#imagine youre in love with a playwright and he writes a play before he even meets you about how you cant get over his death which hasnt | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mxcat777 · 2 years ago

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So what if

Dream is sort of Shakespeare's patron, right? So would that make Shakespeare on of His™? And if so, would he reside in the Dreaming after his death instead of the Sunless Lands?

'cause if so. Consider.

He's still writing. (A lot)

He keeps up with modern literature, but keeps writing (at least mostly) in Early Modern English (that's it, right? Do I have my lit facts straight?). Imagine his recent plays littered with slang, disney references, (un)subtle references to shit that was based on his stuff that he either loves or hates, both are good.

He's kind of a favourite of Dream's. The same way Lucienne and Jessamy and The Corinthian are. He can get away with saying shit, because if he offends Dream he can turn around and start sprouting some poetry at that vain-ass bitch and all is forgiven. (In the worst cases it takes a new play about his royal majesty the Dream King and how generous and benevolent and regal he is)

Fishbowling happens, not sure what Will would do, the plot bunny didn't care.

Dream is back, all is well, he goes to the New Inn, Hob and Dream are now officially Friends.

They meet up more bc friends see each other more often than once a century. Oh yeah friends also know each others' names and such. So Dream tells Hob a bit about himself.

At some point he's like, hey hob u wanna see the dreaming?

Hob's like yES PLz??

Hob gets a tour, and from that point on usually gets the option at night to dream normally or visit the palace.

On one fateful night, Hob decides to take a stroll through the library, goes looking for Marlowe's shelf, because he kind of wonders what other stuff that genius would have written had he lived longer.

Only to (maybe literally) bump into, you guessed it, Will Bloody Shaxberd.

He stares.

Will goes 'hey'.

And then Hob goes somewhat feral.

(no he is not over it, sue him, he's allowed to hold a grudge.)

He goes off on a rant about, see, ofc ur still plagiarizing marlowe he was so much better i can't believe dream left me for you you useless twat you couldn't write shit without him so why did you get the fucking privilege of living with him and knowing him for fucking centuries i had to fight 600 years for his bloody name and i'm guessing you got it right that first meeting hm?

And Will goes oh shit it's you! And then cuts Hob off with a "you're so right! I was an absolute shit playwright before your friend helped me!"

And Hob is... Understandably lost. This was not how it went in his head.

And then Will continues, I was so nervous the time right after that meeting, I knew he was some sort of supernatural being, no clue what though, he's really not good at introductions, is he, so I sort of assumed you were too, and I was waiting for your revenge for stealing your date away, recently found out you're actually human, albeit immortal, and it was not a date, though, speaking of, have you sorted yourselves out yet?

And Hob, quite understandably even more baffled, sort of gapes for a bit.

Before very nervously denying anything of the sort.

Will just stares.

And goes, bruv, you weren't subtle then, still aren't now, spare everyone else the UST, please, for the love of god, you two need to fuck post haste.

And Hob is like, hahaha, eh, yeah, nope, fun seeing you, BYE.

So Will sighs. And goes to see Lucienne, as any sensible person would.

Lucienne sighs as well. At which point Will steps to Dream himself.

"My lord?" "Yes, William?" "Forgive my directness, but so as not to risk any misunderstandings, what exactly is your relationship with Hob Gadling?" "We are friends. Why do you ask? Is that not clear?" "Well, to be perfectly honest, m'lord, I assumed you were... Involved™." "We are not." "But you'd like to be though, right?" "You dare presume to know-" " I dare presume to know what attraction, romance, love, all that looks like, sire. I must do, after portraying it in my plays for over four centuries. After writing several hundreds of sonnets on the topic." "I-" "In my humble opinion, my lord, it is a good match. He understands you, you continue to fascinate each other, he can provide a safe place where you need not be monarch for a moment. And of course, you are quite obviously attracted to one another sexually." "WILLIAM SH-" "Oh calm down! I'm certainly not judging either of you!" "...he is attracted to me?" "..." "Is he?" "YES! Lord give me faith! Kiss him! Go to him and teleport the both of you onto a bed! Or if you want to be sappy go slow and bring him a rose, but please, for the love of the collective sanity, do something!" "But how do you know? What if you misunderstood? What if it is unwelcome? I cannot lose him!"

At which point Will turns around, leaves the throne room, goes back to the library and rant to Lucienne

"I swear I'm going to write a play about them, just to point out how stupid this is. I feel compelled to call it a tragedy, but I think it needs to have a happy ending, otherwise Lord Broodphius would get stuck on the but what if it does end in tragedy, so I suppose a comedy would be fitting, but then again, this is too painful to watch to qualify as a comedy. Tragic comedy? Comic tragedy? I'll figure it out..."

And Lucienne is like, if you'd like to perform it properly I'm sure there are a few dreams who would be more than willing to help out, take on a role.

Hob comes back to the Dreaming a few days later and finds Will up to his elbows in paper, reference books, thesauruses and rhyming dictionaries (handy things those), and empty mugs and the like.

Will looks up, somewhat manic, and is like, Hob! Great! Just the person I wanted to see! Would you help me, please?

Hob's like, sure? Kind of apprehensive, but he gave everything some thought and decided that as long as he could go on dunking on him, he could let go of most of his jealousy (cuz that's what is was, he's mature enough to admit)

Will goes, Awesome! Tell me about you and Morphius! How do you see him, what's your story, I only ever get bits and pieces from his lordship, so I'm in severe need of some context...

And Hob is somewhat suspicious, but he indulges him, and really, telling the story comes too easy, so he gets into it completely and doesn't even notice when he starts slipping into rants about Dream, about how beautiful, and magnificent, and misunderstood, and kind, and way-out-of-his-league-but-god-dammit-he-went-and-fell-in-love-with-the-bastard-anyway he is

And Will takes studious notes.

And then goes like, so some of the sonnets I've written were with you two in mind, you wanna give me some feedback? (Ahem, sonnet 24/29, some others work too, undoubtedly, but I am no Shakespeare expert, unfortunately)

And he does something similar with Dream, maybe citing Hob's dislike of him as the reason he wants to know more about him without having to bother him overly much, like, I want to set things right between us, but I need to know more about him to do that, will you help me, m'lord

And he does

And Will just sits back and takes notes as Dream also spirals into a passion fueled rant about Hob

And all those notes end up in the eventual play

Auditions for the roles happen when Dream and Hob are out on a Not Date™ in the Waking.

There are surprisingly many auditioning for Hob's role, and surprisingly little for Dream's

Until Will points out that Dream would probably be more offended by an unworthy portrayal of his Love that of himself, at which point some of the dreams bow out entirely, bc Will knows how vain their lord is, so they decide not to risk unmaking and tactically retreat

Will is in his fucking element, it's been way too long since he's properly directed a play!

Eventually Will comes up to the Mutually Pining Idiots like, hey m'lord, Hob, I've written a new play, and I've been working with some of the dreams to make it happen, do you want to see??

So they watch. They watch as two absolute fucking idiots stumble around each other, everyone on and off stage can see how stupidly in love they are except for them, and both start sweating profusely when they start recognizing their own words quoted back at them.

The end of the play is something of a direct call-out and a plea from the dreams to please just talk to each other, fuck and get married, preferably in that order, but they're not picky.

Then everyone leaves them alone for the Conversation that is most likely going to happen.

Will stays behing hiding unobtrusively in the shadows tho.

He's not about to let all his work go to waste if these idiots ty to play it off again. He will lock them in a broom closet if he has to, watch him.

They don't.

Luckily.

There are like three sentences total spoken. Then they're aggressively making out.

Will leaves the room very content about his matchmaking skills.

And hey! He got a good play out of it, if he does say so himself!

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pcstvlates · 2 years ago

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FRANCIS’ DEBUT ALBUM ‘WASHUP’ GETS DELUX RELEASE

It’s been only eleven months since the release of the new folk-pop singer’s debut album. Francis Mancini, better known by just ‘Francis’ has been taking TikTok by storm with her raw and intimate music. Fans have been begging for a deluxe version. Finally, Empiric Records gave in and have released the special addition to include four extra songs, two covers, and two new singles released within the past few months (one of them being with Sawyer, which had the internet gagging).

This month, at Woodstock Magazine, we got to sit down with the new folk sensation, and talk to her about her iconic record.

Read the interview below, and check out the album HERE.

JONES: I’m going to be honest Francis, I didn’t expect your deluxe version to include covers, what made decide to include the two iconic songs?

FRANCIS: Honestly, I think the songs on my album were really tough to write. Like, they’re really personal, they took a lot out of me. At the time the album took off, and there were talks for a potential deluxe, I couldn’t really imagine putting myself in that headspace. It has to come naturally. So really, if the big guys wanted a deluxe, it was going to have to be covers.

JONES: But you did include a couple originals, though they’re singles people are already familiar with. And they stack up against the rest of the album in terms of intensity. What was the choice with that?

FRANCIS: Well, they’re still released pretty close to this album, and in terms of era and theme, they still seemed to fit quite well. Hopefully, my next album doesn’t have to be a drugs, loneliness, and losing a love. I hope I’m somewhere else by the time I start on the next thing.

JONES: I wanted to ask about that. This album is known for how hard it hits, and you’re not shy about what this album is based off of in your personal life. How has it felt sharing that with the world?

FRANCIS: It’s a part of the healing, honestly. I’ve been so grateful to be able to share my life through music and that the music reaches so many people. I mean, the process of making this album was brutal. I was at some pretty low moments, but the craft of it, I knew, would be so important for me. Now that it’s out there and I meet the people it connects to, I know that taking this leap of openness was worth it.

JONES: Can you tell me about the title ‘WASHUP’, what was the message you wanted people to take from it?

FRANCIS: It’s two-fold, honestly. I mean, there’s the sense of being a washup in the sense that I was a failed playwright, drug addict, dumped two months before my wedding, and in a city where I had few friends. I was washed up. But it’s also this idea of washing onto shore of a new space, I will wash up onto the sand and I will be reborn. This is me moving on.

JONES: That’s really beautiful. Now I have to ask, you did a song with Sawyer, the ex-band member of the super succession rock band Riot Band. None of us saw that coming, but the song is genius. What was that like being in the studio with such a talent?

FRANCIS: I mean, totally honest, I wasn’t really a fan of Riot Van when they were in their hay day. And I think it’s important to clarify he reached out to me. I didn’t even know he sang until he showed up to the studio and we started working together.

JONES: I would have loved to been a fly on the wall in that studio. What was that process like?

FRANCIS: It was totally wild. I mean he’s such a professional, it was like the moment he stepped in, it was all about the music. I had had a verse of something written, and he’d had some lyrical ideas as well, it was just uncanny that they happened to fit together so well. They when we kind of figured out the groove, it was like we shared the same mind. I had began playing on the piano and he began to play his guitar and then next thing I knew we were recording and I was crying and we were done.

JONES: You cried?

FRANCIS: A little, yeah. I mean, when we sang, the energy--- I mean, it’s like--- really, I can’t explain it, I was just overcome.

JONES: Sounds like you two have something special. Do you think you’ll work together again?

FRANCIS: I mean he’s busy making his album, I don’t think that’s going to be in our futures anytime soon.

JONES: I think people are disappointed to hear that, but I understand. Thank you for taking the time to talk to Woodstock, Francis. I’ll be playing this Deluxe album on repeat for weeks.

FRANCIS: Thank you, my mom said the same thing.

#v. unless you mean it #c. francis mancini

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emile-hides · 3 years ago

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H*lding H*nds Imagines

I am once again making content for me and me alone because I have an unhealthy obsession for BNHA blond boys

BNHA Blond Boys X GN!Reader h*nd h*lding moments

Characters: All Might, Present Mic, Fatgum, Twice, Aoyama, Ojiro, Kaminari, Bakugo, Honenuki, Monoma, Mirio

All Might

Knuckle brush

You handed him things before

Stacks of papers to grade, coffee after a long day, a napkin when he goes into a coughing fit

But something about this time turns his face a deep red

He withdrew quickly, in a jerking manner that dragged more attention than you’re sure he meant it to

He cleared this throat and thanked you quietly before shuffling off

It took a few moments to really set on you

You’d made contact

Such little contact you’d barely even felt it

He was cold, his skin rough and calloused, wrinkled and dry

How you managed to notice so much with such brief contact is astounding

And also incomparable to how much he noticed

He’s thinking about it all day, glancing at where the contact was made, shuffling, flushing to himself, holding his knuckles to his lips

Do it on purpose next time you hand him a stack of papers and he’ll drop them

Present Mic

In a crowd

It’s LOUD

You and Hizashi are trying to get home after a live show

The crowd is huge and still hyped from the concert

The quarters are tight, the space is limited, and without his towering hair spike it’s hard to keep track of your loud blond

Eventually a strong clasp from a hand horribly decorated in rings, fingerless gloves, and black nail polish claps on your wrist as your continued to be pulled though a crowd

When the world finally starts to calm and you have room to breath his hand slides to connect to your palm

Fingers intertwine with yours as a series of “Y’all good?”s start, followed quickly by an excited narration of the chaos that just ensued

He’d taken your hand so causally you barely even noticed

The two of you walked in a much calmer crowd, hand in hand, as Hizashi randomly picked bystanders out of his vocal range and made up their life stories to tell you

Fatgum

Big hands

You laid idly on the couch in Fatgum’s office, the interns long sense gone home

A pile of paperwork blocked your view of your hard working hero as he sat at his desk

You slumped and slid off the couch, boredom rising as you phone lie dead on the table nearby

A loud groan drives a “Just a bit longer, gumdrop” from behind the piles of unfinished work, a bit longer could be years for all you cared

Sliding across the hardwood floor on your back, you found yourself beside Taishiro’s desk, looking up at him from an angle you were rather use to

He was focused, with a smile still on his face as he worked, writing with one hand, the other causually turning Takoyaki in the grill built into his desk

You sat up, watching quietly. He was typically pretty observant, but he may not yet have noticed your approach

When his hand stopped turning and released, you took your chance

Both your hands snatched his wrist, sitting up a bit to rest yourself on his lap, you examined his large palm

He chuckled, “What’cha doin’, cupcake?”

