#he’s seeing that one gif from the oscar wild movie

[atinylittlepain]

ok so given that the oscars just happened, imagine a joel x actress!reader. before everything went to shit joel was a normal human being who loved watching movies and like any basic person had a celebrity crush. fast forward and the world has gone to shit and joel and ellie (and maybe tommy too) go on a patrol that goes wrong and get saved by miss “i just smashed a guys head in with my oscar” or something like that, just a fluff and fun imagine that isnt gonna break my heart in a million pieces like last nights episode

oh my god, your mindddddd - I love this idea :)

Big Fan

Joel Miller x actress!reader

Joel Miller masterlist

Joel recognizes her right away. After all, she starred in his favorite movie of all time.

warnings | 18+ a little angst, nothing wild, this is fluff through and through

Read part two!

.......................

“Are you–”

“I am.”

“You were in–”

“I was.”

“Well I’ll be damned.” 

“Alright, somebody better start speaking in full sentences, because I have no clue what the hell is going on.” Joel huffs, glancing at Ellie who's looking at him like he’s gone crazy, her gun still cocked at the woman in front of them.

“What? You don’t recognize her, kid? I just showed you Curtis and Viper.” Ellie’s brow furrows, but then she looks back at the woman and her eyes finally widen in recognition.

“Holy shit.” The woman laughs, eyes still focused on the barrel of Ellie’s gun.

“That’s not usually the movie people recognize me from. But I suppose it was my big break.” Joel nudges Ellie, muttering for her to put her “damn gun away, jesus christ,” and she quickly tucks it back in her belt.

He’s trying to not be weird right now, they did just kill five clickers together, but he’s finding it hard not to lose his cool over the woman who had been a silly crush of his since he first saw that cheap action movie as a teenager. He knows she did much better films afterward, remembers hovering behind the couch one night while Sarah was watching one of those awards shows, lingering just a bit longer when he saw her giving an acceptance speech with a blinding smile in a dress that probably cost more than his house. She’s certainly less elegant-looking now, but even after twenty years in a world like this, he can’t help the quick kick of his heart at actually meeting this woman in the flesh.

He clears his throat, also trying to clear his mind.

“Are you alone?” She sighs, wiping the blade of her knife on her jeans before sliding it back into its sheath.

“I wasn’t, and then I was. We were headed toward a settlement we heard about, I think a bit further north from here?” Joel keeps his expression steady, but can feel Ellie glancing at him. Movie star or not, he knows they have to be careful about who finds out about Jackson. But apparently, this woman isn’t just pretty, and she seems to pick up on the heavy pause after what she said.

“Do you two know about the place I’m talking about? Are we close?” Joel, sighs, looking at Ellie before making a decision that Tommy is probably going to smack him for later.

“We, um– we’re from there, actually. If you’re talking about where I think you’re talking about.” She huffs out a laugh, and offers them that megawatt smile Joel remembers seeing on his TV screen. Ellie, meanwhile, scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest as she glares at Joel.

“No shit. Do you think you have room for one more?” Joel’s eyes dart once more to Ellie, just seeing the subtle shake of her head, but he chooses to ignore it. How could he say no to the woman who had, embarrassingly, been one of his first wet dreams?

“You’ll have to talk with my brother, but I’m sure you’ll be welcome to stay on.” Megawatt, megawatt, megawatt. He reckons that smile could melt steel beams.

…

“Joel, what the fuck–”

“Ellie–”

“No, what are you thinking? If not Tommy, Maria’s gonna be so pissed she’ll probably cut your balls off.” He shushes the girl, glancing ahead at the woman hiking further in front of them.

“Look, she’s all alone– hardly a threat– and she’s looking for somewhere to stay–” She scoffs.

“Oh, so this has nothing to do with the way your eyeballs practically popped out of your head just looking at her?” He grumbles, hand tightening around the strap of his rifle.

“You just mind your own business, alright? I’ll take care of it.” Ellie huffs, starting to trudge further ahead of him, but not before muttering out “whatever you say, fanboy.” Joel is stunned still by her words.

“Where the hell did you get that word from?” She turns on her heel, walking backwards for a beat as she smirks at him.

“One of those old magazines. Pretty sure she was on the front page if you wanna borrow it.” Before he can get a word in edgewise, she’s already turning back around and continuing their hike back to Jackson.

…

“Holy shit. Joel, look who it is!” Joel grunts, nudging Tommy out of his starstruck stupor.

“Yeah, I know. Just hiked five miles with her.” Tommy laughs, slapping him on the back before grinning at her.

“It’s real nice to meet you. You know, Joel here had your poster on his bedroom wall–” The nudge he gives his brother this time is a little less friendly, causing Tommy to grumble and rub his arm. She, however, takes it in stride, laughing lightly as she shifts in her boots.

“I’m flattered, really. It’s, um, it’s nice to meet you, Tommy.” Tommy’s eyes go wide.

“I can’t believe you just said my name. This is crazy–”

“Tommy.” Joel cuts his brother off with a hard look before he embarrasses himself anymore. He clears his throat, seeming to get a hold of himself as Joel continues.

“She had been traveling with a group, looking for this place. She’s the only one left though. Was hoping to join the town.” Tommy grins again, glancing between her and Joel.

“Well, I’m sure we can make that happen. I think Joel would kill me if I didn’t let–” He squeezes Tommy’s shoulder hard, willing him to shut his mouth. 

“That little house next to ours is still empty. Why don’t we set her up there?” Tommy’s smile at his brother’s words is all too smug for Joel’s taste, but he still nods, turning his attention back to her.

“If that’s alright with you, ma’am. I’ll let the folks know to turn the gas and electric back on for that place.” She smiles brightly at that.

“That would be amazing. Thank you so much. I owe you all big time.” Tommy snorts.

“I’m pretty sure you can pay Joel back with an autograph, he’d probably cre—“ Joel’s heard enough, resorting to kicking Tommy in the ankle to shut him up. Ellie huffs from where she’s watching their pathetic display.

“Alright, well if you two freaks are done making fools of yourselves, I’ll show her over to that house.” 

…

When Joel gets home, the first thing he does is look at that DVD. He had found it a week or two ago on a patrol shift, left in a hollowed-out RV. Ellie was less than impressed and Maria refused to show it at movie night because it’s so gory, but he held onto it anyways. He can still remember going to see it in the theater with Tommy, both of them too young to get in if not for their friend working the ticket booth. He flips the case over in his hands, and sure enough, there she is on the back cover, looking impossibly beautiful while firing a machine gun. What’s not to like, right?

He’s broken out of his revelry by the sound of the front door opening, and soon enough, Ellie is stomping up the stairs to come looking for him. When she finds him in his bedroom, sitting on the end of his bed, she glances at the DVD he’s holding, a grin spreading over her face.

“Just like you remember, huh, old man?” He grumbles, getting up to set the movie back on the bookshelf before turning back to Ellie.

“She settling in alright?” She hums, nodding lightly.

“Yep, made a beeline for a shower. Told me to thank you. I told her you’d be coming around for your autograph later.” His face crumples in indignation while Ellie lets out a cackle.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. But in all seriousness, I think she’s interested– in you– which pains me to even say, but, I figure you deserve to know that the woman of your pubescent dreams was asking questions about you.” Joel’s jaw goes slack, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead.

“She– she was asking about me?” Ellie nods around a smirk.

“Mmhmm. And I told her you’re a grumpy old bum who doesn’t take kindly to strangers.” He huffs, but she laughs again.

“Sorry, kidding again. I didn’t tell her much. Just that you’ll be around. But if I were you, I’d “be around” sooner rather than later, before the rest of Jackson gets a piece of her. Snatch her up before there’s sweeter bait to bite down on, you know?” He thinks briefly that he needs to see just what sort of magazines this kid is reading, because he can’t quite believe what’s coming out of her mouth. He grumbles, shaking his head at her antics.

“There ain’t gonna be any snatching going on. Just mind your–” She huffs, already walking out of his room.

“Mind my business, yeah, yeah, I know. But think about what I said, old man. Better cast your line quick for this one. My guess is you weren’t the only one who had her poster in your bedroom back before.” 

He’s not letting that kid read magazines anymore.

…

When he steps out on his porch later in the afternoon, fully intent on what Ellie has affectionately started calling his “adult nap time,” he’s interrupted by someone calling his name. He catches sight of her sitting on the porch of the little house next door, waving and smiling at him like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Hey, neighbor.” He tentatively waves back, but that doesn’t seem to satisfy her as she motions for him to join her. He sighs, rather stiffly walking over to her porch and joining her on the bench seat, keeping a very respectable distance between them. Clickers, raiders, general imminent danger, he can handle. Pretty lady? That’s touchy. Pretty lady who he imagined marrying as a teenager? Just put him out of his misery already. He knows it’s ridiculous, that none of that matters now. She’s just as worn and weathered as the rest of them by this crumbled world. But that smile she keeps flashing him might just bring him to his knees.

“I wanted to thank you– for bringing me along. I was, uh, starting to lose hope back there a little bit.” He nods, glancing at her.

“No need for thanks. Just the right thing to do in this world. I’m sorry– about your group. I don’t know what happened, but that couldn’t have been easy being out there on your own.” She shrugs, waving off his sentiment.

“It was barely a group to begin with. Just some folks who happened to get out of the San Francisco QZ together.” His brain is quickly trying to knit together the movie star he remembers from the past and this woman who sits before him now, an obvious edge to her.

“Were you in California? Back when everything…” She nods, her face set in a grim look.

“LA, where else? Now that was a nightmare. I bet the only worse place to be when everything went down was New York. Bodies everywhere. Don’t think I’ll ever forget it.” She lets out a humorless laugh before glancing at him.

“That movie you like so much? I remember when I got the role, I had no idea how I was gonna pull it off. Grizzled heroine with a dark past and a penchant for violence. I was nothing like her. But now, I feel a whole lot more like her and a whole lot less like me.” She sighs, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I dumped that on you.” Joel is quick to shake his head, leaning over his thighs to catch her gaze.

“No, no. I get it– in my own way, I guess. The world changed and– we had to change with it.” That coaxes a crooked smile out of her as she looks at him. A simple silence descends between them as they share quiet smiles. She finally giggles, scrunching her nose at him.

“That girl– Ellie? I think she said something about you wanting an autograph?” Joel can feel the hot blush creeping up his neck as his face goes slack. She just splits out in a laugh, tipping her head back in delight.

“I’m sorry, I’m kidding. But, you know, what I went by, what people still call me, that isn’t my real name.” Joel’s eyebrows quirk up and she sighs, shaking her head.

“Just a stage name. I don’t really mind people calling me that, but can I tell you my real name?” He can feel the smile tugging at his mouth as he nods. Before he knows what she’s doing, she’s taking his hand into her lap, slowly tracing out her name with her finger across his palm. An autograph, of sorts. He’s pretty sure his brain short-circuits, just barely stringing together her name as she finishes. He murmurs it lowly and she offers him her brightest smile yet, still holding his hand lightly in her own.

“And you’re Joel, right?” He’s only a little embarrassed by how quickly he nods.

“Mmhmm. Miller– Joel Miller, yep.” She lets out a breathy laugh, now clasping his hand in a firm shake.

“It’s nice to really meet you, Joel Miller.” 

[railingsofsorrow]

New Traditions

[spencer reid x reader]

summary: you bring him coffee from his favorite coffee shop, he brings you your favorite blueberry muffins. it's a silent routine you've established with one another. but maybe, just maybe, you'd like something more than coffee and muffins during work hours. and maybe, just maybe, he'd like that too. 

or. . . in which this is a sequel to this blurb. 

pairing: s.reid x gn!reader

w.c: 4K

warnings/content: spencer & reader being a Simp ™ for e/o; discussion regarding addictions and intoxication; expectations being uphold; friendly banter; I love you but I'll never admit it trope (hang tight with me); self-doubts; language; fluff fluff fluff; making out.

A/N: I guess this can be read as a standalone but it'd make more sense if you read this one first. enjoy! 

navi

masterpost

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When Spencer arrived in the Bureau that morning, he did his usual ritual: place his satchel on his chair and retract immediately to the pantry to make his coffee. He couldn't function without it. Actually, he was pretty certain no one in his team could function in the morning without any type of caffeine. Some of the times, when he was the first to arrive — it's rare, Hotch is always there — he'd prepare a coffee pot, fill up his mug, add seven sachets of sugar and cream, and leave it there for whoever wanted it. 

It was the same thing every day. His routine was drab but he liked it the way it was.

Spencer wouldn't consider himself a person inclined to changes. Everybody knows that and everybody is used to it. But he's accustomed to it. He's came around to the fact that life comes with lots of surprises and unexpectancy, even if he's not fond of it, he's gotta take it and stop whining about it. 

You were the change that made him not despise surprises that much. Your arrival at the BAU was one of the best choices the department made. To the team. And to him, of course. Not that he'd ever tell you that. 

It changed how he felt listened. He was used to being brushed off by his co-workers whenever he started rambling, so much so that he begin to contain his urges to spurt out statistics in random conversations. Then, you came along and actually paid attention to what he was saying in these moments. In every moment, precisely. 

You wouldn't stop asking him about the history of the movies and the snacks they were selling during that night at the Korean Festival. It was a week ago. He wished he could come back to that day and see your mesmerized face as he explained details of the culture. 

He had so much fun. He didn't do it a lot; hanging out. Being with people was totally tangent to his comfort zone. Spencer cherished his alone time. The silence, the peace and the no-need-to-pick-up-on-social-cues part — he was really bad at the latter.

But he loved spending time with you. He'd like to do it more often. If only he was able to stop hyperventilating and shaking whenever he thought about asking you out. 

Not as a date. As friends. Because that's what you were. 

Definitely not as a date. 

That morning, when he arrived at his desk, a coffee sat upon it. Remember those changes he mentioned? Yeah. This is one of them. You started bringing him coffee from his favourite coffee shop near Quantico. And it was his exact order. 

He felt his heart swell every time he'd see your messy handwriting in the cup holder. 

“Did you know that Mr. Oscar Wilde had a photographic memory? He was able to remember long passages and then effortlessly recall them later. That reminded me of you. Although I'm sure you certainly can remember three entire books from the 1st page to the last one and quote the whole thing. Wilde would be jealous, Spence.”

Ps: I know photographic memory and eidetic memory are two different things, it just reminded me of you :)

Since the beginning of the week you had this little thing going on. He didn't know what it was, he didn't know if you knew what it was. But you'd bring him coffee with random curiosities and he'd bring you blueberry muffins with quotes from your favorite poets. 

“What's that smug grin for?” His neck snapped up at the voice, Derek was sipping on his coffee with a curious look. He was sizing him up. 

“Nothing.” Spencer smoothly covered your little note with his hand and took a sip of the beverage. Eyes shutting in delight. Fuck. How can you do everything right? This is perfectly sweetened. “We got a case?” He mentioned Penelope walking straight to the conference room, distracting himself from the obvious profiling Derek was doing. 

“Yeah.” Derek clicks his tongue against his palate, tilting his head. “Pretty boy...”

“What?” Spencer gave him an innocent look, grabbing his stuff. “We should go.”

Derek chuckled behind him, “You're not slick, Reid. I can see it!”

