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denimbex1986 · 11 months ago

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'In the autumn of 2021, Christopher Nolan knew just where to find Cillian Murphy. The director flew to Ireland with a document in his hand luggage, Hollywood’s equivalent of the nuclear football. It was a script for his top-secret new film, printed, apparently, on red paper. “Which is supposedly photocopy-proof,” Murphy explained. He wasn’t surprised by the in-person visit. The two had worked together on five previous films, and every Nolan script, Murphy said, had been dropped off by Nolan or one of his family members. “So, like, it’s been his mum who’s delivered the script to me before. Or his brother; he’ll go away and come back in three hours. Part of it has to do with keeping the story secret before it goes out. But part of it has to do with tradition. They’ve always done it this way, so why stop now? It does add a ritual to it, which I really appreciate. It suits me.”

Murphy met Nolan at his Dublin hotel room – and Nolan left him to read. He read and read and read. All 197 pages; the rarest kind of script, written in the first-person point of view of the film’s protagonist, J Robert Oppenheimer. All action, all incidence, swirling around this character – a big-brained, psychologically complex giant of world history. Murphy had never played a lead in a Nolan film before, but had committed to this role as soon as Nolan told him about it, before he’d even seen a page of the script. “He’d already called me and said he wanted me to play the part. And I had said yes, because I always say yes to him.” The afternoon ran out. “And he doesn’t have a phone or anything,” Murphy said. “But he knew instinctively when to come back.” Nolan in command of time, as ever. They spent the rest of the evening together, and then Murphy took the DART train home, and got to work.

The result was one of the most watched and most acclaimed films of 2023 – a nearly billion-dollar blockbuster about a tormented genius (and, yes, the father of the atomic bomb). The performance affirmed for many what has been quietly known for some time: that Cillian Murphy is, or at least was, one of the most underrated actors in all of Hollywood. In small potent roles in those other Nolan movies. As a shapeshifting bit player and lead in dozens of films and plays over the past three decades. And, of course, across 10 years and six seasons of Peaky Blinders – the hit series that made him truly known globally. “Some years ago,” Christopher Nolan said, “I made what was probably a mistake in some moment of drunken sincerity of telling him he’s the best actor of his generation. And so now he gets to show that to the rest of the world so everybody can realise that.”

Part of the reason that Murphy still felt like something of a secret until recently is that he lives, breathes and resides at a remove from the noise. This is by design. In 2015, Murphy returned home to Ireland from London, already some distance from Hollywood proper, to a quiet hamlet on the Irish Sea – not exactly off the grid, but one ring further outside the blast radius of his industry.

One evening this winter, I took the DART down the coast from Dublin city centre to Monkstown to have dinner with Murphy. We met at a restaurant where, he told me, “I have a usual table, would you believe it?” He sat there comfortably for most of the night, bouncing, leaning forwards, his floppy rocker-dad hair swept casually across his forehead, his famously light eyes drawing in passersby like two pockets of quicksand.

Murphy and his wife of 20 years, artist Yvonne McGuinness, live by the sea with their two teenage sons. In Ireland, the abundance of their creative existence is all around them. The art galleries all seem to be filled with work by his family members. The music on the radio is curated by friends – or Murphy himself. There are occasional pints with his elder Irish actor idols, Brendan Gleeson and Stephen Rea.

Life here for Murphy is filled with, well, life. His boys are approaching exit velocity. There are exams. Chores. Errands. He and his youngest were flying out in the morning to attend a football match in Liverpool. “I would’ve taken you elsewhere for some Guinness,” Murphy said, “except I have to drive to drop my boy off at a party tonight.” The brand of busyness felt quite far from the bubbles that typically cocoon the leading men in the film industry.

“I have a couple of friends who are actors, but a majority of them are not,” Murphy said. “The majority of my buddies are not in the business. I also love not working. And I think for me a lot of research as an actor is just fucking living, and, you know, having a normal life doing regular things and just being able to observe, and be, in that sort of lovely flow of humanity. If you can’t do that because you’re going from film festival to movie set to promotions… I mean that’s The Bubble. I’m not saying that makes you any better or less as an actor, but it’s just a world that I couldn’t exist in. I find it would be very limiting on what you can experience as a human being, you know?”

Cillian Murphy, at least on that weekend last winter, seemed to me to have something so deeply figured out that I spent the month after our time together unable to shake the experience of being in the presence of someone living so much the way that so many other actors – so many artists, so many people – claim to want to live. Away from it all, but in highest demand. Delivering Oscar-worthy performances while also seeming convincingly content to disappear for a long while, at any point, no questions. The stabilising forces at home seemed to work as an anchor point from which Murphy could go off and wander as an artist. “He has this rare blend of humility with this supercharge of creativity,” Emily Blunt said. “He’s just a lovely, sane person. He’s so, so sane. And yet he’s got such wildness in him in the parts that he’s able to play.”

He was the first of his friends to have kids, and thus will be the first with an empty nest. More time for films. (Maybe.) More time for music. (Certainly.) More time to go on runs at night, when the lights streaking by make him feel like he’s going faster. Even more time for sleep: “I sleep a lot. I do 10-hour sleeps.” He seemed immune to the need to be in the mix – of fame, of fashion, of free dinners, the titillating offerings of a scene. A lot of actors age out of that compulsion, but the thing is, Murphy’s not old. Forty-seven. At the height of his powers, entering his prime. Not exiting the industry, but just floating lightly beside it until called upon, which he often is, and will be more now than ever.

He tries to do one movie a year, preferably not in the summer, when he likes to spend most of his time on the west coast of Ireland, doing nothing much but finding new music for his radio programme on BBC Radio 6 Music or walking his black Lab, Scout. He is perfectly happy to be “unemployed” while he waits for the right new film to come his way. “There could’ve been a situation when Chris called me up that I was doing something else,” he said. “And that would’ve been the worst of all scenarios.”

In this way, Murphy seems to adhere to his version of Michael Pollan’s adage about healthy eating: “Make movies. Not too many. Mostly with Christopher Nolan.” Imagine the discipline, the confidence, the peace of mind, to not worry about missing an opportunity, a lunch, a party, a fork in the road back in one of the frothier Hollywood hubs, but rather to stroll along emerald shores, as the days stretch out until 10pm, knowing that they know you – and that, ultimately, they know where to find you.

In Monkstown. Probably at his table. Looking present. Clear-eyed. Like any local, but with more moisture in his skin. At dinner, he asked me just once not to put something in the piece: a nuanced take he shared on a local establishment. Nothing so dangerous as an unwelcome opinion in a small town. No truer sign of someone “just fucking living” there. The dream.

Nolan had first seen Murphy in 2003, in a promotional image for 28 Days Later that had run in the San Francisco Chronicle. “I was looking to cast Batman, looking for some actors to screen test, and I was just very struck by his eyes, his appearance, everything about him – wanted to find out more,” Nolan told me. “When I met him, he didn’t strike me as necessarily right for Batman. But there was just a vibe – there are people you meet in your life who you just want to stay connected with, work with; you try to find ways to create together.” So Nolan put him on camera just to see what happened. “He first performed as Bruce Wayne, and I saw the crew stop and pay attention in a way that I had never seen before, and really have never seen since. And it was this electricity just coming off the guy, it was an incredible energy. And so I called some executives, and they were impressed enough with him that they let me cast him as Scarecrow. Those Batman villains at the time had only ever been played by huge stars – Jack Nicholson, Arnold Schwarzenegger. So it’s just a testament to his raw talent.”

Batman Begins was the first of his smaller roles in Nolan’s three Batman movies, Inception, and Dunkirk. “I hope he won’t mind me saying, but when I first worked with him, he was all pure instinct, and the technical side of acting wasn’t something that had registered as important with him. We would literally put a mark down and he would just walk right over it,” Nolan said, laughing. But over two decades, “as I saw him develop his technical facility, it did not in any way distract or diminish the instinctive nature of his performance.”

For the lead in Oppenheimer, Murphy prepared at home for six months, focusing first on the voice and the silhouette (in other words, shedding weight to reflect the skin and bones of a world-renowned physicist who subsisted primarily on martinis and cigarettes during his years developing the bomb). On set, as the days of filming wore on in the New Mexico desert, the significance of what Murphy was up to started to spread across the set among the cast and crew “like a rumour,” Nolan said. “I remember the same thing with Heath Ledger on The Dark Knight.”

Blunt, who plays Oppenheimer’s beleaguered wife, Kitty, first got to know Murphy well on A Quiet Place Part II. “Cillian’s really kidnapping to be in a scene with. He pulls you into this vibrational vortex,” she told me. “He loves a party. But when he’s working, he’s intensely focused, and won’t socialise very much at all. Certainly not on Oppenheimer; I mean, he didn’t have anything left in the tank to say one word to someone at the end of the day.”

Matt Damon told me that when they were shooting out in the middle of New Mexico, he and Blunt and the rest of the cast would go down and eat at this one little café. “It was like a mess tent,” he said. “And Cillian was invited every night, but never made it once.”

Murphy was back in his room, preserving his energy, prepping for the next day, minding the Oppenheimer silhouette.

“OK, he’s losing weight, he can’t eat at night, you know he’s miserable,” Damon said. “But you know he’s doing what’s best for the movie that you all want to be as good as possible, and so you’re cheering him on. But at dinner you’re sitting there and you’re all shaking your heads, going, ‘Man, this is brutal.’

“The one thing that he would allow himself, his one luxury, is that he would take a bath at night. I mean he would allow himself literally a few almonds or something. And then sit in his bath with his script and just work. By himself, every night.”

The performance is so big, but so much of it is invisible to the audience, in the concentrated intensity of the interpretation. The nucleus towards which so many elements subtly draw us, closer to his character. Just one example: if it were period-accurate, Murphy said, everyone would be smoking and wearing hats, but he’s the only one doing either: “It’s emphatic, but subliminally so.” The author Kai Bird, who co-wrote American Prometheus, the monumental biography of Oppenheimer on which the film is based, spent a day at the Los Alamos set, watching Murphy play the scene where Oppenheimer talks to his team of scientists about the bomb while someone drops marbles into a fishbowl and a brandy glass. “At one point during a break, he approached wearing his baggy brown suit and turquoise belt, and I raised my arms and shouted, ‘Dr Oppenheimer, Dr Oppenheimer, I’ve been waiting decades to meet you!’ ” Bird said. “He especially captured the voice and Oppie’s intensity.” (At one point during our conversation, Bird asked me to confirm: “Those are his blue eyes, right? Or is he wearing lenses?”)

The film was released on Barbenheimer weekend, just after the SAG-AFTRA strike began, and despite enjoying some lighter time with Blunt, Damon and the cast, Murphy was relieved to cut short the promotion of the film. “I think it’s a broken model,” he said of red carpet interviews and junkets. Outdated and a drag for actors. “The model is – everybody is so bored.” Look what happened when they went on strike, he said. It all stopped. But the fact that the film was good, and Barbie was good, two at the same time, with people going crazy – it just shows you don’t need it. “Same was the case with Peaky Blinders. The first three seasons, there was no advertising, a tiny show on BBC Two. It just caught fire because people talked to each other about it.”

Murphy’s reticence in many interviews is palpable. “It’s like Joanne Woodward said,” he told me. “ ‘Acting is like sex – do it, don’t talk about it.’ ” Although I wouldn’t characterise his disposition on, say, late-night TV as gruff, he’s basically just incapable of going full phoney. He is, in other words, reacting the same way you might to being asked the same question for the hundredth time in a week. I’m curious to watch him suffer through his first Oscar campaign, where answering the same questions about his performance is essentially the point, for several months.

“People always used to say to me, ‘He has reservations’ or ‘He’s a difficult interviewee,’ ” Murphy said. “Not really! I love talking about work, about art. What I struggle with, and find unnecessary and unhelpful about what I want to do, is: ‘Tell me about yourself…’ ”

Nonetheless: He grew up in Cork. Went to a Catholic school better suited for a certain kind of athletic boy than an artistic soul. “I always fucking hated team sports. I like watching them. But I was terrible at them,” he said. That classic system for schooling was not good for him, “emotionally and psychologically,” he said. “But at least it gave me something to push against.”

Murphy played in a successful band with his brother, half-heartedly entered the local university as a law student. While at school in Cork, he stumbled into a performance of A Clockwork Orange and fell in with the stage scene there. He hadn’t trained in any way, but he got the first role he ever auditioned for, in Enda Walsh’s Disco Pigs, which travelled around the UK, Europe and Canada, and transformed his life. “It all happened to me in one month, in August ’96: we got offered a record deal, I failed my law exams, I got the part in Disco Pigs, and I met my wife,” he said. “I now look back and go, Oh, shit, I didn’t know then how important all these things were – the sort of domino effect that they would have on my life.” I asked Murphy, who has said in the past that he identifies as an atheist, if such a confluence ever made him wonder if there was indeed a higher power organising all of this. “Ohhh,” he said. “I love the chaos and the randomness. I love the beauty of the unexpected.”

That winter weekend, while walking around Dublin on a bit of a Joycean ramble, we passed a bookshop. “This was my favourite bookshop when I first moved up to Dublin. I didn’t have any money and I was living with my mother-in-law. And I would come in here and get a coffee for 50p, but then they would, like, refill it, you know? So, I’d sit in there all day and just read plays and then put them back on the shelves, and then go home and my mother-in-law would feed me dinner,” he said. “Just to educate myself. To catch up. ’Cause I didn’t go to drama school, so I’d read all the plays I should’ve read if I went to drama school. I’d ask all these writers and directors to tell me all the plays that I must read.”

“Theatre is the key to Cillian,” director Danny Boyle told me. “Weirdly, given that he is such an extraordinary film actor.” It’s the ability, from the theatre, to travel the great distance of an extreme character arc. “Everybody talks about his dreamy Paul Newman eyes. And all that’s to his advantage, of course, because behind is this capacity, this reach that he has into volcanic energy.” (The other key to Cillian, Boyle said, is that he’s a bloody Irishman: “He’s one of the great, great exports, and the homeland clearly nourishes him constantly.”) Boyle cast Murphy in 2002’s 28 Days Later, the first film of Murphy’s that made him known. It led, in its way, to the Nolan partnership, as well to working with Boyle again on 2007’s Sunshine. “When we did 28 Days Later, he was really just starting off,” Boyle said. “By the time he came back for Sunshine, he was a seriously accomplished actor.”

In the noughties, Murphy was working frequently. Some of the movies were better than others. “Many of my films I haven’t seen,” he said. “I know that Johnny Depp would always say that, but it’s actually true. Generally the ones I haven’t seen are the ones I hear are not good.”

I asked him if he’d seen Oppenheimer.

“Yes, I’ve seen Oppenheimer…” he said, rolling his eyes.

When Nolan finished the film, Murphy, his wife and his younger son flew to Los Angeles to watch it for the first time in Nolan’s private screening room. “It’s pretty nice…” Murphy said, trying to balance obvious enthusiasm with not giving too much away. “You know, he shows film prints there. The sound is extraordinary.” How many seats? “Uh, I’d say maybe 50?” So, Murphy did see this film of his – in perhaps the most dialled-in home cinema known to man.

