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noir-lullaby · 6 months ago

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The Spotlight is Ours Pt. 1

Pairing: Aaron Pierre x Black Original Character

Summary: Two rising Black British stars in Hollywood. One fateful night at the NAACP Image Awards. When actress Sienna Sinclair presents the award for Outstanding Actor in a Limited Series, the winner is none other than Aaron Pierre. The chemistry is instant, the banter is effortless, and the connection? Dangerous. But in an industry where everyone is watching, some things are better left unsaid… or are they?

🔸 Warnings: Heavy flirtation, mutual pining, and the start of something messy. 🔸 Author’s Note: Welcome to the beginning of a very questionable love story.

The NAACP Image Awards were in full swing, a night dedicated to celebrating Black excellence in entertainment. The grandeur of the Pasadena Civic Auditorium was amplified by the shimmering gold and deep purple stage design, and the room was alive with applause, camera flashes, and the palpable energy of some of the biggest names in Hollywood.

Seated among the nominees, Aaron Pierre adjusted the cuffs of his custom black tuxedo, keeping his expression cool despite the slight thrum of anticipation in his chest. He had been nominated for Outstanding Actor in a Limited Television Series, Special, or Movie for his role in Rebel Ridge, a project that had tested his limits as an actor and elevated his career. Winning would be monumental, but he wasn’t the type to get ahead of himself.

As he sat waiting, his attention flickered to the stage where the next presenter was being introduced.

“Please welcome, the incredibly talented, Sienna Sinclair!”

Aaron’s brows lifted slightly as he watched Sienna Sinclair glide onto the stage, radiating effortless grace and confidence. He had heard of her, of course—the Oscar-winning British actress whose career had skyrocketed after her powerful performance in a historical drama. He had seen her on magazine covers, watched her interviews in passing, but seeing her in real life was… different.

Dressed in a form-fitting, midnight-blue gown, she exuded a kind of cool, magnetic energy. And then she spoke—her London accent cutting through the air, smooth yet commanding.

“Alright, alright. Let’s get to it,” she said, flashing a teasing smile as she opened the envelope. “The nominees for Outstanding Actor in a Limited Television Series, Special, or Movie are…”

Aaron barely heard the rest of the list. His focus was on her, the way she carried herself, how her presence seemed to pull attention like gravity.

Then—

“…and the NAACP Image Award goes to—” She paused, drawing out the suspense, her dark eyes flickering toward the camera with playful mischief.

“Aaron Pierre, for Rebel Ridge!”

The crowd erupted into applause.

Aaron blinked once before allowing a slow, satisfied smile to spread across his face. He stood, adjusting his suit with ease before making his way toward the stage, dap-ups and handshakes following him on the way.

When he reached the podium, he took the award from Sienna's hands, and for a brief moment, their fingers brushed. It was subtle, fleeting, but enough to make Aaron glance up and fully take her in.

Up close, she was even more stunning.

“Congratulations,” Sienna murmured, her voice just low enough for him to hear.

“Appreciate it,” Aaron replied smoothly, his deep voice wrapping around the word in a way that made Sienna’s lips twitch slightly.

Aaron turned toward the microphone, delivering a speech that was humble, thoughtful, and reflective of his journey. He spoke about the importance of storytelling, about the shared experiences of Black British and African-American actors carving out spaces in Hollywood, about how recognition like this was both an honor and a responsibility.

“I didn’t get here alone,” he finished, his rich voice sending a hush over the room. “To every young Black actor watching, to every kid dreaming beyond what they’ve been told is possible—we are the blueprint. And the best is still yet to come.”

Thunderous applause.

Sienna clapped alongside the audience before leaning into the mic. “And on top of all that… he’s also Mufasa.”

The crowd roared with laughter, and Aaron exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

Sienna smirked at him. “Had to.”

Aaron gave her a look—amused, but also intrigued. “We’ll talk about this backstage.”

Sienna tilted her head, watching him as he walked off. “Looking forward to it.”

The post-win chaos was already unfolding backstage—cameras flashing, journalists waiting for quotes, production assistants ushering talent from one place to another. Aaron had barely had time to process the moment when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Well, well, look at you, Mr. Award Winner.”

Aaron turned.

Sienna Sinclair stood there, arms crossed, watching him with a smirk.

Aaron couldn’t help but let his gaze linger for half a second longer than necessary. “Didn’t expect to see you back here so soon.”

Sienna shrugged. “Had to personally congratulate you. You know, since I had the honor of saying your name on stage.”

Aaron nodded, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “You did say it well. Very elegant.”

Sienna raised an eyebrow. “I do everything elegantly.”

Aaron exhaled a quiet chuckle. “Not doubting it.”

She tilted her head slightly. “So… how does it feel? Winning?”

Aaron glanced down at the trophy in his hand before looking back at her. “Feels good. But I won’t lie—hearing my name come out of your mouth might’ve been the highlight of the night.”

Sienna sucked her teeth, shaking her head, though there was something in her expression—something that said she wasn’t entirely unaffected by him.

“You’re full of it,” she teased.

Aaron leaned in slightly. “Am I?”

Sienna, ever the quick-witted one, smirked. “Yeah. And I can’t believe you let me call you out in front of everyone like that.”

Aaron shook his head. “The Mufasa jingle?”

Miracle nodded. “You knew I had to bring it up.”

Aaron narrowed his eyes playfully. “You enjoyed that way too much.”

“I did,” she admitted, her smirk widening. “And let’s be real, you love it. Don’t lie, you’ve sung it to yourself at least once.”

Aaron rubbed his jaw, his expression unreadable. “I’m not dignifying that with a response.”

Sienna laughed, tilting her head. “It’s alright, Aaron. Aaron Pierre, that’s Mufasa—it’s got a nice ring to it.”

Aaron exhaled a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You know, it’s unfair how much pleasure you’re getting out of this.”

“Oh, trust me, I could get pleasure out of a lot more than that.”

Aaron’s jaw tightened slightly, the air between them shifting from playful to something heavier.

Sienna’s eyes held his, dark and teasing. “But I’ll let you enjoy your win first.”

Aaron huffed a laugh, nodding. “So generous of you.”

She smirked. “You’re welcome.”

The moment stretched just a second longer than necessary—his gaze still locked with hers, her breath just a little deeper.

From across the backstage area, a production assistant called out to Sienna, signaling that she was needed elsewhere.

She exhaled, shaking her head as she took a step back. “Well, Mufasa, I’ll see you around.”

Aaron tilted his head slightly, watching as she turned and walked away, her presence lingering even after she disappeared from sight.

“Yeah,” he murmured to himself, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “You will.”

#aaron pierre #aaron pierre x black!oc #aaron pierre fanfic #aaron pierre fic

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pasukiyo · 3 months ago

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CHAPTER ONE

dbf!joel miller x female reader

CONTENT WARNINGS! reader’s father has cancer, age gap between reader and joel, farmer!joel

Series Synopsis: In the summer of 2003 as she’s already feeling down on her luck, she’s called back home upon news of her father falling ill to take over his farm. Soon upon arrival, she meets Joel Miller— a friend her father made during her absence. Joel made a promise to her father to help get her back into the swing of things around the farm and he intends to make good on his word… but things are complicated when an undeniable connection inspires a world of trysts and starts them down a path they may never be able to turn away from. But like how all good things must come to an end, their secrets are bound to break, or else they’ll be their destruction…

word count: 4,012

join the TAGLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

SUMMER 2003

The odds, it seems, are never in her favor.

To think that just last summer, she thought she’d have it all: a book deal, a nice job, a nice car, a nice house, a nice salary, a nice man. She supposes she can at least tick off one of the things on the list— though moving back to her childhood home wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind.

In a perfect world, she’d be living the dream fresh out of grad school. She’d sip cups of coffee on her own front porch, a delightful morning breeze through her hair as she builds other worlds on a word document, the sun rising over the horizon to break the dawn. She’d maybe have a dog or two running in the yard, a hand on her shoulder and a kiss on her cheek to bid her goodbye, a boyfriend, fiancé, husband waving as he peels out of the driveway, honking his horn the entire way down the street until he was out of sight. She wouldn’t feel a hollowness in the pit of her belly, or feel the presence of an annoying little insect at her ear, buzzing with the reminder that there’s something missing.

She’d feel happy, accomplished, fulfilled.

As the car turns and they pull onto the old dirt road she hadn’t seen in years, that dream seems to fade until it’s nothing more than a dark shape on the horizon, setting with the sun.

That old familiar ache pulses in her lower back as her mother drives them over the bumpy, gravel road, the metal gate leading to her childhood home rolling into view. She sucks air between her teeth and grimaces— partly due to the pain in her back, but also because this is when the feeling truly sinks in: she’s moving back home.

She’s never hated Texas. Though she’s never been too fond of its cruel summers, she missed how green it was, how much space there was to live, breathe, grow here. Six years of living in the cramped city, she’d forgotten how free the country could be. There’s always been a special place in her heart for home that no amount of distance or time or bigger cities could ever fill. You never forget the place where you had all your firsts, after all.

When she was younger, she used to idolize living in a big city like New York or Los Angeles. She’d daydream about being a famous Hollywood actor or Broadway star, about being a beloved singer in LA, a well-esteemed writer in NYC.

The movies and television shows all made it look so easy to make it big. Truly, she thought the world was her oyster, that she could go anywhere she wanted and be anyone she wanted. It’s why she made the decision early on to go to school in Manhattan— she believed she’d never look back, that she’d prove her parents wrong and make them proud once her dreams inevitably came true.

Those dreams, however, were not as inevitable as she thought.

It was a cruel thing, realizing she only believed her dreams would come true just because she was young and naive. The movies and television shows never show what it’s like to risk everything and not get that happy ending. Unfortunately, she had to find out the hard way. She moved to Manhattan thinking she’d have everything she wanted and instead, she left with brand new scars, a broken pride, and an emptiness as dark as a damn lump of coal.

Still, she didn’t come back to Texas entirely by choice.

It’s another piece of evidence to suggest the odds are never in her favor. She’d gotten the call just over a week ago, and she knew whenever her mother called, it must be something serious. Her father had fallen ill, cancer in the pancreas, the doctors had said. He tried to keep the ball rolling on the farm by himself after his diagnosis but with each day that passes, he grows wearier, weaker. Her mom can’t do the work all by herself between caring for her dad and doing upkeep on the house, and her older brother, Wyatt, has practically fallen off the radar.

When she heard the news, she knew she wouldn’t have much of a choice to begin with. Besides, looking around her measly one bedroom apartment in one of the shittiest streets of Manhattan with hardly a penny to her name, she realized she dodn’t have much keeping her there anyways. Honestly, it wasn’t all that difficult nor tedious, packing everything up and catching a flight back to Texas.

The engine revs as her mother presses her foot harder down on the gas to make it up over the curve of the driveway, sputtering once they reach level ground. Every square inch of her body aches but she’s finally here, and she rolls her head around on her shoulders as her mom kills the engine.

