#josh oconnor imagines

[dodgesgirl]

MEOWWWWW

[miley1442111]

(part 5)party choices- a.donaldson

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a/n: fem reader but as per usual, imagine what you like :)

summary: when you find out about his betrayal and how your relationship truly ends. (dw there are more parts after this :))

pairing: art donaldson x reader

warnings: angst, feelings of disappointment, hurt, cheating, sexual content, etc. +

PART 5 of 12

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Art thought back to the party as he lay in bed that night, regret bubbling deep in his stomach.

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

He followed you around the party for around 40 minutes before he broke off to find Patrick. He didn’t mean to walk in on them, hell, they weren’t even in a room, they were doing it in a shed, it was fucking ridiculous. Partick had just pulled him in, he consented, sure, but he wasn’t thinking straight. 

“Pat?” Art called into the darkness of the night. “Patrick?”

“In here,” he heard giggling from the shed just a few paces away. 

He opened the door to be met with a very naked Patrick with Tashi beside him. “Jesus Patrick!”

Art looked up as the two of them laughed at his reaction.

“What, it’s not like you haven’t seen it before,” Tashi teased. 

“Fuck off,” he sighed. “I’ll talk to you later-”

“Don’t leave,” Patrick smirked. 

“Yeah Art, stay,” Tashi teased. Art felt so conflicted as he nodded his head. He loved you, he wanted to fuck you, but he wanted this too.

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

The second he left the shed, post-orgasm clarity hit him hard. He‘d just fucked Tashi Duncan (and technically Patrick Zweig watched). Your competition, the woman who hates you, the woman he promised to steer-clear from. 

Fuck.

He went to find you immediately, planning on telling you and letting you break up with him. But… When he saw you, so beautiful, that damn plum dress clouding his judgement, he walked up to you, wrapped you up in his wraps and kissed you as you giggled at his antics. 

He drove you back to your dorm and followed you inside, falling asleep beside you as guilt buried itself in his body. 

He couldn’t even respond when you told him you loved him. 

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

The worst part was that Art knew he’d fucked up. He knew it was an awful idea to try and hide it from you and he regretted not telling you the second it happened. He was aware of how bad this was, not that all the other shit he did to ruin you. Yet he still did. 

You were enraged. You were sick of letting this pathetic boy rule your life. You were done.

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

“C-can we talk?” he asked, cautiously approaching you as you ate in the canteen of the challenger. 

“About what?” you snapped. “You got what you wanted, you have Tashi.”

“I don’t want Tashi,” he mumbled, staring at his feet. “I want you, and I know I don’t deserve you.”

“You cheated on me.” 

“I did,” he admitted. 

“You cheated on me, then strung me on for 6 months, Art. You slept in my bed, you fucked me, you kissed me, and you promised me you loved me, all while you knew you;d fucked someone else,” you listed off. “Go fuck yourself, Art. I hope you choke.”

Art could feel his throat burning. “Alright,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

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

You’d caught wind of Tashi’s injury a week after it happened, and you felt sickly satisfied. Karma. 

You only saw Art and Tashi together, and found out they were dating a few weeks after they got together. 

You were sitting in your dorm when there was a knock at the door. You opened it to find someone who shocked you. 

Patrick Zweig.

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art donaldson masterlist :)

navigation for my blog :) (criminal minds, obx, the bear, marvel, top gun, the hunger games, challengers :)

people who asked to be tagged :) @fkaams

[wyniepooh]

Coach

patrick zweig has an interesting approach to coaching; it becomes even more interesting when it’s with you.

coach!patrick zweig x tennisplayer!reader. You desperately need a coach to help you, coach zweig seems to want something else 🤘🤘 (and you don’t mind ofc). Mentions of being broke #relatable. I imagine this to be set either before the challengers match, or after, either way works.

If it were up to you, you’d say that the place was a little sketchy.

if it were up to you, you would’ve left the moment you saw the lone beaten up car in the lot and the acrylic chipping off of the concrete ground.

But in the end, it really wasn’t up to you. The continuously decreasing numbers in your bank account was a constant taunt, a bullying reminder that if you wanted those numbers to change— to rise— you’d need a coach to push you into the championships.

Even if that coach choose a training spot that looked damn-near abandoned.

“hey. uh… patrick. patrick zweig,” he extended his arm.

You took his hand, giving it a firm squeeze as you dropped your bag onto the bench beside you. you smiled. “Shouldn’t I call you coach zweig?”

he smiled, chuckling at the ground, then shrugged, sticking his hands in his pockets. “whatever you want."

he cleared his throat, “so uh… what’s your plan here? I mean- what are your goals? why do you play tennis?”

You pulled out your racket and a couple of balls, setting them on the ground before quickly throwing your hair up into a ponytail. “Why are you coaching tennis?"

His arms crossed over his chest, and your eyes flickered to his biceps for a quick second before returning to his gaze. The silence was long, but surprisingly, it wasn’t uncomfortable or awkward like silence usually is. he smiled, and laughed again at your innuendo as he bent down and picked up your racket.

Grabbing the handle from his extended hand, you grinned. “That’s exactly my goal, too.”