His hand was massive in your own, enough to make anyone feel like a child. It could engulf you, hold half your torso and still have a pinkie to spare

You pressed on his palm, he hummed and returned to work, leaving you to admire as you pleased

His knuckles were scarred, several gashes and scrapes from punching at materials harder than even his fat could handle

Old burns from cooking, white spots on his finger tips from a time before he learned patients

You leaned back on him, holding his hand in your own, and watched him work

He seemed much more blissed from your company

Twice

Not enough hands

Jin’s a very physical person

He hangs off you every chance he can get, coddling and loving on you

He finds it annoying

So it’s not surprise as you two settled down for a movie night he was instantly on your lap like a cat

He lays over you like a blanket, limbs tangled every which way, head on your chest, looking at you more than the movie

One of your hands lay idly by your head, that one he has his own over, fingers tangled messily, almost uncomfortably

His other arm trapped under you, a hug from below, resting also uncomfortably against your spine

Leaving your free hand to tangle in his hair, a rare sight to have his mask off, though it probably wouldn’t last the whole movie, it should be cherished until then

When you notice his staring at you more than the screen, you choose to join him

You slide your hand from his hair to his cheek, he leans into it with the most lovestruck puppydog look a man his age could muster

He then starts to fidget around, moving like he’s stuck

It doesn’t take long from there for him to start getting frustrated with himself, splitting an argument for two between just him

You gently lift his head to regain eye contact and ask what’s wrong

He nearly starts crying

“I want to hold your cheek too but I don’t have enough hands!!”

He’s not willing to remove your hand from his hold or pull his other arm out from under you to compromise his own needs

He does eventually start crying over his lack of extra limbs to love you with

Aoyama

Standing ovation

Roaring applause rippled thought the auditorium

It wasn’t a big show, or a big stage, but it was your first written play, and seeing it go over so well was enough to bring a tear to your eyes

You joined the audience in standing to applause as the actors took the stage for the final bow

Only the lead, your star, wasn’t there with them

You blinked once, twice, three times before panic set in

There’s no way Yuga Aoyama would miss the chance to stand center stage in a spotlight. If he wasn’t on stage something must have happened

You tried your best not to look around too fervently, not wanting to startle anyone else

When a hand clasped yours

“And let’s not forget the playwright~✨”

Before you could question how he said that with his mouth, you were dragged onto the stage by your previously mentioned star, with his own mic in hand you don’t remember giving him

He held your arm up above his head as he runway walked his way along the stage, you closely in toe

You were going to go on stage eventually but you’d planned to be a lot more quiet about it, when more people had left early not wanting to sit though the applause

But instead, here you were, center stage, hand held high like you’d just won a boxing match by your own and only Aoyama

How he could stand being this bright all the time way beyond you

For now though, it was rather nice

Ojiro

Lost and found

You stepped out of your class stretching, ready for a well deserved lunch break when you heard your classmates muttering

“Isn’t he from the hero course?”

“What’s he doing?”

Being nosy wasn’t usually your strong suit, but the mutterings has peaked your interest

You followed the eyes of those speaking to find a blond boy sitting in the floor of the hall, knees pulled to his chest to keep his legs from disrupting the flow of traffic, with his tail resting over his feet to protect them from being stepped on

He smiled and gave a light wave to your class as the dispersed

You alone approached him, curiosity peaking. Why was he sitting out here in the hall?

When question he very sheepishly answered, “I, uh.. I got lost on my way to class”

There was several things wrong with that

Number one being, he’d been at this school half a year now. He has one classroom, a big classroom, in the hero course. It’s not easy to miss??

Number two, it was noon. Lunchtime. He has one classroom. How long had he been lost???

These questions had answers and he was, while slightly embarrassed, happy to share he had, in fact, been lost all morning. Not just in finding his class, but also in finding the exit to the building, any teachers he knew, or his phone to call for help

You began to feel sorry for the guy, as this seemed to be a common occurrence in his daily life

With a sigh, you offered your hand to help him up

It was lunch, for all courses, so surely he’d see his hero course classmates in the cafeteria. No one turns up Lunchrush’s food after all

He smiled and took your hand, lifting himself from the floor with a thankyou

“I’m Ojiro, by the way. You are...?”

He was rather polite to talk to the entire walk, his grip on your hand was soft, gentle, and his smile never seemed to waver

Kaminari

Swing yer partner round and round

“Oh this is my JAM!”

Mina excitedly turned up your shitty little radio before kicking herself up off the floor, grabbing Sero all in one quick motion

The two danced horribly off beat, you quickly guess Mina had never heard this song before in her life, just wanted to get moving

“Come on you two, it’s dance break time!”

You found yourself enraptured with her energy, already forgetting the homework you all were doing

Kaminari took your hand much like how Mina took Sero’s and began to dance just as off beat and spuratic as queen pinkie had

You laughed, stumbling with every step, same as the others, the giggling energy filling a previously silent room

Denki’s fingers dug into your knuckles as he smirked, suddenly spinning on his heel and dragging you with him

The two of you became a tornado in your tiny dorm room, barely keeping from knocking into your tea table as you spun like a couple of children

You could hear Mina cheer and laugh, a brief glanced told you Sero was recording this silly moment

You looked across the way at your dance partner

Spinning, laughing his head off like this was the most fun he’d ever had, eyes closed, caring not for his surroundings

You decided to let go

The momentum sent you both toppling, you safely into Mina, who was more then ready to catch you

Denki got the much less desirable aforementioned tea table, which sent him toppling backwards over the also aforementioned homework

If you all could have laughed any louder, you would

Bakugo

Sweaty hands

You always knew when Bakugo was going to hold your hand

He may think he’s smooth, wiping his hand on the pocket of his pants before reaching behind himself to grab at you

But you’d always notice

It was a good indicator you were walking too slow for his liking, or the area up ahead was crowed, or that he simply felt you were too far away

You couldn’t initiate holding hands, when he didn’t actively want to be in contact he’d keep his hands shoved deep in his pockets

So you just had to wait for him to wipe himself off and reach for you

You were free to wrap yourself around his arm whenever, though

He’ll look pissed, but won’t say a word

And if you move away, he’ll wipe his hand on his pants, and offer it to you, a silent plea for you to come back

Honenuki

Magic hands

You stretched out over the couch of the 1-B common room with a whine, the rest of your class in a similar state

Training was hell today, sparing with class 1-A was never a joke, and with Monoma egging the whole game up to be more than it should have been, it all just escalated to a point you all wish it hadn’t

“Alright, next.”

Honenuki, a godsend, your blessed angel, helped Tsuburaba off the second common room couch, his typically wide eyes closed and relaxed as he wobbled his way across the room

You happily took his place, stretching out on your stomach before your classmate with the magic powers of massage

His hands pressed into your back and you instantly relaxed, letting out a low hum as you snuggled the pillow under your chin

Honenuki returned your hum, his hands pressing into all your tenses spots, almost instantly releasing them from their knots

You’d probably have fallen asleep, if it wasn’t over so fast

He had the entire class to get though after all, though he hated to rush an art form

You took his hand as he helped you stand, the actual minute of his touch enough to wobble your legs

Kissing his knuckle and thanking him for sharing his magic, you found yourself plopped peacefully on the couch beside Tsuburaba

Honenuki chuckled at you as he called next, happy to be of service

Monoma

He’s showing off

You’d known for a while now Monoma didn’t know how to shut the fuck up

He’d brag about anything, over anyone, to everyone

He’d always loudly bragged about how much better his class was, how much stronger his friendships were, how absolutely amazing his partner was

You being said partner didn’t make said bragging less annoying

The two of you had been together less than an hour and he was already boasting about your perfection to all who would hear

Some genuine, loving, almost gaggingly sweet comments

Others just to rub it in the face of class 1-A as much as possible

A week into this relationship and people were starting to think you must be come kind of god with how Monoma spoke about you

You’d been on two dates with the guy

Now here you were, holding his hand on the walk to class, and regretting every step

As every single person who passed must take note of the fact you were holding his hand

And also must be aware how blessed he is to be holding your hand in return

And really you started to understand the concerned look Kendo gave you when you told her you’d agreed to date Neito Monoma

Still his words were genuine, no matter how they came across, and he truly had a million and one things to say about you

So you could hold though the embarrassment his overexcited bragging may cause

He just wants to show you off

Mirio

Quietly

You sat by his bed side, holding gently to his limp hand

Moments ago he was inconsolable, crying and screaming his lungs out

His quirk gone

His teacher gone

Everything he worked so hard for seemed to vanish in an instant

His grip, still so strong, had left your hand bruised, circulation cut off

It wasn’t a concern you really had

Sleeping, his pain was still so obvious

Bags under his eyes, dried streaks of tears still down his keeps

And your hand still tightly gripped in his

What would happen next, where he would go, who you all would become

They were all problems for the future

Tomorrow you could work on a solution

Tonight, you could hold his hand

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astrovian · 4 years ago

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Richard Armitage interview in Radio Times (23/06/21)

Full transcript under cut

Richard Armitage can’t quite believe just how prescient Anton Chekov was. Uncle Vanya, he thinks, could have been written yesterday. The 49-year-old actor who stars in a filmed version of the recent West End production of Chekov’s masterpiece in which he appeared with Toby Jones, says the playwright’s prophetic qualities really began to crystallise soon after the play opened at the Harold Pinter Theatre in January last year just as the world was first gripped by the pandemic.

Armitage, who plays Astrov, a doctor who is troubled by the suffering he has witnessed, recalls, “Early on in the play, Astrov has a speech about ministering to patients during an epidemic. He talks about seeing people dying on the floor in barns and bodies piling up. At the time, I was doing loads of improvisation because I had no idea what that looked like.”

And then, “In the last two weeks of the production before we shut down in March, we started to see these images coming in from Italian hospitals. I would start this speech, and you’d hear this slight intake of breath from the audience, it was exactly what everyone had been watching, in real time on the news, ten minutes before setting foot in the theatre. This fear had suddenly risen in everybody.”

That is not the only area in which Chekov was astonishingly far-sighted. The 1898 play, which is adapted by Conor McPherson and focuses on the crumbling lives and unrequited loves of Astrov, Vanya (Toby Jones) and Sonya (Aimee Lou Wood), features another impassioned speech by the doctor – this time about how brutal deforestation is destroying the world. This theme, too, could have been ripped from today’s headlines.

Armitage says few could credit the topicality of this strand of the play. “What’s really interesting is that even some of the reviewers felt like Conor had crowbarred in a very modern message to try and bring the play up to date. However, when you go back to the original text, Chekov was in fact writing about this 123 years ago. He was surrounded by a whole movement of people who were vegetarian and who would gather and talk about the damage that human beings were doing by deforesting Russia.

“I was so astonished that they knew about this more than a century ago. He says, ‘In 150 years, people are going to look back on us and say, why didn’t they do something then?’ Chekov’s prescience is really remarkable.”

To research this aspect of Astrov’s personality, Armitage went to Tring in Hertfordshire to help with a Woodland Trust project to plant one million trees in a day. The actor admits, “Sometimes people think these exercises are irrelevant or pretentious, but as well as being a fun day out, I found it really useful.”

He has previous experience when it comes to researching roles in depth, and attracted a lot of attention when in 2008, as part of his preparation for the part of MI5 agent Lucas North in Spooks, he asked to be water-boarded himself.

Armitage now puts that down to youthful eagerness., “Considering one of my greatest fears is deep-water drowning, I just don’t know why I would have put myself through that! I lasted about 30 seconds before I pulled the cloth off my face. Maybe it was one step too far. I think today I might just use my imagination! Weirdly, people thought that is was some kind of publicity stunt, but it really wasn’t. It was genuinely me thinking it would help.” The insurer’s probably have something to say about it, too? “Yes, you’re barely allowed out of your trailer these days.”

He is currently in production on Stay Close, his second adaptation of a Harlan Coben novel for Netflix after The Stranger, although Armitage, who hails from Leicestershire, started out as a dancer in musicals such as Cats, 42nd Street, and Annie Get Your Gun. Might he ever go back to musical theatere?

The actor feels that the time may be right. “I think people right now are going to need to be uplifted, entertained, warmed and heartened. I think they want to sing and dance and clap. Yes, part of me would love to go back and do a musical.”

In person, Armitage is charming and witty, and laughs a lot. He is also appealingly modest, downplaying his fame in a very British way. “I go out half-washed, looking pretty raggle-taggle because I think no one will recognise me. Then someone will pull me aside and go, ‘I loved you in The Stranger’ and that really warms my heart. But I also think, ‘Oh God, I should have brushed my hair. I look a complete mess!’.

This feels far from the brooding image he has frequently been saddled with. “I’m often asked to channel misery” he says. “I don’t know why because I’m not a miserable person! But producers ask me, ‘Will you come and play this terribly miserable role?’”

The other type of role that Armitage is invariably invited to play is the action hero. Does Armitage see himself in that macho light? “I never did, but somehow the industry did. I’m the most pacifist person you could ever meet, but I’ve always been asked to point a gun at somebody and punch somebody in the face, which has always baffled me. I must give off this aroma of violence!

I think it probably something to do with my build, and maybe I’ve got quite an angry-looking face. In another universe, there is a version of me that is a light-hearted comedic actor in romcoms. But in this universe, I’m that action guy.”

However, his legions of fans may be disappointed by the news that the actor is handing back his action-man credentials. “I’m hitting 50 this year, and I think maybe I won’t be taking my shirt off and throwing punches anymore. I think I’ve probably got something else to offer in the next decade.”

So he can confirm it is official that he will no longer be talking his shirt off? “Absolutely – unless the part requires saggy breasts and a fat belly!”

#richard armitage

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ultraclairedg · 3 years ago

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The Tale of Turandot

There is a house. One enters it blind and comes out seeing. What is it?

This is possibly the oldest riddle ever and was written in Ancient Sumer around four thousand years ago. (Scroll down for the answer)

People, even during the most ancient times, like to test their logic and knowledge with riddles. We like making them for others to solve and we like solving them ourselves – thereby feeling clever and proud of our intellect.

In the fifth century BC, Sophocles gave us the Sphinx riddle in “Oedipus, the King”.

What goes on four legs in the morning, on two legs at noon, and on three legs in the evening?

These are just two examples of riddles that have come to us from ancient times. The use of imagination and fantasy is essential to riddles so it comes as no surprise to find them in many stories.