For a moment, they each take the time to sit in the silence that falls once the engine stops, and the image before her of her childhood home seeps back into her skin, the familiarity of it filling old gaps in her memory. It’s been years since she last visited— she never took the time to visit for holidays, not since her third semester at least. She was still clinging to the dying embers of her delusions then, justifying her absence from every holiday by telling herself she needed all the time to study and work she could get.

And look where that got her– right back where she started.

Things are tense between her and her mother to say the least. She supposes she can’t entirely blame her for it. Being back here now only because her father was ill and dying gives her a bit of a guilty edge. But there are other reasons why the silent air between her and her mother feels so thick.

Her mother is the first to speak, pulling the keys out of the ignition and pushing open the driver’s side door. “Welcome back home,” she says icily, enthusiasm far from her tone.

Her mother slams the door shut and she takes a deep breath, letting her mother’s coldness melt off her skin. There’s no sense in starting a fight now, not right when she’s come back home.

She pushes open her door and inhales as southeastern Austin’s warm summer breeze sifts its fingers through her hair, its sun beaming down on her face. Home smells just as she remembers it: like earth, wood, livestock, wheat, everything that you’d like think sum up to the smell of a farm. It’s strange how everything seems to be in the exact same places they were when she left, like nothing really changed at all. The wooden rocking chairs on the front porch seemed to not have even moved an inch, her father’s old truck is still parked in the same spot in front of the garage, even the number of wood in the pile by the old shed seems the same. The old oak tree doesn’t seem any different and the same old tire swing hangs from one of its branches. A black and white dog sits on the front porch, wagging its tail, barking as her mother makes her way to the door. Her father must’ve gotten it while she was gone but other than the dog, everything feels the same as it was.

It almost feels as if she’s never left and it would had it not been for the unfamiliar truck parked behind her father’s near the garage. She moves the hair away from her eyes and holds it above them, squinting at the old truck.

“Whose truck is that?” She asks, pointing towards it when her mother turns around to face her. Her mom glances over her shoulder, waving a hand through the air.

“Just Joel’s,” she replies simply, as if she was supposed to know this already.

Her mother begins making her way up the front porch steps, snapping her fingers at the dog and gesturing for it to get inside the house. She shakes her head, dropping her hand to her side.

“Well, who’s Joel?” She asks, a little impatiently.

Her mother sighs and turns back around, falling back against one of the columns holding up the roof of the porch. Before she can get her answer in, a deep voice sounds from behind her and she starts, spinning around on her heel to face the source.

“That’d be me, miss,” the voice says and she blinks at the man standing behind her, squinting in the sunlight, cleaning dirt off his hands with a stained yellow rag.

It almost seemed strange how matter-of-factly her mother introduced Joel, like he was nothing to worry about, something to brush off. Because she meets his eyes, the kind of brown that reminds her of the warm cup of chocolate her father used to make her on winter evenings when she was little, rounded with the sweetness that reminds her of a puppy. Perspiration glistens along his brow and there’s dark spots marring his blue shirt from hours of work in the summer Texas heat. He lifts an arm and wipes his sweaty brow on his bicep and she can’t help but notice the way his muscles flex when he does it, the product of years of in farmwork and whatever else he does.

It’s strange how quickly her mother brushes Joel off, as if he were unimportant, because she’s looking at him now and to be frank, she’s not sure how to tear her eyes away.

It’s the outstretching of his hand that sort of breaks her from her stupor, enough to make her reach for it to give it a firm shake, at least.

“Joel Miller,” he formally introduces himself and she focuses on how warm his hand feels, if not a bit damp with sweat. She can feel the lines of his palm and every callous made rough with work, and how large his hand is compared to hers fails to go unnoticed.

She swallows and releases the breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding in. Finally, she’s able to breathe, blood biting her cheeks. She gives him her name and he gives her a small, brief smile, nodding his head.

“You must be the daughter I’ve heard so many things about then,” he says and she blinks, nearly forgetting why she was there in the first place. Joel slides his hand away from hers and she swallows again, trying to play off like she wasn’t already missing his touch.

“I hope you’ve heard them from my dad then,” she replies with a chuckle she hopes doesn’t sound too terribly nervous. She hears a scoff behind her and the opening and closing of the screen door, almost forgetting her mother had been standing there to begin with. Joel blinks up at the front door, clearing his throat as his gaze drops back to the ground.

Joel tosses the rag over his shoulder and she tries not to notice how small the piece of dirty cloth seems compared to the breadth of him.

“Well, you’ll be pleased to know I have,” he says not unkindly, despite having not so much as smiled at her poor attempt at humor. He meets her gaze again, squinting against the harsh sunlight. “I’m a friend of his, been helpin’ out around the place as much as I can since he got sick.”

She nods, taking the opportunity to look away before the heat in her cheeks makes her break into a sweat. She curses herself— here she is, practically drooling over a man (an older one, mind) she’s literally just met, and he’s her father’s friend. She searches the ground as if she may find her shame there.

“How’s he been doing?” She asks, squinting back up at him.

He shrugs. “Been better. Been worse. I know he’s been lookin’ forward to seein’ you,” he replies and there it is again, that guilty edge of hers slithering back into her brain like a python, her shame for not having seen her father sooner curling around her throat.

It suddenly feels painful standing out here with Joel, admiring him when her father is laying in bed, sick and missing his only daughter. She clears her throat, giving him a small smile when their gazes briefly meet again.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Well, I should probably go in and see him,” she says, taking a few small steps backwards. “Are you going to come inside? It’s awfully hot.”

Joel purses his lips and shakes his head, waving a hand through the air. “Nah, I’ve gotta run home for dinner. My daughter’s apparently makin’ my brother and I chicken alfredo,” he says and she feels a pang in her temple. He has a daughter. Does that mean he already has a woman in his life? It would be very on brand for her: being attracted to unavailable men.

She shakes the thought away and smiles, nodding. “Alright, well, it was great meeting you, Joel,” she says and she swears his eyes flutter to her lips when she speaks, though she supposes she’s already deluded herself enough, so she brushes it off, telling herself it was nothing.

He nods too and swipes his fingers over the hair beneath his nose, bidding her farewell with a small wave. “You too. I’ll be seein’ ya,” he replies before they both turn, heading in the opposite directions. She’s painfully aware of his presence though and she hears the sound of his truck’s engine starting behind her as she reaches the door, his tires crunching the gravel beneath them as she slips inside of her childhood home for the first time since college.

The house smells the same as she remembers it too– it seems her mother still uses the same fruit-scented candles she did before. The same photographs hang on the walls and over in the bookcase in the living room, some of her old softball trophies remain displayed. There’s photographs from her graduation and her brother’s too, photos of her and Wyatt on the farm, holding chickens, sitting on the backs of horses with arms wrapped securely around their father’s waist.

Memories flood and it all just feels so bittersweet, being back. Perhaps some part of her missed Texas more than the others were willing to admit.

The black and white dog from before pads into the room upon her arrival, tongue hanging out of its head, tail wagging. She holds out her hand for it to sniff, letting it get accustomed to her before giving it a scratch behind the ears. The tags on the dog’s collar jingle as she pets it and she hooks her finger under it, turning it until she finds the bone-shaped nametag. Jovi. She titters, giving Jovi one last good scratch behind the ears before rising from the floor. Seems her father’s obsession with Bon Jovi still hasn’t gone away.

She hears voices, growing louder the closer she gets to her parents’s room. Her heartbeat quickens and she swears she can hear her own blood pumping as she prepares herself, but nothing, nothing could’ve prepared her for the sight she sees once she steps into the room.

Her father, the man she always looked up to, the man who always seemed like some unstoppable force, the strongest man she’s ever known now lays bundled beneath a heap of blankets, but even still, he’s half the size she’s already remembered him being. Her mother sits at his bedside and upon her arrival, her parents both turn and although everything has seemingly stayed the same, this is the moment she really feels the prolonged time between her last visit.

The odds have never been in her favor. Ever since she left home, she’s been nothing but down on her luck. But she’d go through it all again– every exam, every all-nighter pulled for studying’s sake, every hangover, every failed class, every shitty job, every shitty friend, every shitty heartbreak– if it’d meant she’d never have to see her father, the strongest man she’s ever known, like this again.

The corners of her father’s mouth curves and though his face is sullen, the sight of his daughter is able to return some of that glow she’s always remembered seeing her father in. Her father says her name and his voice is so fragile, so soft, so different that she just breaks.

“Daddy,” her voice cracks when she says it and it’s like she’s a little girl again, running to her dad during an especially frightening thunderstorm, seeking the comfort only a father’s arms can bring.

She practically falls onto the mattress, wrapping her arms around the thin shape of her father, her tears spilling onto the heap of blankets over him. It takes a moment, but she eventually feels his hands in her hair, on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs into the blankets, unable to lift her head, to meet her father’s eyes. Shame sears her skin and it feels like she’s burning alive. Why was she so sure everything was going to work out? Why was she so sure that everything she’d ever wanted– success, comfort, love– would just be handed to her? Why didn’t she ever stop to look back? Why didn’t she ever visit home? Why didn’t she ever even call? “I’m sorry,” she cries again, sniffling, still unable to lift her head. “I should’ve called. I should’ve came. I should’ve been here.”

His fingernails scratch her scalp, his palm soothing circles into her shoulder.

“Shhh,” he shushes her and she lifts her head, blinking tears away from her vision. She meets her father’s gaze and he gives her a smile, the hand in her hair falling to her chin, his eyes glossing over with his own set of tears. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

She feels the bed dip beside her and she turns just as her mother reaches a wary hand for her shoulder. Her mom’s hesitant and for a moment, she is too, holding her breath as her hand finds the curve of her shoulder. The fabric of her relationship with her mother has been torn and loose threads poke out of every one of their edges, torn by time and cruel words that have been both spoken and unspoken. To be honest, she’s no idea how to even begin sewing the threads of their relationship back together.

But her mother’s hand upon her shoulder tells her that she’s at least willing to try. And when their teary gazes meet, she thinks she’s willing to try too.

It was a strange day to say the least. She spent the entire evening talking to her father, asking him about everything– what he’s been up to, what’s been going around the farm, which MLB team he’s rooting for this season, Joel. It turns out her father met Joel in the city a couple years back at the workshop he and his brother, Tommy, work. Joel’s apparently helped build her father’s new barn, which she hadn’t even noticed during her homecoming, and has become a good friend of his, even coming over to watch baseball games and have a beer with him every once in a while. After her father’s diagnosis, he started helping getting all the chores around the farm done.

Never once did her father mention Joel having a wife or girlfriend or any sort of partner for that matter. It’s most definitely a selfish thought for her to have, if not an entirely inappropriate one. It isn’t like her to be so interested in a man older than her, but she just can’t stop thinking of how he looked earlier: tired, sore, and glistening with sweat after a day of work. How warm his hand was in hers, how rough with work it was in contrast to hers who’d grown so accustomed to city life in her adult years. How attractive his eyes were with their way of drawing her in, as if the brown in his irises were quicksand. The fatigue drawn in dark circles beneath them, potential proof of sleepless nights or merely long, long days.

In her own sleepless night, she wonders if Joel is too, tossing and turning thinking about her the way she was him.