In the summer of 2005, just a couple of months after Batman Begins came out, Murphy was back in cinemas with Wes Craven’s Red Eye. It was villain season. And the two roles, in close quarters, seemed to coalesce around a feeling: that guy creeps me out. When casually canvassing people about what they think of when they think of Murphy, I was shocked by the imprint that Red Eye had on an American of a certain age.

“Oh, I know, it’s crazy!” Murphy said. “I think it’s the duality of it. It’s why I wanted to play it. That two thing. The nice guy and the bad guy in one. The only reason it appealed to me is you could do that –” he snapped his fingers “– that turn, you know?”

“They say the nicest people sometimes make the best villains,” Rachel McAdams said, recalling her time with Murphy on the cramped aeroplane set of Red Eye. “We’d listen to music and gab away while doing the crossword puzzle, which he brought every day and would graciously let me chime in on... I think the number one question I got about Cillian way back then was whether or not he wore contact lenses.”

“I love Rachel McAdams and we had fun making it,” Murphy said. “But I don’t think it’s a good movie. It’s a good B movie.”

During that same stretch, Murphy starred in Ken Loach’s The Wind That Shakes the Barley, one of the best films he’s made, and one that Murphy is uniquely proud of. It’s a period epic that tells the story of a crew of Irish friends who find themselves fighting first the British, in the Irish War of Independence, and then one another in the Irish Civil War. The film is lush, harrowing, relentless and transporting. Murphy has a face that sits cosily at home in any decade of the 20th century. He is at his most vital in the ’20s, the ’30s, the ’40s – and that’s one of the factors that works so convincingly in Oppenheimer. Matt Damon, for better or worse, looks like Matt Damon. Emily Blunt, again for better or worse, looks like Emily Blunt. Whereas Cillian Murphy looks like a scientist from 1945.

Murphy and his filmmakers have run this play several ways in recent years. In Anthropoid (2016), as a Czechoslovakian resistance fighter in Nazi-occupied Prague. In Free Fire (2016), as an IRA member caught up in an arms deal gone horribly wrong. In Dunkirk (2017), as a British “shivering soldier” suffering from PTSD. And, of course, in Peaky Blinders (2013–2022), as a First World War hero turned gangster in 1920s Birmingham. With that face, he can play every side of the die of the embroiled conflicts of pre- and post-war Europe. “Cillian’s always laughing about how he’s perpetually playing people who are traumatised,” Blunt said. “There must be something about his face that sort of entices those kinds of offers.”

In the first frame of Anthropoid that Murphy appears in, a moonbeam strikes his cheekbone like it’s a plane of alabaster, and the question immediately pops to mind: are you a Nazi or the resistance? Are you the good guy or the bad guy – or both, that “two thing”? The stable and the wild. The duality. The pull within.

In Dublin, we found ourselves walking through busy streets, beneath abundant winter sunshine and caustic seagulls. We were approached by fans at a shocking clip – but also by sisters of friends.

“I’m not a stalker…” one said, politely.

“Oh, hi, Oona!”

I asked him if he’d sensed that his life had palpably changed in any way since last summer, given that a billion pounds’ worth of people saw him in practically every frame of one of the biggest films of all time. “To me, it always seems to go in waves,” he said. “When Peaky was at its kind of apex, you’d feel a different energy around, walking around, a little bit like I do now – but then it settles down again. It kind of comes in waves. And then you don’t have something in the cinema for ages, and people forget about it. So. It seems to be like that, and you sort of ride that, and then things go back to normal.”

With all due respect to the Peaky hive, this film did seem to go especially wide.

“Yes,” he said, laughing. “But you’d be surprised. Peaky is still the thing I get asked most about in the world.”

As if on cue, Murphy was approached by a fan on the street, who asked for a photo.

“Oh, I don’t do photos,” he said to the disappointed lad, who nonetheless got 20 seconds of Murphy’s time to chat.

“Once I started doing that,” he said, “it changed my life. I just think it’s better to say hello, and have a little conversation. I tell that to a lot of people, you know, actor friends of mine, and they’re just like, I feel so bad. But you don’t need a photo record of everywhere you’ve been in a day.”

“There is a culty, effervescent kind of wonder about Cillian,” said Blunt. “I think for someone as interior as he is, this level of kinetic fame is, like, horrifying for him. If anyone is not built for fame, it’s Cillian.”

To make it up to that fan, I asked Murphy what the status is of a potential Peaky Blinders film. “There is no status, as of now,” he says. “So I have no update. But I’ve always said I’m open to it if there’s more story. I do love how the show ended. And I love the ambiguity of it. And I’m really proud of what we did. But I’m always open to a good script.”

We passed some young people in dark dresses and heels, absolutely the worse for wear. “Look at these guys, out from the night before,” Murphy said, smiling. I asked him if he had his days of partying in Dublin, in London. “I mean, I did, but it was with my friends. I was never part of any scene – or went to, like, acting clubs. I would never go to the premiere... The idea of going to a premiere that isn’t your own, seems to me like…”

We passed Trinity College, an occasion to discuss the breakout Irish series Normal People and its breakout Irish star Paul Mescal. “He is the real deal. He is like a true movie star. They don’t come along that often. But,” Murphy said, serving the lightest and rarest touch of pride and swagger, “luckily, they seem mostly to come from Ireland.

“It’s a good time,” he added, ��to be an Irish actor, it seems.”

We stopped in at the Kerlin Gallery to see the show of his sister-in-law, Ailbhe Ní Bhriain. She and Murphy’s wife were friends in graduate school in London, and Murphy’s brother met her while visiting Cillian there. This is his scene. He walked around admiring the pieces, which he’d heard about at family functions but not yet seen in person.

“Now this work immediately appeals to me,” he said, “because you can feel it’s pushing at big, big themes, and to me, that’s what I’ve always loved. I don’t really go for pure entertainment. I love when it makes you feel a little bit fucked up. Not in a horror-genre way, but in a psychological, existential way. That’s what I love in all the work that I enjoy and the work that I try to make.”

Murphy executive-produced the last three seasons of Peaky Blinders, but had been looking for a first film to produce. He secured the rights to Claire Keegan’s Small Things Like These, a Booker Prize finalist, and one night on the set of Oppenheimer, while they were just sitting there in the desert, Damon told him about Damon and Ben Affleck’s then unannounced new company, Artists Equity, whose novel financial model is based on profit sharing with the crew. Murphy sent them the book and Artists Equity ultimately financed the film. “Normally, you’re trying to put together all these different entities, and then you have all these points of view on the edit,” Murphy said. “This was just those guys.”

Small Things Like These centres on an average man about Murphy’s age in a small town in County Wexford, who, one Christmas, stumbles upon a horrifying secret in the local convent – the Magdalene Laundries, which from the 18th century to the 1990s held thousands of girls and women prisoner in Church workhouses. I asked Murphy if, with his new power, it was important to him to tell Irish stories. Not especially, he said. The only criterion was: what’s the best story for right now? “Still,” he said, “it’s a good time to be looking at that story, because we have distance from what happened with the Church and everything. But yet I don’t think we’ve still fully addressed it. So, if you can make something that’s entertaining and moving, but also asks a few questions about who we are as a nation, and who we were as a nation, and how far we’ve come – then that’s great. But, again, they should happen after you’ve gone and had a reasonably entertaining evening at the cinema.”

Murphy joked at one point that he spent the actors’ strike at home “eating cheese,” but what he really did was spend the strike editing Small Things and overseeing “all the lovely stuff that we actors never get a look in on.” (His production company, Big Things Films, would’ve been called Small Things Films, he said, except that Small Things suggests “a lack of ambition, perhaps.”) Small Things will premiere at the Berlin International Film Festival this month.

One film a year, control, restraint, a hand firmly on the wheel.

Murphy has a natural propensity to an analogue lifestyle that works well with Nolan, who doesn’t use email or have a smartphone. “I aspire to that life,” Murphy said. “I was just clearing stuff off my phone, but have to keep the apps for music and music discovery.

“I still have all my CDs and DVDs and Blu-Rays,” he went on. “I cannot get rid of them. I did get rid of my VHS, though. I just left them on the street because nobody wanted them. I went and brought them to a library and was like, Look at this pretentious collection of art films! and they were like, No thanks, man…”

I asked him if he saw the viral TikTok of Nolan showing a zoomer how best to project Oppenheimer. He started laughing. “My son showed me that. A clash of cultures.”

Working with Nolan can feel like a much-desired retrenchment from modern life. “When I’m on a Chris set, it does feel a little bit like a private, intimate laboratory,” Murphy said. “Even though he works at a tremendous pace, there’s always room for curiosity and finding things out, and that’s what making art should be about, you know? There’s no phones – but also no announcement: everybody just knows. And there’s no chairs. Because he doesn’t sit down. Sometimes a film set can be like a picnic. Everyone’s got their chairs and their snacks and everyone’s texting and showing each other fucking, you know, emojis or whatever, memes – which I do know,” he said, referring obliquely to the meme of Cillian Murphy not knowing what a meme is. “But why?”

Do you know what Nolan is doing next? I asked him.

“Nooo. But, like, I didn’t know that he was writing Oppenheimer. We don’t stay in touch that way.”

It’s like Mission: Impossible. Do the hard thing together, then sever communication. “Chris is the smartest person I’ve ever met,” added Murphy. “Not just the director stuff, but everything else.”

Nolan had told me that he’d wanted to give Murphy the role that he would be dogged by forever – that he would spend the rest of his career trying to crawl out from under. “And,” he said, “I think I’ve done it.”

When I put it to Murphy, he took a beat: “There’s a big, big body of work that I think people that know know.” I think it was his modest way of saying: I’ve got a few others too.

Murphy told me he’d heard that “one of the Sydneys” – Lumet or Pollack – once said that it takes 30 years to make an actor. He believed that. “I’m 27 years,” he said. “So I’m close.”

After Nolan hand-delivered the Oppenheimer script to Murphy and left him to read in that Dublin hotel room, he made his way to the Hugh Lane Gallery, and, more specifically, to the Francis Bacon studio there, a perfect preservation of the impossibly messy London studio where the Irish-born painter had lived and worked for much of his life. Murphy and Nolan share a love of Bacon – a towering figure of the 20th century, born in its first decade, dead in its last. Besides the reassembled studio, the museum has several paintings by Bacon – some finished, some unfinished. In all instances, though, the portraits of people – ghoulishly distorted figures – are rendered unsparingly. Never perfect representations. Never straight impressions. But rather an artist’s interpretation of another being, reconfigured into a stark image. You can see what might appeal to both a director of a biopic and his leading man.

That winter weekend, I made the same journey across the River Liffey that Nolan did, past a poster for Oppenheimer in a Tower Records window, past the Garden of Remembrance (for all who gave their lives for Irish freedom), and met Murphy at the museum. He had on a black puffer jacket, a black hoodie, and a pair of black Ray-Bans with that starburst that movie-star lenses do when subjected to a flash on a red carpet. He removed them inside and took the well-worn path back to the Bacons. “Most people don’t know about this place,” he said. “It’s kind of like a little secret. But I just come here when I have time to spare in town.”

We looked at Bacons. Bacons everywhere. We talked about the Bacon biography that came out in 2021. “I love the work,” Murphy said, “but just the life. That kind of unique relentlessness that he had as an artist.” I asked if he read actor biographies. “When I was starting out,” he said. “I always worry, though, reading them – because I can’t remember what I did last week... I often wonder about the self-mythologising.”

We peered in on the studio itself, every cigarette butt and crate of champagne archived and put in its place. “Chaos for me breeds images,” Bacon had said.

Do you have a room in your house that looks like this? I asked.

Murphy laughed. “No, I do have a man room, a man cave. But it’s incredibly tidy.”

In another room of the museum, we sat before a looped TV special on Bacon from 1985, an hour-long interview with presenter Melvyn Bragg, where the great painter spits off charisma and wisdom in pithy responses to the biggest questions an artist can be asked, all while wearing a perfect black leather jacket. We sat there quietly together, until Murphy interjected: “It’s kind of mesmerising, isn’t it?”

Before I’d arrived in Dublin, Nolan had told me that Murphy’s career tends to make sense if you think of him more as an artist than an actor – as you would a painter or a musician. That his filmography isn’t a line going up or down so much as filled with distinct periods of development. It helps explain the approach to the work. How patient and restrained. How clear the point of view. An act of accretion rather than explosiveness and volatility. So unshaken by the things that rock the boat for so many actors. It’s the clarity. The authenticity. The answer to the question: when you’re tested again and again, what is there? Who is there? Here is a man – a 47-year-old who could play 27 with the right light and 67 with the right make-up – who is probably going to win the Oscar for best actor, but whose mind couldn’t be farther from the chatter of his industry and the noise, the noise. At one point, I asked him if he feels like he’s uniquely well-positioned to play roles of middle age – if Oppenheimer feels like the first film of what could be the strongest stretch of his career.

“I really don’t know,” he said. “I really haven’t thought about it.”

Here, then, was another thing Murphy had seemingly figured out – consciously or not. Almost all religions, coaches, gurus, and enlightened friends tend to offer the same advice: don’t lose yourself in the past, don’t fixate on the future, but focus six inches in front of your nose, and on the Now that you can control. “I really am kind of like, pathologically unsentimental about things,” Murphy said. “I just move forward very quickly.” The past wasn’t a problem because he couldn’t remember it – or wouldn’t romanticise it. The future wasn’t a concern because he didn’t like to plan too far out. And so: the one film on the horizon; the one song on the radio or the one painting on the wall. He was, in this way, an authentic presentist. Or, less abstractly, just a good listener, a good seer, a good scene partner, a good person to have dinner with.

There, in the museum, we sat and we sat, watching the Bacon interview as though there was nowhere else to be (because there really wasn’t) and nothing else to think about (what more was there than how an artist’s life might be lived?).

Murphy broke the silence. “Did you ever hear this theory that [Brian] Eno has? About the farmers and the cowboys? There’s two types of artist – there’s the farmers and the cowboys. The farmers, like in his studio for example,” he said, gesturing to Bacon on the screen. “He’s mostly kind of doing the same thing, refining and refining and refining the same thing. And the cowboys, who go off, they’re like prospectors, that go off and do mad work. Eno puts himself in the second bracket, ’cause he’s such an innovator, with the music and the production and all of that. Or somebody like Bowie, constantly reinventing. Neither one is better, it’s just a different way of making work.”

Which do you fall into? I asked.

“Definitely the cowboy, I think. But there are actors that just play similar parts, versions of themselves all the time. Again, I don’t think either one is better.”

Do you think that sometimes an actor falls into the other category by accident, when their public persona intersects with – or eclipses – the work? I asked.

“Perhaps. Yeah. I’m sure that’s the case. Yeah.”

He sat back and sank into the film again, giggling at some of the things that Bacon said and did. “There’s a few things he says that I always think apply to our work,” he said. “ ‘The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery.’ ” Provocative movies. Provocative performances. No easy answers – but perhaps a few new questions.

Don’t give it all away. Don’t even give most of it away. Retrench. Be clear. With yourself, but not necessarily with others. Let the fame wave pass. Live by the sea.

He said it again: “Deepen the mystery. That’s it, isn’t it?”'