Let’s move forward in time a little to look at another example.

In the mid twelfth century, a poet was born in what is now modern-day Azerbaijan. He wrote a number of poems including one in which an ancient Persian ruler goes off in search of seven beauties. The beauties are each related to the seven known planets of that time. One of them is, of course, connected to Mars and she is supposedly Khutulun, the real daughter of a Central Asian nomadic ruler and a relation of Ghengis Khan and Kublai Khan. She is one tough lady. She hunts and wrestles and is known to have won many, many horses by wrestling and beating down prospective suitors. (If you Google her name, a number of articles will pop up, should you be interested)

Fast forward to mid eighteenth century Venice where a playwright for the Commedia dell’Arte uses this Persian poem as the basis for one of his plays. This play is much admired by the German poet and playwright Schiller, who decides to write his own version. The hunting and wrestling bad-ass nomad princess of the central Asian plains, however, is a bit too much for European sensibilities, so our heroine gets transformed into a cold Chinese princess who, instead of beating the crap out of her suitors, sets them riddles. If they can solve the riddles, they will win her hand; if they can’t, they die. She’s such a nice person, one wonders why anyone would fall in love with her in the first place?

Nevertheless, one nameless suitor eventually turns up who manages to solve the riddles, but this bitch of a princess still doesn’t want to marry him. So, good guy that he is, he gives her a chance. He tells her that if she can find out his name by dawn of the following day (sound familiar? Rumplestiltskin?), she can kill him and not marry him. In order to avoid the marriage, the princess orders all her subjects to stay up all night trying to find out his name or they will be beheaded in his stead. (What a lovely woman!) This is what the suitor sings while awaiting for the dawn.

None shall sleep, None shall sleep! Even you, oh Princess, In your cold room, Watch the stars, That tremble with love And with hope. But my secret is hidden within me, My name no one shall know, No... no... On your mouth, I will tell it, When the light shines. And my kiss will dissolve the silence that makes you mine! (No one will know his name and we must, alas, die.) Vanish, o night! Set, stars! Set, stars! At dawn, I will win! I will win! I will win!

You probably don’t recognise the English words unless you’re an opera buff but a lot of football fans will recognise this version of it as it suddenly became really famous in 1990 when super-famous opera singer Pavarotti ‘s version was used as a football World Cup theme.

youtube

As I mentioned before, if Turandot is such a terrible person, one wonders why anyone would want to marry her no matter how beautiful, rich or powerful she is, so some bright spark has come up with an answer for that conundrum too. In the 2021 Chinese film “The Curse of Turandot”, the princess wears three bracelets which were given to her when she was young. These bracelets are, of course, cursed so they turn this otherwise pleasant young lady into a homicidal hellcat. Although this film is in Chinese, the character of Prince Calaf, the one who sings Nessum Dorma in the opera, is played by American actor Dylan Sprouse. Needless to say, his voice was dubbed, but that’s very common in Chinese dramas where the voice you hear is often not the voice of the actor playing the role. This film wasn’t great so I wouldn’t recommend it even if you like other Chinese films but it does show how an idea that originated in the imagination of a 12th century poet, changed and altered to suit European sensibilities in the 19th entury and used as a football theme in the nineties can be brought right into the 21st century and given a new spin. Imagination is a wonderful thing!

(Riddle answers: A school and a person)

#Turandot #Riddles #Fantasy in opera #fantasy music #Nessum Dorma #Ancient History #Chinese Film

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quarantineddreamer · 4 years ago

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@zutaramonth Day 6: From Other’s POV

(Aka B writes a crack fic, or ‘The REAL Ember Island Playwright Tells All’.)

From the moment I had heard of the Avatar’s return I had known there was a story to be found there, but the story I had set out to write had not been the story that I returned home with.

A forbidden romance! Fire and water, sun and moon, opposites attract, enemies to lovers! A journey of redemption! A story of love! How could I not ship it?

I had spent the better part of a year on the heels of the Avatar. My travels had taken me from the South Pole to the North, from Ba Sing Se to here.

I breathed in the familiar smells of the Ember Island Playhouse --that odd combination of burning dust under hot theatre lights and salt in the air from the nearby ocean. It was the smell of home.

My whole life I’d eagerly awaited this moment. Opening night. Of my play. My play! Now that it was finally here my nerves had caught up with me and my heart pounded frantically in my chest as I pushed aside the heavy fabric of curtains to duck backstage.

“The house is opening in ten,” I said to the first person I saw, old man Ren, checking the positioning of props. He had been handling all the technical effects for the Playhouse for as long as I could remember.

For as long as I could remember Ren had also been a man of few words, perhaps a habit born out of a lifetime spent as a backstage crew member. He nodded in reply and continued arranging items on the prop table.

I was probably being a nuisance, but I couldn’t help it. I was the youngest ever to have my work produced on this stage --playwright Shiori had a nice ring to it.

Of course, much to my dismay things had been out of my hands after the first few rehearsals. Pu-On Tim, the director of the Ember Island Players, had insisted my constant input was only slowing things down. ‘Let me handle the story from here. Trust us.’

From the moment I had heard of the Avatar’s return I had known there was a story to be found there, but the story I had set out to write had not been the story that I returned home with.

A forbidden romance! Fire and water, sun and moon, opposites attract, enemies to lovers! A journey of redemption! A story of love! How could I not ship it?

The pirates had told me the banished Fire Nation Prince had worn the waterbender’s necklace around his wrist like a talisman.

Aunt Wu the Fortune Teller had confessed to me that the girl from the Southern Water Tribe was destined to have a ‘great romance’ and marry a ‘powerful bender’. ‘The Avatar asked about his fortune too, I think he hoped that I would tell him he was fated to be with the girl, but I could tell he was not the one I had sensed in her future.’

The bounty hunter, June, had shrugged when I asked about the Avatar, but remembered Prince Zuko with a laugh, ‘He wanted help finding his girlfriend.’

In the South Pole an old man had a tale for me that he had received directly from Katara herself, of the night of the siege. She had laughed telling him of her battle against the firebender on the ice, and laughed even harder when she repeated the prince’s melodramatic line, ‘You rise with the moon, I rise with the sun!’ I knew I’d be borrowing that line for my play.

By that time I had begun to feel like I was neglecting my duties as a storyteller. I had become distracted, paying more attention to Zuko and Katara than the Avatar himself, so I had endeavoured to refocus...

In Ba Sing Se I paid a Dai Li agent for information about what had happened when Princess Azula arrived. They had told me all about a strange energy during the battle in the crystal catacombs, about the heartbroken expression that had crossed Katara’s face when Zuko joined his sister in battle.

I had thought that might just be the end of the story, how silly I had been, imagining something between two people I had never met, nevermind the rumors that flew into the city that the Avatar was now dead.

I had returned home. Weeks had gone by. And then came the news, the Avatar was alive, Prince Zuko had betrayed his father and left.

Then a source sent word to me that a waterbender had attacked the retired Fire Nation Commander Yon Rha. I had paid a quick visit to the shell shocked man, and his story seemed to only back up my theory further that there was something between Prince Zuko and Katara. ‘She was accompanied by a boy with a scar on his face. She… I thought she was going to kill me, but she didn’t. I’ll never forget her face, like a spirit of death.’

I couldn’t have cared less about Yon Rha’s trauma (seemed like he deserved it if you ask me), but I did began to dream again of a tale of forgiveness and hope and love. Zuko was with her on that mission. Only Zuko...

The words had tumbled out of me in a matter of days, like I was possessed. It felt right, important, for a nation like mine, to receive a story such as that.

Tonight, it would.

I made my way to my seat and held my breath as the curtains rose.

When intermission came it was all I could do not to scream. What had they done? My beautiful story! It was a joke! They had taken all the emotion I had so carefully crafted, the tenderness, the trust, all the delicate, wonderful things and thrown it all away!

I sat for some time, considering all the ways in which I might get my revenge on Pu-on Tim who surely was responsible for this disaster. When a program drifted to the floor in front of me I scooped it up, only to find that my name was nowhere to be found on it. They ruined it -AND they stole it!

I stood and began to march out of the playhouse, wishing it would burn to the ground behind me.

And that was when I saw them.

Instinctively, I recognized them. Characters in my mind brought to life… I’m sorry, I wanted to tell them. I’m sorry for this injustice. This isn’t how I wanted your story told. It’s not how it should be told...

That would have been insane though, so instead I watched for a moment as Katara turned her gaze to the ocean before her, sighing, seeming frustrated.

Zuko leaned against the railing beside her. “Want to talk about it?” he asked.

“Not really,” Katara replied.

His arm brushed hers and they both turned to each other. It felt suddenly as though they were in a world entirely different from my own...

I did not return to watch the rest of the play that night. It was clear it was not mine anymore anyways, but a few weeks later I attended the coronation ceremony of the new Fire Lord Zuko.

I saw Katara standing beside him, proud, excited, happy. There was something different between them, stronger than even before. I had no idea who I could interview to back that idea up, but I didn’t need more evidence anyways.

I just knew.

Zuko and Katara were meant to be, always had been, and always would be.

#unedited readers beware lol #first person felt right for extra crackiness on this #i def lost the voice halfway through cause my brain went nope #i admit i thought about a wan shi tong version of a chapter of EoC #but then i started thinking about the ember island players and how they clearly shipped zutara #and now there is whatever this is?#a hot mess written in like an hour but hope its good for a laugh #consider it my crack love letter to us zutaraians who just know what couldve been <3 #zutaramonth2021 #zuko x katara #zutara #b writes

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mydrug-is-dragonage · 4 years ago

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Veda Adaar, Life after Bull

Victory. Triumph. Glory. Pride. What we usually feel when we win a battle. The quiet grief of cutting down lives, regardless of how worthy they are of death, but the warm joy, knowing we saved someone or something or everyone or everything from a grand or small evil.

Victory. We stood on the balcony, crowded together, together again for the first time in years. Thom and Sera, Divine Victoria’s watchful eyes, Cassandra and Varric’s constant disdainful flirting, Cole and Maryden’s quiet affection, Dorian and Vivienne both wine drunk trading insults, the quiet acknowledgement of a friendship that grew against both of their wills. Josephine and Cullen arguing, treating the terrace like battlements, more performative as they both know the end is closer than the beginning. Solas, our own personal god, long-gone into the eluvian. We’re all here, we’re all together. All of us, but Bull.

Triumph. The weeks have passed, a quick and effective rebuke from the Arishok, King Alistair and Empress Celene accept it quietly, no time for war with another battle floating above us in the air. Back at Skyhold, a skeleton crew, these days just Harding and me spend our time in the battle room, staring at maps; Leliana’s other protégés are always off on missions. Sera pops by every now and then to see Dagna with bees and trinkets and little things to remind me that she’s never really gone. The best day, or the worst depending on the audience, Sera and Dagna came up to my room, giggling, presented me with a crossbow for where my arm ought to be. “Widdle’s a wizard, yeah! You’ll be on rooftops sticking it to people too big for their breeches in no time!” I thanked them, and sent them away. This is love, at least for Sera. Her love is violence and showy maneuvers, dancing with both hands and feet shaking about.

Glory. Josephine writes me letters, telling me to eat, to ask Cullen to write back. After a few months, she finally pens, “I know I am no longer your formal ambassador, but as your informal friend I find it painful to admit what has been sung in the inns and halls. Bards have taken your loss and turned it into song. Unlike what Maryden had composed, these are unfortunately mocking in nature. People have taken the final act and written it as the whole narrative, my lady. A play premiered in Val Royeux putting you at the center of the conflict, as the one who allowed it to happen. If you desire, I can put an end to this. Divine Victoria recommended assassins, but I’ve temporarily dispelled her more primal desires. Likewise, Mr. Arainai also reached out, grateful for the assistance you had given him evading the Crows. I similarly told him no. Above all, regardless of what action we take, I want you to know I am sorry. You’ve lost much, suffered more than so many of us. I’m sorry, Veda. I love you.” It wasn’t unexpected, bards sing, playwrights write. They tell the tales people want to hear. Immortalizing betrayal has always turned them into legends.

Pride. A cold morning, one with little to be done, Charter and Rector off in Nevarra, the crows neither coming or going, Lace came into my room, “Sorry to bother you, V, we’ve got a vistor.”

“Avoidable?” I ask.

“What an impossibly rude question, darling.” I looked up from my desk and saw her horns pointing from the stairway.

“Oh, Vivienne, I wasn’t expecting you,” I said. I don’t stop the smile on my face. For all our differences, we’d become like sisters. On her best days, she’d fawn over me like a mother.

“That’s Grand Enchanter now, My Lady Inquisitor.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Lace said, excusing herself. I waited to hear the door close, then the other. Vivienne stood, graceful and stoic as ever. A few more moments of silence, then she broke into a smile. She took off her hat, placed it on the sofa, and walked towards me, arms splayed.

“Oh, my dear, how I’ve missed you!” I stood up, robes draping and hiding me.

I leaned into her hug, resting my head on hers. “Grand Enchanter, really Viv?”

“One must keep appearances, darling. Besides, imagine if Bull heard you call me…” She heard it as it left her mouth. “Oh, my sweet, I’m so sorry. While we should have anticipated his betrayal, I know the loss must weigh on you heavily.” She nestled further into my chest. I breathed out, for a moment just Veda, not the Inquisitor, not the betrayed lover, not the important person forced upon me. I was mortal, Vashoth, tall and strong and being hugged by someone who loved me enough to allow me to be small and weak. We settled onto the couch. I pulled my legs in front of me

“You know better than anyone. I remember, I was there when you lost Bastien.”

“And I was there when you lost the Iron Bull,” she sighed. “We are sisters in grief, as well as sisters in victory. We’re sisters in success, although your’s has had its struggles as of late. I assume the Divine told you of the bards?”

“Josephine.”

“The Nightingale sending a gentler songbird. Wise.”

“I assumed it would happen. Charter brought back the lyrics and playbook from what she considered the more consumable tales,” I said.

“They’re vile, darling. I offered the services of the Circle. The Divine declined. I assumed she had sent assassins.”

“No, I turned down the offers.”

