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fiastomatocheek · 1 month ago

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CHOP CHOP LOVE

pair: will smith x f!reader; will smith x athlete!reader

genre: romantic fluff, domestic sweetness, celebrity realism.

warnings: none beyond mild teasing and tooth-rotting love.

summary: you and will, sit down together for your first ever joint interview on the graham norton show. between laughter, career talk, parenting stories, and memories, you both reflect on the rare kind of love that defied busy schedules, different sports, and public pressure. for the first time, the world gets to see not just the power couple but the best friends behind the jerseys.

fia’s note: okay so this is a totally different universe for dad!will, in this one, reader are also an athlete! i didn’t specify what sport reader play because i wanted to leave it open for your imagination. maybe reader’s into something competitive and fast-paced, or maybe it’s something low-key but still intense. whatever sport you love or vibe with right now, just slide that version of you into this universe. it’s all about having fun with it and making it feel personal to you!

tagging team fia ! — @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @dancerbailey3 @mashmashi @kell9rs @nokiaholland @smiley-roos @macka @alwaysclassyeagle @hopefulsuitcasemoneyzonk

fia’s masterlist | join fia’s taglist | fic discussion | fia's nav.

You sit down beside Will on the famous red couch, just happy to be here, next to Will, in this rare moment of where it’s not about your sports or media days or parenting twins… it’s about both of you. Together.

“This is a proper treat,” Graham leaning forward with his trademark mischief.

“A married couple, both top-tier athletes, parents to twins, and somehow still disgustingly in love? I’m jealous, and I don’t even know where to start.”

Will chuckles, his thumb brushing your knuckles.

“We’re just happy to sit still for once. No rink, no gym, no toddlers throwing Cheerios.”

You nod, grinning. “Yeah, this is basically a date night. You’re welcome, Graham.”

The audience laughs, and Graham claps delightedly. “A date night on my couch? I’m honored, Mr. & Mes. Smith. But seriously, how do you schedule your lives? Two athletic careers, twins, do you… do you ever sleep?”

“Uhm… we don’t,” Will says, deadpan. “We just vibe on chaos.”

“Lies,” you counter, nudging him.

“We’ve got this color-coded calendar that’s basically NASA-level logistics. My trainer’s on it, his coach is on it, even our nanny gets pinged when we’re double-booked.”

Graham blinks dramatically. “I can’t even sync my calendar with my mum. You’re superheroes.”

You and Will exchange a look, stifling giggles like kids caught passing notes.

“Okay, Let’s rewind a little bit,” Graham says, eyes twinkling.

“Will, you’re a star with the San Jose Sharks, NHL’s golden boy. And you,” he turns to you,

“An absolute force in your sport. How did this power couple come to be?”

Will’s grin softens, his eyes flicking to you.

“Teammate dragged her to one of my games. He’s like, ‘Come on, meet my friend, the athlete.’ I turn around, and she’s standing there, all ‘I’d rather be napping’ energy.”

You laugh, because it’s true.

“I’d just come from practice, totally wiped. My friend guilt-tripped me into going. I was not ready for hockey charm.”

“And yet,” Will says, squeezing your hand, “fate said, ‘Chop chop chop, let’s make this happen.’”

Graham leans in. “First impression of Will?”

You tilt your head, smirking. “He was so… red. Fresh-off-the-ice, cheek tomato-level red. Sweaty helmet hair, cheeks like stoplights. I thought, ‘Oh cute, but someone get this man a towel.’”

The audience roars, and Will clutches his chest.

“My face was out here winning her heart.”

“Honestly, though,” you add, softer,

“He was sweet. I’d been a Sharks fan forever, so meeting a player was cool. I just didn’t expect… us, you know.” You gesture between you, and the crowd awws.

Graham raises an eyebrow. “A Sharks fan before Will? So you were already tweeting about his team?”

“Oh, yeah,” you say.

“I’ve got receipts, tweets from years back, hyping the Sharks. Probably manifesting him without knowing it.”

Will leans toward Graham, mock-whispering.

“She summoned me with her fandom. I had no choice.”

Graham cackles. “Okay, careers. Different sports, Will tearing up the ice, you dominating your field. Any competitive tension?”

You both answer at once.

“No.” — “Yes.”

You turn to each other, bursting into laughter.

“Okay, maybe a little,” you admit.

“If I outrun him in a sprint, he’s like, ‘Bet you can’t do a slapshot.’ It’s his go-to.”

“She’s worse,” Will says, grinning.

“Honeymoon in Italy, we’re strolling through this gorgeous piazza, and she goes, ‘Race you to that fountain.’ In sandals!”