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back-and-totheleft · 2 years ago

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Vietnam: A Reverse Angle

Call it guilt, or just avoidance, but Americans still seem reluctant to deal with the simple, familiar humanity of the Vietnamese as a people. If we acknowledge their palpable flesh and blood — not to mention recognizable human emotions — how then can we, as a nation, cope with the memory of a war that reduced the Vietnamese to convenient stereotypes, making them all the more easy to kill with impunity? At best, they were to be pitied. At worst, they were to be slaughtered. And millions of them were.

Most American films made about the Vietnam War, including two of my own, have not featured prominent Vietnamese characters. Platoon and Born on the Fourth of July told specific, grunt's-eye-view stories of the hellish misery our foot soldiers went through in that far-off place.

What's been missing from the screen is the reverse angle on the Vietnamese: what the war — or wars — were like from the perspective of the people living in Vietnam, a country with more than a thousand rich years of history and culture. [...]

As an infantryman in Vietnam, I was distrustful of the Vietnamese — all Vietnamese — because they posed a threat to me and my friends. It wasn't until later that I recognized what the American GIs and Vietnamese civilians had in common: fear and the need to survive under any circumstance. We were suspicious of each other, but in fact we shared a common bond of cold sweat and jangled nerves.

All survivors are linked by this mutual agony. In his powerful books about the Holocaust, Nobel Peace Prize winner Elie Wiesel reminds us that survivors are all charged with a sacred mission: to serve as witnesses and teachers of what they suffered, thereby preventing such catastrophes from occurring again.

Perhaps that's why I keep returning to Vietnam, both actually and cinematically. Some have suggested that Heaven and Earth is the final third of my "Vietnam Trilogy." In fact, I could make twenty more films about the war, so great a role did it play in my life and the soul of our country and the world. [...]

Among other shared experiences on opposite ends of the globe, Le Ly [Hayslip] and I both had to tolerate any number of lies from soldiers and politicians in our respective countries. Their final goal, of course, was to put guns in our hands and ask us to point them at each other. Le Ly was abused by soldiers of both the North and South. [...] The point of Heaven and Earth is neither to vilify the Americans and glorify the Vietnamese nor to create new "politically correct" stereotypes to replace the bad ones. Good and bad people of all backgrounds and persuasions blew through Le Ly's life, and of course she finally did succeed in the United States, as did millions of immigrants before her. She"s now the daughter of two countries, two cultures: and her three sons also share the merged heritage. [...]

I also wanted Heaven and Earth to respond to, in part, the blind militarism and mindless revisionism of the Vietnam War as typified by a certain odious brand of thinking that has snaked its way into our culture over the past decade or so, in which the conflict is re-fought in comic-book style by American superheroes, with a brand new ending . . . we win! Within the moronic context of these ideas, hundreds of nameless, faceless Vietnamese are blithely and casually shot, stabbed, and blown to smithereens, utterly without the benefit of human consideration. Entire villages are triumphantly laid to waste, with not one microsecond of thought or care given to those inside the little bamboo hamlets being napalmed. Who were they? There were names and faces and histories attached to those bodies littering one end of Vietnam to the other between 1963 and 1975. [...]

It is [a] song of peace, rather than war and vengeance, that deserves to be passed down from one generation to the next. Le Ly and I both lived to tell the tale. Let's hope that our children don't have to tell the same one.

-Oliver Stone, "Vietnam: A Reverse Angle," introduction to the narrative screenplay of his film Heaven and Earth (1993), based on the memoirs of Le Ly Hayslip. (From The Making of Heaven and Earth by Michael Singer.)

Oliver Stone is a twice wounded U.S combat veteran of the Vietnam War turned Oscar winning screenwriter and director. Le Ly is a Vietnamese civilian who was imprisoned, tortured and abuse by North Vietnamese, South Vietnamese and U.S. forces during the war. Together, they collaborated on the film Heaven and Earth, based on Le Ly's life and released in 1993. Le Ly also converted Stone to Vietnamese Buddhism. As of 2023, the two still spend Tết together every year.

#oliver stone #heaven and earth #le ly hayslip #essays #written by oliver #the vietnam war #vietnam

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wordingg · 1 year ago

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I finished Wyrd Sisters by Terry Pratchett last night. I stayed up past my bed time like the naughty little bibliophile I am to finish it. (Also I switched to story graph from Goodreads, so the links are different now.)

Wyrd Sisters is the sixth disc world novel and the second in the Witches series. It's a satirical retelling of Hamlet from the point of view of the witches, though it feels reductive to just call it a retelling. There's a lot of other stuff going on, like the desire to be accepted by your elders, the power of words and stories to change the truth, what it is that really makes a good king, and of course ROMANCE ✨!!!

I really loved this book! All the characters were really interesting and likeable (especially the witches). It was really nice to see an old woman as the protagonist. I can think of exactly one other book where the protagonist is (arguably) an old woman, so it was interesting and fresh to me. The plot is really fun and well paced. Something is always happening somewhere, but at the same time nothing is happening somewhere else. I enjoyed how the author flipped between the two. Often the switches are really quick and short, sometimes just a few sentences to look back at how one event affected someone else, but it all flowed really well and didn't feel abrupt or confusing.

I'm really glad I grabbed this book and also that I finally tried it. I think I bought it like a year or more ago for maybe a $1? Maybe $2? At a used bookshop. I had finished The Colour of Magic just a few months before (finished? no. I dropped it halfway through). But someone had told me that disc world has a bunch of different series within the overall bigger series that only tangentially connected to each other. So if I didn't like one book try another series. And I figured I'd just grab this one randomly since it was so cheap. Now, I'm looking forward to reading all the other books in the Witches series!

Anyway, I recommend this book to anyone who finds the premise interesting or who like a British style comedy. It's a really interesting and well crafted novel and I think that, as long as it's in your wheelhouse, you'll probably like it.

#wyrd sisters #witches #disc world #terry pratchett #booklr #book rec #booktalk

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spamtonology · 2 years ago

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I’m really curious about your view on the whole “a darkner’s purpose is to serve lightners” and how it might apply to Spamton!

Do you think he’s aware of this inclination? And if he is, do you think he despises it in the way it can be seen as something else out of his control?

Or do you think it’s just something he doesn’t really question? Which… probably might not be the case? He rlly wanted to reach heaven and that matched with the whole inhabiting a lightner’s creation PLUS wanting to take a soul for themselves is just… fascinating. Like in the oh man is this borderline blasphemous? sort of way—since lightners basically created darkners and so on and so forth.

But then there’s the whole conclusion at the end of the regular/pacifist route where he decides to help out the fun gang and even becoming an item that can be used by the party—which is like a total 180 to how he was perceiving them before?

Don’t mean to add on a second question to this already super long ask but: what do you think is his opinion on lightners in general?

Idk. I apologize if I’m rambling! This has just been on my mind for quite some time and I’d really love to see someone else’s opinion on it!

Don't apologize for rambling, I like asks that make me think. I will apologize here for taking so long (see previous ask).

Before I get into anything here, I want to say that my friend, who I discussed this with, pointed out that 3 out of 4 of these questions are easily answered by playing (or watching a playthrough of) both chapters. This isn't meant to be a rag on you or anything, just a reminder that in case you really don't know, try to look back at the source material because you might already have the answer!

Spamtonology is really just for fun, but "look back at the source material if you don't know" is generally a good rule of thumb in academics that you should follow. Second and third party sources can be unreliable (even if you think it's well done), so you really always have to make sure. Where were you getting most of your sources from for these questions to appear? It's a common fandom effect that the easily explained canon can get obscured in the way of fanon.

Honestly, you can even see this in academic settings. Imagine you have an essay due for Hamlet, but instead of looking at the source material for canon answers, you read Sparknotes...or more egregiously, watch the Simpsons parody. Extreme example, I know, but it's there.

This is already getting long, so I'll put it under a readmore.

Yes, as my friend said, this is the whole motivator behind the Darkner's actions, from Ralsei to King to Jevil and Spamton to the Addisons. Everyone is aware of this (Lancer only had to be told because he is a small child. Think of it as like a 5 year old in a Christian upbringing having to be told that God exists and all that and therefore he has to behave well).

As for the next bit about Spamton despising this fact...this is literaly answered in the text. Going back to my previous analogy, imagine asking your English teacher "Do you think Hamlet despises that his uncle murdered his father"? This is something that is answered straight away in the text and doesn't need to be asked if you already read the story/played the game. Spamton's speech can be hard to understand, but you surely could understand that he hates all of this by his actions in-game. A common theme that unites the secret bosses and other Darkner antagonists in the game is how they've been viewed as "useless" to Lightners, such as being a joker card (Jevil) or spam email (Spamton). This is much of their motivation behind their actions, and it's quite clear in the text so I am unsure as to how you missed that.

Notice that Spamton speaks in an entirely different manner and tone during this scene. For a majority of the chapter, Spamton is a character trapped by his mental and physical limitations and the fact he is an "useless" Darkner. He had lost his mental stability and is obviously not in the right mind up until his last scene in the pacifist/neutral route. Adding on to that, he relates so heavily to Kris and saw them as a similarly trapped soul, a puppet, that is why at the very end he lends them his strength (even to their friends, since he saw that they still had friends willing to back them up as opposed to Spamton's "friends" that left him long ago).

His opinion on Lightners is probably quite mixed, Spamton is a man who can't really keep his word, he's full of contradictions. I think whatever is happening to him or whatever is in/convenient for him at the time, he will have a different opinion on Lightners depending on that situation.

#spamton

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skinks · 3 years ago

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so is the northamn like a conan remake or what ?

Noooooooo dude it’s a very stylised interpretation of the old Norse legend of Amleth, which is thought to be the direct inspiration for Hamlet. So, betrayal and revenge etc but told in a way that emphasises both the alien nature of the mindset of a brutal people in the Dark Ages, and more specifically emphasises the direct, grinding, inevitable trajectory of Amleth’s sole purpose/Fate through cinematic devices like steady, hunting tracking shots/push-ins and severe angular camera pans. I read someone say that the camera is carving its way through the events of the film like runes through granite, which I thought was a really apt and striking metaphor

And that’s not even getting started on how good the visuals even ARE. I mean I liked The VVitch, I appreciated the insane subjectivity of The Lighthouse a lot more, so when you combine that impressionistic view of the world with it being from the POV of a character who really, to his bones, believes in old gods and magic and fate as real, influential FORCES in his world - it creates this beautiful atmosphere of the ancient, pagan cosmos blending with the “real” in a way that Amleth feels he is truly experiencing. Someone I talked to said that it seemed like a lot of fuss for a straightforward, small stakes revenge story - but like. That’s the POINT!!! It is a very old story happening to people we can’t really hope to identify with. Their worldview is too distant from ours, but idk I happen to enjoy media that tries to tap into the collective human lizard brain and the ways we use myth to interpret phenomena we couldn’t always understand. That’s why the movie Alpha from 2018 fucking slaps.

Anyway this is all conveyed to us in beautiful fantastical cinematography that’s like someone locked themselves in a dark room to blast Amon Amarth for 48 hours straight and cut together an R rated Lord of the Rings AMV using spliced-in footage from AC Valhalla. The acting is great across the board. The music is gorgeous. I found it to be a triumph of form serving to prop up a narrative that felt primal and Epic, in the Beowulf/Arthurian sense of the word. The final scene of this goddamn viking movie made me tear up like it was the charge of the Rohirrim

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pynkhues · 3 years ago

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.... any succession fic recs? 👀

Yes!! I haven't read a lot for it yet, but some of the stuff I've read has been staggeringly good. I'm generally more into gen fic in this particular fandom, but have enjoyed some Stewy x Kendall, Gerri x Roman and Naomi x Tabitha too.

A few recs under the cut!

“I wanted to get out. From under all this. Take the money and run.”

Kendall tells Stewy even though he knows he’ll never get it, not like Naomi does. He’ll never understand the crush of it, the heart-stopping head-fucking fear of failing a tyrant. Kendall’s been ignoring the shape of it for a long time, putting pieces of it together in the back of his mind in total darkness like a blindfolded man. It doesn’t matter that one day his dad will die. It doesn’t matter about the money or the hostile takeover or the stolen files or any of it. There’s no running. Kendall’s Logan Roy lives inside his head.

Stewy laughs. Stewy laughs for a long time.

“There is no out, Ken, what the fuck are you talking about? You were born this and you’ll die this. You are what you are, and what you are is a fucking Roy.”

Kendall hates him, for a moment. Lightning-strike furious. What the fuck does he know about any of it, about his dad’s swinging dinner plate-sized hands, about getting 24% name recognition in reliable international polling, about puking every time you think about a car swerving off the road in the rain. About finding out that you can do something unthinkably, unimaginably terrible, and it doesn’t matter to anyone you know but you. There’s a scar on his arm that no one else who hasn’t already been told how it got there can ever know about, and he’s sick of it, and it’s not fair. He hates Stewy for a moment because Stewy’s right.

“I wanted to do the right thing, Stewy, for once in my fucking life.”

Stewy laughs again, more briefly, and the predator flash of his eyes in the neon of the motel sign is a torture all its own.

‘There is no right and wrong, Ken. How the fuck do you not know that yet? Not for people like you. Like us. There’s shit you get caught doing and there’s shit you don’t.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You really, really fucking don’t,” says Ken, and fuck, there it is. The road less travelled, that only he has ever driven on. The path he’s down where Stewy can’t follow. That place beyond Stewy Hosseini where he never thought he could go.

“You’re not telling me something, and when I find out what that is, and I will find out what it is, Kendall, don’t you think I won’t, so I am warning you that when I do find out I am going to be righteously fucking pissed,” says Stewy, and if Kendall thought those were a predator’s eyes before—

“Yeah, you will,” says Kendall, because he knows exactly how perceptive Stewy is. Exactly how weak he is. Exactly, precisely what both of them are.

And treat this night like it’ll happen again by postcardmystery. 8k words. Kendall x Stewy. Post s2. (CW: internalised homophobia, some homophobic language)

I tried to pick a shorter excerpt, but I literally couldn’t, this fic is so. good. The voices are pitch perfect, and it’s got this incredible build to it overall that goes back and forth between time and point of views and just rips your heart out. The premise itself is pretty simple – after the press conference at the end of 2.10, Kendall calls Stewy, and they drive through rural America while Kendall has a breakdown, and it’s just - - unspeakably good. I love it so so so much, I have no words.

r/roysucks Connor’s gf just posted on Instagram (instagram.com) submitted two months ago by webbedscrum_2279 23 comments share save hide report

[–] DM_ME_SAMESMAIL 40 points two months ago I too like to escape to my yacht in the Mediterranean when my family and I are on trial for covering up rape and murder. permalink embed save report reply

AITA for accusing my father of multiple crimes on his own news station? By amleth 3k words. Gen fic. Post s2.

And now for something completely different – epistolary fic which is just reddit news threads of the Roy family drama. I love an epistolary fic and this is just totally charming, and made me laugh a lot out loud.

“You’re quiet,” she observes. “That’s a first.”

“Yeah, well, the Turks beat it out of me. Gave you a run for their money.” He waggles his eyebrows. “So what is this? Whips and chains? Are we doing the whole boat-sex thing? I heard Shiv and Tom are looking for a third —“

Gerri finds what she’s looking for: a black leather binder. She drops it on the bed and begins paging through it, and Roman cranes his neck enough to recognize that it’s just full of documents, not like, dick pics. “I’ve given some thought to what you proposed a few weeks ago, and I agree that we should make things official in some way,” she says, and he blinks.