“What are you talking about?” He shrieked out, taking a seat across from Emily while carefully placing his cup on the table. Garcia was already preparing the images to detail the case. 

Derek pointed at him and mouthed I see you before sitting down beside Hotch, JJ taking the seat at his right. The middle of his forehead twitched slightly when he didn't see you. Were you late? Did something hold you up? No. You had brought his coffee, you must be—

“Morning, Reid.” 

He just had to look at his side. Your soft smile greeting him. He's going to have a great day. 

“Good morning,” he replied, the corner of his lips quirking up when he saw the brand sticker on your coffee cup. Seems like it wasn't just his favorite place anymore. The little bag inside his satchel didn't have a chance to meet your hands yet, he'd usually put beside your computer as soon as he arrived. 

He'd have to give it to you later. He knows you don't like having any breakfast in the morning. But you still shouldn't spend the day on coffee and an empty stomach.

Fortunately or not, it was a local case, so you didn't need the jet this time. You ended up stuck in the Geographical profile while everyone else head down to the ME's office. Penelope abandoned her cave to keep you company. 

“Hey,” she called out, not looking up from her laptop. By the long time you knew your friend, if there was one thing she could do, that thing was multitasking. Don't fool yourself thinking that she wasn't paying attention to everything that's going on around her just because she's focused on something else. Sometimes, you convicted yourself that she was a robot. 

“Yeah?” Your eyes lingered on the board before you drifted to her. “What's up?” you questioned while picking up your water bottle.

“Is there something going on between you and our resident genius?” 

Luckily enough, you hadn't drank anything yet or you'd probably have choked up with the accusation. 

“What do you mean?” You guped down the water quietly, feeling your neck heat up. Now, she was looking at you, a smirk dancing on her features as if she knew something you didn't. 

“You and Reid.” She kept on typing, and clicking clicking clicking. “What happened in the film festival. You went together, right?”

You hummed, turning back to the triangulation process you were trying to finish. There was just one area missing, you couldn't see the pattern but you had a hunch. 

“So, what happened?” 

“We watched the movie. What else is there to do in a film festival?

Penelope clicked her tongue together, “Uh-uh. I see what you're doing. But watching the movie doesn't give you that stupid smile you have plastered on everytime he's around. And you brought him coffee, I noticed. I saw it.” Well shit. “Not to mention that's not the first time you do that either, missy.” She was pointing her sparkly pen at you and you had to hold yourself back from laughing. That was a threat in Penelope Garcia's style. 

“Friends can treat each other, Penelope.” 

“Sure they can,” she nodded vehemently. “Just as people on a relationship do as well.”

The heat lifting up your neck was enough for you to curl into yourself in the chair. You pushed a photo into her hands, clearing your throat awkwardly. “I need you to find info about this guy, please. Brian Englebert, I'll go... I have to... yeah.”

Penelope's giggling was the last thing you heard as you left the room. 

Falling in love is like a drug addiction. 

According to some researches, falling in love with someone gives you the same sensation as feeling addicted does; the release of euphoria and triggering of brain chemicals like dopamine, oxytocin, adrenaline and others. Ergo, the more time you spend with this person, the more addicted you will become. 

Spencer knows all about addictions. How it can affect your brain and your life in general. He's also aware that if you just ignore it, without the rightful treatment, it will just proceed to get worse. 

Ah, there's also that. Spencer is awfully good in ignoring things. Pretending they aren't there. But when something is imbedded into his brain, continuously causing his synaptic connections to go haywire, he can't just keep ignoring it, can he?

Because looking at you from the bullpen entrance, happily eating your muffins as you surveyed some files in your desk... that made him feel something. That made his heart to want to burst out of his chest. How is this possible? Why is his face heating up? Why is his mouth dry? Is he about to die?

“Wilde was also considered a genius back on his days. I believe that he would also be considered a genius today given his literary accomplishments and the way he spoke loudly about banned topics.” He gulped down the rock in his throat while licking his dry lips. You looked over your shoulder, mid-bite into the muffin when your eyes crinckled up by your smile. At him. You were smiling at him. Were you happy that he was there? Or was he being a nuisance by interrupting your snack break? 

He couldn't stop talking and when he was about to begin another monologue, you cut him off.

“You don't believe in the genius terminology, do you?” You spoke, politely cleaning the corners of your mouth with a napkin even if they were perfectly clean. “You've mentioned it before.”

You pay attention to what he says too. How could he not fall for that?

“No,” he says, quietly sitting down in a chair that you had pulled closer to yours. “The methods to classify someone as a genius usually refer to high IQ or when one has great accomplishment in science or related areas.” He declined when you offer a muffin to him, a smile spreading around his face. “There's a lot of people who have made great accomplishments in many other areas, like music or art. They don't get the same recognition though,” he shrugged, fidgeting with his satchel. “I just think it's unfair.”

You nodded, thoughtfully, “That makes sense. I hadn't thought through this perspective yet.” Your attention lowered back to your desk and he thought he had lost your attention until you pulled up a blue post-it. His face reddened immediately. “No other word makes my mouth as tender as your name.” You recited, a warm feeling embracing your heart, when your eyes locked with his, you exhaled softly. “How did you know? I never mentioned this book to you, nor the author.”

It was your favourite book from all times. You had found it in an old bookstore on your hometown, it was your last purchase before you moved away. It's the last memory you made there. You never spoke about it. It's kind of the secret you keep to you from someone you no longer knew but craved once in a while. 

“You have it with you all the time,” Spencer said timidly, eyes nervously shifting away from your gaze. “You—You were reading on the jet once and I saw the title and I always see it on your bag when you're fixing it in your desk and—” after a sharp inhale, he started gesticulating with his hands. “Not that I go through your stuff or anything! I saw see it really quick I didn't even touch—”

“Spence.” 

“... because it's not mine! And it would be really impolite for me to do so—”

“Spence?”

“I swear I'd never purposely go through your stuff, Y/N—”

“Spencer,” your tone was soft but stern, at least to convey you needed him to stop talking without sounding rude. His lips clipped shut and his cheeks were pink with shame. Rambling. You finally got tired of it, he was waiting for it to finally happen— “Hey. I didn't imply that you went through my stuff,” you said calmly with a smile lifting the corners of your mouth, reaching out to him with your hand. You waited until he grasped yours, a silent request for consent to touch him since you knew he wasn't very fond of it. “I'm just kind of... flattered? That you pay attention. I didn't know I was interesting enough for you to notice these things, Doctor Reid.”

“You're the most interesting person I've ever met.” 

He didn't realize until it was out and then he looked down at your hands in embarrassment. You chuckled softly, playing with his fingers on yours. He's so lovely.

“You're the most interesting person I've ever met, too, Spencer.”

He blinked up at you, surprise traveling across his features. “I am? Me?” 

Fondness embraced your orbs just as your heart hammered in your chest. Spencer. There's so much you don't know. So much that you've no idea. . . 

“Mhm.” You hummed, pulling one of his unruly stands behind his ear. Spencer almost melted when your hand grazed his cheek. “You, Spencer Reid. You've no idea how much I learn with you every day and how it amazes me, don't you?” 

Spencer was out of words for the first time in his life. 

Your finger trailed down his cheek, the middle of your forehead creasing slightly. “You're amazing.” But you don't know that. You don't realize that. Why?

Air didn't reach his lungs and Spencer felt like hiding and never letting go of you at the same time. Oh, it's been so long since he felt like that. . . It was almost too great to love someone that was good to you. A healthy love — Yes, it is love, he admits it now. He can be a fool no more — It seemed foreign. The idea. Spencer never thought he deserved much than what he had and what he received. But maybe, maybe he did. Could he deserve you? 

He decided to be bold. “You—” but Aaron Hotcher cut him off and all his courage went down the drain. Seems like the universe wanted to joke with him. He was a fool, afterall. 

“Go home,” Hotch walked by, pointing at the manila files on your desk and then at you and Spencer. “Get some rest, the two of you.” 

When you looked around, there was just you and Spencer in the bullpen — and Anderson, because you were sure he never really left the precinct. You'd find all of his stuff somewhere in the pantry — Everyone must have gone home, already. The Bureau was slightly frightening when it was a deserted island. It reminded you a lot of a liminal space. 

You obeyed your boss. By the time you cleaned up your desk, Spencer was gone. Disappointment taking over your features. Well, what did you expect? It's not like it was his obligation to wait for you. He wasn't your boyfriend. He wasn't your anything. You had no right to put expectations on him.

Stepping into the parking lot, the cold breeze immediately involved your body. Too bad you had chosen to wear a tank top exactly today. It was warm in the morning! 

“Did you know that approximately 28 million people read poetry in America?” You jumped in your spot, gasping at the silhouette beside your car where you were about to get in. 

Spencer gave you a little wave.

“You...” a relieved sigh escaped you, shoulders descending. “You scared me, Spencer.”

“Sorry.” He said sheepishly, pulling at the strap of his satchel. “Ehm, t-this number doubled up in the age range of 18 to 24. It's proven that—uh, social media actually helped the growth of these numbers. It pushed people's interests into poetry a lot more.” 

You stared at him in complete bewilderment. Your mind was working fast to seek out an answer for his rambling, but you were so confused that you just stayed quiet. And he gave you a grimace. 

“I'm being weird.” Spencer nodded, “I know. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay—”

“I'm just trying to tell you something— ask, yeah, ask you something but that's what came out. I am so sorry. I should go, yes, I should—”

You leaped forward, surprising even yourself from the move. You had grabbed his wrist and quickly retracted your hand. “Sorry.” you apologized, biting your lip. “I— you can ask, Spencer. I was just a little confused.”

He let out a long sigh, his hands were shaking and they were starting to sweat too. But he told himself that this is when he stops being a fool.

“I'm a mess.” Yes, great way to start. “I'm a mess because I don't know how to stop talking. I don't understand social cues — I'm actually getting better at that — and I'm still scared of the dark. I have to sleep with a lampshade on. That's embarrassing.” his knuckles were turning white from how hard he was holding his shoulder strap. “I'm not great at letting people be there for me because I've been taking care of myself my whole life, I don't see the appeal in letting anyone in, it's too much work. My brain doesn't stop, I'm always thinking and it tires me out. Sometimes I wish it all went silent. I don't have a favourite book, I've read many great ones and I find it unfair with the authors to just choose one. So I don't.” For the first time since he started talking, he breathed in. You took a step forward, expecting him to just crumble down in front of you. Where was he getting with this? You wanted so badly to hug him but you didn't know if he wanted it and you weren't given an opening to ask. He didn't let you. “I don't know how to love.” That made you frown. Before you could retort, he carried on. “I've learned there's no pattern for it and people are different everywhere. I can't plan it, I can't see the numbers. I can't control people because they aren't meant to be controlled.”

Your eyes softened. “No, no they aren't, Spence. And it's okay, you know? You don't have to plan everything.” you finally spoke as he let you. But he didn't seem to be finished so you remained quiet. You didn't expect him to take your hand in his, to which he chuckled nervously at your startled reaction. 

“But I think... I think I'm starting to love you.” What was breathing? You never learned. “I'm not sure if that's the right thing to say when I'm trying to ask you out—”

“You want to ask me out?” The failed tone made his face fall and you shook your head vehemently, pulling him towards you. “That's not how I meant it! I just— God, Spencer. Do you want to give me a heart attack?” you exclaimed. “I wasn't expecting this.”

He frowned, looking down at your hands to avoid looking into your eyes. “What were you expecting?”

“Rejection,” you said, earning a look of confusion. Then, enlightenment and them disbelief. It was cute to watch him tech the conclusion. “It was a clear setting in my head so I never tried.”

“Why would I ever reject you? I've lov— I've had a crush on you since the moment you stepped into my sight.” Spencer added, covering his slip-up but you noticed it. You didn't comment on it, you'd wait for the right time. “Do you—does that mean that you feel the same?”

A breathy laugh left your lips. “Oh, Spence.” you approached him slowly, hand raising to his cheek. He leaned in, eyes fluttering shut and you smiled. “I feel more than the same. I feel everything for you.” And I'm starting to love you too.

His eyelashes tinkled against your hand before he lifted his gaze to you, he was trying to avoid breathing just like you were. Afraid this moment would be lost in the wind by a single action. Spencer's eyes drifted down to your mouth.

“Can I—”

“Do it.”

Your lips didn't crashed together. They met in the middle, carefully joining into one space. It didn't felt as if you've been waiting for this — the both of you — it was a perfect pace. That until your body was being pressed against your car and his hands were roaming all over you. You needed to breathe, as much as you didn't want to.

“Hi.” You whispered, cracking a smile as you stared down at his swollen lips. Your hands pressed against his chest. 

He sighed, burying his face into the croak of your neck. “Hi.”

A chuckle made your body shake slightly and his hold on you tightened. 

“You just kissed me like that and you're suddenly shy?” You teased, fingers caressing the back of his neck. “Is that all an act to make me fall for you? It's working.”

“Shut up,” he mumbled with a shake of his head, leaning back to meet your eyes. You studied the glint in his hazel orbs with a warm feeling spreading on your chest. “I've just— I've wanted to do that for a long time.”

You quickly peck his lips, cupping his face as your features turned serious. Even if you couldn't stop smiling. 

“I've wanted to do that just as long, Spencer. Trust me.”

You know when wine makes you less inhibited? A few too many glasses can make you less serious, less controlled. Alcohol causes the oxytocin levels of one's body to increase, which is why people tend to feel more confident and comfortable while drunk. Spencer understood now all of those researches that talked about how being in love can make you feel as if you're drunk. Because he was drunk and he was completely addicted to you at that moment. 

“Ask the question, Doctor Reid.” You traced the tip of his nose and chuckled as he scrunched it.

“Ask what question?”

“The one you came after me for.”

“Oh.” you were able to feel his fingers nervously shifting against the exposed skin of your tank top. “I... Mhm.” He gulped, gaze meeting yours apprehensively. “Would you like to go on a date... with me? You don't have to say yes. Don't feel obliged to because—”

“Because you just took all my breath away?” You learnt that you loved to make him blush. “I'd love to go on a date with you, Spencer.” you said softly. 

His eyes widened in surprise, “Really?

“Yes.” you assured him, tucking a curl behind his ear. “So, is there another film festival I don't know about?”

His eyes brightened in excitement and you knew he was about to talk your ear off about something. And you couldn't wait for him to start. That was something you could easily get addicted to: his ramblings and his kisses. 

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A/N: anybody recognise the book quote on the blue post-it? 👀

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sources: [1] [2]

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taglist: @lilyviolets

[drconstellation]

When Crowley met Jesus, and the other demon at Golgotha

You know the scene. 33AD. Aziraphale is watching the crucifixion take place and certain fem-presenting demon sidles up to him.

Aziraphale greets them, and finds out they have changed their name.

"What is it now?" he asks them. " Mephistopheles? Asmodeus?"

I know most you have learnt by now that Asmodeus is the demon of lust, and this is obviously Aziraphale's idea of a flirty little joke (perhaps the first we see? because he's the one who's really as "mad as bag of frogs" after all and that's why Crowley's made an appearance, because he was probably just in the area, you know...), but I haven't seen or come across much meta about the first suggested name, which is a GO "lead balloon" moment.