“You’re losing political capital, my dear. If you want to return to the world, recruit who you need to defeat Solas, you’ll need allies. New allies, old allies. It will require quite the force and connections. You know you have the Circle, as much as we can politically sacrifice in this turbulent time,” she said.

“It isn’t the first thing on my mind, at the moment,” I said.

“And why not darling? If you choose to remain in obscurity at some point it will no longer be a choice.”

It’s spring, it is the last night at Skyhold before we leave for the Exalted Council. Cullen and Josephine have been up bickering most the evening, finally put to rest. I settle into my room, sitting at my desk, twiddling my pen. My bag is packed, the horses are ready. The door creaks open. I don’t look up, I can smell him from here. Even after a bath he smells like home, smoky and warm. “Hey, Kadan.”

“Hey,” I say, “they finished?”

“Well, Cullen is now arguing with Cabot which gave me enough time to get the serving girls to feed Josephine. She wanted to get back to bickering, but I asked her if the itinerary had been checked. So I think they’re fine for now.”

“They’re just worried about tomorrow, the coming weeks. It’s normal,” I say,

“You’re the one who grew up with humans. They worry too much, but it makes them easy to work with. Like clay.” I smile and look back down at my papers. “Enough work, Kadan. You can’t do anything more today.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Are you going to make me?” I smirk.

“Oh, is this what we’re doing?”

“Oh you didn’t know?” I laugh. “I thought you knew it all, everything I needed, Ben-Hassrath training, remember?” He smiles and walks towards me, I slide back in my seat and he scoops me up.

In bed, his heart pumps slow and heavy in his chest. I trace his body with my hands, his arm around me. Our horns rub against each other, small grooves from the years of lying here together. “Better?” He asks.

“What do you think?”

“I know. I just want to know if you know.” I lean up and kiss him.

“Yes, better.” He smells better when he’s sweaty. Something about those early days, seeing him tear through crowds, watching his arms lift and push those heavy swords and axes. Long before, when the Chargers still existed, when he wasn’t just my man, but their man.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“I’m sorry, you know,” I say. For a moment, he’s silent, sitting in the grief.

“You made the right choice. You made the only choice. You led like a Qunari.”

“It shouldn’t have been my choice. I should have let you decide,” I say.

“No,” He says, clipped. “You are the Inquisitor. It was your decision, to keep the alliance or lose it. You made history. You stopped a batshit insane darkspawn from destroying the world.”

“I could have stopped him anyway,” I say.

“We don’t know that. The Tamassrans used to say, ‘When there are no right choices, the right decision is the one you make and the one you live with.’” I nestle into his chest.

“I’m happy the Qunari have kept you here.”

“Me too, Kadan.”

“I love you, Bull.” He pulls me closer into him. For a moment, I wonder if he’s crying.

“I don’t want you to be angry, Viv,” I said.

"Oh what now darling? First you go into solitude like a hermit, what’s next?” I put my legs down and pulled my robes back. “What’s this?” She looked, at first with curiosity, then her eyes widened. “Veda, oh Veda, are you?”

My eyes well, “Yeah, Viv. I am.”

She covers her mouth, the first time I’ve seen her truly shocked. “And is it…?” With that question, the tears fall. The heavy sobs wrack my chest and Vivienne crawls towards me, arms draped around my shoulders and I cry into her chest. “Oh darling, of course you’ve been distracted.” She rubs the back of my head, stroking my neck as I calm down. “Should I ask Harding for some tea? Juice? No wine, of course.” I shake my head. “Oh dear. Who all knows?”

I swallow and trap my tears in my chest. “So far you, Leliana, Thom, and Cassandra. Lace knows, and she’s kept questions from Charter and Rector to a minimum.”

“You haven’t told Josephine?”

“How could I? What could I possibly say, ‘Oh yes, enjoy your new career in Antiva! By the way, I’m carrying the betrayer’s child! Send my love to Yves and Yvette!’”

“I don’t think keeping it secret is much wiser, my dear. People will know, especially once the child is here. Do the Qunari know?” She asked.

“As far as Leliana’s sources know, no. Bull was loyal to the end, they had no reason to think he’d do this, especially when it hadn’t happened in the years before.”

“When did this happen?”

“Right before we left for the Exalted Council,” I said.

“Oh.”

“I know,” I said. “He must have known. I can’t decide if this was kindness or cruelty.”

“What’s that line he always said, darling? ‘When it’s a hostile target, you give them what they want. When it’s someone you care about, you give them what they need.’”

The tears well again. My hands slide to swollen belly. “It isn’t what I wanted. I had never even considered it. He was Qunari enough that I knew we’d never have a family.”

She reached a hand towards my belly, “May I?” I sniffed and nodded. She placed her hands on my stomach, on top of my own hands. “If this isn’t what you wanted, then it must have been what he thought you needed.”

“He couldn’t have known we’d win. He fought like he meant it. He struck me with his blade. He wasn’t fighting to lose.” The anger and grief mixed in my throat.

“He wasn’t, he never did, darling. But he knew you. He knew us. He knew you’d bring me and Cassandra. He knew what the Qunari could and couldn’t do. He believed in you, at the end. Just as he had at the beginning, my dear.” I took a hand from my belly and moved it to the outside of my horn, the groove still there from the years spent lying together.

“I’m not planning on bringing my child into the public life. We’ll have a few years, at least, presuming we aren’t all destroyed by Solas,” I said.

“Shh, no reason to worry about that right now, darling. We have today’s troubles and tomorrow’s troubles.” She sat back and blinked away her own tears. “I’ve never been an aunt before. I’ll of course send over a suite of clothes and supplies from Val Royeux.”

I wipe my eyes and smile, “Are you going to be an aunt or a Grandma’am?”

"Oh you miserable louse, how dare you?” She said, the tears finally pouring from her eyes.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #inquisitor #adaar x bull #iron bull #the iron bull #inquisitor x bull #da #dai #fanfic #dragon age adaar #bull x adaar #dragon age vivienne #madam de fer

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likesomekindofcheese · 5 years ago

Text

Promised: Part One (The Great mini-series)

Pairing: Grigor Dymov x fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,878

From this Anon Request: ahhh im so happy that you'll write for grigor, gwil seems to be under hyped these days. can i request grigor having to be in an arranged marriage because peter somehow fucked up another treaty and the only way of fixing it is through an alliance (we can just ignore grigor being married already)

A/N: Of course! I hope you are okay with it being a fem! Reader. If not, just let me know and I’ll write a neutral version!

Anyways, enjoy the first part of this mini series of Peter being...Peter and you are Grigor getting into an arranged marriage to fix it up!

“This wine tastes like shit, where’s the vodka?”

The bread roll you had been chewing on nearly fell out of your mouth in surprise. This was the man you had been expecting for weeks. The Lord and Sovereign of all of Russia. The son of Peter the Great, a legendary warrior king beloved by all who knew him. He even shared a name with this godly figure.

The second he announced his arrival sent everyone in your house into a giddy panic. The manor was cleaned inside out. Every butler and maid lined up outside for his entrance in their most pressed uniforms. Your family and you had put on your finest garbs as well. You had even bought a new dress for the occasion, a pink silk gown with white cloth down the sleeves, and a white middle part while long bows decorated your cream stomacher.

Every soul in the manor was there when his carriage arrived to greet and curtsy to him and his friend, tour the house, and serve him a meal featuring the best cuts, foods, and drinks available, some of which were gifts from the locals honoring his appearance.

And he just called your finest vintage wine shit.

Every pulse in your house was heard in that moment. Your mother gasped a little at the sound of such language used at the table. Especially from him.

“We…we have whiskey to be served after, it’s stronger” you suggest meekly.

“I suppose, just something stronger than this,” his companion next to him reasoned.

He was a man who was perhaps in his thirties at most, brown hair barely seen beneath his dusty wig and in a dark green jacket, only a few steps below Peter’s finery. He swirled the glass with his large hands and took polite sips of it. You looked for a reaction to the taste and barely saw one.

“You want the emperor to drink shit wine, then!? What kind of hosts are you?” Peter asked, leaning back in his chair.

He was far more relaxed than the sea of straight backs of everyone at your table. He even tossed the glass over his shoulder.

KKKK!

A servant behind rushed up with a broom to sweep up the bits.

Your mother and father looked at each other questioningly. Your brother normally had a healthy appetite, but his fork paused in mid-air since the wine complaint.

With a little sigh, your father turned to a butler and asked him to retrieve a bottle of whiskey and to look for any spare vodka at once.

Looking at your brother, the sanguine chatterbox, you saw his face had paled and his jaw was still tight. Looks like it would have to be you then to alter the mood and keep the peace.

Turning to the Emperor’s companion on Peter’s right, you began to shyly greet him “Sir...uhm…I’m sorry, I forgot your last name…”

“Dymov,” he answered kindly.

His eyes softened. At least he seemed less of an unpredictable bull as his friend.

“Sir Dymov, what is the weather like in Russia? Is it as cold as everyone says?” you questioned.

“Oh, yes, very! Some winters have crowds of people wearing fur coats indoors and gathered around the fire,” he explained.

Peter cut in, chewing on the meat with an open mouth as if he were a cow in a field, “which is why we need to drink vodka to stay warm. Speaking of which, where is your butler and why the fuck hasn’t the vodka gotten here yet?!”

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Later that evening, there was some parlor entertainment as usual. Coffee, whiskey, and vodka were all served and seemed to be drank in generous amounts.

It began with you showing your musical gifts. You were to sing as your father accompanied you on the pianoforte. Your breath was feeling higher than what was needed for healthy singing. You could not help but gape at the two Russians who seemed to analyze you. They were hard not to ignore since they were both astoundingly tall, Peter only barely taller. Sir Dymov listened attentively, hands leaning against him as he and the emperor were offered the softest chairs.

But Peter was somehow enraptured. He looked right at you and was still, listening to it the whole time.

You noticed his eyes were not on your face. And your pink dress was as modest as your mothers.

Forcing yourself back into the music, you picked a spot in the parlor, near a bookshelf, and stared at it, trying to focus on the music and words. Lose yourself in its brief escape.

There was polite applause following. When you curtsied, you put a protective hand over your chest.

Your brother, more inclined to the world of theater, offered a reading of some texts by the finest playwrights of your land. Everyone listened to him as they settled for cards at a table, but you stood a while to focus on your knitting. Nerves had shot through you and you had to do something with your hands that would calm you more than cards with the boorish guest.

“May I sit here, Miss Y/L/N?” Sir Dymov asked to the spot next to yours.

“Yes, you may…” you answered, finishing a row of purl stitches.

As he sat down, he even offered to hold your yarn and straighten any strings.

“Thank you for the dinner, and the reading, and the music and everything, it was nice, far more peaceful than at home! And God knows, I could…we all could use some peace…,” he turned away briefly to keep a small eye on Peter.

“Sir Dymov, why would you need peace? Is it the war with Sweden?” you asked curiously.

His angled face looked oddly dark, despite the glow from the fire.

“No…Just a little bit of personal heartbreak, Lady Y/L/N. And your song was about love, so I was reminded of her.”

“Can you tell me what happened?” you asked

Flinching away, you cursed the impulse. It might be too personal.

“She rejected my marriage offer. She’s uhm, uh…how do I put this politely… she’s Peter’s mistress,” he explained

“Oh.”

“And she said she would not give up her position after our marriage, so she said I could either have to be married to her but share her with Peter or she would not consider my offer at all,” he sighed.

Setting your knitting away, you looked up at him with empathy.

“Sie Dymov, that sounds hard. But I can’t imagine how her saying yes would make anything easier…”

“I do miss her, and she’s in court so I see her still every day,” Dymov complained.

“You’ll find a way through heartbreak. I’ve had some of my own, but something better might happen!” you say, shrugging your shoulders.

Once you set things down and decide to join the card table, you see Peter look up from his cards and scowl.

“You know, this is dull. Where is the louder singing? The wild dancing? The animals? No wonder people die here so much, they become bored!” he spat throwing off his hand onto the table.

“Things here are…a little quiet compared to your mighty empire,” your mother answers with a plastic smile. “But we make do…”

“I’m practically dying of boredom. How the hell was my father friends with you lot?” Peter asked.

Your father’s head ticked to the side, his eyes getting bigger.

“We were friends since our youth, and he loved all of us,” he said, words tinged with a subtle venom.

Your mother cleaned up the cards, and your brother paused his dramatic reading.

“Your highness, we can all retire if you don’t want to play anymore. I think traveling all the way here from your palace must have been exhausting. Is there anything else you need to make your stay here more comfortable before tomorrow?” she asked.

Peter’s eyes glinted up at you. Your body cinched as if ready to fight or flee.

“How about you offer to bring your daughter Y/N to my bedchambers for tonight, that would make me a lot more comfortable!”

Dymov’s jaw dropped. Your father stood up a little to get out of his chair but he was beat. In a flash, your brother slammed his book shut and rushed over, staring the ruler of Russia in the face.

“How dare you treat my sister like one of your whores?! Never!” he yelled.

“It’s my right as your guest?” Peter rebutted with a bizarre calm.

“After we’ve been kind to you? Gave you our best food and wine, housed you in our nicest room?” your brother roared.

You wanted to shrink yet you were frozen. Your father walked to your side and put an arm around you.

“You can have anything you want, but you’re a married man, Peter. My daughter’s dignity is important to me, as is your own wives. I don’t want to insult her as well,” he reasoned.

“Honor? Honor? You all only spit about honor when you live shit lives with shit food and shit company!” Peter argued.

The warmth of your father’s presence left you as he walked forward. Scuttling, your mother stood by you to take your hand in his place.

“Your highness, I knew him like a brother. If Peter the Great was here…” your father warned.

“He isn’t here! And I’m the Emperor now! And he isn’t!” Peter bellowed.

So on. And so on.

You retired early, your mother by your side to escort you as you saw your father and brother arguing back and forth. The only ally Peter had, other than his title, was Dymov holding him back. To protect or stop him, you could not tell.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next two days there was such bad blood it was unbelievable. There were no fun outings as planned. You ate alone. You hardly saw anyone. Any room you walked into; you could hear yelling.

Your father made sure you weren’t alone with Peter, but it seemed his eyes had gotten distracted with the fighting. Hopefully, he was joking. Partly.

One night you snuck downstairs to have a glass of water and heard a few words despite yourself.