“And I won,” you say, pointing at him.

“Because I was carrying our luggage and your gelato!”

Graham is doubled over. “So, no relaxing honeymoon vibes?”

“We relaxed,” you say, then crack up again.

“But really,” Will adds, his tone shifting to something softer.

“That trip was perfect. I’d lose a hundred fountain races just to see her smile like that again.”

He looks at you, eyes warm, and your heart does a little flip.

The audience coos, and Graham fans himself.

“Will, you’re making us all swoon. How are you this romantic?”

Will shrugs, a playful glint in his eye.

“She makes it easy. I mean, look at her, my wife, she’s out here killing it in her sport, being the best mom, and still putting up with my sweaty post-game self. I’m just trying to keep up.”

You blush, swatting his arm. “Stop it, you sap.”

“Never,” he says.

Graham claps his hands.

“Okay, let’s talk twins, Charles and Theo Smith, gorgeous names. How’s parenthood with your high-octane lives?”

You squeeze Will’s hand, grinning. “It’s wild. They’re two, and they’re already little tornadoes.”

“Charles is a thrower,” Will says.

“Balls, toys, spaghetti, if it’s in his hands, it’s flying.”

“And Theo’s obsessed with speed,” you add.

“He sprints down the hallway in socks, sliding like he’s auditioning for the Olympics. We’re terrified he’ll crash into a wall.”

Graham laughs. “Are they already little athletes, taking after you?”

“Oh, definitely,” Will says.

“Last week, we set up this mini obstacle course in the backyard, cones, a little slide, toddler stuff. Charles bulldozed through it, and Theo? He’s weaving around cones like he’s got a game plan.”

You nod, laughing.

“I caught Will ‘coaching’ them, like it’s NHL tryouts. He’s whispering, ‘Stick to the left, Theo!’ I’m like, ‘Babe, he’s two. Let him eat dirt first.’”

Will grins. “Gotta start ‘em young. But yeah, they’ve got her fire, stubborn, fast, and way too charming for their own good.”

Graham leans forward.

“So Will, we all wanna know, you’re a young dad for an NHL star, yea sure but what made you so sure about starting a family?”

Will’s expression softens, and he glances at you, his voice full of feeling.

“I just… knew. The second I met her, it was like my life clicked into focus. I didn’t want to wait five years, ten years, whatever. I wanted her, us, family. Even with our crazy schedules, she’s always been my home base.”

You bite your lip, caught off guard by the emotion.

“He’s always been all-in,” you say quietly. “Like, we’d be on FaceTime me at a meet, him at an away game and he’d still find a way to send me flowers or a text that’s like, ‘You got this, champ.’”

Will smiles, a little sheepish.

“I proposed like eleven months in because I was on a ‘chop chop chop’ timeline. Couldn’t wait.”

Graham pounces. “Chop chop chop! Explain this madness!”

Will laughs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s this dumb thing I’d say when we were dating. I knew I wanted to marry her, like, yesterday. So I’d tease her, ‘Chop chop chop, let’s get this love story moving.’”

“He was ridiculous,” you say, but your smile is unstoppable.

“Proposed right after a competition. I’m sweaty, chugging water, barely alive, and he’s on one knee with this ring, saying, ‘Marry me, champ.’”

“Best moment of my life,” Will says, eyes locked on yours.

“She won her event and said yes. Double victory.”

The audience melts, and Graham pretends to wipe a tear.

“You’re killing me. How do you stay this in love with all the pressure careers, kids, the spotlight?”

You pause, glancing at Will.

“He’s my best friend. Even when it’s hard like when I missed his game-winning goal because I was at an event, or he missed my big win for a road trip we make it work. We cheer louder than anyone else for each other.”

Will nods, his voice soft but firm.

“She’s my everything. I’d skate a thousand extra laps just to see her in the stands. And when I watch her compete? I’m her loudest fan, screaming like I’m at a playoff game.”

You laugh, nudging him. “You are loud. I could hear you over my own heartbeat last time.”

Graham claps dramatically. “You’ve ruined every other couple for me. But one last thing, any big plans for the future? More kids, more medals, more fountain races?”

Will grins, glancing at you with a softness that makes your heart skip.

“More of her. That’s the plan. I’ve witnessed her through the pain, the grind, even before all this, her strength, her heart. So if she wants more babies, I’m ready, chop chop chop. But if not, that’s totally fine by me. I’m good as long as it’s what she wants.”

You blush, caught off guard by his earnestness, and swat his arm lightly.

“You’re gonna make me cry on national TV, Smitty.”

The audience awws, and Graham fans himself again.

“Will, you’re setting an impossible standard here! Any response to that?”