Mephistopheles, Aziraphale? That's the name you thought of here? Of all places? jfc...you bad, bad angel! lmoa! This is a serious, sombre situation you are witnessing!

Mephistopheles is the name of the fictional demon sent to do a deal with the character Faust in a story that dates back to Germany in the early 1500s. Faust was a like a scientist in his day, well educated in things like alchemy and astrology and other mystical arts, maybe even having wizard powers (why not?) But he was hungry for more power so he did a deal with the devil for 24 years of assistance to achieve and gain anything he desired, and at the end of that time he would be claimed by Hell. Needless to say, despite starting off well it didn't have a happy ending. (I wont go into details as there are lots of variants, and its not that short, and they aren't all that relevant to the point of the post.)

It has been a hugely influential story ever since, appearing in many forms over the years; in opera, theater, movies, novels, adaptations such as Oscar Wilde's The Portrait of Dorian Grey, and Queen's famous song Bohemian Rhapsody. Terry Pratchett also did a parody of it in his 1990 book Eric, and readers have often noted the similarity to the Hell depicted there to the Hell in GO.

Its the origin of the idiom "to do a deal with the devil" and a Faustian bargain. The mortals that enter into the deal with a powerful supernatural entity are usually set up to fail, and we go along with it because we are so used to the trope, its one we've come to expect the bargainer to fail in some spectacular fashion. It's one that keeps being repeated again and again because it so interesting to explore - often the protagonist is looking for some form of happiness, sometimes revenge, and hopes the deal will deliver, but find out the hard way that they should be careful what they wish for because the delivery is a two-edged sword. They may find out that they don't actually want what they thought they wanted, or they get what they want in an very unexpected way.

Back to Golgotha, and our demon and angel. We learn the demon has merely modified their name to Crowley. And yes, they met Jesus.

C: "Seemed a very bright young man. I showed him all the kingdoms of the world."

A: "Why?"

C: "He's a carpenter from Galilee, his travel opportunities are limited."

This is a reference to one of the the tests of faith Jesus was put through before his crucifixion, from the Book of Matthew.

I like this modern version I found:

For the third test, the Devil took him to the peak of a huge mountain. He gestured expansively, pointing out all the earth’s kingdoms, how glorious they all were. Then he said, “They’re yours—lock, stock, and barrel. Just go down on your knees and worship me, and they’re yours.” Jesus’ refusal was curt: “Beat it, Satan!” He backed his rebuke with a third quotation from Deuteronomy: “Worship the Lord your God, and only him. Serve him with absolute single-heartedness.” The Test was over. The Devil left. And in his place, angels! Angels came and took care of Jesus’ needs. Matthew 4:8-11 The Message

Or, you could say: Crowley showed Jesus all the kingdoms of the world, and offered the bargain that he could rule them all if he would renounce God and worship Satan instead, but Jesus just turned to the demonic messenger and simply told him to "fuck off!"

And there we have it, folks. Mephistopheles, and Asmodeus. Touche, Aziraphale, you sly little shit stirrer.

[drewharrisonwriter]

Lifeline - Ch. 2: Yet Another Scandal

Pairings: Dieter Bravo x Female Reader, referred to as “Honey” 

Series Summary: After basically being dropped and rejected by every PR agency in Hollywood for being such a huge liability, Dieter Bravo must work on resetting his public image in the most unexpected ways.

Author's Notes: I have been working on this fic on and off for the past year, and this story is a little personal to me. Yes, I am trauma dumping in some scenes lol but I also want to say that there will be so many unrealistic things about Hollywood, actors, and PR/Marketing agencies here, to which I apologize.

Warnings: Angst, a little drama, lots of flashbacks. More warnings to come as the story progresses.

Read this on AO3 | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Dieter leaned back against the kitchen island, a tumbler of whiskey clutched in his hand, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. His house was quiet except for the faint hum of traffic outside and the muted beeps of his phone, lighting up on the counter with messages he was actively ignoring. He could practically hear his agent’s voice screaming at him through the phone—frustrated, exasperated, and probably half a step away from quitting, too. Dieter took another sip, his eyes drifting toward the stack of newspapers that had been tossed haphazardly across the granite surface.

It was the same story, recycled across every media outlet: DIETER BRAVO’S LATEST DISASTER. The photos splashed across the front pages were damning—Dieter stumbling out of some exclusive club at three in the morning, shirt half unbuttoned, pupils blown wide, flanked by two models and a fellow actor who was known for being trouble. In one particularly bad shot, he was caught mid-yell, hands outstretched in what looked like the start of a fight, his face twisted in a mix of anger and drunken confusion. The headlines all but wrote themselves: Bravo Meltdown Caught on Camera! Drugs, Drama, and Disasters—Can Dieter Bravo Be Saved?

Dieter rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the stubble scrape against his palm. It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d screwed up publicly, but this time felt different. He was older now, and the wild, reckless behavior that once seemed charming had turned sour. Even he could see the exhaustion in his own eyes whenever he looked in the mirror. It wasn’t fun anymore.

His phone buzzed again, the screen lighting up with his agent’s name: Mitch Weiss. Dieter sighed, finally picking it up and pressing the call button. He braced himself, expecting the usual lecture, but instead, Mitch’s voice was tight, flat—angry in a way Dieter hadn’t heard before.

“We have a problem, Dieter.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Dieter muttered, taking another sip. “What’s the crisis this time? Did I break the internet again?”

“Your PR firm just dropped you.”

Dieter froze, the glass halfway to his lips. “What?”

“They don’t want to work with you anymore,” Mitch continued, his tone clipped. “They say you’re a liability, and honestly, I can’t blame them after last night. You’re a goddamn mess, Dieter. We’ve been putting out fires for months, and this latest stunt was the final straw.”

Dieter could hear the frustration crackling through the line, but all he could do was stand there, stunned. Sure, he knew he’d been pushing the boundaries, but he’d never thought it would come to this. Agencies didn’t just drop someone like him. Not after he’d won an Oscar, not when he was still headlining blockbuster movies and pulling in millions. But maybe that was the problem—he’d become more trouble than he was worth.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?” Dieter asked, his voice edged with something close to panic.

Mitch sighed, the kind of exhale that sounded like he was rubbing his temples on the other end. “We’re working on it, but this isn’t just about getting a new agency. You’ve got to clean up your act, man. This can’t keep happening.”

Dieter leaned heavily against the counter, his eyes unfocused as he stared at the empty bottles littering the far end of the kitchen. “And how exactly do you suggest I do that? Meditation? Rehab? Please, Mitch, enlighten me.”

“I’m serious, Dieter. You need help. You need a fresh start and a team that can manage this shitstorm you’ve created. We found a new agency that’s willing to take you on, but it’s gonna take work. You need to cooperate.”

Dieter set his glass down, the ice clinking loudly against the sides. “Who is it? Another high-end firm that’ll babysit me until the next scandal?”

“There’s a lot more at stake here,” Mitch said, his voice lowering. “The studio’s losing patience. They’re threatening to pull you from your current project if you don’t turn this around. They’ve already put your contract under review, and they’re ready to cut their losses. This isn’t just about your public image anymore—your career is on the line.”

Dieter’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t realized how close he was to losing everything. The studio had always bent over backward to accommodate him, but now even they were fed up. “You’re saying if I don’t clean up, I’m done?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. We’ve managed to get Trace Marketing and PR on board, but this is your last chance. They’re sending over their lead consultant this afternoon for a meeting, and I need you to take this seriously.”

Dieter blinked, the name hitting him with an unsettling familiarity he couldn’t immediately place. Trace Marketing—he knew that name. His mind fumbled through memories, half-forgotten moments, trying to piece together why it tugged at him like a thread he couldn’t quite pull loose. It felt impossible, like something out of a twisted joke, and yet the suspicion gnawed at him, insistent. Dieter’s heart pounded as he tried to dismiss it, telling himself he was imagining things. But the feeling lingered, heavy and undeniable, like the name had been waiting all along to resurface, tied to the one person he thought he’d left behind.

Dieter picked up his phone, typing the name into Instagram, and there it was—@TraceMarketing. His heart stuttered, the reality of it sinking in like a punch to the gut. Honey’s business account, her name in the bio, the life she’d built while he was busy burning his down.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dieter muttered, more to himself than to Mitch.

“You know them?”

“Yeah,” Dieter replied, his voice tight. “I know them.”

“Well, they’re the only ones willing to take a risk on you right now. They’ve got a good track record of rebranding and crisis management, and frankly, we’re out of options. You need to show up for this meeting, Dieter. No excuses.”

Dieter didn’t respond, his mind racing as he stared at the screen. Honey’s business, Honey’s name, the life she’d built while he was busy tearing his down. He tried to imagine what this meeting would be like—seeing her again, not as his ex but as the professional tasked with saving what was left of his career. The last time they’d seen each other, it had ended in tears and broken promises, and now she was the one who had to clean up his mess.

“Dieter!” Mitch’s voice snapped him back to the present. “Do you understand what I’m saying? This is it. The studio’s watching, and if you screw this up, you’re on your own.”

Dieter nodded, even though Mitch couldn’t see him. “Yeah. I got it.”

But as he hung up the phone, Dieter couldn’t help but feel like he was teetering on the edge of something he wasn’t ready to face. Honey was about to walk back into his life, not as the woman who used to cook him dinner or sing with him on his porch, but as the professional in charge of fixing his career. And suddenly, it wasn’t just his career on the line—it was every unresolved feeling he’d buried deep inside, rising back to the surface when he least expected it.

Dieter looked around his empty house, the family home he’d never quite managed to fill, and for the first time in a long while, he felt something close to fear. Because Honey wasn’t just here to save his career; she was about to see him for who he’d become—and he wasn’t sure he could stand up to the scrutiny.

Dieter couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt genuinely nervous. Not the type of nerves that came before a big audition or a live appearance—those were familiar, almost comforting in their predictability. This was different, rawer, a restless gnawing in his gut that twisted tighter with every minute that passed. He paced the length of his living room, his bare feet dragging across the cold tiles, leaving tracks between the scattered remnants of last night’s bender: empty bottles, ashtrays overflowing with half-smoked cigarettes, and the faint smell of something sweet and stale that clung to his clothes.

He should clean up, he thought, glancing at the mess. But what was the point? Honey knew him too well to be fooled by a quick tidy-up. The thought of her seeing him like this—a shadow of the man she used to love—made his throat tighten. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to brush away the fatigue that clung to his eyes. It had been years since they’d last spoken, and Dieter had never imagined they’d cross paths like this. Certainly not with his career hanging by a thread and his reputation more tattered than the old bathrobe draped over his shoulders.

He knew she’d moved on, but seeing the evidence on her Instagram, seeing the life she’d built without him, stung in a way he wasn’t prepared for. Honey had grown, evolved, and here he was, stuck in the same cycle of self-destruction that had driven her away in the first place. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

His phone buzzed again—another text from Mitch, probably checking to make sure Dieter hadn’t bailed on the meeting. He glanced at the clock; there were only thirty minutes left until she would walk through his door. He couldn’t decide if he wanted time to speed up or stop altogether.

Dieter headed to the bathroom, turning on the faucet and splashing cold water on his face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, the water dripping from his chin, pooling on the counter. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, and there was a hollowness in his expression that he barely recognized. For a moment, he considered making himself more presentable—changing out of the bathrobe, maybe even shaving—but the thought felt pointless. Honey had seen him at his best and worst, and nothing he could do now would erase the last ten years.

He shuffled back to the living room, grabbing a cigarette and lighting it with shaking hands. The smoke curled around him, and he let out a slow, shaky breath, trying to steady himself. Dieter didn’t know what to expect from this meeting. Honey was a professional now, a far cry from the girl who used to sing George Harrison covers on his porch. She’d be all business, no doubt, but Dieter couldn’t help but wonder if she still felt anything at all. Would she look at him with the same warmth, or would she see him the way the tabloids did—another washed-up star on the brink of collapse?

A knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts. Dieter’s heart leapt into his throat, and for a split second, he considered not answering. But there was no escaping this. He crossed the room, his steps heavy, and paused with his hand on the doorknob, gathering the last scraps of his courage.

He pulled the door open, and there she was.

Honey stood on the doorstep, framed by the bright California sun that spilled in around her. She was dressed in a crisp, tailored blazer and jeans, her hair pulled back in a way that was both professional and effortlessly chic. But it was her eyes that hit him hardest—still the same deep, knowing gaze that had seen right through him all those years ago. Dieter tried to find his voice, but it caught in his throat, tangled up with the flood of memories that came rushing back at the sight of her.

“Dieter,” she said, her voice steady, betraying none of the emotions that roiled beneath the surface. “It’s been a long time.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Too long.”

They stood there for a moment, the air between them thick with everything that had gone unsaid. Dieter stepped aside, gesturing for her to come in. She moved past him, her heels clicking softly on the floor, and he caught the faint scent of her perfume—familiar, floral, and maddeningly evocative of nights spent wrapped up in each other. Dieter’s heart squeezed painfully as he watched her walk into his home, a place she’d never seen but somehow felt like it should have been hers. He couldn’t help but notice how she didn’t look around like most people did; she wasn’t interested in the trappings of his success. Honey’s eyes swept the room with the kind of calm detachment that only came from knowing someone too well. There was no judgment, no sharp intake of breath at the mess; just quiet resignation. And that, somehow, hurt the most.

He shut the door, leaning against it for a second before following her into the living room. Honey looked around, her eyes briefly sweeping over the disarray, but she said nothing. Dieter watched her carefully, searching for any flicker of judgment, but her expression remained neutral—calm, professional, and utterly unreadable. He wanted to say something, anything, to break the tension, but his mouth felt dry, and the words died on his tongue.

“You’ve made yourself at home,” she said lightly, her eyes landing on the couch strewn with discarded clothes and empty takeout containers. There was no malice in her tone, just a quiet observation that felt like a thousand tiny cuts.

Dieter forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, you know me. I like to keep things… casual.”

Dieter sat on the edge of his couch, feeling the weight of Honey’s gaze as she ran through her plan. Her voice was calm, steady, outlining the steps with the precision of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. Dieter nodded along, but his mind kept drifting, snagging on the way her fingers moved swiftly across the tablet screen, the same fingers that used to trace lazy patterns on his skin in the early hours of the morning.

“The first thing we need to address is your public image,” Honey said, glancing up at him. She tapped a few notes on the screen, her tone all business. “We’re going to take a step back from the spotlight—no events, no parties, and definitely no more spontaneous club appearances. I’ve already reached out to a few key contacts, and they’re willing to help us manage the narrative, but it’s going to take cooperation on your part.”

Dieter swallowed, his throat dry. The thought of disappearing from the public eye felt like suffocation. For years, he’d lived off the buzz, the constant validation that came from being seen, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. “And what am I supposed to do? Just… disappear?”

Honey looked at him, her expression unwavering. “Not disappear—rehabilitate. We need to shift the focus from your personal life to your work. You have a project in the pipeline, right? Something you care about?”

Dieter blinked, the question hitting him harder than expected. He hadn’t let himself care about much lately, and the scripts he’d been offered all felt the same—empty, loud, and soulless. But there was one that stuck with him, an indie script that reminded him of why he started acting in the first place. He hesitated, unsure whether to share. “There’s one,” he said finally, almost reluctantly. “An indie film. The script’s good, but it’s low budget. I don’t know if my team will go for it.”