You bounced the ball as you walked towards the court, closing your eyes for a moment to feel the sun on your skin. The sun was hot; burning, even, but the wind offered a cooling solace. His crisp voice snapped you back to reality.

“So, let’s see your serve.”

The next hour completely diminished whatever doubts you had about patrick zweig. Despite his rather tattered clothing that proved he was a low-ranking player with no sports sponsorships on his back, and despite his racket that seemed to be slightly crooked— he knew the fucking game.

And he also knew just how to provoke you.

“Is that all you’ve got?”

Hunched over the ground with your hands on your thighs and sweat dripping onto the green floor, you panted, “what?”

“You’re getting sloppy. Having stamina is crucial to the game, you know.”

You chuckled. “I can keep going. No problem.”

“Then prove it," he tossed you another ball, your slippery hand barely catching it in time, "come on, keep going."

Your next hit bounced off the net. Your next serve was out. After the ball attacked the net yet again, you threw your racket to the side, curses spilling out from under your breath.

“Thought you could keep going?”

“Give me a break," you muttered as you crouched down to stretch your legs that didn’t need stretching.

“No.”

you groaned. “come on, coach, I’m in a slump. Give me five and I’ll get back on it.”

“You don’t get to slack off in a real game. And based off of how gently you just threw your racket, you probably can’t afford to, either.”

Your body snapped up. “the fuck did you just say?”

He laughed lightly, raising his hands up by his head defensively as he walked closer towards you. You mirrored his movements, stepping closer until all that separated the two of you was the net, flowing freely with the wind.

“Look, all I'm just saying is, I don’t usually get many students signing up to experience my coaching. Not because I’m not good," he swatted his arm as he spoke, his other arm using his racket as a cane, "fuck no, but because my going rate is pretty low. the lowest, even. I’m just making an observation.”

You rolled your eyes, furrowing your brows slightly as you rested your hands on your hips. patrick had a grin about him, a stupid, annoying smirk that almost made you believe he knew something about you that even you, yourself, didn’t know.

Walking a couple steps closer to him until you felt the harsh scratch of the net against your knees, you whispered, “don’t assume anything about me.”

Your eyes subconsciously fluttered to his nose, then his lips, before coming back up to his eyes. smoothing out your brows, a layer of subtle desire spread behind your stare. you muttered, “Maybe I wanted you to coach me simply because I like you.”

His expression softened with feigned surprise. “Oh, do you now?” His face came closer to you.

you finally had an opportunity to ponder his face; his messy stubble all unkempt and long, the sweat on his forehead soaking his dark curls so perfectly on his face. or a moment, you weren't sure of where to go or what to do. In the end, he broke the stare-off with a murmur, “show me how much you like me, then.”

you didn't know if the heat spreading to your face was from the bright sun, his words, or from the blooming ache in your stomach. Either way, you stepped back with haste, grabbed another ball and prepared to serve.

A loud grunt came from you as you made your hit, and patrick reciprocated your energy, returning the ball with the same brutal force and speed.

Maybe he did poke at a sore wound. Yes, you were broke and young and desperate, but wasn’t he in the same situation? did he think you wouldn't notice the absolute state of the rented court and his shabby shoes?

But whatever it is that he did, it worked. Your feet were off the ground in an instant, and you heard the smack of the ball against the concrete before you even saw it. When you came back down, you immediately became aware of the sweat dripping down your face, your back, your legs, and the absolute relief of it all.

“There it is.”

You looked up. Patrick was smiling, widely, with that same old grin, like he was so proud that his trick had worked. as you began walking off the court, you couldn’t help but laugh, albeit dryly, at the whole situation. grabbing a towel from the bench and swinging it over your shoulder, you chimed,

“Hey, uh… coach, how much are you charging again?” you looked down at your feet, fidgeting nervously with your fingers as you mustered up all your strength to meet his eyes.

you tried to hide your shock when you finally turned your head to look at him, catching the sparkle of blue and a hint of something else in his eyes. he was standing close, really close, close enough for you to smell him and see him and practically feel him.

your eyes followed the movement of his arm as it reached towards your shoulder, his hand grasping one end of the towel and dabbing the fabric against your temple. he dropped the cloth, fingertips dancing over your cheek as he grazed a stray hair behind your ear, barely breathing a response,

“How much are you willing to give?”

-

a/n: I DO NOT PLAY TENNIS NOR DO I RLLY KNOW HOW IT WORKS. love the art appreciation but I feel like we need to step it up w the pat fics as well so I’m taking one for the team 🫡

[midwestprincesss]

ahh thinking about giving head to patrick and art at the same time<3 you're on your knees in front of them, both manspreading and their knees touching. you take turns, once kissing patrick's tip and giving him little kitten licks, only to move on to art and just straight up deepthroat him, only to make patrick jealous. then you stop, resting your hands on their thick, muscly thighs, and demand them to make out with eachother, as you watch the way their dicks twitch at the lack of touch:( patrick is more confident and bratty, unlike art who would never do something without your permission- therefore patrick lets his hands wander wherever they want to; he'll start jerking off art as you start jerking him (patrick) off. need them so bad it's not a joke anymore. (or was it ever a joke really?!)