You smile, leaning into Will’s shoulder.

“He’s stuck with me, that’s for sure. More medals, maybe. But mostly just… more us. Chasing goals, chasing toddlers, chasing eachother.”

“Chop chop chop,” Will adds, winking at you, and the audience erupts.

Graham throws his hands up.

“That’s it, you’re officially the cutest. Get out of here before I propose to you both myself.”

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fangirlfuel · 2 months ago

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Part 1

---

Part 2

---

voicemail 1 — [00:45]

"Hey. It’s Lando. I don’t even know why I’m calling… You’re not gonna pick up. You probably deleted my number by now. I’m not even sure if you’d still recognize my voice.

I just… we were in Silverstone today. Your favorite. I remember you used to light up when you talked about it, saying the crowd felt like home. I could feel you there today. In the wind, in the noise, in every stupid British flag I saw waving. I wanted to look back and see you. God, I almost did.

Hope you’re doing okay. Just—yeah. That’s all."

---

voicemail 2 — [01:01]

"Do you remember Austria? You made fun of me for falling asleep on the plane with my mouth open, and you drew on my face with eyeliner before landing. I still have the photo. You had that dumb grin, like you were so proud of yourself. I hated you for that for about an hour. Then I kissed you until I forgot.

I watched the race replay alone tonight. No commentary. Just… silence. It’s the only way I can focus now. Without your voice in my head cheering me on. I’m still not used to the quiet. I miss your noise."

---

voicemail 3 — [00:57]

"I saw that post. You and him. He had his arm around you and you were laughing. Like really laughing. The way you used to do with me when you thought no one was watching. I didn’t know it was possible to be both proud of you and completely fucking heartbroken at the same time.

You look happy. And I’m not mad about that. I just wish it didn’t hurt this much to see."

---

voicemail 4 — [01:16]

"Your friends still tag you in stuff. That’s how I keep up now. Through stories I’m not supposed to watch, through pictures I wish I didn’t know how to find. You’re going to galleries now, huh? And yoga classes? You always said you’d try it someday. Looks like someday came. Just… without me.

I’m proud of you. Really. It just feels like I’m stuck in rewind while your life’s gone full speed ahead. I still sleep on the left side. Still order your usual coffee by accident. Still pause before unlocking the door like you might be there. Spoiler alert: you’re never there."

---

voicemail 5 — [01:34]

"They asked me today in an interview what I’ve learned this year. I almost said ‘how to pretend I’m okay.’ But I smiled instead. Gave them a nice, polished answer about growth and balance.

I lied. I’m not okay. I’m barely holding it together, if we’re being honest. I keep thinking—what if I’d just said the right thing that day? What if I hadn’t let you walk away? What if I ran after you like I was supposed to?

Every race I win, I look for your face in the crowd. Every night I lose, I still want to call you. I don’t know how to stop loving you. And God, I’ve tried."

---

voicemail 6 — [00:48]

"It’s been a year. One whole year. And I still wake up thinking I’ll hear your voice in the kitchen. Still check my phone expecting some dumb meme from you.

But it’s just me now. Always just me."

---

voicemail 7 — [01:07]

"I saw you again today. Not in person—just another post. You were dancing at a wedding. Hair down, barefoot, eyes closed. You looked… free. Like nothing could touch you. And that’s what I always wanted for you. To feel weightless. I just never imagined you’d look that way without me.

I’m starting to accept that I’m not part of your world anymore. Just… a page you turned quietly, without ripping it."

---

voicemail 8 — [00:59]

"I still talk about you like you’re a season that changed me. Like summer—loud and soft and infinite all at once. You were my favorite chapter. And maybe I was just your prologue."

---

voicemail 9 — [01:22]

"I think this is the last one. I need it to be. For me. For you.

I love you, still. Probably always will. But you’ve moved on. You’re building something new. And me? I’m still standing in the ruins of us, holding all the pieces like they might still fit.

But they don’t.

I hope… I hope he knows what he has. I hope he picks up your calls and stays awake to hear your dreams. I hope he loves your mess, your fire, your stubborn laugh. I hope he never makes you cry the way I did.

And if he ever does… just know I’d still come running.

But I won’t call again. Goodbye, my love."

---

voice note from you — [03:08]

"Hi, Lando.

I listened to every voicemail. I wasn’t sure if I should respond—if it would help or hurt more. But I think… we both need this.

You loved me the way poets write about. Messy, loud, all-consuming. And I loved you like you hung the stars. You were everything. My sunrises and slow songs, my Sunday mornings and spontaneous road trips. You were the safest place I ever knew.