The last words he’d said to her orbited her mind, making her restless. “I’ll be seein’ ya,” he’d said. If he’s been helping out around the farm, she’s certain to see him again soon.

She still can’t decide whether or not that’s a good thing when she wakes to the sound of a series of knocks on her bedroom door. She grumbles and stirs, stretching her limbs out over the expanse of her childhood bed. Her old room was one of the only other things that’s seemed to change since she’s been gone because, well, she’s been gone. A lot of her things still sit in their respective places on the dresser and the bookcase, but the vast majority of her things were packed away in boxes, now either sitting on the shelves of a thrift shop or packed into new boxes that she still hadn’t gotten out of her mother’s car in the driveway.

The world is still dark outside her window and she narrows her eyes, blinking the bleariness away from her vision as she peers over to the alarm clock sitting on her bedside table. Five o’clock in the fucking morning. What could possibly be the reason for someone to wake her up this early?

Another series of knocks raps on her door, this time more aggressive and her mother’s voice calls her name. She groans and her mother must take this as her cue to open the door, peeking inside.

“What?” She grumbles, an irritated edge to her sleep-ridden voice.

“Joel’s here waiting on you,” her mother states. “Get up! You’ve wasted enough of his time already.”

The sound of Joel’s name is like a splash of cold water in her face and she blinks, trying to make sense of the situation. Joel’s waiting on her? What could he possibly be waiting on her for?

Her heart skips a few beats in her chest and she hates the slight air of giddiness it seems to give her– it makes her feel like a lovesick schoolgirl when her heart seems like it’ll pump out of her chest any minute at the idea of meeting up with an attractive guy. It’s not like she has any real chance with Joel anyways. Whether or not he already has a woman in his life, he’s probably got way more important things to worry about, like his daughter. Not to mention that she’s probably at least a decade younger than him. Still, taming her heart in her chest proves to be a tedious task as she dresses herself and hurries down the stairs where Joel waits in the kitchen, sipping on a cup of coffee her mother must’ve made.

“Good morning,” she says and Joel looks up at her, the light above the dining table reflecting in those eyes she spent practically all night thinking about.

“Good morning,” he replies, voice a little thicker and huskier than the day before, more than likely due to that lack of sleep she suspected him of having.

She gulps, a nervous, uncertain smile on her face. “I’m sorry, I must be missing something. What exactly are you waiting on me for?”

Joel swallows a small mouthful of coffee and her eyes flicker to the bump in his throat when he does. She inhales sharply, adjusting her feet as heat blooms at her core. Jesus, she thinks. Maybe all this is just because she hasn’t gotten laid in a hot minute.

“Your dad asked if I’d show you the ropes ‘round the farm,” he replies, cocking an eyebrow. “Did he not get around to tellin’ you?”

NEXT CHAPTER

a/n; A NEW SERIES!!!!!! i've decided to approach this one a little differently than i have with other series i've done in the psat. i've been working ahead a little bit and i'm hoping to be able to keep up with a weekly post schedule for this one. we'll see how that goes. in the meantime, i hope you enjoyed the first chapter!

🐴 if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or even leaving a reply to let me know! it means the entire world to me 🫶

TAGLIST

@joelbrat

@sallowsarchives

@chaoticevilbakugo

@luckypurins

@k1ttenmittonz

@all-in-the-fandoms

@luvrgreyy

@joeldarling

#wanderin’ far don’t mean you’re lost masterlist #joel miller x reader #joel miller the last of us #joel tlou #joel the last of us #joel miller #joel #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us fic #the last of us imagine

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winchesterwild78 · 3 months ago

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Goodbye, My Love

Master List

Characters: Jensen Ackles x Reader (wife)

Warnings: Angst and heartbreak

A/N: Oh this is a heart wrenching, soul crushing story. Sorry. I’ve been going through a lot lately and like they say, writers pull from their own lives.

This story will be in 3 parts. I cried while writing this. If you don’t want to read something that may make you cry, please don’t.

This story follows Jensen and his reader wife as they struggle in their marriage.

Trigger Warning: Depression, dark thoughts (not suicidal, but wanting to disappear)

No disrespect to Jensen or his family, this is a work of fiction and in no way reflects real life.

All work is my own don’t take it or use it as your own. Reblogs and likes are appreciated.

Minors DNI 18+

The first crack appeared so subtly, like a hairline fracture on a beloved antique. For years, our laughter echoed through our house, mingling with the salty breeze from the nearby river. Jensen, with his easy charm and that crooked smile that still made my stomach flip, was everything. We built a life here, filled with cozy evenings by the fire, impromptu road trips to explore the area he knew so well, and the comforting rhythm of shared dreams.

His work in Vancouver or LA, filming, had always been a part of our story. The distance was manageable, punctuated by his returns and my visits to the set. But then the roles got bigger, the projects more demanding, and the stretches apart grew longer. Our phone calls, once filled with playful banter and intimate details, became hurried updates squeezed between takes and travel.

I started noticing little things. A flicker of weariness in his eyes during our video calls. A slight hesitation before saying "I love you." A new guardedness that settled around him like a subtle shift in the atmosphere before a storm. I’d ask if everything was okay, and he’d reassure me with that familiar grin, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.

The shared moments started to feel… different. The easy silences became heavy. The inside jokes felt a little less funny. We were still physically together when he was home, but there was a growing emotional distance, a chasm widening between us brick by silent brick.

One rainy afternoon, while he was away filming, I found a crumpled note in the pocket of a jacket he’d left behind. It wasn't addressed to anyone specific, just a few lines scribbled in his familiar handwriting: "Tired. So damn tired. Is this all there is?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. It wasn't an accusation, not a complaint directed at me, but it spoke volumes about a discontent I hadn't fully grasped. It was a quiet admission of something shifting within him, something that had nothing and everything to do with us.

That note became the unspoken elephant in the room when he returned. We navigated around it, both of us hesitant to acknowledge the growing unease. I tried harder, planning special dinners, suggesting weekend getaways, trying to recapture the spark that had once burned so brightly. He’d participate, but his heart didn’t seem to be fully in it. His smiles felt practiced, his hugs less tight.

The unraveling wasn't a dramatic explosion, but a slow, silent fraying of the threads that had once bound us so tightly. It was the gradual realization that the man I loved, the man I had built a life with, was drifting away, not towards someone else, but perhaps just… away. And the hardest part was the terrifying feeling that I didn't know how to stop it.

Sleep became a battlefield. We lay side-by-side in our familiar bed, the space between us growing wider each night. The comfortable weight of his arm across my waist, once a silent reassurance, now felt like a formality. I’d lie awake, listening to his even breathing, my mind a whirlwind of questions and anxieties. Was it me? Had I done something wrong? Or was this the inevitable consequence of two lives pulling in different directions, the glittering allure of Hollywood slowly eclipsing the quiet intimacy we had once cherished?

The house, once a sanctuary filled with warmth and laughter, now echoed with a hollow silence when he was away. I found myself wandering through the rooms, touching objects that held memories – the chipped mug from our first anniversary trip to Italy, the worn leather-bound copy of Poe he’d given me, the framed photographs capturing moments frozen in time, when our smiles were genuine and our eyes held a shared spark. Each object was a painful reminder of what we were slowly losing.

My friends noticed the change. Our easygoing dinners became strained, my forced cheerfulness a thin veil over a growing sadness. They offered well-meaning advice, suggesting date nights, couple’s therapy. But how could we fix something when neither of us seemed able to articulate what was truly broken? The words felt trapped in my throat, a heavy knot of fear and unspoken questions.

One evening, he came home from a particularly grueling shoot, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. I’d prepared his favorite meal, hoping for a moment of connection. But as we sat across from each other at the dining table, the silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. He picked at his food, his gaze distant.

“Jensen,” I began, my voice barely a whisper, “is everything… okay?”

He looked up, his eyes shadowed with a weariness that went beyond mere exhaustion. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, a sigh escaping his lips. “I don’t know, Y/N,” he finally said, the words heavy with a weight I couldn’t comprehend. “I just… I don’t know.”

That simple sentence hung in the air between us, a stark admission of the unraveling I had been dreading. It wasn't a fight, not an argument, but it felt like a final, heartbreaking surrender. The dam I had been desperately trying to hold back finally cracked, and a wave of despair washed over me. The comfortable certainty of our life together, the unwavering belief in our future, shattered into a million tiny pieces. All that was left was the raw, aching realization that the man I loved was slipping through my fingers, and I didn't know how to hold on.

The "I don't know" replayed in my mind like a broken record, each repetition chipping away at the remnants of my hope. It wasn't a definitive ending, but it felt like the beginning of one, a slow, agonizing descent into the unknown. We continued to exist in the same space, sharing meals, occasionally exchanging polite conversation, but the vibrant tapestry of our marriage had faded to muted greys.

I found myself watching him, studying his expressions, searching for a flicker of the old Jensen, the man whose eyes would crinkle at the corners when he laughed, the man who would reach for my hand across a crowded room. But he seemed lost in a fog of his own making, a weariness that permeated his every move. He’d stare out the window for long stretches, his thoughts miles away, and when I’d ask what he was thinking, he’d just shake his head, a faint, sad smile on his lips. “Nothing, just… nothing.”

The small gestures of affection that had once been commonplace – a lingering touch, a spontaneous kiss, a whispered “I love you” – became rare, precious commodities. Each one felt like a hesitant offering, tinged with a sadness that mirrored my own. I started to question every interaction, wondering if it was born out of habit or genuine feeling. Was he staying out of obligation? Was I holding on to a ghost of the love we once shared?

Sleep offered no escape. My dreams were haunted by fragmented memories – stolen moments of laughter, whispered promises under starry skies, the weight of his hand in mine – all now tainted with the bitter taste of what might be lost. I’d wake up with a heavy heart, the silence beside me amplifying the emptiness within.

The quiet desperation began to seep into other areas of my life. I found it hard to concentrate at work, my mind constantly drifting back to the growing chasm between us. Even simple pleasures, like walking along the river or browsing the antique shops in town, felt hollow without his easy companionship. Our shared history, once a source of comfort and joy, now felt like a constant reminder of the vibrant life that was slowly slipping away.

One evening, I found him in his study, surrounded by scripts and papers. He looked up as I entered, his eyes holding a flicker of something I couldn't quite decipher.

“I got offered another project,” he said, his voice flat. “It’s a big one. Shoots for almost a year. Mostly overseas.”

A cold dread washed over me. A year. An entire year of further distance, of more missed moments, of an even greater risk of drifting irrevocably apart. It felt like the universe was conspiring to pull us in opposite directions.

“And?” I managed to ask, my voice trembling slightly.

He avoided my gaze, his fingers tracing the edge of a script. “I think… I have to take it.”

It wasn’t a question, not an invitation for discussion. It was a statement, a decision made in the quiet solitude of his own conflicted heart. In that moment, the full weight of our unraveling crashed down on me. It wasn't just a slow drift anymore; it felt like we were actively sailing away from each other, the vast ocean of his career pulling him further and further from the shores of our shared life. And I was left standing on the beach, watching him disappear into the horizon, the salty wind carrying the faint echo of a love that was slowly fading away.

