurbished material.

Normally the banter would continue but not when your leg was bleeding, and Jared was taking you to the ER. To make time faster, Jared had scooped you into his arms to the black car their driver waited in.

“Towels are in place. Sorry, you got hurt, Kid.” Clif spoke, opening the door to the backseat where Jensen sat patiently. Unlike usual, he had seated himself in the front so you could stretch in the back.

A weak chuckle met air in the packed car from the blood loss that wasn’t overly bad but enough that Jared took the towel. His pressure on the wound caused a yelp that had Jensen flinching in guilt.

“The knife must have been sharp to cut a mouse in half,” Clif muttered turning towards the hospital close to set. Coincidently the drive took you passed the set your boyfriend currently filmed at.

“Might as well call me butter.” You retorted wincing at the throbbing pain, “You aren’t allowed any more sharp objects, Mr. Ackles.”

“Danneel already threatened to hide all the knives in the house.” The on-screen father laughed as the tension decreased in the small car. Despite the dizziness, it didn’t hide the guilt in Jensen’s green eyes.

Time flew by as you found yourself in a bed for observation and pictures for the knee. It came as a shock when the doctor requested one blood transfusion for the blood loss. The hope of being in and out had evaporated like water beads on a blistering summer day.

Julie and the Phantoms Set

Charlie adored his life as an actor where he was free to visit places, he might not have had the opportunity to do. He made friends with everyone he spoke to and even met the love of his life as an actor as well.

That being said today had been the longest one with a full schedule and barely time for lunch or snacks. Even a nap was unachievable, and he desperately wanted one for being awake for hours by now.

“Charlie! Did you know you’ve got missed calls?” Jeremy inquired, staring at the phone that went black once more. Charlie’s eyebrows came together at the mention. His family had the rough outline of times he would be unavailable to talk.

Stepping back from the craft table’s supper options, he lifted the phone from the table, bringing it to life. His lock screen showing multiple missed calls and voicemails from you, his family and two unknown numbers.

His jaw dropped further when Meghan called for the first time out of the group, “Megs?”

“Finally! Where have you been?” Meghan demanded pacing in the studio she had been using when she got the call. The pretty and successful young woman had gotten terrified at learning about Y/N.

“Filming? It’s the longest day of filming the show. It’s on the family schedule.” Charlie spoke, settling into one of the empty tables. His eyes watching the people entering and exiting the tent set up for food.

“Jesus. Mom called me when you didn’t pick up. Y/N’s in the hospital.” Meghan revealed sending the Canadian actor into a stiff posture. His hazel eyes blow wide and panic flooding his entire system.

“What?!” Charlie didn’t mean to shout nor turn paler than a piece of white paper, but it happened. The volume contracting looks from everyone in the vicinity. Owen even dropped the donut back in the box by the volume.

“She got stabbed with a knife. I sent the address earlier, and I haven’t gotten a lot of info.” Meghan told her older brother, “I know she’s getting a blood transfusion, but nothing else was released.”

Charlie couldn’t tell you what happened between Meghan telling him and reaching the hospital frantically. Nor could he figure out how Owen was in the back of the Uber with him guiding him through exercises; all thanks to Owen’s therapist for his anxiety.

His sneakers squeaked on the polished white floor in his mission to the receptionist transferring information from a chart to digital. Charlie’s painting brought him attention from the kind nurse acknowledging his presence.

“Just let me finish this one sentence.” The nurse hummed saving the information before turning their full attention to the frazzled male, “How can I help you?”

“What room is Y/N Y/L/N in? She was stabbed and needed a transfusion.” Charlie demanded deflating as Owen placed a hand on his shoulder. The Canadian’s eyes bright with panic and a deep fear

The nurse’s eyes softened, “I can’t give out information on patients unless your immediate family members.”

“I’m here-“

“Husband! He’s her husband, they eloped so she hasn’t changed her last name or updated her information.” Owen blurted out, rubbing the pad of his index finger on the black jeans he had worn for his role. The two hadn’t even bothered changing into their street clothing.

The nurse nodded their head-turning back to the computer to enter the name for the patient for the information. It took seconds before the nurse wrote on the miscellaneous sticky note of the ward and room number.

“My name is Riley. If you need any help, you can come back here, and I’ll do my best to give you answers.” Nurse Riley informed the duo with a kind smile nodding in the direction of your hospital room.

Owen’s long legs ate up the distance Charlie made in his sprint to the stairwell, “Shouldn’t we take the elevator?”

“My girlfriend is in a hospital bed. I can’t wait for an elevator.” Charlie rebuked the suggestion on the second flight. Owen’s sigh was the last sound made as the duo slammed into the door to the floor level.

Charlie and Owen appeared in the doorway of your hospital room panting from the exertion meeting the gaze of two actors. Charlie’s heart stuttered at the sight of the high volume of blood in your clothing and your hair.

The sharp gasp brought your attention to the shaking Canadian actor solely focused on scanning for wounds. His eyes barely staying on the two adult males you had been starring with for a few years. Schedule conflicts often led to no introduction to each other’s co-stars.

“What the hell?” Charlie choked stumbling to the chair beside your hospital bed next to the pole holding a blood bag, “Did you get mugged? Are you okay?”

“Char, take a breath, man.” Owen’s blue eyes shadowed with the worry as Charlie’s breathing shuddered. Owen could barely look at you covered in blood.

“Whoa! Charlie. I’m fine. This is stage blood. We had an intense scene, and there was a minor accident.” Your voice soothed the man gently taking Charlie’s hand to comfort him, “I lost a bit of blood. The doctor decided to give me a blood transfusion to bring my levels back up a bit before stitching it up.”

“How do you get stabbed accidently?” Owen questioned glancing at the two men standing silently in the corner. Due to contracts on the Supernatural set details of scenes and storylines was off-limits.

“Well, during filming, I took a knife from her, and she walked into the blade?” Jensen trailed off, shoving his elbow into Jared’s side at the scoff. It happened every time it was brought up.

“I-“Charlie blinked, shaking his head as he took a deep sigh in pushing that to the back burner to focus solely on you. His hand rubbed his face while he settled on squeezing your one hand in both of his.

The touch of your skin grounding him back to earth with the shattering visions of walking into the world without you. It would be both ways, the second his calloused warm skin brushed your hands; it was like the pain faded. Only a sense of content settled in your weary bones.

“Okay Miss Y/L/N.” Dr. Clancy walked into the room only halting to grab a pair of medical gloves, “I see your entourage grew. I’m Doctor Jim Clancy, and you must be Miss Y/L/N’s husband.”

Three pairs of eyes widened at the doctor’s words aimed towards the brunette actor turning a blushing mess. The words mouthed by Charlie to go with it gave barely any insight, but you did it. The moment you had a free minute with Charlie, you would interrogate him in the new title you had.

“Yeah, my husband.” You spoke flicking an expression to Jensen and Jared that caught on from the years together. They had taken you under their wing on your first day on set, and then you became family with their immediate family.

“I can confirm that my initial observation is that the wound doesn’t have anything that shouldn’t be in there. We stopped the bleeding, the x-ray came clean, we’ll set you up with IV fluid, and tetanus shot to be safe.”

“Nurse Gellar here will cut the rest of the jeans off, get you in a gown for a few hours of observation. Just a precaution for blood transfusions. We’ll have some scrubs you can wear when you can leave.” Dr. Clancy motioned to the tall redhead with a quiet demeanour.

Charlie’s lips lingered on your temple at the fear that flared in your expressive eyes, he would give anything to take your place. He softly sang your couple song as a whimper fell from your lips as the jean tugged the dried blood from the wound. The painful pressure felt as you guessed it had started to bleed again, the feel of liquid rolling down your skin, confirming it.

“I’ll sing anything.” Charlie whispered going through his mental catalogue of songs on your shared playlist, “Oh!”

I’m booking myself a one-way flight

 I gotta see the color in your eyes

 And telling myself I’m gonna be alright

 Without you baby is a waste of time

The tears falling no longer came from the pain but the sheer amount of love you had for the man there. Eyes glittering with pure adoration as his voice came off absolutely heart-melting. So, lost in each other neither of you noticed Owen had been filming from the moment Charlie had said ‘oh’.

Yeah, our first date, girl, the seasons changed

 It got washed away in a summer rain

 You can’t undo a fall like this

 ’Cause love don’t know what distance is

 Yeah, I know it’s crazy

Charlie’s hand slowly slid up your arms to cup your tear-streaked tacky cheeks in his warm grip. The hospital faded as it became just you and Charlie. Completely oblivious at the audience in the room.

“He loves her,” Jensen whispered to Jared out of the camera frame that the blonde-haired kid’s phone. It was such a pure moment it felt disrespectful to see this exchange but also honoured to see it firsthand.

“I’ve only seen the look in your eyes for Danneel,” Jared replied, cupping his hands over his face listening to the near inaudible wet chuckle you gave.

“As I have between you and Gen. They have the real kind of love.” 

But I don’t want “good”, and I don’t want “good enough.”

 I want “can’t sleep, can’t breathe without your love”

 Front porch and one more kiss, it doesn’t make sense to anybody else

“Charlie.” You sobbed at the best part of your life serenading you in such a romantic moment at the odd setting—his hazel gaze greener in what would come to be a very dear memory to reminisce about.

The calloused thumb caressing your cheek wiping a teardrop away he continued to see as the doctor finished suturing the wound. 

Nothing mattered other than the couple currently in a bubble.

Who cares if you’re all I think about,

 I’ve searched the world and I know now,

 It ain’t right if you ain’t lost your mind.

 Yeah, I don’t want easy, I want crazy

 Are you with me baby? Let’s be crazy

Charlie’s voice faded with the rest of the song bringing you back to reality with the nurse cleaning up around the wound. That’s how the rest of the day went on waiting for the blood transfusion and IV fluids to finish. You stuffed the tetanus shot while Charlie sang between different genres.

“Thank you.” You softly spoke with Charlie being the only one left in the room with you.

Owen had headed back to their set to finish a scene while giving the updates on you while Jared and Jensen grabbed food. J2 had been very clear they would get Martha to grab some clothing for when they came back. Jensen was determined to deliver you to your home as the first action to make it up to you.

“For what?” Charlie questioned as your index and thumb picked at the cuticles of the opposite hand. Your eyes were hidden from your boyfriend’s gaze.

“For dropping everything to be here.” The words were quiet in the room only filled with breathing and the heart machine you had to be hooked up to.

“My girl-“

“Don’t you mean wife?” You teased brushing a lock of his hair from his forehead taking in the man you had the honor of loving. Of waking up next to in the apartment, you’d been renting ever since you landed the role on Supernatural; overtime Charlie’s things had just accumulated there.

“It was the only way they’d let me in.” Charlie spoke sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, “It’s a little early to call you, but I’m excited to make you my last girlfriend and then my only wife.”

The chuckle fell from your lips, “So, you want to marry me?”

“In front of all our family and friends. Tucked away from the media to celebrate the love we have for each other.” Charlie spoke, “There’s no one else I’d like by my side for the rest of my life.”

A new flood of tears welled at the sincerity in his voice and the warmth laden in his eyes of kaleidoscope colours. Sometimes, depending on his emotion or his clothing, his eyes would be greener, or when he was happy, they had a blue tinge in the green in sadness or your favourite; brown with the swirls of green.

“How did I get so lucky to have the absolute honour to fall in love with you?” Your words created a swell of emotion in the Canadian’s heart.

“The same way whatever deities there are took pity on a boy from Dieppe by bringing him an angel.” Charlie words preceded the kiss on your lips with a grin as you chased his lips after. With one last peck, he leaned back with a fond expression.

“Seriously how do you get stabbed accidently?” Charlie chortled with that gorgeous smile lighting up the room more than the white lights.

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[tommydarlings]

Jarley Quinn ↬ t.h

A/N: Wow, one of the longest things i ever wrote! got this idea after i watched the joker and Harley Quinn birds of prey and i thought it would be nice to write it... I hope this doesn´t flop, sorry if it´s crap. anyway, enjoy! :) ily,liz <3 

pairing: Tom Holland x reader 

warnings: violent actions, mentions of nearly blowjob?, swearing

w/c: 1.8k 

Requests: OPEN

Summary: Your win an Oscar for your amazing role as Harley Quinn´s and Joker´s daughter, but you didn´t knew that Tom Holland aka your role model would be there too. 

this handwriting = actions and dialogues in the movie

masterlist || taglist || requests || blurb event

„Guys, i think that i´m gonna pass out“ Tom said as they all took their seats in the huge hall.

„Calm down Tom, it´s okay, your gonna win this“ Harry told his brother.

Today was the day.  Today were the oscars. And Tom got nominated for the best leading role in an action / psycho / R rated movie. Cherry.

And the best thing is, when he should win the oscar, then their gonna show cherry on a huge screen in the hall. That´s sick.

Leonarde Dicaprio, Jennifer Lawrence and a lot of other amazing and unbelievable good actors are gonna see his movie then. Sounds like a dream to him.

„Thomas, son, it´s fine, we all believe in you! Your performance in Cherry was amazing and even the Russo Brothers said that it was an oscar worthy performance! Find someone to beat that!“ His mother, Nikki, said to her son with a small laugh.

Just when Tom wanted to answer, the Russo brothers came and both sat down next to Tom.

„Hello, guys!“ Anthony said.

„Hello, how are you?“ Dominic asked them.

„Were good, and excited“ Joe told Dom.

„And i´m fucking nervous“ Tom whisperd.

„Hey, hey, it´s okay to be nervous. Your gonna win this, your gonna rock your speech and in the end everyone will clap for your performance after they all saw the movie!“ Anthony told tom.

Tom could only nod before a man came on the stage and started to talk,

„Hello Ladies and Gentleman! I hope you all feel well and excited!“

The man went on with his speech and after about 15 minutes talking about some random stuff, he finally said the words that the entire hall craved for.

„And now i´m gonna announce the winner for the oscar in the category action / psycho / R rated movie…“

Tom was shaking, Nikki and dominic prayed for their son and Tom´s brothers tried to calm him down a little bit.

„Calm down“ Joe whisperd to Tom.

„I c-can´t“ he stuttered quietly.

The whole hall was so silent, it was creepy.

„Y/N Y/L/N!“ the man on the stage said into the micro.

Tom had his head hung low after his name wasn´t said.

Everyone started to clap, but when they saw who came on the stage, everyone looked very confused.

„What the-„ Tom said.

A young women, maybe about 21 – 22 years came on the stage with a beautiful suit on her body.

 „Hold on, is this the wrong catergory?“ Tom said.

„No, it´s the action / psycho / R rated movie category“ Anthony answerd.

„How can she-„ before Tom could finish his sentence, you started to speak,

„Hello Ladies and Gentleman, omg i can´t belive this, sorry, I won´t steal your time, i just want to thank the cast of this amazing movie and my family and friends who support me since we started filming this masterpiece. Thank you so much and enjoy the rest of the night, love you“ you finished.

„And now, let´s watch the amazing movie of the oscar winner! Jarley Quinn!“ the man said with a huge grin into the mic.

„Jarley Quinn? Isn´t it Joker?“ Harry said.

„Or Harley Quinn?“ Sam said.

„Boys, let´s just watch it�� Nikki told her son´s.

They said a quick and quiet ´okay, sorry´ before the movie began.

Jarley Quinn was written in thick and big letters on the screen, then you appeared onto the huge screen.

You stood infront of a mirror and looked at your reflection in the mirror infront of you. You took each side of your mouth with your fingers and spread them into a big smile before you let me fall and started to cry, tears were running down your cheeks as you still looked into the mirror where you could saw your painted face and green dyed hair. You always painted yourself just like your father and mother did. And the hair were another thing you got from your father. It was funny and interesting.

After this little opening, you went to two graves with the names Joker and Harley Quinn written on them.

„So that are her parents“ Tom whisperd to himself.

„Obviosly“ Harry huffed.

„I´m so sorry mamma and daddy, i´m gonna make you proud and i´m gonna make the entire world remember your name, and my name i swear“ you said.

And then, then the scenes came where everyone understood why you got the oscar in the first place. Even the Russo brothers were impressed.

„Fuck“ you whisperd to yourself as you saw that you need money for the pills you were fucking addicted to. You don´t even need all these pills, but you basically craved them with passion.

„Not again, please not fucking again“ you yelled through your apartment as you tried to find some money anywhere in the living room or kitchen. You even looked in the bathroom.

„Well, i don´t have another option, so“ you said to yourself in a slightly bitchy way.

You grapped your weapon and put it into your weapon holder that was covered up by your red suit jacked from your father.

Just a few minutes later you stood with a bag full of money, a weapon in your other Hand and huge smile on your face that is covered in the iconic Joker makeup in the middle of the bank while every single person around was on their knees and begged for their lifes.

„I won´t hurt anyone, i swear okay? I just wanted the money, but before i leave, i would like to say something, of course if i´m allowed to“ you said.

The bank women nodded quickly with her head before you said your last sentence,

„You look so good on your knees, just like i did yesterday“ you said with an amused laugh before you shot the person that was kneeling infront of you right between their eyes.

You laughed hysterically while you ran out of the bank with the bag and your beautiful weapon.

„Oh m-my g-good“ Nikki whisperd to herself with an shooked expression on her face.

„I mean, that was sick, but it was good“ Anthony said.

„That´s right“ Joe agreed.

„How has she done that with so much ease?!“ Tom whisper – screamed at himself.

After you swallowed your pills, you decieded to go into the club and have a good time, well at least you wanted to have a good time.

The second you stepped into the club, people went silent and didn´t dared to move. But you didn´t liked it.

„What? C´mon, go ahead with your talking about whatever you were talking about! I won´t stop you!“ you laughed.

You really weren´t here to stop anyone, so you just orderd a drink and looked through the club. You stopped your gaze at one specific couch in the corner of the club, a man, trying to rape a poor little young girl.

„Let´s have some fun“ you whisperd to yourself before you took a huge sip from your martini and walked to the scene.

„Can i help you?“ The man asked as he saw you standing infront of him while he held the poor girl in a tight grip on his lap.

„No, but can i help you, little girl?“

„N-no“ she stuttered.

„Okay“ you shrugged before you walked away.

Hold on, let me correct, about to walk away.

You punched him with your fist right on his nose.

„Ow! What the f-„ before he could finish his sentence, you grapped your weapon and hit his temple with it.

He fell unconscious onto the floor and you laughed again in a quiet creppy way before the girl ran into your arms.

„Woah, woah,woah, i only saved you from getting raped, not more“ you said.

„You saved my life, thank you“ the girl said.

„No, i saved your virginity“ you said before you removed yourself from her grip and went to the exit. Before you could exit the loud and sweaty club, a young but confidence looking men grapped your wrist.

„Hello beauty“ he growled.

„Hello, with what can i help you mister?“ you said with a smile on your face that was still full of the iconic makeup of your father.

„How about you help me with the little problem down there“ he said as he looked down to his own…crotch.

„Of course! Your house?“ you answerd with a little smirk.

„Mine“ he said before he dragged you into a car.

Just a few moments later, you were on your knees right infront of his naked figure while he sat comfortably on the couch.

„You gonna be daddy´s good girl?“ the man growled quietly.

You nodded with your head before you opened your mouth and stuck your tongue.

„Good“ he whisperd before he put his hand on the back of your head and directed your mouth to his dick.

But before he could get what he wanted, you pulled your dagger out from your dress pants and stabbed him in his… dick.

„Ohhhhh shit“ Tom hissed while he lightly held his crotch with his hands.

„Fuuuuuck, i know this isn´t real, but that fucking hurt“ Harry said.

„Okay, wow“ Anthony whisperd.

„OW FUCK, YOU LITTLE SLUT!“ the man yelled in pain.

You just started to laugh hysterically again and grapped your lighter, plus a tiny Matchstick from the pocket of your suit jacket.

„Hold on, wha- what the fuck a-are y-you doing, NO AHHH-!“ the man yelled before you lit the matchstick with fire and threw it on his naked body.

You still didn´t stopped laughing in this creppy and loud way as you walked out of the house with a cigarette between your red painted lips.

The next few scenes were violent, brutal, sexual and absolutely disgusting, but at the same time… definitely oscar worthy.

„Okay, that was unbelievable“ Harry said as the credits started to roll.

„You right, that was a true masterpiece“ Sam said with a tiny laugh.

„It w-was really g-good, yeah“ Tom said quietly.

After the movie ended, you got a lot of praises for your performance. Finally, The hollands and the russo brother´s found you and walked to you.

„That was amazing Miss Y/n!“ Anthony said.

„Oh please call me y/n, and thank you“

„Yeah, it was great“ Tom said quietly.

„Thank you so much- hold on, you are Nico walker from cherry right?“ you asked Tom.

„Yeah, you saw it?“ he asked.

„Of course! It was one of the best movies i ever saw!“

The two of you didn´t even noticed that Nikki, Dom, the twins, paddy and the russo brother´s already went as you went on with talking and praises.

„Would y-you maybe l-like to g-go out with me?“ Tom asked with an nervous voice.

„Of course!“ you asnwerd quickly.

„Really?!“

„Yeah, of course, i would actually love to Tommy“

The nickname melted his heart immerdiately.

„Okay, c-cool, uhm, can i have your number?“ Tom asked.

„Yes, here“

After they exchanged numbers, Tom went to his Family and the Russo brothers.

„And? How did it went?“ Harry asked with a little smirk.

„Got her number“  tom said proudly.

„No way! That´s amazing!“ Sam said.

„She is amazing“ tom said with smile.

He can´t wait to see you again.

-`ღ´- ᶫᵒᵛᵉᵧₒᵤ -`ღ´-

Taglist:

@goodgirlgonetom @majo240820 @misshale21 @itstaskeen @pure-ghost @justafangirlduh @elizabeth-brown @justafangirlduh​ @roseke​ 

[oh-for-fic-sake]

The Stand In Chapter One

Masterlist

Being an assistant on the witcher set is a dream come true for you, helping bring to life the books and games you were brought up with. But when the project is threatened to be cancelled completely your called in to save the day! But can you really fill in for an actress?

Warnings: swearing

A/N: hello! So this was wrote on a whim sort of. I don't know if Keira is in the books honestly and I have no idea if she will be in season two but I wanted to write somthing different. Got a few ideas of where I can go with this but like I said just wanted to write something a little different. Hone you enjoy xxx

Taglist: @two-unbeatable-beaters​ @thatgirly81​ @angelofthorr @iloveyouyen​

logo divider is by @writeyourmindaway​ other one is by me xx

You moved through the hustle and bustle of the set your trusty clipboard what was you doing? Well the people needed feeding so you were taking orders, some people onset would eat at the food tent some would want to order in today it was your turn to take the orders and deliver them to the chefs. You grunted looking at your watch you needed to move quicker they'd be filming soon and expect the food to be ready by the time they finished...sounded easy but the guys were cooking meals for nearly one hundred  people and that took time... especially out here... You jogged up to the tent with an apologetic smile"Sorry guys had to round em up you know how it is!" You got a few chuckles. Yes they did know how it was having to take turns doing it themselves. You were just a regular onset dogs body, you help in any way shape or form and that’s that.

You smiled at them hanging the clip board on the hook for them to see clearly then They began barking orders to one another down the line  getting to work. You left them to it weaving in and out of everyone to get back to set incase someone needed anything again. Once you reached half way across the site your name was called turning you saw Mathew one of the other assistants.

"Hey y/n your needed in the directors tent chop chop!"

"What? why?" He shrugged then through his hands out wide walking backwards away from you he seemed in a hurry.

"Don't know was just told that you had to be there asap" You sighed and quickly turned on your heal towards the tent...If this was another coffee run you were gonna scream! It took forty five minutes to drive down this god forsaken mountain and you didn't really want to be bitched at by camera crew about delivering a cold fucking coffee again.

Henry and Joey panicked looking to each other Cancelled? They could be cancelled after all the fans and money the show had pulled in? They stood in the tent with Tomasz,Lauren and Talitha or 'Tee' as she prefers.

"So she just decided not to do it? A week before she was meant to be here? She had all the time over lock down to tell you and she left it till now?" Tomasz nodded stiffly to Henry who spoke, Henry and Joey were angry. Hell they all was, but them more so because they were actors and this was something you just didn't do. No integrity or respect. Lauren piped up.

"To be fair its a huge blockbuster role she was offered its no surprize she dumped us in favor of it... But now everything is up in the air she was a big role in this season and we can't start casting for it now, the two other back ups can't come and fill in either, one is recovering from covid and the other has a contract for another role." Joey placed his hands on his hips

"Well what about her contract? She sighed one didn't she? Surely she should honor that?" Lauren and Tomasz shared a look.

"Yes but two things one imagine forcing her to play a role she no longer wants...Could be very awkward and two the contract had dates...We couldn't stick to the them so she managed to wriggle out of it." They each huffed Henry spoke up

"Can't we put it on hold for a few weeks rush through the casti-" he trailed off at Tomasz' severe look and shake of his head.

"No we aren't being given an extension we have to find someone...Preferably here on set so we don't have to navigate the covid travel restrictions, we can't afford two weeks quarantine for whoever it is we bring in" Tee looked up to her bosses.

"So?...You need someone on set to take the role? I suppose they can't be a major part of the crew?" Lauren nodded to her and smiled

"You up for it?" Tee shook her head

"Fuck no but there is someone that could do it...Y/n shes a general assistant, the one you like! the one that picked up the wardrobe the other day when the truck couldn't get up the hill" Lauren's face lit up as she put a face to the name

"Oh! lilac bob? Green eyes?" Tee smiled nodding

"Yeah! Her she isn't to busy really just runs errands, shes an extra pair of hands" Tomasz tilted his head it sounded viable, it would be a god send he crossed his arms.

"But she would have what a week? To read up on the character, learn lines and go through costume...It would be a hectic rush would she agree to it?" Tee smiled knowingly

"Yes..She hasn't done acting before...well not properly she had a part in bugsy malone play at primary school but that was about it...But I have no doubt that she would do it she loves the witcher. As for reading up on the character you don't have to worry I dread to think how many times shes re-read those books and played the games...She even based her gcse textiles project on the witcher making a screen print tapestry! Trust me she will know Keira metz' personality so half of the job is already done!" Tomasz nodded secretly getting excited over the prospect of having another fan in the mix,  yet he covered it well not wanting to get anyone’s hopes to high."Okay call her in get her to read some lines...Lets not tell her what its for first see if theres some chemistry between the three of you first then go from there" they all nodded it was the best way to go about it.

When you got to the tent you instantly knew something was up. First person you noticed was your best friends Tee it was her who'd got you the job here. She had been working on the first season and was one of the directing assistants she was always around the producers and directors making sure everything was running smoothly and when they top dogs changed things it was her who made those changes get through the grape vine to everyone who needed to know. Then you noticed Henry  and Joey were here ,how you didn't see them first is a mystery as they were both fully kitted out in the characters costumes.

Holy shit! He was so fucking hot! So so fucking yummy you wanted to jump him and run away and hide at the same time 'Okay breath don't fucking squeal bitch be cool that's it calm down don't make it obvious you want to hump his leg!...If he offers though ride tat thigh like a fucking pony!...No! Stop your going red! Calm it! There we go...Nice and calm well done give yourself a pat on the back' and breath.

You took a calming breath after your little pep talk the fan-girl locked up tight inside you relaxed slightly. Could you help it? No Henry is like your celebrity crush and has been since your little virgin eyes saw him fucking on Tudors. You'd seen him around set obviously you can't really ignore the huge man in the silver wig. You’d wanted to get his autograph and a photo but couldn't trust yourself not to do something stupid so you kept your distance. But damn he was much finer up close in person. You gulped just praying to god you did not squeak at him you'd never ever live it down.

Everyone looked on edge even the director Tomasz and producer Lauren? none of them noticed your arrival speaking in hushed tones to one another like they didn't want anyone to overhear what was happening. You cleared your throat placing a hand on one of the metal supports by the entrance of the tent unsure if you should enter with them all looking so serious you didn't want to hear anything you shouldn't.

"Err knock knock? you wanted to see me? If its a bad time I can come back..." they jumped a little obviously caught up in their conversation. You shrunk under everyone's gaze as the sets of heavy eyes rested on you.

Henry's eyes widened a little at you he swallowed dryly peering at you from his spot in the tent. You were beautiful he suddenly found himself hoping you would be the one to take the role. Not only could he then have a reason to be around you without you running off. But there were sex scene between the two characters and as ashamed as he felt he had already spent a considerable amount of time envisioning just that, alone at night in his trailer with nothing but his fist to ease his needs. He couldn't help it he had never spoke to you but he wanted you. So selfish or not he would thoroughly enjoy enacting those particular scenes, the image of you below him was just to much.

Joey prodded him slightly making him snap his gaze away and turn to the 'bard' He raised his brows at him nodding to the lilac haired woman as if to say 'look who it is?' Henry flushed a little and blinked yes Joey knew.

It started when Henry had seen you around set, capturing glimpses of you he had wanted to go and talk to you. Each time he saw you around he would excuse himself from whatever he was doing and turn to make his way over to you. But every time he turned and took a step in your direction you flushed and bolted.

He did like you. He liked very much. He found out you were an assistant someone to run errands and Tee had got you the job he was meant to ask her about you but you both seemed close. What if Tee told you? What would you think if you found out he had been asking about you?. So no instead he bit his tongue and kept trying to catch you out and have a chat. He couldn't put his finger on it you just appealed to him, you looked sweet and sexy all in one.

He wanted so desperately to talk to you but you seemed scared of him for some reason so he in the end he settled for admiring you from afar. He'd never got more than six feet near you and that six feet was close enough to make him swoon. You had been diligently taking coffee orders around the set and was taking a list from the directors tent and he was waiting to speak to Tomasz and Lauren queuing behind you in a sense one person separated you.

You were so caught up in trying to take names and coffee orders you hadn't noticed him hovering behind you. He had leaned to the side taking full advantage enjoying eyeing your behind admiring the taught cheeks hugged by your zebra print workout leggings, you must have been in a thong because they snuck up your ass a little making him groan. He'd give anything to be up there himself! He sighed smoothing his hands over his face trying to push away the teasing thoughts, it was not the time to imagine drilling your perfect little ass, fucking you roughly on all fours until your little body sucked the cum out of his balls and he left you with a fully stretched freshly fuck little pucker.

No it was not the time, not when he had another few scenes to shoot. But they were just there! Teasing him a few quick shuffles of his feet and he could be right behind you, he could accidentally graze your pert full bottom. But no he held himself back he groaned when the wind changed and caught a scent of your hair mango and passion fruit.

He had been on a high all day after that. That’s when Joey was certain Henry was getting a little crush on the lilac haired beauty that had gained the nick name Tink's. To Joey you looked like a real life colorful little fairy and he had named you after Tinkerbell. Henry bit his lip trying to contain his excitement, as you cleared your throat nervously today was going from really really bad to absolutely fucking incredible.

You eyed Henry carefully he was..staring well until Joey prodded him then he snapped out of whatever it was flushing. You didn't have much time to consider it as Lauren moved waving you over smiling like nothing was wrong. Okay? Weird.

"No no! Come in your just the woman we needed to see." You walked in slowly still uneasy but managed to cross the threshold. There was a pause and they looked like they were appraising you? What the fuck? Tomasz cleared his throat and nodded giving Lauren the go ahead for something apparently.

"Y/n I was hopeing you could go over some lines with these two, they haven't got anyone to practice with and we really need to start getting rehearsals in. Flights are running few and far between so the actress who was supposed to be here last week, can't get here until we are actually filming the scenes!" You blinked huh? Read lines? You began going shy and shaking your head

"I don't-" but before you could get anymore words out Tomasz spoke up.

"And with covid setting us back we can't afford delays we could be cancelled" you froze at that...Cancelled? You looked to Henry and Joey who both gave hopeful puppy eyes you sighed a shaky breath.

"O-okay I suppose I could...Help out... It is what I'm here for.." You missed the looks all four shared as Joey handed you a sheet from the script. You skimmed it as quick as you could and your face instantly lit up with a bright smile.

"Holy shit keira? I didn't realize you were doing that-" quickly realizing you may have been fangirling you shut up. Tomasz head lifted smiling

"You know the character?" You chuckled nervously well aware of The witcher still eyeing you from the side. Joey smirked at him and gave a chuckle making Henry freeze and look away flustered. You hesitated whilst talking to Tomasz.

"Hehe well Yeah sort of....I know the book's and the games sooo yeah..Sorry...Got excited there..Can't help it" he grinned shaking his head.

"No no its perfectly fine...I do always love seeing people et excited over our work! But you know her so can help the guys immensely. If you could try and portray the character that would help a lot as well, so we can see how these lines and dynamics will work" you blinked looking at the page going blank. Try to in act the scene to? Okay keira what do you remember shes...Playful catty and a little manipulative.Petty but confident yet can switch to cold bitch on a dime. Your not sure our up to the task.

"So? You want me to try and act properly? but...But bare in mind I'm not an actress...Never done any acting or anything so if I'm shit I apologize."

"Its fine, just try your best...We don't want a carbon copy of the games we want a believable character, just create your own Keira for the time being as I said we just want that feeling for the scene and the relationship that's all. If you could read from half way down..'Seriously I mean this is it?' Okay? don't mind the blank we just haven't settled on the last few bits of dialog just keep going...Go with the flow as it were" you nodded taking a breath really out of your comfort  zone  but it literally  said 'help when needed' in your job description so you didn't have much choice. You took a peek at the lines it the scene was based around the camp at night.

Henry and Joey sat on stools you followed their lead really nervous trying not to steal glances or stare at the witcher before you even if he didn't seem to care himself, his gold eyes not leaving you for a second, he wasn't even blinking.