“That’s it! I leave tomorrow morning! And you can forget my support and all your fucking soldiers, too!”

“Your highness, our money is about to get tight. And our people need it even more than us!”

“Too fucking bad, then!”

Oh no…Russia is our enemy.

You cried yourself to sleep that night. The idea of now starving. And your brother was about to marry a woman he loved in a fortnight. How could he provide for her or any future children? How would all the people who depended on your generosity fare with reduced funds? Worst of all, Peter had his quick moods and ideas. What if he declared war out of spite from this one visit?

You never met Peter the Great. He sometimes seemed like a kindly fairy god father in some ways he had been mentioned. His love of your house and your country and his friendship with your father. Financial support given when needed. How so much was funded and gifted and provided thanks to his generosity.

How could any of you live after that? Even with the embarrassment alone of being insulted by an emperor?

As you woke up, you only had barely time for breakfast when your mother entered.

“Y/N…we would like to talk to you.”

“Mother, I have breakfast. And I was hoping today I’d practice my music and finish that scarf,” you dismissed.

But from the look on her face you had no choice.

“It’s important. And you must be there.”

She walked you over into the main table where days ago everyone dined awkwardly. The Emperor and his companion were there. Peter pouted yet Dymov’s face looked as if he had seen a ghost and his folded hand were shaking a little.

As you sat down in your chair, every eye looked at you, there was a moment of tense silence.

“Well, what is it?” you asked.

“We’ve reached an agreement with Peter…” your father began.

“Are we going to lose…lose everything?” you asked anxiously.

Your heart was tolling in your eardrums as the words left your lips. It had been the question that kept you worried for days.

“No, your family is going to be fine…” Dymov assured, a hand placed over his mouth.

“You can still have some of my father’s money and support from the Russian crown and our fucking alliance even!” Peter threw in, hands going up.

“But…”

“But what?” you said.

“You have to bring half of your army to fight for me, Sweden’s trying to invade us and we need men. And some of your relatives have to swear loyalty to me. But that promise needs to be secured.” Peter continued

“How? We are already sending you soldiers and subjects? What else would do it?” you asked. Although your gut was telling you the answer.

There was a little pause, but quite an evil smile from Peter.

“There has to be a marriage. Your brother’s betrothed. So you’ll have to marry into Russia to secure it!” he revealed.

Blinking, the wind was knocked out as if you had been punched in the stomach.

“Sir, you’re married to…to Sophie! That Austrian girl!” you cried.

“Sophie? She isn’t Sophie anymore; she’s already christened by my church with a new name: she’s Empress Catherine of Russia now. And since she will be your ruler and you will address her as such! Might as well christen and give you a new name too!” he scolded.

“Of course, I mean I will but…but…who do I have to marry? Do you have any…any brothers?” you fret.

Numbness gripped your hands and nausea gripped your stomach at the thought of marrying a copy of Peter.

“I’ve got no brothers, no male relatives of age or alive for you and I want this contract done soon so…”

His head turned to Dymov with a congratulatory pat on the back.

“It’s Grigor here you’ll have to fuck for life in about a month!”

Grigor’s ears turned pink and he looked up at you, lips tight.

And if I say no? you start to wonder, tasting the words.

But what choice did you have?

“Lady Y/L/N, I promise, this isn’t any easier for me either…” he finally said. “I know this arrangement isn’t coming the way you expected…and I’m just as shocked as you are.”

Would you put your family’s and your people’s future down the drain? Would you let them become bankrupt, ruin your father’s memory of his friend, and make enemies with one of the richest, largest, and most powerful countries because of your selfishness?

Besides, no suitors had been calling you, really. None likable or with good intentions at least. You were getting to the age of spinsterdom. You knew you had to be desperate if you wanted any sense of security for yourself or your family. Who knew if another offer like this could be made?

Taking a deep breath, you looked Peter in the eye.

“I will do it. For my family and for everyone who we look after.”

Peter produced a document agreeing to the engagement, marriage, and benefits it brought. You and Dymov signed it.

Afterwards there was a small service in the chapel to pray for the future and for this marriage. But you were half in another world, unaware this was happening. Dymov seemed to flush between being pale or being red.

Immediately later, they decided all was well and to make plans to leave. Before packing, Dymov approached your parents and you in the parlor.

“I have to alert you of something that will happen, when Lady Y/L/N arrives…there will be a test done by the priests to see if she’s, uh, pure…and it involves checking her…” he gestured to his pants.

You let out a shocked gasp. What kind of kingdom were you about to be thrown into?

“I just wanted you to know, so you wouldn’t be shocked,” Dymov added on.

Your mother took your hand again and rubbed your knuckles soothingly.

“We have family physicians here. Trusted friends. They will do the examination and sign a document right before she goes. There will always be a chaperone until the marriage, to make sure everything is by Russia’s standards,’ she insisted, squeezing your hand extra tight.

Before they left the whole family saw off the Russian party. As Dymov turned to you, his blue eyes darkened slightly. He bowed lowest for you and kissed your hand.

“I’ll write to you as much as I can. You can call me Grigor,” he said.

“I guess you can call me Y/F/N…Grigor,” you replied

“Goodbye, Y/F/N. We will see each other…before the wedding. Soon.”

As kind as the gesture was, your brain had not stopped reeling. It remained even as you stood there, watching the carriage trot away. A pair of blue eyes even looking at you sadly from the window.

He seemed to have the same concern

How could you travel to live in another country ruled by someone like Peter?

And how could you love, much less marry, a man you just met?

Taglist: @queenlover05

The Great Taglist: @stardust-killer-queen @itsametaphorgwil @freaking-nix @im-an-adult-ish @grigorlee @themficsilike

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uwua3 · 5 years ago

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family.

🌸🌷 sakuma sakuya

summary: sakuya remembers when the dorms were silent, but he never wants to go back to that time ever again

dedication: written for my friends in the golden gays discord server. i love you all ♡

warnings: anxiety, family trauma, the future

author’s note: hi!!! this is the first writing piece i’ve published~ sorry for the delay; school kept me busy for so long! i hope you love it as much as i love my great friends!

i wanted to reflect on sakuya’s deep fear of being alone again that stemmed from an absent household. i believe there is power in reclaiming yourself from people who took advantage of you and doing your best for the people who love you ♡ this is a tribute to everyone who decided they wouldn’t be held back anymore at the expense of their families and found happiness in friends!

word count: 1,702

music: to die for – sam smith

Celebrations were being held inside the Mankai Company dorms as the four troupes partied, laughing about the Winter Troupe’s latest success against the God Troupe and effectively paying off the theatre’s debt. Stepping out into the courtyard, Sakuma Sakuya escaped the loud and irresponsible shenanigans that could only ensue between 20 boys with a quiet sigh of relief. The glass door closed behind him as the noise faded into the background. Unfortunately, the sound of something breaking and frantic screaming became a normal occurrence in the dorms. Leaning against the building’s brick exterior, Sakuya pushed his hands in his hoodie pockets before realizing he wore the same clothes at his Mankai auditions almost a year ago. The printed “SPRING” words across his chest was closest to his heart, making him subconsciously smile at the thought of his troupe members.

His Spring Troupe members... Sakuya could vividly recall meeting each and every single of them for the first time. Each one of them, at completely different parts of life, and they all found each other to be the start of something absolutely life–changing. Sakuya basked in the warmth of his fondness for his boys despite the cold frost solidifying his breath in the thin air. Yet, it didn’t feel like it was a winter dusk underneath the full moon. Sakuya swore he opened his eyes and was embraced by the spring warmth of blooming cherry blossoms above his head as he practiced by Hana High’s river with the Romeo & Julius script gripped in his hand. Sakuma Sakuya felt the same as he did right before his first performance as leader of the Spring Troupe: completely, and utterly, happy.

Masumi was Sakuya’s right hand man no matter what, where his harsh criticism and natural talent influenced all of them to become a troupe worthy of a sold out show. Tsuzuru’s persistence and unrelenting drive to be the best playwright possible inspired Sakuya to work even harder to expand his range of abilities. Citron’s perseverance and unwavering spirit that defined his charisma made Sakuya laugh into the night, reminiscing on Citron’s faulty Japanese that somehow got pulled all together to recite his otherworldly stories way past bedtime. Even Itaru’s rocky transition into acting was monumental, where it’s like the spark that died in the adult’s eyes was ignited back to life, like a firecracker in a summer festival. At the thought of summer, which led to Summer Troupe, then Autumn and Winter, Sakuya became overwhelmed with the thought of his friends, the boys he would do anything for just right behind him. Never in his life, did Sakuya ever fathom he could feel this happy. But, did he deserve them?

It was enough to make Sakuya suddenly cry alone, outside in the freezing cold as the rambunctious bunch continued celebrating into the hours of the next day. At first, a single drop fell from his eye and before he knew it, it was an onslaught of a repressed emotion he had to hide as the first Mankai company leader: fear. Dropping to a crouching position, Sakuya attempted to muffle his cries as he hid his face in his arms, pretending like it was the comfort of a beloved family member. Yet, no particular face came to mind. It was a blurry, distorted mixture of everyone who has ever abandoned him.

Nothing was permanent, if Sakuya learned anything from his family. He almost pushed out the feeling of that cold house but it came back in the form of his turbulent childhood, living to please and seeking to serve in any way possible as he was taken advantage of senselessly. You’d think after all that, he would know to disguise his true feelings and thoughts with his quick acting impulse, but Sakuya was just as naive as before. Sakuya was so honest in his face, his expressions betraying his intentions. Like right now, where his theatre company members were having the time of their lives together, without him.

How awful of him to be so sad on a night of fun and new beginnings! Sakuya sniffled as he roughly rubbed his eyes, muttering comforting lies to no avail. He was being selfish... maybe, he was really crying because Sakuya knew deep down he didn’t deserve any of this. The spring glow faded away as Sakuya opened his eyes again only to face the snowy scape of the courtyard. The gray stone was slippery with ice as the salt was scattered under his feet. At the center of it all, the building’s massive tree was rustling with the wind. Sakuya’s tears froze in their tracks as he exhaled, his body shaking as his thoughts ran a mile a minute. It didn’t feel like time existed in that moment, like the world stopped as he endured years of suffering and guilt in that very moment.

But, the world didn’t stop for anybody. In fact, for a moment, it sounded like the bubbly and catchy J-Pop blasting from Kazunari’s modern smartphone sounded even louder. It’s as if his ears became heightened to notice the amplified sound of the expensive alcohol Azuma swindled out of his eager customers spilling into multiple glasses. Sakuya heard the sizzling of the frying pan as Omi was feeding the peanut gallery, even Banri’s exaggerated mockery of Juza’s excitement for the desserts Tenma received as a gift from his newest movie set. Sakuya could envision it now: Taichi impressing Misumi with making triangular origami and enjoying the amazed grin on the latter’s innocent face, Muku & Yuki doing their schoolwork at the sofa before Yuki started cursing out the puppy pair for screaming, even the Winter troupe’s quiet disbelief but immense pride amongst themselves. Sakuya knew, for once, Hisoka wasn’t taking a nap. That’s how electric the energy was throughout the room. The party was in full swing, Sakuya even caught out of the corner of his eye Director and Sakyo sharing an intimate moment before it was ruined by the Director’s spices rant. Thank god Kamekichi and the manager didn’t hear it, or else a very sad Matsukawa would be paying a hefty sum to the scheming parrot.

Maybe he would vocally never admit it, but Sakuya felt himself turn as pink as the sakura petals that led him to a flyer for the Mankai tryouts. Sakuya felt the same as that moment: like he was staring into the face of his destiny. Sakuya pushed himself off the ground, catching his own mind off guard before it morphed into a phase of curiousity, like even his own brain couldn’t have any idea what could come next. Sakuya faced the moonlight shining upon him, like the stage spotlight he couldn’t wait to be underneath again. Sakuya could almost see the future in the clear surface.

Sakuya could see the next Spring Troupe play. The fantasy elements, the strong message of friendship, and the bond between him and his boys growing like the cherry blossoms. They would take a bow together in front of a standing ovation, where they’d celebrate by having a hanami picnic beneath the petals as they sat in the crowded park. They’d share their favorite parts and sleep that night on stage, just like the old times. He could imagine the spring nostalgia shifting into an exhilarating summer heat, even hearing the sound of traditional drums and booth workers advertising their games cutting the night air as chatters of his friends enveloped him in the best place possible to see the fireworks. The hot, humid summer would become a chilly and spooky autumn where they’d all have cool costumes and a competition to see who could trick & treat the most candy that night. It would move into the frigid but festive winter, as Secret Santa became too complex in a group of 20 as they would decorate the dorms to look like a Christmas bomb exploded. No matter what season it was, Sakuya knew they’d pull off whatever they put their heads to. The cycle would repeat another year. That was enough for now.

Sakuya stopped crying. There was nothing to be sad about; how could he when his true family was inside? Turning on his heel, Sakuya felt the warmth against his face as he opened the glass door to the cheers of his fellow Mankai members. He was right; Kazunari was DJ-ing with glowing cat ear headphones at the kitchen counter as he pushed the mic to his mouth with a wide, infectious grin.

“Just in time! Sakuma Sakuya, everybody! Everyone give it up for Mankai’s first member and leader ever!”

The room cheered even louder, pushing Sakuya into the group celebration as Yuki jokingly got on his case for letting the cold air in. But even then, Yuki’s smile reached his eyes as Sakuya took in everyone finally went quiet, waiting for his speech. They all looked towards him for guidance, for words of wisdom, something to remember for the rest of their lives. Then, it clicked. Sakuya hugged himself, the distorted face in his mind suddenly becoming 20. This was his family.

This home was warm. It was filled with endless, unconditional love & support. No hurtful judgement or prejudices, not even serious scorn for one another despite Juza and Banri & Sakyo and Yuki’s petty arguments. This was what family is: love, no matter what. Sakuya loved his brothers, his Mankai boys and his favorite Director. That was enough. They’re family.

Whether it was due to the sudden embarrassing attention or the quick beating of his resurrected heart, Sakuya smiled as he stood up on the coffee table, ignoring Sakyo’s comment about how they didn’t have the budget to fund a hospital visit if he fell. Picking up an opened soda can besides his feet, Sakuya lifted the discarded drink in the air as everyone mimicked his actions like it was a professional banquet. With absolute pure joy in his voice, Sakuya felt the tears threatening to pour from his eyes but for a completely different reason. They are happy, he is happy.