But we outgrew the version of us that worked. You stayed in the race, and I had to start living again. Not because I stopped loving you, but because I had to start loving me.

It wasn’t easy. Moving on never is. I cried every time your name came up. I flinched when I saw McLaren orange. I still wear your hoodie when it rains.

But Lando… you deserve peace too.

I see you stuck in a loop I had to climb out of. And maybe it’s unfair, but I can’t go back to pull you out. You have to choose life again. Joy again. Yourself again.

You were my great love. My forever in a moment. But we were also a lesson. A beautiful, heartbreaking, unforgettable lesson.

So here’s your closure: You mattered. You changed me. You’ll always have a piece of my heart, tucked away in a part of me no one else can touch.

But I’m letting go now. And I hope—someday—you do too.

Goodbye, Lando. Thank you for loving me."

---

Will Lando and reader find they’re way back to eachother?

Is the man Reader move on with a good man ?

Will Lando and Reader have a happy ending?

Will Lando try to win Reader back ?

Reader says she move on but did she really?

Or will Lando just move on with his life ?

Well we wont know till part 2 !😉

Stay TUNED FOR IT 🤭💞

---

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maccamaniac1 · 2 months ago

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In a heartfelt interview in late 2023, Paul McCartney spoke emotionally about a dream that had shaken him. He said he saw John Lennon in the dream, alive, laughing, and speaking to him like old times. The encounter felt so real that he woke up in tears. While talking on the podcast McCartney: A Life in Lyrics, Paul revealed, “It was one of those vivid dreams where John was there. We were just sitting across from each other and I remember saying, ‘John, it’s so good to see you again.’” His voice cracked slightly during the recounting.

This memory came as part of Paul’s promotion for the 2023 release of the final Beatles song Now and Then, which used a vocal demo from John originally recorded in the late 1970s. With the help of AI technology developed by Peter Jackson for the Get Back documentary, the scratchy home recording was cleaned up enough to allow Paul and Ringo Starr to add bass, drums, and harmonies, giving the track the emotional power of a real Beatles reunion.

What moved Paul deeply was the process of recording around John’s voice as if he were in the room again. “It was incredibly touching,” Paul said during a BBC interview in November 2023. “When I heard his voice clear as day in the studio speakers, I had to take a minute. It wasn’t just music. It felt like a message.”

During an interview on The Tonight Show, Paul recalled the early writing days with John. He mentioned how, even in their youth, the connection had a depth that went beyond collaboration. “We’d sit across from each other with our guitars and just look into each other’s eyes as we figured the lyrics. It was a strange, beautiful sort of unspoken trust.”

But one of the most unexpected revelations came when Paul spoke about a 1980s moment that haunted him. After John’s death, Paul would often write letters to him. Letters that were never sent, just tucked away. In an emotional passage from his 2021 book The Lyrics, Paul included a portion of one note: “Would you believe me if I said I still hear your voice in the harmonies?” He admitted he sometimes sang along to old Beatles songs at home, imagining John beside him.

During the making of Now and Then, Paul said he looked to John for guidance. “I kept thinking, ‘Would John approve of this part? Would he like the string arrangement?’ That’s how present he felt,” Paul explained during the SiriusXM Town Hall session. “It was like he was in the control room with us, nodding or raising an eyebrow.”

A particularly touching moment came when Paul recalled a studio exchange with Ringo while they were finishing the song. They were sitting in silence after laying down the final tracks. Paul turned to Ringo and said, “Do you feel him here too?” Ringo replied, “I do. It's mad, isn't it?” That moment, Paul said, was among the most emotional of his recent life.

In a quiet revelation during his conversation with Rolling Stone, Paul shared a short anecdote involving a cassette player he still keeps in his study. The tape inside it carries one of the last audio letters John sent to him in 1979. “He was being silly, doing voices, making jokes... I’ve never had the heart to rewind it past that message. It’s frozen in time, just like him.”

Paul also touched on their complicated past. “We had our fallouts, sure. But I never stopped loving him. I don’t think he ever stopped loving me either,” he said. Then he added a line that stunned the room silent: “I still write with him. Not every day, but when I’m stuck on a song, I ask him what he thinks. And sometimes, I hear the answer.”

Now and Then topped charts globally, but to Paul, it meant something no chart could measure. “It gave us one last chance to sing with John,” he told the crowd at an intimate event at Abbey Road Studios.

Even after all these years, Paul’s voice trembled slightly when speaking about John. He ended one appearance by simply saying, “We started off as kids with guitars, and somewhere in the music, I still find him.”