You pulled at the page slightly forcing back the anxiety but sucked it up when were you ever going to get the chance to do this again. To read lines with your crush on set in full delicious Witcher get up.You decided to throw caution to the wind and give it your all if you looked a tit well atleast you had fun and you'd never have to again!

You gulped you were supposed to start. You took a breath and pulled some confidence out of your ass, she was a fierce woman that was almost childlike. You used a sarcastic un-amused flat tone.

"Seriously....I mean this is it? this is the great adventuring? Wandering the continent aimlessly for contract's that may or may not be actual monsters..." you tilted your head to the side blinking slowly as you looked between Henry and Joey. Both seemed to be caught unaware as you transformed from a frightened quivering ball of nerves to a catty confidant sorceress.

Henry smiled cheekily at you  knowing that with that transformation you'd already bagged the role, you were his keira.

"Well you are welcome to return to your healing house" Henry drolled in Geralt's deep voice sounding unimpressed tilting his head at you slightly with a bored expression. Joey hummed.

"Yes I second that witch you don't have to be here you can just go your own way" he waved his hand near you and you leaned in giving him a wicked warning grin making him pull back and lean towards Henry, a typical Jaskier move...Well for the moment he was Jaskier.

"G-go and curse children poison or cattle or whatever it is you do" you scoffed rolling your eyes pulling back a little and tilted your head looking at Henry.

"Geralt your Jester appears to be in a foul mood would you like me to help? I'm sure I have a remedy that can silence him for a while...Permanently if you'd like" you smirked as Joey snpped his head looking between the two worriedly.

"JESTER I-YOU I am a bard! And I have made Geralt here the famed white wolf! Tell her Geralt! " Henry rolled his eyes ignoring Joey's out burst

"The Jester is right you don't have to travel with us you can leave, return home if our adventures aren't exciting enough for you. And I'd warn you keep the potions to yourself"  you paused the page was now empty. You too a breath and spoke anyway.

"What? Me leave? and go back to treating the lords son and his frequent bouts of cock rot..." the two men bite back a laugh managing to stay in character...Just. You blinked leaning forward placing your face on your palm

"That’s not as thrilling as one might think loses its charm on the third and forth round...Much like the boy himself" Joey sputtered trying to hide his giggles. But contained himself to make an insulting Jaskier quip.

"Cock rot...begs the question do you cause it or cure it?" he twitched waiting for your reply. You hissed at him then calmed yourself and fluttered your eyes at him and continued in a sultry tone.

"Your welcome to find out for yourself Jester" he stuttered going red

"I-i a no hah thank you for the offer but noooo...Had enough of witches for a life time.. Thank you very much!" he said almost choking on his words you leaned back huffing

"Hmm...Shame you almost look like fun could have livened up the trip...I do always enjoy the loud ones..." Joey chuckled and looked to Henry with a face saying 'help me out here buddy' Henry was finding it very hard to keep himself together, was he jealous of you flirting with joey? Yes did he want to turn the tables? Yes could he think of a way to do it? Fuck no.

He settled for shaking his head, he was certain you had the role already and if not he was definitely going to vouch for you,you were good and portrayed Keira well enough to make Joey's Jaskier fidget which Keira did.

"I'm sure you can find fun where ever you find yourself Keira" Henry piped in wanting to see where the scene can go, wanting for you to give him your sultry voice and flirt with him. But you stuttered a little his gaze was intense hot and hooded.

"Y-yes you'd think that!..But there is no fun to be had at home anymore!...Well that's not strictly true there is this one acquaintance a deaf eunuch " Henry spoke up needing to hear the end of this one, trying to fight off his disappointment that you hadn't given him the same treatment as Joey, didn't you like him? Was Joey more your type? No there must be more to it.

"And this deaf eunuch is fun? How so?" you wiggled your eyebrows at him

"Well Witcher he only had one way to show me his gratitude...Any man who only has his hands to speak develops a very....dexterous set of fingers~" Joey slipped out of character confused as Henry burst out laughing. Despite his sour feelings over your non-flirting he couldn't deny that was a funny and well thought out bit of improv.

"Deaf eunuch? F-fingers?..I don't get it-OOHHH!HOLY SHIT YOU DIDN'T! OHH OH MY FUCK" he then started roaring with laughter with Henry making you go shy blushing.

"Oh my god yes...She is definitely the one we need...Defiantly my Keira!" Henry wheezed through his laughter leaning over slapping his knee.

"huh what?" You looked between everyone what do the mean need? It was Tomasz was nodding smiling and spoke up clarifying what Henry had meant.

"That was....Well...It was an audition and you got the part. You became the character very easily it was natural and flowed nicely and you were nervous once relaxed you will make a perfect Keira!" you blinked at him. An audition? For a part in the show "Are you having a laugh? I can't act for shit...Like that was...It was err" Henry smirked lifting a brow

"Acting? Maybe?" You  blushed at him as he leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. You leaned back sitting upright then pulled a face. He was right technically.

"Okay it was kind of acting....But why are you doing this here now? Surely you already have someone? this don't strike me as normal." Lauren sighed

"No your right its not normal...The actress who was playing Keira has pulled out we have a week to find a replacement or will are probably getting cancelled they won't let us delay again" you sat up pin straight

"Wait what? An actress bailed on us last minuet...That’s a bit of a dick move... That's like a big dick move not in a nice big dick way either... Like a dick dick move" Henry and Joey snorted at your statement and Tee creased up. Tomasz moved over to you

"I'm afraid so...I know its a big ask but were were supposed to start filming her scenes the middle of next week and we need a replacement. Fast. Sooo what would you say to stepping in and saving the day? you fit the bill and your here now and from what I've just seen you can do it...You gave her a cheeky, petty vibe which in all honesty was missing from who we selected...We can get you ready I'm sure Henry and Joey can help you, teach you the tricks of the trade so to speak" he lifted his head to the both of them. They nodded Henry speaking up

"I can even mentor you if you want, to get you more comfortable... Me and Joey will look after you I promise" you gulped then looked back to Lauren and Tomasz. You'd never even thought of acting or anything and it was daunting prospect.

"Look...We have run into a problem that could potentially bring production and filming to a halt...Something that could cancel season two completely....But you can help us. We can continue as planned but we understand its a big thing to spring on someone .We can afford to give you a few days to think it over if you need to..." you took a breath it sounded incredible,  like one of those talent scout tales...Could you do it? You didn't want to see the show go down the pan you loved the first season as a viewer and was over the moon when Tee got you the job onset. You loved the witcher as a whole...Maybe helping bring it to life could be fun? A lot of work and you didn't know shit but you could give it a go. But then you’d be working close with Henry who pretty much turned you into a fucking trembling mass of girly hormones "...But I'm not an actress...I doubt I'd be any good.." Tee snorted

"Fuck off 'not an actress', acting is a big expensive game of pretend! And no offense but you've been pretending to be an adult since we left school! You've got this besides everyone will know your situation so if things go pear-shaped or you get confused we can all help sort you out, we wont scream at you over it..." she moved standing between Joey and Henry squishing their faces

"Come on loooook! Look at there poor little faces! Don’t let Jaskier and Geralt die! If we get cancelled that’s what will happen! These charters will die! I will take them out back and shoot them myself! Never to be seen again!" You giggled at her antic as both men in her grasp tried their hardest to pout up at you with there scrunched up faces. You sighed you were gonna regret this.

"Okay okay fine I will try... But don't say I didn't warn you.." everyone took a deep breath relived. Henry and Joey shared a grin now super excited to carry on with the show. Henry more so then Joey he was ecstatic! He can't wait to start getting close to you.

Lauren moved over to you with some long ass looking scripts.

"Here...These are for you! Start reading through these today...Do one episode at a time for now you'd have more chance learning the lines and you need to go to costume.  Tee could you tell them whats happened and get her over there today? let them measure her up luckily it's mostly lace up so shouldn't have to change much" Henry stood up quickly making you jump.

"I will take her and introduce her to everyone...I’m finished for the day so I’m going there anyway" he explained a little sheepish realizing he may have seemed eager. Joey chuckled at him Standing beside him patting the mans back Tomasz shook his head

"Thank you for the offer Henry but we still need you were going to re shoot one of the scenes again, we think there is a better angle we could get" Henry pouted chest deflating a little and nodded to the director

"Right so Tee you escort her , oh where are you staying by the way? In the hotel in town? Well we will need to move you into Keira’s trailer so you'd be onset. Tee could you show her the trailer first then wardrobe and then finally I will pop over with a contract for you this afternoon..." you froze. Contract?. What the fuck? You don't know anything about contracts! Henry caught on to your panic and lit up like Christmas finding another way he could spend time with you.

"Hey its okay...Just a bit of paper saying you've got the job and a bit of legal jargon...I can look over it with you and have my agent look over it if you want? just to be sure everything's good okay? don't worry we will take good care of you I promised didn't I?" You smiled shyly and nodded. 'Holy shit he's looking at you, speak girl stop fucking staring! SPEAK! BREATH!' You took a breath avoiding his gaze a little trying to forget who he was wanting to act cool when you did finally speak it was in a quiet voice.

"I-I Suppose so...I mean yes I'd appreciate someone sorting that out..I get the feeling there are a lot of big words involved" Joey laughed you liked Henry, he could see it and something told him you would both become very close. Well close he estimated you'd be fucking within two weeks. He noted the fact you had both gone quiet Henry's eyes boring into you again as you fiddled with script in your hand. He rolled his eyes you were blushing squirming under the witchers staring gold orbs and he didn't seem to care he was just quite happy to gawk at you. Joey finally decided to cut you so e slack.

"Your not kidding...But like Henry said nothing to bad just a you got the job! And how your being paid really" you chuckled rubbing your neck.

"Fuck! haha you know I didn't even think of that" Tomasz chuckled and nodded. Breaking his silence, he to had noticed the tension between the two of you but would say nothing it wont be a problem after all there was a sexual atmosphere between Geralt and Keira so it would do well on screen.

"Well your an actress now, so of course you'll be paid as an actress, it will be in the paper work, I suggest you go and start reading the scripts Keira is heavily involved in this season she is travelling with Geralt and Jaskier for a while... And a word of advice I'm going to have to take your name to a few higher ups with the video of your audition and names on official websites for the cast will be changed, probably in a day or two...You may want to go and clean up any social media ect that you might have...It could blow up a little bit its...What we are doing is pretty much unheard of" you frowned at him

"You...You filmed that? What? who?" Tee waved her phone up at you gaining your attention.

"Its fine y/n just need it for the records and for a few others to see..." she turned to Lauren

"Might be an idea to put this up somewhere to just to introduce her as the character..." Lauren shook her head

"Not yet get her in costume then a few photos we can film a short teaser scene with them...That can be her debut" Tee nodded and began making a list of things to do then snapped her head up looking at you.

"Seriously change your face book to friends only...And get a fucking twitter on that thought get a bloody snapchat and Instagram to! Okay? life will be easier trust me on this" Henry frowned at you stumped.

"You don't have twitter, Snapchat or Instagram?....No what? How have you? What do you do all day on your phone?" You shrugged and smiled impishly at him.

"I read...Write...Scroll tumblr for hours on end and play games...Never bothered with that social media crap don't know how to use it...Was on tumblr for years before I ever got the courage to post something" Joey smiled taking a step forward and patted your back

"Well at least you have Tumblr which I will want by the way! But never mind about the others I will show you cos your gonna need it!" You smiled at him giggling maybe this wont be so bad? You nodded at him feeling more at ease, it sounded like they were going to help you with all this shit, the only thing you had to do was keep the inner Cavill fangirl at bay, which was gonna be a hell of a job now that you weren't going to be able to avoid him but it was that or watch this show be cancelled and that was not going to happen!. You looked over to Lauren who was still giving Tee a list of jobs and people to contact.

"Okay...So where do I start?" She smiled and quickly stood in front of you as you stood between Joey and Henry both pointing out on the scripts certain things explaining what things meant and how things would work when filming. You nodded trying to take it all in. You took a breath looks like you were doing this.  

[amerrierworld]

Babysitter (pt 7)

Thor (Ragnarok) - fanfiction

Pt 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Characters: Hela x fem!reader, some friends

Word Count: 2,397

Warning: angst (IM SO SORRY) some light smut ??

A cool hand was stroking along your hairline and you shifted at the touch, yawning as you woke up. Minty breath wafted towards you as Hela kissed your cheek.

Your eyes opened to meet her glimmering gaze. Sheets tangled around your legs, you were both just as naked as the night before, and you snuggled closer to her.

“You’re still here,” you mumbled.

“You really think I’d run off after last night?” she whispered, shuffling to kiss your lips, to which you let out a hum of delight. “I think it’s quite the opposite. You may never get rid of me now.”

“Good,” you said in return, straddling her and pushing the sheets off of the both of you.

A chime sounded and Alfred piped up from the living room, “Incoming call from Tony Stark, Miss Y/N.”

“Put him to voicemail,” you said, kissing down Hela’s pale neck and chest. “I’m busy.”

Two strong hands raked through your hair as you continued your way down.

“Y/N,” Hela breathed, chest rising. Her dark hair was cascading on the pillows. You gripped her hips and bit into the strong flesh of her thighs. Her legs opened wider and she squirmed on the bed.

She pulled your hair harder, “don’t tease,” she commanded, voice dripping with arousal.

You pulled back a moment and watched her appearance change from defiant to desperate, hands clawing at you for support.

“My house, my rules,” you smirked. “Stay down. No touching. Understood?”

Hela stared at you, incredulity written all over her face. You dipped a suggestive finger between her thighs and then she relented, relaxing into the sheets as you settled between her, legs, triumph and arousal surging through you.

When you both awoke again later, in a sweaty heap on the bed, you eventually got her up on her feet and dressed, though it took far too long with multiple distractions along the way.

“Come along,” you pulled her to the living room. Suddenly your home seemed far too small to contain your feelings. You wanted to jump and scream with happiness,

Hela could not remember the last time she had smiled so much. Perhaps because she felt very sexually satisfied for the first time in centuries, but watching you bounce from room to room with stars in your eyes made her question if it was something more than that.

That filled her with both delight, and dread.

“Here, sit,” you ordered her, “what do you wanna eat?”

“Is that a trick question?” Hela asked silkily. When you looked over at her, green eyes roved suggestively over your body with a raised eyebrow. You turned red and walked towards the fridge, muttering something about obscene Asgardians.

The screen on the fridge lit up, stating ‘5 missed calls from Tony S.’

You frowned a little, staring at the fridge until two hands gripped your waist from behind.

“Y/N,” Hela murmured. You bit your lip as she turned you around in her grip, the notifications forgotten for a moment.

“Darling,” she whispered, “we should talk.”

“Already? Isn’t that something for like, the third date?” you giggled.

“Our circumstances are not ideal, you know that,” she continued, serious now. “I’m a fugitive in the eyes of your people.”

“Hardly. House guest, remember?”

“We cannot-, you and I are not...”

“Not what? Compatible? Bullshit.”

“I see the way you look at me.” That shushed you. “But this cannot go on.”

“Oh really? Why not? You seemed to be enjoying it just as much as I was last night,” you bristled. A hand cupped your face. Hela’s eyes were filled with cold determination, but her touch was soft.

“I am a Goddess, dear,” she said. “You are human.”

“That didn’t stop Thor,” you bit back, and immediately regretted it. She looked taken aback a moment, and sighed.

“And where is she now, hm? Sweetheart, as much as I like it here, there isn’t a way where we could ever be more than just this.”

“Don’t say that,” you whispered. “Don’t say you just like it here. Because unless you’re a really good actor or just love fucking, last night was not you just liking it.”

“Y/N-,”

“Say it, Hela. Please. This wasn’t just a one-off fuck, I know that. Tell me the truth,” you pleaded. “Tell me you want to stay. With me.”

Hela’s heart was throbbing with pain and love as she looked at you, young, thriving, alive, but so very mortal. Her throat was choking up, and she could barely make herself say it.

You were about to plead and confess your stupid amount of love for her when the front door swung open.

There stood Tony, in filthy and shattered pieces of armour. He was the only one who could probably override Alfred’s system without any hassle since he was the one who created it, but you yelped in surprise nonetheless.

Behind him were an equally filthy Thor and Black Widow, looking exhausted and defeated.

“Oh my,” you managed to say. Hela stepped away from you quickly, but the three newcomers saw your embrace nonetheless.

Tony, completely disinterested in Hela, came up to you quickly.

“Three things. Go,” he ordered, one of his iron gloves charging up. His eyes were wild, and you could barely process his words at first. You then began prattling off the three secret things you and him had agreed upon to be codewords between the two of you. When Tony realized it truly was you and believed it, he wrapped you in a tight hug.

“Ouch!” you exclaimed at the jutting metal scraps of his suit digging into your skin.

“Sorry,” he said, pulling away. “Had to make sure.”

“Y/N, the hell is going on here?” Thor growled, eyes darting between you and Hela, who was leaning against the counter opposite you, wearing regular clothes, arms unshackled and crossed nonchalantly.

“I- nothing. I should be asking you the same question,” you retorted. “Where’s Loki?”

Thor shook his head and your heart sank.

“What happened?”

“This is her, then?” Natasha asked, your question ignored, eyeing up Hela.

“Uh, this is Hela, my.. friend. Hela, this is Tony and Natasha.”

“Friend my ass, what the hell have you two been up to? Seriously, Y/N, it hasn’t even been that long,” Tony scolded, glaring at her.

“Hey, shut up, Stark. You don’t know half of it.”

“And neither do you, clearly. Have you any idea what’s been happening out there? Why the hell didn’t you answer any of my calls?”

“What? Everything’s fine here, and I haven’t been outside in a little while, okay? What’s happened?”

Thor slammed a hand against the wall, and if it wasn’t for Tony’s architectural reinforcements, he would’ve made a hole. “Thanos won.”

Hela’s face went pale, but you didn’t notice as you tried to remember what you knew about Thanos.

“What?”

“Thanos.” Natasha hissed, putting her hands on her hips. “Half the world’s just gone. Vanished. We lost.”

“Hold on, what are you even talking about?” you asked, confused, laughing nervously. “There’s no way.. you guys never lose.”

“They’re right, Y/N,” Hela whispered. Silence followed and you looked at her as if she’d grown three heads.

The four of you stared at the Goddess and she approached you carefully.

“That’s what I felt yesterday. Impending doom.”

“You... knew?” you asked, voice small.

“Not exactly. But... there was something,” her eyes darted over your face, trying to read your reaction as she kept talking. “I didn’t know it was Thanos at first, I swear.”

Thor rushed forward and yanked Hela back by her hair, spinning them around to slam her back against the wall. She groaned in pain and your heart jumped.

“Thor!” you yelled, but couldn’t do anything else.

“What do you know?” he growled. His hand was gripping her neck, the neck that had just been recovering from the red marks of the collar she’d been wearing for days straight. The neck that you’d kissed and stroked and admired just the night before. You blinked back tears, but held you ground.

"Tell us!” he shouted. Hela breathing was ragged and you snapped, reaching to grab at his arm.

“Thor- Thor, please, you’re hurting her,” you began, and then quickly adding, “she can’t speak if you’re choking her, you idiot!”

He let her go and she slumped to the ground. Your heart broke in a million pieces, but Thor held you back, whether because he knew you’d rush to her side or out of concern that Hela was a threat. The three Avengers aimed at your new lover pressed against the wall as they waited.

“I knew of.. Thanos,” Hela grumbled hoarsely, looking at Thor and avoiding your gaze altogether. “We all did. You cannot go about conquering worlds and not know of Thanos. But he never came close to Asgard, so he was never a concern of ours.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, sister,” Thor growled. “The minute we were back in space after we left you here, Thanos came to take the Tesseract, the Space Stone.”

Hela’s face drained of its remaining colour, and you listened intently to what he said, all good feelings of the morning and night before disappearing as Thor explained what had happened.

“He killed half of our remaining people,” Thor’s voice was nearly breaking. “For the sake of his mission. There’s hardly anyone left. And now Earth, too!”

“Did you know Thanos was coming to Earth?” Natasha asked coolly. Hela shook her head slowly, her eyes misty.

“Did he... kill everyone?” you asked, shaking.

“He used the Infinity Stones to snap half of our population out of existence,” Tony said. “They’re basically dead, but not. Just... smoke.”

“Who?” you trembled, hugging yourself tightly.

“Fury,” Tony began, staring at the ground. “T’Challa, Wanda... Peter.”

“No!” you gasped, your mind reeling. You shook your head in disbelief, wobbly on your feet.

“They’re not the only ones,” Natasha added.

“And there’s nothing we can do?” you asked.

“We don't know yet. It’s been... busy,” Tony said. You grabbed a glass of water, shaking.

“Y/N,” Natasha came up to you and put a reassuring hand on your shoulder. You wanted it to be Hela’s.

“No, I’m okay,” you waved her away. “Just.. why did you come here? I can’t help you.”

“We needed to know what had happened to you.”

“And I need to take my sister away from here,” Thor said, pulling Hela up to her feet. “You’re in far too much danger with her.”

“What? No, Thor!” you exclaimed. Natasha held you back.

“She’s too dangerous, you were right. We have to get rid of her if she doesn’t have anything to tell us.”

“Thor, it’s fine. I’m alive, don’t you see? She hasn’t hurt me at all. Please,” you begged. “You’re not thinking straight. She’s not dangerous!”

“We need to make sure of any connections Thanos had, Y/N,” Tony said calmly. “And a Goddess of Death does sound suspicious, don’t you think?”

“Come along, sister,” Thor said gruffly.

“Where are you taking her?” your voice was thick.

“Away from here, maybe Hel will be just as welcoming as last time. How about it, Hela? We may just have to banish you again.”

That set Hela’s eyes ablaze and she pulled away from Thor’s grip. Her infamous armour appeared, glinting black and green in the light. You paled as a large, menacing blade formed in her hand and she took a defensive stance.

“You will not take me back there,” she hissed. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

“Yeah, pass,” Tony replied, aiming at Hela with one iron hand and shooting a beam straight towards her. You screamed at the flash, but she seemed unaffected. Her armour absorbed the shock and took no damage. The blade deflected Natasha’s bullets and she easily stepped away from Thor’s punches and kicks.

You were frozen to the spot, watching Hela with blood lust and battle fever in her eyes. Her mouth was pulled into a snarl and she managed to pin Natasha against the wall, blades sticking through the fabric of her suit, but leaving her unharmed.

Blinking, you realized she was avoiding hurting your friends, but at a great cost. She had to take the offensive blows without retaliation and you knew this new-found strength wasn’t going to last forever.

An arm pulled you by the waist and Tony held you firmly, the distinct charging sound of his hand starting just by the side of your head.

“Yield, Hela,” Thor shouted, booming with anger. Once she saw they had you, she stopped. There was brief silence and Natasha managed to pull herself away from the blades.

Hela’s chest was heaving, her eyes flickering between each opponent. When she made eye contact with you, something broke within both of you.

“Let her go,” she ordered. Surely she knew they wouldn’t hurt you?

“Not until you agree to come with us and give us the answers we need,” Natasha said.

“I have no answers for you,” she said softly. “I cannot help you. I cannot fix what Thanos has done. Now let Y/N go and I will do as you say.”

“I don’t believe her,” Thor said. “She will very easily turn on you. My sister will only do what is in her best interest. Don’t let her go yet, Tony.”

“Don’t worry, kiddo,” Tony whispered in your ear. “Just play along.”

You didn’t say anything and looked at Hela, knowing the pain she felt. If she complied, you’d become the puppet for the Avengers to use to make her talk, and that idea terrified both of you. She’d give herself up, even though she had nothing to confess.

“Hela, please,” you whispered, trying to tug away from Tony’s grasp. She stared at you, battle armour and all, with a single tear spilling from her eyes. Her usually hardened demeanour was crumbling, and just when you thought she was going to give in, she turned, ran, and jumped straight through your window, shattering the glass and tumbling to the ground below.

A scream escaped your throat that you couldn’t recognize. Tony let you go as you hurried to the window to see Hela running away at lightning speed, disappearing behind buildings and crowds before you could say anything else.

A/N: Aahhhh!!! 

taglist: @midnight-lestrange @cheerfullyvenomous​ @germansarechill @gaylorrds @amii-nyc @waitingfortheendtocome @novakitten0901 @marvels-writings

[delaixplaysgames]

Gift Cards (Minagi Tsuzuru x Reader)

Ship: Minagi Tsuzuru/Reader

Rating: sfw (one swear word)

WC: 2,901 words

A/N: The second reader insert I’ve written and I’m still not good at it lol. But I’m having a fun time! I’m also the absolute worst at giving stories titles and ending stories. Apologies in advance!

You visited the school library very often. Everyone was too preoccupied with whatever they were doing (whether it was studying or procrastinating), so it was a good place to study and work on assignments. You recognized some faces that also visited frequently; some of them were in your classes and others just came so often that you knew their faces. 

However, there was one specific person that always caught your eye. You didn’t have any classes with him, but he came to the library so often that his face became recognizable. Seeing the way he was so focused on his work was admirable. It was kind of cute to see his whole face light up when something started clicking in his head. And seeing him occasionally doze off a little while working was funny, too. 

Long story short, he was extremely charming. He looked like the kind of person who really looks out for others. You wouldn’t be surprised if there were other people with crushes on him. 

At some point, you started sitting in the same area as this university student. It’d be weird if you sat too close to him, so you’d always sit at a different table on the opposite side of him. That way, you could still steal glances of him diagonally and from far away. Was it a bit creepy? Yes. Did you still do it? Also yes. 

You eventually found out that his name was “Tsuzuru” when two other men (both of them were extremely well built and just a bit intimidating) came across him in the library one day. You overheard them talking about Tsuzuru’s next script.

His next script? So he’s a playwright… Well, if he’s in this area, then does he write for a theatre troupe on Veludo Way? 

After Tsuzuru packed up and left with his two friends, you discreetly looked up “Tsuzuru Veludo Way” on your phone. Surprisingly, you were able to find his name on the Mankai Company website, where you found out that Minagi Tsuzuru was both the personal playwright of the troupe and a member of their Spring Troupe as well.

You gently slammed your head on the table, trying to not make too loud of a noise. This was definitely starting to approach stalker territory. 

Months of watching Tsuzuru from afar passed. You kept sitting in the same area as him in the library when you had the chance. You watched a few of Mankai Company’s plays, especially if Tsuzuru was one of the actors in the play. However, you still couldn’t work up the courage to just go up to him and initiate a conversation with your crush. 

He was so immersed in his work in the library that it was hard to approach him. When you’d leave the Mankai Theater, you’d chicken out and run out of the theater before the actors come out to thank the guests for coming. You were fairly sure that he still hasn’t noticed your creepy behavior. As relieving as it sounds, it doesn’t erase the fact that it’s creepy. You were much too shy and nervous for your own good, but you knew that you had to take the initiative one day.

One early morning, on your way to your favorite area in the library, you found Tsuzuru completely asleep at his work area. You smile to yourself at the sight as you set your things down at a different table. This area wasn’t crowded at all. In fact, it was just the two of you so far. It must’ve been a perfect time for him to sneak a nap in.

It must be hard balancing writing scripts and school work… Plus, he probably has rehearsals with his troupe. Yikes, Minagi-san needs a coffee… coffee?

You reached into your backpack and grabbed your wallet. Inside your wallet was a gift card to a nearby coffee shop that you received from your aunt not too long ago. You haven’t used it at all and you figured that Tsuzuru needed this much more than you. 

You grabbed a cute dandelion themed sticky note and pen from your backpack, wrote a message as neat as you possibly could, and stuck it onto the gift card. You get up from your seat again and nervously make your way towards Tsuzuru. You were mentally begging him to not wake up as you approached his little station and slowly slided the gift card on top of his laptop’s keyboard. 

You sighed in relief, knowing that your mission was successful, and snuck another look at Tsuzuru’s sleeping face. He looked so peaceful and cozy with his head nested in his folded arms. You smiled again at the sight, sincerely hoping that he’ll enjoy the free coffees he could get from the gift card. Happy with the good deed you did, you turn back around to return to your seat.

And then you realized the flaw in your plan. There was no one but you and Tsuzuru in that area. If you stayed around and Tsuzuru woke up, then he would’ve figured out that it was you who left him the gift card. You quickly stuffed everything into your bag and dashed to a different part of the library.

--

“Tsuzuru? Hey, Tsuzuru?”

He felt someone shake his shoulder a bit and groggily blinked his eyes. He yawned a bit and looked over his shoulder to see who woke him up. “Huh? Oh, hey, Fushimi-san. Guess I must’ve dozed off.” 

“You did another all-nighter to finish your paper last night, right? Are you alright?” Omi clearly looked concerned for his health.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I was reading some lecture notes and ...Huh?” When Tsuzuru went to gesture to his laptop screen, he noticed a gift card on his keyboard. The card had a pastel green sticky note with dandelion seeds blowing away from the flower at the bottom. “Where did this come from? Did you put this here, Fushimi-san?” 

Omi shook his head. “Nope. I didn’t do that, but there’s a note on it. What does it say?”

“Let’s see… ‘You seemed a bit exhausted when I passed by and I think you need the caffeine more than I do! I hope this can keep you running through the day, but don’t forget to get a good night’s sleep!’” Tsuzuru flipped the card over and saw that it was a card for a coffee shop close to campus. “There’s no name on here, but wow, this is really nice of this person.”

Tsuzuru looked around the study area, but it was just him and Omi there. They must’ve come while he was asleep and before Omi woke him up. He really wished the person left a name or something; this person deserved a big thank you because he desperately needed the coffee.

“Maybe they just wanted to do a good deed for someone who needed it,” Omi suggested.

Tsuzuru scratched his head, still stuck on the idea of thanking the mystery person. He put the idea to rest for the time being and slipped the gift card and the note into his wallet. The gift card could get him at least five coffees from this shop. If this person was kindly giving him the money for coffee, then he better not waste it. 

--

Ever since then, you got into a bit of a habit of leaving little gifts for Tsuzuru every once in a while. It’d only be at times he left his seat in the library or was asleep like he was before. Whenever you went to watch a Mankai Company play, you’d leave a little something in Tsuzuru’s gift bin. You doubted that he would even notice it, but you made sure to use dandelion-themed message cards or sticky notes when you wanted to leave a message.

You also made sure to leave the area as quick as you came. You were fine with just leaving him little presents once in a while and not being recognized for them. If you had the chance to see him find the gift, you felt enough satisfaction from seeing him smile. It felt like a good way to show how you felt for Tsuzuru while not being hindered by your shyness. Just knowing that he appreciated them was enough for you.

--

One Saturday night, you went to watch another great play at Mankai Company featuring Tsuzuru as one of the actors. It was always a treat to see him on the stage and see how his stories unfold. Whoever was in charge of the outfits and hair styling really knew how to make Tsuzuru look even more charming than he already was. 

Since finals week was slowly approaching, you decided to get him another gift card to the same coffee shop from before since you had a feeling that he’d need the caffeine. You put it in a dandelion-themed envelope and left a card telling him how much you appreciated all the hard work that he put into his writing and his acting. You also told him to get some rest when he gets the chance since he’s probably exhausted from the busyness between school and the troupe this week. 

After the curtain call ended, you followed the flow of the guests flooding back into the lobby. A lot of the guests liked to stick around to personally greet the actors, but you just wanted to leave the present in Tsuzuru’s bin and head home.

You just pulled the envelope out of your bag when someone else accidentally bumped into you. It was just hard enough for you to lose grip on the envelope and it fell to the ground. 

“I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean to!” the person said apologetically, leaning down to pick up the envelope for you. 

“No, it’s fine! It’s not a big-“ You clammed up the moment you realized who was picking up your envelope. 

It was the one and only Minagi Tsuzuru who was kneeling down and holding your gift to him in his hand. He looked up at you with a bit of worry. 

“You aren’t hurt anywhere, are you?” 

You weren’t able to form a decent sentence and just shook your head. The fact that Tsuzuru was actually talking directly to you wasn’t settling in your mind. You probably looked absolutely insane with the deep blush forming on your cheeks and the steam practically coming out of your ears.

He smiled. “That’s good.” He was about to hold the envelope up for you as he got up when he noticed that his own name was on it. “Wait, this is for me? Thanks so much! I really appreciate it!” 

“U-Uh… y-yeah…” 

“I’ll be sure to read it when…” His voice trailed off when something caught his eye. He was silent for a moment and then realized that he left you hanging. “O-oh, sorry. I just saw your handwriting and thought about how nice it looks.”

You looked up at him with wide eyes. “R-really…?” It was kind of embarrassing to hear your crush compliment something about you. 

“Y-yeah, it’s really easy to read. You have good penmanship. You know, I feel like I’ve seen it before on some other cards that I’ve gotten here…” Tsuzuru peeked up at you. “... Or at the library.”

“H...Huh?” Your heart stopped immediately. He didn’t just say that, did he?

“You… you always use letters and sticky notes with dandelions on them, don’t you? After noticing that, I kinda started recognizing your handwrit-”

“U-Um!” You quickly interrupted him, shaking from both anxiety and fear. “I-I… R-Really sorry, but I… I’ve got a test on Monday that I, uh…. Gotta study! Bye!”

“W-wait!” 

You weren’t able to hear him out because you ran out of the lobby as fast as you possibly could, leaving Tsuzuru absolutely in shock. 

--

The following Monday, for lack of better terms, you felt like absolute shit. You spent a good portion of the weekend moping over the fact that Tsuzuru completely found out who you are and most likely thought you were creepy. The other portion of the weekend was spent studying for the test in order to stop moping over Tsuzuru.