“Uh,” he says. “Which — what part of it?”

“Take a look.”

Gerri closes the folio and hands it over. It’s deceptively heavy, and the print on these pages is way too fucking fine, he thinks, paging through it. “Is this some kind of, like, Fifty Shades of Roy sex contract? Because it’s not that I’m not into it, but I think there’s a strong argument for going paperless —”

“Strictly speaking, this isn’t legally binding,” Gerri says. “Just something I threw together with regard to our business arrangement going forward. But with no respect to the family — the past few weeks have really illustrated that no one should take anyone at their word right now. Give me a little more than your word.”

Evacuation strategies for a yacht on fire by devourthemoon. 11k words. Gerri x Roman. Post s2. Explicit.

After the events of s2, Roman and Gerri fake being married as a professional alliance, only, y’know, maybe it’s not so fake. This fic is just so, so much fun, and messy in the best possible way. The author nails all the character voices, and the sex scenes are just the right amount of hot and ridiculous, and I just love it all a lot too.

Kendall estimates it will take an hour for the first articles to go up. Some rapid-fire blog without oversight—the New York Post, maybe, or wherever those Vaulter hippies have skulked off to—will slap a catchy headline on it and report his words verbatim. Give or take a gif of his face when he switches to script number two. New York Times, Washington Post, AP, those fuckers take longer. They like to bleed the story like Middle Ages plague doctors for its marrow, fact-check and add context and analysis and as many backlinks as their servers can handle. Still, a couple of hours, and his face will be plastered on every major news outlet. His voice will play over the nightly talk shows. He’ll trend on Twitter. A few more days, and he’ll be the star of analysis segments, podcasts, weekly briefings. Maybe, fuck it, maybe he’ll trend on Twitter again.

It’s been years since Kendall read Shakespeare. But that shit sticks with you, gets under your skin and emerges when you least expect it, like eczema or Keynesian economics. He knows how the media will spin this. Kendall Roy Attacks CEO Logan for Years of Corruption. Prodigal Son Disrupts Family Legacy to Restore Credibility. That’s how Hamlet ends, right? And Macbeth, Lear, Othello, Romeo and Juliet, even Titus fucking Andronicus. The spilled blood sinks into the ground, the seedlings sprout forth from the soil, and a new castle is built on the bones. Order out of chaos, or at least close enough an approximation that the tabloids will buy it.

Legacy for profit by owlinaminor Post-2.10. Kendall Roy. Kendall through Shakespeare analogies – just - - ooooof. It's a beautiful, lyrical character study that weaves through Roy family history and teases at a future none of them are even sure they want. It's gorgeous writing.

For the next few days Shiv would have to keep the pressure on Kira like an open wound because there were other women, victims that Nate’s people were going to find one by one as soon as that phone call disconnected. Mo was her father’s friend, good friend, for a long, long time. Nate and Gil, Sandy and Stewy, too many sharks in the water and the share price probably dipped to a new low but she would never check a stock ticker. Her husband’s nerves fraying at the edges on national television. She had promised a woman she’d never met before that she would kill roughly one third of the top male executives of her family’s company. Her company.

The last look Rhea gave her before she shut the car door was concern close to fear—no longer the same woman who heard their pitch in the safe room, who laughed with her at Argestes. Rhea had only looked into the abyss; she got cold feet and she didn’t even know what it’s like to grow up in it.

Her family’s company is hers, will be hers. Even from a whale fall, new life would spring.

Feed his flesh to wayward daughters by reogulus. 2k words. Shiv Roy. Set during 2.09.

This entire fic is set around Shiv bribing Kira not to testify, and god, it is so good. It’s bleak and rough, and really hones in on the complex ground Shiv walks as a character. It's another brilliant study of what it takes to be a Roy, and the way they make the awful choices in order to fulfill this legacy that they don't even know they want.

Kendall sets down his fork. “So. Tell me. Is it everything you wanted? Is it what you thought it would be?”

Roman stills. He never does that. He’s constantly a menace in motion, slouching and fidgeting, worse even than Kendall at his amphetamine peak. “What? The view from the tippy-tippy-top?”

“His regard.” Kendall wipes his mouth with the edge of the white cloth napkin. It comes away pink from the steak. “Dad. He’s all yours now.”

Roman still hasn’t moved. Finally, he lurches, like corroded machinery come uncertainly to life. “Yeah, man. It’s fucking tight as hell. I love every beautiful daddy and me moment I was a good enough little boy to earn.” He snorts. “Fuck you.” His face goes curiously slack then, like something Kendall’s own face would do. An intermission in the performance, an energy cut. Something genuine finding its way to the surface. “Why don’t you tell me. When you got everything you wanted, how the fuck did that make you feel?”

Nauseous, is the first word that springs to mind. Sick. Scared. I’ve never had everything I wanted, there’s that. I’ve never once had a single fucking thing I wanted. There’s that, too.

Interim leadership by arbitrarily 2k words. Roman + Kendall. Post s2.

I love Roman and Kendall scenes generally, but this one which features Kendall and Roman meeting for the first time a few months after the press conference in 2.10 is just a bit magic. The push pull dynamic that's just inherent to them mixed with the genuine affection and brotherly love is really special, and arbitrarily embraces both in equal measure. It's a great little fic.

There are lots more of course, and I'd also recommend checking out other works by these authors, but I hope this is a good place to start! :-)

#hbo succession #succession fic #fic recs #welcome to my ama #kendall x stewy #gerri x roman

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noladyme · 4 years ago

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La Cuervo - Chapter 23

She is used to the biker-life, having grown into a woman in the familiar embrace of SAMCRO. A bad decision and a gun-shot later, she gets whisked off to Santo Padre, and put under the protection of another club. What is supposed to be a short stint in the Mayan headquarters just north of the border to Mexico, turns into something more; when la quervo begins to develop feelings for el angel - and he seems to return them in kind...

TW: violence, blood, drug use, alcohol, smut, fluff, angst

In the spirit of "The Crown Princess of Charming", this is a story about O.C. Nina and Angel Reyes. It is obviously non-canon, as characters who have passed on, on Mayans M.C., are present in it, and others have been excluded completely. Nina is written as a cis-female, but I have tried to keep her race and looks as ambiguous as possible. Should you find any of this story offensive, please let me know.

23.

Nina struggled to keep her breath even, and her face calm, as she stepped back into the clubhouse. She handed Creeper the phone, and tried for a congenial smile. “Everything ok? What did he want?”, the Mayan asked. “He was just… worried about us”, Nina said. “He should have just… Fuck it. Never mind”, Creeper growled. “Don’t be hard on him. What he told you… He was taking a big risk”. “He should have said something sooner. We might not have been in this mess”.

Nina wanted to argue Taza’s case further, but needed to keep her mind on her task. “Who’s at the gate right now?”, she asked. “That guy, Rat”, Creeper said. Nina sighed in relief. Leaving the yard would be easier than she thought. “What? You feel safer with a Son on watch than a Mayan?”, Creeper grunted, having misunderstood her expression. “No, I was just… You can’t blame me for being happy that I have both my families protecting me”, Nina said, trying to deescalate the tension. Creeper sighed. “I’m sorry, Nina. I’m just reeling. My brothers are out there risking their lives, and there’s nothing I can do about it”. Nina put her arms around the biker, and gave him a warm hug. “We wouldn’t feel safe if you weren’t here”, she said. “Look, your shift is over. Rest… I think Gaby fixed a plate for you”. Creeper smiled slightly, and headed towards the now sprawling buffet of food.

Hobbling over to the bar, Nina smiled at the girl standing there. “Creeper needs a little extra tlc… Grab him a shot of tequila; would you?”. “But you said not to drink…”, the girl frowned. “He’ll be fine”, Nina smiled, and took down the bottle of tequila from the shelf. “Give him two… He’s earned it”. The girl shrugged, and sauntered over to climb onto Creeper’s lap. The Mayan’s face instantly lit up, and before long, he let himself disappear into a haze of boobs and alcohol.

Nina limped over to Felipe. He had Letty and Gaby enraptured in the story of how he’d met Marisol; and both girls were exclaiming aaww’s at the sweetness of the tale. “I think I left my extra inhaler in your truck the other day”, Nina said, trying for an embarrassed expression. “Could I borrow your keys?”. “The truck is unlocked”, Felipe said. Nina cursed internally. “Ok… I’ll just go grab it”, she said. Felipe looked down at her wounded leg. “Let me get it for you, mijita…”. “No! I’ll get it”, Nina enthused. “I need to get this leg moving… The doc said something about physical therapy”. “Ok…”, Felipe shrugged; and Nina gave him a bright smile, before moving towards the door. When no one was watching, she grabbed Jackson’s helmet.

The two Sons from Berdoo were just outside, obviously getting ready to go take over watch. “Why don’t you go grab a bite to eat, before you go take over from Rat?”, Nina smiled. “He can wait fifteen minutes”. “You sure?”, one of them said. “Packer said…”. “That you should go hungry?”, Nina chuckled. “Look, if he gives you trouble when he comes back, tell him to take it up with me”. “You?”, the other biker said. “Yeah… He’s afraid of me”, Nina grinned. They both laughed at this, and went into the clubhouse.

Once the door was closed behind them, Nina quickly hobbled over to Felipe’s truck. She opened the door, and threw her crutches on the floor; while setting down the helmet more gently next to them. “Please, please, please…”, she whispered to herself, as she got behind the wheel, and looked down at the ignition. The key was gone. She frantically searched behind the sun visors and in the glove compartment, but came up short. “Fuck!”, she exclaimed, and slammed her fist into the seat. Something got loose from where it had been wedged under the padding; rattling as it hit the floor. “Yes!”, Nina sighed in relief, and grabbed the key; quickly starting the truck.

She drove as calmly as she could towards the gate going out to the scrap-yard proper. It had been left open by Creeper as he came back from watch. Swerving through the narrow roads between the piles of old cars and broken dishwashers, she made it to the large gate to the street beyond. Rat looked confusedly at the truck as she approached him. He walked up to the window, and Nina took a deep breath, before rolling it down. “Hi, Georgie…”, she smiled. Rat narrowed his eyes at her. “You only call me that when you want something”, he muttered. “We’re out of coffee”, Nina pouted. “You know how I get…”. “You shouldn’t go out”, Rat said. “Please! I need my caffeine, Rat!”, Nina pleaded. “Nina… No”, Rat said. “I can’t let you out”. “But…”. “No!”, Rat said; his voice harder than she’d ever heard it before. “Your leg is fucked; you shouldn’t even be driving”.

Quickly needing to think up a solution, Nina kicked her crutches out of view, under the seat. “You’re right…”, she said, and turned off the engine. “I forgot my crutches in the clubhouse. Could you go get them, so I can walk back?”. Rat sighed and nodded. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back”, he muttered; and began jogging back in the direction of the clubhouse. Nina prayed to every deity in existence, that his IQ wouldn’t suddenly surge; and make him realize he could have just driven her back in the truck. Giving the biker exactly 20 seconds to disappear from view, Nina got out of the truck, and limped as fast as she could, over to the large gate. She ignored the reappearing pain in her leg, and put her weight in to pulling it open.

Quickly getting behind the wheel again, Nina drove out of the gate. Once on the street, she put the petal to the metal, and raced towards her rendezvous point.

---

As she was still unfamiliar with the streets of Santo Padre, Nina and Taza had agreed to meet at Felipe’s shop; as it was the closest of the places Nina knew how to get to, to the clubhouse.

The Mayan stood leaning against his bike when she parked by the storefront. “Are you ready for this?”, Taza asked, as she got out of the truck. “I have to be, right?”, Nina said. “I can’t deal with any more people getting hurt or killed… But are you sure Palo will go for it?”. “He wants you… That’s his only reason for this war”, Taza said. “But he’s not unreasonable… He has to see how this is the better way for all our clubs”. “Yeah, but will the rest of them?”, Nina asked. “We can’t just show up with Palo in the clubhouse, and claim that we’re all the best of friends all of a sudden… Do they even trust you at this point?”. “They’ll trust you”, Taza said. “You brought Sons of Anarchy and Mayans closer than ever, just by being who you are… Vatos Malditos can be a part of that”. Nina sighed, and Taza stepped over to her; taking her hand. “If you don’t want to do this, I’ll understand. You can get back in that truck right now, and go back to the clubhouse”. Nina shook her head. “No… This is the way it has to be”, she said. “I told you all yesterday, I wanted to go talk to Palo… If they’d just listened, we wouldn’t have to go behind their backs”. Leaving the crutches in the truck, Nina grabbed the helmet, and put it on. As Taza started his bike, she climbed on behind him; wincing slightly as the vibrations of the engine reached her pained leg. “You ok?”, Taza asked over his shoulder. “Let’s just do this”, Nina said.

Riding out of Santo Padre, Nina looked around. Though still unable to tell all the streets apart, she’d grown fond of the rustic houses and people residing in them. When she’d arrived in San Pad the first time, she’d taken the expressions of the people looking at her and the Mayans, as standoffish and aloof. Now, she was beginning to understand how it was more about them being protective of their culture and families, in the face of criminals. She was a criminal; that was a fact that couldn’t be disputed. She knew of and had done things, that could get her in serious trouble with the law; and if she was a normal person, just walking down the sidewalk, and was confronted with patched 1% bikers, she’d probably feel less than happy about that as well.

Nina was beginning to feel fiercely protective of Santo Padre, just as she felt of Charming. The people here didn’t deserve their streets to flow with blood, and if Vatos Malditos had their way, the heroin trade would be running rampant, out in the open. The choice she’d made to go with Taza’s plan, was her chance to make sure none of that would happen. The people of the town might not like her, or like the way she led her life. At the end of the day, she wasn’t one of the good guys – not really, anyway. This way, at least she’d done what she could to keep the good guys safe.

As they took to the highway for a few miles, Nina began thinking back at that day Jax had carved his initials into the gun currently wedged into her waistband.

… “Goddammit Jax! We lost 10.000 dollars’ worth of product back there!”, Clay growled, as he got off his bike. Jax lit a cigarette, and shrugged. “Yeah, but I couldn’t just leave him hanging”, he said. “We’d lose all future business with those guys”. Taking a break from Hamlet, Nina closed her book, and looked curiously at the interaction. “This was supposed to be a one-time deal”, Clay said. “We didn’t need him”. “Maybe I just didn’t want someone to die, that didn’t need to”, Jax said. Clay clenched his jaw, and stomped away. He gave Nina a short nod, before walking into the clubhouse. “Your bleeding heart will get you killed, brother”, Opie muttered, as he, Filip and Jax approached the table Nina was seated on, nursing a mug of Chucky’s tar-like coffee. He reached into his cut pocket, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Nina smiled sweetly at him, and the tall biker chuckled, before lighting a smoke, and handing it to her. “What happened?”, she asked, and took a huff of the cigarette. “The deal went south”, Jax said. “Mayans showed up; began shooting… I keep telling Clay; if we just worked out a cease-fire, we could maybe strike a deal with them. I’m sick of the fighting”. “You know I want peace too”, Filip said. “But it’s still not you sitting at the head of the table, Jackie…”. Nina raised her brows at the three bikers. “Peace with Mayans?”, she chuckled. “I thought you said they were hotheaded cholas, with dicks for brains”. “I said their brains were in their dicks”, Jax grinned. “Does that mean their dicks are big?”, Nina smirked. “’Cuz in that case, I’m all in for peace with them. I’m thinking club party… Maybe a little tequila, and…”. “You’re not shacking up with a Mayan. I’ll kick his ass first!”, Jackson laughed. Nina rolled her eyes. “Whatever… So, you messed up Clay’s plan?”. “We lost a van full of merchandise, because Jax decided to save some Mexican guy’s ass in stead of protecting it”, Opie grunted. “The Mayans had him trapped… I made a call”, Jackson said. “And it was a bad call?”, Nina asked, and put her book on the table. Jax picked it up, and tapped the top of her head with it. “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so”, he said, and nabbed her cigarette; taking a huff from it. “Get back to your homework”…

---

Taza moved down an exit, and they took to smaller roads. “It’s right up here”, he said over his shoulder. Nina felt a shudder go down her spine, and braced herself. Arriving at a small house, she was confused to see two bikes there, in stead of just Palo's. Taza pulled up next to the two vehicles, and held her hand as she got off his bike; her legs shaking both from fear and pain. “I thought it was just going to be him…”, Nina said. “Me too…”, Taza muttered. He didn’t look pleased at the situation. “Come on”.