[at0michips]

interviews and intimacy — mike faist

summary: the press tour of challengers was coming to an end, and even though Mike liked promoting his new movie all around the world, he was tired and even annoyed of the same old questions, so it did surprise him when a younger woman changed the pattern.

author note: just wanted to say that this is based off my deepest thoughts and hallucinations that this is going to happen to me someday and I just really needed to elaborate it further than in my brain. I have a lot more like this to work on so maybe it becomes a sort of series, who knows!! feel free to request

It was a full day, Mike has been patient and tried to be as social as possible with the press but he couldn't help the bad mood that came with those clueless questions that could totally put him and his coworkers in an uncomfortable situation, especially with both of them openly having a significant other. So when he heard that this would be the last interview of the press he felt relieved, he could go straight back into his house in New York, spend some days in there and go back to Ohio so he could see his family for a bit and then see what was his next step.

Everything seemed like it was going to work out nicely, and then it didn't looked like it anymore. After the new interview crew arrived he could hear some whispering between them.

"W-why does it have to be me?" one of the girls said a little loud only to be shushed by an older woman who was attaching a mic in her clothing

"Because you have a degree, because you have been helping Rose write the last interviews questions, because you're good!" she answered "Calm down, they're just people, ok? I spoke to her on the phone and she promised to pay you dinner next friday, keep that in mind." and then it hit him, that a girl who looked barely out of college was about to lead this interview.

The studio buzzed with the controlled chaos of a film set winding down for the day. Mike Faist sat across from you, a young journalist who had been unexpectedly thrust into the role of interviewer. Initially skeptical of her ability to handle the job, Mike found himself pleasantly surprised as the interview progressed.

"You know, for someone who's filling in last minute, you're doing pretty damn well," Mike remarked, a hint of admiration in his voice.

You felt your shoulders relax a fraction, the tension from earlier slowly dissipating. "Thank you. I'm glad I could hold my own."

Mike nodded thoughtfully, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "More than holding your own, actually. You're asking some really insightful questions."

You couldn't help but smile back, a mixture of relief and pride washing over her. "I've been a writer for a while, just not usually about movies."

"Well, maybe you've found a new calling," he teased lightly, his gaze lingering on her face. "You've definitely got a knack for it."

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at his compliment. "I think I'll stick to writing," you replied, matching his playful tone. "But who knows? Maybe I'll make an exception."

Mike leaned in a bit closer, the studio lights casting a soft glow around the both of you. "I hope you do," he said sincerely. "Because I'd really like to see you again. Maybe over a drink, not in a studio."

You could feel your heart skip a beat at the invitation. "I'd like that too."

As they exchanged smiles, the noise of the studio faded into the background, leaving only the promise of a new connection blossoming between them.

The bar was buzzing with soft chatter and the clinking of glasses, casting a warm glow over you and Mike as you sat across from each other. After the earlier meeting for the interview, something had shifted, probably the intimate ambiance of the place helped it too.

"So, what's it really like being on stage every night?" you asked, with the voice laced with genuine curiosity.

Mike leaned forward, his eyes sparkling as he recounted stories from his time on Broadway. His passion for his craft was evident, and you found yourself captivated not just by his words but by the sincerity in his gaze.

As the evening wore on, the conversation flowed effortlessly, weaving between laughter and moments of shared insight. Mike found himself drawn to your intelligence and wit, and he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something special about you.

The drinks arrived, and Mike hesitated for a moment before reaching out to lightly touch your hand. You looked up, meeting his gaze with a hint of surprise that quickly melted into a warm smile.

"I'm really glad we could do this," Mike admitted, his voice soft but earnest.

You could feel your heart skip a beat. "Me too," you replied, the voice tinged with a mix of excitement and nervousness.

In that moment, the air between you both seemed to crackle with unspoken tension. Without another word, Mike leaned in, closing the gap remaining between the two of you. Your lips met in a gentle, tentative kiss that spoke volumes of the attraction simmering beneath the surface.

It was a kiss filled with promise, a silent agreement of mutual interest and the beginning of something new.

The world around you seemed to fade away as they kissed, your hand finding its way to Mike's cheek as if to anchor yourself in the moment. Mike's heart raced, his mind momentarily forgetting the crowded bar and focusing solely on the warmth of your lips against his.

When you finally pulled back, your breaths mingling in the space between them, Mike searched for your eyes, his own filled with a mixture of wonder and longing.

"Wow," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the soft background music.

"Yeah," Mike murmured, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "That was... unexpected."

You chuckled nervously, feeling a warmth spread around your face. "Unexpected, but definitely not unwelcome."

You sat in comfortable silence for a moment, basking in the afterglow of their kiss. The tension that had built up between you and Mike earlier seemed to dissipate, replaced now by a quiet understanding.

"I should probably walk you home," Mike suggested softly, his thumb gently tracing circles on the back of your hand.

You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips. "I'd like that."

As you guys left the bar and stepped out into the cool night air, Mike offered you his arm, and you gladly linked hers through his. You walked side by side, with the shoulders brushing occasionally, each lost in their own thoughts yet connected by the spark that had ignited that evening.