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gotta-winwin · 7 months ago

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(🎞️) ... hit the road docu.<> for you to walk comfortably

masterlist | cyana's masterlist

word count: 1k TW: fluff? nothing too crazy - woozi's segments pretty mild compared to what's about to go down („• ֊ •„) italics are interview moments cut between other scenes a/n: welcome to the first instalment of htr!

Cyana couldn't help but glance at Woozi when they won the Album of the Year at Asia Artist Awards. She wanted to see that glow of a smile flood across their producer member's face, a smile she so rarely got to see. He was usually so stoic around her.

"We won." Jeonghan breathed into her ear, pulling her and Dino in for a hug. "We won."

She looked at Woozi, who had been tugged into a group hug with Seungcheol and the others. "We won." She mumbled, mostly to herself. She couldn't quite believe it.

"It was hard to imagine we had won." Woozi said to the camera. "I was looking for Cyana the whole time, trying to see her reaction. I never thought we'd succeed with her next to us." He shrugged, a little sheepish. "Guess I was wrong."

"Hi!" Cyana waved to the camera. "We're practicing for our Osaka concert right now." She moved to show the members with the staff in the background. "Apparently they did this all last tour as well, to keep in line with the local staff."

Woozi could be seen directing the bulk of it, naturally taking over as he knew most about their sound design.

"It sounds a bit lower," Woozi said into his mic. "can we adjust that?"

"It was amazing, to see Woozi oppa controlling the stage, even when we weren't performing." Cyana smiled as she recalled. "It made it even harder to hold a grudge."

Woozi approached Cyana as they sat in the green room, two hours before the concert. She was busy eating, her phone propped up as she watched Criminal Minds on low volume.

"Your mic pack's acting up." He informed her, sitting down opposite her. "They're fixing it but we don't know how long it'll take."

Cyana paused her show, looking up worried. "Is there a spare?"

"The staff are finding one now." Woozi let out a loud sigh. "It's a bit hectic today."

"I was kind of checking everything that day. It wasn't that I was a perfectionist. There was just a lot of changes. It was a different size stage, we had changed formations and cue sheets." Woozi recalled the day.

Cyana nodded after hearing the interviewer's comment. "I don't think our performance in Osaka would've gone as well if it hadn't been for his attention to detail."

LOCATION: UNIVERSE FACTORY

"I spend most of my time at the studio. It's like my second home." Woozi explained. "It's also where I see Cyana the most."

Cyana's sprawled on the studio couch, face facing the ceiling as she listened to the track Woozi was playing. "Pause it." Cyana sat upright, her face in thought. "Wait, go back a few bars."

"I liked working with Woozi oppa. We didn't really have much to say to each other outside of work, but working on music was something that could bring us together." Cyana let out a tiny laugh. "I guess being sleep deprived does bring people together."

Woozi rewinds the track, bringing it back to the chorus. "Here?" He asked, looking at Cyana for confirmation.

The girl nodded. "Yeah, play it again?"

The two grew silent as they concentrated on the beats. Cyana stood up suddenly frowning. "What is that sound in the very back? The dat-dat-dat-dun." She mimed drumbeats as she tried explaining what she was hearing.

"Cyana didn't know how to work the sound mixing board yet, she was learning as we worked but I could tell it frustrated her, having to explain her thoughts to me." Woozi couldn't help but smile. "It was endearing, I have to say."

"I know what you mean." Woozi nodded, following her train of thought. "I hear it too. Must've altered when we mixed those two beats together yesterday." He clicked a few keys on the board. "I'll find it."

"Bumzu sunbaenim told me Woozi oppa's always been like this, even as a trainee. A pure musical genius." Cyana shook her head in mild disbelief. "I came to learn that producing is literally his entire life. He doesn't even think of it as anything special."

Cyana let out a yawn, sitting back down on her spot at the corner of the couch, curling her legs up. "You should take a break, oppa. You've been staring at that screen for hours."

"I felt bad, that I couldn't hold my fair share of the work. Sometimes it felt like I was just directing him." Cyana admitted. "I thought: he must feel annoyed, having the maknae throw ideas into his area of expertise."

Woozi stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders back. "I'm fine, Cyana. We can keep going." Rolling his chair across the room, he opened the mini fridge and threw her a bottle of water before taking one for himself. "We'll forget tomorrow."

Cyana could only smile ruefully at his persistence, taking a small sip of water. "Only if you're sure."

"What else can I say?" Woozi shrugged. "The members all say I work too hard. That I should be sleeping more, going out more, living more. But I am living- when I'm making music."

Woozi cued up the track once again, sifting through it to find the error both he and Cyana could hear. Cyana watched from behind, feet tapping absentmindedly to the rhythm.