You started regretting starting this habit and cringed at yourself every time you thought of it. It didn’t matter that you passed your test thanks to all those hours of studying; your crush found out about all of your weird antics! You felt like your love life hit an absolute low. 

You found yourself passing by the library, something you always did after your last class. You stopped walking for a short moment before deciding to just walk past the building. As much as you wanted to go in and sit in silence, you were scared that you’d come across Tsuzuru. Mentally unprepared for that humiliation, so you sighed and started to go head home. 

“Hey, wait up!” 

You didn’t think much of the voice and kept walking away until someone grabbed your wrist. You turned around and saw Tsuzuru stopping you in your tracks. Both of you were quiet; Tsuzuru was catching his breath and you were too surprised by his sudden interaction. His eyes were serious and it looked like he didn’t want to let you out of his sight any time soon. 

“Um… M-Minagi-san?”

His eyes widened and that serious look in his eyes was replaced with a more embarrassed one. He quickly retracted the hand holding your wrist and stuffed it in his pocket. “U-uh, s-sorry! I-I just left the library to wait for you outside but then I saw you leaving so I, uh…”

“Y-You were gonna… What?”

Tsuzuru nodded shyly. “I was looking for you this morning, but you never came around. I had a feeling you were trying to avoid me, so I thought it’d be better to try my luck and just wait outside this time.” He laughed shyly. “Guess I got really lucky, huh?”

You rubbed your arm awkwardly. He might’ve felt lucky but you felt the exact opposite of that. You weren’t in the mood for any reminder of what happened on Saturday. “U-Um, did you need me for something?”

“Yeah. I wanted to give you something.” He shuffled through his backpack and held out a small envelope. “I...It’s a gift card for that coffee shop. I’m sure you didn’t know this, but I actually love going to that shop. I wanted to return the favor, so uh… here.”

You took the envelope and looked at it in surprise. Of all the things you thought he’d say, you didn’t expect him to give you a present. “Um… thanks.”

“Oh, and these, too.” Tsuzuru pulled out a small treat box from his bag and held that out to you. “They’re cookies. You said that you had a text today, right? I figured you might want something sweet after a test.”

“Y-You made these, Minagi-san?!” The cookies that you could see from the plastic window looked professionally made.

He laughed. “No, not me! Someone in the dorm I live in made them. He’s really good at cooking and baking. He made a lot, so I packed some for you.” 

Your cheeks felt warm. You really weren’t expecting any presents from Tsuzuru and having his attention like this was somewhat embarrassing. “Y-You didn’t have to… I’m just your average fan and--”

He smiled softly. “I did it because I wanted to. You always put really nice letters and notes on the gifts. Maybe it’s because you see how stressed I can get in the library, but you always seemed to say the right things or give me something when I need it the most.” Tsuzuru scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “And as creepy as this sounds… I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while now. Even before you started leaving presents for me. I just didn’t know how to start a conversation with you.”

You laughed a bit. “That’s nowhere near as creepy as leaving presents for someone you’ve never talked to.”

“Well, it’s just as creepy to accept presents left at your seat by some mystery person,” he retorted, laughing with you. “Speaking of which, I think it’s time I learned your name. You already know mine, and I can’t keep calling you a mystery person forever.”

Finally relieved that he didn’t find you freaky, you told him your name.

“(Full Name)-san, huh? It really suits you.” Tsuzuru liked the way your name rolled off of his tongue and he was almost tempted to say it again just for the sake of it. Just thinking of your name brought a smile to his lips. “Well, you already know it, but my name is Minagi Tsuzuru. It’s nice to formally meet you, (Name)-san.”

You chuckled, thinking about how you never thought things would lead up to this. “It’s nice to formally meet you too, Minagi-san.”

He saw the way you smiled and he felt his cheeks warm up a bit more. “Are you doing anything after this? You see, I happen to have a gift card to that coffee shop, too,” he said in a joking manner. “Do you want to grab a coffee and talk a bit more there? I’ll pay for your coffee.”

You laughed at his little joke and nodded. “If I can pay for yours, then I’d love to!” 

[sunshinesukuna]

ferris wheel jives and unlived lives

pairing: farmer turned soldier!iwaizumi x f!reader

warnings: war, slight gore

summary: promises are always a one way road to regret. 

haikyuucreations0720 prompt: summer carnival!

words: 5.1k

i was gonna make a banner but onLINE SCHOOL. when i find the motivation i’ll make one for y’all but for now enjoy this fic in its rawest state. 

big thankies to @vventure and @tsukkiscookies for beta-ing this <3333

Hands thick from a lifetime of holding shovels and axes pick up the leather-bound book on the table. Iwaizumi Hajime, 1944, is engraved in rusted metal on the cover. He flips to the calendar at the front of the page. Circled in a thick fountain pen is today’s date, with “(Y/N)” scrawled underneath. 

Iwaizumi runs his finger over the lipstick stain at the bottom corner of the page. Had it been anyone else, he would have gotten a shovel from the shed and lopped their head off at the defiling of his precious journal. But not if it was you. Never for you.

He takes a deep breath before gathering all his belongings in his pocket. Not much, just his wallet with saved up money from his time serving and last month’s potato sales. Iwaizumi’s reflection glances at him from the rotary phone but he decides against calling you, lest your maid, or worse, your parents, pick up the phone. He adjusts his army cap and sweeps the dust off his shoulders before walking out the door.

You already know what time to come out anyways. Iwaizumi practically drilled it into your head the last time you saw him after you were 15 minutes late to your previous rendezvous. 

Cornfields turn into suburbs and the stretch of country land morphs into that of the city. He’s never really liked the city, preferring the clean air of the long extent of his farm compared to the smog. But it’s a small price to pay to see you. 

Some people give him odd looks on his way. In their defense, they do have a reason. Iwaizumi’s a scruffy farmer turned soldier riding a rickety car that groans and moans louder than the old men haggling over the price of a sack of corn Iwaizumi’s just trying to sell. He’s a black sheep among the delicate edges of the perfectly manicured lawns and pristine white paint of the government houses that all seem to wag their finger at him.

He finally stops in an empty field — he doesn’t dare park in front of your house, lest your parents see. The mayor would throw a fit if he ever saw his daughter walking around with someone the likes of Iwaizumi.

So he walks. Iwaizumi crouches by the massive oak tree that hides him from view. From his vantage point, he has clear sight of your curtained window. The glass is dented after so many pebbles flung its way. Iwaizumi saves his guilt for later and picks a small, innocuous one. 

He throws another one. 

The curtains crack open ever so slightly, and he catches a glimpse of an eye in between. Iwaizumi makes himself known. You open the curtains ever so widely, framing your face in between the cloth and shooting him a silly expression from atop your window. He shakes his head and beckons you to come down. 

No amount of military training could have ever prepared him for all of your descents down. He can’t help but flinch every time you put your dainty foot down on a branch that looks like it’s breaking point is way overdue. Thank heavens, you make it down,  your skirt slightly rustled and a leaf in your hair, but the mischievous glow in your eyes nullifying all other flaws. You hold his hands to steady yourself. They smell like iron. 

"Your father?" he asks.

"Out negotiating with the city next door."

"Your mother?"

"With my father.” You snake your hands around his waist until they meet his own that are clasped behind him. Slowly, you pry them apart until you have both hands in yours. He presses a tender kiss to your knuckles. “They say there's going to be a dance after all the diplomatic issues are done with. They won't be back until midnight."

"The maid?"

"Asleep."

"You?"

"Missing you as always." Iwaizumi scoffs, but he does nothing to hide the growing smile on his face.  

“Come on now, before the neighbors see us.” You grab his hand and make your way towards where you know he has his car parked, with no consideration towards anyone watching! In your defense, there isn’t anyone. Probably all in their own backyards, enjoying the luxuries that come with being part of the upper class, away from the trouble and toil of war efforts right now.

You wince a little at the loud squealing of the car opening. No one seems to have noticed, so you pull up a pastel shoe clad foot up into the dirty metal of the car. 

“Where are we going today?” you ask.

“You’ll see.” He revs the engine up. You pout.

“I don’t like surprises.”

“I’ll teach you to like them, then.”

You talk for most of the ride, mostly some of the gossip you hear here and there as the mayor’s daughter. Stolen kisses between the maid and next door’s chauffeur, plans to build a new shopping center once the war’s over.

The honking tires of the city are replaced by children’s music as more and more people file into the empty lot. Some are armed with picnic baskets and blankets, others with cones of ice cream and cotton candy bigger than your head. You observe your new surroundings.

“The carnival?” you ask. Iwaizumi shrugs and holds the steering wheel closer.

“I stumbled on them when I went out. And… you said that you wanted to go, so I— (Y/N)!” Iwaizumi’s windpipe is almost crushed by the pair of arms that wrap around his neck. He doesn’t try to remove them, instead settling for a hand on the small of your back. 

“I love you a thousand times!” 

“H-hey,” he chokes out in his best imitation of his “army” voice. “We’re still on the road. People could see us.” You shrug and pull back anyways.

The car finally comes to a stop at a large field where other cars park. You don’t even wait for Iwaizumi to come to a full stop before you leap out the door, stumbling a little when your feet hit the warm asphalt. The air is clear and sweet in your lungs as you take in the feel of the fresh new atmosphere. 

Iwaizumi’s just getting out, but you’re already walking to the other side and yanking his hand out, running as fast as you can to the opening gates. Carnival music blares through the air, mingling with people shouting at other people to come try out various games and food. So much was happening at the same time. When was the last time you went out like this without being stopped at the door by either of your parents? Second grade, probably, under the watchful eye of your nanny that tore you away from the other kids at the playground.

“Where do you want to go first?”

“Umm....” Your newly-found curiosity takes the best of you. There’s so much to see and do, and you’re not sure what should come first. From where you’re standing, you spot a large circle turning lazily in the sky. The line isn’t too long, and the view looks like it would be fantastic at this time. 

“The ferris wheel, maybe?” you suggest. 

“All right. You go line up and I’ll go get the tickets,” Iwaziumi says. You join the line that is steadily growing while your lover goes to buy some tickets.

Iwaizumi has just taken ten steps from you when an unwanted guest creeps up on you. Some people grumble from behind you at the appearance of this new tyrant that cuts in line so leisurely. He leans lazily on the divider right behind you and makes eyes you would rather he not make at you. The golden watch on his wrist clanks and tinkles on the metal divider. His hair is slicked back in imitation of the handsome actors on the screen, though the same can’t be said about him. 

The man behind you clears his throat a few times, each getting progressively louder and louder. He really isn’t going to stop is he? What if he knows dad?

The thought crosses in your mind, and without second guessing, you turn back. Your eyes lock with him for a few seconds longer than “accidental” could pass for. Turning back without acknowledging him would be what your parent considered impolite. And you were certainly not going to attend one of your father’s weekly lectures on attitude again. 

“Would you like a handkerchief?” you offered. You fished out the green cloth from the small bag you carried with you. The man accepts it with a cocky smile and a fake cough. You’re about to turn back when you feel a tap on your back.

“You know, I’m set to take over my dad’s company when he kicks the bucket. I could get a pretty girl like you all the pretty dresses and pearl necklaces you want,” he says. He slings your poor handkerchief over his finger like a dishrag. 

“That’s very nice of you,” you remark politely before trying to turn away. The tap on your shoulder keeps you from breaking eye contact with him. You’re already standing a little too close to the gate for your liking, but the sudden arm on your right side inches away from your waist keeps you from going anywhere.

“What does a cute gal like you prefer? Tiffany? Swarovski? Cartier?” 

“I’m quite alright, actually.” You look to the ground. Surely just buying two tickets shouldn’t take this long?

“Awh, come on. ‘Gal like you fancy a man who rides a red or white Cadillac?”

“Well, I don’t know. Men who can actually take care of their ladies instead of throwing wads of cash at them are quite popular nowadays,” you retort.

“Like me?” someone’s familiar timbre asks from behind you. You catch his reflection in the Ferris wheel door and can’t help but giggle a little bit at his sudden cockiness in the face of a new adversary.

Iwaizumi looms protectively over you, a hand on your shoulder. He’s not doing anything to the unwanted visitor in front of you, but you still enjoy his face whitening in fear. You take the chance and look up at your lover. 

The sunlight hits his face perfectly like he’s the chosen child of Helios; the shadows and light bending to his will and accentuating the harsh lines of his face. You swear you can hear the man whimper. 

The operator barks out for the next group of people to come inside.

“Of course!” you reply. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we have a ride to catch.”

The man hangs with his jaw open as he tries to form  coherent words. You balance between your heels and tip toes as the operator opens the capsule doors. Like the courteous gentleman he is, Hajime offers you a calloused hand up the carriage. The capsule ascends with an unceremonious squeal.

The capsules are cramped, but one look outside has you swooning. The view of your small town, accompanied by the man’s aggravated grunt, and a warm hand squeezing your own makes you feel drunk and sober, wasted yet clear-headed at the same time. A voice breaks you out of your stupor.

“He wasn’t bothering you, right?” Iwaizumi asks. 

“A little.”

His hands instinctively reach out to stroke your shoulders and hair. The intimacy of the capsule has made him more touchy. Instead of shy brushes on your forearms, he’s now melted into you, foreheads touching and breaths on your neck.

“Are you okay doll? Nothing wrong?” 

“The only thing that’s wrong is how long you left me just to get some tickets for us.” You pull away. ”I missed you, you know.” 

“Y-y-you did?” 

Iwaizumi’s flustered. Charmingly so.

“No, I missed your friend from the army that you brought over to your house when I was there that time. What was his name? Otsubo? O’Connel? Ogawa?” Iwaizumi sighs, memories of the brown-haired delinquent he was paired up with plaguing his thoughts.

“Oikawa.” His eyes glaze over as he stares into the window behind you. You click your tongue. This airhead. 

Without thinking, you press a kiss to his lips. It lingers, trapped in the confines of space, time, and your slowly waning self control. It’s nothing special, but maybe that’s what makes it all the better to remember. Who has time to remember grandiose scenes of kissing in the rain or in a fit of passion when mundane ones like these are the ones they experience the most? Quantity over quality for this one, shall we say? It’s your run-of-the-mill kiss shared by countless other actors and actresses and seen by thousands of other loyal viewers, but only truly felt by the two of you.

You finally find the will to pull back after a good 30 seconds. Residue lipstick stains his plump lips, almost camouflaging them amongst Iwaizumi’s burning crimson blush.

“Did you really think that I would miss someone other than you?” you asked. 

“Well, you looked like you did.” You put a hand to his cheek.

“You’ll always be my number one, Hajime.”

The ferris wheel turns for a few more times, hushed cuddles and silent declarations of love happening inside it’s capsules, you and Iwaizumi being the main culprits. He’s alone with you, with a perfect view. What more could he want? A thought pulls on the back of his mind like an impatient child.

What is he? A mere farmer who got drafted into the war, possibly to never return. And you? The mayor’s daughter. The difference between you two is larger than that of the distance between this quaint little town in the middle of nowhere and the sea. Iwaizumi imagines his future — not necessarily bleak, but definitely filled with dirt and toil, not one he would ever want to give you.

Perhaps it’s better for you if he doesn’t come back. 

You would grieve and cry for however long you pleased, but it would be the best for you. A new man would come and sweep you off your feet, like Iwaizumi once did. He would make time for you, like Iwaizumi once did. Maybe some money would be involved, and that’s where Iwaizumi can’t compete any longer. The altercation just now was proof of that.

The operator barks at the two of you to get out once your time is up. Iwaizumi hops off with ease, helping you with the strict confines of your skirt. He’s so enamoured in his thoughts, that he doesn’t realize that you’re shoving a cone of ice cream into his face. 

“Hajime,” you call. Your voice, the product of years of being taught how to speak softly like the ladies of your class, a far cry from the gruff barks of the farmers where he’s from, rings in his ear like a gong.

“What are you thinking about, Iwaizumi Hajime?” 

“Nothing,” he says stoically. Even though you see the postman more than you see Iwaizumi in person, you see through your lover in an instant. 

“Let me guess.... You’re thinking about....” You tap your finger on your lips in mock thinking. “Me! You’re thinking about me! Aren’t you?”

“What makes you think that?” he asks, but the flush on his face is definitely not from the carnival lights.

“You’re staring at my neck like I’m the one who stole those tomatoes from your garden bed last night,” you quip. Iwaizumi does nothing except pinch your cheek, to which you respond with a squeal and a nuzzle on his neck. Before you know it, there are fingers dancing on your midriff and torso, tickling the living daylights out of you.

“Stop, Hajime!” you plead relentlessly, but he has no mercy on you. Like a good soldier, he leaves no place unchecked. Your arms, your neck, your ribs. Iwaizumi takes no prisoners. By the time he does manage to pull away, you’re panting as you lean on him. 

“You could have made me spill my ice cream!” you complain as you hand one to Iwaizumi. The smile on his face is wiped away by a look of uncertainty. 

“You should’ve let me pay for that, (Y/N),” he says quietly. 

“Oh, please.” Your voice drops to a quiet hush as well, the smile shrinking away from your face until it’s only visible to the Iwaizumi and the sky. 

“It’s my treat for you. For taking me here.” 

The both of you eat your ice cream in silence. The only thing that could connect the two of you as a couple was a small patch of skin where your smaller hand touched his elbow, strong and hard from years of both farming and training.

He really should count his blessings someday. He’s alive, breathing, and healthy, for one. Iwaizumi isn’t rich, not as rich as you anyways, but he has a roof over his head and enough to make a meal for himself at least twice a day. The heavens could have stopped there, but no. They decided to send down an angel straight from their ranks to him. One with a glowing smile he would pay millions more to see just for another second, 

Yeah, right, find a new husband. Hell would freeze over before Iwaizumi would ever allow that to happen. 

But, like most things in his life, it’s shattered to pieces. 

Literally.

The sweet summer air turns into clouds of smoke at the pull of a trigger. Iwaizumi looks up. From the clouds, fall large blocks of metal that he recognizes all too well as rocket artillery. It hangs in the air for a hot minute, like a ballerina staying in the air just before she lands from her jump. Everyone holds their breath as the first shell makes its descent.

Sirens finally break the silence. Recorded laughter melts into shrill screaming as people rush to take cover. Civilians and members of the military alike take off to who knows where — parents seeking their children, civilian lovers holding on tight, a group of friends breaking apart because two of them bear a soldier’s cap a little too proudly.

Someone screams from the other side 

“A civilian attack?”

“Women and children to safety! At once!”

“Soldiers, report to the north gate at once! 

And it finally happens. A symphony of thundering cracks that shakes the ground under your very feet like a seesaw. The trills and hums of falling buildings and structures soon join it, bringing an eerie soundtrack to the scene of fire and blazes that unfold before your eyes. But the star soloist in the show is perhaps the screaming. It doesn’t discriminate. Everyone screams. Old men trying to survive another five years doing so hoarsely as the hang on to what’s left of the burnt wick that they call life. Teen girls doing so, trying to huddle together with their friends under what they think is a safe spot. It’s deafening.

A pack of soldiers run past you, some carrying first-aid kits and stretchers. Iwaizumi gives them a knowing glance and a nod, before finally looking to you.

You’re the mayor’s daughter. Of all people in this town your age, you know best that during times like these, duty comes first. But what is duty when the people left to carry it out are slaves to love? 

“Hajime!” you choke out. You don’t know whether the iron grip on his wrist is to keep him from going or to keep him from staying any longer with you. But you keep holding him anyways. 

“Go with them,” he says. His voice is calm and steady, interpolated by the crackling of fires and the occasional thundering of what must be more bombs coming from the air.

“You—”

“I’ll meet up with you later. At your front door, next time.”

His hands moved to cup your face. Fire and explosions are reflected in the tears that start to roll down your face. Sticky residue ice cream lingers on your hand, some of it getting caught in your face as you wipe down the tears that flow so ungracefully down the side of your face.

“At my front door?”  you ask.

The front door with the bronze plaque, serving as the golden gate for people of your class, but a barbed fence to those of Iwaizumi’s. The front door with a hole near the doorknob that your father never noticed, from when Iwaziumi used to sneak letters he wrote in school for you seven years ago. Maybe you would share a kiss, only to scurry back in the blueberry bushes behind your house because you saw the glint of your mother’s car in the driveway? Or maybe share a lazy nap in the sun because your father had guests from halfway around the world and the nanny was sick, and the circumstances and situation all just perfect.

Too perfect.

“Of course. If your father says anything about us, I’ll make him eat his own words.” Something bites at the back of his throat, but Iwaizumi coughs it back under the guise of ash. The last thing he needed or wanted was you getting scared.

“That’s a promise?” you ask.

“We don’t make promises in this household, doll.” 

You want to say something, but another bang cuts you off, followed closely another crowd of soldiers directing people off to the side. Iwaizumi takes a long whiff of your perfume— one nicked from your mother’s shelves, yet worn countless times. You smell good. 

Iwaizumi gives you a kiss on your forehead — a rather mundane one — before joining the crowd of marching soldiers. 

Everything is piercing. 

There’s something about the smell that invades his nose that makes him want to retch, yet fall asleep at the same time. It reminds him of the rubbing alcohol that they give the new trainee that bleeds first during hand-to-hand back at his base. Iwaizumi wrinkles his nose instinctively, but finds that the longer he smells it, the clearer his head becomes.

And the lights are just too bright. They’re a blinding white, unlike the yellow lighting he’s accustomed to. The white tiles and white sheets that wrap around him securely make it even worse. It reminds him of the showers back at boot camp, where blood and other bodily fluids contrasted proudly with the white tiles. He blinks several times as he gets his eyes to adjust to the new lighting. 

A machine whirrs and buzzes behind him. Iwaizumi has never prided himself on knowing lots about military technology, but in all his years training at the military, he’s fairly sure he’s never seen anything like this before. From where he’s laying down, he makes out a valve connected to his fingers.

“Mr. Iwaizumi,” someone asks. He makes out a silhouette leaning over him. Something pounds in his heart as he hopes that it’s you that’s come to see him, but an adjustment of the light quickly kills all of them. A woman with red lipstick and dressed like a nurse from the neighborhood hospital helps him up.

“Where am I?” he manages to croak out. 

“You’re at the hospital. There was an attack and you were ushered to safety when—” 

It’s like someone turned a light switch in him. One minute he’s drowsy and fatigued, the next he’s up and alert, ready to pounce at anyone. Iwaizumi sits up straight, eager to hear this new information that is to be delivered. 

“The others?” he asks. 

“They…” The nurse trails off. She looks down apologetically, the blinding lights reflecting off the sheen of sweat on her hands. Her figure shrinks a bit. The silence is enough to fill in the blanks. 

“You left the others out there to die?”

“Sir, we tried—”

The ground is cold and hard on his bare feet. Iwaizumi’s shoulders sag with the feelings of ten sacks of wheat on his shoulders. He’s getting very good at ignoring, what with people screaming around him and sirens that block out any other form of conscious thought. All he knows, hears, and wants is to run. 

So he does.

He makes it down an uncountable amount of flights of stairs, until his knees ache and his calves are on fire. The metal is cold, hard, and unforgiving. The light of the tunnel keeps on dipping lower and lower until he finally drops down onto the floor. It seems to be deserted. Iwaizumi puts his hands on his knees and breathes like the drill sergeant instructed him back at camp. It seems that he won’t have much time to rest, though.

“Rouge patient!” someone barks from the other side of the room. 

Iwaizumi curses under his breath. Every step he takes is a spike up his thigh. But he runs. He runs and runs and runs until he finally sees a glass door at the end of it all. The door seems to be protected by a set of numbers, like those on a calculator sitting next to it. Footsteps thunder behind him and Iwaizumi can hear people opening their office doors in hopes of intercepting him, only to have the rogue patient run past them. It’s now or never. 

The door squeals as Iwaizumi puts all his body weight into the front part of his body. There’s a change in the air. The previously dingy atmosphere from inside the building is now replaced with a fresh breeze. Iwaizumi can’t stop to admire the flowers though. Without a moment’s thought, he rushes through the streets, weaving blindly through vehicles until he spots a dim alley.

It’s still the light of day, but this alley was unoccupied. Iwaizumi drops to his knees a second time, trying to put the wind back in his chest. Breathing seems to do good, so he does so shallowly until his lungs are willing to take in more oxygen at a time. No injuries, except the burning in his feet from running on bare pavement across the city.

Iwaizumi finally opens his eyes for the first time. Where was he now? DId he land at the car repair shop near your house? No, it doesn’t smell like grease and oil. The clothing factory? No, there’s no smog in the clear, blue skies above. Iwaizumi retraces his steps around the city. He closes his eyes again, visualizing his footsteps.

The smell of cotton candy drowns him in his thoughts.

There must be a carnival going on.

But instead of rolling hills and low houses, giant blocks of stone and metal crane their necks to the sky, reaching aimlessly for the sun and clouds that hang over their heads so tantalizingly. Great pictures hang suspended over the buildings, depicting beautiful people with clothes that would make any person from Iwaizumi’s part of town gasp. He wonders how he didn’t notice them during all his running before. In his defense, running from people who would do questionable things to you impairs your peripheral vision for an unknown period of time.

Something flashes out of the corner of his eye. His hands reach up to pat his waist for the revolver on his waist, but there’s nothing there. A closer look at the flashing colours reveals themselves to be… a Ferris wheel? 

A simple road leads up to the ferris wheel. Street vendors and pedestrians alike bustle through the streets, enjoying the carnival. Iwaizumi can’t bring himself to care about them. The only thing on his mind right now is where you are. 

His mind is spinning so quickly right now that he doesn’t notice the lack of planes the air, or people laughing and chatting instead of screaming for their lives in the streets. Everything rings in his ears the same as they did that night. 

Some of the people he shoves through give him dirty looks. And he’s in luck too, not far down the street is the back of a familiar head of hair. A closer look reveals a blue bow, the same blue bow he recognizes as the one he bought you for your birthday. You had shoved his gift away and told him that the money would be better off feeding the cattle, but he had made sure that it found a snug home in your hair.

He doesn’t remember you wearing it on the car ride earlier.

There’s a cone of ice cream in your hand— not melting on the ground surrounded by ash. You blissfully lick the cone while looking at the rides whizzing above.

“(L/N)! Why haven’t you gone with the others?” Iwaizumi asks frantically. You turn your head back so casually Iwaizumi wants to yank you away. If it was any other person, he would have wanted to disappear right then and there.

But it’s you. Same eyes that widen in confusion when you look at him. Same nose that wrinkles in disgust when you see his bare feet on the concrete. Same lips that part ever so slightly at his appearance.

“I’m… sorry?” you ask. 

“There was an aerial strike, and everyone had to go to safety! Why weren’t you with them? I was worried sick for you the whole time and you stroll through the streets like everything’s fine and dandy?” 

People are starting to stare even harder now. Some people shuffle closer to you in case the worst situation comes to light.

“I think you have the wrong person, sir,” you say calmly. 

“Wrong person? Now is not the time for joking, (L/N) (Y/N)!” 

Iwaizumi wants to slap the eyebrows that are furrowing too slowly for his liking off your face, he just wants you to hurry up so the both of you can get to safety and meet at your front door like he promised but—

“(L/N) (Y/N)?”

“Who else would you be?” He must look like a madman now, screeching while other pedestrians give him odd looks. Someone seems to call the police on him, but the screeching of tires behind him is enough to dispel all sudden danger.

Black cars surround the small road, visages of baffled pedestrians and vendors reflected in their tinted windows. The drivers don’t seem to mind them, some opening the doors to their black suit clad passengers, all around his height and build. Iwaizumi feels a hand creeping up on his back, but he shakes it off and takes a long step to you. 

“(L/N) (Y/N) is my grandmother’s name, sir.”

-

yes this is inspired by captain america. copyright don’t come for me!!!!!

[currywaifu]

𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: should we rest for a little longer? 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩: minagi tsuzuru/reader 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: sfw 𝐰𝐜: 2.7k words

𝐚𝐧: i just want to take care of this tired boy

He was asleep again.

“And you’re being a creep again,” Your friend nudges you, and you nudge him back with a vengeance. You peel your eyes away from the sleeping brunet to frown at the boy beside you.

“I’m not being a creep. I’m just… concerned, I guess.” As soon as the words leave your lips you find yourself cringing a bit. It sounded off, almost like you pitied him. If anything, the right way to phrase it probably would have been-

“I kid, I kid,” your friend raises both of his hands, almost defensive, “it’s because you’re a fan of his, right?”

Your lips purse at the suggestion, neither offended nor angry but not very pleased either.

“I suppose,” you say, eyeing the professor that entered the room.

Fan. That sounded wrong too, despite being the truth. You have watched all of Mankai Company’s plays, ever since your little sister dragged you to one since the boy she liked was playing one of the leads.

“Ahh, so cute!” Your sister was shaking you for what might have been the nth time that night, but you weren’t so focused on Romeo as you were Mercutio.

When you saw a familiar face standing on stage beside the pink-haired boy, you were rather surprised. You couldn’t pretend you knew him, but you did see him here and there on campus. You might have even shared a class together and you just never noticed.

You didn’t peg him for an actor.

Curiouser and curiouser.

You checked the website where you booked your tickets again.

Minagi Tsuzuru, Scriptwriter

Interesting.

Somehow, even though he wasn’t in the next play, you found yourself watching more and more. You’d swear up and down that as a theatre fan, you wanted to support deserving local productions; while not exactly false, it was hard to deny your admiration for Tsuzuru’s scriptwriting.

An almost inaudible yawn breaks your reverie and your eyes settle on the familiar green of his jacket. Did the professor just not care? Well, perhaps it was for the better. He probably needed a nap, more than a nap if you were honest.

“Lend me a highlighter real quick,” your friend whispers.

When you pass him the marker, its bright turquoise hue brings you back to your original thoughts.

Were you really just worried because you were a fan of his?

The next time you see Tsuzuru is at a cafe that had ‘the best hot chocolate ever!’, or so your little sister proclaimed.

“Eh? You’re Mercutio, right?”

Specifically, at a cafe where Tsuzuru was currently working at.

Do you let your sister do the talking? You don’t wanna disturb him at work or anything. Besides, it’s not as if you’ve ever talked to him, so other than telling him your order there really wasn’t much else to say.

“… really likes your scripts!”

“Ah, really? Please keep supporting us, I’ll make sure to keep improving!”

The corners of Tsuzuru’s eyes were crinkling as the corners of his mouth slid upwards.

Eh? Why was this boy suddenly giving you an angelic smile? What happened when you spaced out? Wait, didn’t your little brat of a sister mention something about scripts?

“Ah, yes, I’ll keep watching your plays!” You smiled quickly, lightly kicking the younger girl’s feet from beneath the table. Did you say anything to her about your admiration for Tsuzuru or something, or did she suddenly get observant?

She was lucky you weren’t so petty or you would have outed her crush on Sakuya to his troupe mate then and there.

“Oh, by the way,” you begin to lower your volume to be sure, “is the hot chocolate really that good?”

A small chuckle barely escaped his lips before he shrugged, positioning his clipboard to take down your orders. “You have to try it to find out.”

“Then two hot chocolates, and a strawberry creme crepe for me.”

“Chocolate covered banana pancakes, please!”

As he took down your orders, you caught a glimpse of the dark circles under his eyes. He seemed to be fine when he was talking to the two of you, but a part-time job along with university and theatre probably took a lot out of his energy.

“Eh, isn’t this-“

“Don’t say anything.”

So when you ended up with a chocolate-drizzled banana creme crepe and your sister got strawberry topped chocolate pancakes, you let it slide. The hot chocolate was actually pretty good.

You were only supposed to borrow a reference book for one of your classes, take down some notes, and then scramble home.

So what were you doing?

You wanted to sit somewhere further down the library where it was quieter when you stumbled upon Minagi Tsuzuru, fast asleep with several papers scattered haphazardly on the desk.

The two of you weren’t close or anything, but you wanted to encourage him somehow. Sometimes sleepless nights were really necessary, you’d be a hypocrite to vouch against them, but you wanted to tell him to persevere somehow.

You set your bag down on an empty chair, bringing out a green sticky note pad and a ballpoint pen.

...

When Tsuzuru wakes up it’s from Juza lightly, well as lightly as Juza could, nudging him awake. He waits for his eyes to adjust to his surroundings, wondering how long he’s been asleep. The first thing he spots is Juza’s purple tupperware, wildly contrasting the off-whites and blacks and browns his things usually were.

The second thing he notices is a green sticky note stuck on one of his notebooks.

Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise!

Les Miserables, a line from the finale song if he remembered right.

No name or hint from who could have given it.

He found himself humming the song on the way home.

“This presentation will be a paired work activity… and as usual, I’ll be pairing you up.” Several people groaned audibly, while two girls whispered excitedly behind you.

“I wonder if she’ll couple me up with someone?”

“Ahh, I hope I get coupled up with…”

Seriously, coupled up? Since when were you all Love Island contestants?

You knew this professor was highly acclaimed to be some kind of “yosei of love” or matchmaker or whatever, but weren’t they expecting too much out of her?

“This is a class, not a mixer,” your friend began to say, “is probably what you’re thinking right now. Am I wrong?” He looked awfully smug and you couldn’t resist rolling your eyes.

“More along the lines of ‘this isn’t a reality tv show’, but that works too.”

“Prude.”

“Should you really be insulting me? Prof is probably gonna pair us up again and I’d be stuck with you for a whole week.”

“What’s wrong with that? We became friends precisely because she thought we’d look good together. Of course, it didn’t work out, unless?” He started wiggling his eyebrows and you smacked his arm.

“Dumbass. Well, she’s probably hoping we’re some kind of slow-burn pair and keep us partners,” you predicted. Somehow his smugness increased tenfold, looking as sly as a fox.