Honey’s eyes flickered with something Dieter couldn’t quite place—recognition, maybe, or just a hint of the warmth that used to fill the spaces between them. “Let me see it,” she said, her voice softer but still laced with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

Dieter pulled out his phone, scrolling until he found the script summary, his fingers fumbling slightly. He handed it to her, his eyes lingering on her face as she read. He wanted to say something, make a joke, or ease the tension, but instead, he watched her carefully, trying to gauge her reaction. Honey’s brow furrowed slightly, her eyes scanning the text with the focus that always made Dieter feel like she was reading more than just words. She looked up, her expression thoughtful.

“This is good, Dieter. Really good,” she said, handing the phone back to him. “If you like it, then you fight for it. You stand your ground.” Her tone was firm, but there was an unmistakable glimmer of belief in her eyes. It was the kind of belief Dieter hadn’t seen directed at him in years, and for a moment, it felt like a lifeline.

Dieter’s heart tightened, caught between gratitude and the bitter sting of memories. “You really think I can still do it?” he asked, the question slipping out before he could stop himself. It was a naked, vulnerable admission, the kind he hadn’t allowed himself in a long time.

Honey’s expression didn’t soften, but there was something unmistakably real in her gaze, a quiet acknowledgment of the man she used to know. “I know you can. But you have to start acting like it.”

The words stung, and Dieter’s insecurities flared, lashing out in a way he knew was wrong but couldn’t quite control. “Act like it, huh? Is that what this is? A performance? Come on, Honey, you used to—”

Honey cut him off, her voice sharp and unyielding. “Don’t, Dieter. This isn’t about what used to be. You want my help, then you listen to me. We’re not kids anymore, and you don’t get to play the wounded artist card when things don’t go your way.” She paused, her eyes holding his with a mix of frustration and something gentler, buried beneath the surface. “This is not just about you, this is about salvaging everything you have worked and fought so hard for.” 

Dieter felt the words hit him like a slap, the truth of them stinging more than he wanted to admit. He slumped back against the couch, rubbing his temples in frustration. “Yeah. Okay. Sorry,” he muttered, feeling like a scolded child.

Honey watched him, her expression softening just a fraction as she continued. “I’m not here to drag you through the mud, Dieter. I’m here because you still have something to give, and I don’t think you’re ready to throw it all away.” Her voice lowered, a hint of the old Honey slipping through—warm, sincere, and painfully honest. “But you have to decide what you want. Not your team, not the tabloids. You.”

Dieter looked at her, really looked, and for the first time, he saw the changes in her—not just the polished exterior, but the strength that had always been there, now sharpened and honed by years of experience. She wasn’t the shy schoolteacher who used to worry about what people thought. She was a force, and she wasn’t about to let him fall apart without a fight.

Honey flipped her tablet shut, signaling that the meeting was over. “I’ll be checking in regularly,” she said, standing up and smoothing down her blazer. “And Dieter? This isn’t just about cleaning up your public image. It’s about finding some kind of peace with yourself. You can’t keep running forever.”

Dieter watched as she walked toward the door, the weight of her words lingering long after she’d gone. He knew she was right—he couldn’t keep running. But facing everything he’d buried over the years felt like an impossible task. He leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling as memories began to unfurl, dragging him back to a time when life had felt simpler, sweeter, and full of promise.

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[gayalienwilde]

My secret fairy gift to @thomtrebond one of the longest analyses I've ever written until now (so much so that I'm still working on this). Truthfully, I was afraid that The Whole Shebang podcast had already said all there was about the Oscar Wilde references in Velvet Goldmine, and it has been a while since I've read The Picture of Dorian Gray, but while writing and doing research for this (I've studied more for this analysis than I ever have for school lmao) I realised things that I hadn't thought of before so this was a surprise for me as well! Also, since this analysis is gonna be split into different parts I'll link them all once I'm done with them. I hope you enjoy your gift <3

Part one: The importance of being Jack Fairy

When thinking about Velvet Goldmine and Oscar Wilde I'm reminded of the first episode of the miniseries "Queers" (2017), although I can't stand Mark Gatiss (Sherlock trauma) this episode is well written and just thinking about it makes me cry. There will be spoilers for the episode in this analysis, so be warned.

For the people that don't care about spoilers here's a small summary of what you need to know to understand this analysis: in the episode, titled "The Man On The Platform", the protagonist, a WWI soldier, gets asked about how gay men recognise each other, and he answers saying:"A certain liquidity of the eye." Later in the episode, he recalls a story from his teen years, while waiting for a train with his family he sees a prisoner getting taken away, he meets the gaze of the prisoner for a second and he feels seen by him and thinks "He knows me for what I am", after that he learns that the prisoner is Oscar Wilde.

In Velvet Goldmine, it's the pin that creates this connection between the characters and Oscar Wilde, Jack is able to find himself and others quite like him after finding the pin, and later we have all the young queer fans relating to Curt and Brian. The movie shows that self recognition through the other is an important aspect of queer communities, having an example of queerness to relate to or be inspired by makes it possible for people to find each other and learn about themselves.

In Jack's case, Oscar Wilde is not only a connection to queerness but also an inspiration for his art. Jack Fairy is the personification of art, specifically born from aestheticism's idea of "art for art's sake" Jack's persona is just that, beauty that exists simply to be beautiful and reveal nothing, the movie adds to this by never making Jack Fairy speak, even during the Death of Glitter concert he's either reciting a poem or singing, the little we know of Jack's inner thoughts is shown in the flashback of him as a child, adult Jack Fairy is a complete mistery to us.

What's interesting about this is that, unlike Brian, we never feel that Jack's persona is a manifactured one, even if we know nothing of him, and his looks and aesthetics are obviously thought out, he still appears much more genuine than Brian. Following Wilde's idea of art as an amoral creation that never expresses anything other than itself (in true wildean paradox fashion Wilde himself doesn't always respect this rule), it then becomes obvious why it doesn't matter if we know nothing about Jack, the way he presents himself is enough to express everything he wants other people to see, he's being truthfull to himself never trying to justify or moralise his art or himself but simply being, any possible reading or interpretation about his persona becomes then nothing more than the viewer's own thoughts or ideas projected onto him and do not necessarily reflect the truth, adding to the allure of his persona and making it a perfectly malleable art medium, free of bounds or expectations (apart from beauty, which is of course what all art, according to Wilde, should strive for).

On the other hand, Brian constantly trying to add a message to his aesthetic ended up being to his detriment since what he was saying was being fed to him through the record company to attract press, not leaving then any room for interpretation and putting strict barriers around his art, and of course to define is to limit causing his entire act and persona to never be as authentic feeling as Jack's. It's clearly artificial but not in a camp way, even if it might have started off that way, the alien and uncanny later becomes fake the same way advertisement is, planned and trying to get your attention for money, reaching the peak of uncanny valley with Tommy's way too pristine looks and character.

But even after having roasted him I have to admit that Brian's character has a much bigger connection to Wilde's work than Jack does, since Jack's story is more inspired by Divine from Genet's "Notre-Dame-des-fleurs", even having a scene from the book remade almost exactly in the movie, with Jack it makes more sense to compare him to Wilde himself since, just as Wilde became one of the major exponents of aestheticism and homosexuality in England, in the movie Jack is one of the original inspirations of the Glam Rock movement and an iconic figure in the queer community of the 60s and 70s, so of course he'd be the one to find the pin and carry the legacy of Oscar Wilde.

Tune in next whenever I post it to see me roasting Brian more in part two

[carewyncromwell]

🍁🍂💧 for dear Jacko, please? Danny and I hope you're doing well, Tory!<3

Thank you, Cato 🩵 I hope you're well too!

🍁- What's this oc's favorite genre of movies/tv shows/books/etc?

Hahaha, I don't see Jacko being much of a movie person even in his OG era (he's much more the sort to love live productions in a theater, whether traditional plays, operas, or ballet), but he is both a poet and romantic! He collects books of poetry, both magical and non-magical, his entire life, and a book of Jackson's own poetry (mainly written about and to his beloved husband, Montelimar Bloom @cursebreakerfarrier) is even published posthumously. Jackson's favorite Muggle poets are Edgar Allen Poe and Lord Byron, while his favorite magical one is Alexander Pope. His favorite novel is Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, but he also enjoys the works of Shakespeare and of Jane Austen.

🍂- What music does this oc like?

Classical, primarily, especially the kind written for ballet. His favorite composer is Tchaikovsky, and of all of his work, Jackson loves his Sleeping Beauty ballet and his Romeo and Juliet Fantasy Overture best.

💧- What is this oc most passionate about?

Following his dreams! Jackson has always been determined to and confident he will do great things, from the very start, and he won't rest until the world knows and loves his name. That being said, he truly does love the Wizarding World like almost nothing else, and as Minister he wants to protect it just as much as make them happy. He also loves both the arts and learning overall, so at the Ministry he both indulges in a lot of artistic endeavors and fundraises for a lot of educational programs and libraries.

Emoji Ask!

[destinyc1020]

I saw saltburn, Oh my god what a mess of a movie, first a positive its looks absolutely beautiful the cinematograhy is gorgeous. Now The script on the other hand is awful and while the films starts off great ( the first 20-30 minutes or so) it quickly decends into something stupid and pointless and very obvious. The movie tries hard to be edgy but in the end its just an overlong deranged perdume ad that throws away its class politics/ themes and says nothing outside of one person being overly obsessed over another person. Its a pointless mess, that gets weird ( weird not in a good way- like barry drinking JE bathwater isnt the craziest thing in the film)

Despite the very bad script , one dimensional characters and bad choices from the director, the acting was great I wish they had more to work with b/c rosamund pike is so good, alison oliver scene stealer, JE was also really good he did what he needed to do but barry was amazing, it sucks emerald fennell wasted him b/c he was doing everything to save a really bad film. Barry does some incredible things literally he proved to me he is a leading man he needs more leading roles. JE I think hes a good actor but in supporting roles, I cant see him as a leading man at all, but when hes across great actors I see his potential but without them he isnt very good, he hasnt shown me he can lead a film but he can definitely be a good supporting actor.

Thanks for your review of "Saltburn" Anon lol 🤭

I have heard that this is a movie that you either LOVE, or HATE... like, there's no in between lol. 😅

Sounds like it's a pretty wild ride... JUST like the reviews from the film festivals stated.

Its a pointless mess, that gets weird ( weird not in a good way- like barry drinking JE bathwater isnt the craziest thing in the film)

Ewww.... 🤮🤮

I'm a germaphobe, so this literally made my stomach flip flop. 😩

.

.

.

Sooo.... it looks overall Anon, the film plot and writing SUCKS, but the actors all did a very great acting job in the film? Am I summarizing this right? That's what it sounds like.

You know, I wouldn't be surprised if this film still gets some film award nominations just simply because of the great acting and because of how weird and out there it is. The Academy seems to love films like this also. So, I wouldn't even be surprised. 😄

Not surprised to hear JE did well playing a privileged, private school frat boy, since that's somewhat close to his own real upbringing lol 😄😅

I'm really glad to hear about Barry! He's def going places. I felt he did well in "The Banshees of Inisherin" when I did my whole round of Oscar-nominated-films movie watching before this year's Oscar awards ceremony. 😌

I can't wait to see Barry with Austin and Callum Turner in the upcoming "Masters of the Air" series!😁 I love them. Those 3 are definitely going places. 😊 I'm looking fwd to seeing Callum in "The Boys in the Boat" as well.

I just have two questions for you Anon:

Would you say that this film was like "The Talented Mr. Ripley" (Matt Damon, Jude Law) in any way? 🤔 Or, totally different?

Soooo.... about THAT scene with Barry.... 👀 Care to elaborate on it? And what was the context of the FF? 👀 🙈 Did it seem necessary? Or was it just gratuitous?

[an-honest-puck]

a collection of viewing notes and highlights from Back to the Tutor because I don’t have the time to liveblog while watching but I do have thoughts

(seems fitting that today's viewing notes and highlights are from a women-led MMNI cast!!! 🙌🏽 Happy International Women's Day, babes!!! &lt;;3)

ah yes, Back to the Tutor a.k.a. Dave's audition tape to be the next James Bond XD

jokes, what I mean is: ytg (yeah the girls) baybeeeee!!!!!!!!

ayo big ups to the cast on this one!!!!!! I was shocked to see so few people in the cast compared to other nights (pandemic times, amiright) but hot damn what a brilliant story they weaved together!!!!

listen, I am all for Laura Kirman and Lauren Shearing romcom supremacy my dudes (gender neutral)

their love story was so friggin sweet!!! their scene on the mini-golf course and the awkwardness afterwards was so accurate and so endearing!!

Laura seems like such a load of fun - her grandiose entrance and that note she hit??????? queen shit!!!!!! excited to see more of her shenanigans!!!

and Lauren plays endearing characters so well how can you not love her????? but she's also equally loveable when she's being cheeky and causing mischief lololol

Ellie trying to be mean was so funny to watch lolol

like, she really went from 0 to 100 when she insinuated that her character pushed a grandma down the stairs XDD

Anna (Laura): You're a nasty, nasty woman!

Louise (Ellie): *desperately trying to wrap up her story arc because it's almost the end of the movie* And I'm not gonna learn my lesson! :D

Dave is in absolutely fine form and yes, I mean that in all definitions XD Dave really said as the token male of the cast tonight, I will be playing the boytoy to be ogled at, and you all have full permission to address me as such lmaoooo we appreciate your sacrifice, sir o7 /half-joking

no but for real, the man has range!!!!!!!! we love to see it!!!!!

hypermasculine James Bond to flamboyant best friend/sidekick character???? that's ✨range✨ baby

Bryony does what she does best: play an elderly person XD if I had a dollar for every elderly person I've seen her play, I'd have two dollars. it's not much, but it is odd that it's happened twice lololol

an absolute cracker of a character!!! such sassy lines and brutal advice!!! 😂 her scenes with Hen (yes, a wild Henry Lewis appeared via Zoom!!!!! it was delightful!!!! he's bloody brilliant!!!!) were so friggin sweet too omg!!!! <3

and oh my days her character ending!!!!! 😭 also, she had so many good scenes??????? but like, all of them did!!!!!!!

actually, this whole movie hit all the emotional beats incredibly well, it was magic!!!!!!!

perhaps somewhat to the detriment of the cast, with Oscar/Jono breaking character twice as he keeps an eye on them 😅 (which, mind you, was very sweet to see)

we love that moment when everyone's trying to figure out what the scene should be, so no one's actually on stage XD

Bryony: *starts to run on stage as the camera cuts away*

Oscar: Pause! Pause! Pause! *head in hands*

*cut to Bryony, sprawled on the floor as if she's fallen down the 2 steps of the stage and Dave midway through entering the scene*

*cut back to Oscar*

Oscar/Jon, somewhat nervously as he cranes his head around to look at the stage: Are you ok, Bry?

*a beat*

Bryony, offstage and cool as you like: Yes.