The concert venue held an insane amount of people. Cyana could only stare out into the vast sea, smiling from the sidelines as Woozi started his Opening Ment.

"I'm a stickler for routine." Woozi said, elbows on his knees as he explained to the interviewer. "Cyana proved to me new things can be better than the old- and I'm grateful to her for that." He side eyes the staff. "She won't see this, right?" Looking back at the camera, he continued. "Anyways, I'm thankful for my members because they are the ones who love my music the most. Because of that, I feel no pressure in creating, only joy."

The cheers from the crowd washed over Woozi as he performed with his members.

'There is something so special about seeing people enjoy your group's music. And it is even more special knowing you created it."

a/n: wahhh first hit the road ep done! it was def a journey, trying to combine cyana into the episode and also keeping it woozi-centered. I tried following the format of the og youtube docu- lmk how it was! these instalments might be on the shorter side just cause the docus are pretty short themselves (｡•́︿•̀｡)

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reminiscingtonight · 4 months ago

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Pretending (Pt. 3)

Aitana Bonmati x Reader

Word Count: 961

A/N: The long awaited sequel to the sequel

Part One // Part Two

[WOSO Masterlist]

You’ve been back for all but two minutes before Ona’s got a look on her face like she’s had more than enough of you.

The only thing you’ve done is put down your bag, not nearly enough time for you to annoy her in any way shape or form.

After the third time you catch her staring, you sigh, dropping your boots to the ground. “Do I have something on my face?”

Ona looks disgruntled, lips pulled down as she stares at you with distrust. “What is up with the two of you?” is all she says in return.

You frown. “Two of who?”

Ona looks close to blowing a gasket, face slowly turning redder and redder as she tries to control her temper. “You and Miss Unsubtle!”

A hand on your chin sharply turns your face to the side, where you catch a wide-eyed Aitana staring your way before the Catalan midfielder pretends to busy herself with her own bag.

Your heart flutters at the lovesick look you catch before Aitana drops her eyes, but you’re rudely pulled out of your thoughts when Ona snaps her fingers in front of your face.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about. The two of you usually do a much better job pretending not to be into each other.” Ona sighs again and the tiniest part of you starts to feel a bit guilty. “This is just ridiculous at this point. Put the other out of their misery please, I’m begging. If not for each other, do it for me. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

“We’re not that bad.” The excuse sounds weak even to your own ears. You know you have it bad. You’ve always had. But it’s been years since you’ve admitted your feelings for the star midfielder and you thought you’ve had it under control.

But judging from the way Ona looks like she’s about to use your own shoes to strangle you, maybe not as well as you’ve thought.

“Fine. We’re married.”

Ona snorts, tying her hair up as she pays you no heed. “Right, and Keira is actually going to do that interview in Catalan. If you’re going to lie, at least make it believable.”

Ona expects you to laugh. To shove her shoulder. To shake your head and head out to the field.

Ona expects anything but the awkward silence that follows.

Her eyes narrow, not missing the way you nervously swallow.

“I’m sorry. You’re what?!”

It’s hard to ignore the dozens of eyes that rake towards you at Ona’s outburst. You shrink a bit, never one to like the spotlight. Your best friend on the other hand ignores them with ease, raving around like a madman, hand rubbing insistently against her forehead.

“You got married?!”

You flinch, hands desperately trying to grab at Ona to quiet her down. “Oni--”

“I’m sorry, you got married? When?”

You ignore Frido who’s got a perplexed look on her face.

“It’s no big deal!”

“No big deal? You got married!” If you didn’t know any better you’d be worried that Ona was about to launch her water bottle straight at your head.

“Stop. The two of you need to rewind. (Y/N), you got married? To who?” You shrug off Mapi’s hands, peering around her towards Ona again.

“People get married all the time.”

“And they usually tell people when they do! When did you even have time to get married?”

A sharp whistle interrupts before you even have time to entertain Ona’s latest question. You flinch when a hand grips your ear, yanking you up to your tiptoes. A yelp from your best friend leaves no imagination of her similar fate as you.

“Time out, the two of you.” Alexia looks equal parts peeved and exasperated, as if she has way better things to do than referee your argument right in the middle of the locker room. And quite honestly, she probably does.

“I’m going to ask questions and you’re going to answer. Truthfully.”

You do your best to nod, ear turning a dangerous shade of red as Alexia grips on tighter.

“When did you get married?”

“During the break,” you squeak out, wincing when the grip on your ear tightens.

It’s almost comical the way her eyes grow wide before Alexia’s schooling her face again.

“Where did you get married?”

“Greece.”

Her eyes narrow.

“To who?”