“To Mankai!”

“To Mankai!” The room chorused back with just as much love, and would do so for many, many more years.

#sakuma sakuya #sakuya sakuma #a3! act! addict! actors!#a3!#act! addict! actors!#a3! actor training game #a3! one shots #act! addict! actors! one shots #mankai a3!#mankai company #a3! sakuya #a3 sakuya

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hellimagines · 5 years ago

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Eyes of a Cat -- Olgierd von Everec

Masterlist

Request: “Hey! I have a request about Olgierd! Story after HoS, he decided to live a life in different way, so he started to write a poems. Passing by one of Novigrad’s inn, he saw young lady and he wrote a poem about unknown beauty! (Sorry for any mistakes, english is not my mother tongue)” - @natvonpankratzdelettenhove & “If you would do something with olgierd x reader after he keeps his soul thatd be great! I dont see a lot of fic with him and theres potential”

Summary: Olgierd has found a love for poetry since regaining his soul, and during a moment where he lacks inspiration, he finds you.

Warnings: none

Pairing: Olgierd von Everec x fem!reader

Word Count: 800+

A/N: This is short and written as headcanons, because I struggled terribly with writer’s block. There isn’t much romance, primarily the Olgierd being starstruck and living with a soul finally, but I set the ending up for a possible Part Two/Final Part in case I find inspiration. Also, female witcher reader because FUCK the rules. You should know by now, that if you read my imagines you wear leather.

Novigrad wasn’t Olgierd’s favorite place, it was too loud and too busy and too random and too chaotic. He was an Oxenfurt kinda guy through-and-through

Oxenfurt gave him knowledge about all sorts of people and things and places, so he preferred to spend his time there

But, Novigrad gave Olgierd something that Oxenfurt didn’t; Novigrad was home to The Rosemary and Thyme, which in turn was home to Dandelion, who in turn held the masterful knowledge of poetry

Ever since he regained his soul from O’Dimm and let go of the anguish he held over Iris, Olgierd had found a more peaceful way of living, and poetry was his escape

He eventually became a regular at The Rosemary and Thyme and enjoyed joking around with Zolton, playing Gwent with Priscilla, and giving Dandelion stories to sing and write about, in turn for lessons on writing poetry

During one of these visits, after Dandelion had rushed off upstairs to jot down a few lines for his upcoming ballad, “Fading Rainbow”, Olgierd found himself hunched over one of the tables in The Rosemary while staring at a blank piece of parchment

His quill dripped ink onto the parchment as his brain scrambled for something to write

Just as he was about to call it quits and barter Zolton and Priscilla for a round of Gwent, The Rosemary’s door swung open, disturbing the quiet Wednesday morning

Olgierd’s eyes furrowed when you walked in, noting the scowl on your bruised face. He was used to harlots, bards, troubadours, playwrights, drunks, and other people of the like walking into The Rosemary for hope to speak with ‘The Great Master Dandelion’, sing or listen to music, or to get utterly plastered

However, he had never seen someone dressed in worn leather with two swords across their back, cuts and bruises scattered across their face, and an animal-shape pendant around their neck. Someone that wasn’t Geralt of Rivia

But, you weren’t Geralt--unless Geralt suddenly grew breasts and became a terrifyingly beautiful woman

Olgierd was expecting the bartender to turn you away, declaring your kind filthy and unwanted. However, he simply gave you a wide smile and shouted for Dandelion

Within moments, said bard was thundering down the stairs with a shout and barreling into you with open arms

When your arms wrapped around him just as tightly, Olgierd’s thoughts were confirmed, you were definitely not Geralt

Before he had the chance to understand what was going on, you were already leaving with a wave over your shoulder and Dandelion was bounding back upstairs, content as can be

Suddenly, Olgierd had found inspiration for a poem to write

A few days passed, and Dandelion grew suspicious by his new friend’s behavior--typically Olgierd would only be in Novigrad for a week, at most, before leaving. But Olgierd had been at the Rosemary for two weeks, staying in the tavern for hours (even when the music and dancing was its peak) with the same piece of parchment clutched in one hand and an abused quill in the other

‘Eyes of a cat, I could see from where I sat, While your name I was not graced, your beauty hit me in the face-’

“Oh, this is just pure shit.”

“Just tell me who she is! I promise you, I will ensure that the magnificent beauty finds her way to your heart. Or his… is it a guy? Is that why you won’t tell me? Honestly Olgierd, you should know by now that I am not one to judge such a profound act of love-”

“Thank you, Dandelion, but it is not a man. I can’t tell you who it is because I don’t know her name or even who she is.”

“Well, you must know something, you didn’t conjure this woman out of thin air.”

“She is your friend from the other day. The Witcher.”

“(Y/N)? No way!”

Olgierd knew, by the tone of Dandelion’s voice, that he had made a mistake informing the bard of his heart’s new desire. His face contorted into glee and mischief, and before Olgierd could interject, Dandelion was rushing out of The Rosemary with a cry of joy

All Writing Taglist (OPEN): @sophster1881 @alilcloudy

#olgierd von everec #olgierd von everec imagine #olgierd von everec x reader #the witcher #witcher 3 #witcher imagine #heart of stone dlc #the witcher imagine #witcher

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hatari-translations · 5 years ago

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Hákon interview on ‘Vloggað um ekki neitt’ - translation/summary

This video is a 25-minute interview of Matthías by Hákon from Iceland Music News, about a play that Matthías was commissioned to write for the National Theater (Þjóðleikhúsið). In the process, they talk about how they met, the beginning of Matthías’s interest in theater, and the experience of being a teenager being constantly lectured at.

As it's quite long, I'm not going to translate word for word; this will be mostly summarizing, with choice quotes.

The play in question is called Vloggað um ekki neitt (Vlogging about nothing), and it's written with a specific age group in mind - the theater commissioned him to write a play for two actors aimed at ~13-15-year-olds. The theater's educational department does this, selecting demographics and commissioning educational shows meant to appeal to those groups.

Matthías thinks it's a challenge to write for this particular group; it's not obvious that a play for teenagers should be such and such. "I think teenagers just want to be treated like sapient beings, people with taste, and then it's pretty hard to be deciding, 'Yeah, this is like this, because you're teenagers.'" What's annoying about being a teenager, he posits, is that society as a whole is always trying to patronize you.

Hákon says that he remembers, from being a teenager, that there's also a pretty huge maturity gap between thirteen- and fifteen-year-olds. Matthías agrees, and adds that when you're a teenager you're developing your tastes and your self-image, feeling yourself reflected in the things that you like that somebody else might not, and that makes it difficult to categorize you as an age group. The last thing you want is being told, "This is for you, because you're fifteen" - either you like the thing or you don't.

"I also think that teenagers are generally... you aren't going to be telling them anything they don't know. I can imagine that if I were fifteen and I were invited to see a play that some random Matthías Tryggvi dude has written with your age group in mind, I'd just be like 'Okay, this is going to be some drug prevention bullshit, I've heard it all before, I know exactly what it's going to be like, I've been to the theater, I know what this is.'"

Hákon says teenagers as an audience vary a lot. He brings up Skrekkur, a popular youth talent competition for the 13-15-year-old stage of Reykjavík schools, where groups of teens will put together a short theatrical performance, each school will pick one to represent them, and then the schools compete. Matthías notes Hákon has hosted Skrekkur and participated in it, but Hákon corrects him, saying he never participated; at the time, as a young teen, he didn't think theater was very cool at all. Matthías says, "Those upbeat, positive types were just a bit intolerable. That's where I was at, too, at that age." They agree that they were basically the 'difficult' teenagers that might be in the audience.

Matthías says that he saw Leg (Uterus), a black comedy musical about teenage pregnancy by Hugleikur Dagsson, at this theater, and thought it was awesome. (This was in 2007! I saw it too, and it was pretty great. I was 17 at the time; Matthías would've been thirteen.) He loved Hugleikur's books and their grotesque humour, which he still jives with. Leg really opened up the world of theater to him, surprised him with what theater could be. And he hopes Vloggað um ekki neitt could be that for at least one teenager.

They move on to talking about the play itself. Matthías notes it's still in progress, and he's been working on writing it on and off for more than a year (I'm going to guess he was contacted by the theater about doing this during or after Hatari's participation in Söngvakeppnin; Hatari's huge popularity with youth probably made the directors of the theater immediately pin him as likely to write something teens could get excited about). He expects it to go into rehearsals this fall.

The play is about two people trying to become successful vloggers on YouTube. Matthías says really it's kind of like what they're doing right now, "just projecting yourself, and what you have to say, no matter how ill-advised it may be, out into the world." Hákon will be playing one of the two characters, Konráð.

Matthías notes that one thing about writing teenagers, and characters on social media or YouTube or the like, is that you're entering their domain. His main source on YouTubers is his fifteen-year-old sister. "It's their home field, they know how this works, they know what's cool. So very early in the process, I just admitted defeat. I'm not about to write cool social media content for these characters, or write it to be cool. They're always going to fail. It'll be some kind of attempt the characters are making to make good content on YouTube, but it's doomed to fail, because it's the audience that knows what good content is."

Hákon does think the characters are making honest attempts, having read the script so far, and they're honest characters, critical of themselves, perhaps too critical at times. "Yeah, they're scared to take the leap, scared to publish the material they're recording." Hákon says that's probably a common issue for vloggers, whether to publish something or ditch it or start over. Matthías says he's pretty sure PewDiePie, who his sister introduced him to, records a deluge of material and has somebody else editing it for him. It's become a bit of a production, even though it's just him at his computer playing video games (or other things). The characters in the play have that dilemma, as they're making content but are unsure how to present it and edit it.

Hákon talks about how as an artist you have to have a degree of self-reflection and be able to recognize when an idea isn't going anywhere. Matthías says when you're recording or writing or creating something, you enter a bit of a manic state, start to have delusions about how awesome it is, which the characters do, only to hit a wall and realize actually that sucked. Hákon: "And then they might also get delusions about how terrible it is, because it might be neither amazing nor completely awful." Matthías: "Maybe just a little tacky."

Hákon goes over how this isn't the first time the two of them work together, having attended the Academy of the Arts together. He notes Matthías wrote Þvottur when they were in their first year, as a side project, and that was how they met. He says Matthías has a recognizable style; Matthías says "That's fun." Hákon asks if Þvottur was Matthías's first play; he says no, but it was a kind of first effort anyway, as it was the first one he directed. He also notes that Hákon helped him with that, having more experience, and others - at which Hákon brings up that Klemens helped as well, as he built the set. "Which was 'simple but clever' according to a critic," Matthías adds.

Matthías's actual first foray into playwriting was when he and a friend took part in translating-slash-adapting Gertrude Stein's "Doctor Faustus Lights the Lights". "It's a really interesting piece, very experimental, in some sense not very conventional in its textual structure. And it was really - again, a whole new world opened. Whoa, is this a play? Okay, wow." Working on this adaptation/translation with director Brynhildur Guðjónsdóttir was hugely inspiring for him. "After that process, I've really gotten into it, seeing students at the school acting out lines that Ingólfur and I had been polishing."

From there, he moved on to Ungleikur, where young people work together to write, direct and act in their own plays. He wrote three pieces for it all in all, and then Þvottur independently. He says it was really good to be able to make that connection and try this out at the Academy of the Arts.

Returning to Vloggað um ekki neitt, Hákon asks what besides his sister sparked the idea for this piece. Matthías talks about how he attended his sister's civil confirmation ceremony (the non-religious version of a Christian confirmation; confirmations are so commonplace and important in Iceland that any thirteen-year-old that simply doesn't have one would be considered weird, so there's a non-religious version done by the Icelandic Ethical Humanist Association). At the ceremony, there were a bunch of speeches by various speakers, and he thought it was really clear there how much everyone was trying to lecture them. One of the speeches was a parable about frogs. The frogs were all hopping, but then some people came and yelled insults at them. All of them immediately floundered somehow and fell out of line, except one of the frogs, and the punchline of the story was that that frog was deaf. He could just see in the faces of the thirteen-year-olds that nobody could make heads or tails of this story; it was completely irrelevant to them. He thinks this desperation to push you to succeed and not do this and that and think about your health and your mental health all just becomes noise at a certain point. He can relate to that, remembering when he was a teenager himself.

Hákon agrees that that tends to be how you experience this stuff as a teenager, and that this is also visible in the play, which includes that parable about the frogs. The play also shows a sort of exaggerated version of preventative education. Konráð and the other character, Sirrý, are trying to educate teenagers watching their vlogs ("a hopeless project when everyone's just watching PewDiePie," Matthías quips). So the characters are including a lot of hard facts about drugs, cigarettes, sleep, exercise, screen time, bullying, etc., which they're kind of aggressively trying to convey to the audience. The idea, for Matthías, was to create a character who's just spewing all that stuff and all that noise at a camera, not knowing who's even watching.

They talk about how Matthías has been appointed as one of the City Theater's two playwrights for next winter, after Vloggað um ekki neitt is done, though he expects to still attend the rehearsals ("You're not chained to the City Theater" - the National Theater and the City Theater are the two big competing theaters in Reykjavík). He also might become one of three people working on "Þjóðleikur", a project where playwrights write short plays with many characters, to be produced and performed by groups of teens around the country.

"And then Hatari gets mixed up with all this." "Yes. Hatari will be - maybe there's a performance of Vloggað um ekki neitt, and I'm there in costume, and Klemens and Einar are there, and we do a song or two and then introduce the play." (He's joking.)

As they sign off they sanitize their hands and remind everyone to keep two meters apart (Matthías is unsure if they've quite been placed two meters apart here; Hákon thinks it is two meters, but I'm with Matthías in thinking it seems like a bit less).

#matthías tryggvi haraldsson #vloggað um ekki neitt #interview #translation

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yunohawkeye · 5 years ago

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Dropping in to say I love your blog dear! 🥰🥰🥰❤❤❤❤ May I please request for NSFW alphabet for Submissive MC and Ikevamp Shakespeare?