Oscar: Ok, good! Yes, yes, we carry on the movie- we carry on the movie- I really worried then! I really thought that we got two minutes in- gotta change the cast, got another one down- but no! It's fine! It's fine!

there is one big downside to this movie, and that is the smoke machine- terrible scene partner, never expected in the scene, always coming in too strong, 0/10 performance lmaooo

Oscar: Pause. And I think we have enough time for a final moment of performance from Bertie, who's desperately trying to work out how to signal that he wants to speak.

Hen really said "I got this, fam" and proceeded to straight up just tell Bryony to leave the room LMAO

ayo also huge kudos to Yshani and Richard for sneaking Bond music in whenever Dave- sorry, James Bond was in the scene XD

Marcus (Dave): Sorry, gals, but I'm back, and I'm pretty tired now! Alright, here we go! *proceeds to lead everyone through a ridiculously Zumba/aerobics-esque high energy dance while still looking like the most energetic person in the room*

Oscar, laughing: Pause! What I love is that obviously, when there's a song, there's a really clear moment when the song ends and we know that the movie's over. But with a dance, it's much harder to find that moment! But they do find that moment, before- because Dave does look very tired!

Marcus, voice breaking halfway through the sentence: Don't you worry, gals, I've got plenty in the tank!

*cue the music getting faster and the dancing getting faster*

and then Dave does a freaking cartwheel on the spot XD (ngl, I rated it - perhaps not in technique but geez the man has springs in his limbs lol)

[kylesvariouslistsandstuff]

I don't take the Oscars too seriously, but it's always fun to guess...

So, for tomorrow's nomination rollouts... Best Animated Feature... 5 slots this year...

I think...

THE BOY AND THE HERON

NIMONA

ROBOT DREAMS

SPIDER-MAN: ACROSS THE SPIDER-VERSE

TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES: MUTANT MAYHEM

Originally, I had predicted that CHICKEN RUN: DAWN OF THE NUGGET was going to easily secure a slot, simply because it's an Aardman stop-motion film and they almost never miss, and also it's a sequel to a beloved film that partially helped create the Best Animated Feature category in the first place...

But it seems to me like the tides are swaying another direction... I'm actually beginning to think that ROBOT DREAMS, a silent Spanish/French feature directed by Pablo Berger that is to be distributed in the U.S. some time this year by Neon, gets a slot.

Debuted at Cannes all the way back in May, got some critics awards already, and has a ton of other nominations to its name... ROBOT DREAMS looks to be a little sleeper, a surprise perhaps.

DAWN OF THE NUGGET, by contrast, is largely and unusually very dry in the critics' circles, only nominated for *four* awards. Not even an *Annie*... An Aardman stop-motion movie is usually a shoe-in. The one time it wasn't was EARLY MAN in 2018, which garnered way more nominations elsewhere than DAWN OF THE NUGGET... This one might just miss, unfortunately. The reception was pretty muted for it upon arrival.

I've explained my other choices before... BOY AND THE HERON is Miyazaki's newest, and is possibly his last. He came out of retirement in his *80s* to direct it. Miyazaki usually never misses, nomination-wise. SPIRITED AWAY won for 2002; HOWL'S MOVING CASTLE, PONYO, and THE WIND RISES were all nomm'ed for their respective U.S. release years. It also won the Globe, in addition to getting tons of love all across the board... I wouldn't be surprised if it straight-up WINS... I feel it should...

NIMONA... The one that got away from Disney. Nearly killed, but revived, and turned out pretty great. Lots of praise all across the board, strong in its political themes (always a plus for an Oscar), innovative in its visuals, plus Netflix usually has a horse in the race... And given how well this one's been doing, especially at the Annies, I see it easily getting a nom.

ACROSS THE SPIDER-VERSE, need I say more? I won't be surprised if it wins, honestly.

MUTANT MAYHEM has seemed like the wild card to me, given how funky the Oscars can be with nominating animated movies. Remember how THE LEGO MOVIE was snubbed? Despite being a big hit and arguably having the best critical reception for an animated movie released in 2014? MUTANT MAYHEM *could* face that, too... I feel? I dunno, maybe it's because it's kind of a superhero action-adventure like SPIDER-VERSE 2 is... Then again, that didn't stop the Academy from nominating both INCREDIBLES 2 and INTO THE SPIDER-VERSE for 2018... Maybe it's because it's a reboot in a franchise that's been well-tread before? Then again, three theatrical live-action versions of Spider-Man existed before SPIDER-VERSE... Maybe it's because Paramount - with the exception of the DreamWorks movies they distributed circa 2006-2012 - never really has had much of a presence in this category for various reasons. That being said, this could be their first real break-out since RANGO got the nom for 2011 and *won*... I don't know, this one kinda feels a little weird. The film does has a high number of nominations, a single win. Other mainstream releases this year, such as ELEMENTAL and MARIO, weren't as well-received... So, I think it sneaks in. Just makes it, you could say.

We shall see...

[writefightandflightclub]

Glad you’re back! Your insights are always appreciated, and thus, a question:

I’ve been putting off watching Ex Machina for the first time, despite (or probably because) the fact that I’ve already fallen in love with the character/Oscar’s portrayal of Nathan (in large part because of your wonderful writing!). I tend to do this when I have a new actor blorbo bc I let myself enjoy things like a repressed 1950s housewife, but I’m working on it. So I’m making it a goal to watch the movie, and that way I can start writing for Nathan with more concrete understanding.

What warnings/advice do you have for someone about to watch the movie for the first time? Spoilers are fine bc I’ve already read the synopsis AND I found out if you Google “Ex Machina script” that thing’s online??? For free???

Hope this makes sense, if all else just know it’s great you’re back!

Hiiii! Thanks so much for the warm welcome back! That’s so kind,

So amazing that you’re going to watch the movie finally!! 😀 That’s some impressive restraint too. I could never.

I’m honoured that you trust my insights, but honestly I’d generally say just dive in and let it hit you. I’m excited for you to have your own unique experience with it, and I wouldn’t want to colour your experience too much with my own ramblings!

BUT, I am still going to share some things which sprang to the forefront of my mind when you asked the question. Mainly bc I love this film and I can’t resist the opportunity to talk about it and about Nathan, so thank you for the opportunity to do just that! 😆🧡 But I really would advise you to watch it first without reading them 😝

1) Nathannnnn 🥵 He pretty. He beautiful. I luff.

2) There are two neat divisions in the movie when it comes to the character of Nathan, imho. a) things we know for sure about Nathan and b) things we know for sure that Nathan needs Caleb to think about Nathan. One of the things I love about his character is the ambiguity, guesswork, and room for interpretation. Especially as the audience is placed in Caleb’s position and therefore our sympathies, assumptions, empathies, suspicions etc. more naturally fall on the side of Caleb’s interpretation. (Also bc there’s such lovely squashy room for interpretation, I’m sure that however you currently “see” him, the movie has enough wiggle room that you should safely be able to hang on to that version - if you still want to afterward, that is!)

3) Some / many of the Nathan + bot scenes are… uncomfortable. They’re… supposed to be?! Especially as we’re seeing them from Caleb’s POV, and with some major assumption of sentience on behalf of the bots.

4) Why do all his clothes seem too long for him?! I know he can afford a tailor 😂

5) I know the design of Nathan’s compound isn’t for everyone. Personally, it’s just my cup of tea. I’d move in tomorrow and wouldn’t change anything, besides maybe replacing all of his paintings 😂 I also think the movie is a great example of the set design / setting really adding a lot to our interpretation of the character, the tone and feel of the movie. Here’s an article I enjoyed on the subject:

6) It’s wild to me that this movie is presented as “with Oscar Isaac”, as though he’s minor to the piece. To me it is his movie, he’s the central character, and I don’t understand how he can be suggested as having a side role.

Please let me know what you think once you’ve seen it?! I’d love to hear your takeaways and whether your interpretation of him changes at all after watching. I really hope you enjoy it but ofc however you feel about it and about our collective grumpy husband is 100% valid! I enjoy hearing all the different takes on it all so much.

Have fun! 🧡🥳🧡🥳🧡

[lennonmccartneyofficial]

ooo north carolina sounds fun!! any specific plans for when you get there (like family visit or skiing or smth)??

my travels have been great so far, thank you :))) visiting some friends rn and family in a week or so

question of the day: top 5 movies?

-🎄

we'll be visiting family friends up in the mountains, and glad to hear you're doing well :)

okay this is a fabulous question and i had to think it over for a bit but i think i've made up my list (and i'd love to hear yours):

5. Knives Out + Glass Onion (2019/2022)

these movies are ridiculous. you somehow managed to take genuinely captivating mysteries and imbue them with a brilliant campiness. forget daniel craig as james bond, he was born to be benoit blanc. modern classics, really.

4. Labyrinth (1987)

david bowie has affected me in ways i can never recover from. jareth the goblin king has affected me in ways i can never recover from. i wanted to be sarah so bad. i still do. i was sarah in my high school's production of it, but did i get to slow dance with david bowie? no. and so the dream remains.

3. A Hard Day's Night (1964)

best beatles movies in my opinion. if there was one movie that felt like a hug on a rainy winter day it's this one. this is my definition of a comfort movie. i love the beatles. they're so stupid and i love them. also bonus points for being ridiculously quotable.

2. Pride & Prejudice (2005)

everyone loves this movie. everyone is also correct. to this day, this remains one of the most beautifully filmed things i've ever seen. jane austen, as always, was right about love and damn will this movie convince you of it. also, i clearly have a thing for ballroom dancing.

Velvet Goldmine (1998)

i am so serious when i say i genuinely think this is the greatest film ever made. this film is everything: it's weird as hell, it's a camp movie about camp, there's glam rock, a blue-raspberry ziggy stardust, ewan mcgregor is nude and writhing in glitter, christain bale is a twink, oscar wilde is there and also an alien. like are you kidding. this was made specifically for me and maybe a handful of others. thank you todd haynes i need to see what your brain looks like.

[justtrying-studyblog]

The Importance of Being Earnest

As a part of my Scene Study class, I had to read "The Importance of Being Earnest" by Oscar Wilde for the first time, and can I say I was pleasantly surprised! The sheer hilarity of everything in that play was baffling and so wildly entertaining!

Spoilers ahead (can you spoil a play that's been out for over a century?)

Can we just talk about the fact that these two men were both pretending to be called Earnest for whatever reason? Earnest! A name that literally means being truthful, both of which were not being. Then the twist that they were, in fact, telling the truth! At least Jack. I'm pretty sure Algernon was never truthful, but he was delightful! I, too, would stuff my face with muffins when under duress if given the opportunity to.

Then you get to the two younger female characters and their reliance on being with these boys. And the rollercoaster of their relationship! You could definitely look at the two characters and point out how wishy-washy they are about their morals with the guys. Still, it's just pure comedy how they promised to stay silent and ignore them after the truth was revealed, and then they immediately talked with the boys. Amazing timing; they don't make things like this anymore.

Then we get to Jack's past. Like, he was left in a handbag, okay sure, but then it was revealed that he was mistakenly placed in there because Miss Prism thought he was her manuscript. Like babies move and don't feel like stacks of paper (in my experience, at least). How do you make a mistake like that! It's absurd, it's hilarious, and I want more!

Of course, I must bring up the quick tangent about them being truthful. Because they go through this whole reveal, it shows that Jack was never really lying. He was seeing his brother in town; his name was Earnest, but he did not know that. Truth can be defined as the validity of a statement (how it holds up with reality), but it is a mere subjective value. We place our own truth on statements. Yes, there are objectively true statements (the sky is blue, 1+1=2, etc.), but Jack thought he was lying. He knew he was deceiving someone. He did not know that what he was saying was actually true. Therefore, he was never telling the truth. He just got lucky.

These are just my initial thoughts on this play. I had to tell someone. I'm going to be working on it in class, though, and choosing a character and some scenes to delve into, and I might come back with more thoughts on that (no promises, you should know better than the expectation from me). For now, I'm gonna urge everyone to read this play. If you google the name with pdf, a free version comes up; if not, here's the link to the one I read. http://www.jacneed.com/ASYD/Earnest/the_importance_of_being_earnest.pdf

Please check it out and let me know what you think. It is a quick read, a dedicated hour or so. Also, let me know any adaptations or interpretations of characters you like; I would love to read/watch it!

*side note, in finding the gif for this post, I realized there is a movie adaptation and yes, I will be watching it!

[murfpersonalblog]

The Jelly Roll Morton thing is interesting.

On one hand, YES, it's a revisionist history whitewashing slap in the face to all of the Black jazz/blues/rock&roll musicians who fell into uncreditted obscurity after being plagiarized/robbed/overshadowed by more famous white culture vultures like Elvis (x x x x x). Now here's The Vampire Lestat, "Monsieur le Rockstar," as the ghostwriter of one of the most influential Black musicians. But it's par for the course--same with that "Justin Beiber" (another culture vulture) name drop in the S3 promo: just one more peg in the laundry list of Black men being slapped in the face by the racist white machine--which is the whole point of AMC's race swaps, after all.

But on the other hand, Jelly Roll's association with Lestat is twofold:

1) It's a subtle nod to the Faustian "deal with the Devil" historically associated with MANY musicians throughout history; especially in European classical music, and American Southern blues/jazz/rock&roll. Musical geniuses were so good that often people were like Nah, this is unnatural, he must've learned that from the Devil! (esp. if it was secular art, and ESPECIALLY if it was a Black man (a la Robert Johnson & Tommy Johnson). Blues/jazz/rock was called Devil Music.

In IWTV, the "Devil" is a vampire, Lestat, who teaches Jelly Roll Morton the Wolverine Blues--or at least the prototype to the song he'd later record in 1923 (~6 years later).

2) It's an even subtler nod to the close relationship between classical music, NOLA jazz/ragtime, and Jelly Roll's unique innovations.

NOLA's French Opera House was a major landmark--the peak of cultured society for both white & Black folk--even Jelly Roll Morton said the piano playing there inspired him to be a musician.

But being in the French Quarter, it was segregated AF; Black people could go, but weren't allowed to sit in the same areas as white folk.

As such, Imma push back on Louis "hating" theatre.

I don't think AMC was saying "Louis can't like Shakespeare" cuz that's white stuff; and hated movies/theatre cuz of segregation.

In 1x1 (1910) Louis clearly LOVES theatre & opera, when he sees Tchaikovsky's Iolanta.

Although Louis bashes the play to his family and says he got bored halfway through--

--that was a LIE.

We SEE Lou enjoy Iolanta in 1x1.

Just like we SEE Louis enjoying Donizetti's Don Pasquale in 1x2 (1917).

Loustat's "difficult love they can't express" parallels Oscar Wilde's "love that dare not speak its name," cuz Louis' a closeted gay Black man in the Jim Crow South.

This post by @iwtv2022 sums it up perfectly:

Louis' attitude towards opera boils down to his sexuality, as well as his race.

Cuz what Louis ACTUALLY hated about going to the theatre/opera/etc was indeed segregation--specifically at the French Opera House where they saw Don Pasquale in 1917.

Fischer, Roger A. “Racial Segregation in Ante Bellum New Orleans.” The American Historical Review 74, no. 3 (1969): 926–37. https://www.jstor.org/stable/1873129.

Black people had their own specifically cordoned area, and were not allowed into "the pit, or to the boxes," where white men like Lestat were able to sit. On a fancy date, Loustat wouldn't be allowed to sit together in the Whites Only box. Louis wouldn't even be allowed up there, unless he were posing as Les' valet carrying his coat & hat.