Letting Nina use his arm for support, Taza led her to the front door. He knocked on it three times, and it opened; revealing a smirking Sala. “Usted vino”, he said. “As agreed… At least I did as was agreed”, Taza said. Leading Nina inside, he nodded at Palo, who was seated in a chair, holding a gun in his hands. “Bienvenidos”, he said. “You were supposed to come alone”, Taza said. “With both of you gone, Bishop and the club will know something is up”. “Don’t worry about Obispo and the rest. My men are keeping them busy”, Palo said. “I see you kept your part of the deal”. Nina swallowed thickly, terrified to meet Palo’s eyes. “About that… You know they’re not alone. They’ve got the Sons of Anarchy with them”, Taza said. Nina noticed him shooting a look at his watch, and she frowned slightly in confusion.

Palo nodded solemnly, before looking at Nina. “You know, people call me a psychopath, but I have… emotions. Especially regarding the fact that SOA have become part of this”, he said. “I have history with the Sons; that was why I wanted to do business with them. I knew them to be trustworthy, but it looks like that trust belongs to the Mayans now… That actually came as a bit of a surprise”. “You don’t have to explain yourself to this puta, jefe”, Sala grunted. Palo looked coldly at his enforcer. “Unlike you, I see women as equals to men”, he growled. “Which is why I’m still unhappy with how you handled the situation with our friend Camilla…”. “Camille…”, Nina croaked. “Her name was Camille”. In spite of how things had ended with the red-headed snitch, Nina’s heart still broke over how she’d been treated by VM. “Camille…”, Palo nodded. “My men were supposed to teach her a lesson. I told them to handle her like they would any other traitor. A good old-fashioned beating… Not rape!”. Sala looked down at the floor; his expression that of someone who had been chastised more than once over his actions.

Palo got to his feet, and moved the chair back against the wall. “Set it up”, he grunted, and Sala disappeared into another room for a few moments. There were sounds of things being moved around; and Nina thought she could hear a muttering, before something fell onto the floor. Sala returned with a large plastic sheet, and Nina felt her knees beginning to buckle. Taza grabbed her arm. “Sala, you don’t have to do that”, he said. Sala ignored him, and rolled out the sheet on the floor. “This is his abuela’s house”, Palo said. “You’ll understand why he doesn’t want to get blood on the floor”. “Let’s just talk about this”, Taza said. At this point he was holding on fiercely to Nina, almost supporting her weight fully, as she was heaving for breath.

Palo raised a gun at Taza to keep him in place, while Sala stepped over, and grabbed Nina’s free arm; tearing her away from the Mayan. She stumbled after him, and onto the middle of the plastic sheet; where he forced her onto her knees. “Taza…”, she croaked. “Palo, please don’t…”. Sala backhanded her across the face, so hard that her ears began ringing; before beginning to pat her down. Finding the gun in her waistband, he pulled it out, and went to stand next to Palo. Taza took a step towards Nina, and Palo cocked the hammer of his gun, to keep him in place. “Palo, stop!”, Taza growled. “This was our agreement”, Palo said. Nina felt tears beginning to spill from her eyes. This wasn’t how Taza had told her his plan would go; and her breathing became even more troubled. Reaching in to her pocket, she took out her inhaler, and took a hit from it. Palo looked at her with amused eyes. “A bit redundant, isn’t it?”, he said. “Did you forget to tell her why she’s here, Che?”. “No, I didn’t”, Taza replied. “You’re the one who has the wrong idea. No one has to die here today”.

Palo quickly turned his eyes to Taza. “What are you talking about? We made a deal. Her life, for peace”. “Counter offer”, Taza said. “Our secret, Palo. If you kill her, everyone will know about Davíd. I’ve made arrangements already”, Taza said. “What secret?”, Sala asked. Palo gave his enforcer a death glare, before turning back to Taza. “Then why bring her?”, he asked, his voice colder than ice. “Because maybe there’s just a little bit of your brother in you. The part that knows kindness and mercy. I wanted you to look in to this woman’s eyes, and see what I see. Peace and cooperation between two clubs. Love”. “All I see is a killer… She murdered Gael. He was going to be my next in line!”, Palo said. Sala looked confusedly at Palo. “Gael wasn’t a Vato yet… He wasn’t even a prospect”. “Cállate”, Palo growled. “You promised me…”. “Sala! Not now…”. Sala clenched his jaw, and took a few steps back.

Taza gazed down at his watch again, and frowned slightly; before looking intently at Palo. “You could walk away right now, your secret safe; as long as you agree to never move against Nina or any Mayan again”, he said. “You wouldn’t do that”, Palo said. “You’ve got as much to lose as me by coming forward”. “Only my life. My club and the people I care about; they live on”, Taza replied. “I’m done hiding”. Palo narrowed his eyes at Taza. “What’s in it for VM?”, he asked. “Our clubs could work together, instead of against each other”, Taza said. “Prove to the Mayans that you’re willing to let bygones be bygones, and that we can all trust each other. Help each other build our businesses, and let our clubs grow”. Palo seemed to ponder Taza’s words for a moment, before gazing down at Nina “No”, he declared. “She killed my primo. Now I’m gonna kill her with her own gun”.

He put his own gun in his waistband, and took the gun Filip had given to Nina from Sala. As he stepped towards Nina, she began shaking violently. Palo raised the gun to aim at her head, when he looked down at it; examining the handle. “Where did you get this?”, he grunted. Nina let out a short gasp, almost unable to speak. “Tell me!”, Palo demanded. “My brother… It was my brother’s”, she croaked. “You’re Jackson Teller’s sister?”, Palo asked. “Yes…”.

Palo looked at her for a long moment - his expression unreadable - before lowering the gun. “No puedo hacer esto…”, he muttered, making Nina let out an audible gasp of relief. Sala looked at him with a flabbergasted expression. “Qué quieres decir?, he asked. “You got her right here. Just kill her!”. “I owe her brother…”, Palo said. “He saved my life once. Used that gun…”. Nina gasped. Palo was the man Jax had saved from the Mayans, years ago. “What the fuck is wrong with you today?”, Sala growled. “You said you wanted revenge… Letting her go; that isn’t you!”. Palo looked coldly at Nina. “You’re right. I want my pound of flesh”, he said, and turned to Sala. “Bring him out”. Sala’s face lit up, and he left the room.

Palo pulled Nina to her feet, and held her back against his chest. There were sounds of struggling, and Sala came back from the other room; pushing Angel in front of him. Sala was aiming his gun at him. “Oh, god…”, Nina rasped. Angel hadn’t noticed she was in the room yet; too preoccupied with the barrel currently pressed against the back of his head. “Get off me, motherfucker!”, he growled, and stumbled forwards, as Sala gave him a hard shove between his shoulder blades. As his foot got caught in the plastic sheet on the floor, Angel fell to one knee and looked up; meeting Nina’s fear-stricken eyes. He looked back to the plastic sheet, and then up at Taza. “No, man… What is this? What did you do, Taza?”.

Taza was frozen in place. He looked like he’d lost complete control of the situation; which, it seemed in fact, that he very much had. “Palo, no. This is not the way to start a new relationship with the Mayans…” “I’ll deal with that, once this is over”, Palo said. “I can’t kill her, but I can make her feel my pain, when she loses the one she loves”.

His words struck Nina; leaving her heart in actual pain. “No! Take me… I was the one who killed Gael. Shoot me. Please!”. “Don’t shoot any of them!”, Taza growled. “Stop this, Palo…”. Sala punched Taza hard in the gut. “Shut the fuck up!”, he growled, as Taza doubled over in pain. “You’ve misunderstood me. I won’t be doing the shooting”, Palo replied. “You’ve killed before… I’m sure you can do it again”. He pushed her forwards, making her stand on the plastic sheet in front of the now fully kneeling Angel. “Take the gun”, Palo said, and pressed Jackson’s gun into her hand. “What?”, Nina croaked. “No, man… Fuck no. Don’t make her do this!”, Angel pleaded. Nina wanted to throw herself in front of Angel, to take any bullet coming his way. “Palo…”, Taza rasped. “This isn’t how this was supposed to go…”, Taxa rasped, and received another kick to his ribs from Sala. He looked at Nina, his eyes pained and regretful. “I’m so sorry…”, he breathed.

Palo gave Nina a light push in the back with the gun, to make her step even closer to Angel. “I can’t...”. “Sure you can”, Palo said. He got up close behind her, and leaned in close to her hear. His breath down her neck made Nina shudder. “Do it yourself, you fucking coward!”, Angel roared. “Don’t put her through this”. “You kill him, and this war ends right now. No one else has to die´”, Palo said. “I’ll pull my men back, and we’ll never cross into Mayan or even Sons of Anarchy territory again. They can continue their business as they always have”. Nina felt tears beginning to run down her cheeks. Palo put his hands on her shoulders, almost as if massaging them. “If you don’t, we’ll kill all three of you anyway. Then it will be the rest of them. Mayans and SOA… Within a week, there won’t be a clubhouse or a patch left standing”. “Don’t…”, Nina whispered. “Come on, man…”, Angel begged. “You want me dead; go ahead. Kill me…”. “After they’re gone, we’re going after their families…”, Palo continued, ignoring Angel. “Women and children; it doesn’t matter. We will find them all”.

Nina’s heart fell deeper into her stomach. Abel and Thomas; Palo would find them. She closed her eyes, and saw their small faces in front of her. When she looked again, she saw Angel; his expression agonized. Palo ran his hands down Nina’s arms, and made her hands fold around the handle; pulling the hammer for her. “I don’t want you to think I’m enjoying this. But I need you to feel the pain of losing someone important; just like I have. You killed Gael. Now you will kill this man…”.

Nina could hardly see through her tears. She sobbed loudly, before hearing Palo sigh behind her. He stepped up next to her, and pulled the hammer of his own gun; aiming it at her head. “No! No, stop!”, Angel yelled. “Nina, look at me… Look at me!”. Nina met his eyes. They were deeper than ever, and so filled with love and fear – not for himself, but for her. “Listen… You’re gonna do this, ok…? You can do this. End all of this, right now. Just shoot me". “No…”, Nina sobbed. Palo’s gun brushed against her temple, and he took a step closer. “You have to”, Angel said. “For our families… for Abel and Thomas, ok? For your brother… Do it for them". Palo was looking at the both of them with nothing but contempt.

Her whole body was shaking, and Nina’s leg finally gave in. She fell to her knees in front of Angel. “I love you…”, she whimpered. Angel smiled warmly. “I love you so much… It’s ok. You gotta live for me". He took her hands in his, and raised them, so the gun was pointed at his head. Using his thumb, he pressed Nina’s index finger against the trigger. “No no no no…”, she chanted in a raspy voice. “Please…”. “Te amo, cuervo…”.

The sound of Nina’s scream mixed with the sound of a gunshot.

---

tags: @cole-winchester @doloreschanal

#angel reyes #angel reyes fic #angel reyes x oc #mayans mc #mayans mc fic

43 notes · View notes

fandomsilhouette · 4 years ago

Text

they’ve got a bad reputation (they’ll get a standing ovation)

The spotlight clicks on, floods the stage until the shadows are sent scampering away, every flaw and every fear in sharp contrast for the audience to feast upon; but what horrors lurk where the darkness prowls, trapped at the edges of the script like handcuffs around the actor? May life mirror art at the best of times, the worst of times.

Happy @felinettenovember, y’all! We’re back to terrible o’clock writing times with @musicfren, who is collaborating with me on this fic-turned-mechanism-through-which-to-preach-on-the-spot-Hamlet-analysis. He’ll be posting the second part on his account tomorrow, during which the bulk of my meta nonsense is going to come through. Are you following him yet? @emzurl spoiled this whole story with their art and @dumpsdoods simply spoils me with theirs.

Part 1 below. Part 2 upcoming.

“Alright, take ten, my dudes! We’ll go from Act III, Scene 1 after you get some snacks and chill.”

Marinette lets out an amused laugh as she thumbs through her copy of the script, ignoring the throng of hungry students pushing past her, desperate for this grueling 5 hour rehearsal to end. Brevity may be the soul of wit, but certainly not of this play. Nino makes a good director, she thinkst: loud, relentlessly positive, able to carry the sagging energy of an entire unwilling highschool production on his shoulders.

But alas, poor Nino is fighting a losing battle. Everyone knows that the point of this play is the obligatory report they will all have to write for their literature class at the end of the week. Almost no one here can act, and Marinette’s arms are beginning to grow tired from carrying up the entire play. With scarcely a week left it looks like most people are planning to coast the rest of the way to a clean C+. The part of Hamlet still has not been cast.

Akuma attacks have pushed back the discussions they were meant to have on the play, and Bustier couldn’t cancel the major assignment for the unit; instead, she had told them to analyze the play through the role of their choice after embodying it for the few weeks it took to rehearse and perform the production. Their in-class discussions have been condensed into a take-home paper on top of the already obligatory theatre performance and pretty much everyone knows that Bustier would be lenient on them just for that. And Nino knows they know, and Marinette is starting to suspect that he is itching to “chill” like he keeps telling them to.

Marinette chews on the corner of her pencil, running a finger over the veritable bloodbath of neat pink notes she’s crammed into the margins of every page. She’s on in the next scene, and she wants to make sure she’s got all the nuances of the character, her character, exactly as she plans to bring her to life. Looking over the script, Marinette starts to regret not typing the notes to begin with: her entire essay is definitely already fully composed. Maybe Max will consider building her an application that can scan the document and transpose it to a word processor as editable text…

“Give me your hand, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.”

Marinette looks up to see Felix quoting Shakespeare, trying very hard to look inconspicuous in his black stage-hand clothes, wheeling a stand of fake swords almost as tall as he was. She watches with some amusement as he struggles to set it upright, and makes absolutely no move to help him.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you on stage any time this week,” she says, sticking her tongue out and being far cuter than it had any right to be. Felix, sweating, scrambles for a riposte.

“I hadn’t expected you out of the home ec room at all. Shouldn’t you be half-drowned in fabric or something?”