The news of the year-long overseas shoot hung heavy in the air, a tangible barrier solidifying the distance between us. The polite facade we had been maintaining finally shattered, giving way to a raw, desperate argument that had been simmering beneath the surface for months.

“A year, Jensen?” I finally choked out, the disbelief and hurt lacing my voice. “You’re going to be gone for an entire year?”

He finally met my gaze, and I saw a flicker of the conflict raging within him. “It’s a huge opportunity, Y/N. It could change everything.”

“Change what, Jensen?” I countered, my voice rising. “Change us? Because that’s exactly what’s happening, isn’t it? We’re changing, and not for the better.”

“Don’t do this,” he pleaded, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“Harder?” I scoffed, the pain bubbling up into anger. “You think this is hard for you? What about me, Jensen? What about the life we built here? Are you just going to walk away for a year and expect everything to be the same when you come back? Because it won’t be.”

“That’s not fair,” he said, his voice sharp. “I’m trying to provide for us, to build a future.”

“A future where we live on different continents?” I shot back, tears welling in my eyes. “A future where we’re just voices on a phone screen? That’s not the future I signed up for, Jensen. That’s not a marriage.”

“So what do you want me to do?” he demanded, his own frustration evident. “Turn down a career-defining role? Just stay here and… and what? Pretend everything is fine when it clearly isn’t?”

His words stung, confirming the unspoken truth that had been gnawing at me. “So you admit it?” I whispered, the anger draining away, leaving behind a hollow ache. “You admit things aren’t fine?”

He looked away, unable to meet my gaze. The silence that followed was deafening, filled only with the sound of my ragged breathing and the unspoken weight of our crumbling world.

“I just… I don’t know what to do anymore, Y/N,” he finally admitted, his voice raw with exhaustion and a hint of despair. ��I feel like I’m drowning, and I don’t know how to come up for air.”

“Then maybe,” I said, the words catching in my throat, “maybe you need to figure that out here. With me. Not thousands of miles away.”

“It’s not that simple,” he argued, his voice rising again. “You don’t understand the pressure, the expectations…”

“And you don’t understand what it’s like to feel like your husband is slipping away, piece by piece!” I retorted, the dam of my emotions finally breaking. “To feel like you’re fighting for something that he’s already halfway out the door from!”

The argument spiraled, fueled by months of unspoken anxieties and growing resentments. Accusations flew, harsh words were exchanged, and the fragile remnants of our carefully constructed life felt like they were shattering around us. By the end, we were both raw and trembling, the air thick with unspoken pain and the chilling realization that the chasm between us might have grown too wide to ever bridge again. He stood there, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and a profound sadness, and I knew, with a sickening certainty, that this wasn’t just an argument. This was a breaking point.

The argument had ripped through the fragile peace we were clinging to, leaving behind a raw, gaping wound. Now, the silence was different, heavier, imbued with a chilling finality. He moved through the bedroom like a ghost, his movements deliberate and devoid of emotion as he pulled suitcases from the closet and began to pack.

Each item he folded and placed in the luggage felt like another nail in the coffin of our marriage. His favorite worn t-shirts, the leather jacket I’d given him for his birthday, the books that had lined his nightstand – each one a tangible piece of the life we had built together, now being methodically packed away, ready to be taken to a world that felt increasingly distant from mine.

I sat on the edge of the bed, watching him, the tears silently streaming down my face. They weren't the angry tears of our argument, but tears of a profound and desolate sadness. Tears for the love that felt like it was slipping through my fingers, for the future that was dissolving before my eyes, for the unspoken words that hung heavy in the air between us, a chasm of regret and unspoken fears.

He didn't look at me. He didn't acknowledge the quiet sobs that wracked my body. It was as if I wasn't even there, a ghost in the room, witnessing the dismantling of our shared life. His focus was solely on the task at hand, his movements precise and efficient, as if he were packing for just another trip, another temporary separation. But we both knew this was different. This felt like a departure, not a temporary absence.

The weight of his decision pressed down on me, suffocating me with the understanding that his ambition, his need to escape whatever was troubling him, outweighed the bond we shared. He was choosing a path that led him away from me, and the silence between us was a deafening confirmation of that painful truth.

When the last suitcase was zipped shut, he stood for a moment, his back to me, a tense stillness radiating from his body. Then, without a word, he picked up the luggage and walked out of the bedroom, the soft click of the door latch echoing the finality of his actions. I remained on the bed, a silent, weeping figure in the wreckage of our shattered world, the only sound the quiet rhythm of my own heartbroken tears. He was leaving, and with him, a part of me was going too.

The silence after he left was deafening, a constant, hollow echo in the house that once vibrated with his laughter. The initial sporadic phone calls, filled with strained pleasantries and surface-level updates about filming, dwindled into infrequent texts. Emojis replaced heartfelt words, and the time difference became a convenient excuse for the growing distance. It felt like he was slowly fading, his presence in my life becoming a ghost of the man I had loved.

Three months crawled by, each day a heavy weight on my chest. The vibrant colors of our life had leached away, leaving behind a monochrome existence. The familiar comfort of our home transformed into a lonely prison, each room a stark reminder of his absence. The silence was no longer just the absence of sound; it was a tangible presence, suffocating me with its weight.

A deep, insidious sadness took root in my soul, its tendrils wrapping around my heart, squeezing the joy out of everything. Simple tasks became monumental efforts. Getting out of bed felt like scaling a mountain. Food lost its taste. The warmth of the sun felt cold on my skin.

Loneliness became my constant companion, a hollow ache that permeated every fiber of my being. It wasn't just the physical absence of Jensen; it was the loss of his laughter, his touch, his unwavering presence that had anchored me for so long. The future we had dreamed of together now seemed like a cruel mirage, shimmering just out of reach.

The weight of it all became unbearable. The thought of a life without him stretched before me, a desolate and empty landscape. The vibrant tapestry of my existence had been woven with his thread, and now that thread was gone, leaving behind a frayed and incomplete picture.

A terrifying thought began to whisper in the darkest corners of my mind, a chilling solace in the face of such profound despair. The idea of not having to feel this crushing emptiness anymore, the notion of an end to this relentless ache, became a perverse comfort. The line between wanting him back and simply wanting the pain to stop blurred, until the latter became a desperate, all-consuming yearning. I couldn’t imagine a future where his hand wasn’t in mine, his voice wasn’t the first I heard in the morning. The thought of living without him felt like a cruel and impossible sentence. I didn’t want to live in a world where he wasn’t a part of mine. I truly believed I couldn't.

The words formed on the screen, each syllable a painful acknowledgment of the unraveling, a final, desperate farewell. "I'll always love you." A truth that echoed through the years, now tinged with the bitter taste of loss. "I'm so sorry I wasn't enough." A self-inflicted wound, a desperate plea for understanding in the face of a love that felt irrevocably broken. "Goodbye." A word that severed the ties, a closing of a chapter that had once been filled with so much promise.

My thumb hovered over the send button, a moment suspended in time, a final breath before plunging into the unknown. Then, with a shaky hand, I pressed it. The message disappeared into the digital ether, carrying the weight of my despair across continents, a silent scream into the void.

A sob escaped my lips, a raw, guttural sound that echoed the shattering of my heart. With trembling fingers, I slid the rings from my finger. The cool metal felt alien against my skin, a stark reminder of a commitment that now felt like a distant memory. They landed on the nightstand with a soft click, a quiet punctuation mark at the end of our story.

A sudden surge of desperate energy propelled me into action. I couldn't bear another moment in this house, suffocated by the ghosts of our shared past and the crushing weight of his absence. I grabbed a few bags, throwing in clothes and essentials without any real thought, my movements driven by a primal need to escape.

Tears blurred my vision as I stumbled out of the house, the front door slamming shut behind me, a definitive end to this chapter of my life. I didn't know where I was going, had no destination in mind. All that mattered was putting distance between myself and the suffocating silence, the unbearable loneliness that had become my constant companion. I just drove, the familiar streets of our neighborhood fading behind me, each mile taking me further away from the life I had known, towards an uncertain future shrouded in fear and a profound, aching emptiness. The road ahead was unknown, but one thing was certain: I couldn't stay here, not for another minute, not with the ghost of Jensen haunting every corner of our once-beloved home.

Part 2

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#hes gorgeous #so damn sexy #jensen ackles #jackles #jensen ackles x plus size reader #jensen ackles x reader

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prolix-yuy · 2 years ago

Text

A Gift of Light and Joy

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez x F!Reader "Conejita" (Plus Sized Reader)

Summary: Javi wants to spoil you, but his good intentions put you in a difficult position.

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, oral sex (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), unprotected PiV sex (don't be a fool, wrap your tool), cumming on someone, minor cum play, negative body image, toxic shopping culture, some angst, Javi is clueless about women's clothes shopping but he makes up for it.

Notes: Happiest of happy birthdays to my darling, my sweet friend, the indescribable @ezrasbirdie! I was planning to post this around November but I couldn't pass up a chance to give you a fun little Javi present. I am so lucky to know you and get to yell about stories together!

While in the two previous stories Conejita wasn't described as plus sized, I always headcanoned that she was from the start. There are a couple references to the previous stories, but you can also dive in right here! Like most stories this is me working through a few bad experiences of my own, and while Javi may be a little thick in the beginning he will get to make up for it.

Cross-posted on AO3

Continued from On the Right Flight and A Bearable Weight

“I have a surprise for today.”

Javi’s gleeful face ramps up your own excitement as he ushers you into his car.

“I thought we were going to have a picnic?” you ask as he flops into the drivers seat, curls bouncing almost as much as he is.

“That was my distraction,” he says, picking up your hand and kissing the back of it. Your heart still flutters, even months after that first one at the stroke of midnight.

Dating Javi had, of course, been just as much of a step off the deep end as you thought. Even being close by now that you’re back in LA for work and he’s hobnobbing with the Hollywood elites, some days getting dinner feels like making a doctor’s appointment. Matching schedules down to the half hour, groaning when something comes up. But it’s all worth it when the stars align and he’s on your doorstep with all-encompassing hugs and breathless kisses.

At first Javi’s dates were low-key and low-stress - a day at the beach, movie nights of course - but as you got closer and closer he started to take you places that had dress codes and extravagant names. He always beamed like you were the only one in the room, but you’d been in enough spaces you didn’t belong to feel eyes and judgements skitter across your back.

You could be poised, and knowledgeable, conversational and charming, but nothing changed how you looked. Javi was always dripping in Armani, Burberry, Brioni. Your paltry wardrobe didn’t stand a chance. Every new art show or movie premiere sent you running to a department store to find a new dress (pretty girls on their rich boyfriend’s arm didn’t reuse eveningwear) and inevitably you’d be pinched or poked or squeezed into something not made for you. Long minutes spent in the bathroom wondering if Javi would notice the bra strap divot in your shoulder, or the dark lines of seams pressed along your skin. Pretending you enjoyed slipping into a silk robe every time you spent the night was more palatable than the embarrassment of wriggling out of shapewear in front of him, or refusing to let him undress you in case a zipper pulled too tightly.