Lestat bought his own private box at the opera house--ofc he did, cuz he's white. LOUIS wouldn't be able to get box seats, though.

I've talked about the good/sweet aspects of their Opera House date; but also its awful/bad aspects.

It's not that Lou hates opera (white music/theatre) itself, it's that he wasn't welcome, or respected. He HATES going places he doesn't feel welcome, even places he loves: like HOME.

Because of the sexist/racist nature of ACCESS black!Lou has with white opera/theatre, he avoids it in Jim Crow America. (Ofc in 1940s Paris, the Theatre des Vampires is just effing weird & macabre; nothing like the art he ACTUALLY enjoys--which is why he blows the coven so much, hanging out at IRL R-26 instead.)

R-26 was high-brow elite cultural society too, but unlike the US, Paris' art circle was racially AND sexually integrated--a haven for Black LGBT+ artists & intellectuals, where black!Louis was welcome.

And it's not as if he's some impossible-to-please snob who hates lowbrow theatre/comedy either, just cuz he hated the TdV--

We see him in 1923 (1x4) vastly enjoying LESTAT's home-theater performances (a la book canon); and watching movies at the cinema with his family, during their good AND bad times (1923 / 1940).

Which is consistent with Lou's love of cinema in the books/film, too.

So, IMO Lou's love of theatre/opera/cinema came from a similar place as his love of books--an escape, and a comfort; a la Anne Rice's "Dreamworld" (and vampire dreams/nightmares in 2x1) where he could experience something other than his own reality; or that could help him understand/endure his reality better--just like Les' mom Gabrielle.

The weird racism of the Interview with the Vampire TV series

I was not a fan of the first season of Interview with The vampire (TV series). Season 2 was slightly better and I actually liked the season finale. However, casting was not a problem for me. I think all the actors are fine (though I think they should have cast someone who can pass for an actual child for Claudia. The actress who played her in the Lestat Broadway musical was eighteen passing off as ten). Lestat and Louis were played by excellent actors. And Louis being black is perfectly fine by me. Hell, you could have still followed the novel's timeline and had him black. New Orleans Louisiana was a bit different from the rest of the South when it came to racial issues. And many Creole were of mixed race. There were (believe it or not) black plantation owners. However, that's not my concern. What rubbed me the wrong way is they felt the need to have Louis hate theatre as a character trait and the behind the scenes interviews with the showrunner suggest it was for racial reasons that this was was changed, because of theatre segregation, etc. That doesn't feel right to me. That's like suggesting no black man liked movies in the American South before segregation was done away with. In the novel Interview with The Vampire, Louis and Lestat used to act out Shakespeare for little Claudia. And we were cheated out of this because they decided to make Louis hate theatre. It feels weirdly racist. Like "The character is black now. He can't like Shakespeare. That's a white thing." Also having Lestat be the "Real" writer of one of Jellyroll's more famous songs when that's a real, historic musician, REALLY doesn't sit right for me. "Oh, that was really written by our fictional and very white vampire Frenchman. Lawl!" I don't know. Maybe I'm reading too much into it but these things were bugging me recently.

[write-and-buried]

Celestial Navigation

Part 6 - Waning Gibbous

Summary; Whatever happened to that guy anyway?

Warnings; jesus christ listing them makes me want to hide my face under pillows. Oral sex (m!receiving), excessive rimming, cum play, dirty talk, very messy sex, cum eating, spitting, and some discussions of toxic workplaces

A/N; This got filthy... fast. Huge thanks to @astroboots @the-ginger-hedge-witch @radiowallet and @jazzelsaur for encouraging every single whore thot I've ever had

Series Masterlist \\ Main Masterlist

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Whatever Happened to Derek Brown?

You couldn’t go to the movies without seeing his face. From the round cheeks and eyes filled with wonder as a child discovering life on other planets from his backyard telescope to the chiselled jaw and sharp cheekbones as a peasant teen in the period drama that won him an Oscar at only 14, Derek Brown was a staple of early nineties cinema.

A clean-cut heart throb, the duelling box office titans of Eric Webster and Derek Brown plastered the walls of teenage girls (and boys) across the nation.

But while you only have to scroll through Twitter to catch a glimpse of Webster’s latest escapades (yacht orgy, need we elaborate?) Brown has been absent from public life for almost two decades. Emancipated at sixteen, running wild through Hollywood throughout his late teens, he suddenly vanished after the death of his parents. What was assumed to be a brief period of quiet mourning has since turned into a mysterious disappearance, fuelled further by Eric’s locked lips on the subject.

“I wish him happiness, wherever he is” the only official statement he’s ever given, referring all other questions about him to his publicist, who parrots the same line.

His sizeable talent notwithstanding, Derek’s disappearance has sparked numerous conspiracy theories about the cocky young stars whereabouts. Every few years an unconfirmed sighting emerges along with a new theory, a monastery in Brazil, a surf instructor in Australia, an extra in the background of Marvel’s latest release. The lack of tax returns, public filings or holdings make most believe he has left the United States and lives a quiet life of anonymity out of the public eye.

With the twenty-year anniversary of ‘Rebel of Owls’ on the horizon, his last, and most famous film, many fans have wondered…

Whatever Happened to Derek Brown?

Buzzfeed News.

“Here it is” Dieter grunts, the sound of falling debris as he pulls a box from the back of his closet. Shining in the lamplight, the statue doesn’t look real. He tosses it on the couch next to you as your eyes scan the slideshow. You barely recognise him, your brain only tickling familiarity as the quintessentially 90s photos scroll across your vision.

Red carpets, cigarettes tucked behind his ear, set photos with the young face of Eric Webster, one of the most famous celebrities in the world, their arms linked around the others neck, brotherly love in all its glory.

ACADEMY AWARD

to

DEREK BROWN

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR

‘FOUNDERS AND PEASANTS’

“I never saw it” you say, running your thumb across the grooves in the metal.

“Don’t bother. It’s not very good” Derek replies, sparking a joint held between his lips. The flame illuminates his face, and you see the ghost of the boy on the screen.

“I had to wear these stupid lifts in my shoes. I hadn’t had a growth spurt yet, and my voice cracked all over the acceptance speech. Hackman should have won it, for Unforgiven, but I guess the voters thought I was a cute kid with a good story, and that’s what they vote for anyway”

He flops down on the couch next to you, peering at your phone screen to see Eric Webster and him, linked together in the past.

“I met Eric a few years before that. We both auditioned for Judgement Day, but obviously didn’t get it. Became friends and stayed that way. Roared through Hollywood like a couple of young-dumb-full of cum idiots and caused havoc for our agents.”

“That’s why everyone recognised you at the party” Your voice is quiet, the realisations coming to you in waves as he blows smoke rings to the ceiling.

“It happens. But I do have one of those faces, and nobody thinks they’re gonna meet a child actor one day”

“It’s been a secret? This whole time?”

“No… not really” he says carefully. “I don’t hide it. I never legally changed my name, so my accountant knows. My old agent knows, Owen and Molly know. Eric, obviously, he knows too. He visits at Christmas once every few years”

“But I didn’t know” your voice cracks for the first time.

“Hey, no, hey hey” grabs your cheeks, your phone falling into your lap, the screen illuminated as he scrambles toward you.

“How did I break my nose?” he asks, swiping tears from your cheeks as he tilts your face upward.

“You got punched in the face in a bar fight you thought you could win”

“What’s my favourite movie snack”

“Kit Kats”

“What’s my favourite medium?”

“Charcoal… or acrylic depending on the canvas” you’re sobbing now, reaching to touch his wrist as he looks at your face.

“Why do I paint so many stars?”

“You think stories are told there”

“Including ours” he says, brushing a kiss across your mouth. “I didn’t tell you, because that isn’t important to me. That’s a life I left behind, I shed my name and everything about it. It wasn’t me Lou. It was something I did, not who I am, remember?”

You take a deep breath, forcing the tears back as you circle your fingers to feel his pulse.

“Why did Eric call?”

He sighs, pressing his forehead to yours as you stroke his skin.

“He calls whenever he gets a weird question. They ask about me whenever an anniversary is coming up, or when nostalgia is going to help them get more clicks on an article. Usually its just the vague, where is he, stuff that he never answers. But they asked him, through his publicist if he spends a lot of time in New York, and where his favourite coffee shop is. He thinks they might know I own this place. He wanted to warn me.”

“And what happens if they find you?”

“Mayhem, I would guess. If I could do it over, I wouldn’t have vanished, just publicly stepped away. Let it fade in people’s memories and have an ending to the story. That’s what they’re looking for, a satisfying conclusion to the Derek Brown ‘mystery’” he scoffs.

“They’ll come here”

“At least, trying to get a photo. They’ll want interviews and canned sound bites and all that fake bullshit. When they don’t get it, they’ll start digging. Derek Brown might not exist anymore, but Dieter Bravo has been thrown around enough that they’ll get some good stories out of it”

“What are you going to do?”

“What I always do” he grins, “whatever I want”

The scent distracts you, an acrid burning as your eyes flick to the threadbare rug under his coffee table, currently smouldering from a half smoked joint. He follows your gaze and smothers it with a military green croc. When he turns back to you he shrugs, an apology on his face.

You reach out, hooking your pinkie with his own.

*

It takes four days. A weekend of waiting in an anxious puddle, two days of staring at your spreadsheets with Twitter open on your phone, refreshing the top trending stories and TMZ between each click of the mouse. There aren’t enough interns left for you to fade into the background. Your co-workers ask you repeatedly if you’re okay. Your boss makes you take a COVID test in the bathroom, when it comes back negative, she rolls her eyes and tells you to get back to work.

The first photo of him is grainy. Tousled hair and mismatched socks, sweats rolled over one knee. It’s outside the café, leaning against the brick with sunglasses hooked into his threadbare shirt. You sleep in that shirt sometimes.

It takes an hour for the internet to catch fire. More recent photos appear, Molly and Owen in the background as blurry ghosts as his form is shown painting the walls of the café, or as a hunched figure carrying a mustard yellow armchair down a busy street.

The stories come that evening. People that have slept with him, done drugs with him, snorted lines off his body or had him snort lines of theirs. A woman who shared tabs of molly with crushing kisses in the middle of a silent rave. None of the stories surprise you, he’s told you most of them. They’re good experiences, memories he laughs at, turned suddenly sinister.

His first naked photo hits the internet less than 24 hours later. He’s sprawled on his round bed, cock laying thick and imposing on his thigh as he grins into the camera, offering a cup of unknown liquor to the taker. More follow. They begin to form a narrative, one of a life of pleasure and excess, of unconcerned privilege and recklessness.

Your co-workers begin to whisper that afternoon. You had always assumed watercooler gossip was a trope, overused and never actually happening, until you caught your name in a hushed tone as you walked back to your desk with your fifth, shitty, coffee. There are glances, out of the corner of their eyes you can feel them, pinpricks all over your skin that make you feel itchy, under hot lamps.

You ignore a colleague when he calls your name at 5pm, packing your journal into your handbag you spill into the anonymity of the street. You keep your eyes glued to your phone as you walk, the first of many think pieces about Dieter beginning to appear on TMZ and Buzzfeed, asking what happened to give him such a fall from grace.

You’ve seen the photos from the café, texted by Molly in a moment of peace, full to the brim with fans holding DVDs of his movies, paparazzi with jiggling knees and separate flashes, people taking photos of the paintings on the walls. You haven’t heard from Dieter since it broke, your phone silent except for the reminders for meetings, deadlines, notifications that you once lived by now causing you to grit your teeth as you felt a flush of disappointment.

Your apartment is quiet. The dead plant in the corner seems to mock you as you microwave a poor imitation of macaroni and cheese, your shoes kicked haphazardly across the rug. The sunset is beautiful across the windows outside your apartment, streaking purples and oranges that remind you of his paintings.

Everything feels uncertain. You hover over his contact in your phone as you settle on your couch, too rigid to truly be comfortable, but a stylistic choice in the space. Your phone screen goes dark, giving you a glimpse of your pinched face, the teeth burrowed into your bottom lip. You grab your laptop instead, dragging it and a blanket over your knees as you scroll through the list of classic movies Dieter has mentioned in passing, organised into a spreadsheet.

Selecting one at random, you feel a tug of loneliness at his absence, the stream of consciousness commentary that’s always accompanied these black and white pieces of history.

*

The colours aren’t mixing right. The contrast not dark enough to make the light glow, dimming the image on the canvas in front of him. He can taste the splinters of his paintbrush as he stares at the unsatisfactory image, the purples in the palette on his arm seeming suddenly wrong. The sunset had looked so beautiful tonight, reflecting off the shining concrete buildings as he sat on the overgrown balcony, listening to the cacophony of the street.

Usually, it was anonymous, the noise below. Horns and screaming and laughter and crying, floating up to him like a symphony he could view from afar, enjoy while staring at the blankness of the universe and wondering how it all came to matter so much it hurts.

But today, his name is the primary noise. Owen and Molly had told him to stay upstairs, as if he had any intention of going down, of allowing them to split him open and feast on the aged flesh. Find a story that only mattered because of a life he willingly gave up.

He wanted to create. It burned like a dying sun inside him for as long as he could remember. Everything itched and scorched until he had a pencil in his hand or a play to perform. Drama club, into auditions, acting into stardom. It was a round peg in an oval hole… right enough to think it worked.

Worked for his parents, anyhow. Supportive but distant, they enjoyed the high society of their sudden famous surname. Never pushing him, never encouraging him, they just were. He can hardly remember their faces now, the scent of his mother’s perfume sometimes caught and followed on the summer air.

Eric had always understood. Standing in line in the same auditions, the blonde hair in perfect spikes, his eyes somehow smouldering at the tender age of fifteen. They ran along parallel lines, his parents shaving down his edges until he was round enough to slide right through the hole. They would sneak off the back lot at Warner Brothers and smoke clove cigarettes, drink whiskey until they were sick and shaking, a makeup artist with glassy eyes giving them eyedrops, breath mints.

Nobody cared, until they did. Until the photos hit the papers, glossy and high def, Dieter on a bar top at eighteen, loops of women’s lingerie collected around his wrist. Eric sucking tequila out of a Victoria’s Secret models bellybutton. Fame and excess rolled together until they were packaged together, saran wrapped for consumption.

They never showed up drunk or high to interviews, they toed the line of playful bad boy together, always yanking the other back by the collar until it stopped being enough. If he dug deep enough, he’d know why he stopped when they died, taken within months of each other, cancer and a stroke. He’d proved enough, they loved him enough, and they were there. Until they weren’t.

He read some of the coverage about his parents’ deaths. The family photo’s he doesn’t remember posing for in contrast to the questions about his morality. Everyone expected him to go off the rails, to join the elusive 27 club and sell pictures of his coked-up face. Everyone would have been sad, and moved on.

Instead, he picked up a paint brush, and bought a cheap canvas at an art supply store. He sat in the back of a rented limousine and ruined the seats with shitty acrylics and painted what the world looked like behind tinted glass. When he left Hollywood, he never had the urge to look back.