[dannyricsmirrorball]

f1 challengers smau! ੈ✩‧₊˚ 🎾🏎️

george russell x reader x alex albon

OR

charles leclerc x reader x pierre gasly

sorry for being MIA i’m just busy w school but eee i was rewatching challengers and this idea came to me,, i was planning on a galex x reader one but im not sure if everyone would prefer piarles x reader (lmk pls! but i think im leaning towards george and alex)

basically the reader is tashi and was recognised as one of the biggest young talents coming through motorsports (like young max verstappen vibes), she was really fast and climbing through the ranks in karting and f2 and befriended george and alex (eventually dating one of them) and made it to formula 1 the same year as the 2019 rookies but then sustained an injury from a crash with one of the boys,, that depends on who is who. i’m not sure if i want alex to be patrick and george be art, or the opposite (also lmk ur opinions pls!).

im thinking alex as patrick just so i can do the whole them not seeing each other for so long through him being dropped by red bull and just extend the period of time it took for him to reach williams and then him coming back is them all reuniting and leading to present day. anyways basically same premise as the movie obv,, reader and (probably) george are in a long term relationship (rather than married) and (probably) alex comes back onto the scene in the williams seat which gags everyone and then yk kinda same premise as movie.

also if george is the art character then reader would be toto’s daughter (wolff!reader) to really emphasise that like power couple thing art and tashi had going on in the media, like mercedes golden boy and girl!

also can you just imagine the galex angst! childhood best friends to strangers </3.

i wish i was patient enough or had enough time to actually write this series and not just make a social media au, but if any writers are invested enough and would write this then feel free to just take this idea bc i’d love to read it and you’d probably do it more justice then i will hahah! 🎾💌🏎️🦢

[b0r3dtod3ath]

im writing for josh o'connor now so requests are open!

i mean : ))

[lamphous]

jk I opened the wikipedia page of this episode to see where it fell re: the vessel and the first three proper names I read were mark gatiss, douglas mackinnon, and of course steven moffat. the urge to see tobias menzies on an little ship. ohhhhh vienna !

next week on doctor who promo telling me we're trying to join the annals of television submarine time travel episodes and I am already rolling my eyes, but then tobias menzies showed up for a split second and I screeched HEYYYYY GIRLFRIENNNND. so I suppose I must carry on.

[bbclesmis]

Andrew Davies on Les Miserables: ‘I’m rescuing it from that awful musical’

Give Andrew Davies a piece of classic literature and he will show you the erotic desires and deep-rooted anxieties that lurk beneath. Think of the passions he unleashed in the nation’s living rooms when he sent Mr Darcy for a dip in his full-blooded 1995 adaptation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, or the consternation he provoked when he inserted a spot of incest into War and Peace in 2016.

Yet even to Davies, a new adaptation of Les Misérables – which he claims “will rescue Victor Hugo’s novel from the clutches of that awful musical with its doggerel lyrics” – posed a challenge. Perhaps the biggest question was how to represent the sexuality of its two principal characters: Jean Valjean, the prisoner who breaks his parole (played by Dominic West); and his nemesis, Javert (David Oyelowo) the policeman who hounds him until the end of his days.

Over tea in central London, Davies tells me that he was surprised to discover that, in Hugo’s 1862 novel, neither character mentions any sort of sexual experience, leaving the 82-year-old screenwriter wondering, at least in the case of Javert, whether it was indicative of a latent homosexuality.

“His obsession with Jean Valjean represents a kind of perverse, erotic love,” Davies says. He doesn’t stop there. In capturing the febrile atmosphere of post-Napoleonic France, he also shows how the innkeeper’s daughter Eponine (Erin Kellyman) expresses her desire for the earnest student Marius (Josh O’Connor).

“One of the best things Hugo does is to have Eponine tease Marius with her sexiness because he is a bit of a prig,” says Davies. “So I have introduced a scene where Marius, even though he is in love with Cosette [Valjean’s adopted daughter], has a wet dream about Eponine and feels rather guilty about it. I think it fits into the psychology of the book.”

Another problem that needed solving was Cosette, “a pretty nauseating character in the book”, whom Davies has made “strong and optimistic, rather than just an idealised figure who doesn’t add anything at all.” In the past, he has spoken about how he has turned the more saccharine depictions of 19th-century womanhood he has found on the page into women with the power “to disconcert men”, by injecting into them a little of his own mother’s character. I ask if she also makes her presence felt in Les Misérables. “I don’t think so. Was she like Madame Thénardier?” he wonders, referring to the sometimes violent innkeeper’s wife, here played by Olivia Colman. “No, that would be awful. Although she was quite keen on smacking people. The women in this book are not terribly complicated.”

I suggest that this might not sit well with modern viewers. “Well, I suppose Fantine goes on one hell of a journey,” says Davies, effecting a cod-American accent. “She develops a sort of animal ferocity and that is all because of how she has been treated.”

Davies’ childhood sounds rosy by comparison. No sooner had he started at his Cardiff grammar than he wrote a naughty poem about two of the modern language teachers, which went around the whole school in samizdat. He recites it for me:

He kissed her, she kissed him      

back.  

He took her knickers off and put    

them in a sack.

She took his underpants and put    

them in her bag.

He said: “Excusez-moi, but may I    

have a shag?”