“To me,” Aitana interrupts before you have a chance to answer. “(Y/N) got married to me.”

Aitana’s got her arms crossed, a look of amusement painted across her face. You must be a sight to see, standing on your tiptoes as you avoid getting your ear ripped off by your captain.

You shoot Aitana a pleading look and she rolls her eyes before sighing out, “Can you let my wife’s ear go?”

Alexia releases you without fanfare, though the rest of the room is a different story. There are hands on you within seconds of your freedom; some are pats of congratulations, others are thinly veiled threats and complaints of having missed your wedding.

It’s a miracle you manage to make it out alive, using your small stature to your advantage and slipping between the bodies to make a break for the door.

“Right. Well I’m going to go before Pere makes me run laps for being late,” you nervously chuckle, inching closer and closer to freedom.

There’s a hand on the back of your collar just as the door slams close with a deafening thud.

Ona’s looking at you, not even bothering to hide the look in her eyes that tells you exactly how she’s going to get her payback.

“Oh no you don’t. You’re not going anywhere until we’re done with our questions.”

#aitana bonmati x reader #aitana bonmati imagine #woso x reader #woso imagine #Ace writes

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ofmdrecaps · 9 months ago

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09/26-27/2024 Daily OFMD Recap

TLDR; David Jenkins; Rhys Darby; Con O'Neill; Madeleine Sami; Vico Ortiz; Ruibo Qian; Because The Night Zine; OFMD Rewind with Adopt Our Crew/Astroglide; Well & Truly Docked Event; Don't you want us Netflix? Fan Spotlight: Amuseoffyre; Love Notes;

== David Jenkins ==

Is that our friend Adam Stein perhaps? A producer/writer/actor in Our Flag Means Death that David is meeting with???? I think it may be. David just happens to be posting pictures with some "old friends" hm? 🪿🪿🪿

Source: David Jenkins' Instagram

And as you can imagine-- that has triggered QUITE the Honk fest.

Source: HonkForecast's Twitter

== Rhys Darby ==

New Season "Curses" on Apple TV premiering October 4! Our dear Captain is back as Stanley! Wanna learn more? Check out the AppleTV page.

Source: Rhys Darby's Instagram

Rhys has been very busy lately as you can tell-- and we got a special interview with not just Rhys, but Rosie too!

Source: Diaspora.NZ Substack

And hey! We already knew Rhys is going to be playing BinkleBonk in the new BadJelly show-- but now we get to see what Binklebonk looks like!

Source: Rhys Darby's Instagram Stories

== Con O'Neill ==

Con's back home again, and spending some much needed cuddle time with Cooper <3

Source: Con's INstagram

== Madeleine Sami ==

Somehow I missed that Mads would be joining BadJelly as well!

Source: Bad jelly tv

== Vico Ortiz ==

VIco was out at the 29 Queer Film Festival!

Source: 29 Queer Films Festival Instagram

== Ruibo Qian ==

Our Pirate Queen shared some of the gorgeous work by @cosmosart-s who's been keeping up the honking efforts on Instagram! Beautiful work dear!

Source: Ruibo Qian's Instagram Stories

== Adopt Our Crew / Astroglide ==

Our friends over at @adoptourcrew had another OFMD Rewind with @astroglideofficial! This time for Season 1 - Episodes 8-10! If you have access to twitter and missed it-- please visit their thread here! Otherwise, if you don't have access to twitter, here's screenshots of the thread!

Source: Adopt Our Crew Twitter

== Well and Truly Docked Event ==

You may remember there was going to be a OFMD meetup in Galveston Texas! Well several of our crew members got together and had a grand time! It looks like everyone had fun-- hope you all make it again next year! Got some photos from the event you'd like to share, please let me know! I'd love to share the with the crew :) Thank you Captain Charlemagne for sharing these!

Source: @captain-charlemagne's Instagram

== NSFW: Because the Night Zine ==

CW: NSFW! Did you miss out on the preorders of the Because The Night - Gentlebeard Zine? Well no worries! You can order one again before Oct 11!

Source: BecauseTheNight Zine

== Don't You Want Us Netflix? ==

Our dear friends over at HonkForcast on twitter shared a new video that cators to netflix for our dear show! Featuring the talents of @ferventrabbit and @escargotcargo!

youtube

== Fan Spotlight ==

= A Muse Of Fyre =

Tonight we have another round of absolutely stunning muppets by the brilliantly talented @amuseoffyre! If you haven't yet, please check out the exquisite detail on these muppets! There are just so many tiny details that make them so very accurate to the show!