Unfortunately, you didn’t hide your discomfort as well as you imagined. Sometimes you caught Javi’s concerned look when the built-in corset made you squirm in your seat, or when you winced at the chafe of your heels.

So when he parks his car on Rodeo Drive he’s the picture of pride and sunshine. You, on the other hand, leave your stomach on the sidewalk behind you.

“I wanted to do something special,” he’s saying, muffled words bubbling up as your feet trudge to a gleaming glass door. There’s security inside, sales people scattered around holding hangers up to discerning buyers. “And before you say anything about money, I don’t want you to look at a single price tag.” Javi turns your face to him with a gentle nudge, breaking your doom stare through the glass. “I want to spoil you a little. You never let me spoil you.” His pout brings a little smile to your face, dipping in to kiss him.

“We can do anything Javi. I don’t need things,” you try to deflect, hoping you can convince him away from the inevitable rejection you’ll receive inside.

“Just one time?” he asks again, soft brown eyes imploring you. How could you say no?

“Okay,” you breathe out, steeling yourself for the worst as Javi beams back at you.

“I thought this place would match what you like,” he says as two suited doormen guide you inside. It flutters your heart. He’s right, you’ve always liked this designer’s silhouettes and styles. It’s exactly what you’d choose…if you were several sizes smaller.

“Hi, do you have an appointment?” a small-framed woman with black plastic glasses and a bouncy ponytail asks. She’s dressed head to toe in the designer’s current collection, sleek black throughout with stylish red earrings that dangle down her neck. Her smile isn’t as cold as you might expect. You’d heard horror stories of snide sales people practically insulting clients to get them to spend more.

“Yes, Gutierrez,” Javi offers smoothly, placing a grounding hand on your lower back. “For my girlfriend.” You shoot him a lopsided smile. He doesn’t get the chance to say it often, but when he does you love the way girlfriend rolls off his supple lips.

“Ah, yes, miss…” the sales woman begins, letting you offer your name. You catch a fleeting look of concern cross her face. Her cheek sucks in like she’s chewing on it, smile still bright but eyes more cautious.

“My name is Melanie, if you’d like to follow me to your consultation space,” she says, leading you and Javi to a curtained-off partition with several chairs, a changing room and a pedestal that makes your stomach flip.

“So what are you here to find today?” Melanie asks. Javi settles in a chair, spreading his knees and leaning back so sexily you can almost forgive him for the anxiety pumping through your veins.

“Whatever my Conejita desires,” he says, and you’re torn between smacking or straddling him. Melanie turns her attention to you and you wrack your brain.

“I guess…a dress would be nice?” you say. Javi reaches out to squeeze your hand reassuringly, adoration so clear in his eyes. He truly has no idea it’s the most likely to have ease in the sizing. You might make it out with one and blame it on not wanting to overspend. Javi would get his wish, and you would make it out with most of your ego unscathed. Win-win.

Melanie leads you out of the space and into the clothing racks. The choices are sparse, a few items hung per rack in an exclusivity motif. As soon as you’re out of earshot she starts chatting.

“Your boyfriend is very sweet to be treating you today.”

You hum and nod, chewing the inside of your lip. Some of the pieces are very pretty, flattering cuts and classic shapes, but none of the silhouettes look large enough for you.

“Does he…do this often?” Melanie asks carefully, and when you look at her you see an understanding that soothes you ever so slightly.

“First time.”

“A surprise.”

“Yeah, pretty big one.”

Melanie smiles at that, arms wrapped around an iPad. Her nails are very pretty tapping against the device.

“Let’s take a look back here,” she says, leading you off the main floor and further into the store. The racks are fuller back here, but not nearly enough to make you think success is within reach. Your chest tightens, but you put on a cheery smile when Melanie turns back to you.

“Men are just…so thick sometimes,” she sighs, and the sharp change makes you bleat out a laugh. “I’m sure Mr. Gutierrez has the best intentions in mind…”

You nod and finish her sentence.

“...but you don’t have anything here for me.” Her hands clutch at the tablet again, going white around the knuckles.

“We might have a few things, but they’ll be simpler. Not like the current collection.”

“Simple is fine,” you rush to say, her smile making your own come to the surface.

“Okay, let me go digging. I think we can make it work. I’m…” She pauses to clear her throat, lowering her voice. “I’m sorry this isn’t fun. I hate it. I just want everyone to feel happy in their clothes, not…left out.”

You turn your comfort to her, squeezing her shoulder.

“I appreciate you trying to help.”

Melanie scurries off to the backroom, leaving you on the bustling floor with ten other women who could slip into anything off the rack no problem. Weaving aimlessly, you peruse the dresses. Each one holds promise, which only makes it more disappointing when the tag numbers run too small. But you’re keeping positive, searching for Melanie’s bouncing ponytail returning with anything. You’d gush over a mumu.

“Excuse me,” comes over your shoulder, and you turn to another sales woman hovering expectantly behind you. Her brow is lifted high, barely waiting for you to shift before tugging a garment off the rack. She turns quickly, but in the split second before you see it. That stomach-dropping look that screams good luck slathered in sarcasm. Your throat clenches, hands coming to your middle and you wish you could just collapse into yourself like a dying star.

“Fuck this,” you whisper, tears shining in your eyes as you hurry back to the consultation space. You’ll tell Javi you have a headache, that you’re too hungry to shop right now, anything to convince him to get the hell out of here.

“Cone…” he says as you burst in, snatching up your purse and steeling your voice. The sunshiney excitement trades quickly for concern. “What is wrong? I promise the cost…”

“Actually, I don’t really…I don’t…” You try to get out your white lies with an even tone but when Javi cups your face in his large hands your composure crumples. A fat tear breaks rank and rolls down your face, Javi’s eyes widening with shock.

“Conejita, what’s wrong? Did something happen?” His eyes darken a fraction. “Did someone say something to you?”

Your heart skips a beat, which you blearily file for later introspection. Resting your head on his shoulder, he envelops you in his arms. Orange peel and musk surrounds you, Javi’s soothing hands traveling up and down your spine. When your breaths stop warbling you pull back, wiping your face.

“I’m sorry…” you start to say, but Javi moves you to sit. He drops to a kneel, clasping your hands in your lap.

“No, Conejita, you are not apologizing for one second. What has upset you? Was it someone out there?” When you shake your head, his eyes soften. “Was it me?”

“Oh Javi,” you sign, squeezing his hands. Your lashes are still wet with tears, but you can see his dread so clearly. “I really appreciate this, all of it. I’m sure it’s flattered lots of people before. But I’m…me.” You release a big breath, the pain of keeping all your anxieties in finally easing. “I can’t shop at places like this, Javi, I don’t…they don’t make clothes like this for people my size.”

Javi’s concern smashes into confusion.

“But they must have seamstresses in the back. They take your measurements, no? Find an acceptable piece and tailor it?”

The laugh you bark out is watery but it does raise the corners of your lips.

“Men have it so easy,” you bemoan. “I think the closest size I saw was still in the single digits. And even then, the numbers rarely mean anything.” Javi’s confusion only deepens.

“But how do you know what to buy? Surely the measurements are the same. Inseam, waist, sleeve length, how can it be so different?”

“Javi, I’m rarely the same size at the same store.”

Javi sputters. “That’s madness. How does anyone put up with that?”

You giggle lightly, the tears finally receding. “I just go to the department stores. More variety, more sizes. No pushy sales people. Though Melanie is really nice.”

“But you are still uncomfortable,” he says, stroking his thick thumbs along the back of your hands. “I did not want to say anything, but I noticed. You do not seem to feel good in the nice things you wear.”

You shrug. “It’s not perfect, it’s just…easier.”

His eyes implore up at you. “I wanted you to feel good with me.” Your heart patters, Javi’s face falling. “But I have made it worse. Please forgive me, Conejita, I truly did not know this would be so painful.”

You pat Javi’s cheek and give him a quick kiss. “I know, Javi. I know you didn’t mean for it to be.” A tap on his nose makes him smile. “But next time, when the lady doth protest too much, maybe listen?” Javi’s cheeks pink as he nods.

“Shakespeare has always been wiser than me,” he jokes as he helps you back to your feet. He leads you back to the front of the store with one hand on your back, and for a few seconds you do feel like the most beautiful person in the room. Women looking at you in awe, Javi’s fingers pressing in a way that’s subtly possessive. You could be lady Godiva riding a Shetland pony and not feel a lick of shame when he looks at you like that.

“Mr Gutierrez!” Melanie calls as she hurries up to the front to intercept. Her hands are empty, which is a relief.

“Thank you for your help, I just don’t think there’s anything for me here,” you say in a practiced tone that makes Javi pull you closer and Melanie’s eyebrows knit in the middle. She nods, extending a folded piece of paper to Javi.

“I’m sorry they didn’t have something for you today,” she says, and Javi takes the proffered paper. He leads you out of the store and into the fresh sunlight of the street. Unfolding it, he raises an eyebrow then secrets it away in his jacket pocket.

“What was that about?” you ask, tucking your arm into his elbow. He shakes his head.

“Nothing important. What is important is going to get some lunch, then we are going driving with the top down and dinner at my place after.”

“Javi…” you say with a little warning, but he tuts at you as his long stride pulls you down Rodeo drive.

“I know, I know what you will say, but bear with me because I am learning how to love you the right way. Today was not so good, but I would like to try and make it better.” He slows down when he catches your wide eyes and dazed smile. “What? What have I said now?”

“That you love…” the last words disappear on the wind as Javi’s smile crinkles his eyes.

“Of course, Conejita. Dios mio, of course I love…I love you,” he rushes out, barely able to finish before crashing his lips into yours. Wide palm cupping your head, you couldn’t care less that you’re making pedestrians part around you. Javi loves you, even if he’s a little clumsy about it. But when someone wants to learn to love you the right way…how can you not love every atom of them back?

The following weekend finds you in one of the lesser-used rooms in Javi’s house, sitting on a chair by the window. He deposited you there with a cappuccino and a promise to wait, so now you’re doing just that. Javi does love surprises, but you never expected Melanie to walk in the door.

“Oh my god, hi,” you manage to get out, standing up to shake her hand but are treated to a tight hug instead. She looks brighter, lighter than the last time you saw her, black ensemble traded for a pale blue button-up and floral patterned pants.

“Javi told me it was a surprise, and I want it on the record that after this one he’s not allowed any more!” You sit across the little cafe table from her with visible confusion.

“I am a bit…lost…as to the surprise,” you giggle out nervously, which has Melanie opening a smart black bag and taking out folios and fabric swatches.

“I’ve been trying to get my stylist business off the ground and…” She pauses for a moment before making genuine eye contact. “And if there’s anything I was meant to do, it’s find people clothes that make them happy. So I offered him my services and he’s…well, he’s been very generous.”

Pride swells in your chest. So Javi.

“So what we’re going to do today is figure out what you like, don’t like, colors, styles, and then I’ll start building your wardrobe. Sound good?” Melanie’s smile is contagious.

“Sounds amazing.”