When the professor calls your name you perk up, head-turning to her. Even seated three rows away from her you could see her eyes sparkling with mirth.

“Please pair up with Minagi Tsuzuru.”

Your eyes immediately sought for the familiar figure in front of you, until you felt a soft tap on your shoulder from behind you.

He greeted you by your surname, a small smile on settled on his face. “Looks like we’re partners. I didn’t know we had a class together.”

“Ah, yeah, it’s nice seeing you again.” You reply, discretely reaching over to your ears as if to hide them.

“Right!” The two of you looked over to your friend as he clapped his hands together, “Looks like I just got called! Take care of my babe, Tsuzuru!” You were so, so close to slamming your face on the wooden desk, instead deciding to shoo him away with the motion of your hand.

Turning back to Tsuzuru, you give him an awkward laugh. “Don’t mind him, Minagi-san. He acts dumb, but at least he’s consistent.”

He stands up, shuffling his things and for a moment you forget that he’s actually pretty tall. Transferring to the seat beside you, he shakes his head. “If you think that’s bad, wait until you see what I have to deal with.”

“7 younger brothers, and 2 honorary younger brothers that I had and have to deal with on the daily.” Despite his visible tiredness, his tone suggested that he didn’t mind having to look over them so much.

“I only have my little sister, but she’s as much of a pain as she is cute.” Your eyes lock with turquoise, and both of you simultaneously release a sound between a sigh and a laugh.

“Older sibling night hours?” You offer.

He lets out an appreciative hum, “More like older sibling noon hours, really.”

It’s been two hours since you’ve gotten up from your chair. It’s not that you don’t like Tsuzuru’s company, far from it actually, but your back was starting to hurt and you were getting real fidgety. You needed a walk.

“Minagi-san, do you mind if I get something to drink?”

“Not at all, we’ve been at this for a while.” At his signal, you stood up from your chair and fished through your bag for your wallet.

Pausing, you turn back to look at him for a couple of seconds. He was typing furiously fast, but his eyes were droopy and lidded. If you asked him if he wanted anything he’d probably say no, but that didn’t mean you weren’t gonna try giving him something. He mentioned not having a least favourite food, so coffee milk would probably do, right?

Tsuzuru’s eyes tear away from his laptop, catching you staring at him. Before he could ask if something was wrong, your body suddenly tensed before dashing off.

He sighed, letting his eyes rest for a bit while you were still out. He barely got any sleep last night, and the light emitted by the screen was starting to make his retinas burn. Despite his drowsiness, he manages to let out a small huff to mask his growing smile.

Your ears were red again.

...

Discretely hiding the milk cartons as you re-entered the library, you jokingly wondered if Mankai Company’s playwright would be asleep on a library table again.

“No way,” you murmured in disbelief, setting the cartons on the desk the two of you occupied. There was neither the click-clack of his keyboard nor swift ASMR scribbling on his notebook. Hadn’t you only been gone for 5 minutes?

You debated waking him up for a moment, maybe even teasing him for immediately falling asleep as soon as you left. Maybe you’d press the cold drink next to his cheek to shock him.

You do none of those, and let him sleep for as long as possible. He said he didn’t have any work for the evening so no harm, no foul right?

Unzipping your pencil case, you spot your trademark green sticky notes. You had thought about giving him another note again but never found the opportunity to until today. Of course, if you wrote one now he’d definitely know it was you.

It was sorta embarrassing, but you didn’t mind him knowing.

Ah, but you didn’t really want him to see it while you were in front of him?

“Let me just,” muttering to yourself, you hid the sticky note in one his jacket’s pockets. He shifted slightly, causing your heart to stop for a moment.

Don’t wake up, don’t wake up…

When his eyes don’t flutter open, you let out an audible sigh. Well, whether the brunet was asleep or not you still had work to do.

30 minutes pass when the actor finally woke up. He’s still a little dazed and thoughts still a little muddled when he sees you out like a light in front of him.

Maybe, as he’s walking back home, the humiliation and shame of falling asleep while waiting for you would hit him;

but right now he’s focused on the golden rays of the setting sun hitting your gentle, sleeping features and he’s absolutely entranced. Tiny sighs, soft breathing, a picture of peacefulness.

Seriously, Tsuzuru? Just because you like his scripts. Just because you had your similarities. Just because you had a serene sleeping face. Just because your ears turned red around him and was he allowed to hope?

Did you even see him for more than just Tsuzuru the Mankai Company Playwright? Tsuzuru the actor? Tsuzuru who’s in a class with you?

Last month, he thought of you as a sincere fan. Last week, he thought of you as his cute partner.

And what about now? His mind couldn’t supply him an answer right away, but that was okay. There was time for that tomorrow, and the days and weeks after.

His hand extends forward to pet your head when your eyes blink open and lock with his own.

“Minagi-san?”

He thaws himself out of his frozen stupor and quickly moves to take his hand back. Unexpectedly, you reach your own out to keep it in place.

What were you doing?

“Were you going to…” You trailed off, and by the way your eyes averted from his gaze he could tell you were too embarrassed to finish the question.

“Yeah,” he replied quietly, “Sorry.”

For a few beats, only silence was exchanged between the two of you; then you spoke up again.

“I don’t mind,” some more beats, “you can, you know.”

There are questions left unsaid, but instead, he lowers his palm down slowly, hovering with a bit of hesitance left.

“If it’s you,” you start, “it’s okay.”

“Okay.”

His fingers glide over the soft strands and begin caressing the top of your head.

The concept of time itself didn’t seem to exist as both of you soaked in each other’s quietude. When was the last time he felt all his worries didn’t exist? That he wasn’t constantly worrying about his family, or finances, or university, or scripts.

“Minagi-san,” you began, tone still soft as though not to ruin the atmosphere they created. “It’s important to get some rest too, okay? I worry… I don’t want your health to suffer, so please take care of yourself.”

A rush of endearment overcomes him and if you paid an ounce of attention to his fingertips brushing against your cheeks as he played with your hair, you don’t mention it. He whispers your first name and watches as his index paints a peach across your skin. Your lips part and the palpitations in his heart increase at a pace that can’t be normal.

“I can’t pretend to know, offer to carry your burdens,” you pause, placing your hands atop of his free one, “but if for a while I could relieve you of your stresses, I’d like to stay by your side.”

Oh.

He moved his hand from beneath yours and interlocked your digits together. “Then take care of yourself too.”

When you looked like you were about to protest in confusion he squeezed the palm of your hand lightly, drawing circles on them with his thumb.

“Alright, I promise,” you whispered.

A dozen or so seconds of nothing but tranquility passes when Tsuzuru breaks the silence. “Should we rest for a little longer?”

His eyes have a teasing glint to them, a look rare on the brunet, and something else you can’t describe other than it makes your heart skip a beat.

“We should be heading home now,” you said, almost regretfully, “but our project still isn’t done, so…”

An oath of next time.

It really wasn’t any of Masumi’s business, but wasn’t Tsuzuru in a particularly good mood tonight? The younger boy had no plans to be nosy, but it was getting weird. What if he was planning something with the director? He had to make sure he wouldn’t get in the way.

Quietly, he peered over Tsuzuru’s shoulder to look at the green paper the college student has been staring at for the past five minutes.

I’ve heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason, bringing something we must learn, and we are led to those who help us most to grow.

Oh, wasn’t this from one of the musicals the director liked? The dark-haired boy didn’t know how to interpret it, but if it meant he wouldn’t have to share the director as much that was fine by him.

want to order again?

[louisaland]

PSOLC ( Criminal Minds AU) drabble- based on the amazing themetaphorgirl’s fic

«Oh my goodness, have you all been living under a rock all your life? » Penelope exclaimed, having commandeered the comfiest armchair of the seventh floor common room, where she was sitting regally, wrapped in a blanket as if it were a cape and brandishing the remote like a sceptre.

« James Blake, how are you the only other person in this room who has actually read the Harry Potter books? » she continued, visibly surprised.

Emily shrugged, muttering «  Uh, because we’re not nerds!» just loud enough to be heard,  then resumed painting her nails a distinctly non regulation electric blue, sitting cross-legged on a cushion.

«  Just pick a movie, Penelope! » , Hotch grumbled from the table across the room, briefly glancing up from his History essay, eyebrows knitted together and his lips forming a tight line.

« OK, OK, but before I do, let me go get something! ». She got up and rushed off in a blur of pink fluffy slippers and glitter. She returned minutes later, brandishing her laptop and a mysterious-looking, brown, crumpled and patched piece of material.

Glances of confusion were exchanged, until Derek broke the bemused silence from his spot on the floor where he was lying, with a puzzled «  Baby girl, what the hell is that? ».

«  Ta-da! » Garcia replied, showing off the item with visible pride. «  Uh, James, a little help here, and some enthusiasm wouldn’t go amiss either, especially if you’re a true Potterhead! » she added, seeing everyone’s bemused faces.

«  That’s the Sorting Hat, guys, it tells you which house you’ll be in at Hogwarts, Harry Potter’s school », James explained, as Penelope nodded enthusiastically.

«  So, there are 4 houses, each with their own distinct character traits, and the Hat decides where you should go. Obviously it takes your preference into consideration, and you don’t necessarily have to possess the qualities of your chosen House, they can be ones you admire or want to have... So everyone’s going to take the test before we start the movie, OK? ».

“ Sure, Penny!” JJ chirped, uncurling herself from the couch to go over to her friend. «  Could you just remind me of the different Houses and their traits, please? ».

Penelope quickly explained the differences between Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin before placing the Hat on JJ’s head. She pulled her fishtail braid over her shoulder and sat in the armchair.

Penelope deftly flipped open her laptop, tapped a few keys and then cleared her throat.

«  I, of course, will be reading the questions so no-one will be tempted to cheat! » she declared.

After several questions, everyone started suggesting the answer they thought JJ should choose.

«  Well, that’s the last question, Jayje! Which House do you think you’ll be in? «  Penelope chirruped, clearly pleased.

«  Um, Gryffindor, I guess », JJ volunteered shyly.

«  Oooh, I hope you’ll be in Hufflepuff, like me! But you could be a Ravenclaw, and yeah, Gryffindor would be a good fit too... » Penelope said, swiftly moving the cursor to the « Reveal my House » button on screen!

After a few seconds of waiting, Penelope glanced at the screen and looked up, visibly crestfallen.

«  What’s up, Pen, did I do it wrong? I swear I answered honestly! » JJ said, evidently upset at her room-mate’s distress and removing the wide-brimmed wizard hat from her head.

« Alas, we have a Hat Stall, you’ve tied between Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor! So you just get to pick. Don’t feel obliged to say Hufflepuff just because I’m there! » Garcia explained.

JJ deliberated for a moment before deciding on Gryffindor. «  Thank God, the suspense was killing me! «  Emily sighed sarcastically.

«  Good choice, always trust your first instincts! Now, who’s next? ». Penelope’s gaze swept over the group. Alex and Spencer were huddled together, heads bent over a thick novel at the opposite end of the couch that JJ had returned to, Dave was focused intently on his laptop screen, James was half asleep in the other armchair, Hotch was scowling at his History book, surrounded by crumpled up pieces of paper and several pages of notes. Derek was absent-mindedly spinning a basketball as he perused his phone.

Her eyes met Emily’s.

«  Alright, Garcia, let’s get this over with! «

At Emily’s words, everyone looked up.

«  Yeah, I’ll go after Prentiss, baby girl! » Derek promised. «  Sorry, got distracted by my fantasy football league choices! ».

Emily got up, picking up the hat and plonking it on her head as she seated herself in the armchair. From her nest of pillows and blankets on the ground, Penelope reset the quiz page and began.

«  OK, first question: black or white? ».

«  Black, duh! » Emily responded.

Penelope continued through, before finally announcing that Emily was officially a Slytherin.

«  I bet I’m Gryffindor, sweet girl! » Derek guessed when his turn was almost finished.

«  Right you are, my hunk of Hershey’s chocolate! » she trilled, having checked his results. He bent down to hug her before letting the next person go.

Alex, James and Spencer all followed, and were all, unsurprisingly, placed in Ravenclaw, though James and Alex both had strong Hufflepuff scores too. Spencer had had to take the Hat off half-way through, as it kept falling down over his eyes and even completely covering his face.

Dave had to be dragged over, but high-fived Emily when he too was placed in Slytherin.

«  Hotchy, it’s your turn now! Everyone else has had a go, even Dave and Emily! Pleeeease let me find out the inner workings of your mysterious mind! » Penelope pleaded, eyes widening with a butter wouldn’t melt  expression spreading across her face.

«  We’ll even stop waving and shouting «  Hey, Haley! » at random times during the day, especially if she’s not actually in the vicinity. Oh, and Prentiss won’t get dress-coded any more this week, and JJ will eat greens with every meal without complaining too, promise! » she begged.

Hotch sighed deeply and rolled his eyes. The «  Hey, Haley! » game was absolutely no fun.

«I have wily ways to bend you to my will, you know! » she mock threatened, approaching him as if to tickle him.

«  Fine, I’ll do your quiz. Just keep it clean! And.Don’t. Call. Me. Hotchy! » he replied tersely. He gingerly placed the silly accessory on his head. Penelope beamed at him and began.

This time, everyone joined in, trying to influence his answers, gently teasing him.

«  And that, Hotchy, was the final question! Where do you think you’ll end up? »

«  Uh, I don’t know! Everyone thinks l’m ambitious, so Slytherin? Can we please just get it over with as we haven’t even started the movie yet? »

«  Well, the Hat has spoken! You’re in... ».

Penelope paused for dramatic effect.

«  Hufflepuff! Yay, you’re with me! We’re a seriously under-represented House, there’s hardly any merch for us, but at least our emblem and House colours are correct, unlike poor Ravenclaw! Oh, and our common room is near the castle kitchens, perfect for midnight feasts! » she babbled, flinging her arms around his neck, knocking the hat off his head in the process. He patted her arm and then went to sit on the couch. Spencer had fallen asleep in Alex’s arms, and he took the sleeping child from her onto his lap.

Garcia put a DVD into the player and pressed play.

As the first Harry Potter movie started, Hotch looked around at the diverse group around him and smiled. Alex had joined James on the floor, he was adjusting blankets and pillows to ensure she was comfortable, Emily and Dave were bickering amicably over the correct pronunciation of some Italian word, Morgan and JJ were tossing Cheetos in the air and trying to catch them in their mouths, whilst Penny was now wrapped in a blanket, on the armchair, mouthing the words along with the actors, staring intently at the screen.

He shifted a snoring Spencer in his lap, smoothed the boy’s hair off his face and settled in for what was going to be the first of eight films.

[lapishasproblems]

“You Two Can’t Be Serious.” (Post-reveal love square fic)

<Previous Part [PART TWO] Next Part>

[READ FROM THE BEGINING]

(Original idea right here by @livanarose )

I can’t believe how so many positive feedbacks came back from all of you. Thank you so so much. I’m glad you liked the first chapter there. I’ll do my best to finish the fic. Enjoy this next part, loves.

~~~

The citizens of Paris watched as their beloved red clad superhero landed gracefully by the Louvre pyramid with a little girl—the akumatized victim. A group of reporters were there, ready to question her with multiple things, but Ladybug was only there to take the girl back to her parents. She didn’t have time to deal with the reporters. Not now, anyway.

She had phase two to tend to.

“Ladybug, LADYBUG!”

Hearing someone from the group shout her name, the masked heroine turned and spotted a very familiar redhead with her phone in the middle of the group of reporters. Once Ladybug’s attention was caught, Alya quickly pushed through the group of people and started questioning the savior of Paris.

“Ladybug, what an amazing save. Mind leaving a few words for the Ladyblog? Where’s Chat Noir?” Alya asked, recording.

“I, uh...—“

Beep beep

“Your blog, it’s amazing, really, and I’d love to talk some more, but I really gotta go,” the teen superhero answered, smiling and waving in Alya’s direction. “Bug out.”

And with that, the heroine threw her yo-yo at a nearby building, giving her just enough momentum to swing to one of the Louvre’s wings where her partner was waiting. They had chosen a rooftop not too far from where the reporters were gathered, making sure those people down there can still see them continue to phase two.

“You know, I could’ve taken the girl to her parents, right?”

The girl straightened from her crouching position. “Oh please, kitty. I know you only want the attention of those reporters.”

“You saw right through me, My Lady. As always.”

Ladybug chuckled, walking over to where her partner stood. “I’ll let you answer the questions next time, Chat.”

“You sure about that, My Lady? You wouldn’t want it to be cat-astrophic, would you?”

This boy, I swear, Ladybug thought.

She crossed her hands in front of her chest. “If I remember correctly, a certain kitten wanted the attention of the media.”

Ladybug walked another step forward, making them stand so close, Chat can feel her breath on his neck, making the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. Chat Noir didn’t know how to feel about this situation. A part of his brain is melting into a puddle of goo. Another part is telling him that Ladybug certainly has the best pair of irises. And another part is just urging him to kiss her.

Sure, they were supposed to run phase two, but he’d have to wait until the moment was right.

“Well if you want the attention of the media so much, why don’t you go run phase two right now?”

Chat Noir nearly choked, hearing his partner say those words, as if reading his mind, craning her neck forward. Chat swore he could even feel her breath against his face now. He started to feel his face heat up and thank god it’s nighttime because if it wasn’t, he was sure Ladybug would’ve seen his face turn beet red. He was losing it. He was losing it. He was—

“My Lady, if you wanted to be kissed so much, all you had to do was ask, you know. I wouldn’t mind.”

He could feel the superheroine standing in front of him tense and when he caught sight of her face, he could see tints of pink on her cheeks, just below the red mask covering her identity despite the darkness. Ladybug wasn’t easy to coax, but Marinette was another deal.

The blue-haired heroine on the other hand, was thinking hard, finding a way to return the attack. Her hands hung loose on her sides, no longer crossed firmly. But before she could even find the right words, her partner had spoken up again.

“With your permission, My Lady.”

She looked up at those pair of green eyes she knew all too well. She smiled before Chat stepped in, closing the gap between them, not forgetting to entwine their fingers and put his free hand on her waist.

And the reporters have never seen such magnificent news before today.

~~~

“GUYS! HAVE YOU HEARD THE NEWS?”

“YES! I HEARD LADYBUG AND CHAT NOIR KISSED!”

“AHH HOW ADORABLE! I knew they were in it for each other!”

“Who doesn’t?”

“WHO CARES? THEY KISSED!”

“Without having to save the other!”

“Without getting their memories taken!”

“This is it, guys. LADYNOIR IS OFFICIAL!”

“We’re in endgame.”

Marinette came in a bit late for class, as she was up all night thinking of the ‘phase two’ she and her partner had managed to pull off perfectly last night. She had babbled on and on and on to Tikki until the ladybug kwami got too tired and accidentally fell asleep on one of Marinette’s scarves. But even after the girl tucked the kwami to bed, Marinette still couldn’t sleep. She barely got a wink.

She kissed Chat Noir.

Chat Noir is Adrien Agreste.

She kissed Adrien Agreste.

Her cheeks heat up everytime realization hits her, no matter how many times it did.

“MARINETTE, have you heard the news?”

She raised an eyebrow. “What news?”

Alya scrunced her forehead. “Seriously, Girl?”

“Uh, I must’ve missed it this morning. My bad. Anything exciting happened recently?”

“YES! Check this out!”

Alya immediately took out her phone and showed Marinette a video of Ladybug and Chat Noir, taken just last night. There they were, on the rooftop of the Louvre, Ladybug with her hands crossed and Chat Noir standing in front of her. They chatted for a while until the heroine craned her head forward. Chat Noir then places his hand on Ladybug’s waist and—

Marinette looked away, already knowing what will happen next. She knew the news. She didn’t have to watch the news to know about it. She didn’t have to ask everyone in the classroom about what’s going on between Ladybug and Chat Noir. She didn’t have to urge Alya to show her the Ladyblog video. She didn’t even have to be present between the sea of reporters at the Louvre last night to know about the news.

Marinette was the cause of the news, after all.

Well, half of the credits go to her. The other half—

“Good morning, everyone.”

Marinette stared as Adrien came walking through the classroom door calmly, looking well-rested, tidy, and perfectly calm as if today is just another day despite the zoo that broke out in their classroom. He silently slipped into his seat, just in front of Marinette’s table.

Alya turned her head. “Hey Adrien, have you heard? Ladybug and Chat Noir kissed!”

Adrien’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “No way—“

Man, this boy is a good actor, Marinette thought.

“Yes way,” the redhead slipped in the seat next to Adrien, sandwiching him between her and Nino while showing him the same video she was showing to Marinette just moments ago. “FINALLY! About time, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Adrien nodded, his eyes still on the screen. “You were at the Louvre last night?”

“Yep, and I had the privilege of seeing this kiss in person,” Alya swooned. “You should’ve seen it.”

Adrien chuckled, looking back down at the phone in Alya’s hand. “It really looks like Chat Noir enjoyed that kiss, huh?”

Marinette swore Adrien didn’t say that because of the video Alya showed him. A familiar heat started to burn on her cheeks and she’d be in trouble if the three people sitting in front of her caught it. She propped her chin with one hand and decided to look away.

I kissed Chat Noir, Marinette thought.

I kissed Adrien Agreste.

Despite the fact that it was just them messing with the entirety of Paris, Marinette realized that she would’ve kissed Chat Noir last night even if they didn’t have to run phase two. The momentum, it was perfect. But maybe they would’ve chosen a way more private rooftop where nobody could see them and detransformed and kissed longer and—

“Marinette?”

The girl snapped her head so quickly, her neck cracked. “Uh—what?”

The three people in front of her had turned their heads, Adrien chuckling. “I was asking your opinion on this big news.”

Her eyes widened. “I—uhm. Uh...”

“Tell me,” Adrien started, twisting his body so that he was facing the girl now. “Don’t you think that Ladybug enjoyed it too?”

Marinette tried her best to regain control. She was not going to give in. She was not going to become a messy puddle of blushing and stammering anymore. Those old and corrupt days were over.

She smiled back. “Of course she did.”

A bright smile blossomed on Adrien’s lips, intensifying the heat she felt on her cheeks earlier.

“Hey, Alya! Alix wants to see that video!” Called Mylene from the other side of the room.

“I’ll be right there,” the redhead called over before turning to her friends. “Be right back, you three.”

Marinette watched as Alya approached Mylene and Alix’s table with her phone, excitedly retelling the scene she was lucky enough to witness last night. Marinette propped her chin with her hand and watched as the news of Ladybug and Chat Noir getting together broke out in her class.

The girl in pigtails chuckled.

How oblivious can humans seriously be?

~~~

“Nathalie, is father around?”

The woman looked up from her clipboard.

“He’s a bit busy right now, Adrien. But he will certainly join you for dinner shortly.”

“Tell him I need to talk about something.”

Nathalie nodded to Adrien before the blonde entered the dining room, taking his place at the end of the table.

He recalled the conversation he had with Marinette the other day, about telling his father first. Unlike her parents, Adrien knew his father’s barrier isn’t easy to penetrate. Extra effort needs to be done in order to finally get to him, and Adrien knew by experience. If you misstep, you might be farther away from your goal than when you started.

The better plan was not for Marinette to immediately come to the Agreste mansion, but for Adrien to give the introductions first, weaken the barrier before they penetrate it. It wasn’t just about their plan. This was serious. The plan aside, Adrien really wanted his father to know about his girlfriend and accept her.

He was giddy just thinking about it.

So he waited.

Patiently.

The head of the table was still empty.

Minutes passed. The food has gone cold. No signs of Gabriel anywhere. Adrien was sick of waiting.

He only wanted to talk. Just this once.

He stood up, dragging the chair he was sitting on earlier backwards, making Nathalie look up from the clipboard in her hand.

“Adrien, I—“

“He’s in his office, right?” the boy asked, taking the plate at the head of the table. “I’ll take these to him.”

“No, I’ll take those—“

“Stop it, Nathalie. I just want to talk to him.”

The woman’s gaze softened, making Adrien smile. He looked at her for another heartbeat before stepping outside the dining room, making his way to the door just across—his father’s office.

Adrien didn’t even bother knocking.

“Father, I need to talk to you.”

Gabriel Agreste didn’t answer, his back facing his son in the doorway.

“It’s important.”

The man in the white suit sighed and turned, finally meeting his son’s gaze.

Adrien slowly placed the plate in his hands on the glass table. “You didn’t come to dinner.”

Gabriel looked at his son softly. “Nathalie could’ve done that.”

“Yeah, but I’m here to talk.”

Gabriel waited, his hands kept behind his back formally.

“I have a girlfriend now, and I’d like you to meet her if that’s okay.”

Adrien studied his father’s face as the man scrunched his eyebrows.

“Adrien, I’m sorry but if it’s Miss Rossi—“

“No, Father. It’s definitely not Lila,” Adrien quickly cut him off. “It’s Marinette.”

Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “The young designer? The baker’s daughter?”

Adrien’s heart started pounding. He wasn’t sure if his father asking questions was a good thing or a bad thing. Either way, he was starting to get nervous and giddy at the same time.

“Yes...?” He replied with a questioning tone.

Adrien flinched, getting ready for defeat.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Three heartbeats.

“Bring her over sometime, Adrien. I’d like to have a little talk with the young designer,” Gabriel finally said. “I quite like her taste when it comes to fashion.”

Adrien lifted his head, a wide smile on his lips. “Or course, Father. How about tomorrow? After school?”

“Nathalie?”

Adrien turned to find Nathalie standing behind him in the doorway, eyes focused on her clipboard. Before long, she looked up at Grabriel and nodded politely.

The man turned to Adrien. “I can spare a few minutes.”

Adrien didn’t care anymore, he immediately took off and leapt into his father’s arms.

“Thank you, father.”

~~~

Oof, I’m weak for Agreste family bonding.

I had to go over and look up what Gabriel’s office looked like and found out that there’s a random glass block just sitting in the middle of the room. What it’s for, I have no idea. I’m going to assume it’s the table so that glass table i mentioned earlier is pretty much the glass block. He doesn’t even have a table in his office he just has a glass. Block.

Good job, Gabriel.

Again, thank you so much for the positive feedbacks you all gave on the previous part. I wasn’t sure you guys would like it. I’m still really inexperienced and English isn’t my first language so I wasn’t expecting it to turn out good.

Did you enjoy this part? Should I continue to part three? Please, I’d love to hear from everyone.

[multi-fandom-writer]

the boy with the colors

part 2

Masterlist

Part 1

taglist: open, just send me an ask! word count: 2.3k warnings: like one swear at the end, but other than that fluff

Blond. Harrison’s hair was blond. Maybe it was closer to dark blond. It’s definitely dark blond. His hair color complimented his skin tone immensely. The tan skin stretching over his upper arms was a sight almost as beautiful as the natural world, before it was inhibited by mankind. The boy’s laugh was more intoxicating than the finest of wines. All of his positive attributes caused you to wonder how he hadn’t found his soulmate yet. You had spent a considerable amount of time thinking about the blond haired boy that introduced you to the vibrantly colored world. 

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Tom’s voice was smug. He was right about you and Harrison and he knew it. If you were being honest, you knew it, too. So, you decided to humor the actor.

“Please, Thomas. Who else would I be thinking about?” You made eye contact with him in the mirror as he chuckled.

“He hasn’t been able to stop talking about you, honestly. He saw the color green yesterday and he told me it reminded him of your emerald green eyes,” Tom tells you, still chuckling. You, however, did not find what Tom said laugh-worthy. Harrison had noticed your eyes. He had noticed how they looked like emeralds and something reminded him of them. Harrison hadn’t been able to stop talking about you. The joy was bubbling over in your stomach. “You need to talk to him, y/n.” 

“Tom, I-I can’t. His career is just taking off, he won’t have time for a relationship. He is very well-known. He could very well reject me,” your voice stopped, but you were still coming up with reasons as to why this couldn’t be your reality. Harrison lived in London, and you were from a small town in South Dakota. Harrison wouldn’t be interested in you. You weren’t a girl that liked the spotlight, you preferred to be behind the scenes.

When you imagined your perfect soulmate, you thought of reading books together and being comforted when a character died, baking cookies just to get into flour fights, and showering together after, cuddling up with a warm blanket and good movie during thunderstorms. You thought of all the late night activities you would be doing with him: strolling through the park, making a baby, taking care of said baby, having long talks and endless cuddles. You couldn’t see Harrison giving up his life of partying and being a celebrity to do that with anyone, least of all you. You were not deserving of Harrison Osterfield. At least, not in your eyes. 

“Darling, he won’t say no. He just doesn’t know how to go about this. Obviously, it’s new territory for him,” Tom comforted you. “I can tell your thinking of all the excuses in the book. I can see the hamster running on its little wheel inside your brain.”

The comment made you chuckle. Not only chuckle, but straight out laugh. “Thomas Holland, we are done talking about this.” you asserted with a hint of a smile on your lips.

“Sure we are,” he answered with a shrug.

“We. Are.” You enunciated as Harrison walked up to the two of you holding not one, but two coffees.

The first was still steaming as he handed it off to Tom. The second, however, was and iced caramel latte, which just happened to be your favorite. Harrison was holding the light brown coffee out to you. Remembering the brief moment when you mentioned to Tom that iced caramel lattes were your favorite, you took the coffee with a smile and tried to hide the deep blush spreading across your face. He was such a little shit sometimes, and you made a mental note to inform him of that later.

The three of you had a rather boring conversation about your weekend plans, which of course Tom initiated, before he had to leave to start filming on some of his scenes. Tom was barely ten feet away before the words left your mouth. “I can see colors now…” the words were soft and trailed off toward the end. Vulnerability dripped from the words you uttered, although they didn’t even seem like your own.

The tall boy in front of you stood, frozen in time. A minute went by that you hoped, you prayed he didn’t hear you. When a smirk appeared on the gorgeous boy’s face, you knew that he had in fact heard your words. “I saw a few lovely green leaves yesterday,” he began, his voice smooth like honey. “They reminded me of your eyes, but they weren’t quite the exact color,” he paused, his eyes gazing directly into yours. “The leaves, they were darker green, but your eyes,” he studied your eyes for a second, although it felt like an eternity, “they’re closer to emerald green. They sparkle in the light,” his words were poetic, bringing tears to your eyes. If he could speak this way only about the color of your eyes, what could he say about the rest of you: your personality, your insecurities, and your passions. Harrison said the words you were thinking, “I think you might be the one.” He tucked his bottom lip under his teeth, a sign that he was extremely nervous.

You only nodded, not being able to form a coherent sentence. He extended his hand out to you, a warm smile still spread across his face. You spoke without thinking, “You are the one.” Your voice was quiet and timid; it was much more fragile than usual. You moved to grab his hand gently, his hand holding onto yours with a firm, but tender grip.

“Do you want to take this slow or just go all in?” He asks, running his thumb over your knuckles. You knew what he meant though: do you want to keep this quiet or go public? Do you want to be confined to takeout on the couch or be scrutinized every time you go out in public with him. In reality, nobody could argue that you two were soulmates. People could doubt and speculate all they wanted to, but very few would be brave enough to call Harrison a liar. Still, you were unsure about being in the spotlight.

“Let’s just go slow for now,” you concluded.

“If we’re going to keep private, we should stop holding hands then…” his eyes met yours as you ever so slightly shook your head. His eyes lit up as whispered, “how scandalous,” in your ear.

You let a giggle slip past your lips at the words. “You think we could watch a movie tonight?” you asked, noticing the light pink flowers on his button up shirt.

“I don’t know if we’ll be able to get Tom out of the trailer for long enough, darling,” Harrison replied, moving his thumb in circles over the back of your hand.

“I think my place will work just fine,” you said with a small smirk.

Twelve exhausting hours later, Harrison was standing in your kitchen, putting a bag of popcorn in the microwave. “Come on. We have to watch the original before we watch Fallen Kingdom,” Harrison spoke, waiting for the popcorn to finish.

“But Fallen Kingdom is so much better,” you argued with a giggle and got bowls down from the cupboard.

“That isn’t a valid point, Y/n,” he laughs as the popcorn gets done. “We might just have to watch the first movie or two tonight and then finish this little date this weekend,” he offers with a smirk plastered across his face.

“Woah, slow down there, bud. I agreed to one movie tonight,” you joked.

“Are you telling me you don’t want to spend time with me?” he asked, throwing a piece of popcorn at you.

“Don’t even start with me, Harrison Osterfield. I have spent the better part of my day with you,” you answered, tossing a piece of popcorn in you mouth and walking to your living room.

Harrison followed after you and sat on your couch. “Yeah but Tom was with us, too,” he whines. “I want you all to myself.”

“Aww, poor pretty boy,” you fake pout as you sit next to him, leaving a few inches between the two of you.

Even from the corner of your eye, you couldn’t have missed the way he perked up at your words. “You called me pretty,” his voice was barely audible as he said it. “You think I’m pretty?” His eyes were focused on you instead of the screen.

Making eye contact with him, you saw how much he needed to hear this from you. Harrison was a very nice looking boy. He had thousands of girls fawning over his pictures, even though most of them could only see them in black and white. He was used to being objectified for his looks. He knew how good he looked, but he needed someone there for him. The last person he needed to objectify him was his soulmate.

“Yeah, I think you’re pretty, but I also think you’re really kind-hearted and sweet,” you answered, reaching out to hold his hand. “You think you have something to prove to me, but you don’t. You don’t need to be the smooth pretty boy that has everything figured out. Not around me, okay?” you let out softly. Harrison froze, his hand wrapped around yours. You moved closer to him, rubbing your thumb over the back of his hand.