Find yourself someone that devoted lolYou can consider yourself lucky Shakes~

It took some time but I finally finished it :)Thanks for @aromantic-misguide-to-romance and @reneotomegirl for having a look over it ^^

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

If it’s been quite a rough night you won’t even have to ask him. He’ll get salves, a nice steamy cup of tea and everything else you ask of him.He takes very good care of any bruises and handles them with such care that this alone makes you feel like floating on cloud seven.After everything is taken care of he’ll hold you tight, whisper sweet nothings in your ear and either play with your hair or caress your skin.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He loves your face, for the simple reason that he loves to see the expressions he can coax out of you. He can’t get enough of seeing you lost in pleasure, in contrast to your innocent smile you wear over the day.

For himself he likes his deft hands. This goes combined with your expressions because, while he’s working you with his hand, he’s also able to look into your eyes.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Will is a very possessive lover, so seeing his cum on your face or dribbling out of your mouth after you went down on him gets him hard again almost immediately.

He also loves to see his essence running down your abdomen and just the thought that if this was inside of you- able to create new life sates his possessiveness.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

It’s not a secret that he likes to do light bondage with you but there has been a fantasy in his head.

It involves you tied up, completely helpless and at his mercy while he coaxes those sweet, sweet sounds from you. Teasing and edging you relentlessly just to give you one mindblowing orgasm after another throughout the whole night.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He does have some experience, especially from his former life, but even then he focused on the theatre and his plays. It was mainly flirting and flattering but there were some nights he gave in to temptation.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

He loves to see you lying on your back with both hands tied to the bedpost over your head. This leaves him with many opportunities and his imagination.

But if it’s not just for pleasure but for craved intimacy he likes the missionary position. As much as he likes to be creative he also cherishes those nights where just being with you sates all of his desires.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Will isn’t one to goof around, but is quite fond of teasing. Through his words he’ll make you giggle from time to time, but mostly uses it for very poetic dirty talk.

But he won’t shy away from cracking a joke or tickling you if you seem down.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Fitting for a gentleman he’s well groomed and due to personal preference he keeps it very short.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Normally he puts on his playwright mask wherever he goes and doesn’t let anyone actually come near him. This makes it more meaningful when he lets it fall, especially in those moments.

So with Will it’s always very intimate and sensual, even just on an emotional basis.He’d also never leave you unsatisfied or redundant do something you’re not comfortable with but would do anything you ask of him. He’s always weak for you.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Will sees his life as a tragedy so such simple pleasures aren’t normally on his list, although even tragedies have their highlights. But still, it’s very rare to happen.

Until he met you. Since then he feels the urge almost every time after he spent time with you, because you make him feel things he hasn’t felt in ages.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

He’s very fond of bondage, from light to moderate.

Will loves to tie you up and give you pleasure until you beg him to stop.

He’s not opposed to be tied up lightly himself, but he prefers if you’re the one tied up.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Going hand in hand with his preference for bondage, he’s fond of spending those nights in a bed.

He’s also fond of any other place he can tie your hands to, no matter the position. But again, he won’t ever force you.

Will won’t shy away from closets or storage rooms if you both are up for it, as well.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

He gets really turned on whenever he sees you all dressed up and even more so when you decide to show some skin. If you top it off with a nice perfume he gave you, it allows you to see lust darken his eyes.

Other than that, a more innocent turn-on for him is your smile. Just seeing it makes him want to give you all the pleasure you deserve and even more.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He won’t hurt you. Not in the sense that he’d deny you any wishes in bed, but even then he has boundaries.

For instance, one thing he’d never do is to degrade you. As a playwright he knows how simple words can hurt. He’d rather praise you in any way he can.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Will loves to go down on you but prefers to do it with his fingers. When he has his head between your legs he can’t see your expressions but loves your wetness on his lips.

When he uses his fingers he can see your expressions and hear those sounds leaving your lips.

Let’s just say he’s torn. But either way, he is a big fan of the sweet torture of edging.

If you want to go down on him he won’t say no, but be warned, because he doesn’t have much control when you tease him too much.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

On a normal basis it’s rather slow and rough but he can go more tender if you ask him to. Will just wants to take his time with you.

Although, if you’ve been spending a lot of time with one of the residents and he’s fueled with jealousy you should prepare for a very rough and fast-paced night.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

He prefers to take his time with you and make it a full body experience instead of just sating the hunger for pleasure.

There are some days where he’ll initiate them, but only if you haven’t seen each other in some time and don’t have much time on your hands.

But if you ask for it or initiate it he’d never say no. He'll only initiate it himself after you’ve been away for a long period of time or if his jealousy got the best of him.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

He’s up for risk, especially for the risk of getting caught.

Pleasuring you in a broom closet while the others are eating in the dining room, wondering where you are, all while you have to stifle your moans.

But he’s not up for hurting you, at least not too much. He’s up for some rather rough scenarios but nothing that would leave scars or long lasting bruises.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

He’s pulled many all-nighters in his life, but writing is quite different to having fun with each other in bed. But he can go for a few rounds, depending on the day, some more or less.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Will is very keen on using toys on you. The moment you told him that there are toys for sexual pleasure from the future he rushed to le Comte and asked him to get him some of those.

He’s a fan of burying one of those so-called vibrators inside of you while he keeps the remote to control the intensity. He loves the feeling when he presses just one button and can watch you trying to contain your mewls of pleasure. It has become his favorite pastime activity.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He teases a little. But he’s very good at dirty talk which always sounds so poetic and makes you feel like you’re one of his masterpieces.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He’s quite moderate in volume.

Will groans on a normal basis but the moans turn lighter when he gets closer, just to top it off with heavenly sounding moans when he reaches his high.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

As much as he likes to take charge and have you at his mercy he also loves it when you take control from time to time, when you show him that he means as much to you as you mean to him.

But when you do, please be gentle, because on some days he just needs someone that uses their power to soothe and make him feel safe and cared for.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

He’s a little above average in size and girth.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Let’s just say there’s a reason his pet is a bunny.

He wants to spend as much time with you as possible, also a lot of it in intimate settings. Because life is evanescent and he hasn’t felt the gentle embrace of a lover in a very long time, he has so many built-up emotions boiling inside him. He needs someone to quench his thirst.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

It takes some time until he falls asleep and he spends as long as he can awake, staring at your face and thinking about poems and stories through which he can show you how much you mean to him.

There are nights where he doesn’t sleep at all because seeing his muse sleeping in his arms gives him so many ideas that he just doesn’t have the time.

So sometimes it would be good to lull him to sleep before you, otherwise who knows how much sleep he’ll miss.

#ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp shakespeare #ikevamp will #wiliam shakespeare #n//sfw #Nsfw-alphabet

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tsarinastorm · 5 years ago

Text

Feel Again-Charlie Barber/Reader-Chapter 1

You could feel the sunlight shining through the windows of the bookstore you were browsing through. It was a small, independent bookstore that had a mini café, showcased local authors and had writer’s events, it was the kind of bookstore that was hard to come across. It reminded you of the local bookstore back home that was your favorite, and this place in Los Angeles made it almost feel like home. You were a new transport to the city of angels, the decision to move was both easy and difficult. Your first book, a memoir, was well-received and made into a film whose screenplay you helped write. Your first novel was successful, and was now being made into a television series by a streaming service. When the producers ask you to be a consult on the series, you decided to move to LA and make a new life. You also taught seminars on writing and history at USC. You loved the warm weather, it was perfect for you to start your own little garden at the bungalow you were leasing, plus your dog, Freckles, loved having a yard.

You browse the aisles and you grab a Russian history book before grabbing Meditations by Marcus Aurelius, a copy of Marina Carr’s latest play, and a couple new releases. On your way to the registers, you see a tall, handsome man with a pile of books head in the same direction. Your eyes meet and it gives you butterflies, it was the kind of thing writers write about but you had never experienced in real life before. You take a good look at him and notice he’s everything you find attractive in a man: tall, broad-shouldered with dark, thick hair, well-dressed, and obviously he has good taste for bookstores. He’s not wearing a wedding band either, you’re sure to make a mental note of that.

“Marina Carr is a brilliant playwright, one of the best of modern day.” He says, pointing towards the pile of books you’re carrying and he steps forward to the register. It takes you a moment to gather your thoughts and compose yourself before saying, “She’s one of my favorite writers. I’ve never actually seen any of her plays performed though.”

“There’s nothing like seeing a play being performed. I’m a theater director so I might be biased.” He chuckles and smiles at you. You can’t help but smile back at him, you respond with, “Well I’m a writer so I have a bias in favor of printed word.”

“Can’t argue with that, what do you write?” The man asks and you tell him that you’ve wrote a memoir, a novel, and are now writing screenplays. He goes to introduce himself, but his phone rings and he has to answer. He turns and says a few words hurriedly into the phone before turning back. He then says to you, “I’m sorry but I’ve got to get to work, it was really nice talking to you, I hope I’ll see you again.” He extends his hand to you and you take it. You notice that even though it was brief that his hand was warm and much larger than yours. You smile, nod, and watch him walk out of the store.

You wonder if he’s a regular here, and then you begin to calculate how often you can make the trip to this bookstore. Maybe you should stop in more, and hopefully see him another time. You were intrigued and wanted to know more about him. But this was a big city, full of people moving in their own directions and it was more likely than not that you would never see him again.

*********************************************************

It’s been a week since your encounter with the attractive, mystery man at the bookstore, and now you were on the other coast. Your former sorority sister, Blair, lived in NYC and convinced you to come visit her for the weekend. The two of you were now crammed in her small bathroom, trying to put on your makeup for the night while fitting in as much girl talk as possible. She was an off-Broadway actress, and you two were going out with some of her theater people. You had met several of them before when you were visiting and you looked forward to seeing them again. But you always felt sort of out of place with them because you weren’t a theater person and didn’t understand all of the inside jokes.

The bar is already buzzing and you love the vintage, art deco style that exudes from the place. Blair is talking to a couple of people that she knows. She’s introduced to several of them, but you decide that it’s time to get a drink so you saunter off towards the bar. The man sitting there looks vaguely familiar but you can’t place him, until you’ve taken your seat, and given your order which makes him turn to look at you. Wow, it’s the mystery man or his doppelganger. He’s pretty unique looking so you figure it has to be him. Then it hits you, it is definitely the mystery man from Chevalier books with his signature style. You wonder: how did you possibly run into him again on the other side of the country? You can tell by the look on his face that he recognizes you at the same time, before breaking the silence.

“You’re the writer from Chevalier books, I can’t believe I’ve ran into you again, and in New York of all places.” He says and stands up to move closer to you. You can’t help but follow suit and stand with your drink and take a step near him so you’re within a few feet of him. Trying not to be distracted by his freckles and hair that looks soft, instead, you smile and comment back, “You know what they say about a small world. I’m here visiting an old friend, what about you?”

“I actually just moved to LA fulltime from New York, I’ve spent the past year commuting. I’m Charlie, Charlie Barber, and I regretted not getting your name last time I saw you.” He sticks out his hand to you, you take it then you nod your head for him to follow you. You sit together in the booth near where Blair is still chatting away. She notices you walk through and raises her eyebrows at you suggestively.

“I’m Y/N L/N, and I moved to LA only a few months ago. I had been commuting for a while then I decided I liked it well enough to live there fulltime. You do definitely strike me as a New York guy though.” You take a large sip of your drink, but you’re really feeling intoxicated by Charlie. There is something about that man that’s making you lose your head already. You were doomed, you knew it.

“This place was my life for so long. You don’t strike me as an LA girl or as a New York girl either.” He says and you hear the pang of sadness in his voice during the first sentence, for a theater director New York is the dream place to be, it must have been difficult for him to move. You’re curious what made him decide to leave the city he obviously loves, but you’ll save that question for later.

“I’m from a really small town in rural America, but I’ve spent the past few years travelling abroad while writing.” You’re used to explaining your accent, and you feel like you don’t really belong in any city. The two of you have moved closer to each other in the booth to where your sides are practically touching. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, and you take notice of his plump lips that look perfect for kissing. He leans in closer to you and his honey brown eyes watch yours.

“Where was your favorite place?”

“London has always been my favorite. I loved the architecture and culture of Florence,” you say as Blair and some of her friends join you at the booth. Charlie’s arm brushes against yours, and your leg tucks underneath his.

“Hi Charlie, hi Y/N. So do you guys know each other or did you just now meet?” Blair asks and you realize that Blair already knows Charlie. Of course she does as it hits you that they would have the connection in the theater world. Charlie answers her question, “We bumped into each other in a bookstore in LA, and then we were surprised to find each other here.”

“Hmm maybe it’s fate or the universe.” Blair says bluntly and you almost choke on your drink. Charlie eyes you and smiles so you smile back. It might actually be fate, you think. Not that you were sure you believed in fate though. You notice a brunette that joined your table is giving a major side eye, to the point that it’s nearly a flat-out glare. You think her name is Mary Ann but you can’t remember for sure. You and Charlie continue your semi-private conversation, oblivious to the people around you.

“I ended up moving to LA for business reasons, to work on some screenplays. What about you?” You ask because you want to know what made him leave New York. You could also sense there was more underneath that he was leaving out. He had no obligation to tell you anything but you wanted to know everything about him.

“My son. My now ex-wife is an actress who unilaterally decided to just leave New York permanently for LA and take our son with her. After all that commuting for a year, I realized I needed to be there for Henry, so I took a residency at UCLA and got in with a well-respected theater company.” He grips his drink when he says that and you can tell it’s still a sore subject.

“Oh I’m sorry, that’s awful. I’m sure your son will appreciate your sacrifices when he gets older, and I’m sure it’s always worth it to put time in for your kid. When I was still practicing law, I would see all these couples tear each other apart to the point they ignored what they were putting their kid through.” You try to comfort him, and you admire his dedication to his son. You couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to divorce him.

“Henry just turned nine, any time with him is well worth it. Nicole and I tried to keep civil then it got nasty fast, and now we’ve cycled back where we co-parent effectively. You’re a lawyer too?” He asks you as his hand purposefully brushes yours. Your pinky reaches to hold onto his and he smiles at you while his eyes bore into yours.