After that, his writing career settled into a slow burn. He studied English at University College London, then moved to Kenilworth, where he met his future wife, Diana Huntley (they have been married since 1960 and have two children) and began teaching literature at the Coventry College of Further Education. He wrote the odd TV play and a whole host of radio scripts – sadly, now all deleted. One 1972 play about wife swapping, Steph and the Single Life, received complaints from those who denounced it as “obscene, disgusting rubbish”.

More solid success came to Davies in the Eighties, most notably with his greatest original work, A Very Peculiar Practice, based on his experiences at Warwick. Heavy on existential gloom, it concluded with the campus being sold to a private American company, which turned it into a defence research base. Never has a series ended to quite such a peal of mirthless laughter and its extraordinary scheduling (9pm on BBC One) was, thinks Davies, a mistake.

At that point, it was hard to imagine that Davies would, a few years later, be the person to turn costume drama into sportive heritage TV. His Middlemarch came first, in 1994, and was followed 18 months later by Pride and Prejudice, one of the most popular TV series of all time. I wonder how he feels about Nina Raine’s forthcoming small-screen adaptation.

“I am very excited about it,” he says. Then he adds, “even though I wish her all the best, I hope it’s not as popular as my one. It gives me so much pleasure when people say, ‘I was feeling rotten and so I just went to bed and put on Pride and Prejudice’. People use it to get over bereavements – I’m better than a priest!”

This is not arrogance. Davies may be sharp, naughty and ironic, but he is embarrassed by anyone who makes a fuss over him. He worries that this month’s documentary about his work, Rewriting the Classics, is “a bit effusive”, and he seems too pragmatic to be affected by writerly insecurity. Is he sensitive?

“I am much less sensitive than I used to be. I remember being cast down when I had a play that went to Broadway,” he says, referring to 1980’s Rose, which starred Glenda Jackson as a schoolteacher and closed after only 68 performances. “Column after column was spent saying how terrible it was. I couldn’t eat solid food for a week.”

He had a similarly bruising experience with the film industry. A decade ago, Davies admitted that he was disappointed that his movie career had not been more buoyant (Bridget Jones’s Diary was a rare success). Talking to me now, however, he is more sanguine.

“And that’s because the writer is king in TV. In film, all the stories that people say, that they pay you a lot of money and treat you like s---, are true in my experience. I have been sacked from several movies without being told. You meet someone at a party and you say you are working on a picture and they’ll laugh and say, ‘No, you’re not.’ It’s not terribly nice.”

Two more Davies adaptations will be shown next year – of Austen’s fragment, Sanditon, and of Vikram Seth’s epic A Suitable Boy. He would love to adapt more 19th-century classics (Dickens’s Dombey and Son and Trollope’s The Barchester Chronicles are top of his list) but before that, we can look forward to his version of the Rabbit Angstrom novels by John Updike, an author whose perceived misogyny might not seem an obvious fit in today’s cultural climate.

“There are a lot of grim things said about Updike at the moment, but he is a wonderful observer of how we all behave,” says Davies. “I don’t think writers are there to be role models, they are there to say what the world is like from their point of view.”

If the number of irons he has  in the fire makes it sound as though Davies is spreading himself too thinly, he displays an air of toughness despite his advancing years and a recent double hip replacement. “I don’t feel old. I had my one-year check-up yesterday and my surgeon pronounced that he was pleased with his work. My hips are good for another 10 years.”

As well as his prolific adapting, I wonder whether Davies has the desire to tell the story of his own life. “I really ought to,” he says. “I would like to start with my parents’ lives, in the early days of their marriage, because something went wrong there.” I ask why and Davies lowers his voice almost to a whisper.  “I think it’s probably something to do with sex.”

Ben Lawrence, The Telegraph, 22 December 2018 (x)

[viralhottopics]

From Westworld to Homeland: pop culture’s obsession with gaslighting

Why have stories about men mind-controlling women come to define much of modern pop culture?

It is hard to say where todays cultural obsession with gaslighting reached its climax: in the exaggerated mind control of Jessica Jones, the murky, shifting terrain of Homeland, the conspiracy-rich Westworld or the old-school domestic violence that has gripped The Archers. It became a pop culture trope so gradually that, by the time it ended up dominating our favourite TV shows, it seemed completely obvious that it should.

For the purist, the definition comes from the play Gaslight, written by Patrick Hamilton in 1938 and made into a film two years later by Thorold Dickinson. It is a mannered but compelling vision of domestic abuse, in which a husband, with lies, verbal aggression and disappointed certainty manipulates his wife into questioning her sanity, whereupon he becomes her only mooring to the real world and his accusations become more potent.

The play, which also became a US film starring Ingrid Bergman in 1944, speaks to a deeper truth: that intimate spaces are vulnerable by definition. There is a softness under the social shell that isnt sure of itself, that seeks reassurance, that is easily assaulted. The elemental truth of domestic violence is that everyone has an undefended space, and the only defence is to hope that a bad person never gets in there. This explains the persistence of the trope, and its later application in psychoanalysis and child sexual abuse literature. Only those closest to you could make you disbelieve yourself; it is a rare terror, and a daunting challenge, to have to plead your veracity from a place of doubt and solitude.