He wrapped his arms around you, letting you rest your head on his chest. “I’m not used to being myself around people. I have a reputation.” The simple confession left a comfortable silence between you and him. His arms stayed wrapped around you throughout the movie, holding you close to him. His hands rested over yours, with his fingers drawing light patterns over your soft skin. By the end of the movie, both you and Harrison were nearly asleep, your bodies still entangled together. There was a point where your two bodies became one: you could hear his deep breathing and feel his steady heartbeat, your hands were holding onto his tightly, his warm breaths were brushing on the skin of your neck and giving you goosebumps.

“You should stay here tonight, it’s like almost midnight,” you mumbled to the sleepy boy behind you. When he didn’t respond at first, you thought he had actually fallen asleep. Not that you could hold that against him; you knew how stressful his job could be. 

When you moved to see if he was really sleeping, his arms tightened around you. “I heard you, darling. I agree with you,” his voice held obvious exhaustion as his words passed through his lips. “You can go to bed, I’ll sleep out here.”

“We’re soulmates, you aren’t sleeping on the couch,” you reply softly, playing with his long fingers. His hand was relaxed, letting you move it however you wanted to.

“I’m too tired to get up, though,” he murmured.

“Come on, my bed is really comfortable,” you answered him, starting to stand up. He only looked up at you, moving his hand out for you to pull him up. You helped him up and lead him to your room, keeping your hand locked in his. “I’m gonna grab a pair of sweats for you to change into,” you whispered, letting your hand slip from his.

“No, it’s fine, really,” he tried convincing you not to, but you were already holding the sweats out to him.

He shook his head and took the clothes from you. “You can change in the bathroom, I’ll change out here.” You nodded and walked into your en suite. After changing, you walked out to see Harrison clad in your sweatpants and his shirt.

You couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped your lips, “you can sleep shirtless, Harrison.” Your sleepy state made this situation all the more hilarious to you. Your eyes caught his dumbfounded face and you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing. “Really Harrison, you can sleep without your shirt on,” your hand was now covering your stomach, which was aching from your laughing.

He quirked an eyebrow at you as he slid his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. The beautiful expanse of skin covering his abs was enough to quiet you, immediately. “Yeah, thought that’d shut you up,” he quips, tossing his shirt somewhere on the floor. He smirked as you moved the blankets back and climbed into your bed. “Wanna cuddle?” He asked, watching as a deep blush rose to your cheeks. “You know you want to, peach. I can see it,” he chuckles, laying next you and reaching out to hold your hand. 

Your fingers wrapped around his as you sleepily mumbled, “I could go for some cud-”

You were cut off by Harrison pulling you into his bare, but warm body. His muscular arms were wrapped around you for the second time in the same night. You had never felt safer than you did in this moment. You still had your reservations, but there was no doubt that he made you feel safe. Whether you liked it or not, Harrison Osterfield was the person; he was your person. You listened to his calming heartbeat before he spoke up, “imagine going to sleep like this every night.” 

Too tired to answer fully, you answered, “keep talking, please.”

His voice was smooth as silk as he went on, “we can have kids someday, if you want them. Maybe a few dogs, too. We could get a nice house with a big backyard and take our fifteen dogs and two kids to the park for picnics.” You can hear the lazy smile through his words. You can tell how excited he is to just be talking about this with you, more so to you as the situation stands.

“Yeah, sounds really nice,” you whispered as your eyes fluttered shut. Maybe you were wrong. Perhaps the universe had not made a mistake and Harrison really would give up his glamorous life in the spotlight to have a love-filled family life. You fell asleep, for the first time in your life, in the arms of the man the universe destined you to be with. And you had to admit, it felt damn good. For now. . .

---

taglist: @stuckonspidey @mrs-hollandstan  @thollandss

[kenneth-omega]

Sink or Swim **Ben Hardy**

Prompt was from here

“I need to make my ex jealous.” Fake dating trope.

Warnings: Swearing, Ben being too cute for his own good, and also hot af, mentions of body issues.

Word count: +8.7k

A/N: I’ve had some major heart eyes for Ben since I first saw him in X-Men: Apocalypse (ooF)

□■□■□■□■□

The invite on Facebook that went around to the majority of your old classmates made you want to curse. You stared at the event on your laptop screen, sat at your dining table in your pyjamas, legs curled up as you rested your chin on your knee.

A dinner party hosted by one of the girls who you shared English with at your high school. She had been popular, naturally, and her looks hadn't faded over time, despite it being almost 12 years since you had all graduated. She'd gone on to work at a modelling agency, whereas you'd decided to work behind the scenes as a hair stylist.

However you could hardly complain about your job, as it had allowed you to work many amazing opportunities. The most recent one being on the set of Bohemian Rhapsody, the new biopic that had recently hit the cinemas.

You'd been assistant to the head stylist who was in charge of all the wigs. This meant you had fixed and removed wig after wig, morning and evening, for a few months. It had been a brilliant experience, and one that you'd not taken for granted.

It also meant you had gotten a lot of time with the actors and actresses in the film, specifically Ben, who had portrayed Roger Taylor in the film. You'd gotten on well with him, however it had never progressed into anything more, certainly not into anything romantic.

Sure, Ben was easy on the eyes, but you were professional and so was he.

You'd swapped numbers after filming wrapped, but mainly because Ben found you a real laugh to be around. You were around the same age and so it was nice to be able to talk about similar topics, such as TV shows you'd both grown up with, how your school life had been, etc.

After the filming was done, Ben had invited you out a couple of times for pizza or a drink, since you lived a half hour drive from his area, it was easy to drop by and catch up.

Looking through the invited guests of the dinner party, you read many names you recognised, and some that you didn't. Already there was 30 responses from people confirming that they were going. They looked to be mainly people who hadn't settled down, with little responsibilities such as kids or serious jobs, meaning they had little in their schedules.

You clicked the 'Interested' button, not wanting to seem rude or ignorant. But then you saw a name that caught your eye, having RSVP'd that they would be attending, and it filled you with anxiety.

It was your high school boyfriend. Or ex for that matter.

He'd dumped you before prom, telling you that he didn't want to go with a girl like you, and that he had been asked by someone far better.

Looks like they hadn't worked out either, as they weren't in each other's friend lists when you had a cheeky sneak through. A little stalking never hurt anyone.

However this new revelation made you consider changing your answer to 'Not Going'.

You really didn't want to face that ass after 12 years, with no boyfriend or much else to show for it. If you were going to be reunited with him, you wanted to be able to rub it in his face about how successful your life had become after he ditched you.

Unable to ponder on it any more, you slammed the laptop shut and ran upstairs to get dressed, checking the time on your phone. A missed call.

From Ben.

You rang him back, having him pick up after the third dial. By the sound of it, he seemed to be in a car.

"Ben?" You asked down the phone, to which he laughed.

"Why do you sound so confused?" He responded with a question of his own, obviously humoured by your quizzical tone.

"Because I don't know why you're calling me?" You suggested, opening your wardrobe and trying to pick out an outfit for the day. You hadn't got anything really planned, so it didn't need to be anything special.

A pause on his end.

"Please don't tell me you forgot our plans." He whined, a little annoyed as he huffed down the phone.

You frowned, trying to recall making any plans with him. Then it suddenly hit you like a freight train.

Swimming!

"Shit! Ben, I'm so sorry, it completely slipped my mind." You stammered, now beginning to rifle through your drawers for your swimming costumes.

That was also something you and Ben had discovered you both enjoyed whilst on the Bo Rhap set. Your love for water.

He'd suggested you both go swimming one day, and that day had finally come around. He'd asked you last week when he'd popped over for a cup of tea, although you had been a little occupied with not burning your house down whilst he spoke to you. You'd been baking, or attempting to, a cake for your mother's birthday, and had agreed to go, only half-concentrating on what he was saying.

There was a laugh on his end, and it filled you with a little bit of relief, glad to know he wasn't too annoyed.

"Well it's a good job I called you then!" He pointed out, much to your chagrin. "I'll be there in 10, okay?" And with that he hung up, leaving you the chance to run around like a headless chicken, trying to gather up a bag to take with you to the swimming centre. It was the local one near you, about five minutes away from your house, making it easy for you to walk there whenever you felt like it, as you couldn't drive.

You chucked in a clean towel, along with some underwear and a bra, and some toiletries for after you were finished. You didn't fancy reeking like chlorine around Ben, despite the fact you rather enjoyed the way the swimming pools smelled. You'd opted to put your swimming costume on under your clothes to save you time in the changing room. You'd only had two choices to decide between when it came to which swimming costume you could wear.

Either you picked a really old, grey one-piece suit that was practically threadbare, or you put on the red, polka-dot bikini that you'd bought for a weekend away with your girlfriends. You'd gone up to celebrate one of their 30th birthdays at a spa centre with a pool and jacuzzi, and so you'd treated yourself to a new costume.

Aside from that, it hadn't been worn again, and was in practically mint condition. The only downside was that it was a bikini, and you didn't really fancy showing off a load of skin around Ben. He was a good-looking bloke, and very chiselled too. You didn't want him to find your body repulsive or have someone else at the pool laugh at you and Ben and the obvious fact that you didn't really belong around him.

Perhaps you could take a t-shirt?

You chucked in an old shirt that you didn't mind getting all chlorinated, and then went to brush your teeth in the bathroom. You tied your hair back from your face, putting it onto a simple ponytail so that it wouldn't hopefully get entirely wet.

It was starting to stress you out a little, as you realised Ben would be here any second, and you felt rather crappy in regard to your appearance, knowing that it was stupid to wear makeup to a pool, but not liking the idea of going bare-faced.

But then you had no more time to think about it, as your front doorbell rang, signalling that Ben was here. Cursing under your breath as you gave yourself one last look over, you grabbed your little bag of stuff and ran downstairs. You could see his shadow through the frosted glass of the front door as you picked up your keys to let him in.

Opening the door revealed him stood with his back to you, as he looked down the street whilst he waited for you. Upon hearing the door click, he turned around and saw you standing in the doorway, which made a smile spread upon his perfectly pink lips.

His hair had been shaved at the sides and the back, the top remaining relatively long, although he'd pushed it back and fixed it with some product. He was sporting a thin, grey jumper as the air was relatively crisp still at this time of year, along with some blue jeans and basic white trainers.

"Ready?" He asked, nibbling on his bottom lip with one of his canines as you grabbed some flat shoes and pushed them on. You nodded at him, feeling a little conscious of your clothes and your bare face, stepping out the house and locking it behind you.

Ben's car was gorgeous, a beautiful matte green, similar to the colour of moss, with tinted windows and leather interior. He treasured this car like it was his baby, obviously having spent a fair bit of money on it.

He opened the passenger door for you, so you could climb in easily, having to use the little built in step to get in. It was a real beast of a car.

Once Ben had gotten in the driver's seat and gotten you both off your little street, he looked over at you, noticing the tense way you were sat and how you were nibbling on your nails.

"You alright?" He asked, trying to keep his eyes on the road but also look at you occasionally. You nodded and made a humming noise.

"Just thinking." You told him, feeling a little bad that you weren't acting your usual self today. You didn't want to ruin the mood or your day that you had planned.

Ben laughed to himself. "That can sometimes be a dangerous thing to do. Care to indulge me as to what's on your mind?" He enquired, pulling his car into the car park for the swimming pool centre. It was hardly bound to be busy on a weekday, but there were a few cars parked up. When he stopped the car you shook your head, putting on a smile.

"It's nothing Ben, really. Let's just go and enjoy ourselves." You told him, hopefully making it clear that you didn't want to speak any more on the subject. He got the hint and just nodded, getting his bag out the back of the car and following you into the building.

The faint smell of chlorine and cleaning fluid hit your nose instantly as you walked in, and you couldn't help but inhale deeply. Ben shot you a funny look, but you just giggled, feeling the heat in your cheeks inflame.

"I like the smell." You told him sheepishly, to which he couldn't help but smile, placing a hand on your back and guiding the two of you to the front desk. The receptionist seemed a little surprised to see you with someone, recognising you from the many previous visits, however none of them having a partner beside you. You wondered if she would recognise Ben, as she kept glancing back and forth between the two of you but said nothing. You paid for your time in the pool and then walked off to the changing rooms.

A little bit of dread crept up into your throat as you neared the door with the female sign on it, realising you were going to have to get undressed and meet Ben on the other side, no doubt feeling like a fool.

Ben squeezed your bicep, grabbing your attention away from the door. You turned to him and found him stood by the gent's changing room.

He shot you a playful grin raising an eyebrow, and you couldn't deny how it made your heart flutter a little.

"See you on the other side?" He asked, pushing the door open. You nodded, giving him an uneasy smile, but he didn't pick up on your slight discomfort.

He headed inside, and you dashed into the women's, finding an empty cubicle and shutting the door, locking it so no one walked in on you. Plonking your bag on the seat, not wanting to put it on the wet tiles, you slipped off your shoes, glad you didn't have socks on that would get soaked by the water that people trailed through from the pool and showers.

Inside the tiny cubicle, you managed to shimmy off your jeans and the nice shirt you had on, folding them neatly in your bag, taking out the old, scruffy one that you planned to wear over your costume.

It was such a nice bikini, you felt it was a shame to cover it up, but you kept having the same thought of how Ben would react to seeing your body that was nowhere near as perfect as his was.

With a sigh, you unlocked the cubicle and chucked your bag and shoes into a locker, taking the little key that was attached to a plastic bracelet and locking it up, tying it around your wrist. There was a floor-length mirror on the wall before you headed past the showers and towards the pool entrance. You stood in front of it, inspecting how the bikini looked, wondering if somehow it had become too tight or loose in the short drive from your house to here. It hadn't, it looked the same.

You looked down at the shirt clenched in your fists and eventually caved, throwing it on over your head.

It came down to your upper thigh, covering as much as you needed it to, much to your relief. Sighing, you walked towards the changing room exit that lead out into the pool area, ignoring the funny look that one woman gave you as you passed her in the shower area.

You dodged the cold little puddle of water that was always in public swimming pool areas, hating how you had to walk through it to go back and forth between the pool and changing rooms. Stepping out into the huge leisure room, you could see the glistening water, the orange glow from the lights bouncing off its surface. It was so calming to see, instantly putting you at some form of ease, making you momentarily forget about the intrusive worries and doubts in your head.

That is, until you heard your name being called from your right and you looked to see Ben walked towards you. It was painfully unfair to see how brilliant he looked in his swimming shorts, his toned and very muscular torso on display for everyone to see. You could see the muscles under the skin shift as he got closer to you, the way they tensed when he ran his hand through his hair.

You knew then that it had been a good idea to put the t-shirt on, knowing that you would look ridiculous stood next to him.

"Hey! You look a little lost, is everything alright? What's with the t-shirt?" Ben asked when he finally had gotten to your side, giving you the once over as he spotted the t-shirt you donned over your costume. You shifted from foot to foot, toying with the hem of the shirt as you tried to find a better excuse than simply the fact that you felt rather crappy compared to him. You knew that people were looking at him, more specifically the women that were in the pool. Even the young lifeguard that sat up on her tall chair couldn't help but give him a very satisfied look down. Ben seemed oblivious to it all.

"Just, feel a little bloated?" You guessed, not entirely convincing him. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing more.

"No worries. Well, let's get in then!" He pushed you playfully, teasing at throwing you in the pool, making you squeal.

"Ben!" You snapped, although you had a huge grin on your face. He backed away before you could grab at him, diving in head fist, with the grace of an Olympic athlete. You watched him disappear under the surface, before popping back up with a splash, flicking his head to shake the wet hair out of his eyes. Rubbing it with his hand caused it to stick out at weird angles, and you couldn't help but laugh at how funny he looked.

"Coming in?" He asked, swimming back towards the edge of the pool. You nodded, sitting down onto the cold tiles and slipping your legs into the water first, opting to sit on the edge for a little bit first.

Ben swam up to your side, resting his arms on the side so he could tread water easily.

"So, why the t-shirt? And be honest with me this time." Ben asked you, his face deadly serious, catching you a little off guard. So he hadn't believed your poorly put together lie. You felt your face go extremely hot at having been caught out.

"It's just..." You trailed off, hating the fact that you were going to have to tell him the truth. You didn't want to sound like an ass.

Ben waited patiently, careful to not pressure you into speaking. He rest his chin on his hands, continuing to tread the water as he watched you fumble over your words.

"It's you, Ben." You admitted, wincing at the way his eyebrows furrowed together.

"Me?" He responded, and you quickly tried to explain.

"NO, well yes. It's complicated." You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as you tried to keep back the tears. Ben stayed silent. "You're hot..." You began, earning a laugh from him.

"Thanks love." He replied with a shit-eating grin. You swatted his arm.

"Shush, I wasn't done." You chided him, only he simply waggled his eyebrows, biting his bottom lip. You tried to ignore how that little action made you feel. "Well, as I said, you're hot..and I'm, well I'm not, basically." You explained to him, hoping he would understand what you were trying to say.

Ben silently pulled himself out of the water, his bicep muscles tensing and flexing as he did so, so that he was sat next to you, your shoulders bumping slightly. You kept your eyes focused on the shimmering surface of the pool. It was too much of a distraction having Ben sat next to you with beads of water sliding down over his abs and dripping off the ends of his hair.

"You know that is a load of shit, right?" He laughed, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you closer to him, his hand resting on your waist. "Listen to me, you're beautiful. Now I don't say that often, except as a joke occasionally on one of Joe's Instagram posts."

You couldn't help but laugh, having seen said Instagram comments for yourself.

"But on a serious note, you do not have to feel like you're worth any less because you're with me. I hate that you feel so insecure around me, because I always want you to be comfortable." Ben confessed, tugging on your ponytail jokingly so that you'd turn to look at him.

"It's just so difficult." You sighed, wrapping the t-shirt fabric around your finger.

Ben nodded. "You can keep the t-shirt on if you like, that's entirely your choice. But I just want you to know that I think everything about you is perfect. You're very hot, if you don't mind me saying." Ben nudged you at that last part, making a giggle erupt from your lips. It was a sound that Ben loved to hear and was glad that he was the one who could make it happen.

You began to pull your legs out of the water, and Ben frowned up at you as you got to your feet.

"I'll be right back." You mumbled, turning on your heel and going back into the changing rooms, forgetting about the cold puddle and stepping through it with a shiver and a grumble.

You stood outside the locker that was yours and opened it. With a long, slow exhale, you tugged the t-shirt up over your head, screwing it up and locking the door in a hurry, not wanting to change your mind if you lingered for too long.

Tugging at the bra part of the bikini, you repositioned it, hoping that it covered your breasts up well. You really didn't want a slip up to happen in front of Ben.

Perhaps you should have just wore the old swimsuit, you thought.

It was far too late now though, and you tried not to look in the mirror as you walked past it, failing miserably.

Ben's words echoed around your head as you tried not to look at all the imperfections you saw instantaneously.

I think everything about you is perfect.

You managed to pull your gaze away from the mirror and head back to the pool, forcing your arms to remain at their sides and not wrap around your midriff like you so wanted to do. You dodged the puddle and poked your head out to look around the big pool room. Ben was floating in the pool, not paying any attention to anyone as he gently floated on his back. Grumbling, you forced your feet to walk, one in front of the other, so that you were now well and truly exposed.

Nowhere to hide now.

"Fuck it." You whispered to yourself as you stepped up to the side of the pool.

It was at this same moment that Ben happened to look over, obviously wondering where you had gotten to, and spotted you stood on the edge with your hands balled into fists. You couldn't help but groan, as you'd been hoping you would be able to get in the pool without him seeing.

The smile however, that graced Ben's lips was one of pure happiness and...admiration?

He swum over to you until he was a metre from the edge, looking up at you.

"You took it off." He pointed out, his voice soft. It made your heart melt a little.

"Yeah." You admitted sheepishly, clearing your throat as you felt yourself grow more awkward by the second.

Ben quickly looked you up and down, but it didn't go unnoticed by you.

"You're even more beautiful than I first thought." Ben told you, making a warm heat pool in your stomach that spread all the way up to your cheeks.

"Thanks, Ben." You replied, sitting down and quickly lowering yourself into the pool, wanting to at least cover yourself up partially, plus it was getting rather chilly just standing on the edge like a lemon. The water was relatively warm, and it felt so natural to slip into it, you couldn't help but smile as you felt the warmth wrap around your body, in between your fingers and toes. Ben pushed away, and you swum after him, heading towards the shallower part of the pool.

It was here that you could eventually stand up, the water just reaching your collarbones whilst it only just made it up to Ben's pectorals.

"Feeling okay?" Ben asked you, moving his hands in the water, feeling the way it swirled around him, creating little currents. You nodded, bouncing on your tiptoes.

Ben stepped a little closer to you, and your heartbeat went a little funny when he nibbled on his lower lip, now flushing a deep red colour by how often he seemed to bite on it. You wondered if it was a habit or something to do with nerves, although you couldn't fathom why he'd be nervous around you.

"Is that everything you had on your mind?" He asked you, a drop of water slipping down his cheek and eventually dripping off his jawline. It was a pretty sharp jawline.

You shrugged. "There was this other thing, a dinner party, but it's alright, I've decided not to go." You told him nonchalantly. Ben pulled a face, his bottom lip sticking out a little in a pout.

"Why not?" He asked, splashing you playfully with a little water. You giggled, splashing him back, the water simply hitting his chest and running over his rock-hard muscles. You swore mentally at yourself to stop looking at his body.

"Because it's a high school reunion, hosted by a really popular girl who's now a model, and my ex who dumped me before prom has RSVP'd that he's going. I don't fancy turning up single and having to deal with him the entire night." You grimaced. Ben nodded, understanding your reasoning for not wanting to go.

"Just get a date for the evening." He told you, splashing a little harder, a few droplets of water hitting your cheek. You shook your head, partially due to the fact that Ben was going to get drowned if he kept pushing his luck.

"It's too short notice." You sighed, chucking a rather large amount of water at him. Ben wiped the water off his face with a grin.

"I'll go with you then." He offered, slapping his hand on the surface of the water, creating a huge spray of water that drenched your face and your hair. You gasped in shock, jumping on Ben and trying to push him under the water, but with little luck as he was far stronger than you and had anticipated your move.

His strong hands gripped onto your hips, holding you still as you burst into a fit of giggles at your pathetic attempt of shoving his head underwater. You didn't even register how close you now had gotten to Ben, hands resting on his shoulders as his toned abs were pressed against your stomach. The heat that radiated off the two of you as you stayed pressed together was intense, Ben's eyes flicking down to your lips on more than one occasion.

"So?" Ben practically whispered, unable to stop himself from letting his hand slip a little higher up to rest on your waist. The sensation of his hand on your bare skin made you shiver. But you remembered he had asked you a question, so you tried to remain focused on the conversation rather than how you enjoyed his hands on your body.

"Erm...So what?" You asked, having a momentary lapse of memory loss.

Ben chuckled, with you being able to feel the rumble of his chest under your hands. "Want me to go to this dinner party with you? I'll pose as your boyfriend or something, and make your ex see what he missed out on." Ben offered, explaining the little plan he had concocted. Your eyes widened in surprise.

"You mean, be my...fake boyfriend?" You laughed, unable to believe what you had just heard.

"Well, I never said fake, but sure." Ben joked, but you didn't miss his quick glance at your lips again.

Could Ben be interested in you?

You shook off the thought quickly, scolding yourself for how ridiculous you sounded.

But still, the offer of having Ben as your boyfriend was inviting, even if it was just for one night. Plus, you could rub it in your ex's face.

How wonderful that sounded.

With a mischievous smile, you agreed to Ben's plan.

□■□■□■□■□

It was two days after your trip to the swimming pool with Ben, and you were finishing up your makeup in the bathroom mirror, knowing Ben was coming to pick you up in the next few minutes. You hadn't forgotten about this night however, but you had been a little late in getting ready, as you had been on the phone to your mother about the dinner party.

When she'd asked if you were going alone, you had mentioned Ben, but stated firmly that it was simply as friends. Your mother hadn't sounded very convinced.

Now the evening was upon you, you had butterflies in your stomach. It was silly, but it almost felt like a date to you, even though you had told yourself countless times today that it wasn't, if anything it was an operation.

Operation: Jealous Asshole Ex.

You'd put a lot of effort into your appearance tonight as well, but you didn't know if it was because you were doing it to pile on the jealousy, or if it was because you were going to be with Ben.

Either way, you scrubbed up pretty well.

It was a black dress that your mother had bought for you. You'd had a bonding day together and went to a huge shopping centre where you'd had lunch and treated yourselves. You'd been rather resistant to let your mum get you something, especially a dress that you'd had no idea when you would ever wear. But now you were grateful.

The dress zipped up your back to your shoulder blades and had a halter neck front but with a cut out that showed off a little bit of cleavage. It had built in breast support and boy; did it support alright. You'd never known your boobs to look so bouncy and voluptuous.

It was pretty modest in length as it came down to the top of your knee, but it was devilishly tight, hugging every single part of your body, hiding nothing. Had it not been so figure-hugging you would have considered wearing something over the top, but due to its tight form, it seemed to make everything look slimmer and curvy.

Whilst you detested heels, you had nothing flat to wear that matched, so you begrudgingly borrowed a pair of black stilettos from one of your friends. You'd curled your hair instead of tying it up and let it hang loose, framing your now dolled-up face.

You liked this style. It made you look confident and sexy.

Something you often struggled to feel.

The doorbell rang downstairs and your heart began to thump heavily in your chest.

Ben was here.

You grabbed your phone and carefully got down the stairs without any injuries. You were certain that you'd trip and twist your ankle by the end of the night.

There was no hesitation this time as you opened your door, eager to find out what Ben would think of how you looked.

You didn't have to wait long to find out, as his mouth physically dropped open when he laid his eyes on you. But you were no better as you gaped at how handsome he looked.

He was sporting a black blazer with shiny black lapels, alongside some tight black dress trousers. What made your jaw drop was the shirt. You recognised it as one he'd worn at a premiere for Bohemian Rhapsody, having seen photos online, but in person you couldn't stop staring. It was made of a mesh kind of material, slightly opaque, just enough to be able to see how defined and toned he was under his clothes.

"Ben.." You trailed off. You couldn't deny how good he looked, and it was impossible for you to tear your eyes away from him.

Ben was quick to speak up in your silence.

"You look stunning. Absolutely gorgeous." He complimented you, extending a hand out to you. You took it without hesitation as he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. You could smell the cologne he'd put on, the intoxicating scent drawing you in closer. He was so magnetic to you, attracting you like a moth to a flame.

"And you don't look half bad yourself." You joked when he pulled back from you. Ben rolled his eyes and shrugged.

"What, this old thing?" He waved it off, feigning disinterest. You bit your lower lip just at the sight of him laughing, looking so ravishing in his suit. His hair was slicked to one side, with a couple of blond strands falling over his forehead.

"I don't doubt that tonight will be a success with you looking like that." You told him, as you headed towards his car. He opened the door, just like he had done a couple of days ago, only he stayed and helped you into the car, keeping a hand firmly on your back for support. When you were in, he gave you one last smile before shutting the door and returning to the driver's side.

He was treating you so nicely, it made your heart swell.

This felt a lot like a date to you.

But you knew that it wasn't really. So you pushed the thought out of your mind and waited patiently for him to begin to drive to the dinner party. But before he did, Ben remembered something and slipped his hand inside his blazer. You watched quizzically, wondering whether he'd forgotten something, until he pulled out a singular, red rose.

It wasn't real, and Ben explained it was to make sure that you never had to get rid of it, that it would be forever permanent. You just about fainted at his sweet gesture, fingers trembling slightly as you took the rose from him, stroking the petals that were made of velvet.

"You're such a charmer." You giggled, leaning over and kissing his cheek quickly, pulling back before he could react. Although it was dark as he drove you both towards the party, you could swear that in the glow of the street lights, his cheeks had gone a faint red.

Had you made him all flustered?

It humoured you to think so, but how likely was it to be that you'd managed to make him blush?

You didn't think about it anymore as you sat in silence for the rest of the journey, albeit a comfortable silence.

It wasn't until you arrived at the house that you started to feel some jitters. There were cars parked along the street, lots of guests having already arrived. You dreaded to think how many you would remember, and how many might remember you. But you were only here for one thing, and you intended to carry out the plan you and Ben had devised.

Once Ben had parked up, you both hopped out and crossed the road towards the house. Although it was more of an estate really.

"Jesus, this place isn't half posh." Ben muttered under his breath, shoving his hands in his pockets as you both walked down the fully-packed driveway. You hummed in agreement, but in reality you were trying to calm the nerves coursing through you, straightening your dress and fixing your hair.

You'd like to think you'd changed considerably since high school, but who knew?

Ben noticed your nerves and brought one of his hands out of his pocket to grab yours. You startled at the sudden contact and the unusual action, something that neither of you had done before.

"What are you-"

"Come on." Ben interrupted, throwing you a playful wink as he noticed your confusion. He pulled you along towards the front door. He was the one to push the doorbell button, hearing the little chime from inside. The entire door was made of frosted glass, so you could see a dark shape getting closer as the person on the other side approached.

Gripping Ben's hand a little tighter, you let out a deep breath before the door was opened.

And there she was.

Amelia Hargreeves.

The host of the evening, who hadn't seemed to of changed a bit, save for her chest being a lot bigger than it was, and her curves having gotten even more curvier than when she was 16. Although she had dark brunette hair, it was a little lighter at the tips, hinting that she'd gotten a balayage recently. The dress she wore was beautiful, obviously made specifically for her by some clothing brand.

But she wore a smile as she greeted you and Ben. You noticed the big engagement ring on her left hand and sighed a little, glad that you wouldn't have to worry about her possibly trying to get on with Ben. Not that it should really matter to you.

"Oh my god, hi!" She pulled you in, giving you an air kiss on either side of your cheeks, before doing the same with Ben. "I'm so glad you made it, please come in. Geoffrey and I were just talking about you!" Amelia ushered you both inside.

You put on a big smile, perhaps a little too forced, but still believable. "I hope we aren't late." You replied, stepping into the spacious, open hallway. You could hear soft music and chatter down the hall, knowing that everyone must be through there.

Amelia shut the door, beaming at the two of you. "Not at all! Please, come through and meet everyone else. God, you look so beautiful tonight, I love the dress." Amelia lead you down the hall, passing numerous pieces of art, pictures and decor.

You couldn't help but feel a little sense of pride in yourself. Amelia, whilst she had never been cruel to you in school, hadn't exactly been the best person ever, often a little self-centred and egotistical. But she was being especially nice to you tonight, and you had to wonder if perhaps she'd changed her tune.

"Thank you, and I love yours as well." You complimented her back, to which she laughed, a little, tinkling laugh.

"Thanks, it's Louis Vuitton." She giggled.

You had to refrain from rolling your eyes just a little.

She looked over her shoulder at Ben, giving him a warm smile.

"You're an unfamiliar face though, how do you two know each other?" She asked, looking back and forth between you both, waiting for one of you to answer. You clammed up, hoping Ben would take the lead in spinning this web of lies.

"We met on set actually, we're currently seeing each other." Ben smiled proudly, to which Amelia cooed.

"How sweet! Geoffrey and I met in Milan, I was over there, and he was doing a shoot with me in it. We're engaged." She waggled her hand, as if we hadn't seen the boulder of a stone on her finger.

Ben smiled. "That's lovely."

He was far better at this small talk business than you were, and for that you were so grateful.

The chatter of voices had gotten louder now as you reached the big open space, a giant living room with ceiling-to-floor windows overlooking the garden. The ceiling was tall and had a large, modern-looking chandelier in the middle, casting a golden light over the entire room. People were sat around, and many were stood in little groups, all talking amongst themselves. Some were in deep conversation, whilst others were laughing at whatever one person had said. It was a calm and relaxed atmosphere.

A few pairs of eyes spotted you instantly, and many people turned to the sound of heels clicking on the wooden floor. Ben let go of your hand, much to your distress, until he slipped his arm around your waist, pulling you a little closer into him. You were grateful for the support.

Amelia introduced the two of you, which had your face turning a deep red as many watched on, Ben smiling at anyone who happened to be looking your way. When Amelia had moved on, a couple of people came up to you instantly. You recognised them both.

Keerah and Jonathan. Both of them had been in your maths class.

Keerah's thick, black hair was tied in a braid that trailed down the length of her back, with little beads and rings woven in, and she wore a deep blue gown with a white sash around the middle. Jonathan's curly red hair was now cut short, so that the curls stayed close to his head instead of the wild mop he had sported in high school. He was wearing a white, short-sleeved shirt and skinny black tie. He'd actually been rather nice in school, often mucking around in class to entertain the students, much to the teacher's chagrin.

"I thought that was you!" Keerah laughed, giving you a quick hug and shaking Ben's hand. "You barely look like yourself anymore! Wow, 12 years makes a difference, huh?"

She was sweet to you and Ben, and Jonathan piped up, a bottle of beer in his hand.

"You haven't got drinks? Come on, let's get you something." He led the two of you over to the built-in bar at one side of the room. There was even a man in uniform stood behind it, waiting to serve whoever came up. You ordered a glass of white wine, but only a small, whereas Ben went with a bottle of beer, the same as Jonathan.

"I thought you were driving?" You asked Ben, brows knitting together as he took a swig from the bottle. He gives you a smile.

"I'll just have one, and if I end up having more we can get a taxi. Don't worry, baby." He smirked. You almost keeled over at the little nickname he had decided on adopting for you. You hadn't expected any names to be brought into play, but you sure as hell weren't complaining. You just took a sip of your wine, listening as Jonathan asked Ben about what he did for a job.

Ben wound an arm around you, pulling you into his side.

"I'm an actor, I just starred in a film that came out in the back end of last year." Ben sipped his bottle, watching Jonathan's eyes grow wide.