“Regrettably, I graduated law school even though I knew it wasn’t for me, then I practiced for a brief time. I eventually accepted that it was draining me and making me miserable so I pursued writing, what I really wanted to do, and got my master’s in history.” You tell him and you just then notice that the two of you are alone in the booth again.

The two of you chat throughout the night about favorite books, movies, plays. You laugh as you watch the rest of your group participate in karaoke. Then they urge Charlie onstage, and you push him playfully in encouragement. He relents and goes. You can’t believe his voice, it’s beautiful and he remains eye contact with you during the entire song. You can feel a blush creeping up your cheeks.

“Can I get your number? It haunted me that I didn’t that day at the bookstore.” Charlie says as you come to a stop outside the bar. Blair is waiting for you but giving you space and privacy. It’s relieving to know he feels the same way. Your hand intertwines with his, and you respond smiling.

“Of course. The haunting went both ways.” He hands you his phone so you can add your number. You hand it back to him, and his hand goes around your waist, while yours grip his bicep.

“When we’re both in LA, can I take you out for dinner?” He asks innocently and you start nodding your head yes, and you’re certain you must look like a dashboard bobble head.

“Oh like a date?” You question incredulously. His hand rubs small circle on your waist and it feels electric. Damn, you’re already in too deep. You might as well write ‘sucker’ on your forehead, but you control yourself and try not to sound too eager.

“Yeah like a date, unless you don’t want it to be a date.” He looks like he’s hopeful, but he’s clearly questioning himself. He wants to give you a chance to back out and let you pace the relationship. If he only knew how into him you already were.

“No a date sounds fantastic. I really like you, and I had fun tonight.” You say and find yourself drifting even closer to him, if that was possible.

“Oh yeah? Good because I really like you too.” Then his hand cups your face ever so slowly and he descends his lips on yours. His lips are warm and soft against yours, your hands find their way to his chest then up around his neck. His tongue licks your bottom lip requesting entrance, which you give. You devour each other like you’ve been starving. Then, you both return to reality grinning as you slowly separate. You each are wearing a guilty-grin as go your separate ways for now.

***************************************************************

This was your third official date with Charlie, and everything felt right. Your first date was dinner at an Italian place with drinks afterward at bar with rooftop terrace. The next morning, you grabbed breakfast and coffee together before heading to work. The second date was a picnic in the park, then exploring an outdoor art exhibit, and the next day you met for lunch. Tonight you went to see an Ibsen play and out for desserts. The two of you spent most of your time together talking about everything, and the dates would last for hours. He would talk about Henry, his previous marriage, and his upcoming play. You would talk about your books, screenplays, and your dogs. You had so much in common, it was crazy, but you also were different enough to keep it interesting. You could see it growing into love and becoming a long-term relationship. You were now walking back to his car, holding hands.

“Wow. I didn’t know if I could feel like this. I feel like the world is spinning, but in the best way. You know how in the summer when you first get in the car and you can feel the warmth, that’s how I feel when I’m with you.” You admit and you know it sounds cheesy. Before you really get to gauge his reaction, his lips are on yours, desperately as his hands wrap around your waist. He’s pulling you flush against him and you can feel both his heart pounding and his growing bulge against you. And fuck, he already feels big, but it would only make sense that he be proportionate. He stares into your eyes with his amber ones and tells you, “I never thought I could feel this way again, but here I am. I’m crazy for you.” You crash your mouth to his again, pulling him close, and you move your hips against his bulge.

“You don’t have Henry this weekend, right?” You ask as you pant for air, pulling away from him briefly. He looks at you quizzically, trying to understand why you brought that up at this moment. Oh sweet, Charlie. You were going to take him home tonight and wreck him, but he thought you were meaning something else. You had wanted to bed him ever since that night in New York but you didn’t want to rush things or cheapen your connection. You had even wore a sexier dress tonight, had lace lingerie on underneath, and had a recent wax appointment. He answers, “No, not this weekend. What’s up?”

“Good, you can stay at my place tonight then,” you chuckle and you watch as what you said clicks in his head. He leans and gives you a steamy kiss right under your ear, and he works his way down your neck. You can feel the heat gathering in your belly from just that, and you’re starting to get wet so you rub your thighs together desperately.

You pull away from him only so you could get to his car. Driving to your place, Charlie placed his hand on your knee and you wrapped your hand around his, though you wanted nothing more than to move it upward between your legs, but you held yourself back. You could tell he was just as excited and eager as you were because he was hard already and his driving was faster than normal. Your eyes kept catching his and you were practically eye-fucking. Upon arrival in your driveway, he rushes out to open the car door for you.

You step out and you both fast-walk towards your door. While you fumble with the keys, Charlie steps behind you and wraps his arms around your waist as your back is pressed into his chest. That’s certainly not helping your concentration. His hand creeps up so it’s under your breast, and his fingers trace your ribs. To make matters worse, his lips attach to your neck again and you can’t suppress the moan that comes out of your lips. You want to throw your head back and rock into him, but you need to get inside the bungalow first then he can fuck against the door or on the floor for all you care. You finally turn the key in the door and the instant you and Charlie step through the frame, you’re on each other.

#charlie barber #charlie barber x reader #charlie barber x you #adam driver

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insanityclause · 5 years ago

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When coronavirus closed the theaters on March 12, there were still 16 shows left to open in the Broadway season. Audiences will get to see some of them later, others probably not — but what of the more than 20 plays, musicals and miscellaneous offerings that had already faced the press? It seemed unfair not to celebrate them, so on Friday, just after it was announced that the Tony Awards will not go on as usual this year, we sat down (in cyberspace) to devise a Tonys of our own. Naturally, we made our own rules.

BEN BRANTLEY Well, Jesse, even in a season that’s 16 plays short, there’s still a fat if imbalanced roster of intriguing shows. Have we ever before had such a preponderance of jukebox musicals that might qualify for Best Musical? The good news is that some enterprising minds managed to inventively retool the genre you once described as the “cockroach” of Broadway.

JESSE GREEN The cockroach has evolved! “Jagged Little Pill,” “Tina: The Tina Turner Musical,” “Girl From the North Country,” “Moulin Rouge!” and — since we’re playing by our own rules here — even “American Utopia,” the David Byrne show that was deemed ineligible for the real Tonys, are all jukeboxes, all worthy and all eligible for ours. Maybe not quite all worthy.

BRANTLEY Perhaps it’s appropriate then that the last show to open on Broadway was the most unorthodox of the “jukebox” shows. I use quotation marks here because that label seems too confining for “Girl From the North Country,” the Irish playwright and director Conor McPherson’s work that uses the songs of Bob Dylan to imagine life during the Great Depression in Duluth, Minn. The more I think about “Girl,” the more innovative and haunting it seems to me.

GREEN For me it took some time, and the show’s move from the Public Theater to Broadway, to appreciate how McPherson was deploying the music in this musical. The songs do not function the way songs normally do; they never address the situation at hand, and sometimes even contradict it. Yet in that gap, poetry grew.

BRANTLEY For me, “Girl” deals with the ineffable and unsayable through song in a way that makes it the most religious, or at least spiritual, show on Broadway. I have found this aspect of the show stays with me, as an oddly comforting reminder of the hunger for communion in this time of isolation. But moving on to matters closer to profane than sacred, what about another mold-breaker in a very different sense: “Moulin Rouge!,” based on the Baz Luhrmann movie about la vie bohème in gaslight-era Paris.

GREEN Here was a case where the gap between the story, such as it is, and the musical materials — found pop from Offenbach to Rihanna — did not produce poetry. For me it produced a headache.

BRANTLEY Ah, I had a swell time at “Moulin Rouge,” and I thought the far-reaching songbook became a kind of commentary on how such songs form the wallpaper of our minds. And then there was “Tina,” which was more business-as-usual bio-musical fare, although illuminated by a radiant, cliché-transcending performance by Adrienne Warren as Turner.

GREEN The creators of musicals really offered a sampler of ways to respond to the jukebox problem. “Jagged Little Pill,” built on the Alanis Morissette catalog, made the smart choice of abjuring biography and instead attaching her songs to a new plot (by Diablo Cody) that grew out of the same concerns and vocabulary. Or perhaps I should say “new plots,” because it is not shy with them. There are at least eight story lines.

BRANTLEY To be honest, this was the show that gave me a headache, because it was so insistently earnest in its topicality and, even when it was trying to be funny, humorless. So, of the new musicals (and we haven’t touched on “The Lightning Thief,” your personal favorite) what would you give the premature Tony to?

GREEN The one that wouldn’t be eligible: “American Utopia.” Joy and sadness bound to each other through David Byrne’s music and Annie-B Parson’s movement: What else do you want from a musical, even if it’s just a concert?

BRANTLEY I loved “American Utopia.” I think, though, I’d have to go with “Girl From the North Country,” but I wouldn’t have predicted that after seeing it in London two years ago. I find more in it every time I revisit it.

GREEN Despite all the Best Musical possibilities this truncated season, only one, “The Lightning Thief,” had a new score. Yet most of the offerings sounded new anyway, the result of terrific arrangements and orchestrations. I’m thinking especially of Justin Levine’s magpie-on-Ecstasy song collages for “Moulin Rouge!,” Tom Kitt’s theatricalization of post-grunge pop for “Jagged Little Pill” and Simon Hale’s excavation of the deeply layered Americana in Dylan’s catalog for “Girl.”

BRANTLEY Here, I’d have to say it’s a tie between “Girl” and “Moulin Rouge!,” each a remarkable accomplishment in a very different way. As for best revival, the undisputed winner is Ivo van Hove’s divisive revival of “West Side Story,” but that’s because it is, remarkably, the only musical revival so far.

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GREEN I liked “West Side Story” better than you did, Ben, perhaps because I wasn’t reviewing it. I lapped up the new things it wanted to show me (while also hunting for the old things it wanted to hide from me) and didn’t worry about the elements that laid an egg. (“Gee, Officer Krupke.”) Its evocation of innocence and hopelessness felt more like real life now than I’ve experienced in previous revivals.

BRANTLEY I concede the point intellectually. But the acid test for me with theater — and musicals in particular — is how much it makes you feel. And to borrow a lyric from “A Chorus Line,” for the most part “I felt nothing.”

GREEN I admit it was odd that there were no obvious breakout performances in “West Side Story” — which brings us to our first lightning round. Who wins our Tonys for leading actor and actress in a musical?

BRANTLEY Best Actress: Adrienne Warren, for “Tina” (though Karen Olivo in “Moulin Rouge!” is pretty fab, too). Best Actor: Jay O. Sanders in, perversely, a non-singing role in “Girl From the North Country.” You?

GREEN Same. I think we are having a socially distanced mindmeld. Will that also be the case with the nine new plays and four revivals that opened before March 12? With one exception, the revivals were not as thrilling as the full slate promised to be.

BRANTLEY For me, the winner is Jamie Lloyd’s spartan, merciless revival of Harold Pinter’s “Betrayal,” which brought harsh clarity to the work’s emotional ambiguity.

GREEN And ambiguity to the play’s harsh formality — its semi-backward construction. It was certainly the best “Betrayal” I’ve seen, yet I hold out some love for the revival of “Frankie and Johnny in the Clair de Lune,” which in retrospect turned out to be a farewell to Terrence McNally, its author, who died last week. I felt that Michael Shannon and Audra McDonald did it, and him, justice.

BRANTLEY It was certainly a reminder of his shrewdness and compassion. I was perhaps a little too conscious of the Acting, with a capital A. But it was a welcome addition to the season. For Best Play, we have a far more varied field, no? I suspect we’ll agree on the winner here, the season’s great iconoclast.

GREEN Yes, “Slave Play,” by Jeremy O. Harris, wins on sheer disruptive energy, even before considering its intelligence as playwriting, its knockout production (directed by Robert O’Hara) and its fearsome challenge to renegotiate race in America.

BRANTLEY But for all its shock value, what made it a wonderful play — as opposed to just a bracing exploration of dangerous ground — was its heart. By the end, you felt so completely the pain of its characters, all trying to navigate the perhaps insuperable hurdles of interracial relationships.

GREEN I think “The Inheritance” wanted to be that kind of play, too: a story of intimate relationships yet also a gay manifesto with the multipart heft of “Angels in America.” It got the heft, anyway; “Slave Play” ran 120 minutes; “The Inheritance,” 385.

BRANTLEY “The Inheritance” certainly gets points for ambition — and for the fluidity of Stephen Daldry’s production. And might I put in a word for the prickly comic abrasiveness of Tracy Letts’s “Linda Vista,” a lacerating anatomy of toxic masculinity disguised as brooding charm?

GREEN I liked what “Linda Vista” wanted to do but found it flabby. Perhaps straitened times demand slender plays. Certainly, the other new drama I greatly admired was whippetlike: Adam Rapp’s “The Sound Inside,” an existential mystery wrapped in a literary one, or vice versa. Among other things, it allowed Mary-Louise Parker, as a Yale writing instructor, to deliver a Tony-worthy performance. And now that “How I Learned to Drive,” the other play in which she was set to star this season, has been postponed, she doesn’t have to compete against herself. Is she our winner?

BRANTLEY I am going to declare a tie between her and Laura Linney, who gave a very subtle, and emotionally transparent, performance as the title character of “My Name Is Lucy Barton,” adapted by Rona Munro from Elizabeth Strout’s novel.

GREEN I buy that. But let’s not forget Joaquina Kalukango in “Slave Play,” Eileen Atkins in “The Height of the Storm,” Zawe Ashton in “Betrayal” and Jane Alexander in “Grand Horizons.” It was a very strong semi-season for Best Actress in a Leading Role.

BRANTLEY And for Best Actor?

GREEN The real Tonys decreed that Paul Alexander Nolan was eligible for his “supporting” role in “Slave Play,” but in my Tonys he’s a strong candidate for “leading.” Still, I’ll go with Tom Hiddleston, in “Betrayal.” Or at least he wins in my newly invented category of Best Use of the Lack of a Tissue. His facial leakage was Vesuvian.

BRANTLEY He was superb — and a reminder of the cathartic value of the tears of others in theater. Of course, there’s so much to cry about now in terms of opportunities lost this season. But I’m not writing an elegy for, or even a definitive summary of, this season yet. It will be fascinating to see how it reincarnates itself, won’t it?

#tom hiddleston #zawe ashton #betrayal #tonys #postponed

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