He saw this place on the 8th of August. The flat brick exterior with no windows, an old oak door with rusted hinges, tucked between new developments like the least appealing fruit at Whole Foods. It was owned by an estate, nobody wanting it and nobody offering enough to take it off their hands. A grimy shop with a small apartment overhead, the balcony overrun with weeds. His skin had hummed when he touched the brickwork, a promise zapping through his skin.

He didn’t know what it was until you had walked through the door.

Dieter wasn’t expecting you to call. He knows the story has broken, can only imagine what is being thrown around about him on the internet, the conclusions people are jumping to as they dig up more, and more again. He stayed upstairs for most of it, hearing Owens voice boom out against the brickwork, insisting that he wasn’t here, that they didn’t know where he was and wouldn’t say even if they did. He snuck a muffin up an hour later.

He could imagine you now, sitting in your apartment, an empty microwave meal next to you on the couch. Maybe you were watching a movie, you might have been consuming every new article about him – continuing on the trend of the day he assumed. He wondered what you were watching, if his not-so-subtle steering towards Bette Davis had taken root yet, or if you had chosen something mindless, something you’d seen a thousand times and could recite from memory, its words etched on your brain, a script nobody asked you to memorise.

*

The stories about his family start the next day. Innocuous enough, his parents, his upbringing. They have him in their teeth, it seems, unwilling to let go as his silence begins to annoy. Undeterred by the swirling uncertainty they speculate wildly. His relationship with his parents picked to shreds, interviews and DVD extras dragged forth from memory and replayed on loops. TikTok analysis of his body language, a livestream of someone getting coffee from the shop, the line now snaking down the street.

Owen and Molly are next. A photo of Molly flipping off the paparazzi sparks a new wave of speculating about his chosen family. You giggle when you see she makes it her Instagram profile picture. They find Owen’s friend in L.A – the one who works in porn. Not as an actor, but a makeup artist, and that’s enough for the morality police to come down even harder on Dieter.

They’re ripping him limb from limb, an evisceration in 180 characters, each pillar of his personality smashed to dust with memes and jokes and vicious hatred. Eric cops some of the blowback as well, refusing to distance himself from his friend. There’s a clip of him, drunk at a party, shouting support for his former partner in crime, daring anyone to question him. In a room full of glitzy yes men, nobody does.

It tickles beneath your skin. That everyone cares so much about him while knowing very little. None of the articles mention his paintings. None of them talk about his apparent connection to the human spirit, his obsession with the stars and their stories, classic Hollywood. He could recite the general principles of the Hays code from memory, and he liked to explain all the ways you’d broken them while he licked cum from between your thighs.

He talked until you fell asleep every night, a soothing rumble of a story you’d have never known otherwise. It’s the same feeling from the party, a thousand years and barely a fortnight ago, where they fell in love with an image, only this time it’s the reverse. You haven’t watched his movies, no morbid curiosity to see the cheekbones that could cut glass. It was something he did, not who he was, and it became clearer with every tweet that it wasn’t who you know.

It settles like a dull ache, a burning chasm of loneliness that drags you from your desk at 5pm that day, again. Committing cardinal sin as you close your laptop and leave, not looking over your shoulder for what you once considered vital additional responsibilities. You’re wearing heels today, and the bones of your feet hurt when you reach the building.

There’s still a crowd outside, despite the door being closed. People are taking pictures against the brickwork, jostling for the best light, the capture of the frayed cardboard closed sign that greets them. A few men in jeans with expensive cameras mill off to the side, glancing upwards to the light just visible through his heavy curtains.

You don’t think before you hit his contact. If you strain over the noise, you can hear the foghorn alarm, his ringtone before he picks up.

“I’m outside”

It’s pandemonium when the door opens. Flashes blind you as you feel fingers lace into your own, tugging you inside the door before shutting it with a slam. It barely dims the noise. The bell falls from overhead, cracking into three pieces on the ground as you feel his arms wrap around you, the tension draining from your body for the first time in days as he squeezes your waist, pressing his face into your neck.

“Missed you” is all he says before dragging you upstairs.

He’s covered in paint. Muddy browns cover his hands, sticking through his hair and smeared on his cheek. The canvas in the corner is dripping, long sludgy trails of paint on the floor. You can see the stubs of three joints in it, his palette peeling from the weight of it.

“Couldn’t get it right” he shrugs, following your eyeline to the ruined canvas. “It will happen when it’s supposed to”

His thumb brushes your cheek as you take him in fully. His hair is unruly, his eyes creased deeper than you’ve seen them, his clothing creased and stained. You can smell paint thinner, weed and Makers Mark on him, and you wonder if he’s showered since the story broke.

“Want to take a shower?” you ask, feeling his fingers round brush against your skin

“Together?” he asks, a grin that makes your chest crack breaking his face.

“Wash the paint off first, then we can talk” you reply, the laugh he lets out a shaft of sunlight through your skin. He nods, pressing a brief kiss to your forehead before turning towards the bathroom.

You know where his things are. You know where yours fit in this space, where you leave your bag, kick off your shoes, shed the corporate layers. You know which drawer to dig through for his softest shirts and you pick one that smells just like him to slip on. Your clothes tangle with his in a laundry basket. You know there’s a pile that has clean ones somewhere. You grab fruit from his fridge, a punnet of blueberries and misshapen plums, setting them on the edge of the coffee table as you hear him through the wall, humming under the spray of the shower.

You pick a movie, something in the endless queue and wait, checking your phone and not worrying about its dying battery. You respond to Molly’s questions about her aid relief form, you double tap Owen’s picture on Instagram, the caption something witty about being famous and wanting his dick sucked. You check your email. The sharp one from your boss demanding a meeting in the morning barely makes a dent as you toss the device on the table, stretching your limbs back into the deep couch, waiting for him to emerge.

He brings a cloud of steam with him. His hair damp and curling around his neck, a towel slung low on his hips as he continues humming to himself. His rings catch the light, throwing silver across the walls like stars as he comes to you, seemingly distracted, to grab your wrist and pull you to your feet.

“You forgot this” he says, bringing his mouth to yours.

You’d always broken this into body parts. Lips touched lips, hands clasped hands, the rhythmic sectional breakdown of affection, neatly categorised and labelled as one progressed to another, switched their categories to explore further.

Kissing Dieter is a full body experience, you’ve since learned. From lazy and slow and sleep heavy, to frantic and primal, he kisses you with his whole body. His hands roam your back, tangle in your hair, grab your ass and squeeze your flesh. He mumbles into your mouth, feeding you words like candy as he hovers indecisively between your neck and earlobe, fluttering between the two to scrape his teeth and make your knees tremble.

The towel loosens under the growing erection beneath it as he walks you backwards to the bed. His hands slide under your shirt, tracing over the lines left by your bra as his mouth travels down your throat. He’s consuming, the familiar feeling of being completely overwhelmed by him settling like a weighted blanket on your soul as the damp towel falls free, his encouraging hands pulling his shirt from your body.

“Really fuckin’ missed you” he moans, his mouth travelling across your chest as he backs you right against the rounded edge of his mattress, the sheets and blankets tangled in the middle.

You need more. The days without him have rubbed you raw, left you feeling adrift and furious on his behalf, and feeling his skin on yours, so warm and soothing sparks something deep inside your gut you’re unwilling to name.

“Can I taste you?” you ask, the question feeling ridiculous on your tongue. His hands dig into your skin, you hear his sharp inhale around your chest as his beard scrapes the sensitive flesh.

“As if I’m ever going to say no to that” he says, grinning up at you with a wink.

For all you’ve done together, this is a rarity. He tends towards worship, the focus of his body seemingly on yours alone, save for moments where you manage to catch him off guard, your teeth scraping his hip as he orients his hands on your body, prying you open for spit slicked fingers as you lick the weeping head of his cock.

He throws pillows to the floor before you sink to your knees, his aim precise enough to ensure a soft landing as your hands trail his thighs, encouraging him to sit, the softness of his stomach, the warmth of his skin making you catch alight. His hand is confident, trailing your cheek to the crown of your head, settling comfortably with a broad palm as he watches you, gasping lightly at the scrape of your nail along the sensitive skin of his thigh.

“You can’t fit it all Lou… But I’d love to watch you try”

Heavy. It’s the word that always comes to mind, whenever you take him in hand or feel him thicken beneath or behind you. The veins that run the length of him, pulsing inside you, the drips that leak from the fat head of his cock whenever he looms over you, watching your cunt pulse in wanting.

It flushes darker than his skin, like a storm on the horizon, swollen and tempting as you watch a single shining drop of precum appear at the head, sliding to drip sticky on his thigh. His hand tightens in your hair when you dart your tongue to taste it. Salty and hot, the heady feel of the weight of it on your tongue makes you squirm, your thighs pressing together as you guide him between your lips.

His hand tightens in your hair, a groan escaping his lips as you stretch your mouth around him. He fills you everywhere. The press of him on the roof of your mouth, immediately filling with saliva as you dig your nails into his strong thighs, shuffling closer as he spreads them for you, a low curse and a shifting of the sheets as he grips them in a wide palm.

“Fuck, yes… that’s it” he’s breathless.

You manage a third the first time, your throat protesting the attempted intrusion as you swallow around him, pulling off to watch the thick spit drip from the sides of your mouth, feeling your eyes prick with tears as he reaches to curl a hand around the base of it, holding himself steady for you to resume.

He watches you. His eyes only squeezing shut each time you choke around him, the depraved groan he lets out as you watch his hips twitch, suppressing the urge to fuck into the tightness of your throat, to apply a little more pressure to the back of your head. You’d let him, you’d like it.

Instead he lets you lead, a pool of your spit now dripping over his knuckles as you take as much of him as you can, a steady, slow rhythm as you synchronise your breathing, enough to stave off the tears in your eyes, focused only on the salty, hot taste of him as you feel his skin heat under your palm.

Your jaw aches, the unnatural stretch of him in your mouth as you pull off him, watching as he twitches, the thick vein pulsing as he grips himself tight around the base. With a gentle tug he pulls your head back, makes you meet his eyes as he strokes his length with a lewd squelch of spit and precum, his own wide hand barely fitting around the thickness of him as he squeezes more the swollen tip. You kiss his thighs, his skin still warm and clean from the shower as you scrape your teeth along the soft skin.

“Look at me” he says, his voice gravel rough as you stare past his lazy strokes to meet his eyes, blown dark and focused on you as your mouth travels further up his thighs.

He can do this, he knows how to control himself, has had this same sensation enough times. But the feeling of your breath, ghosting lightly over his skin makes him feel fevered as he shifts, allows your cautious exploration of the crease of his thigh, your cheek brushing his balls as he lifts his foot onto the bed.

You look like you want to ask, as if he’d ever say no to you, and he nods his head before you can find the words. This is new to you, not something you’ve ever ventured towards, despite a forbidden thrill at the thought. Dieter tries to relax, tries to breathe as your mouth travels lower, as the first cautious kitten lick of your tongue flicks across his hole.

The sound he makes is broken, ripped from his chest without permission as he half strangles his cock in response, the sudden locking of his muscles as he sees your eyebrows raise in a smile. You liked it. Slowly, torturously you explore him, every ridge of furled muscle, the sensitive skin of its surrounds as Dieter feels his hair begin to stick to his forehead with sweat. He can’t breathe for how good it feels.

You’re so careful with him, gently coaxing him open with your mouth as he pants and groans, finding exactly what way he likes to be touched, shifting lower to get enough access. He can still see your eyes, watching him as you lick and trace his glistening hole.

“You want to see me lose it don’t you?” he asks, braving a single stroke of his cock, his whole body shuddering from the searing pleasure that races up his spine.

“You’d like it, wouldn’t you, to watch? Or do you want to do it yourself, you want to have me like this, loose and begging for it, fucking myself back onto something just as thick as I am. You want to watch my face? Want to see what it looks like when I get fucked just as hard as I fuck you? I can tell, I can fucking smell your cunt right now, you’re soaked you filthy perfect thing. Don’t you dare stop”

You’re squirming, shifting your slick thighs together as he talks, his hand squeezing his cock in an unsteady rhythm, drops of sweat rolling down his chest as you breach his ass with the tip of your tongue, enough to feel the tight ring of muscle give under your ministrations, swollen and sensitive from your mouth.

“Fuck, don’t fucking stop, please, so good, fuck”

Dieter can’t help it, the barest scrape of your teeth around his fluttering rim and he sees stars. It explodes from the base of his spine with shocking force travelling through his limbs and robbing him of his senses. He comes thick and heavy splattering his stomach and chest, flowing over his knuckles as you lick across his sac, drawing it further, making everything oblivion as he half screams your name.

Your lips are swollen, wet with his cum. Its on your cheek, sliding down in a thick river as you watch him come back to himself, squeezing the last drops from the thick head of his cock. His hand is still in your hair as his eyes swim back into focus, watching you lick the taste of him from your skin. His knuckles are covered in it, and you watch as he releases himself with a wet smack, bringing his hand to his own mouth, collecting it on his tongue.

He leans over you, close enough for his nose to brush your cheek as your lips part for him, feeling him spit his own cum into your mouth as he follows it with a messy kiss. He drags you onto his lap with surprising strength and shaking fingers, and you feel your slick cunt graze against his cock as he tastes himself on your teeth.

You’re desperate, rutting yourself along the underside of his twitching length as you feel his hands grip you, guide your rhythm as your swollen clit catches on the slick head of him, making you gasp into his mouth.

“That’s it, there’s my girl. Use me, get yourself off on me, I want to see you cum on me. Got so wet, so needy from sucking my cock. Wasn’t enough for you was it, next time you want to, I’ll plant this pretty cunt on my face as well, so you can drip down my throat while you choke on me. And I want payback, I’m going to spread you wide open, show you just how good it feels to cum that hard with a tongue in your ass. I’ll stretch you enough to take me one day, get you nice and open and begging for it, hm?”

His hand slips between your own cheeks, slick still with spit and cum as he brushes lightly against your ass.

“You want that? Want me to fuck you here as well, treat me to the sight of your ass swallowing my fat cock while I make you cum on it?”

“Dieter�� fuck”

“I know, you’re right there aren’t you. I can feel it, you’re soaking me, you always get so wet for me, just desperate to be filled up properly”

He holds you close when you come, wrapping his arms tight around you and holding you firm to his lap, so that every shudder passes through him as well his mouth claiming yours as you scratch down his spine, seizing in place as he spreads his hands wide across your spine. It’s those same kisses. The lazy, long and slow ones that bring you back to him, each gentle pass of his hands on your skin as he chases your mouth, catches his own breath in between.

“I need another shower now” he says, grinning as he presses his forehead into yours. “You’re coming with this time” You squeal when he stands, wrapping an arm under your ass as he lifts you both with seeming ease.

He’s had less sleep than you, you can tell. His arms wrap around you from behind as he buries you both in blankets, freshly showered on clean sheets as he kisses behind your ear. He insisted on you naked, cupping at your breasts, his hands sliding over your stomach as his breathing slows, the lazy circuit of his hands becoming heavier.

“Dieter…” you whisper, feeling him scoot closer to you, a half-conscious hum of acknowledgement.

“You could leave for real you know.”

“Mm, no” he says, nuzzling closer into your neck. “Your job is here”

“They’re eviscerating you, going after your family, and Owen and Molly and… I don’t know, if you went away for a while, maybe it would die down”

“Won’t” he grumbles, “Do you want me to?”