She sends him a quizzical look. He wonders if the akuma attacks have scrambled her memory. “Because...you’ve got costumes to work on? As the play’s costume designer?”

“Oh, I’m not doing costumes this year, actually.” Marinette laughs awkwardly. “I’m not even sure what I would write about if I were.”

Felix stares at her. The sword he was carrying slid out of his grasp with a dull clang.

“...what are you writing about as a stagehand?”

Felix decides to pretend the last few moments were a fever dream and focus on answering this one very reasonable question. “I’m looking at the blocking and the prop placement and the lighting and how it impacts the effect of the character portrayal on the audience and what information manages to get conveyed to the audience.”

Marinette offers a suitably impressed ooh at this. “How far have you gotten with it?”

“Darling, we don’t even have a Hamlet. The titular character. I’ve done nothing.” Felix offers the most deadpan look he can muster and startles at her giggle. “What, how far have you gotten?!”

Marinette flashes her script at him, more notes than dialogue at this point.

“You are possibly the only person in the class thinking anything even remotely deep about this play. What is all that for?!”

“Hopefully for a handwritten notes to editable text conversion app.”

Felix only narrowly avoids gaping. What?! “...is that what’s scrawled on every corner of that script you’re clutching?” He grins crookedly at her, and her traitorous heart skips a beat.

“...oh! no, um, those are my notes. For… my essay? I’ve written out the character analyses into where the text supports my arguments and… um… yeah.” She flushes with the realization that 1) that was completely out of context for him because 2) he cannot, in fact, read her mind.

“...Marinette, for what do you possibly need notes?”

“...to play my character?”

“Oh, wow, are you playing a guy? Impressive, tiny girl.” He rakes his gaze down her body and Marinette is flushed for a whole new reason now. She pushes to her feet and doesn’t bother to care about the swords she knocks over.

“I’m not, actually.”

“Why?! Who is there to play among the female characters? Marinette, I took you as someone who plays characters of worth.”

She looks up at him, eyes wide with dangerous innocence “Are female characters not valuable?”

“I-- no, that’s not what I meant and you know it! Shakespeare is historical, and male-centric, and writes women who do little more than parrot the views of the men around them if they get any dialogue at all. There’s no substance there! Who are you possibly going to play, Gertrude? Ophelia?!?” Felix’s tone makes it very clear what he thinks of the only two options she has available to her.

Marinette sweeps past him coolly, her hair whipping against his cheek. “I am playing Ophelia, actually.”

Stumbling, Felix turns and gives her a wry grin. “Oh darn, I’m sorry for your loss.” He makes a valiant effort at replicating her stuck out tongue, not that Marinette is looking. It’s for the best: it’s not nearly as cute on him.

“Excuse you?” Marinette halts in her tracks, shadowed amongst the heavy curtains of stageside. Her voice echoes hauntingly around the empty theatre.

“...c’mon. Ophelia does less than Gertrude. She even has fewer lines!”

With great restraint, Marinette manages to do nothing more than turn to face Felix, trembling with repressed rage. “Does less? Ophelia is the only person in this play who does anything at all that isn’t driven by a madman’s plot! Ophelia is the only person in this play who can pull Hamlet out of insanity, even if for little more than a moment.”

Frustrated, Felix tosses the nearest item at her and growls when she catches it neatly. It’s a victory when she stalks off across the stage to the opposite wing, gathering her notes and settling herself neatly in a prim fury. She’s wrong, she’s wrong, she’s wrong. He whirls around and starts rearranging everything she knocked over, grumbling under his breath.

“Ophelia is the only character in that play who makes zero choices of her own. Even her death was a result of her tripping into a lake.”

There’s a crashing sound, and Felix spins back around to see Marinette bolt upright, tempestuous in her temper. Felix may have gotten a bit too loud with that last statement.

“How can you say that? That’s the most significant choice she makes in the whole play!”

Felix can feel the irritation rising, hot and ugly in his chest. Why is she being so stubborn? Marinette makes a gesture at him, quick and angry from the other side of the room. Felix squints and tilts his head, struggling to what she was doing from across the stage. Then all at once it hits him.

“Do… do you bite your thumb at me?!” He splutters in indignant incoherency, his grip tightening on whatever he’s holding until the plastic grooves bite into his skin.

“I do bite my thumb at thee, sir.”

Felix steps onto stage, glaring. Marinette matches him step for step, glare for angry glare. Nino gasps, cowers, and then grabs his camera.

The class, milling around aimlessly as their ten minutes ticked to an end, comes to a collective halt. Nino sheppards them out of the way of the camera’s shot. They flock without protest to the edges of the theatre, terrified to watch this trainwreck unfold, terrified they’ll miss even a second of it. The die has been cast. Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe?

Nino can only hope that the set backgrounds manage to come out of this intact.

#Notte Writes #Notte Collabs #Fanfiction #Miraculous Ladybug Fanfiction #ML #Miraculous Ladybug #Miraculous: Adventures Of Ladybug And Chat Noir #Felix #PV Felix #Felix Agreste #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Felix/Marinette #Felinette #Theatre Consistent Dramatics #Grievous Insults (To A Nerd)#Meta Parallels To Hamlet #Fluff #Felinette Month 2020 Day 14 #Felinette Month 2020

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whumpywhumper · 4 years ago

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Home

Masterpost

Set sometime in the future

TW: graphic depiction of panic attack but mostly fluff

@misspelledwitch @insanitywishes @imagination1reality0 @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @voidwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @captivity-whump @liliability @muumimafia @fanastywhump @elisabethrosewrites @unsure-but-alive-752 @jeverest00 @texdoeshalo @fanmanga1357-blog

Special thanks to: @0idril0 @rosesareviolentlyread @walkingchemicalfire @quirkykayleetam

V***V

Markus was walking down the street slowly. Trying for all he was worth to make it look like a stroll rather than a limping lurch.

It was hard with the way his hip and thigh were aching, but he’d been an okay actor in high school. His Hamlet was to die for, or so he’d been told.

He huffed, hitching up his jeans as they tried to slide down his hips again. The thick denim was loose around his waist, the weight he’d lost while still with Lucien and in the hospital absent from his lean frame. He hadn’t had the time, or the inclination, to go shopping for more clothes, and Illyn had brought what she could fit into a duffle bag from his wardrobe in Salem.

It had been weeks since he’d been dressed in anything other than sweats and loose basketball shorts, and he wasn’t going to let the pain in his leg interfere with going out with Ben and Kincaid. They’d invited him along, pulling him away from the files they’d reluctantly allowed him to have so that the could help with the case. Claimed that a stupid rom-com was just what he needed to gain some perspective.

Markus wasn’t sure that was true, but he was happy to be out now.

Kincaid bumped into his shoulder, and Markus looked up at the slightly taller man, Kinciad’s eyebrow raising as he cocked his head, a silent question in his hazel eyes. You okay?

Of course, his answering smile said. Why wouldn’t I be? His shoulders asked.

Kincaid didn’t look completely convinced, but he held the door open for Markus and Ben, entertaining Ben’s enthusiastic rant about an upcoming release of a new Marvel movie. Markus liked the classics, wasn’t a huge movie fan in the first place, but he couldn’t help but watch how Ben lit up as he discussed what he hoped the film included from the comics. His eyes sparkled behind his glasses, the shifting green/blue of his eyes dancing under the muted lights as he made sure to engage Markus and Kincaid equally, pulling indulgent smiles from Kincaid even as he held the conversation one-sided. It was, in a word, adorable.

Markus followed Kincaid’s hand as he placed it on Ben’s back, guiding the distracted man through the crowd. They moved so well together, a decade of friendship and partnership that baffled Markus with its easy beauty. He shook his head, trying to keep abreast of them despite his hidden limp as they made their way toward the concessions. They’d purchased their tickets online, but a lively discussion about appropriate movie candy and fare had taken up the walk on the way over.

Markus liked twizzlers. Kincaid and Ben both liked popcorn. But that’s where the agreement ended.

Kincaid liked buttered popcorn, whereas Ben thought that was an abomination of fake chemicals that didn’t deserve the salt that was blessed upon it. He, instead, liked plain, salted popcorn mixed with M&M’s of all things. It was a bitter, contested, and well-loved argument that, apparently, Markus was going to be the deciding vote on.

He was going to have to disappoint them both.

He didn’t like popcorn at all. It got stuck in his teeth. Ruining that for them before they got to the theater, however, wasn’t even an option. Having both Ben and Kincaid eagerly explaining the merits of their preferred snack to him, including him, laughing and egging each other on. It let Markus feel like he was part of them, even if it was just a little part, and he couldn’t help but crave it.

The first hint of unease started bubbling in Markus’s gut as they stood in the back of the line. His eyes darted around, taking in the people, the families and little kids screaming and running around to the arcade. The bright posters heralding blockbusters that he hadn’t been around to see advertised. The screens overhead flashing with even more advertisements and commercials. It was a little. . . overwhelming.

Markus stiffened when a hand brushed against his back, snapping his head around from where he’d been scrutinizing a couple of girls getting drinks from the in theater bar, meeting Ben’s concerned, questioning gaze with an automatic smile. “Sorry, I think I missed that?”

Ben smiled back, but the worry didn’t completely go away. “I asked if you were alright?”

Markus made his smile even brighter and consciously unclenched his hands from around his biceps, uncertain of when he’d even crossed his arms. “Of course, yeah,” he laughed, hoping it didn’t sound as forced as it felt, “just wondering if my alcohol tolerance has gone down. I used to be able to drink Clint under the table, ya know?”

Ben and Kincaid both chuckled at that, shaking their heads. Kincaid slung an arm around Ben’s shoulders, gesturing for them both to move up in line. “I’m sure that he tells a different story.”

“Well yeah,” Markus answered, relieved that they seemed to be accepting his distraction, “he’s got to keep the big, bad werewolf reputation intact.”

“Thaaat’s the reason, sure,” Ben snorted, pointing at the different drink options.

Markus blinked as Ben’s attention wavered, eyes flitting to the people that sidled up in the line next to them, watching how they interacted, their laughter or phone calls washing over him in a wave of sound. He swallowed, throat feeling tight, not recognizing that his arms were crossing back over his chest again. He knew that there was anxiety building, but he couldn’t accept that that’s what was happening. Not over something so simple as a trip to the movie theater.

He shook himself, blinking hard, mind scrambling to make sense of what was going on in his own head, and he forcibly settled his shoulders as he realized it was the first time he’d been around so many people since he’d gotten away from Lucien. It was supposed to help, recognizing the trigger, right?

“Hey, Markus?”

Jumping a little at Kincaid’s voice, Markus forced an automatic, quizzical expression, like he hadn’t been a million miles away, and met the other man’s gaze. “Hmmm?”

Kincaid’s mouth tilted in a knowing smile. “Can you go grab some straws?” he asked, eyebrows lifting meaningfully at the darker section of the atrium where the napkins, straws, and fake, powdered cheese lived.

Markus nodded, smiling back, concealing his gratefulness and moved away from the crowded concession lines.

But the further he got from Ben and Kincaid, the more his fear seemed to build. He stumbled as a little girl with two huge pig tails tripped in front of him, catching himself hard on his bad leg, barely hearing her high pitched apology as his heartbeat roared in his ears—the memory of being thrown, of being held down and stabbed—flashing in front of his eyes. He gasped raggedly, stumbling into the corner, eyes lowered to avoid the gaze of the other people there. Fuck, he thought, gasping tightly in the back of his throat, fuck.

Markus’s heart was a rustling bird in his chest, thumping away at his breastbone in an effort to escape. The roar of air in his ears was deafening, the farther he plummeted downward, the harder the desperate flapping of the trapped bird became, his lungs expanding like fluttering wings, unable to collect enough air to keep him from crashing. Fuck, fuck, I can’t breathe. He grabbed ahold of the counter. Trying to keep from going to his knees in the middle of a goddamn movie theater.

He was in a movie theater, right? His blinked, eyelids fluttering, gaze roving across the room, not quite seeing the garish posters, the advertisements for next year’s blockbusters. The milling crowd and arcade games turned into a bright blur, arching across his vision with a kaleidoscope of color. Like he was high, his pupils unfocused and dilated with the overhead lights.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Markus jerked, sucking in a short gasp as his muscles clamped down, not letting him move. Freezing him in place. He ducked his head, his shoulders drawing up around his ears, protecting the sides of his neck.

A strong hand encircling his bicep made him choke down a whimper, and his gaze jerked to the person touching him, his breath completely stopping in his chest. Blond hair. Tall. Pale.

No. Nononofuck.

He tried to back away, shaking legs threatening to buckle as he tried to put more weight on his aching leg. Markus stumbled again, thudding into the counter, and his hand left its white knuckled grip on the counter to grab at the hot fury in his hip.

“No need to be so jumpy there,” the other man laughed, his hand tightening as he steadied Markus. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost? Did you see that new Annabelle movie or something?”

Markus shook his head, numb to what his expression was, eyes wide as he tried to pull himself from the panic. “N-no,” his mouth wouldn’t cooperate, lungs starving for oxygen even as he prepared himself to beg, “pl-ease.”

Suddenly, Ben was there, shoving the other man’s hand away, pushing the blond back. “Back off.” The words were hollow, pounding drum notes, the echo wrong in Markus’s ears as his brain tried to keep up with the wild thud of his heartbeat.

Ben, Ben don’t— He tried to reach for him, his hand leaving his hip with a flutter as he tried to get it to move past the electric, flashing pain in the joint. The fear Markus felt at the other human facing the Elder was instinctive, terrifying. He wouldn’t have a chance. Ben would die. Ben, please, not Ben.

But then Kincaid was there too, his broad shoulders crowding in front of him, blocking his view, enveloping Markus in his warmth. “Easy, Markus, shhhh,” he ducked his head, honey hazel eyes meeting Markus’s, weaving to keep in Markus’s eye line as he tried to see Ben. “No, sweet guy, c’mon, look at me.” That tell-tale tingle of magic travelled down his spine when Kincaid’s hand wrapped around the back of his neck, his thumb brushing through the short hairs at his nape.

Markus shuddered, gasping, ribs starting to ache with weight of his shaking breaths. There were angry murmurs, and Ben’s raised voice. Ben shouldn’t be confronting Lucien, no. “I-I c-can’t—Ben, can’t—“ he still couldn’t breathe, “Lucien—“

“No, Markus, shhhh,” Kincaid’s other hand cupped his cheek, forcing his gaze to stay on him, “Lucien isn’t here, okay? Ben’s fine. Look at me, breathe with me, c’mon.” He started taking a slow breath through his nose, letting it out through his pursed lips, demonstrating for Markus, trying to calm him down.

He heaved in a heavy breath, not hearing the unsteady, short moan humming through his throat. “Kin—“ he panted, “Kin’, please, I—“

“Alright, no, I know,” Kincaid released the hold he had on his cheek, pulling Markus’s hand from the counter and to his chest. “You’re alright, grab hold, just like we practiced.” Markus felt the dangling charms of his grahm brushing against his fingers, and latched onto it, his fumbling grasp tightening as much as he could. “Breathe in,” Kincaid murmured softly, “One, two, three, four, hold—“

Kincaid took him all the way through the breathing exercise, murmuring softly to him the whole time, keeping their eyes locked together. His thumb didn’t stop its slow caress, brushing back and forth, back and forth, through his hair. “Good job,” he whispered, once Markus’s breath started to actually match his own, “good job, sweet guy, shhhh.” He brought their foreheads together, and Markus swayed into him, releasing the death grip on his hip to clutch at Kincaid’s t-shirt, clinging to him as the panic left him empty and aching. They were breathing the same air, and Markus could smell the popcorn and Coke on the other man’s breath.