The Archers Rob and Helen. Photograph: BBC/Pete Dadds

Tim Stimpson, scriptwriter on The Archers, recalls how 2016s volcanic gaslighting plotline developed: Helen, meeting Rob, was initially attracted to his certainty, a dominating manner that quickly became controlling, undermining, malicious, rarely (though occasionally) physically violent but laced throughout with nauseating menace.

Stimpson remembers: When we heard the actor, and how sinister his voice sounded, we kept going back to Secret Agent and Sabotage; Sean [OConnor, the shows editor until last year] loves all these black-and-white movies, and that was the image he always had in his head, that the story would end in the kitchen or dining room. We always knew that it was going to end with Helen stabbing Rob. Whats interesting is how, in the context of how many domestic abuse storylines in soaps there have been over time, this one happened gradually.

David Tennant as Jessica Joness Kilgrave. Photograph: Allstar/MARVEL STUDIOS

Jessica Jones is a Netflix original based on the lesser-spotted feminist Marvel strip Alias and features a protagonist who has been mind-controlled by Kilgrave (David Tennant at his most repellent) and is free but profoundly damaged. His power, a simple one, is to make anyone do anything, a kind of dystopian Simon Says. He is the ultimate gaslighter, exerting a mind control so consummate it doesnt need gaslight. He doesnt have to make the victim doubt herself, since her free will is already shot.

Kilgrave gaslights women with an instruction that doesnt sound overly dramatic: he tells women to smile, and they do. It is closely observed and leg-crossingly chillingly, the way Rob in The Archers was when he called Helen fat, the way of a brain-eating worm, a violence that cant be seen, that will only be believed much too late. It had an immediate effect on audiences, sparking its own hashtag, #stoptellingwomentosmile, iterating with Marvel amplification an act of dominance that in a regular, non-superhero context seems so blameless. He just told you to smile, love. Whats the big deal? Except smiling isnt nothing. Smiling is an expression of a feeling; youre being told to feel a feeling, and then, afterwards, that you felt it.

Claire Danes as Carrie in Homeland. Photograph: c.Showtime/Everett / Rex Feature

Gaslighting has become so common a device in culture that its elements start to divide and curdle. In Homeland, the threat to Carrie is that her perceptions genuinely are up for grabs; perhaps her memory is to be wiped as a medical necessity and, with it, her search for truth; or her madness is summoned deliberately by an enemy who substitutes her drugs; or she has to push herself to the brink of psychosis in order to fully perceive. She exists beyond the territory of the intimate space, since her condition makes the world her intimate: anyone can get in there and, in a nefarious world, anyone does. It induces a hideous seasickness for which there is no port but unconditional trust, and that trust never stays, only comes and goes. It is much more textured than, say, The Girl On The Train, a gaslight classic that could have been thought up by Patrick Hamilton: a woman who blacks out when she is drunk is persuaded she did things that she didnt. A sound mind will only admit one villain at a time; an unsound mind will admit a matrix.

Josh Cohen, professor of modern literary theory at Goldsmiths and a practising psychoanalyst, makes this fascinating comparison: If you think of this as a reprise of post-Kennedy conspiracy culture, theres an interesting difference: in the glut of books about the assassination, or the movies of the early 70s, the thing that is sinisterly controlling us or taking over our lives is an anonymous force, somewhere beyond us, invisible. It turns us into indivisible units, we dont matter. Gaslighting is massively charged emotionally; theres an intimacy, theres a violation. All the cognates youd find in psychoanalytic language are about claustrophobia. Whereas previously, the paranoia was agoraphobic.

Thandie Newton in Westworld. Photograph: John P. Johnson/AP

Westworld based on the 1973 film of the same name pulls off an unsettling melange of agoraphobia and claustrophobia. A theme park is populated by androids who routinely have their memories wiped by higher authority. They exist for the titillation of high net worth usually malicious, paying human guests but dont know theyre not real so, as a viewer, your sympathy is with the android, caught between these two poles of tech (the theme park masters) and capital (the sadistic high-rollers). The act of gaslighting dehumanises the humans, weaving a subtle and complicated confusion around what consciousness and humanity is.

If you apply the term politically, what we call post-truth politics would actually be better classed as gaslighting; that thing you say I said, I didnt say. Youre mad, youre hysterical, youre a snowflake, youre imagining things. The political parallels are fundamental: arguing for universal human rights is a lot like pleading your own sanity; once you have to do it, youve already lost. For example, if you have to say not all Mexicans are rapists, youve already lost. Cohen notes: We keep using this language of bubbles and echo chambers, which again are very claustrophobic. In the age of social media, we create quite tight, personalised spaces for ourselves, through which are mediated all the events of the world. So the news, particularly when its highly charged emotionally, is happening to us. Somebody whos good at gaslighting can really infuse that sensation in us, that were kind of losing it. I feel that there is a personal experience of conspiracy against us, which is intimate and suffocating.