You don’t quite understand every step of the process. At one point she drapes color swatches on your chest like a bib and you can’t help but giggle. But it’s fun, maybe for the first time you can remember. She writes down that you hate side-seam zippers and skirts cut above the knee. That you love color but not too garish. And when you catch Javi pacing outside the glass door to the patio, peeking in anxiously every five minutes, your smile softens. She probably doesn’t write that part down. That’s written on your face.

You can’t stop twirling in the mirror, inspecting from every angle. You try to scrutinize, but you can’t find a single thing wrong.

It’s perfect.

After the wardrobe cleanout, the basics overhaul, and the lengthy plan Melanie made, she asked a thrilling question.

“What’s the first piece you’d like me to find?”

“I’ve always wanted a little black dress,” you replied, and her smile almost eclipsed her face.

“I have the perfect one in mind.”

She wasn’t kidding. It’s full and flouncy, smoothing in all the places you normally criticize and accentuates your figure in the best ways. The fabric is sumptuous under your fingers, just the right weight without dreaded sheerness. You can imagine yourself with hair done up, your favorite lipstick, Javi’s hand on your lower back, that possessive glint in his eyes. All of the excitement makes you spin three more times, the room tilting briefly before you catch Javi standing in the doorway.

“Hey!” you call out breathlessly, smoothing the skirt again. “It’s the first thing Melanie’s sent over. I…oh my god, I love it so much.” You turn to look in the mirror again, and in the reflection you see Javi’s mouth parted, eyes dragging over you. His fingers are rubbing together at his sides and…is he clenching them?

“She took everything I said and just found the most perfect dress.” Your thumb catches in the fabric and you spin back around to gasp, “And it has pockets!”

You’ve barely taken your hands out of them when Javi is on you, all greedy mouth and firm hand on the back of your head. His tongue demands on your lips, slipping inside when you gasp for him. Arm banding around your back, he steadily walks you backwards towards the bed.

“Conejita, mi amor, eres tan hermosa,” he pants, his wandering hand settling on your ass and squeezing. It crackles between your thighs, white-hot arousal at how he holds you. Javi has always been generous in bed, and highly competent, but this is a side of him you haven’t seen. Maybe briefly when he asked you if someone bothered you at that awful boutique store.

Before you can rationalize anything further he guides your hips down to the bed, teetering on the edge. He quickly drops to his knees and dives his hands under the skirt, sliding one knuckle along the seam of your pussy.

“Javi…” you squeak out, but his touch leaves to curl around your underwear and yank them down your legs. The rip of a seam makes arousal gush between your legs, spreading them instinctually. He licks his lips before fisting your skirt above your waist and ducking down to taste you for too brief a moment. Your hips buck, teeth nipping at your inner thigh before he lifts up to kneel between your legs.

“Javi, the dress,” you caution, and with a sweeter smile he shifts his knees to make sure the fabric isn’t trapped between. When his eyes meet yours again he plants a hand by your head and laps between your lips, slow and sensual. The clink of his buckle coming undone aches deep in your core, fisting his button-up across his shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Conejita, I just…cannot control myself when you look so beautiful,” he confesses as his fingers tease at your entrance. A choked whimper ekes out as he opens you up on two, pumping mercilessly into your clenching heat. He swears in Spanish into your neck, and your quiet whines grow to moans when his thick cock begins thrusting into the crease of your hip. His panted breaths start to take on a rumble, then a growl as his fingers match his shallow thrusts. Overwhelmed, you grasp at what words will make him give in.

“Javi, please, oh my god, please fuck me,” you finally manage, rocking your hips with his frantic pace.

“You’re ready for me?” he husks, your vociferous affirmations drawing his fingers out to leave you achingly empty. He slicks his cock with you, lining up and pressing just the head in before he plants his hands by your head and just…looks at you.

“Dios mio, eres una diosa,” he breathes, all of the sweet man you love. Grabbing around his wrists, you roll your hips down to sink more of him inside. He stretches you so deliciously, filling your cunt and lungs.

“Take it, Javi,” you rasp, head tossed back. “Show me I’m yours.”

Javi bites his lower lip and looks at you with a depth you crave. Infatuation and devotion and a desire so hungry you want to sate him for hours. In a dizzying flick of his wrists he now presses yours into the bed.

“Mine,” he purrs, and the snap of his hips as he buries himself flush draws a lusty cry from your lips. “My beautiful Conejita,” he grits out, grinding his hips deep to press punishingly into your g-spot. You writhe under him, legs clamped around his waist as he slides out just enough to punch back in. “You are mine, aren’t you?”

“Oh fuck, Javi, yes, I’m yours,” you beg, and it’s exactly what he needs to begin fucking you earnestly, scooping his hips to drive deeper and deeper. The friction of his grind strums your clit just right to tremble around him. Pinning you with a rumble, he fucks you into the mattress until his wandering hands can’t stop from palming your breast, rolling your nipple through the fabric. The spike of pleasure urges you to meet him stroke for stroke, riding him just as hard back. He grabs your chin just firmly enough to coax more slick to coat his cock, guiding you back to his demanding mouth. He steals your breath, sucking your lower lip between his teeth and groaning when you shudder around him.

“Not going to last, mi amor,” he whispers, lacing your fingers together as his thrusts lose rhythm.

“Cum on my pussy,” you plead, and with a strung-out moan he pulls out just quick enough to cover your mound with his hot spend. It drips lewdly, sliding to gather in the crease of your thighs. His eyes are fixated on it, the brand of his lust sticky on you. Your orgasm tips over as he slides his thumb through his cum to press firmly on your clit. His name is all you can manage as pleasure laps over your skin, his touch grounding as he praises you over and over.

In the afterglow, Javi folds the length of your skirt well above the mess he made.

“I will be sure to send this to drycleaning before you want to wear it,” he says, pulling a juddery giggle from your chest. He stands oh shaky legs and you glimpse his wet cock in the vee of his open pants, realizing you just fucked like college kids so horny for each other they couldn’t even undress properly. It makes you giddy as he brings over tissues to clean up, careful not to leave any of his spend where it could stain. When he’s finally satisfied he drops down on the bed, opening his arms for you to snuggle into. Once fitted together, eyes heavy, he murmurs in your ear.

“It wasn’t the dress.”

You hum sleepily, sitting up to look into his sated face.

“You are most beautiful when you are happy,” he says, the earnestness earning him another sweet kiss.

“I am very, very happy Javi.”

He doesn’t need to tell you that he is. It’s written on his face, and in his heart.

END

#javi gutierrez x reader #javi gutierrez x you #javi gutierrez x f!reader #javi gutierrez x female reader #javi gutierrez fanfiction #tuwomt fanfiction #tuwomt fanfic #the unbearable weight of massive talent fanfiction #prolix fics

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rwrbmovie · 1 year ago

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Prime Experience, Prime Video’s annual Emmy FYC activation, is back for its 2024 edition. Held at a new venue, NYA West, across the street from last year’s location, the event will let invited members of the Television Academy and Hollywood guilds get closer to some of Prime Video’s top series, movies and specials through in-world installations, interactive exhibits, show-inspired menus and panels.

Opening April 24 with an “Inspiration & Innovation” panel event featuring showrunners from across the slate, Prime Experience will runs through May 20 with a lineup of 12 screenings, panels, and additional special events.

Featured FYC panels will include Expats, Fallout, I’m a Virgo, Maxine’s Baby: The Tyler Perry Story, Mr. & Mrs. Smith, Red, White & Royal Blue, The Wheel of Time, Amazon Music Live with Garth Brooks, Jim Gaffigan: Dark Pale, Jenny Slate: Seasoned Professional, Tig Notaro: Hello Again and For Love and Life: No Ordinary Campaign.

Recreated in the space are the post-apocalyptic world of Fallout, the Hong Kong night market of Expats, the New York City brownstone of Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and Gen V’s Godolkin University campus. Each interactive installation provides a glimpse into the show’s production design, cinematography, visual effects, casting, music, and hair & makeup.

Additional Prime Experience exhibits include life-sized manuscript pages from contenders in writing and other categories like Red, White & Royal Blue and I’m A Virgo; in hair & makeup, with a wall of portraits from programs like Wheel of Time, The Greatest Love Story Never Told and This Is Me…Now; and in sound and music, with a pair of listening booths with comedy clips from Jim Gaffigan: Dark Pale, Jenny Slate: Seasoned Professional, and Tig Notaro: Hello Again.

#omg!#prime is really going for it #red white and royal blue #rwrb movie #nicholas galitzine #taylor zakhar perez #Emmys #awards #prime experience

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queenshelby · 1 year ago

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OSCAR SPECIAL (PART TWO OF FOUR)

Given Cillian’s recent success, I decided to jump ahead a little in my fics and give you a little Oscar Special. But don’t worry, I will cover off everything in between in due course and, for some fics, this Oscar part will hopefully get you guessing, while for others it will constitute a happy ending!

Yes! Mr Murphy (Oscar Special)

Eight months later…

For the past three months, you accompanied Cillian to every award show there was but, tonight, was the most special and nerve wrecking one of them all - The Oscars.

You wore a long dark coloured gown, its material shimmering and alive as it danced against the soft curves of your body. Intricate golden lace wrapped around your throat and gave the impression of a choker necklace and the necklace itself matched your earrings, studded with small sparkling stones.

It had taken you an eternity to fix your makeup, granting yourself those seductive eyes with a hint of elegance that only added to your mystique that night and, if it hadn't been for your best friend Emma who designed your dress, you wouldn't have known what to wear at all.

Cillian on the other hand, was impeccably dressed in a well-tailored suit. His eyes matched the calmness and ease of his demeanor, accentuated by his ever-charming smile. The perfect pair for this Hollywood scene, yet the excitement still created an anxious buzz in your guts.

"I don't think I will ever get used to this," you told Cillian quietly, gripping his hand as the sea of reporters approached.

"Neither will dad, trust me," his daughter Nina said as she smiled at you both, walking by your side and being closely followed by Max, Cillian's son who much rather wanted to keep to himself.

"True that, Nina," Cillian responded to his daughter's comment with a smile, accepting the situation with determination and strength, while the momentary buzz of the crowd and the flashes of the cameras made you feel a bit overwhelmed and nauseous again.

Then, out of nowhere, a familiar reporter from Entertainment Weekly, eventually called Cillian's name as all four of you reached her position and, closing in, she began firing off her questions like a seasoned gunslinger.

"I can see you brought the entire family along to the Oscars tonight," she said, appraising you all as you stepped back to give Cillian some space.

"I did indeed," Cillian responded professionally to her question while you moved out of the way, not wanting to be on camera. "And I am just so glad that they can be here with me tonight," he added before briefly looking back at you with a smile.

The reporter smiled too, following up with another question. "And how do you feel about being nominated for an Oscar?" Samantha asked, holding her microphone with one hand and poising her pen on her notepad with the other.

"Well, it's always an honor to be nominated for an award, of course. But no matter the outcome, I just want to take this time to enjoy myself and appreciate everyone who worked so hard on the project," he responded humbly before, finally, the music turned on, indicating to you that you had to take your seats.