"Blimey mate, what was it?" Jonathan asked, fully interested.

"Bohemian Rhapsody."

Keerah gasped. "Oh shit, you're the drummer!" She laughed, covering her mouth. Ben nodded, to which Jonathan shakes his hand.

"Bloody hell, good on you mate." He replied, still in awe. Keerah tapped your shoulder, drawing your attention away from Ben, who you had been watching, no doubt with a stupid smile on your face.

"Did you know Jacob was coming?" She asked. You grimaced at the name, recognising it all too well. Ben's ears must have pricked up as his head also turns to look at Keerah.

"Jacob?" Ben echoes, to which Keerah laughs nervously.

"Sorry, didn't mean to bring up your old flame, but I remember how it ended with you two and I didn't want you to get a nasty surprise if you saw him." Keerah apologised to you and Ben, but you waved it off with a laugh.

"Don't apologise, it was 12 years ago. How petty would I be to still hold a grudge against the bloke?" You joked, earning laughs from Jonathan and Keerah, even a chuckle from Ben, but that was more because of the fact that he knew the reason why you were both here.

Jonathan took a long gulp from his bottle before spotting something out the corner of his eye.

"Well shit, it's a good job you don't have a grudge, because he's coming over now." Jonathan put a hand on Keerah's elbow, mentioning that perhaps they should give you and Jacob some space. Keerah agreed and they left, promising to speak to you and Ben later.

You turned to Ben, panic set in your eyes as you stared into his perfectly calm ones. He noticed your worry and set his drink down on the bar, placing both his hands on your shoulders.

"You feeling okay?" He asked, worry laced into his words. You couldn't help but feel a little happy at how he fretted over you and the genuine concern he seemed to show.

"Yeah, with you here I'll be fine." You assured him, placing a hand on the lapel of his jacket. Ben pressed his hand over yours, curling his fingers around yours and bringing your hand to his lips, kissing it softly as he continued to look at you. You could feel him smiling against your skin, and the simple gesture had your head reeling, wishing he would stop being so charming. But that was his whole point of being here tonight.

There was a gentle pressure on your back, the cold hand against your bare skin making your blood freeze. The sound of your name on his tongue made you want to turn around and punch him in the face. Ben lowered your hand, but kept a firm grip on it, his eyes instantly going from twinkling to dark and threatening as he looks behind you.

Turning around, you were met with the very man you had come to see tonight, but now wished you were a million miles away from. Jacob.

His brunette hair was still wavy and long, the ends brushing the collar of his black shirt that was unbuttoned at the top. He wore no tie, but instead he donned a smooth, arrogant smirk on his lips. He no doubt still thought he was the shit, as it was blatantly obvious by the way he looked past you at Ben, raising a single eyebrow silently.

You could feel Ben tense behind you, and you wondered if he might actually punch Jacob.

Part of you secretly prayed for it.

Jacob was the first to speak. "Well, I'll have to admit I didn't expect you to be looking so foxy tonight, so colour me impressed." He joked, sticking his hands in his pocket and letting his head fall slightly to one side, letting his gaze travel up and down your body at an excruciatingly slow pace.

Ben cleared his throat, causing Jacob's eyes to snap back up and look at the intimidating blond behind you.

"Hello mate, loved the film." Jacob stuck his hand out for Ben to shake, which he did. Very firmly.

Jacob couldn't completely hide the wince as Ben squeezed his hand to death. You had to admit it was a little hot seeing Ben so worked up, using his body to appear more intimidating to Jacob.

"Thanks, bud." Ben replied with a smile, although his eyes remained cold.

Jacob shifted his gaze back to you, giving you a lazy smile. "So, how have you been?"

You braved a smile as you spoke to him, remaining civil but uninterested. "Good, made some good friends and worked on some big films, such as the one I met Ben on." You leaned into Ben, feeling his hands go to your waist and pull you against his chest. Jacob nodded.

"Yes, you seem very happy together. How long have you been dating?" He asked, the tone in his voice dripping with sarcasm. You felt the itching urge in your hand to slap him cross the face. Ben hummed, turning you to face him and leaning down to look at you, his face inches away from yours.

"It's been a few months hasn't it, baby?" He asked, one hand slipping up your back to rest at the nape of your neck. Ben looks at you through heavy, almost lust-filled eyes, that bottom lip being caught in between his teeth as he gazed down at you. You knew it was just an act, but you liked having this opportunity to have fun. So you slipped your hands up to link around his neck, pulling him a little further in, giving him an award-winning smile of your own.

Ben showed no surprise at your sudden change in mood, instead he seemed to lap it up.

"That sounds about right..." You purred. "Baby."

The name he had now affectionately called you twice came as shock to him when it came from your mouth. Ben knew he shouldn't be finding it hot, the way you spoke to him and how you looked at him. But he had initially been acting at the start of the night, only now it didn't seem like it was pretend anymore.

He'd never seen you like this before, and he couldn't help but wonder if you were actually flirting with him out of your own interest.

Remembering that Jacob, the self-righteous asshole, was still stood in front of them, Ben devised a smart, little plan to get them away from him. And to also make Jacob regret ever deciding to dump you, and to even think he could try to speak to you again.

Leaning down to your ear, he whispered, "Follow me."

You looked over at Jacob who was stood there, looking rather irritated at how little you seemed to care about this presence, before looking back at Ben. Nodding your head, Ben turned to Jacob with a shit-eating grin.

"Excuse us, we have some business to take care of."

The numerous suggestions that statement left hanging in the air made you want to blush, and Jacob seemed unable to hide his scowl at the two of you as Ben pushed you away from the bloke. You daren't look over your shoulder, but out the corner of your eye you saw Ben wink at Jacob from over his shoulder, before walking alongside you.

The two of you were walking back towards the hallway that you'd arrived from, the slightly darker corridor leading away from the room. You weren't out of the room just yet, but that must have been Ben's plan, as he stopped you just before the corner where you two would vanish out of Jacob's sight.

"Sorry about this." Ben muttered to you, and before you could ask what he meant, he pulled you in and smashed his lips to yours in a hungry kiss. You couldn't help the moan that escaped you as he slipped a hand to the back of your head, running his fingers through your hair and pulling slightly, the other one trailing down to playfully grab a handful of your ass.

Although you were supposed to just be acting, you knew that everything you did in retaliation to Ben was 100% of your own accord and your own attraction to the man that was currently making out with you. He pulled away, bringing your lips apart for just a few seconds so he could whisper to you.

"Walk back a little." He commanded you, before bringing his lips back to yours and slowly pushing you backwards. You did as he asked, making little steps back until you felt the cold plaster of the wall behind you, meaning that you were pinned against Ben.

With his body pressed against yours, you couldn't help but get a little more desperate in your kissing. You parted your lips a little and Ben knew instantly what you wanted, his tongue slipping into your mouth as you deepened the kiss.

"Ben-" You gasped, as his kisses began to trail down from your mouth, travelling along your jawline and down your neck. He hummed in response but didn't stop. You moaned, but then quickly bit down on your lip to stifle it, not wanting anyone to come along and find you both.

"Ben...Baby, please." You whined, accidentally letting the nickname slip from your mouth. He stopped the kisses on your neck, bringing his face up to look at you again. His lips were slightly swollen and red, and was a little laboured in his breathing, but you found it all extremely hot.

"Baby?" He teased. You fidgeted, looking away from him in embarrassment.

"Sorry, it just slipped." You mumbled. Ben rolled his eyes, hooking a finger under your chin and bringing your face up so that you would look at him.

"Yes, and that intense make out session we just had was definitely me just acting." He told you, the sarcasm dripping off his tongue as he looked back and forth from your eyes to your lips that were no doubt swollen like his.

"When did you stop acting?" You asked, biting your lower lip as you toyed with the lapels of his jacket. Ben laughed quietly.

"When I picked you up to go swimming, two days ago."

You blink in surprise, casting your mind back to the day in question. Those kind things he said, the way he admired you and seemed so pleased when you joined him in the pool. When he had offered to be your boyfriend.

"At least we don't have to lie to these people anymore." You giggled, leaning forward and standing up onto your tiptoes to kiss him gently on his soft, pink lips. Ben didn't back away from the kiss when you did, instead leaning in again to stop your lips from breaking contact.

After one more long and passionate kiss, he finally reigned it in enough to pull away. He held out his hand for you, visibly happy when you took it without hesitation, before you began to walk back into the party together.

"Let's knock 'em dead, baby."

[damienthepious]

Co-stars AU Megamind - Roxanne

caveat that i know very little about the actual practicalities of how making movies actually works with a real budget and shit, or how acting contracts/agents/etc work. but i liked how this turned out regardless, and it actually felt long enough for a title. bless

Typecast

There wasn’t any netting or padding below Roxanne, which was kind of terrifying considering that the outfit the costume department had dressed her in allowed exactly zero room for a harness underneath the fabric. She was pressed back against the window of a fake high-rise, the ledge beneath her heels slightly wider than it appeared from the angle of the camera. Theoretically, all she had to do was stand and press herself against the glass and call for help. It wasn’t the best role, obviously, but at least some of the other scenes gave her a bit of interesting dialogue, and if she could just nail this, then maybe- maybe the next role-

Her heel wobbled and she jerked back in alarm, and the director swore and called cut. Roxanne let her shoulders sag. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just starting to get a little- slippery up here,” she said, hoping the laugh that came with the words didn’t sound too forced.

“It’s whatever,” the director said, which was discouraging. “Reset, reset all of it and we’ll go from the start again. Just- try to angle yourself more, yeah Roxie? We gotta see your face and if the wind is blowing the hair-”

“Can’t you move the fans?” Roxanne tried again. “If you want me to be looking at where-”

“I think I know what I’m doing, Roxie.”

Roxanne smiled with bright fury, an automatic response at this point. “Of course.”

Another take, the ‘wind’ buffeting her against the glass as she tried to make whining ‘oh please won’t someone help me’ sound in any way natural while also trying not to actually plummet down to the concrete ground beneath her, and when Stewart called cut she closed her eyes for a moment and hoped that her performance had been good enough to make this bullshit stop for like, twenty goddamn minutes, at least-

“Reset! Another one, go again, come on I don’t wanna waste any more time.”

“What was wrong with that one?” Roxanne called out, trying to sound enthusiastic. “What can I do better?”

“Y’gotta stop making that face, Roxie,” he called out, and Roxanne was desperately glad that she couldn’t see his goddamn face behind all the lights aimed at her. 

“Face?” She chimed lightly.

“All scrunched up and like, tense and shit.”

“…. you want me to look less worried?”

“More worried! More worried but keep your face smooth!”

“So I have to… look scared, but not frown at all?” Roxanne asked in a voice of spiderweb-thin ice. 

“Yeah! Exactly! Let’s go again-”

“What in the… that looks extraordinarily unsafe.” 

The voice was new in the room, but Roxanne recognized it even though she couldn’t see the source through all of the lights. Megamind, the troublemaking former rock-star gone actor. He had to be here to film his cameo, for that scene near the end-

“Cut,” Stewart snarled, and then Roxanne heard the exact moment he realized who had interrupted him. “Oh- hey, dude, you’re kinda early-”

“Where is the harness?" Megamind failed utterly to acknowledge what the director was actually saying, and he strode directly onto the set beneath her, his sharp green eyes narrowing up at her and oh shit, he looked genuinely furious. Handsome as hell, too, but dangerously angry. Maybe his reputation was actually true, then. Maybe the reason he was typecast exclusively as villains was actually his attitude and not his appearance- maybe he actually was a terror on set, despite his sheer talent. “Are you comfortable up there?”

Or- maybe not?

“What?” she called down on autopilot, though she had heard him well enough.

He scowled, then snapped his head to look at someone to the side of the set. “Turn that wind machine off immediately, thank you.” His tone brooked no argument and the wind cut off as immediately as desired, though Stewart yelped a protest in the background. “I said, are you actually comfortable up there, Miss Ritchi? Those heels don’t quite look compatible with that ledge.”

Roxanne laughed weakly. “I- uh, I mean-” Megamind was still staring up at her, but she was more conscious of other eyes on her right now, the crew and the director in particular, waiting to see what she said.

“You don’t look comfortable,” he prodded.

“She’s not supposed to look comfortable,” Stewart called from out of sight. “She’s supposed to be in distress!”

“Her character is,” Megamind corrected.

“I wanted the reactions to be authentic, dude, don’t you get method? C’mon-”

“So you’re saying that you don’t trust her acting ability enough to successfully emulate the role you hired her for without actively putting her in danger?”

There was a beat of silence, and Roxanne felt a pulse of yes, thank you, god, but it was superseded by the absolute certainty that she was about to lose this job.

“Stop. You’re going to get me in trouble,” Roxanne hissed down at him between her teeth. “He’ll say I’m ‘difficult to work with’ and I’ll never get a role this big again, don’t screw this up for me-”

“You’ll get even less roles if you let him break your neck for his perfect shot,” Megamind retorted, full volume as the director sputtered behind him. “Come down and I’ll put you on the phone with my lawyer, and you can discuss exactly how many ways this mediocre auteur has abused your safety on this set.”

Roxanne hesitated for a long moment, then nodded. “I- uh, don’t actually know how I was supposed to get down from here, to be honest.”

Megamind looked, if anything, even angrier as he turned and snapped at a couple of crew members to grab a ladder already, and soon Roxanne on her way back to ground level, Megamind lifting a hand to her to help her wobble the last few rungs down the ladder. Stewart was still swearing and apparently hitting his chair in the background, though he seemed too terrified to come within ten feet of Megamind. Roxanne was substantially less intimidated.

“Not that I don’t appreciate being spoken up for, but you do realize that it isn’t easy to get a role like this, right? I can’t be picky when I’m trying to establish-”

Megamind instantly raised his hands in surrender as they started walking together away from the high-rise set. “I know- I know, I’m terribly sorry, Miss Ritchi. I tend to let my mouth run away with me when idiots like that Schteward think they can bully a better performance out of someone.”

“You- I assumed you agreed to cameo on this project because you liked the director,” Roxanne said with a raised eyebrow. “I figured it couldn’t be because of Wayne. Everybody knows you two don’t get along anymore.”

“Because I liked- oh goodness no,” Megamind sneered, dramatically flicking his wrist in front of him as if shooing a fly. “That was just an unfortunate cost if I wanted to get the chance to- er, that is-”

Roxanne tilted her head, trying to make sure that she wasn’t imagining the splash of pink flooding into his cheeks.

“It doesn’t matter anyway. Obviously I’ll be dropping out. He won’t want me on set anymore, no matter how much notoriety I would draw for him. I directly challenged him in the middle of filming. Someone with his ego won’t let that go lightly. And-” he sighed and shot her a guilty sideways glance, “likely he will lump you right in with me. Sorry about that. If you’d like, you can go back and loudly denounce me after we tighten up your contract and get you a better agent, if you want to finish this one up before your next role.”

Roxanne blinked. “You think I would just- go back and lie?”

He shrugged. “It’s your career, Miss Ritchi. I certainly wouldn’t blame you. I already have a reputation, and it wouldn’t hurt me any further for you to confirm it. I’m still going to get the roles I want regardless, so it makes perfect sense for you to distance yourself from me, since you don’t have that safety net yet.”

“That- that isn’t fair,” Roxanne said, brow furrowing. “Have people done that to you before? That’s horrible.”

He grinned a sharp little grin and shrugged. “Show business, Miss Ritchi. You’re just as familiar with it as I am.”

“No. That’s bullshit. I won’t throw you under the bus like that.”

The grin faded a little, surprise edging in at the corners of his expression. “That- well, that’s up to you, of course. But- you really shouldn’t risk your job for me any more than you already have.”

“It’s not for you, it’s just the right thing to do.” She stopped for a moment to kick her ridiculous heels off, opting to carry them instead. ”This was a shitty role anyway.”

“Well.” He laughed lightly. “I hope, then, that you’ll at least let me get you in touch with some other projects that will be casting, soon-”

“I appreciate the thought but I don’t need charity roles, Megamind.”

“Charity? No, I-” he flushed again, then bit his lip hard before he continued. “I’ve- I’ve seen your work before, Miss Ritchi, and I think you’ve been wildly, atrociously overlooked. You have this inherent charm and- and you always bring such nuance to roles that otherwise would have just been- and you do anger in this really fascinating way and-” he laughed, a nervous sound that he seemed to be using to make himself stop his jolting stream of words. “The only reason I even agreed to this idiotic villain cameo was because I thought- if Roxanne Ritchi is involved it might be worth- rather, if she’s attached, maybe this Schteward fellow isn’t as bad as they say he is. I was wrong about that part, but- well, you deserve to- you deserve a chance to- to work with people who will actually appreciate you. Is all.”

Roxanne stared at him as the words dried up, at the discomfort in his expression started to verge on panic, and thought, only an absolute asshole would think this guy is a problem to work with. And then, he’s actually even prettier in person than on screen, which should be both impossible and illegal. And after that, I did not imagine him blush three entire times while he talked about me. 

“Okay. We’ll call your lawyer,” she said, “and work out whatever- business we need to, and you can give me contact info for some casting directors if you really think I have a shot. And then I’d like your number, if you’d be willing to give it.”

Megamind made a wordless noise, then shook his head. “Of- of course, I mean, you would want to get in contact with me for reference, of course-”

“Not for reference.” Roxanne stopped, turning to face him properly with a smile tugging at her lips. “I’d like to take you out for coffee, sometime.” She paused while he stared. “Unless you wouldn’t like that. I imagine that you’re probably pretty busy-”

“No I would love to- I mean, of course I would like- coffee, with you, obviously I would like-” he clamped a hand over his mouth and then gave that nervous, awkward, charming laugh again. “Like- but, of course you don’t mean- like a date, Miss Ritchi?”

“Like a date.”Roxanne smiled in earnest, now. She couldn’t help it. “And- you can call me Roxanne, you know.”

“Oh,” Megamind said, his voice gone light and stunned. “Oh. I would like that very much, Roxanne.”

[anupamasdiggs]

SV 1

Satan, being thus confined to a vagabond, wandering, unsettled condition, is without any certain abode; for though he has, in consequence of his angelic nature, a kind of empire in the liquid waste or air, yet this is certainly part of his punishment, that he is . . . without any fixed place, or space, allowed him to rest the sole of his foot upon.

Daniel Defoe, _The History of the Devil_

I

The Angel Gibreel

1

"To be born again," sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, "first you have to die. Hoji! Hoji! To land upon the bosomy earth, first one needs to fly. Tat-taa! Taka-thun! How to ever smile again, if first you won't cry? How to win the darling's love, mister, without a sigh? Baba, if you want to get born again . . ." Just before dawn one winter's morning, New Year's Day or thereabouts, two real, full-grown, living men fell from a great height, twenty-nine thousand and two feet, towards the English Channel, without benefit of parachutes or wings, out of a clear sky.

"I tell you, you must die, I tell you, I tell you," and thusly and so beneath a moon of alabaster until a loud cry crossed the night, "To the devil with your tunes," the words hanging crystalline in the iced white night, "in the movies you only mimed to playback singers, so spare me these infernal noises now."

Gibreel, the tuneless soloist, had been cavorting in moonlight as he sang his impromptu gazal, swimming in air, butterfly-stroke, breast-stroke, bunching himself into a ball, spreadeagling himself against the almost-infinity of the almost-dawn, adopting heraldic postures, rampant, couchant, pitting levity against gravity. Now he rolled happily towards the sardonic voice. "Ohé, Salad baba, it's you, too good. What-ho, old Chumch." At which the other, a fastidious shadow falling headfirst in a grey suit with all the jacket buttons done up, arms by his sides, taking for granted the improbability of the bowler hat on his head, pulled a nickname-hater's face. "Hey, Spoono," Gibreel yelled, eliciting a second inverted wince, "Proper London, bhai! Here we come! Those bastards down there won't know what hit them. Meteor or lightning or vengeance of God. Out of thin air, baby. _Dharrraaammm!_ Wham, na? What an entrance, yaar. I swear: splat."

Out of thin air: a big bang, followed by falling stars. A universal beginning, a miniature echo of the birth of time . . . the jumbo jet _Bostan_, Flight AI-420, blew apart without any warning, high above the great, rotting, beautiful, snow-white, illuminated city, Mahagonny, Babylon, Alphaville. But Gibreel has already named it, I mustn't interfere: Proper London, capital of Vilayet, winked blinked nodded in the night. While at Himalayan height a brief and premature sun burst into the powdery January air, a blip vanished from radar screens, and the thin air was full of bodies, descending from the Everest of the catastrophe to the milky paleness of the sea.

Who am I?

Who else is there?

The aircraft cracked in half, a seed-pod giving up its spores, an egg yielding its mystery. Two actors, prancing Gibreel and buttony, pursed Mr. Saladin Chamcha, fell like titbits of tobacco from a broken old cigar. Above, behind, below them in the void there hung reclining seats, stereophonic headsets, drinks trolleys, motion discomfort receptacles, disembarkation cards, duty-free video games, braided caps, paper cups, blankets, oxygen masks. Also -- for there had been more than a few migrants aboard, yes, quite a quantity of wives who had been grilled by reasonable, doing-their-job officials about the length of and distinguishing moles upon their husbands' genitalia, a sufficiency of children upon whose legitimacy the British Government had cast its everreasonable doubts -- mingling with the remnants of the plane, equally fragmented, equally absurd, there floated the debris of the soul, broken memories, sloughed-off selves, severed mothertongues, violated privacies, untranslatable jokes, extinguished futures, lost loves, the forgotten meaning of hollow, booming words, _land_, _belonging_, _home_. Knocked a little silly by the blast, Gibreel and Saladin plummeted like bundles dropped by some carelessly open-beaked stork, and because Chamcha was going down head first, in the recommended position for babies entering the birth canal, he commenced to feel a low irritation at the other's refusal to fall in plain fashion. Saladin nosedived while Farishta embraced air, hugging it with his arms and legs, a flailing, overwrought actor without techniques of restraint. Below, cloud-covered, awaiting their entrance, the slow congealed currents of the English Sleeve, the appointed zone of their watery reincarnation.

"O, my shoes are Japanese," Gibreel sang, translating the old song into English in semi-conscious deference to the uprushing host-nation, "These trousers English, if you please. On my head, red Russian hat; my heart's Indian for all that." The clouds were bubbling up towards them, and perhaps it was on account of that great mystification of cumulus and cumulo-nimbus, the mighty rolling thunderheads standing like hammers in the dawn, or perhaps it was the singing (the one busy performing, the other booing the performance), or their blast--delirium that spared them full foreknowledge of the imminent . . . but for whatever reason, the two men, Gibreelsaladin Farishtachamcha, condemned to this endless but also ending angelicdevilish fall, did not become aware of the moment at which the processes of their transmutation began.

Mutation?

Yessir, but not random. Up there in air-space, in that soft, imperceptible field which had been made possible by the century and which, thereafter, made the century possible, becoming one of its defining locations, the place of movement and of war, the planet-shrinker and power-vacuum, most insecure and transitory of zones, illusory, discontinuous, metamorphic, -- because when you throw everything up in the air anything becomes possible -- wayupthere, at any rate, changes took place in delirious actors that would have gladdened the heart of old Mr. Lamarck: under extreme environmental pressure, characteristics were acquired.

What characteristics which? Slow down; you think Creation happens in a rush? So then, neither does revelation . . . take a look at the pair of them. Notice anything unusual? Just two brown men, falling hard, nothing so new about that, you may think; climbed too high, got above themselves, flew too close to the sun, is that it?

That's not it. Listen:

Mr. Saladin Chamcha, appalled by the noises emanating from Gibreel Farishta's mouth, fought back with verses of his own. What Farishta heard wafting across the improbable night sky was an old song, too, lyrics by Mr. James Thomson, seventeenhundred to seventeen-forty-eight. ". . . at Heaven's command," Chamcha carolled through lips turned jingoistically redwhiteblue by the cold, "arooooose from out the aaaazure main." Farishta, horrified, sang louder and louder of Japanese shoes, Russian hats, inviolately subcontinental hearts, but could not still Saladin's wild recital: "And guardian aaaaangels sung the strain."

Let's face it: it was impossible for them to have heard one another, much less conversed and also competed thus in song. Accelerating towards the planet, atmosphere roaring around them, how could they? But let's face this, too: they did.

Downdown they hurtled, and the winter cold frosting their eyelashes and threatening to freeze their hearts was on the point of waking them from their delirious daydream, they were about to become aware of the miracle of the singing, the rain of limbs and babies of which they were a part, and the terror of the destiny rushing at them from below, when they hit, were drenched and instantly iced by, the degree-zero boiling of the clouds.

They were in what appeared to be a long, vertical tunnel. Chamcha, prim, rigid, and still upside-down, saw Gibreel Farishta in his purple bush-shirt come swimming towards him across that cloud-walled funnel, and would have shouted, "Keep away, get away from me," except that something prevented him, the beginning of a little fluttery screamy thing in his intestines, so instead of uttering words of rejection he opened his arms and Farishta swam into them until they were embracing head-to-tail, and the force of their collision sent them tumbling end over end, performing their geminate cartwheels all the way down and along the hole that went to Wonderland; while pushing their way out of the white came a succession of cloudforms, ceaselessly metamorphosing, gods into bulls, women into spiders, men into wolves. Hybrid cloud-creatures pressed in upon them, gigantic flowers with human breasts dangling from fleshy stalks, winged cats, centaurs, and Chamcha in his semi-consciousness was seized by the notion that he, too, had acquired the quality of cloudiness, becoming metamorphic, hybrid, as if he were growing into the person whose head nestled now between his legs and whose legs were wrapped around his long, patrician neck.

This person had, however, no time for such "high falutions"; was, indeed, incapable of faluting at all; having just seen, emerging from the swirl of cloud, the figure of a glamorous woman of a certain age, wearing a brocade sari in green and gold, with a diamond in her nose and lacquer defending her high-coiled hair against the pressure of the wind at these altitudes, as she sat, equably, upon a flying carpet. "Rekha Merchant," Gibreel greeted her. "You couldn't find your way to heaven or what?" Insensitive words to speak to a dead woman! But his concussed, plummeting condition may be offered in mitigation

. . . Chamcha, clutching his legs, made an uncomprehending query: "What the hell?"

"You don't see her?" Gibreel shouted. "You don't see her goddamn Bokhara rug?"

No, no, Gibbo, her voice whispered in his ears, don't expect him to confirm. I am strictly for your eyes only, maybe you are going crazy, what do you think, you namaqool, you piece of pig excrement, my love. With death comes honesty, my beloved, so I can call you by your true names.

Cloudy Rekha murmured sour nothings, but Gibreel cried again to Chamcha: "Spoono? You see her or you don't?"

Saladin Chamcha saw nothing, heard nothing, said nothing. Gibreel faced her alone. "You shouldn't have done it," he admonished her. "No, sir. A sin. A suchmuch thing."

O, you can lecture me now, she laughed. You are the one with the high moral tone, that's a good one. It was you who left me, her voice reminded his ear, seeming to nibble at the lobe. It was you, O moon of my delight, who hid behind a cloud. And I in darkness, blinded, lost, for love.

He became afraid. "What do you want? No, don't tell, just go."

When you were sick I could not see you, in case of scandal, you knew I could not, that I stayed away for your sake, but afterwards you punished, you used it as your excuse to leave, your cloud to hide behind. That, and also her, the icewoman. Bastard. Now that I am dead I have forgotten how to forgive. I curse you, my Gibreel, may your life be hell. Hell, because that's where you sent me, damn you, where you came from, devil, where you're going, sucker, enjoy the bloody dip. Rekha's curse; and after that, verses in a language he did not understand, all harshnesses and sibilance, in which he thought he made out, but maybe not, the repeated name _Al-Lat_.

He clutched at Chamcha; they burst through the bottom of the clouds.

Speed, the sensation of speed, returned, whistling its fearful note. The roof of cloud fled upwards, the water-floor zoomed closer, their eyes opened. A scream, that same scream that had fluttered in his guts when Gibreel swam across the sky, burst from Chamcha's lips; a shaft of sunlight pierced his open mouth and set it free. But they had fallen through the transformations of the clouds, Chamcha and Farishta, and there was a fluidity, an indistinctness, at the edges of them, and as the sunlight hit Chamcha it released more than noise:

"Fly," Chamcha shrieked at Gibreel. "Start flying, now." And added, without knowing its source, the second command: "And sing."

How does newness come into the world? How is it born?

Of what fusions, translations, conjoinings is it made?

How does it survive, extreme and dangerous as it is? What compromises, what deals, what betrayals of its secret nature must it make to stave off the wrecking crew, the exterminating angel, the guillotine?

Is birth always a fall?

Do angels have wings? Can men fly?

When Mr. Saladin Chamcha fell out of the clouds over the English Channel he felt his heart being gripped by a force so implacable that he understood it was impossible for him to die. Afterwards, when his feet were once more firmly planted on the ground, he would begin to doubt this, to ascribe the implausibilities of his transit to the scrambling of his perceptions by the blast, and to attribute his survival, his and Gibreel's, to blind, dumb luck. But at the time he had no doubt; what had taken him over was the will to live, unadulterated, irresistible, pure, and the first thing it did was to inform him that it wanted nothing to do with his pathetic personality, that half-reconstructed affair of mimicry and voices, it intended to bypass all that, and he found himself surrendering to it, yes, go on, as if he were a bystander in his own mind, in his own body, because it began in the very centre of his body and spread outwards, turning his blood to iron, changing his flesh to steel, except that it also felt like a fist that enveloped him from outside, holding him in a way that was both unbearably tight and intolerably gentle; until finally it had conquered him totally and could work his mouth, his fingers, whatever it chose, and once it was sure of its dominion it spread outward from his body and grabbed Gibreel Farishta by the balls.

"Fly," it commanded Gibreel. "Sing."

Chamcha held on to Gibreel while the other began, slowly at first and then with increasing rapidity and force, to flap his arms. Harder and harder he flapped, and as he flapped a song burst out of him, and like the song of the spectre of Rekha Merchant it was sung in a language he did not know to a tune he had never heard. Gibreel never repudiated the miracle; unlike Chamcha, who tried to reason it out of existence, he never stopped saying that the gazal had been celestial, that without the song the flapping would have been for nothing, and without the flapping it was a sure thing that they would have hit the waves like rocks or what and simply burst into pieces on making contact with the taut drum of the sea. Whereas instead they began to slow down. The more emphatically Gibreel flapped and sang, sang and flapped, the more pronounced the deceleration, until finally the two of them were floating down to the Channel like scraps of paper in a breeze.

They were the only survivors of the wreck, the only ones who fell from _Bostan_ and lived. They were found washed up on a beach. The more voluble of the two, the one in the purple shirt, swore in his wild ramblings that they had walked upon the water, that the waves had borne them gently in to shore; but the other, to whose head a soggy bowler hat clung as if by magic, denied this. "God, we were lucky," he said. "How lucky can you get?"

I know the truth, obviously. I watched the whole thing. As to omnipresence and -potence, I'm making no claims at present, but I can manage this much, I hope. Chamcha willed it and Farishta did what was willed.

Which was the miracle worker?

Of what type -- angelic, satanic -- was Farishta's song?

Who am I?

Let's put it this way: who has the best tunes?

These were the first words Gibreel Farishta said when he awoke on the snowbound English beach with the improbability of a starfish by his ear: "Born again, Spoono, you and me. Happy birthday, mister; happy birthday to you."

Whereupon Saladin Chamcha coughed, spluttered, opened his eyes, and, as befitted a new-born babe, burst into foolish tears.

2

Reincarnation was always a big topic with Gibreel, for fifteen years the biggest star in the history of the Indian movies, even before he "miraculously" defeated the Phantom Bug that everyone had begun to believe would terminate his contracts. So maybe someone should have been able to forecast, only nobody did, that when he was up and about again he would sotospeak succeed where the germs had failed and walk out of his old life forever within a week of his fortieth birthday, vanishing, poof!, like a trick, _into thin air_.

The first people to notice his absence were the four members of his film-studio wheelchair-team. Long before his illness he had formed the habit of being transported from set to set on the great D. W. Rama lot by this group of speedy, trusted athletes, because a man who makes up to eleven movies "sy-multaneous" needs to conserve his energies. Guided by a complex coding system of slashes, circles and dots which Gibreel remembered from his childhood among the fabled lunch-runners of Bombay (of which more later), the chair-men zoomed him from role to role, delivering him as punctually and unerringly as once his father had delivered lunch. And after each take Gibreel would skip back into the chair and be navigated at high speed towards the next set, to be re-costumed, made up and handed his lines. "A career in the Bombay talkies," he told his loyal crew, "is more like a wheelchair race with one-two pit stops along the route."

After the illness, the Ghostly Germ, the Mystery Malaise, the Bug, he had returned to work, easing himself in, only seven pictures at a time . . . and then, justlikethat, he wasn't there. The wheelchair stood empty among the silenced sound-stages; his absence revealed the tawdry shamming of the sets. Wheelchairmen, one to four, made excuses for the missing star when movie executives descended upon them in wrath: Ji, he must be sick, he has always been famous for his punctual, no, why to criticize, maharaj, great artists must from time to time be permitted their temperament, na, and for their protestations they became the first casualties of Farishta's unexplained hey-presto, being fired, four three two one, ekdumjaldi, ejected from studio gates so that a wheelchair lay abandoned and gathering dust beneath the painted coco-palms around a sawdust beach.