Ingrid Begman in 1944s Gaslight. Photograph: SNAP/REX/Shutterstock

Stimpson, coming from a completely perpendicular perspective, arrives at a similar conclusion about social media, that so much of our lives are visible now. We put so much of ourselves on Facebook or Twitter, and its all the way we want ourselves to be seen. Helen did a lot of that when she was out in public, she put on this front of being in a perfect relationship. We display ourselves so readily in a way that erases the dark moments of intimacy. Helens was a fairly straightforward mirroring of a social trend in drama: an arms race of perfection. As our public selves become more and more idealised, and the circle in which we can give an honest account tightens, the result is a very constrained, oppressive space. Homeland, at the other end of the scale, amplifies to the point of distortion that murky terror of ones credibility resting entirely on a manipulable social judgment one could never accurately perceive or control.

Gaslighting as metaphor has the resonance of a human truth, but takes its relevance from this particular time: when the cod intimacy of scattergun sharing traps us behind masks, and a new brutality in popular discourse goes straight to Youre mad without even pausing at Youre wrong. It is salient to consider what the escape is from the gaslit situation: not a white knight or a deus ex machina, but a witness. In this gothic fairytale, solidarity is the hero and, maybe, as unlikely as it sounds, the way out of the political wilderness is through our television sets.

Homeland begins on Channel 4, 9pm, Sunday 22 January

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from From Westworld to Homeland: pop culture’s obsession with gaslighting

[at0michips]

home sweet home — josh o'connor

summary: your long distance boyfriend decides to move all the way to NYC so you can live together, but with all the work he has to deal before he can enjoy it, you decide to take care of the move. now after long weeks apart he's back.

Today was the day, where Josh was finally going to come back home after months of doing press all over the world and the country. Well, not exactly home. Yes it was his house, and yes he was going to live there with you after a year and a half of being together, but with two new movies out and a whole press tour that included being only a few hours away from you and your new house in New York, to being literally across the world, the poor english man didn't had the time to be there to even unpack the things he brought from England or the ones you bought together.

However, you promised yourself this wouldn't be a problem at all. He did what he had to do and you would be there no matter what, of course it was kind of energy draining to deal with your work and moving in but you made it! You would finally be able to be with him by the end of the day, and the dinners wouldn't have to be over facetime anymore with a different time zone. Not complaining tho, you were forever grateful for when your boss sent you to England to cover an event were you met you now boyfriend.

You were so excited that you could also feel a little anxious too, making sure that even after everything was on it's place for two weeks now, there wasn't anything wrong. Not like Josh would get in the apartment and start pointing out the things you could have done better, he wasn't that kind of person, and he also knew better that going against you but you just couldn't help but want everything to be perfect for your first night together in your own house to be just perfect.

And apparently everything was just fine, his favorite meal was in the oven and shouldn't be ready for at least the next 30 minutes, meaning you had plenty of time to do nothing. With that in mind, the wine bottle on the countertop that you bought on your way from work seemed perfect to ease your nerves while you waited for Josh to come home, wich by your counts could happen anytime now.

Time actually flew after your second glass of wine and sometime (you have no idea of how much) scrolling through tiktok that you were actually surprised when you heard the doorbell, and with that you looked like an anxious kid running barefoot to open the door to see the person you were craving to see for weeks now. The first thing you do is throw yourself at him who's more than ready to catch with his strong arms and lift you up just a little bit of the ground.

"Oh my god I missed you so so much!" you said before attacking his cheek with kisses. You could finally hear his pretty laugh close to your ear and the fact that it wasn't through a phone call was so relieving.

"It seemed like forever without you luv." he said putting you back on the ground with a stupid smile on his face, while he admired you for a moment before connecting your lips together in a quick kiss. The man ahead of you looked exhausted yet so happy to finally meet you again for what felt like ages.

After realizing you guys were still outside of your house, you take his hand and pull him inside, excited for finally having him to yourself.

"You're making dinner? It smells amazing in here" he said with an excited tone as he entered your now oficially shared house and locked the door behind him.

"Guess what it-" but before you could finish your sentence he was already taking a look in the oven "Josh no! Why are you like this?" you pouted.

"Aw babe, I can't believe you did my favorite." he said turning back to face you and failed to hold a laugh after looking at your frown "M'sorry for antecipating the surprise luv, i'm starving!" he took your cheeks into his hands and lowered himself a bit to give a peck into your lips, that immediately made you melt into the man's hands.

"Okay, but next time wait until I finish my line. Now go wash your hands." you said with the demanding tone Josh missed for what felt like an eternity.

The male did as you told him so and went to the bathroom to wash up as you took the dish into the dining room, serving each of your plates with the food you made and your glasses with the already opened wine. Everything was ready when he got back, and you guys proceeded with the dinner, sharing stories from each other works, giving updates about friends, family and silly things from your routines.

It seemed like you guys were never apart from each other, like this was just another regular night of your little life together and not the first from what you hoped would be forever. After dinner, the man decided that the dishes could wait until tomorrow, he didn't wanted you to work more. He knew your weeks has been exhausting, having to wake up early, do your job and then take care of the small renovation in the house and the move. And he knew that today even after the apartment was ready, you haven't stopped, going to work and then making him dinner after arriving.

What has he done to deserve someone so caring? That thought didn't left his mind for one second the whole night, and he was determined to make you feel the same, at least a little bit. With that in mind, you guys went straight to the bathroom of your suite to take a shower together.