Markus’s eyelashes fluttered closed, and he let out another shaking breath. “—Kin’,” he whispered, not sure what he was wanting to say.

“I’m right here, baby, shhhh,” Kincaid wound his free hand around Markus’s back, trapping Markus’s grahm and his hand between them, pulling him as tightly into his embrace as he could. Surrounding him, protecting him. His frantic heartbeat slowed, settling in his chest, letting Markus take a full, deep breath.

When they pulled apart, Markus felt punch drunk. He staggered slightly, still in the circle of Kincaid’s arms, eyelids heavy and half-lidded. Kincaid took some of his weight, palm bracing his lower back, face still so very close to Markus’s.

He jumped when someone else touched him, head sluggishly snapping toward toward the newcomer. It was Ben, and Markus’s breath left him again with both a sense of relief that the other man was okay and with fear, realizing just how close he was to Ben’s partner, the way that they were curled into each other. “Ben . . . “ he breathed, voice faint.

The answering smile he received didn’t hold any of the anger that he’d expected, none of the territorial hostility that should have been there with Markus ensconced in an intimate embrace with the love of Ben’s life. Ben’s hand pressed against his shoulder blades, fingers spread wide and possessive, encouraging Markus to stay right were he was in Kincaid’s arms. “It’s okay, Bambi,” he said softly, warmly, “It’s okay.” Ben had foregone his glasses, and his dusky, blue eyes were were sparkling, lines evident as his lips stretched into a welcoming smile. “Let’s go home, yeah?”

Markus swallowed, still feeling dazed as he turned toward Ben, not capable of leaving the warmth that surrounded Kincaid. “But. . . the movie?” he asked, words slightly slurred with the oncoming fatigue. Nothing sounded better than going ho—going to Ben and Kincaid’s—and falling into an early sleep, but he didn’t want to ruin their night out. He could make it through a movie.

Kincaid shook a head, his nose brushing Markus’s temple. “It doesn’t matter, Markus,” the hand still on the back of Markus’s neck swept up to cradle the back of his head, Kincaid’s thick, calloused fingers woven through his hair, “do you want to go home?”

He let the weight of Kincaid’s hand pull him forward, so that he was pressed into the crook of the bigger man’s neck, hiding his face from the curious gazes he could see in the periphery of his vision. He nodded, curling his shoulders in, making himself smaller.

“Okay, then let’s go home,” Kincaid whispered, pressing a kiss to his hair.

Ben sidled up to his other side, free hand under Markus’s elbow, and between them, they took some of Markus’s weight so that he could follow their lead through the crowd, not letting himself acknowledge the people they passed. If his limp was more prominent now, it didn’t matter.

He was going home.

#Markus/Lucien Series #Panic Attack: TW #Aftermath of Captivity #polyamory #mostly fluff #Markus Protection Squad

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allsassnoclass · 4 years ago

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“Every day you wake up and make it my problem” Luke to Ashton

alrighty a theatre au for the only person in the theatre department who can handle me <3

Opening night brings a palpable excitement in the air, a nervous energy that can only naturally be produced at this point in the production process. The scenes have been blocked, the lines memorized, the sets built, the costumes sewn, and every piece of design meticulously brought together to create something ready for sharing. As Luke hangs up the laundered costume pieces and ensures that the dressing rooms are prepared for the night, he can already feel the excitement amongst the crew milling about. It will only be compounded once the actors arrive for the night.

Luke has his sewing kit, numerous pins, extra hairspray, and a bite light. There aren't many quick changes in Hamlet, and all of them have been easily doable in dress rehearsals. He's ready.

When he wanders out to backstage, Calum and Michael seem to be ready, too. Calum is sitting on the acting block Michael has commandeered as his seat since tech, scrolling through his phone while Michael goes through his pre-show duties on the other side of the stage.

"Ready for tonight?" Luke asks, making Calum jump.

"Yeah. Is the laundry up?"

"Costumes are all clean and accounted for," Luke says. "If you want an empty dressing room, now is your time."

He stands and stretches, wandering over to the dressing rooms. Luke takes his spot and watches Michael continue to double-check props on the other side of the stage. Once satisfied, he heads back over, stopping short when he sees Luke.

"You're not my boyfriend," Michael says.

"He went to go get ready before the rush," Luke says. "Ready for tonight?"

"Very," Michael says. "No one has broken anything yet, which is a bit worrying, but I'm fucking ready to open."

"No one's broken any props or sets, you mean. I've had to resew numerous buttons and seams. Ashton can barely keep his clothes on."

"I bet you like that," Michael says, waggling his eyebrows. Luke flips him off, too used to Michael's teasing to be truly bothered. Ever since he first saw their lead actor and tripped over his own feet he hasn't known peace.

In his defense, Ashton is very beautiful. It is not Luke's fault that he got flustered during their first interaction. At least he was only writing down measurements instead of having to take them, because being that close to him without time to mentally prepare would have been embarrassing for everyone. (If he still has to take a few breaths when helping Ashton get on his more intricate costumes, that's his business, especially because being under the stage lights only enhances all of Ashton's best features.)

"Ashton gets to make out with your boyfriend every night. Stop laughing," he says flatly.

"Yeah, and it's fucking hot," Michael says, nudging Luke out of his seat.

Luke rolls his eyes. Reducing the relationship between Hamlet and Horatio to a "fucking hot" make out scene is a disservice to all of the painstaking work that Ashton, Calum, and the director have done to seamlessly incorporate it into the story without alienating or reducing Ophelia, but Michael isn't exactly wrong.

Ashton seems like a good kisser. Luke wants to know what it'd be like to be on the receiving end of that when there's no acting involved.

Luke kills time with Michael until he has to go on headset, signaling that it's late enough that Luke should probably check on the actors. Gertrude's zipper on her dress keeps getting jammed to the point where Luke is really considering replacing it. It works most of the time, but Luke is getting sick of having to finagle it. He helps her get it up and makes a note to replace it before tomorrow, then he heads to men's dress, ready to camp out until someone else needs him

"Luke!" Ashton greets exuberantly as soon as he steps in the door. He has his makeup on, just simple things to ensure he doesn't get washed out under the stage lights, but he looks stunning. He isn't even in his main costume yet, an intricate black tunic with gold embroidery meant to blur the line between historical and contemporary like everything else in the show, but Luke wants to swoon.

"Hi."

"Thanks for fixing my buttons," he says. "Again."

"Try not to rip them off tonight," Luke says.

"I always try," Ashton says. Somehow, Luke still feels like he's going to be fixing a button. Ashton doesn't restrain himself onstage. It makes him captivating to watch, but it also means that unnecessary rips and button tears occur, sometimes in ways that Luke thinks should be impossible. Being wardrobe head for this production has taught him many new ways to break a costume.

He helps the actors here and there with things like hair or specialty makeup, distracting himself from Ashton changing in the background and passing the time until the actors go to warm ups. Rosencrantz has managed to misplace his socks because he hadn't zipped his laundry bag when he gave it to be washed and Gildenstern can't find one of her shoes, but otherwise there isn't much for Luke to do with this show. He wanders out by Michael, knowing by now where he can stand to watch from offstage and when he'll have to move so he's not in the way.

When the lights go down and the warnings about flash photography and food in the theater play over the loudspeaker, Luke's heart starts thumping harder in his chest. Michael turns on the fog machine for a bit of haze at the beginning, Bernardo and Francisco take their places onstage, and the play begins.

Even after having seen the show during the crew view and hearing it over the monitors backstage every night since, he manages to get lost in the story. Each performer is on top of things tonight, none more so than Ashton. From the moment he steps out on stage the charismatic actor is gone, replaced by a moody but no less magnetic Hamlet. His grief and anger is palpable in his introductory scene, and his relief at seeing Horatio for the first time perfectly sets up their dependency in the rest of the show. His scene with the ghost is heartbreaking, and Luke finds himself subconsciously biting his lip and leaning forward, wanting nothing more than to erase his pain. Hamlet is enamored by Ophelia and broken by her betrayal, and every soliloquy is captivating. No one can command a stage like Ashton Irwin.

Intermission sees Luke attending to his actual job as a dresser, helping with the laces on a few costumes and checking with all the actors to be sure there's no issues. Ashton grabs his shoulders and blurts an excited sentence about crowd reactions, then immediately goes backstage to get "back into the Hamlet zone." Calum watches this interaction with raised eyebrows. When he heads backstage, Luke hopes he's not going to gossip with Michael.

The second half of the show goes just as smoothly as the first. Michael has him take care of the actress playing Oscric when she feels a little bit faint, but once she gets more water in her she perks back up and Luke can return to watching Ashton's breakdown on stage. The ending duel scene is more polished and realistic than they've ever done it, but it's Horatio's final moments with Hamlet that leave Luke speechless. Something about Calum cradling Ashton in his arms while Ashton commands him to stay alive and tell his story has Luke tearing up.

He leaves during curtain call to grab the laundry bag and set himself up outside the dressing rooms, ready to take everything that needs to be washed. It feels anticlimactic to have the first night of the show done, but Luke typically doesn't feel the same sense of accomplishment as the actors do after each individual performance. It never truly hits him until strike, when he has to put everything away and reset the theatre and costume space to prepare for the next show. Luke congratulates every actor that passes and waits for them all to leave so he can go home. There's no one waiting for him in the audience tonight and he wasn't told about any after-parties, so he's looking forward to getting sleep before returning to the costume shop tomorrow to take care of the notes he has.

"Ashton's the last one in men's dress," Calum says when he hands in his own laundry. "He asked me to send you in."

Luke had been hoping that Ashton would be able to make it an entire show without a costume mishap. Apparently that hope had been misguided.

"It's Luke," he announces, knocking on the door.

"Come in!"

Ashton is pulling on a t-shirt, giving Luke an accidental glimpse at the dimples in his lower back. When he turns around he looks sheepish.

"I lost a button during the duel."

Luke sighs.

"I promise I'm not deliberately being destructive," Ashton says. "I'm not trying to make more work for you."

"Yet every day you wake up and make it my problem," Luke says. "Can I see which button?"

Ashton brings him his dueling vest, pointing out where a simple black button had fallen. Luke will walk by the stage to see if it's still there or Michael found it, but if not then it won't be difficult to replace.

"I'm really sorry," Ashton says, still standing close. "I swear I won't make you fix my costume tomorrow."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Luke says. "You have the worst track record with costumes out of everyone I've ever worked with."

"Well, I need some excuse to keep talking to you."

Luke blinks at him.

"That was a joke. I mean, I do love having a reason to talk to you, but it'd be shitty of me to be deliberately making your job hard."

"Oh," Luke says. "You don't need a reason to talk to me. You can just do it."

"There's not a lot of time for it in the middle of a show," Ashton says. "Unless you'd want to see me outside of work sometime? Say, for a coffee or dinner? As a date?"

"Me?" Luke asks. Ashton makes a show of looking around the empty dressing room.

"I don't see any other tall, attractive blond men named Luke who keep putting my clothing back together."

Luke smiles, not trying to hide his excitement. He's a shit actor anyway, and Ashton would see right through him.

"I could do that, but only if you stop ruining your costumes every night. Make it through tomorrow with no mishaps and we'll go on a date."

"You drive a hard bargain, Hemmings, but I'll try my best. For you, I'd sew everything back together myself if I had to."

"Please don't," Luke says.

"You don't trust me?" Ashton pouts.

"No," Luke laughs. "You keep destroying your costumes. I'm not about to trust you to fix them correctly."

Ashton shrugs. "Yeah, okay. I'm not a good sewer, anyway."

"That's what you have me for," Luke says. Ashton smiles, just as dazzling under the dressing room lights as it is onstage. It takes Luke's breath away, just a little.

The dressing room door opens, bringing Luke back to Earth. Calum pokes his head in.

"Hey Ash, your siblings want to see you. Stop flirting with Luke and get out here." He doesn't wait for a response, thankfully leaving them alone again for another moment. Ashton ducks his head, scuffing his shoes against the floor.

"I shouldn't keep them waiting," he says.

"It's hard being a star," Luke replies. It makes Ashton smile again, which is an exhilarating experience in of itself.

"We'll check in about the date tomorrow," Ashton says. "No more costume mishaps, cross my heart."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Luke teases. Ashton snorts.

"Have a good night, Luke. Congrats on the show."

"You too," Luke says. "You're really amazing up there."

"Thank goodness," Ashton says. "It'd be a bit late to replace me otherwise."

Luke rolls his eyes with a smile. "Get out of here, superstar. Go see your family."

Ashton blows him a kiss and ducks into a bow with a flourish on the way out the door. Luke stands in the middle of the dressing room, running his finger over the spot on Ashton's vest where the button is missing. He should probably be annoyed, but he's not. He's going on a date with Ashton at some point, and that's worth all of the lost buttons and torn costumes in the entire production.

#my writing #lashton #drabble #I want to be involved in a production of hamlet SO BAD #SO BAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!#also hello I miss traditional theatre #zoom theatre is great given the circumstances but I can't wait to actually Watch A Show In A Theater again #and be involved in one

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booksoanahasread · 4 years ago

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Wrap Up 2020

Welcome to my first calendaristic year review of books. I know that normally I just review books and I rarely post anything else, which I find to be the right thing to do, after all this is a blog about books that I’ve read.

This year, however, I’ve decided to write a post about my year in books, somewhat like what you would find on Goodreads. I want to tell you all about my favourite and least favourite books from this year, but I can’t do a top ten list, I would much rather tell you about some of the books.

These books are in no particular order, because I find I can’t quite rank books all that well. Here are some of the books that I loved:

Three Dark Crowns by Kendare Blake.

It’s just a wonderful fantasy book that I fell in love with, especially the fact that it is a matriarchal society. I haven’t read anything quite like it.

Clockwork Angel by Cassandra Clare

I’m not sure why I decided to start this series, but I’m glad I did. You can easily fall in love with the characters and fast-paced action.

Serpent and Dove by Shelby Mahurin

I devoured this book and you might as well. I adore the enemies to lovers trope and in this novel it is executed brilliantly.

Scythe by Neal Shusterman

A dystopian future where humans have cured all diseases and it is almost impossible to die. Doesn’t it sound promising? It is one of the most amazing series I’ve read and I hope that next year I’ll get my hands on the last book.

Ignite Me by Tahereh Mafi

While the first book was hard to get through, this one was absolutely amazing. I loved the love triangle and subject matter was fascinating.

Anna and the French Kiss by Stephanie Perkins

Who doesn’t love a good romance story set in Paris? This book was heart-warming and gripping. It was also the first ebook I read this year.

Again but Better by Christine Riccio

If you’ve met me in real life, I’ve probably gushed about how good this book is. I loved the author’s style and the way it was structured, I loved the travels described in the book and the life of a student learning abroad.

Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston

This was a light read that left me with a smile on my face. I can see why it won a Goodreads choice award in 2019. I loved the representation and the political theme.

Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell

I reread this book in December with no clue what actually happened in the novel. I loved this book probably as much as the first time I read it. The depth with which the author portrays the characters is wonderful.

Love Her Wild by Atticus

I didn’t read that many poetry books or anthologies this year, but this one is clearly the best. It gives you hope and makes you feel in love, the short poems don’t follow classic structures, therefore it packs a punch.

Sapiens. A Graphic History. The Birth of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari, David Vandermeulen, Daniel Casanave

This is easily one of the best nonfiction books I’ve ever read. It is very informative but also entertaining and I loved it.

Heartstopper by Alice Oseman

This series was incredibly heart-warming, easy-to-read, and enjoyable. I really hope more people read these books because they are phenomenal and adorable.

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

This was one of the most fascinating books of the year, even though it was quite short. I loved the whole premise of the portrait that changed due to the sins that Dorian committed.

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

This was a reread and I finally gave this book a fair shot. I ended up changing my opinion and falling in love with Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet. I loved Jane Austen’s sarcastic tone in the book, it was incredible.

Hamlet by William Shakespeare

How can you possibly forget this story? It is haunting but also hilarious at the same time. Although it is a tragedy, the play has many moments where the audience can laugh. I found the whole premise interesting and the fact that the main character being kidnapped by pirates was a minor aspect of it made the novel all the more ingenious.

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

I found the point of view from which it is told rather odd, but otherwise this is a solid book that should be read. The way it talks about racism in America is compelling and the intrigue with Bo is also fun.

Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman

I found this book to be absolutely riveting. The unreliable narrator was incredible and the way you piece together slowly, but surely what the past was truly like was unrivalled.

The Little Paris Bookshop by Nina George

I was supposed to go to Paris this year with my family and because of the pandemic we had to cancel. Although, reading this book did make me feel as if I were there, it had magically transported me across the continent and I loved it.

A Darker Shade of Magic by V.E. Schwab

I loved the whole premise of multiple Londons that are linked together. The magical system was wonderful and I loved reading this series so much. The characters are lovable and relatable.

The Invisible Library by Genevieve Cogman

This is a love letter to books and I adored it. I still think about it. The worlds that we are introduced to are astonishing and the action is impressive.

On the other side of the spectrum, here are some books I couldn’t quite stand, without describing them:

It Ends with Us by Colleen Hoover

The Problem with Forever by Jennifer L. Armentrout

Twisted Palace by Erin Watt

My Oxford Year by Julia Whelan

Reflecting on this year is something that is necessary before 2021 comes. I read eighty books, some I loved and some I hated. I hope that by this time next year, I will have read fifty books and loved a lot of them.

Dear reader, I hope you’ve had a year with as many moments of joy as possible. I hope that you’ve read books that have made you feel so much more than bored. I hope that you fell in love with at least one book. Thank you so much for reading my reviews this year and I hope they helped you a little, or at least entertained you. We will see each other in the new year, where I hope we read as many books as possible.

Sending love to all of you!

Oana.

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loquaciousquark · 5 years ago

Text

Cut for talk of COVID and irresponsible failure to social distance (my own). Also, some updates on what’s been going on here for the last month or so.

part one:

Very very long story that I am truncating as much as possible. As you all know, I am an optometrist and professor. When we shut down in March, our university made a huge, painful shift to remote learning and our student clinic ceased operations altogether. Neither students nor faculty saw patients from March 15 - the the middle of May. At the end of May, faculty began seeing patients directly in an extremely reduced schedule, and at the beginning of June, we began adding in very limited numbers of students in a rolling schedule that minimized exposure to all involved.

Three weeks ago, my dear friend Jasper contacted me and said that an old friend of hers, whom I will call Carol, was in dire straits after losing her job overseas. Carol has an extremely rocky history: a terrible car accident that left her legs and feet permanently damaged which directly led to a very bad divorce, significant student loan debt (just shy of six digits I think, compounded from the accident, since she used her student loans to pay her medical bills--for anyone reading this, do not EVER EVER EVER DO THIS--student loans are never touched by bankruptcy declarations and you will owe them until you die), and something of an inability to put down roots. She is an English teacher who has taught and traveled all over the world: Prague, Bahrain, Czech Republic, Los Angeles, Rio, etc.

When I first met her about ten years ago, she had come back to Alabama from Prague because a job had fallen through. She was completely broke and living out of two suitcases and a carry-on. She lived with us for three months for free, sleeping in Jasper’s bed because we had no other room for her, and eventually got a job in Boston and moved on. She lasted--I think--about two months in Boston before quitting and taking a job in the Middle East.

On top of her student loan debt, Carol also has significant IRS debt and is in debt to several of her friends. Over the last few years, she took several ill-advised positions overseas back to back without ever consulting a lawyer on her contracts, and did not realize until recently that one of her positions classified her as an independent contractor instead of an employee, so she owed US taxes on all her income for that period of time. Her most recent job in Prague she lost in February because she filed her visa (again, without a lawyer) incorrectly, and what should have been a brief three-week stay outside of the country became a six week stay on the couch of strangers in the Czech Republic while she waited for her visa reapplication to process. However, it was denied, and then COVID hit, and she returned to Alabama with only a portion of her possessions and tons of important paperwork left behind in her Prague apartment. She then unfortunately had two emergency surgeries on her stomach for an acute, unpredictable medical issue, and while she is well healing now, it also added on another forty thousand dollars of medical debt to what she already owed.

She stayed with her mother and sister while she was recovering from the emergency surgeries, but her family is emotionally abusive and very unkind to her, and after a few weeks she left their home and went to stay with Jasper. However, Jasper is also 8 months pregnant with her fourth child, and they both knew it was a temporary thing. Jasper knows that I have a large home with several spare bedrooms, and asked if I would be willing to host Carol for a period of time while she got back on her feet. I knew what I was agreeing to when I said yes, and Carol and I settled on a period of two months. She has now been here almost three weeks.

Frankly, I do not like Carol very much. We are unbelievably different people in every way--personality, temperament, proclivity to crying in front of other people, hobbies, interests, religion, all of it. She is a very nice person, and I think she truly does mean well. But she is the most emotionally needy and energy-sapping person I have ever met, and I cannot tolerate her company in more than small chunks. It is not possible to hold a conversation with her about any subject tangentially related to her difficulties; if I try to sympathize with her loans by mentioning my own, she shuts me down by saying at least I will have the chance to ever pay them back. If I just try to listen without commentary, she’ll wrap herself up in her own stories and talk for hours without ever needing more than “mm”s and “hm”s and my undivided attention the entire time.

She will often work herself up into sobbing tears over her situation(s), and she always informs me immediately of any new development in any of her numerous trials: which are usually negative, considering the situation, and usually resulting in more tears. She has cried on me probably more than a dozen times since she moved in, and she wields “I love you” like a weapon, more to hear the validation of the response than to truly express the sentiment. She constantly asks for advice on her situation but does not listen to any of it--seems more to just want to relive each tragic detail of her life over and over again with an audience, wondering why she’s continually “screwed over in her life.” (Really, really poor financial decisions and constantly trusting her own “intuition” over getting competent legal advice before signing contracts, are I think the biggest contributors.) She has told me so many private details about her personal views, relationships with her ex-husband and mother and sister, her financial choices, and her extensive travel and job history over the last few years that I probably know her history better than my own at this point.

I think she thinks by sharing so much that she is justifying to me her need to stay with me. What is actually happening is that I am forced to help shoulder this enormous emotional load that compounds my own mental health problems I’ve been having since all this started. I have told her more than once that she does not need to justify herself to me and that my home is open to her for two months, no strings attached. I believe she is making all the steps she needs to and do not need reports on her daily activities to “pay” for her lodging or electricity or internet or whatever. This has changed the behavior a little for the better but not stopped it.

There are moments that are not bad. As I have mentioned, she does mean well and want well for most people. She likes Hamlet and loves Jasper, who is extremely important to me. But she is extremely difficult to be around in so many other ways, and the way she constantly exclaims over how we basically think alike on all things (absolutely untrue) makes me think she either will not or cannot read my reluctance to engage on any of these topics.

(An example: I was watching footage of the SpaceX launch and despite my feelings on Elon Musk, really excited about the implications for space travel. She came in, and after misunderstanding for some time that I was not watching Space Force with Steve Carell, decided that the SpaceX program was morally bankrupt, obviously borne of shady backroom government deals, and everyone involved should have used the money to solve world hunger instead. For the record, she had not heard of the shuttle launch, SpaceX, or Elon Musk at all before the seeing the footage.)

(She also until last week had not heard of Playstation, Xbox, streaming as a concept, or any game more modern than the original Mario. Trying to order a grocery delivery online was an excruciating torment for her [took her over four days to get through selecting the items, selecting allowable replacements, and actually paying] and I will not ask her to do it again. She frequently makes comments about video games being a waste of time, and when she sees children playing outside, comments on how glad she is they are not inside playing video games. She doesn’t seem to realize her comments are a direct commentary on me; I think she genuinely does not understand that those games are what I am playing most of my free time.)

Right now, everything seems to hinge on her passing some teacher recertification tests next week and the week after. She spent $150 to give herself less than a week to study from scratch for a test she described as the hardest she’d ever taken. There were several other dates later in the summer she could have chosen, and her deadline is December, but she picked the soonest option for reasons I can’t fathom. She is also in the process of trying to get a car--right now I’m driving her everywhere--and she was ready to hand over $3800 yesterday for a ten-year-old Hyundai with a check-engine light on without even thinking of getting any kind of inspection. She is far more concerned with the color and “energy” of the car than its function, and would not have even checked the headlights and blinkers if I hadn’t prompted it.

She will be here another five weeks or so. We move around each other now better than we did before, and I hope it will continue to improve. But it’s a lot like a rock grinding a groove in the streambed from the repetitive friction, and it’s not the struggle I wanted to be having right now.

part two:

As I mentioned above, Jasper is having her fourth child in a month or so. One of her friends, someone I don’t know, contacted me and said she wanted to do a drive-by “baby sprinkle,” where no one gets out of their cars. You drop off the gifts, talk to the recipient a few minutes from the car window, and move on. I told her that I work in health care and am exposed to patients, so that sounded good to me.

The shower was this morning. Carol and I got up and drove the thirty minutes to Jasper’s house. There were four other families in cars right around the corner, and the “hostess” gave us all balloons to tie on our side mirrors. She told us we would drive around the corner, drop off the gifts, and loop around. Jasper’s husband would arrange for her to be in the front yard at the right time.

Cute enough. We go around the corner with little honks and Jasper sees us and starts crying, and it’s all wonderful and emotional and a fabulous surprise and I’m genuinely excited about it. And then people start parking and getting out of their cars, and Carol and I start looking at each other. They’re full families, too--three of the other moms brought all their kids, and soon enough they’re playing with Jasper’s three boys in the front yard and coming up asking to pet Hamlet through the car window. No one was wearing masks.

And what’s worse, when they all started looking at us expectantly through the car window, we didn’t know what to do. They were handing Jasper her gifts and obviously settling in for a good long chat; the women were hugging, talking about how they are “so over this COVID stuff, please come visit soon,” and Hamlet of course recognizes his original owners in Jasper and her husband so he’s freaking out, and after a few moments, we decided to just get out of the car.

It was the first time I really felt the social pressure to participate in an event I wasn’t comfortable with. I have no issue maintaining my social distance and my mask and my handwashing at work because that is where I have the position of authority, and I have the responsibility to model it for the students and patients--but here, I was a guest at someone else’s house at someone else’s event, and I really, really felt how they might perceive me as rude. While I didn’t know the other women, my relationship with Jasper is extremely important to me, and I didn’t want to make this special event for her difficult in any way.

So we got out of the car and joined the group. I tried to keep my distance as much as possible, especially since I had Hamlet on the leash and there were a half-dozen small children around, but at least twice I looked up and there was someone right at my elbow, and we made small talk for five minutes or so before either she drifted back to the group or I moved Hamlet into the shade away from the rest.

Cars drove by and slowed down more than once to look at us. Jasper’s husband made a comment about rolling his eyes if he saw their family on Facebook that evening. The women planned play dates, all standing very close together, and Jasper opened her gifts (that part was excellent). All in all we were probably there about twenty minutes.

I should mention that on the drive there, we passed a public park that has a very pretty waterfall right next to the road, and there were probably a dozen families out playing. There was a festival/outdoor market right outside the the park that had a sign up about social distancing, but the fifty or so people we saw shopping there were not adhering in any meaningful way. No one wore a mask.

And what annoys the bejeezus out of me is that I didn’t either. I didn’t even think about it until after we finally got back in the car to drive away. This is the first social event I’ve gone to since the first week of March, and while I wear masks for eight+ hours every day I go in to work, it didn’t occur to me even a single time to put on even my little cloth one that I keep in the car until we were driving away afterwards. I was so flummoxed by every little thing happening differently than I expected--people getting out of cars, how surprised I was by my own susceptibility to not rocking the boat, how normal everyone else made it to stand so close they could bump elbows so that Carol and I became almost excluded from the circle--that it never once crossed my mind. I know masks are more for the protection of those around you, not to keep you from catching what other people are carrying, but I could have set an example. I could have been the health professional I should have been in the moment.

I’m just so disappointed in myself. Disappointed in my own carelessness, irritated that I didn’t say anything, continually frustrated in a deep, gut-wrenching way by the whole situation that requires this in the first place. Bewildered that so many people are “back to normal” while this thing is still spreading, and in brutal honesty wishing I could be like them and just give up the fight myself. I’m not even mad at them. I WANT TO BE THEM. Why am I continually bothering to care and sanitize and mask and stay at home when no one else is? Literally no one would judge me in this state for it more than I’m already being judged (in most cases impersonally, though I felt the potential for it today in specific) for still watching the recommended guidelines.

I am really, really sick of this. I am so sick of feeling alone in this (of being alone in this, and Carol doesn’t count). Hearing other people saying “there there, you’re doing the right thing” honestly makes it even worse. I want people to stop patronizingly telling me to do things I already know are the right thing to do. I want other people as mad as I am that I can’t do the things I want to and need to do instead of being endlessly patient and noble about all the lives they’re saving by staying home. I’m top-of-my-head-blowing-off furious that so many people are shrugging and saying “well this is just the way it will be forever and alas, so it goes” and acting like those of us who did the right thing and cancelled our plans and our trips and our visits to dear friends but who are mad about having to do it are overreacting. I’m so fucking mad about it. I’ve stayed home for two months and I’ve isolated and I’ve quarantined and my hands are cracking from the constant sanitizer/washing at work and except for today I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do for this, and I don’t want to do it. And seeing people be so heroically virtuous and longsuffering on Facebook feels as alien and upsetting to me as the people who go to the beaches with a hundred of their closest friends.

That’s probably unfair in myriad ways. I’m really too angry, including at myelf, to soften it right now.

I want a vaccine and I want to be back in my classroom teaching to fifty faces instead of a screen in my living room, and I’m honestly freaking sick of waiting at home for them to figure this out. And watching everyone else move on with their lives back to the normal I would kill to have is just one more crack in the dike.

#quark rambles #this got really personal and mad #so sorry about that #coronavirus for ts #covid-19 for ts #quarantine for ts #carol #jasper #long post for ts

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