Cillian, once again, took your hand, leading the way into the screening hall which is where Nina and Max trailed off to sit on the viewing platform upstairs. All of the nominees were only allowed one guest to accompany them and, of course, Cillian took you that night for support.

You were seated directly behind Emily Blunt and her husband John

Krasinski, allowing you views of the entire theater, as well as the giant screen in the front.

"You look spectacular Y/N," Emily said as she greeted you with a friendly hug before telling Cillian that he did not look too shabby either.

"So do you," you told her while admiring her dress and, before you knew it, the lights went down and you fell quiet, anticipation crackling in the air.

The audience was breathless, eyes transfixed on the giant screen and, even though it was dark enough, you felt as though you could hear the thundering of everyone's hearts beating in unison.

You could sense Cillian's nervousness and took his hand into yours as, after about two and a half hours, the nominees for his category were called out and his name, among other prestigious actors, echoed from the loud speaker.

The energy in the auditorium was tense and, as the room filled with a sudden hush, the sound of creaking chairs and shifting bodies brought you back to the uncomfortable reality of this grand stage you could not help but feel trapped on as you waited to hear the winner called.

Cillian squeezed your hand gently and you let your thumb glide against his palm, keeping him tethered to you and giving him a boost of confidence in the process.

You then turned your gaze back to the screen, breathing in deeply as the list of candidates scrolled down on the screen and, before your heart could skip a beat, the envelope was opened, the winner revealed.

"And the winner is..." Jimmy Kimmel began to say as the moment stretched on in agony as you hung on to the edge of your seat.

"Cillian Murphy, for his role in Oppenheimer!" he exclaimed and, as the crowd erupted in cheer, Cillian let out the breath he had unconsciously been holding.

He looked at you as if searching for an ounce of calmness, but there it was, reverberating between the two of you.

"I am so proud of you," you told him somewhat emotionally just before he gave you somewhat rushed but emotional kiss. He then nodded nervously and stood up, smoothing the wrinkles out of his suit as he prepared himself for the stage in front of an auditorium filled with people.

He looked down on you, a smile playing on his lips. "Y/N," he whispered lovingly, "thank you for everything those past few months," he said before walking towards the stage where he would accept his first Oscar.

Your heart swelled at the pure vulnerability that lay within his beautifully sculpted features. A rush of emotions surged in your veins as you acknowledged the love you both shared and the journey that unfolded, since being whisked into each other's lives. It felt like a lifetime ago since the first moment your eyes laid upon him, your undeterred admiration.

He took stage and accepted his award before taking the podium with grace, his voice echoing in gratitude, speaking on the magnitude of the project and thanking Christopher Nolan and his wife for believing in him before also addressing the cast and crew and then, finally, his family.

"Last but not least, I would also like to thank my beautiful fiancée for her support during those last few months. You have been my source of strength as well as my retreat in the midst of this roller coaster ride. I love you and I couldn't have done it without you," Cillian said, gazing into the distance and catching your attention. "And finally, to my children, Nina, Max and my baby girl Sian, thank you for believing in me. I love you so much," he finished, his voice cracking slightly for the first time among his composure.

His speech was genuine and heartfelt, adding a depth of personal connection to an otherwise impersonal event.

The crowd waited for him to compose himself, taking in the genuine sentiment that lay within his words as he left the stage, lifting his award up in triumph, before walking back towards his seat.

"—I couldn't be happier for Cillian," Emily whispered to you as he sat back down. "He really deserved it. And," she added, smiling a hushed confirmation. "That was a beautiful speech," she told you and you nodded, wiping away a tear.

"You did it," you smiled at him as he sat back down, his face flushed.

"Fuck yes, I did," he chuckled before kissing you more deeply than before feeding off of the relief that swept over his body while for you, unfortunately, the nausea hit you again.

"Only a few more months of this, babe," Cillian reassured you, noticing your discomfort and you couldn't help but flash him a smile.

"2024 is a big year for us," you nodded in agreement, his fingers intertwining with yours as you imagined what laid ahead.

To be continued...

Tags:

@sunbeamseas @saint-ackerman @oatmealisweird @naxxsstuff @amanda08319 @r-m-cidnah @elysiannook @cillshot @infireddabdab @tastycakee @harrysbestiee @lilybabe22 @adalynlowell @henrywintersdearestgirl @ietss @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @ryiamarie @axionn

@heidimoreton @nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @nosebleeds-247 @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @sidechrisporn @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @aporiasposts @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @hjmalmed @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @aporiasposts

@galxydefender @hunnibearrr @saint-ackerman @lunyyx @gentlemonsterjennie1 @ihavealotoffandomssorry @nadloves @lost-fantasy @nolucesn@mcavoy-girl @hjmalmed @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @blushykiss @tatumrileyslover @teawithsatanx @orijanko @rhaenyra4ever @xcinnamonmalfoyx @budugu @nadloves @kmc1989 @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @forgottenpeakywriter @smailaway @sophiaaguirred

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy fanfic #cillian fanfic #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian murphy fic

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dispatchdcu · 2 years ago

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Dark Spaces: The Hollywood Special #3 Review

Dark Spaces: The Hollywood Special #3 Review #darkspaces #thehollywoodspecial #IDWcomics #comics #comicbooks #news #IDW #art #info #NCBD #comicbooknews #previews #reviews #amazon

Writer: Jeremy Lambert Artist: Claire Roe Colorist: Jordie Bellaire Letterer: Becca Carey Cover Artists: Claire Roe; Dani; Jacob Edgar; Gavin Fullerton Publisher: IDW Price: $3.99 Release Date: November 8, 2023 Movie star Lou Gaines wakes up in his room on the train. He studies a script while he eats. When his traveling companion on this goodwill tour does a no-show, he takes a breakfast tray to…

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#Dark Spaces #Dark Spaces: The Hollywood Special #Dark Spaces: The Hollywood Special 3 #Dark Spaces: The Hollywood Special 3 Review #IDW #IDW Comics #IDW Comics Reviews #IDW Reviews #Reviews #The Hollywood Special

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brokehorrorfan · 1 year ago

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EC Comics, the influential horror comic company that gave us Tales from the Crypt and more, has been resurrected by Oni Press. Broke Horror Fan has an exclusive first look at the covers for Cruel Universe #3 and Epitaphs from the Abyss #4.

Cruel Universe #3 features work from Cullen Bunn (The Sixth Gun) and Davíd Rubín (Sherlock Frankenstein), J. Holtham (The Handmaid’s Tale) and Kano (Gotham Central), and Zac Thompson (Cemetery Kids Don’t Die) and Dan McDaid (If You Find This).

It will be published on October 2 with five cover variants: Cover A by Greg Smallwood, Cover B Dave Johnson, EC Homage variant (1:10) by Jay Stephens, Artist Edition variant (1:20) by Johnson, and Archive Edition variant (1:50) by Rian Hughes.

Epitaphs from the Abyss #4 features work from J. Holtham (The Horizon Experiment) and Raúl Allén (Dune), Amy Roy (The Lonely Store) and Claire Roe (Dark Spaces: The Hollywood Special), and Jay Stephens (Dwellings) and David Lapham (Stray Bullets).

It will be published on October 16 with five cover variants: Cover A by Lee Bermejo, Cover B James Stokoe, EC Homage variant (1:10) by Jay Stephens, Artist Edition variant (1:20) by Stokoe, and Archive Edition variant (1:50) by Rian Hughes.

Read on to see the rest of the cover variants and learn more about each title.

The world's most existentially devastating comic magazine plumbs new depths as Cruel Universe #3 begins a manned expedition to the extremes of human existence and imagine the terrifying possibilities of what to expect when the best of intentions meet the cold, hard reality of our worst instincts. The world and everything you hold dear within it may be doomed to the cold touch of entropy... but at least you can keep this comic as a souvenir!

Every tombstone tells a tells a tale in Epitaphs from the Abyss #4 – the next unrelenting issue of EC’s flagship horror title! Fueled by the vengeful spirit of the legendary EC Comics, we proudly present all-new tales of the macabre and merciless from some of the top talents with a penchant for dragging you down to the bottom stair of despair!

#ec comics #tales from the crypt #epitaphs from the abyss #cruel universe #horror #greg smallwood #dave jonson #jay stephens #rian hughes #lee bermejo #james stokoe #exclusive #article #book #gift

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glimeres · 1 year ago

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" Listen, this musical was about alcoholism. Deep, dark alcoholism. And a love story, but riddled with this third player, right? So it wasn’t for everybody. I knew that it wasn’t the most commercial thing. It was an art piece, and I was so proud of that, actually. And we’re lucky that it had a space on Broadway for even a minute. But what killed me is that I felt like the population that needed it — us all being the daughter or having had that mother or knowing that father or whatever it was — I was worried that we hadn’t reached them. I sometimes worry that the business can be very formulaic, especially in how we sell things. And I was concerned that we weren’t reaching the audience, the whole new generation of sober-curious people, and people that don’t usually come to theater, or whole organizations that thrive and survive on sobriety or that need to have the conversation constantly or to see themselves in a story.

We were being told to sell it as a love story. We were deceiving people as they walked in the door, and I’m saying this out loud because it was one of the most painful parts of the process for me — to be doing that much, to be giving that much of my heart, and being so satisfied by the performance, and then I would literally have someone every single night come and see it and say, “Oh, I had no idea it was about alcoholism.” I jumped back on social media when we got the closing notice and started trying to promote the show, sweating, just to get more people in front of this beautiful piece of work. And I felt sad and angry because there was a time when that wasn’t your job as much; your job was to do eight shows a week with all your heart. But it felt like, “Gosh, I should have been more of an influencer. I should have been having things on the sidewalk [like Hamilton did].” And I started to get desperate because when you work on something for 20 years, and you know how special it is… But then you have to check yourself and say, “It’s special to me, and that doesn’t always translate to special to the larger community.” But it’s painful. When you’re in something that means the world to you, and it’s closing, it’s heartbreaking because it feels like a death."

Kelli O'Hara talking about the early closing of "Days of Wine and Roses" in the annual The Hollywood Reporter Tonys Rountable

#kelli.........#ah.........#gonna punch a wall #gonna punch the dowar marketing team #kelli o'hara #days of wine and roses #adam guettel #musical #musicals #broadway #posted

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forfoxessake · 6 months ago

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Ify Nwadiwe posted on his Twitter about Gerard's quote for Jeremy Lambert (Academy Award Winner!/friend who took lovely pictures on the Swarm tour) friend's new comic Dark Spaces: The Hollywood Special.

Judging by the timeline of events, I assume this happened when they were all together (Gerard, Ify, Jeremy, Sara) earlier that year in LA.

#gerard way #comic books #jeremy frank lambert #ify nwadiwe

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stlivingla · 12 days ago

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Your Guide to Renting the Ideal Boutique Apartment in Hollywood

A boutique apartment in Hollywood combines unique architecture, high-end design, and an unmatched sense of character. These residences are typically smaller, privately managed, and loaded with charm—perfect for renters who want more than just a standard unit. Whether you’re an industry professional, artist, or someone seeking a stylish, comfortable space, Hollywood’s boutique apartment scene offers diversity, comfort, and personality.