“No” you answer, the thought of it pulling gravity from your stomach as you feel him smile into your skin. “But you don’t have to put up with it, and if you wanted to… get away from it… I’d understand”

You feel him huff a laugh into your neck.

“They’ll get bored eventually. Find some other scandal and leave me to fuck you in peace. Besides… I’m not going anywhere without you”

It makes tears prick the back of your eyes, some swelling bursting feeling you can’t name erupting in your chest as he kisses your neck again, finding your hand to lace your fingers together.

“I watched Jezebel” You say, clearing your throat of a warm, soothing blockage that heats your insides.

“Oh, that’s a good one. Bette Davis did that one because she didn’t get to play Scarlett in Gone With the Wind. It’s funny though, it’s the first real link between her and Tallulah, because she originated it on the stage. Then there’s Dark Victory, and of course, The Little Foxes. They had these mirrored careers, one on stage and one on screen, and even though Bette had bad things to say about everyone, she never really did about Lou…”

His voice lulls you to sleep. You’ll hear the rest in the morning.

[storiesforallfandoms]

stop being a cliché ~ eminem

word count: 2695

request?: yes!

@girl-toxxic ​“Here's another request, well, this idea came after watching the Oscar Isaac and Jessica Chastain series, Em gets jealous for the reader's co-star, either for the very hot scenes, for the game they do on the red carpets, the public is delighted with them and Em shits her with reader and also says something hurtful to her, and for two weeks reader does not answer her calls or messages, and every time he writes or calls her a reader, she tells him that she is too busy recording a new series ... Marshall, fed up with this, travels and talks to her to apologize ... and they decide to make their relationship public ... (if you want and if you feel comfortable you can add some smut) Sorry if there is any mistake ..”

description: where he gets jealous over the friendship his girlfriend has with her costar and says some stuff he doesn’t meant

pairing: eminem x female!reader

warnings: swearing

masterlist (one, two)

*i changed it a little where they’re relationship is already going to be public*

The ride home from the premiere was unbearably quiet. (Y/N) was looking out the window, biting the inside of her cheek to try and hold back the anger and the tears that were building inside of her.

It should’ve been the most amazing night of her life. It was the premiere of her new movie, the first one in which she was the lead actress. Marshall was going with her to celebrate this huge accomplishment, which just made the night even more exciting for her. The excitement was building in the time leading up to the red carpet before the premiere.

And then it all went downhill.

(Y/N) met up with her male counterpart on the red carpet. The paparazzi were calling for them to pose for some pictures, so they did. Marshall watched from the side, smiling proudly at his girlfriend until he noticed her co-star getting a little too touchy for his liking. The guy had his arm securely around her waist, just low enough that he could be grabbing her ass if he wanted to. While they were posing, he took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles, causing (Y/N) to giggle and the paparazzi to go wild.

Marshall’s face was burning with jealousy as he stepped up to them and said, “I think that’s enough pictures for now.”

(Y/N) looked at him with her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Marshall muttered. “I just think we should keep moving.”

He took her hand and they started down the red carpet again. (Y/N) quickly called an apology over her shoulder to her co-star as they kept going.

Marshall thought that once they got into the movie, he would calm down. He knew he acted irrationally due to his jealously, but he couldn’t help it. Seeing the way that asshole was touching his girlfriend, the way he was looking at her, it caused something to bubble up in his chest. Unfortunately, the jealous only continued to grow once the movie started as Marshall realized that (Y/N) and her co-star were playing love interests, with a number of scenes littered throughout the movie.

During one particular scene about halfway through the movie, Marshall got up from his seat and hurried out of the theatre. (Y/N) watched him go in confusion before quietly excusing herself to go after him. She found him pacing in the lobby as she hurried to catch up with him.

“What is going on with you?” she asked.

“Nothing. I just want to go home,” he responded.

“Already? The movie isn’t even over yet, and I still have the Q&A portion afterwards with the cast and the director.”

“Fine, then you can stay here and do that, but I’m going home.”

(Y/N) scoffed. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“Nothing!”

“You keep saying that, but there’s clearly something that’s got you acting like this. Why won’t you tell me? You know you can tell me anything, babe.”

“You want me to tell you why I’m acting this way?” he questioned. “Fine, I don’t like seeing that prick with his hands all over you.”

“Who, my co-star? The one I was working with to make the movie I’m in?” she questioned. “If you don’t like the scenes, then you can just stay out here and not watch the movie, but you of all people should know that it’s all fake.”

“The way he was with you on the red carpet said otherwise.”

(Y/N) stared at Marshall, dumbfounded. Something escaped her lips that was half laugh, half scoff as she shook her head. “You’re not doing this to me tonight.”

“Not doing what, (Y/N)?”

“You’re not acting like a cliché on the night of my movie premiere! You’re not ruining this night for me because you’re all jealous of something you’re making up in your head. You don’t want to continue watching the movie, that’s fine, but you’re not leaving here until this whole thing is over. Then we’ll go home and talk about this like adults.”

That’s how they found themselves in the uncomfortable ride home a few hours later. The movie was a hit. Everyone who was there loved it. The Q&A was quick, partially due to the fact that (Y/N) wasn’t all there due to her argument with Marshall. She couldn’t really focus on anything being said to her and ended up apologizing and saying she felt like she needed to go home, which everyone seemed understanding about.

Despite what she had said earlier, (Y/N) definitely felt like her night had been ruined. After she returned to the theatre she could hardly concentrate on the movie or the reactions of those around her. When it ended and the Q&A started, all she could think of was the looming fight that would definitely be happening once she and Marshall returned home. She wished she could turn her thoughts off and just try to be happy there, but it was no use.

Marshall pulled into the driveway and parked the car. The two walked up to the door in silence and entered the house. Anger and frustration was still bubbling up inside of them, but neither wanted to make the first move to speak.

(Y/N) went up to Marshall’s room to start getting out of her attire for the night. She discarded the dress onto the floor and slipped on a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt. She was stood over the bathroom sink, scrubbing off her makeup, when Marshall appeared in the doorway.

“I didn’t mean to ruin your night,” he said.

She couldn’t look at him as she responded. “I know you didn’t mean to, but I wish you had talked to me about this when we were on the red carpet.”

“I just wanted to get away from that prick.”

(Y/N) turned to glare at him. “‘That prick’ is my co-star that you haven’t even met yet. All you’re going off of is watching us pose for some pictures on a red carpet, and the movie we starred in as love interests. Do you not trust me?”

“Of course I trust you. It’s him I don’t trust.”

“Based on what?! Marshall, you didn’t even say two words to the guy!”

“I don’t need to talk to him to know he wants to get with you. I could tell by the way he was touching you and looking at you. If you had opened your eyes for a few seconds, you would’ve seen that too!”

“He’s fucking married, Marshall!”

The room fell silent again. (Y/N) could feel tears welling in her eyes and she quickly rushed from the bathroom into the room.

“Being married doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh my God!” she screamed. “You’re so fucking unbelievable! Can you not see what is wrong here? Do you not hear yourself? Marshall, you’re being so fucking cliché about this! Is this what I’m going to have to expect every time I do a movie where I play the love interest of another guy?!”

“It will be if you keep acting like a slut all over Hollywood!”

The dam finally broke as tears ran down (Y/N)’s face. She was frozen, staring at the angry face of her boyfriend. When he finally registered her upset expression and what he had said to cause it, his anger melted away.

“Wait, (Y/N), I didn’t mean that.”

(Y/N) shook her head and started to walk away. Marshall started following her, which caused her to pick up her pace until she was basically running to her car.

“(Y/N), please, I didn’t mean it!” he called after her. “Please, don’t go. Let’s talk this out. I’m sorry, I was just angry.”

(Y/N) slammed her car door shut and quickly started the engine. Without even a sparing glance, she pulled out of his driveway and quickly drove down the road. Marshall collapsed to his knees, watching her car go until she was completely out of sight. He stayed on the ground for a few moments longer, burying his head in his hands and beginning to sob to himself.

~~~~~~

Weeks went by and Marshall had scarcely heard from (Y/N). He texted and called her multiple times that night, asking that she at least let him know that she was okay. He didn’t sleep until she finally texted him the next morning to say she was safe at a friend’s house. He didn’t completely believe that she hadn’t went back to her own home, but he wasn’t about to push it just yet.

He tried to text and call her nearly every day. Most of his messages were left on read and every call was sent straight to voicemail. If he was lucky, (Y/N) would respond to one of his texts with the same line every time: i’m busy. can’t talk.

Marshall knew he was the biggest asshole in the world for saying what he said. He didn’t mean it. He was just upset, but he knew that just made it all worse. He wanted to apologize to (Y/N) and to try to make things right, but he couldn’t do that if she wouldn’t even answer his calls.

After nearly two weeks, he got fed up. He wasn’t going to sit around and wait to see whether or not (Y/N) would finally talk to him. He needed to see her face to face, even if that meant that the conversation would end their relationship permanently.

As he predicted, (Y/N) was at her own house. Or rather her car was there, but he figured if her car was there that meant she had to be too.

He walked up to her door and raised a hand to knock. He hesitated, although he wasn’t entirely sure why. He had come all this way, he had this planned from the start. There was no backing out now...right?

To his surprise, he didn’t even have to knock. The door swung open and there stood (Y/N), so distracted by her attempts to pull on her coat and put her purse over her shoulder that she nearly barrelled into Marshall. She stopped a moment and looked at him in disbelief.

“Marshall? What...what are you doing here?”

“I...I came to talk,” he said.

(Y/N) rolled her eyes and shoved past him. “I don’t have time for this. I gotta go to work.”

“Let me drive you,” he said.

“No.”

“Please, (Y/N). It’s been weeks and you won’t even answer any of my calls.”

“Most people would take that as a hint.”

“I know I should, but I’m not leaving things between us the way that we have. If you want to break up, that’s fine, but I’m not leaving this relationship without giving you the apology you deserve.”

(Y/N) looked at him for a long time before sighing. “Come on, I have to be to set in 20 minutes and it’s a 15 minute drive to get there if traffic is good.”

Marshall tried not to show his excitement too much as he rushed to his car. The two of them got in and he started to make his way towards the studio that (Y/N) had directed him to.

The silence reminded both of them of the last night they had seen one another. It was a painful memory, but they weren’t even sure where to start. Marshall had planned what he was going to say in his head, but the minute (Y/N) had opened the door, it all disappeared.

“What you said really hurt me,” (Y/N) finally spoke. “The fact that you wouldn’t trust me so heavily to imply that I would sleep with my co-stars? That cut deep, Marshall. You know how much I love you, and you know I would never do anything like that to you.”

“I know, I know,” he said. “I knew I was being unreasonable. Like you said, I hadn’t even spoken to the guy. I was going off of a brief interaction between the two of you for the cameras, which I know means nothing. I was already in that mindset, and then I went in and saw this movie where you two were basically making out and having sex for half of it, and it really set me off.”

(Y/N) tried to muster a small smile. “Yeah, the sex scenes were a bit too much. I think the director wanted to make pornos and got stuck making real movies instead.”

They both laughed. It felt good to laugh together. It was a step in the right direction Marshall thought.

“I am really sorry, (Y/N),” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have let my jealousy come in the way of your big night.”

“You really shouldn’t have,” she agreed. “I don’t want to have to worry that this will happen again every time I star in a movie like that one. I don’t want you to get upset with every guy I interact with.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I can, because I won’t let myself act that way again. I may get jealous, but I won’t let it take over me. I’ll talk to you first, I’ll meet the guy first. I’ll never hurt you the way I did that night.”

He pulled into the studio parking lot. The traffic was so light that they had gotten there much earlier than expected, which upset Marshall. He knew he’d had to let her go and that their conversation would end. Whether or not he’d hear from her again would be totally up to her from this point onwards.

(Y/N) was silent as she stared out the windshield at the studio. She wasn’t in a hurry to get out the way she had been back at home. Marshall kept watching her, trying to see some sort of sign of what she was thinking.

When she finally looked at him, her face was no longer angry. It was sad. Marshall reached a hand out to her, but hesitated. She leaned forward, letting his hand brush against her soft cheek.

“I missed you,” she admitted.

“I missed you, too.”

“It was so hard. I was so angry, but then I was sad because you weren’t with me. I wanted to answer those calls or those messages, but then I’d think back to what you said and I’d get angry all over again.”

“I deserved it. I was an asshole.”

“You were.”

They sat that way for a while, in silence with Marshall’s hand on her cheek. She leaned into his touch, turning her head so her lips brushed against the palm of his hand. He’d do anything to feel those lips against his again.

“I gotta go,” she said after glancing at the time, but still made no effort to get out of the car. “Can I...do you...will you come pick me up tonight? We can go back to my place and talk about this more.”

He nodded. “Yeah, of course. Just call me when you’re finished filming, I’ll be right here.”

She nodded, too, and finally started to get out of the car. His hand that had touched her face was tingling, longing to touch her again. She paused a moment again, looking between the studio and Marshall. Finally, she asked, “Actually...will you come in? You can hang out in my trailer all day if you want. Or watch us film. Then you don’t have to go all the way home and come all the way back for me.”

He couldn’t get out of the car fast enough.

The two walked towards the studio together. They were so close that their hands brushed against one another. As they reached the studio doors, (Y/N) reached out to intertwine their fingers together. Marshall couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at his lips, and he didn’t see that the same smile was mirrored on (Y/N)’s face.

[marzipanandminutiae]

Would Thomas's hairstyle have been considered anachronistic in irl 1890s?

Oh, that's a good question!

I had to do some double-checking, because men's fashion is less my forte than women's, but I think the answer is "not anachronistic as such, but not the then-current popular Look, either."

(For reference. Lookit his little endearingly scruffy face. He's such a self-centered amoral meow meow. I love him.)

And here is an image of some stylish gents c. 1901, when the movie was set:

(A fashion plate FOR MEN??? Yes, they existed! "American Fashions," July 1901, if anyone's having trouble reading the gray-on-white text at the bottom. The UK and US had very similar styles at this point in history, so I feel comfortable using this as a representative sample for both.)

As you can see, much shorter hair was fashionable than the collar-brushing curls sported by our Beloved Bastard Baronet. Longer hair was somewhat more common earlier in the century:

(One Christopher Henry Ridley, between 1860 and his death in 1864. I have encountered him in ghost form, back when I was a teenager. And he proves my point rather.)

However, you can find photos of men with long hair- by conventionally masculine standards -much later, too:

(Oscar Wilde c. 1890)

(Hungarian violinist Jan Kubelik c. 1880- and the time the Sharpes' clothing dates from)

So what's up with this? Well, as far as I can tell from period sources, longer hair on men (especially wavy or curly) was often seen as a literary, artistic, or Romantic affectation.

I once wrote into a fic the idea that Thomas and Lucille- because she has to be the one cutting his hair every few months, right? they live in the middle of nowhere -intentionally played up the "Romantic hero" look with him, in case another investment opportunity fell through and they needed him to bag an heiress. But it could also just be what he prefers. Or a combination of both, as I suspect Lucille's fixation on Natural Form gowns is borne of equal parts poverty and preference.

And I suspect the Doylist explanation is just that...it looked more Sensitive Gothic Anti-Villain(TM) to whoever was in charge of hair design.