It was such a sweet and intimate moment. Of course it wasn't the first time you guys took a shower together, but there was something about his gentle hands on your shoulders and all the way down your back while he kept up a small conversation about the little things he noticed around the apartment that just made this moment so special for you. In your eyes this was real intimacy, being able to be naked and so close and yet don't feel the need to be having sex with each other. Of course you were missing him in bed, god how many times you had to please yourself while he was away, but for now that moment felt like it was enough for both of you.

After the bath, you put on your pajamas and were now on your shared bed with some of the gifts the british man bought you during the press tour. Most of them came with a "oh this one reminded me of you" wich just melted your heart.

"I figured this one we could use together, what do you think?" he said holding a face mask next to his face. You laughed, like how cute could a 34 year old man be?

"Of course my lord." you said with a fake british accent and started tying up your hair while he rolled his eyes at your mocking and proceeded to open the packages.

"And now what?" he asked as you tidy up the mask on his face.

"Well, the package says we have to wait 10 minutes and then take it off." you get up and start to put away your gifts and hear the body of your boyfriend dramatically fall back in your bed, to wich you return with your everyday lotion in hands.

"Let me take care of it for you." he sits up and basically takes the lotion out of your hands and motioned for you to lay down "Relax for a bit, you must be tired...".

He's right, luckily is a friday night and you won't have to worry about waking up early in the morning for the next two days. So you do as he said and lay your head on the pillow and just enjoy the sensation of his long fingers coated with your lotion massaging your feet, slowly working his way up your leg. You smile at the sight of Josh caressing your skin so carefully, his face so concentrated but it was impossible to take him seriously with that mask on that you closed your eyes, choosing to just enjoy your broyfriend's affection.

It must have been the wine, the calming sensation on your face and the loving touch of your boyfriend, but after your eyes closed it only took five minutes for you to doze off. Josh laughed a bit when he realized that, he gently left your feet in the bed while he stood up to put away your lotion and turn off the lights, coming back to carefully take the mask off of your face, taking his own next.

The man stretched himself before laying by your side and pulling the covers up both of you. He was so tired of the long flight, but so grateful for you to be there, always caring so much for him, the thought of going back to his house in England was boring, but after getting to be with you tonight it sounded even worse, it would be sad. There wouldn't be nobody to receive him by the door, or a warm dinner for him to eat, or someone for him to share how exciting it was to be all over the world and have his work recognized by millions of people.

You shifted in your sleep finding your way to his chest and he could swear that this was the moment his heart melted. It wasn't only today, he had noticed your effort all around the house, how you made sure all his favorite stuff had a visible place so it could be exposed or put to use. He wrapped his arms around you and closed his eyes, slowly giving in to sleep with a warm feeling in his chest. He was finally at home.

[midwestprincesss]

PARTNERS IN CRIME | prologue

pairing: enemies to lovers patrick zweig x female!reader summer camp au

summary: after graduating highschool, both you and patrick look for a summer job. you, because you wanted to save some money before college. and him because he needed a place to sleep. you thought you finally got rid of him forever, after highschool. but it's patrick zweig, so c'mon.

a/n: chapter one is coming today as well!!!!! if u wanna be tagged in it let me know. if u guys have any ideas send them to me!!! 💖💖

chapter 1

you glared across the room at patrick, the smug grin on his face reminding you of every reason you couldn't stand him. his stupid fucking jokes. how every girl in highschool seemed to be obsessed with him.

you thought it was over. after years and years of constant bickering and sharing dirty looks with him, you thought you got rid of him for good. but there you were, in the meeting hall of the camp you were going to work in the whole summer. you were currently being informed about the rules of the whole thing, and how the kids will be arriving in three days. they were all high schoolers, mostly freshmen. so they weren't going to be such a bother. but you had patrick, and he was definitely going to make up for them.

3 months were left until college, and you desperately wanted to save some money. your parents told you they'd help you financially, but you wanted to be independent. and to gain experience, too.

you actually thought about it before- working as a camp counselor sounded nice. maybe you would even meet a cute guy.

well, there's no denying that patrick can be described as a "cute guy", but not to you. you hated his guts. a lot of people said that you two are like the exact same person, but you refused to believe it- being compared to patrick zweig was one of the worst insults you have ever received.

you looked at him one more time, squinting your eyes. you didn't know what to do. you wanted to keep him as far away as possible. the only scenario in which you would want to be close to him was if you got to punch him. that can be considered close, right? your fist, really, really close to that annoying face of his. you grinned. it was a nice thought.

your phone buzzed.

smiling @ me? ;) -Patrick Zweig

why did he still have your number? and why did he think it was a good idea to text you? fuck him, you thought. he was just trying to piss you off. as always.

and you couldn't believe you had to put up with his bullshit for three fucking months. and it was all just starting.

[midwestprincesss]

y'all im about to start writing the summer camp counselor patrick series BUT give me some ideas. like how do u want the reader to be like more innocent or do you want her to be literally the female version of patrick and that's like the reason she kinda can't stand him. like what do u want their dynamic to be!!!!!!!

[midwestprincesss]

is it really worth it?

art donaldson looks like the little tapioca pearls in the boba tea but like i cant explain it