Start with a Clear Understanding of Your Lifestyle Needs

Before jumping into listings, take a moment to outline your needs. Boutique apartments come in many styles and sizes, so understanding your lifestyle will help you narrow your choices.

Ask yourself:

Do you work from home and need a designated office nook?

Do you prefer to live in a lively or quiet part of Hollywood?

Is walkability to cafes, gyms, or public transit important to you?

Do you want a newer unit with modern upgrades or a vintage space with character?

Defining your non-negotiables early makes your search for a boutique apartment in Hollywood much more efficient and focused.

Explore Unique Features That Set Boutique Apartments Apart

When renting a boutique apartment in Hollywood, you're often getting more than just square footage. You’re getting personality, creativity, and special touches. Here’s what to look out for:

Design Features:

Reclaimed wood or original hardwood floors

Exposed beams or brick walls

High ceilings and arched doorways

Artisan tile work or hand-painted finishes

Building Layouts:

Fewer units per building (often less than 20)

Gated courtyards or private entrances

Rooftop access or shared garden space

Personalized Amenities:

Smart home technology

In-unit laundry

Built-in bookshelves or storage nooks

Pet-friendly policies with small fenced areas

These features create a sense of individuality that large apartment complexes often lack.

Use Multiple Platforms to Find the Right Listing

Don’t rely on one or two websites. Boutique apartment listings in Hollywood are often scattered across different platforms. Here’s a smart strategy to find them:

Mainstream Portals: Use Zillow, Trulia, and Apartments.com to get a sense of pricing and neighborhood comparisons.

Local-Specific Pages: Explore niche platforms like HotPads, RentHoop, or local community listing sites that feature privately managed apartments.

Social Media: Follow realtors and property managers on Instagram or Facebook who specialize in boutique rentals.

Drive Around the Neighborhood: Many boutique units still post “For Rent” signs out front. A simple walk or drive through your target area could reveal hidden gems.

Stay consistent with your search, and set daily alerts using the phrase “boutique apartment in Hollywood” to get the newest listings as soon as they go live.

Visit Apartments in Person to Experience the Space

Photos can be beautifully edited, but in-person visits reveal the truth. Pay attention to:

Natural light – Is the space bright and airy or dark and enclosed?

Noise levels – Can you hear street traffic or neighbors through the walls?

Layout functionality – Is there a logical flow from room to room?

Smell and maintenance – Trust your instincts here. Well-managed boutique buildings should feel clean and fresh.

Tip: Ask if the unit has had recent upgrades, and check water pressure, lighting fixtures, and windows during your visit. Don’t hesitate to take notes or photos so you can compare later.

Evaluate the Community and Management Quality

A boutique apartment in Hollywood often comes with a more personal living experience—but that means management and neighbors matter even more.

Here’s a quick checklist to evaluate the building’s community:

Management Style:

Is the property owner local or corporate?

Do reviews mention responsive maintenance?

Are there strict rules or a relaxed culture?

Tenant Vibe:

Is the building mostly creatives, students, or professionals?

Does it feel inclusive and respectful?

Community Features:

Shared laundry areas or communal spaces?

Optional resident events, like monthly mixers or clean-up days?

A great apartment is important—but a great building culture can elevate your living experience dramatically.

Conclusion:

Renting a boutique apartment in Hollywood means choosing a space that reflects your values, style, and daily habits. Whether you’re after architectural charm, quiet creative space, or a home that feels personal and welcoming, the right boutique apartment is waiting. Use a smart mix of platforms, walk the neighborhoods, and trust your intuition—because finding the perfect home is part logic, part lifestyle, and part heart.

FAQs

1. What is a boutique apartment in Hollywood? It’s a smaller, often privately owned apartment that features custom design elements, charm, and a unique personality—unlike large, corporate-run complexes.

2. Are boutique apartments suitable for long-term living? Yes. Many renters choose boutique apartments for their livability, quiet atmosphere, and the strong sense of belonging they create.

3. How do I know if a boutique apartment is fairly priced? Compare it with similar units in the same neighborhood using rental sites. Pricing varies based on design, location, and included amenities.

4. Can boutique apartments be pet-friendly? Many are, but each landlord has different policies. Always ask about deposits, monthly pet rent, and restrictions on breeds or sizes.

5. Is parking usually included in boutique apartment buildings? Some offer assigned parking, while others may not. In Hollywood, parking is often a premium, so check availability and ask if there's a waitlist.

#boutique apartment in Hollywood #apartmentsforrent #boutique apartment #rental #brand new apartments in koreatown

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xtrablak674 · 17 days ago

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Four Classic Television Shows I Adore

Martin Milner and me have had relations over the course of several shows, Route 66, The Twilight Zone, Adam-12 and recently in the film The Sweet Smell of Success. Curiously as I scrolled through his IMDB, I thought there were more things I saw him in, he just felt like he was in everything to me. But I think this tall gingery curmudgeon who was the basis of the design for the DC Comics character Guy Gardner, held a special place in my heart, so I saw him even when I didn't.

Also I have never met a police procedural I didn't like. The thing about Adam-12, which is set in the sixties, is how polite the police used to be. It was something that mystified me about this show, and Dragnet, both were like ma'am and sir, and never a harsh word. Such an idealized view of an institution that had very sketchy beginnings in slave catching.

It would be untrue to say I am nostalgic for a time I never existed in, but I do love that the men always wore suits, and a hat, held doors open for women, stood when a lady entered the room, and just seemed to have a general grasp of basic manners. There is a quaintness in all of it, albeit its such a Hollywood-ized virtuous version of a police force that probably never really existed. It did make me fantasize about one where the po-po actually did protect and serve, and do so with a smile, for everyone.

Also Kent McCord, fine as fuck!

Patrick McGoohan and I have been together for a couple of shows, this one and Danger Man/Secret Agent. Curiously this was the sweet spot of his career when he was that man, that spy or retired spy, man.

British science fiction has a special place in my heart from shows like Doctor Who, The Champions, UFO, Timeslip, The Tomorrow People, Space 1999, Blake's 7, Survivors and Sapphire and Steel. Curiously I came across most of these shows on YouTube, not during their initial run, but I have become a fan like any other.

What I really enjoy is the level of creativity on a limited budget, this was illustrated really well on Sapphire and Steel, where most of the villainous entities weren't ever seen, it was the threat of seeing them that held the most tension for the viewer. The prisoner was part drama, part thriller, part sci-fi and you were always kept a little off-kilter with the constantly changing Number Two's. The design elements of the show also really helped it stand out because it has such a distinctive look that adds to the shows appeal. I am currently re-watching it on Tubi and hoping to get in any episodes I missed on my previous viewings.

Anthology series are my life-blood, I think I first got turned out with the very classic, Twilight Zone episodes, but with the help of YouTube, once again I met so many other anthology series from classic CRT television days.

Between YouTube and Tubi's who's algorithm has figured out I love some classic television, here s a list of some of the other anthology shows I have really enjoyed.

▪️Lights Out (1946)

▪️Tales of Tomorrow (1951)

▪️The General Electric Theater (1953)

▪️Alfred Hitchcock Presents (1955)

▪️The Alcoa Hour (1955)

▪️Telephone Time (1956)

▪️The Veil (1958)

▪️One Step Beyond (1959)

▪️The Twilight Zone (1959)

▪️Thriller (1960) - hosted by Boris Karloff

▪️Way Out (1961)

▪️The Outer Limits (1963)

▪️Kraft Suspense Theater (1963)

▪️Journey to the Unknown (1968)

▪️Night Gallery (1970)

▪️Ghost Story/Circle of Fear (1972)

▪️Leap in the Dark (1973)

▪️Thriller (1973)

▪️Tales of the Unexpected (1979)

▪️Hammer House of Horror (1980)

▪️West Country Tales (1982)

▪️Tales from the Darkside (1983)

▪️The Ray Bradbury Theater (1985)

▪️The Twilight Zone (1985)

▪️Monsters (1988)

▪️The Outer Limits (1995)

▪️The Twilight Zone (2002)

I went a bit beyond classic shows, because I thought it was important to show I loved both iterations of The Outer Limits, and all of the iterations of The Twilight Zone. The thing I love about anthology shows, is they are attempting to teach some kind of moral lesson. They are examining some aspect of human culture or emotions and unpacking what is problematic, or something that may ultimately not end well for us. I love what-if scenarios ever since I read the same in Marvel Comics.

Clearly I also don't mind being a bit frightened. I love a ghost story, regressions into past lives, time travel, or the murder before your even born stories. I could spend the rest of eternity watching and rewatching anthology shows and be very content.

This show was like all of my Chronicles of Narnia, the Time Quintet and Choose Your Own Adventures wrapped up in one amazingly weird show. In Timeslip, Simon and Liz fell into a time-hole and found themselves trapped in different eras of the 20th century, where they have all sorts of adventures. Many of these involve the nefarious Commander Traynor, who is also traveling through time.

This is like Sliders, before Sliders. I didn't finish this one, all the episodes weren't on the channel on YouTube I was watching them on, but I was sold immediately. The lead characters were perfectly cast, and the writing room deserved an award for these two very Whovian children traveling to worlds besides their world with the upmost class and elegance. I just saw that the entire series is on archive.org so I don't need to run any coins over to Bezos to revisit and complete this amazing show.

The thing about British science fiction children shows is they feel perfectly fine for adults too, because they are so smart and never condescend to the audience. Some of my other fav's from Britain are Children of the Stones (1977), Under the Mountain (1981), Escape Into The Night (1972), The Owl Service (1969), Into the Labyrinth (1981), Sky (1975).

Also the British don't mind getting really weird, the American equivalents during this time were so campy and silly. American's never seemed to want a bit of seriousness in their children's program, I am not sure why, because childhood isn't all laughs and smiles, there is a lot of uncomfortable feelings, and I like the fact that the Brits embrace this a bit more.

I have said this before and I will say it again, I was a television addict as a child which is why I never purchased a television when I lived on my own as an adult. Now this doesn't mean that I didn't find a way to watch television shows, especially with the invention and broad access to this thing call the world wide web. But I felt it was important to not have a specific appliance that was solely used for rotting my brain. In my time, the television was called the idiot box, and I didn't want to give any pretense that I was dumb. If I watch on my computer at least I could be doing other things, like publishing a newsletter, transcribing cassette tapes, or adding my tricks to my digital database.

I am my father's child though, and lean heavily towards science fiction content, more subtlety with anthologies, or more obvious with shows like Blake's 7, and then the lollapalooza with a classic show like Timeslip which is all the best of all my favorite things, time travel, dimensional journey, monsters and of course childhood, the best time to do all of those things if I believe C.S. Lewis or Madeline L' Engle. The thing I love best about all of these shows is I discovered them on my own, I know that I had a little push from the YouTube algorithm, and IMDB did help point me in the right direction, but they were all something that I wanted to watch, not something I was told to watch, and that is how I like to live my life best, self-directed, not told or encouraged what or who to watch. I think we should all figure out our personal journeys and don't allow anyone to tell us what we should or shouldn't like, in this I think we find the most joy.

[Photos via the interwebs]

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