Where was Gibreel? Movie producers, left in seven lurches, panicked expensively. See, there, at the Willingdon Club golf links -- only nine holes nowadays, skyscrapers having sprouted out of the other nine like giant weeds, or, let's say, like tombstones marking the sites where the torn corpse of the old city lay -- there, right there, upper-echelon executives, missing the simplest putts; and, look above, tufts of anguished hair, torn from senior heads, wafting down from high-level windows. The agitation of the producers was easy to understand, because in those days of declining audiences and the creation of historical soap operas and contemporary crusading housewives by the television network, there was but a single name which, when set above a picture's title, could still offer a sure-fire, cent-per-cent guarantee of an Ultrahit, a Smashation, and the owner of said name had departed, up, down or sideways, but certainly and unarguably vamoosed . . .

All over the city, after telephones, motorcyclists, cops, frogmen and trawlers dragging the harbour for his body had laboured mightily but to no avail, epitaphs began to be spoken in memory of the darkened star. On one of Rama Studios' seven impotent stages, Miss Pimple Billimoria, the latest chilli-and-spices bombshell -- _she's no flibberti-gibberti mamzel!, but a whir-stir-get-lost-sir bundla dynamite_ -- clad in temple--dancer veiled undress and positioned beneath writhing cardboard representations of copulating Tantric figures from the Chandela period, -- and perceiving that her major scene was not to be, her big break lay in pieces -- offered up a spiteful farewell before an audience of sound recordists and electricians smoking their cynical beedis. Attended by a dumbly distressed ayah, all elbows, Pimple attempted scorn. "God, what a stroke of luck, for Pete's sake," she cried. "I mean today it was the love scene, chhi chhi, I was just dying inside, thinking how to go near to that fatmouth with his breath of rotting cockroach dung." Bell-heavy anklets jingled as she stamped. "Damn good for him the movies don't smell, or he wouldn't get one job as a leper even." Here Pimple's soliloquy climaxed in such a torrent of obscenities that the beedi-smokers sat up for the first time and commenced animatedly to compare Pimple's vocabulary with that of the infamous bandit queen Phoolan Devi whose oaths could melt rifle barrels and turn journalists' pencils to rubber in a trice.

Exit Pimple, weeping, censored, a scrap on a cutting-room floor. Rhinestones fell from her navel as she went, mirroring her tears. . . in the matter of Farishta's halitosis she was not, however, altogether wrong; if anything, she had a little understated the case. Gibreel's exhalations, those ochre clouds of sulphur and brimstone, had always given him -- when taken together with his pronounced widow's peak and crowblack hair -- an air more saturnine than haloed, in spite of his archangelic name. It was said after he disappeared that he ought to have been easy to find, all it took was a halfway decent nose . . . and one week after he took off, an exit more tragic than Pimple Billimoria's did much to intensify the devilish odour that was beginning to attach itself to that forsolong sweet-smelling name. You could .say that he had stepped out of the screen into the world, and in life, unlike the cinema, people know it if you stink.

_We are creatures of air, Our roots in dreams And clouds, reborn In flight. Goodbye_. The enigmatic note discovered by the police in Gibreel Farishta's penthouse, located on the top floor of the Everest Vilas skyscraper on Malabar Hill, the highest home in the highest building on the highest ground in the city, one of those double-vista apartments from which you could look this way across the evening necklace of Marine Drive or that way out to Scandal Point and the sea, permitted the newspaper headlines to prolong their cacophonies. FARISHTA DIVES UNDERGROUND, opined _Blitz_ in somewhat macabre fashion, while Busybee in _The Daily_ preferred GIBREEL FLIES coop. Many photographs were published of that fabled residence in which French interior decorators bearing letters of commendation from Reza Pahlevi for the work they had done at Persepolis had spent a million dollars recreating at this exalted altitude the effect of a Bedouin tent. Another illusion unmade by his absence; GIBREEL STRIKES CAMP, the headlines yelled, but had he gone up or down or sideways? No one knew. In that metropolis of tongues and whispers, not even the sharpest ears heard anything reliable. But Mrs. Rekha Merchant, reading all the papers, listening to all the radio broadcasts, staying glued to the Doordarshan TV programmes, gleaned something from Farishta's message, heard a note that eluded everyone else, and took her two daughters and one son for a walk on the roof of her high-rise home. Its name was Everest Vilas.

His neighbour; as a matter of fact, from the apartment directly beneath his own. His neighbour and his friend; why should I say any more? Of course the scandal-pointed malice-magazines of the city filled their columns with hint innuendo and nudge, but that's no reason for sinking to their level. Why tarnish her reputation now?

Who was she? Rich, certainly, but then Everest Vilas was not exactly a tenement in Kurla, eh? Married, yessir, thirteen years, with a husband big in ball-bearings. Independent, her carpet and antique showrooms thriving at their prime Colaba sites. She called her carpets _klims_ and _kleens_ and the ancient artefacts were _anti-queues_. Yes, and she was beautiful, beautiful in the hard, glossy manner of those rarefied occupants of the city's sky-homes, her bones skin posture all bearing witness to her long divorce from the impoverished, heavy, pullulating earth. Everyone agreed she had a strong personality, drank _like a fish_ from Lalique crystal and hung her hat _shameless_ on a Chola Natraj and knew what she wanted and how to get it, fast. The husband was a mouse with money and a good squash wrist. Rekha Merchant read Gibreel Farishta's farewell note in the newspapers, wrote a letter of her own, gathered her children, summoned the elevator, and rose heavenward (one storey) to meet her chosen fate.

"Many years ago," her letter read, "I married out of cowardice. Now, finally, I'm doing something brave." She left a newspaper on her bed with Gibreel's message circled in red and heavily underscored -- three harsh lines, one of them ripping the page in fury. So naturally the bitch-journals went to town and it was all LOVELY"S LOVELORN LEAP, and BROKEN-HEARTED BEAUTY TAKES LAST DIVE. But:

Perhaps she, too, had the rebirth bug, and Gibreel, not understanding the terrible power of metaphor, had recommended flight. _To be born again,first you have to_ and she was a creature of the sky, she drank Lalique champagne, she lived on Everest, and one of her fellow-Olympians had flown; and if he could, then she, too, could be winged, and rooted in dreams.

She didn't make it. The lala who was employed as gatekeeper of the Everest Vilas compound offered the world his blunt testimony. "I was walking, here here, in the compound only, when there came a thud, _tharaap_. I turned. It was the body of the oldest daughter. Her skull was completely crushed. I looked up and saw the boy falling, and after him the younger girl. What to say, they almost hit me where I stood. I put my hand on my mouth and came to them. The young girl was whining softly. Then I looked up a further time and the Begum was coming. Her sari was floating out like a big balloon and all her hair was loose. I took my eyes away from her because she was fallIng and it was not respectful to look up inside her clothes."

Rekha and her children fell from Everest; no survivors. The whispers blamed Gibreel. Let's leave it at that for the moment.

Oh: don't forget: he saw her after she died. He saw her several times. It was a long time before people understood how sick the great man was. Gibreel, the star. Gibreel, who vanquished the Nameless Ailment. Gibreel, who feared sleep.

After he departed the ubiquitous images of his face began to rot. On the gigantic, luridly coloured hoardings from which he had watched over the populace, his lazy eyelids started flaking and crumbling, drooping further and further until his irises looked like two moons sliced by clouds, or by the soft knives of his long lashes. Finally the eyelids fell off, giving a wild, bulging look to his painted eyes. Outside the picture palaces of Bombay, mammoth cardboard effigies of Gibreel were seen to decay and list. Dangling limply on their sustaining scaffolds, they lost arms, withered, snapped at the neck. His portraits on the covers of movie magazines acquired the pallor of death, a nullity about the eye, a hollowness. At last his images simply faded off the printed page, so that the shiny covers of _Celebrity_ and _Society_ and _Illustrated Weekly_ went blank at the bookstalls and their publishers fired the printers and blamed the quality of the ink. Even on the silver screen itself, high above his worshippers in the dark, that supposedly immortal physiognomy began to putrefy, blister and bleach; projectors jammed unaccountably every time he passed through the gate, his films ground to a halt, and the lamp-heat of the malfunctioning projectors burned his celluloid memory away: a star gone supernova, with the consuming fire spreading outwards, as was fitting, from his lips.

It was the death of God. Or something very like it; for had not that outsize face, suspended over its devotees in the artificial cinematic night, shone like that of some supernal Entity that had its being at least halfway between the mortal and the divine? More than halfway, many would have argued, for Gibreel had spent the greater part of his unique career incarnating, with absolute conviction, the countless deities of the subcontinent in the popular genre movies known as "theologicals". It was part of the magic of his persona that he succeeded in crossing religious boundaries without giving offence. Blue-skinned as Krishna he danced, flute in hand, amongst the beauteous gopis and their udder-heavy cows; with upturned palms, serene, he meditated (as Gautama) upon humanity's suffering beneath a studio-rickety bodhi-tree. On those infrequent occasions when he descended from the heavens he never went too far, playing, for example, both the Grand Mughal and his famously wily minister in the classic _Akbar and Birbal_. For over a decade and a half he had represented, to hundreds of millions of believers in that country in which, to this day, the human population outnumbers the divine by less than three to one, the most acceptable, and instantly recognizable, face of the Supreme. For many of his fans, the boundary separating the performer and his roles had longago ceased to exist.

The fans, yes, and? How about Gibreel?

That face. In real life, reduced to life-size, set amongst ordinary mortals, it stood revealed as oddly un-starry. Those low-slung eyelids could give him an exhausted look. There was, too, something coarse about the nose, the mouth was too well fleshed to be strong, the ears were long-lobed like young, knurled jackfruit. The most profane of faces, the most sensual of faces. In which, of late, it had been possible to make out the seams mined by his recent, near-fatal illness. And yet, in spite of profanity and debilitation, this was a face inextricably mixed up with holiness, perfection, grace: God stuff. No accounting for tastes, that's all. At any rate, you'll agree that for such an actor (for any actor, maybe, even for Chamcha, but most of all for him) to have a bee in his bonnet about avatars, like much-metamorphosed Vishnu, was not so very surprising. Rebirth: that's God stuff, too.

Or, but, then again . . . not always. There are secular reincarnations, too. Gibreel Farishta had been born Ismail Najmuddin in Poona, British Poona at the empire's fag-end, long before the Pune of Rajneesh etc. (Pune, Vadodara, Mumbai; even towns can take stage names nowadays.) Ismail after the child involved in the sacrifice of Ibrahim, and Najmuddin, _star of the faith_; he'd given up quite a name when he took the angel's.

Afterwards, when the aircraft _Bostan_ was in the grip of the hijackers, and the passengers, fearing for their futures, were regressing into their pasts, Gibreel confided to Saladin Chamcha that his choice of pseudonym had been his way of making a homage to the memory of his dead mother, "my mummyji, Spoono, my one and only Mamo, because who else was it who started the whole angel business, her personal angel, she called me, _farishta_, because apparently I was too damn sweet, believe it or not, I was good as goddamn gold."

Poona couldn't hold him; he was taken in his infancy to the bitch-city, his first migration; his father got a job amongst the fleet-footed inspirers of future wheelchair quartets, the lunch-porters or dabbawallas of Bombay. And Ismail the farishta followed, at thirteen, in his father's footsteps.

Gibreel, captive aboard AI-420, sank into forgivable rhapsodies, fixing Chamcha with his glittering eye, explicating the mysteries of the runners' coding system, black swastika red circle yellow slash dot, running in his mind's eye the entire relay from home to office desk, that improbable system by which two thousand dabbawallas delivered, each day, over one hundred thousand lunch-pails, and on a bad day, Spoono, maybe fifteen got mislaid, we were illiterate, mostly, but the signs were our secret tongue.

_Bostan_ circled London, gunmen patrolling the gangways, and the lights in the passenger cabins had been switched off, but Gibreel's energy illuminated the gloom. On the grubby movie screen on which, earlier in the journey, the inflight inevitability of Walter Matthau had stumbled lugubriously into the aerial ubiquity of Goldie Hawn, there were shadows moving, projected by the nostalgia of the hostages, and the most sharply defined of them was this spindly adolescent, Ismail Najmuddin, mummy's angel in a Gandhi cap, running tiffins across the town. The young dabbawalla skipped nimbly through the shadow-crowd, because he was used to such conditions, think, Spoono, picture, thirty-forty tiffins in a long wooden tray on your head, and when the local train stops you have maybe one minute to push on or off, and then running in the streets, flat out, yaar, with the trucks buses scooters cycles and what-all, one-two, one-two, lunch, lunch, the dabbas must get through, and in the monsoon running down the railway line when the train broke down, or waist-deep in water in some flooded street, and there were gangs, Salad baba, truly, organized gangs of dabba-stealers, it's a hungry city, baby, what to tell you, but we could handle them, we were everywhere, knew everything, what thieves could escape our eyes and ears, we never went to any policia, we looked after our own.

At night father and son would return exhausted to their shack by the airport runway at Santacruz and when Ismail's mother saw him approaching, illuminated by the green red yellow of the departing jet-planes, she would say that simply to lay eyes on him made all her dreams come true, which was the first indication that there was something peculiar about Gibreel, because from the beginning, it seemed, he could fulfil people's most secret desires without having any idea of how he did it. His father Najmuddin Senior never seemed to mind that his wife had eyes only for her son, that the boy's feet received nightly pressings while the father's went unstroked. A son is a blessing and a blessing requires the gratitude of the blest.

Naima Najmuddin died. A bus hit her and that was that, Gibreel wasn't around to answer her prayers for life. Neither father nor son ever spoke of grief. Silently, as though it were customary and expected, they buried their sadness beneath extra work, engaging in an inarticulate contest, who could carry the most dabbas on his head, who could acquire the most new contracts per month, who could run faster, as though the greater labour would indicate the greater love. When he saw his father at night, the knotted veins bulging in his neck and at his temples, Ismail Najmuddin would understand how much the older man had resented him, and how important it was for the father to defeat the son and regain, thereby, his usurped primacy in the affections of his dead wife. Once he realized this, the youth eased off, but his father's zeal remained unrelenting, and pretty soon he was getting promotion, no longer a mere runner but one of the organizing muqaddams. When Gibreel was nineteen, Najmuddin Senior became a member of the lunch-runners' guild, the Bombay Tiffin Carriers' Association, and when Gibreel was twenty, his father was dead, stopped in his tracks by a stroke that almost blew him apart. "He just ran himself into the ground," said the guild's General Secretary, Babasaheb Mhatre himself. "That poor bastard, he just ran out of steam." But the orphan knew better. He knew that his father had finally run hard enough and long enough to wear down the frontiers between the worlds, he had run clear out of his skin and into the arms of his wife, to whom he had proved, once and for all, the superiority of his love. Some migrants are happy to depart.

Babasaheb Mhatre sat in a blue office behind a green door above a labyrinthine bazaar, an awesome figure, buddha-fat, one of the great moving forces of the metropolis, possessing the occult gift of remaining absolutely still, never shifting from his room, and yet being everywhere important and meeting everyone who mattered in Bombay. The day after young Ismail's father ran across the border to see Naima, the Babasaheb summoned the young man into his presence. "So? Upset or what?" The reply, with downcast eyes: ji, thank you, Babaji, I am okay. "Shut your face," said Babasaheb Mhatre. "From today you live with me." Butbut, Babaji ... "But me no buts. Already I have informed my goodwife. I have spoken." Please excuse Babaji but how what why? "I have _spoken_."

Gibreel Farishta was never told why the Babasaheb had decided to take pity on him and pluck him from the futurelessness of the streets, but after a while he began to have an idea. Mrs. Mhatre was a thin woman, like a pencil beside the rubbery Babasaheb, but she was filled so full of mother-love that she should have been fat like a potato. When the Baba came home she put sweets into his mouth with her own hands, and at nights the newcomer to the household could hear the great General Secretary of the B T C A protesting, Let me go, wife, I can undress myself. At breakfast she spoon-fed Mhatre with large helpings of malt, and before he went to work she brushed his hair. They were a childless couple, and young Najmuddin understood that the Babasaheb wanted him to share the load. Oddly enough, however, the Begum did not treat the young man as a child. "You see, he is a grown fellow," she told her husband when poor Mhatre pleaded, "Give the boy the blasted spoon of malt." Yes, a grown fellow, "we must make a man of him, husband, no babying for him." "Then damn it to hell," the Babasaheb exploded, "why do you do it to me?" Mrs. Mhatre burst into tears. "But you are everything to me," she wept, "you are my father, my lover, my baby too. You are my lord and my suckling child. If I displease you then I have no life."

Babasaheb Mhatre, accepting defeat, swallowed the tablespoon of malt.

He was a kindly man, which he disguised with insults and noise. To console the orphaned youth he would speak to him, in the blue office, about the philosophy of rebirth, convincing him that his parents were already being scheduled for re-entry somewhere, unless of course their lives had been so holy that they had attained the final grace. So it was Mhatre who started Farishta off on the whole reincarnation business, and not just reincarnation. The Babasaheb was an amateur psychic, a tapper of table-legs and a bringer of spirits into glasses. "But I gave that up," he told his protégé, with many suitably melodramatic inflections, gestures, frowns, "after I got the fright of my bloody life."

Once (Mhatre recounted) the glass had been visited by the most co-operative of spirits, such a too-friendly fellow, see, so I thought to ask him some big questions. _Is there a God_, and that glass which had been running round like a mouse or so just stopped dead, middle of table, not a twitch, completely phutt, kaput. So, then, okay, I said, if you won't answer that try this one instead, and I came right out with it, _Is there a Devil_. After that the glass -- baprebap! -- began to shake -- catch your ears! -- slowslow at first, then faster--faster, like a jelly, until it jumped! -- ai-hai! -- up from the table, into the air, fell down on its side, and -- o-ho! -- into a thousand and one pieces, smashed. Believe don't believe, Babasaheb Mhatre told his charge, but thenandthere I learned my lesson: don't meddle, Mhatre, in what you do not comprehend.

This story had a profound effect on the consciousness of the young listener, because even before his mother's death he had become convinced of the existence of the supernatural world. Sometimes when he looked around him, especially in the afternoon heat when the air turned glutinous, the visible world, its features and inhabitants and things, seemed to be sticking up through the atmosphere like a profusion of hot icebergs, and he had the idea that everything continued down below the surface of the soupy air: people, motor-cars, dogs, movie billboards, trees, nine-tenths of their reality concealed from his eyes. He would blink, and the illusion would fade, but the sense of it never left him. He grew up believing in God, angels, demons, afreets, djinns, as matter-of-factly as if they were bullock-carts or lamp-posts, and it struck him as a failure in his own sight that he had never seen a ghost. He would dream of discovering a magic optometrist from whom he would purchase a pair of greentinged spectacles which would correct his regrettable myopia, and after that he would be able to see through the dense, blinding air to the fabulous world beneath.

From his mother Naima Najmuddin he heard a great many stories of the Prophet, and if inaccuracies had crept into her versions he wasn't interested in knowing what they were. "What a man!" he thought. "What angel would not wish to speak to him?" Sometimes, though, he caught himself in the act of forming blasphemous thoughts, for example when without meaning to, as he drifted off to sleep in his cot at the Mhatre residence, his somnolent fancy began to compare his own condition with that of the Prophet at the time when, having been orphaned and short of funds, he made a great success of his job as the business manager of the wealthy widow Khadija, and ended up marrying her as well. As he slipped into sleep he saw himself sitting on a rose-strewn dais, simpering shyly beneath the sari-pallu which he had placed demurely over his face, while his new husband, Babasaheb Mhatre, reached lovingly towards him to remove the fabric, and gaze at his features in a mirror placed in his lap. This dream of marrying the Babasaheb brought him awake, flushing hotly for shame, and after that he began to worry about the impurity in his make-up that could create such terrible visions.

Mostly, however, his religious faith was a low-key thing, a part of him that required no more special attention than any other. When Babasaheb Mhatre took him into his home it confirmed to the young man that he was not alone in the world, that something was taking care of him, so he was not entirely surprised when the Babasaheb called him into the blue office on the morning of his twenty-first birthday and sacked him without even being prepared to listen to an appeal.

"You're fired," Mhatre emphasized, beaming. "Cashiered, had your chips. Dis-_miss_."

"But, uncle,"

"Shut your face."

Then the Babasaheb gave the orphan the greatest present of his life, informing him that a meeting had been arranged for him at the studios of the legendary film magnate Mr. D. W. Rama; an audition. "It is for appearance only," the Babasaheb said. "Rama is my good friend and we have discussed. A small part to begin, then it is up to you. Now get out of my sight and stop pulling such humble faces, it does not suit."

"But, uncle,"

"Boy like you is too damn goodlooking to carry tiffins on his head all his life. Get gone now, go, be a homosexual movie actor. I fired you five minutes back."

"But, uncle,"

"I have spoken. Thank your lucky stars."

He became Gibreel Farishta, but for four years he did not become a star, serving his apprenticeship in a succession of minor knockabout comic parts. He remained calm, unhurried, as though he could see the future, and his apparent lack of ambition made him something of an outsider in that most self-seeking of industries. He was thought to be stupid or arrogant or both. And throughout the four wilderness years he failed to kiss a single woman on the mouth.

On-screen, he played the fall guy, the idiot who loves the beauty and can't see that she wouldn't go for him in a thousand years, the funny uncle, the poor relation, the village idiot, the servant, the incompetent crook, none of them the type of part that ever rates a love scene. Women kicked him, slapped him, teased him, laughed at him, but never, on celluloid, looked at him or sang to him or danced around him with cinematic love in their eyes. Off-screen, he lived alone in two empty rooms near the studios and tried to imagine what women looked like without clothes on. To get his mind off the subject of love and desire, he studied, becoming an omnivorous autodidact, devouring the metamorphic myths of Greece and Rome, the avatars of Jupiter, the boy who became a flower, the spider-woman, Circe, everything; and the theosophy of Annie Besant, and unified field theory, and the incident of the Satanic verses in the early career of the Prophet, and the politics of Muhammad's harem after his return to Mecca in triumph; and the surrealism of the newspapers, in which butterflies could fly into young girls' mouths, asking to be consumed, and children were born with no faces, and young boys dreamed in impossible detail of earlier incarnations, for instance in a golden fortress filled with precious stones. He filled himself up with God knows what, but he could not deny, in the small hours of his insomniac nights, that he was full of something that had never been used, that he did not know how to begin to use, that is, love. In his dreams he was tormented by women of unbearable sweetness and beauty, so he preferred to stay awake and force himself to rehearse some part of his general knowledge in order to blot out the tragic feeling of being endowed with a larger-than-usual capacity for love, without a single person on earth to offer it to.

His big break arrived with the coming of the theological movies. Once the formula of making films based on the puranas, and adding the usual mixture of songs, dances, funny uncles etc., had paid off, every god in the pantheon got his or her chance to be a star. When D. W. Rama scheduled a production based on the story of Ganesh, none of the leading box-office names of the time were willing to spend an entire movie concealed inside an elephant's head. Gibreel jumped at the chance. That was his first hit, _Ganpati Baba_, and suddenly he was a superstar, but only with the trunk and ears on. After six movies playing the elephantheaded god he was permitted to remove the thick, pendulous, grey mask and put on, instead, a long, hairy tail, in order to play Hanuman the monkey king in a sequence of adventure movies that owed more to a certain cheap television series emanating from Hong Kong than it did to the Ramayana. This series proved so popular that monkey-tails became de rigueur for the city's young bucks at the kind of parties frequented by convent girls known as "firecrackers" because of their readiness to go off with a bang.

After Hanuman there was no stopping Gibreel, and his phenomenal success deepened his belief in a guardian angel. But it also led to a more regrettable development.

(I see that I must, after all, spill poor Rekha's beans.)

Even before he replaced false head with fake tail he had become irresistibly attractive to women. The seductions of his fame had grown so great that several of these young ladies asked him if he would keep the Ganesh-mask on while they made love, but he refused out of respect for the dignity of the god. Owing to the innocence of his upbringing he could not at that time differentiate between quantity and quality and accordingly felt the need to make up for lost time. He had so many sexual partners that it was not uncommon for him to forget their names even before they had left his room. Not only did he become a philanderer of the worst type, but he also learned the arts of dissimulation, because a man who plays gods must be above reproach. So skilfully did he conceal his life of scandal and debauch that his old patron, Babasaheb Mhatre, lying on his deathbed a decade after he sent a young dabbawalla out into the world of illusion, black-money and lust, begged him to get married to prove he was a man. "God-sake, mister," the Babasaheb pleaded, "when I told you back then to go and be a homo I never thought you would take me seriously, there is a limit to respecting one's elders, after all." Gibreel threw up his hands and swore that he was no such disgraceful thing, and that when the right girl came along he would of course undergo nuptials with a will. "What you waiting? Some goddess from heaven? Greta Garbo, Gracekali, who?" cried the old man, coughing blood, but Gibreel left him with the enigma of a smile that allowed him to die without having his mind set entirely at rest.

The avalanche of sex in which Gibreel Farishta was trapped managed to bury his greatest talent so deep that it might easily have been lost forever, his talent, that is, for loving genuinely, deeply and without holding back, the rare and delicate gift which he had never been able to employ. By the time of his illness he had all but forgotten the anguish he used to experience owing to his longing for love, which had twisted and turned in him like a sorcerer's knife. Now, at the end of each gymnastic night, he slept easily and long, as if he had never been plagued by dream-women, as if he had never hoped to lose his heart.

"Your trouble," Rekha Merchant told him when she materialized out of the clouds, "is everybody always forgave you, God knows why, you always got let off, you got away with murder. Nobody ever held you responsible for what you did." He couldn't argue. "God's gift," she screamed at him, "God knows where you thought you were from, jumped-up type from the gutter, God knows what diseases you brought."

But that was what women did, he thought in those days, they were the vessels into which he could pour himself, and when he moved on, they would understand that it was his nature, and forgive. And it was true that nobody blamed him for leaving, for his thousand and one pieces of thoughtlessness, how many abortions, Rekha demanded in the cloud-hole, how many broken hearts. In all those years he was the beneficiary of the infinite generosity of women, but he was its victim, too, because their forgiveness made possible the deepest and sweetest corruption of all, namely the idea that he was doing nothing wrong.

Rekha: she entered his life when he bought the penthouse at Everest Vilas and she offered, as a neighbour and businesswoman, to show him her carpets and antiques. Her husband was at a world-wide congress of ball-bearings manufacturers in Gothenburg, Sweden, and in his absence she invited Gibreel into her apartment of stone lattices from Jaisalmer and carved wooden handrails from Kcralan palaces and a stone Mughal chhatri or cupola turned into a whirlpool bath; while she poured him French champagne she leaned against marbled walls and felt the cool veins of the stone against her back. When he sipped the champagne she teased him, surely gods should not partake of alcohol, and he answered with a line he had once read in an interview with the Aga Khan, O, you know, this champagne is only for outward show, the moment it touches my lips it turns to water. After that it didn't take long for her to touch his lips and deliquesce into his arms. By the time her children returned from school with the ayah she was immaculately dressed and coiffed, and sat with him in the drawing-room, revealing the secrets of the carpet business, confessing that art silk stood for artificial not artistic, telling him not to be fooled by her brochure in which a rug was seductively described as being made of wool plucked from the throats of baby lambs, which means, you see, only _low-grade wool_, advertising, what to do, this is how it is.

He did not love her, was not faithful to her, forgot her birthdays, failed to return her phone calls, turned up when it was most inconvenient owing to the presence in her home of dinner guests from the world of the ball-bearing, and like everyone else she forgave him. But her forgiveness was not the silent, mousy let-off he got from the others. Rekha complained like crazy, she gave him hell, she bawled him out and cursed him for a useless lafanga and haramzada and salah and even, in extremis, for being guilty of the impossible feat of fucking the sister he did not have. She spared him nothing, accusing him of being a creature of surfaces, like a movie screen, and then she went ahead and forgave him anyway and allowed him to unhook her blouse. Gibreel could not resist the operatic forgiveness of Rekha Merchant, which was all the more moving on account of the flaw in her own position, her infidelity to the ball-bearing king, which Gibreel forbore to mention, taking his verbal beatings like a man. So that whereas the pardons he got from the rest of his women left him cold and he forgot them the moment they were uttered, he kept coming back to Rekha, so that she could abuse him and then console him as only she knew how.

Then he almost died.

He was filming at Kanya Kumari, standing on the very tip of Asia, taking part in a fight scene set at the point on Cape Comorin where it seems that three oceans are truly smashing into one another. Three sets of waves rolled in from the west east south and collided in a mighty clapping of watery hands just as Gibreel took a punch on the jaw, perfect timing, and he passed out on the spot, falling backwards into tri-oceanic spume. He did not get up.

To begin with everybody blamed the giant English stunt-man Eustace Brown, who had delivered the punch. He protested vehemently. Was he not the same fellow who had performed opposite Chief Minister N. T. Rama Rao in his many theological movie roles? Had he not perfected the art of making the old man look good in combat without hurting him? Had he ever complained that NTR never pulled his punches, so that he, Eustace, invariably ended up black and blue, having been beaten stupid by a little old guy whom he could've eaten for breakfast, on _toast_, and had he ever, even once, lost his temper? Well, then? How could anyone think he would hurt the immortal Gibreel? -- They fired him anyway and the police put him in the lock-up, just in case.

But it was not the punch that had flattened Gibreel. After the star had been flown into Bombay's Breach Candy Hospital in an Air Force jet made available for the purpose; after exhaustive tests had come up with almost nothing; and while he lay unconscious, dying, with a blood-count that had fallen from his normal fifteen to a murderous four point two, a hospital spokesman faced the national press on Breach Candy's wide white steps. "It is a freak mystery," he gave out. "Call it, if you so please, an act of God."

Gibreel Farishta had begun to haemorrhage all over his insides for no apparent reason, and was quite simply bleeding to death inside his skin. At the worst moment the blood began to seep out through his rectum and penis, and it seemed that at any moment it might burst torrentially through his nose and ears and out of the corners of his eyes. For seven days he bled, and received transfusions, and every clotting agent known to medical science, including a concentrated form of rat poison, and although the treatment resulted in a marginal improvement the doctors gave him up for lost.

The whole of India was at Gibreel's bedside. His condition was the lead item on every radio bulletin, it was the subject of hourly news-flashes on the national television network, and the crowd that gathered in Warden Road was so large that the police had to disperse it with lathi-charges and tear-gas, which they used even though every one of the half-million mourners was already tearful and wailing. The Prime Minister cancelled her appointments and flew to visit him. Her son the airline pilot sat in Farishta's bedroom, holding the actor's hand. A mood of apprehension settled over the nation, because if God had unleashed such an act of retribution against his most celebrated incarnation, what did he have in store for the rest of the country? If Gibreel died, could India be far behind? In the mosques and temples of the nation, packed congregations prayed, not only for the life of the dying actor, but for the future, for themselves.

Who did not visit Gibreel in hospital? Who never wrote, made no telephone call, despatched no flowers, sent in no tiffins of delicious home cooking? While many lovers shamelessly sent him get-well cards and lamb pasandas, who, loving him most of all, kept herself to herself, unsuspected by her ball--bearing of a husband? Rekha Merchant placed iron around her heart, and went through the motions of her daily life, playing with her children, chit-chatting with her husband, acting as his hostess when required, and never, not once, revealed the bleak devastation of her soul.

He recovered.

The recovery was as mysterious as the illness, and as rapid. It, too, was called (by hospital, journalists, friends) an act of the Supreme. A national holiday was declared; fireworks were set off up and down the land. But when Gibreel regained his strength, it became clear that he had changed, and to a startling degree, because he had lost his faith.

On the day he was discharged from hospital he went under police escort through the immense crowd that had gathered to celebrate its own deliverance as well as his, climbed into his Mercedes and told the driver to give all the pursuing vehicles the slip, which took seven hours and fifty-one minutes, and by the end of the manoeuvre he had worked out what had to be done. He got out of the limousine at the Taj hotel and without looking left or right went directly into the great dining-room with its buffet table groaning under the weight of forbidden foods, and he loaded his plate with all of it, the pork sausages from Wiltshire and the cured York hams and the rashers of bacon from godknowswhere; with the gammon steaks of his unbelief and the pig's trotters of secularism; and then, standing there in the middle of the hall, while photographers popped up from nowhere, he began to eat as fast as possible, stuffing the dead pigs into his face so rapidly that bacon rashers hung out of the sides of his mouth.

During his illness he had spent every minute of consciousness calling upon God, every second of every minute. Ya Allah whose servant lies bleeding do not abandon me now after watching oven me so long. Ya Allah show me some sign, some small mark of your favour, that I may find in myself the strength to cure my ills. O God most beneficent most merciful, be with me in this my time of need, my most grievous need. Then it occurred to him that he was being punished, and for a time that made it possible to suffer the pain, but after a time he got angry. Enough, God, his unspoken words demanded, why must I die when I have not killed, are you vengeance or are you love? The anger with God carried him through another day, but then it faded, and in its place there came a terrible emptiness, an isolation, as he realized he was talking to _thin air_, that there was nobody there at all, and then he felt more foolish than ever in his life, and he began to plead into the emptiness, ya Allah, just be there, damn it, just be. But he felt nothing, nothing nothing, and then one day he found that he no longer needed there to be anything to feel. On that day of metamorphosis the illness changed and his recovery began. And to prove to himself the non-existence of God, he now stood in the dining-hall of the city's most famous hotel, with pigs falling out of his face.

He looked up from his plate to find a woman watching him. Her hair was so fair that it was almost white, and her skin possessed the colour and translucency of mountain ice. She laughed at him and turned away.

"Don't you get it?" he shouted after her, spewing sausage fragments from the corners of his mouth. "No thunderbolt. That's the point."

She came back to stand in front of him. "You're alive," she told him. "You got your life back. _That's_ the point."

He told Rekha: the moment she turned around and started walking back I fell in love with her. Alleluia Cone, climber of mountains, vanquisher of Everest, blonde yahudan, ice queen. Her challenge, _change your life, or did you get it back for nothing_, I couldn't resist.

"You and your reincarnation junk," Rekha cajoled him. "Such a nonsense head. You come out of hospital, back through death's door, and it goes to your head, crazy boy, at once you must have some escapade thing, and there she is, hey presto, the blonde mame. Don't think I don't know what you're like, Gibbo, so what now, you want me to forgive you or what?"

No need, he said. He left Rekha's apartment (its mistress wept, face-down, on the floor); and never entered it again.

Three days after he met her with his mouth full of unclean meat Allie got into an aeroplane and left. Three days out of time behind a do-not-disturb sign, but in the end they agreed that the world was real, what was possible was possible and what was impossible was im--, brief encounter, ships that pass, love in a transit lounge. After she left, Gibreel rested, tried to shut his ears to her challenge, resolved to get his life back to normal. Just because he'd lost his belief it didn't mean he couldn't do his job, and in spite of the scandal of the ham-eating photographs, the first scandal ever to attach itself to his name, he signed movie contracts and went back to work.

And then, one morning, a wheelchair stood empty and he had gone. A bearded passenger, one Ismail Najmuddin, boarded Flight AI-420 to London. The 747 was named after one of the gardens of Paradise, not Gulistan but _Bostan_. "To be born again," Gibrecl Farishta said to Saladin Chamcha much later, "first you have to die. Me, I only half-expired, but I did it on two occasions, hospital and plane, so it adds up, it counts. And now, Spoono my friend, here I stand before you in Proper London, Vilayet, regenerated, a new man with a new life. Spoono, is this not a bloody fine thing?"

Why did he leave?

Because of her, the challenge of her, the newness, the fierceness of the two of them together, the inexorability of an impossible thing that was insisting on its right to become.

And, or, maybe: because after he ate the pigs the retribution began, a nocturnal retribution, a punishment of dreams.

3

Once the flight to London had taken off, thanks to his magic trick of crossing two pairs of fingers on each hand and rotating his thumbs, the narrow, fortyish fellow who sat in a non-smoking window seat watching the city of his birth fall away from him like old snakeskin allowed a relieved expression to pass briefly across his face. This face was handsome in a somewhat sour, patrician fashion, with long, thick, downturned lips like those of a disgusted turbot, and thin eyebrows arching sharply over eyes that watched the world with a kind of alert contempt. Mr. Saladin Chamcha had constructed this face with care -- it had taken him several years to get it just right -- and for many more years now he had thought of it simply as _his own_ -- indeed, he had forgotten what he had looked like before it. Furthermore, he had shaped himself a voice to go with the face, a voice whose languid, almost lazy vowels contrasted disconcertingly with the sawn--off abruptness of the consonants. The combination of face and voice was a potent one; but, during his recent visit to his home town, his first such visit in fifteen years (the exact period, I should observe, of Gibreel Farishta's film stardom), there had been strange and worrying developments. It was unfortunately the case that his voice (the first to go) and, subsequently, his face itself, had begun to let him down.

It started -- Chamcha, allowing fingers and thumbs to relax and hoping, in some embarrassment, that his last remaining superstition had gone unobserved by his fellow-passengers, closed his eyes and remembered with a delicate shudder of horror -- on his flight east some weeks ago. He had fallen into a torpid sleep, high above the desert sands of the Persian Gulf, and been visited in a dream by a bizarre stranger, a man with a glass skin, who rapped his knuckles mournfully against the thin, brittle membrane covering his entire body and begged Saladin to help him, to release him from the prison of his skin. Chamcha picked up a stone and began to batter at the glass. At once a latticework of blood oozed up through the cracked surface of the stranger's body, and when Chamcha tried to pick off the broken shards the other began to scream, because chunks of his flesh were coming away with the glass. At this point an air stewardess bent over the sleeping Chamcha and demanded, with the pitiless hospitality of her tribe: _Something to drink, sir? A drink?_, and Saladin, emerging from the dream, found his speech unaccountably metamorphosed into the Bombay lilt he had so diligently (and so long ago!) unmade. "Achha, means what?" he mumbled. "Alcoholic beverage or what?" And, when the stewardess reassured him, whatever you wish, sir, all beverages are gratis, he heard, once again, his traitor voice: "So, okay, bibi, give one whiskysoda only."

What a nasty surprise! He had come awake with a jolt, and sat stiffly in his chair, ignoring alcohol and peanuts. How had the past bubbled up, in transmogrified vowels and vocab? What next? Would he take to putting coconut-oil in his hair? Would he take to squeezing his nostrils between thumb and forefinger, blowing noisily and drawing forth a glutinous silver arc of muck? Would he become a devotee of professional wrestling? What further, diabolic humiliations were in store? He should have known it was a mistake to _go home_, after so long, how could it be other than a regression; it was an unnatural journey; a denial of time; a revolt against history; the whole thing was bound to be a disaster.

_I'm not myself_, he thought as a faint fluttering feeling began in the vicinity of his heart. But what does that mean, anyway, he added bitterly. After all, "les acteurs ne sont pas des gens", as the great ham Frederick had explained in _Les Enfants du Paradis_. Masks beneath masks until suddenly the bare bloodless skull.

The seatbelt light came on, the captain's voice warned of air turbulence, they dropped in and out of air pockets. The desert lurched about beneath them and the migrant labourer who had boarded at Qatar clutched at his giant transistor radio and began to retch. Chamcha noticed that the man had not fastened his belt, and pulled himself together, bringing his voice back to its haughtiest English pitch. "Look here, why don't you. . ." he indicated, but the sick man, between bursts of heaving into the paper bag which Saladin had handed him just in time, shook his head, shrugged, replied: "Sahib, for what? If Allah wishes me to die, I shall die. If he does not, I shall not. Then of what use is the safety?"

Damn you, India, Saladin Chamcha cursed silently, sinking back into his seat. To hell with you, I escaped your clutches long ago, you won't get your hooks into me again, you cannot drag me back.

Once upon a time -- _it was and it was not so_, as the old stories used to say, _it happened and it never did_ -- maybe, then, or maybe not, a ten-year-old boy from Scandal Point in Bombay found a wallet lying in the Street outside his home. He was on the way home from school, having just descended from the school bus on which he had been obliged to sit squashed between the adhesive sweatiness of boys in shorts and be deafened by their noise, and because even in those days he was a person who recoiled from raucousness, jostling and the perspiration of strangers he was feeling faintly nauseated by the long, bumpy ride home. However, when he saw the black leather billfold lying at his feet, the nausea vanished, and he bent down excitedly and grabbed, -- opened, -- and found, to his delight, that it was full of cash, -- and not merely rupees, but real money, negotiable on black markets and international exchanges, -- pounds! Pounds sterling, from Proper London in the fabled country of Vilayet across the black water and far away. Dazzled by the thick wad of foreign currency, the boy raised his eyes to make sure he had not been observed, and for a moment it seemed to him that a rainbow had arched down to him from the heavens, a rainbow like an angel's breath, like an answered prayer, coming to an end in the very spot on which he stood. His fingers trembled as they reached into the wallet, towards the fabulous hoard.

"Give it." It seemed to him in later life that his father had been spying on him throughout his childhood, and even though Changez Chamchawala was a big man, a giant even, to say nothing of his wealth and public standing, he still always had the lightness of foot and also the inclination to sneak up behind his son and spoil whatever he was doing, whipping the young Salahuddin's bedsheet off at night to reveal the shameful penis in the clutching, red hand. And he could smell money from a hundred and one miles away, even through the stink of chemicals and fertilizer that always hung around him owing to his being the country's largest manufacturer of agricultural sprays and fluids and artificial dung. Changez Chamchawala, philanthropist, philanderer, living legend, leading light of the nationalist movement, sprang from the gateway of his home to pluck a bulging wallet from his son's frustrated hand. "Tch tch," he admonished, pocketing the pounds sterling, "you should not pick things up from the street. The ground is dirty, and money is dirtier, anyway."

On a shelf of Changez Chamchawala's teak-lined study, beside a ten-volume set of the Richard Burton translation of the Arabian Nights, which was being slowly devoured by mildew and bookworm owing to the deep-seated prejudice against books which led Changez to own thousands of the pernicious things in order to humiliate them by leaving them to rot unread, there stood a magic lamp, a brightly polished copper--and--brass avatar of Aladdin's very own genie-container: a lamp begging to be rubbed. But Changez neither rubbed it nor permitted it to be rubbed by, for example, his son. "One day," he assured the boy, "you'll have it for yourself. Then rub and rub as much as you like and see what doesn't come to you. Just now, but, it is mine." The promise of the magic lamp infected Master Salahuddin with the notion that one day his troubles would end and his innermost desires would be gratified, and all he had to do was wait it out; but then there was the incident of the wallet, when the magic of a rainbow had worked for him, not for his father but for him, and Changez Chamchawala had stolen the crock of gold. After that the son became convinced that his father would smother all his hopes unless he got away, and from that moment he became desperate to leave, to escape, to place oceans between the great man and himself.

Salahuddin Chamchawala had understood by his thirteenth year that he was destined for that cool Vilayet full of the crisp promises of pounds sterling at which the magic billfold had hinted, and he grew increasingly impatient of that Bombay of dust, vulgarity, policemen in shorts, transvestites, movie fanzines, pavement sleepers and the rumoured singing whores of Grant Road who had begun as devotees of the Yellamma cult in Karnataka but ended up here as dancers in the more prosaic temples of the flesh. He was fed up of textile factories and local trains and all the confusion and superabundance of the place, and longed for that dream-Vilayet of poise and moderation that had come to obsess him by night and day. His favourite playground rhymes were those that yearned for foreign cities: kitchy--con kitchy-ki kitchy-con stanty-eye kitchy-ople kitchy-cople kitchyCon-stanti-nople. And his favourite game was the version ofgrandmother's footsteps in which, when he was it, he would turn his back on upcreeping playmates to gabble out, like a mantra, like a spell, the six letters of his dream--city, _ellowen deeowen_. In his secret heart, he crept silently up on London, letter by letter, just as his friends crept up to him. _Ellowen deeowen London_.

The mutation of Salahuddin Chamchawala into Saladin Chamcha began, it will be seen, in old Bombay, long before he got close enough to hear the lions of Trafalgar roar. When the England cricket team played India at the Brabourne Stadium, he prayed for an England victory, for the game's creators to defeat the local upstarts, for the proper order of things to be maintained. (But the games were invariably drawn, owing to the featherbed somnolence of the Brabourne Stadium wicket; the great issue, creator versus imitator, colonizer against colonized, had perforce to remain unresolved.)

In his thirteenth year he was old enough to play on the rocks at Scandal Point without having to be watched over by his ayah, Kasturba. And one day (it was so, it was not so), he strolled out of the house, that ample, crumbling, salt-caked building in the Parsi style, all columns and shutters and little balconies, and through the garden that was his father's pride and joy and which in a certain evening light could give the impression of being infinite (and which was also enigmatic, an unsolved riddle, because nobody, not his father, not the gardener, could tell him the names of most of the plants and trees), and out through the main gateway, a grandiose folly, a reproduction of the Roman triumphal arch of Septimius Severus, and across the wild insanity of the street, and over the sea wall, and so at last on to the broad expanse of shiny black rocks with their little shrimpy pools. Christian girls giggled in frocks, men with furled umbrellas stood silent and fixed upon the blue horizon. In a hollow of black stone Salahuddin saw a man in a dhoti bending over a pool. Their eyes met, and the man beckoned him with a single finger which he then laid across his lips. _Shh_, and the mystery of rock-pools drew the boy towards the stranger. He was a creature of bone. Spectacles framed in what might have been ivory. His finger curling, curling, like a baited hook, come. When Salahuddin came down the other grasped him, put a hand around his mouth and forced his young hand between old and fleshless legs, to feel the fleshbone there. The dhoti open to the winds. Salahuddin had never known how to fight; he did what he was forced to do, and then the other simply turned away from him and let him go.

After that Salahuddin never went to the rocks at Scandal Point; nor did he tell anyone what had happened, knowing the neurasthenic crises it would unleash in his mother and suspecting that his father would say it was his own fault. It seemed to him that everything loathsome, everything he had come to revile about his home town, had come together in the stranger's bony embrace, and now that he had escaped that evil skeleton he must also escape Bombay, or die. He began to concentrate fiercely upon this idea, to fix his will upon it at all times, eating shitting sleeping, convincing himself that he could make the miracle happen even without his father's lamp to help him out. He dreamed of flying out of his bedroom window to discover that there, below him, was -- not Bombay -- but Proper London itself, Bigben Nelsonscolumn Lordstavern Bloodytower Queen. But as he floated out over the great metropolis he felt himself beginning to lose height, and no matter how hard he struggled kicked swam-in-air he continued to spiral slowly downwards to earth, then faster, then faster still, until he was screaming headfirst down towards the city, Saintpauls, Puddinglane, Threadneedlestreet, zeroing in on London like a bomb.

o o o

[argocitycosplay]

I heard nothing but good things about last winter’s Dark X-Mas. This combined with the stellar gust list they were boasting made it a no-brainer to hit Dark X-Fest this summer. With admission at $15 ($13 if you pre-ordered), the only thing to worry about was getting out there. Hudson is a good drive from me, but it ended up being a shorter ride than I expected, and one hour beats the two and and a half to five hour drives I’ve been known to embark on when I hit out of state shows. Still, the hotel was out in the middle of nowhere and I almost drove past it thinking “This can’t be the place”. Seriously, the desolate and solitary hotel looks like something straight up out of a horror movie. You expect to see bodies in the dumpsters out back and creepy semi-transparent children wandering around the lonely stretches of road outside. I parked in the front, right by the sign (Which said nothing about the convention being at the hotel….), near the entrance I had driven in from. This was not the correct entrance. There was another lobby in the BACK of the hotel that would lead to the convention area. I’d end up moving my car later once I’d gotten my bearings.

A pre-ordered pass allowed you to get into the show a half hour early. If you were counting on that however, you were out of luck. The doors were open, but half the vendors and most of the guests weren’t there. The entire show started about a half hour behind it’s posted schedule and that’s a really bad way to kick off the day. I wasn’t pleased. After the poor organization at the last two shows I’d been to this year, I really wasn’t in the mood for more. It would cause them to run a half hour late for most of the day and eventually jettison the Sleepaway Camp panel altogether to catch up (Monster Bash usually runs late like this as well, but that’s because events run long, not because they start late).

The vendor’s room itself was well planned and flowed., set up into two distinct segments. An electric chair  was visible as you wandered in and if you dared to sit down in it the chair would light up and vibrate with a lout buzzing. I found a group of guest in the back but was confused – I could swear there were more. I exited the dealer’s room in search of the movie room and panel room. There was an alcove that opened up past the inflatable Pennywise clown. Before a long hallway, there were doors to the “Chainsaw Room”. All the guests from TCM as well as some makeup guests were there.

Down the hall and guarded by a giant Stay Puft marshmallow man, one room was set aside for movies, and another, with chairs and tables served as the panel room. It was like a small classroom from college, with each row elevated above the other. The guest would sit at the bottom and talk. The room filled up fast, with the tables actually limiting how many people could watch a panel. Fortunately, the attendance was low enough to mostly accommodate the setting, and only a few people ended up sitting on the floor to listen to gusts talk about their work.

Autographs were generally $20-$30, and most people weren’t upcharging for photos. All of this was a nice change from the gouging that’s been pervading the con scene lately. Makeup artist Alan Tuske wouldn’t take any money for autographs (“I’m just here to hang out with the fans!”) and Walking Dead zombie Dusty Horne would only take five dollars if you brought your own piece, then he’d insist on taking photos (“Lets do one normal, and then one scary one!”). Even Alyssa Levine, Zelda from the new Pet Semetary film, was only charging $20 (I’m seeing WAY to many new actors asking for twice that).

Felissa Rose’s line was halfway down the length of the vendors room early in the day. I figured I’d bide my time and by the time I finally got around to her, the line was gone and she was chatting with Paul T. Taylor (The newest Pinhead from Hellraiser Judgement) from the table next to her. As I approached they greeted me and included me in the conversation.

“…and a lot of times, it’s like you get just a side eye,” Felissa was saying.

“Well, that’s the thing,” Paul replied. “One eye is safe. It’s casual, but two eyes is intimate. Looking someone into bot of their eyes creates a connection.” He mimed looking at her with one eye, and then gave her both. She turned to me and looked into both my eyes. I almost immediately felt uncomfortable, but suppressed an urge to turn. Paul was right. This was more intimate, and I hadn’t even realized it.

“That’s exactly it,”Paul explained. “We don’t even realize we’re doing it.” Felissa nodded as Paul pulled out his phone. “Especially since we’re always walking around like this – “he then stared with both eyes at the screen. Felissa laughed and shook.

“Wow,” she said.

“I know,” Paul said with some disbelief. “That was a hell of a pep talk…”

“That was totally better than an energy drink!” Felissa continued to laugh as she greeted me in earnest. I unrolled my Victor Crowley poster. The last time I’d spoken with Felissa it had been right after I went to see the movie during Adam Green’s tour. When we’d chatted about it she was able to tell her assistant about how he’d done it in secret. “It was like Finally! I’d been dying to tell someone and she is one of my best friends and I was about to burst!”. I’d just recently re-watched it in preparation for the con. I still think. it’s the best in all the Hatchet series, and Felissa is the best thing about it, something I told her. Seriously, I want to see more of that character from her.

“Oh my God, when Adam told me what I had to do with her I was just like I can’t!” It really is a horrible character and brilliantly broad comedy. I slipped her the cash fot the autograph and after she handed me change, she stopped me.

“Hang on, I really want to sign something TO you. Grab a photo from the table.” I did and she signed it to me, then insisted on taking photos with me. She hugged me and and told me to come out for karaoke later. I mentioned that if I did, it would be with a different face (and a Jason puppet) She screamed in delight and promised to watch for me. I love Felissa. She’s always one of my favorite guests.

Paul T. Taylor is no slouch either. He gets a lot of hate from certain parts of the Hellraiser fan base who really believe only Doug Bradley can be Pinhead. I’m not one of those people though I’ll readily admit I prefer Doug. So does Paul for that matter.

Paul is fun to talk to – he’s a real fan who’s steeped in the lore, from the movies to the comics (as far as  talking about how much he’d love to see Kirsty as Pinhead, the way the Boom series had done). It was really illuminating to talk to him about how he approached the character as well as how the movie had been reshot at the close of filming. The original ending was actually completely different, and made way more sense than what actually made it to film. I did a re-watch of Judgment when I got home with a whole new appreciation for the film.

One of the nice things about the recent horror cons popping up in Ohio is the familiar faces. With more in the immediate area, I’m far more likely to have friends there to hang out with. I spied Jason and Tina unloading their car as I moved from the front of the hotel to the back where the entrance was. He greeted me and let me know Beetlejuice would be down later. Inside, I rounded a corner and comletely unexpectedly ran into Jen and Mark, in a group with Jennifer and Chris. I haven’t seen these guys in a while and it was good to be able to hang out for a while. Sarah was set up at a vendor’s table and Steve Eggs caught up with me just after I gored up. Randy was there with teh Retro invasion and Lily absolutely need a photo with me. Mark showed up with his wife Erin and the Black Leaf Coven decked out in thier creepy finest. It was cool to actually be able to see Cliff in his new burlap costume. He’d been showing me photos at the screening of Annabelle Comes Home, but in person is a whole different experience.

Mark caught me as I was popping outside and between drags of a cigarette asked when I was getting made up.

“Right now!,” I exclaimed, heading to my car to make the transformation into Freddy Kruger. Freddy wasn’t a capricious choice, I had actually run another poll during the week to see what people wanted to see creeping around Dark X-Fest. It was a much closer result than the previous one. Uncle Frank took an early lead, but ultimately Freddy prevailed.

I actually went into makeup early, because the day was hot. At 92 degrees outside, I was worried about how my Freddy makeup was holding up in the hot car. Even with the windows down, the temperature is enough to melt glue and dry latex. I had my appliance spread out around my had like a dummy head, keeping it streched and preventing pieces from sticking together. Still, there was some separation by the nose. No biggie. I’d planned on doing patchups anyhow. When the photos came back from Free Comic Book Day, I noticed that the beard by the corner of my mouth hadn’t been entirely covered by the chin and latex. I’d resolved to fix that with this application. I flattened my facial hair with beeswax and applied the adhesives. Between repairs, application and coloring with makeup and blood gel, the entire process only took a satisfying forty minuets. I’d be done in time for the Hellraiser panel. There had been paint leftover from fixing up Mr. Freeze for Akron Canton Comic Con last week, so I had used some on my glove to help make the blades look more metal than plastic. I had brought the ripped sweater that opened to reveal Freddy’s chest of souls. To push the absurdity just a touch further I’d be carrying a large puppet Jason with me. He’d actually been built a couple of years prior with this very idea in mind, but it happened to take me this long to break out Freddy again.

I had decided to go hard with the costume this time around since the show was sponsoring  a costume contest. While this isn’t exactly as common in the horror convention scene as it is with comicons, it does seem to be filtering in slowly. A lot of haunters love these kind of shows and are eager for the opportunity to strut thier stuff. With only one winner in the adult and kids categories though, I wasn’t expecting to nab a win, but wanted to make a good showing. To my delight, the trophy went to Mark’s Black Leaf Coven. I love it when good things happen to my friends. But even better was who won the kids/teen division. The previous week I had gushed over a killer Ronald McDonald at Akron Canton Comic Con. It was my absolute favorite costume that day and I was disappointing she didn’t win any awards there. She won the kids/teen division at Dark X-Fast and it absolutely made my day (especially beating out that Michael Myers as a furry…..don’t ask).

As the day was winding down I had finally discovered where the show had been hiding Alan Tuskes (in the back corner of the Chainsaw room, past the vendors). I nipped out to the car and grabbed my folder of Items to be signed. As I was coming in I was greeted by a dude with half his face gone. he was hanging out with a reasonable facimile of Glen from Nightmare on Elm Street who both wanted to chat and take photos. We ran over to where the pro photo ops had been – they were done now so we borrowed thier backdrop to take our own pictures. Freddy fought the baseball bat and gored Glen as amused passerbys watched.

We talked a little about our outfits and upcoming plans. The dude wanted to get a Brain Damage costume going with an articulate Elmier. I mentioned that I loved doing suits were things ride on the shoulder and described how I had gotten Baby Groot and my Borg Tribble to sit on my shoulder using magnets. His eyes went wide.

“I never thought of mounting him with magnets! Dude, this is what I love about cons and talking to other cosplayers. The way other people figure out how to do things a way you’d never come up with yourself!”

Finally I was making my way over to Tuskes. I actually caught him on the way over to the dealers room (which I feel bad about), but he was excited to talk – he’d been watching my exchange with the other guys. He poked my chest of souls with an index finger.

“Is that…?” he inquired knowingly. I nodded in acknowledgement. “Great stuff. That expanding foam stuff for cracks and insulation.” He loved it and waved me to follow him over to his corner. Tuskes looked over my collection of pictures appreciatively. As he came to the Dusk Till Dawn 8×10, he asked if I’d ever heard the story of how the film got made. I admitted I haden’t and he proceeded to spin the yarn about Tarintino’s early days at the video store and how the script originally came to him before he really hit. After True Romance and Resivoir Dogs, the studio were asking if he had anything more. Out of his back pocket came Dusk Till Dawn, but he couldn’t direct it. I’m sure this is a story most peole have heard, but it’s exactly what I love about these kind of shows, hearing the stories of the industry straight from the mouths of those who were there. 

I found myself so busy during the show that I only made it to about half of one film. I should have spent more time in that movie room. It was about ten degrees cooler than the rest of the convention space. Still, it was worth it. I caught both the Hellraiser panel and the Sean Whalen’s talk. I had stuck around so I could see the Sleepaway camp panel next (which never happened) and found my self captivated by his stories – and the image of homer Simpson in a moo-moo on his shirt.

I probably ended up staying later than I intended to, but thats the sing onf a good show.despite the bad start, I really came away from Dark X-Fest feeling like I’d gotten a real convention experiance and had a great time. I’m really digging this show and hope to make it out to the Dark X-Mas show later this year.

  Dark X-Fest 2019 I heard nothing but good things about last winter's Dark X-Mas. This combined with the stellar gust list they were boasting made it a no-brainer to hit Dark X-Fest this summer.

[rob-blog1234]

BANK HOLIDAY WEEKEND TV HOT FILM PICKS!

Check out my guide to the top films on TV this extended weekend, Friday through to Monday and the best of the rest. Enjoy!

LATE FRIDAY 28th APRIL

HOT PICKS!

ITV2 @ 2100     Shaun of the Dead (2004) *****

Edgar Wright has created something rather special here. This film really proved his capacity for film making. It’s intelligent yet silly but packed full of enough quality jokes to make this a firm favourite that will make you laugh out loud every single time you see it. Pegg and Frost’s tag team are perfect here and the hilarious script is executed with comedy precision dealing some of the best quotable lines ever. I don’t think I’ll be able to order a Cornetto without a smirk ever again.

ITV4 @ 2300       Beetlejuice (1988) *****

I’ve always been a big fan of Michael Keaton and here he pulls out an astounding performance as the green haired, un-dead and thoroughly unpleasant Beetlejuice. A young couple are in a fatal accident and find themselves as poltergeists in their home. As the fail to scare away the new owners of their family home they call upon the crazy striped suited scare monger to help them out. But all is not as it seems. The pace of this horror comedy is relentless and always a delight to watch. Creative, crazy and full of carnage - this is a Tim Burton film we all can enjoy before we got fed up with his insistence of churning out the same old formula. When’s the last time you saw Beetlejuice? No doubt too long ago. Get this on your watch list.

Best of the rest:

Film4 @ 2100      Speed (1994) ****

W @ 2240            Little Miss Sunshine (2006) *****

Syfy @ 2300        Paranormal Activity (2007) ****

Film4 @ 2315      Darkman (1990) ****

BBC1 @ 2355      Fright Night (2011) ***

C4 @ 0010           Attack the Block (2011) ***

5* @ 0020            The Town (2010) ****

SATURDAY 29th APRIL

HOT PICKS!

5* @ 1300       Teen Wolf (1985) *****

This is one of the films that always holds a place in my heart… I love it a little more than it deserves, but who cares. Michael J. Fox is Scott Howard, an average kid who plays for his unsuccessful school basketball team and works part time for his Dad in the local Hardware store. He is fed up of being so average and craves for excitement and success, but he could have never prepared for what happens next. Scott soon realises he comes from a family of Werewolves as one night at a party he begins to go through changes that alter the course of his school life, basketball success and relationships with his family and friends, forever. Teen Wolf is a great bit of 80’s family fun; Michael J. Fox is in his prime and really makes this film a success. With a great 80’s soundtrack and a superb story, Teen Wolf has everything you need for Weekend film escapism. It’s great fun, full of comedy and certainly has the feel good factor.

BBC2 @ 2130      Calvary (2014) *****

How can a film whose opening line is "I first tasted semen when I was seven years old" and a storyline revolving around abuse, revenge, murder and with a consistent undertone of grimness still hold up - and dare I say it be a pleasant experience? Well its amazing balance of quirk with some perfectly placed comedy gives for an interesting emotional ride - I just do not know how it works - but somehow Michael McDonagh - who we have to thank for the excellent buddy cop movie "The Guard" - has woven these inexplicably polarized emotional reactions into a quite perfect dark toned drama with an odd comedy edge. Just writing it doesn't sound right - but you'll see what I mean. Brendan Gleeson is the Priest of a remote Irish Village and from the offset we are reassured he is not involved in any of the awful themes this film navigates. This film dances with serious subjects and beliefs, it steers you from interest, laughter, shock and disgust with an ease that is testament to McDonagh's vision for this film. Its storytelling is spot on and a score and cinematography that on subsequent watches I appreciated even more. This film left me pretty much stunned on first watch and even with its sombre overall feel, it haunted me until a re-watch and continues to do so to this day.

Film4 @ 0025      Troll Hunter (2010) ****

A fantastic addition to the super saturated genre of found footage films. This an example of how it should be done. From the very moment “TROLL!” is yelled I guarantee you will be hooked and when anyone asks you if you’ve seen the film, instead of responding “yes” you are bound to yell “Troll” in their face. The film is silly but with a dramatic edge, it’s ludicrous but the dialogue is so natural, which was impressively mostly ad-libbed. Different to a lot of it found footage poor relations, Troll Hunter gets two big, troll sized, thumbs up for the CGI, the special effects are stunning and add an important vein of quality to the film which is what all successful found footage films need to not feel cheap or just look amateurish. Troll Hunter is a great bit of fun bringing an original edge to a stagnating genre. Watch this.

Best of the rest:

C4 @ 2100         Carol (2015) ****

Syfy @ 2100       Outbreak (1995) ***

W @ 2200          Goodfellas (1990) *****

ITV4 @ 2205      The Devil's Advocate (1997) *****

TCM @ 2310      Escape from LA (1996) ***

C4 @ 2320          Zombieland (2009) ****

ITV4 @ 2355       Don't Say a Word (2001) ***

Gold @ 0010      Little Miss Sunshine (2006) *****

Dave @ 0045     Kill Bill Vol 1 (2003) *****

SUNDAY 30th APRIL

HOT PICKS!

C5 @ 1800      Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991) *****

This is one of my guilty pleasures. I adore this film and it is one of my most watched films to date. It is my favourite Robin Hood film packed full of action and comedy. The very American Kevin Costner robs the rich to feed the poor along with his Moorish companion Azeem played by Morgan Freeman. After an escape from their imprisonment by the Turks during the Crusades, Robin and Azeem arrive in England to find Robin’s home and world have been turned upside down. His father has been murdered for crimes he did not commit. Robin swears to avenge his fathers’ death and is pitted against the Sheriff of Nottingham who is brought life by the great Alan Rickman in one of his most memorable performances. He has some of the best lines in the film and adds an edge of brilliance to an already great film. It’s full of adventure and action with stunning rural backdrops of a medieval England. I just dare you not to enjoy yourself - it’s a great film for kids and adults alike.

BBC2 @ 2300      Drive (2011) *****

My top film of 2011 by a long mark. Nicolas Winding Refn goes from strength to strength. Subtle, stunning, a stellar soundtrack and great performances from everyone involved. The glances and looks between Mulligan and Gosling are brilliant. So much is said with so few words. Refn is my currently one of my favourite Directors. Each and every shot is perfect in this film. After ump-teen re-watches, it simply gets better and better. This will no doubt become cult cool. In my book it already is.

C4 @ 0005      Mud (2012) ****

McConaughey confirmed he was back in style and an actor to watch in recent years. This was 100% confirmed with Mud. He pays a fugitive who is living on a remote island in the Mississippi, after an encounter with two adventurous teenage boys, they strike up a tenuous friendship and they agree to help him escape the island. A quality, realistic drama which sticks you right in the centre of this very authentic time and place. Directed by Jeff Nichols who we have to thank for the equally good Take Shelter and has his most recent film Midnight Special was fantastic. Tackling some interesting issues with calibre and style. This is an all American drama not to be missed.

Best of the rest:

ITV1 @ 1600        On Her Majesty's Secret Service (1969) ****

Horror @ 2100    Tucker and Dale Vs. Evil (2010) ****

TCM @ 2100        Escape from LA (1996) ***

ITV4 @ 2205        Beetlejuice (1988) *****

Film4 @ 0120      The Player (1992) ****

MONDAY 1st MAY

HOT PICKS!

Dave @ 1200       Kelly's Heroes (1970) *****

Kelly’s Heroes is one of my most watched war films. Well, it’s more of a heist film that just so happens to be set slap bang in the middle of a war zone in WW2. It’s very funny and from the very start Telly Savalas’s rants put a smile on your face and you know exactly what you are in for. The cast are the main driver for this film’s success with a host of interesting and outrageous characters from Telly Savalas’s larger than life Big Joe to Donald Sutherland’s stoner hippy tank driver, Oddball. It certainly doesn’t scrimp on the action either and there are enough bullets and explosions to take down a small country. It’s not all fun and frolics and it still has a few satirical barbs thrown in for good measure. Kelly’s Heroes is a fantastically fun film. Watch this.

BBC1 @ 2030       Saving Mr. Banks (2013) ****

I absolutely love Mary Poppins - such a great film that I grew up watching it over and over - loving it’s fantastical world each and every time - so I came into Saving Mr. Banks very much looking forward to a view on how this piece of my childhood was brought to the big screen. Tom Hanks plays Walt Disney who is desperately trying to get the rights for Mary Poppins signed off from the Emma Thompson’s stubborn P.L. Travers who holds the story very close to her as a personal and private affair. Thompson’s character is frustrating to the core but this simply builds on the reward for the developments she (and we as an audience) witness. Charming, funny albeit a little sickly sweet in parts - it certainly pressed all my buttons. It made me immediately want to escape back into the world of the wonderful Mary Poppins once again.

Film4 @ 2315      The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014) *****

The Grand Budapest Hotel is Wes Anderson’s most substantial & accomplished film yet. Beautifully rich with a cast to die for. Ralph Fiennes is nothing short of perfect. His versatility and comedy timing is truly impressive and will be difficult to match. This still firmly remains my top film of 2014. It was and is a pure pleasure to re-watch every time.

Best of the rest:

ITV4 @ 1600      Superman (1978) *****

Syfy @ 2100       Robot Overlords (2014) ***

5* @ 2100          The Equalizer (2014) ***

TCM @ 2100      Zoolander (2001) ***