Oluwande / Lucius / Pete / David Jenkins / Fang / Ivan / Jackie / Karl / Buttons

Source: amuseoffyre's Instagram

== Love Notes ==

Hey there lovelies. Gosh, it's been a long week. I'm so sorry it's taking so long for me to catch up on things. Things continue to be chaotic here, and I wish I was out there honking with you. You all have been doing such a great job, and I hope that you're getting some of the fun energy going around. This is a quick one tonight since I'm so behind, but I want you to know I'm thinking of you, and wanted to remind you to take some time for yourself. A dear friend reminded me of this today (and so many of you have lately, sorry I forget to respond to messages) and it really is important. Some people spend their whole day taking care of others, and it's easy to forget to take care of yourself. Please go take a shower, drink some water, eat something good, and just spend some time doing something you love. Be well lovelies, take care of yourselves <3

Source: Finding Poeta Instagram

#ofmd daily recap #ofmd #daily ofmd recap #rhys darby #adopt our crew #save ofmd #our flag means death #vico ortiz #david jenkins #adam stein #chaos dad #ruibo qian #con o'neill #madeleine sami

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desertfangs · 10 months ago

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Record and Play - Armand/Daniel - 1564

This is just a short little ficlet for the @vamptember prompt "Tape Recorder."

Daniel set the tape recorder on the table. Armand stared at it warily like it might jump up and bite him. But soon curiosity got the better of him and he snatched it off the table.

It was small, the size of a deck of cards and half the width, a hundred times smaller than the one Daniel had used in the 1970s when he’d interviewed Louis. Hell, this one didn’t even technically have a tape. It was all digital. He would have to plug it into a computer to extract the files when this was finished.

Armand turned it over in his pale hands. He pressed the buttons on its side: record, play, rewind, fast forward, stop. He studied the tiny little digital screen, a black and white read out that would provide a time stamp for the audio. A tiny red light on the black recorder’s corner would illuminate to indicate when it was recording.

“It’s small,” Armand said.

“Neat, isn’t it? Imagine just having that in your pocket! It can hold up to thirty hours of audio,” Daniel gushed. He and Benji had gone to Techland a week ago, a store in the East Village, where Daniel had spent hours talking to one of the workers about different recording options. He was amazed how much technology had progressed since he was lugging around his large tape recorder and microphones.

Armand continued to study the tiny machine, his head bent over it, his long russet curls falling into his face. Tension gathered in the air and Daniel worried he was going to bolt now that they were actually here, equipment literally in hand.

Armand had not dressed for the occasion. He wore an oversized sweatshirt—one of Daniel’s, a green one with an illustration of a trilobite fossil on the front—and jeans. Casual clothes. Daniel wasn’t sure what that meant, if anything. He’d expected Armand to wear a suit or finery, but then, why? This wasn’t a video recording. And his outfit did mirror Daniel’s clothes: a purple sweatshirt, gray t-shirt, and jeans.

After letting Armand fiddle with the recorder for a bit, Daniel held out his hand. Armand hesitated, then placed it in his outstretched palm. Daniel put it back in the center of the small round table and plugged in the microphone he’d purchased to go with it.

Once he was sure the set up was good, he looked up.

Armand was staring at his ring-adorned hands that lay flat on the table in front of him.

“Are you ready?” Daniel asked.

Armand did not move or speak.

Daniel swallowed uneasily, but he didn’t want to push too hard. So he waited, drumming his fingers on the table and looking aimlessly around the room. There wasn’t much to see.

They were sitting in one of Trinity Gate’s smaller sitting rooms. In it was the table with two chairs on either side, and a window that looked out into the courtyard garden. It was private, though that wasn’t really the point - they were alone now in this massive house. Everyone else was in France and soon they’d join them. He’d chosen this room because the small size, small window, and thick wallpaper would help the sound quality.

Daniel waited, his nerves jangling. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked. The idea had come up during a hard conversation they’d had last night about Armand’s book. But he’d agreed, hadn’t he? Daniel hadn’t forced his hand.

Armand remained motionless. Infuriating how he could turn into a statue like that! It always driven Daniel past all reason when he went utterly still.

“Do you—” He started.

“It’s not for them, Daniel.”

Daniel blinked. “What isn’t?”

“Our story,” Armand said. “It’s not for David, or even Sybelle or Benji. And it’s not for public consumption, anymore than it already has been. That's why I left it where I did.”

Pain and frustration twisted inside him. He could still remember the way Armand’s dismissal of him in his book had felt like a knife right through his stomach, how he thought he’d never stop bleeding from that particular wound. Armand, his maker, the person he’d given up his entire life for, had reduced to him a few bitter paragraphs.

It wasn’t the worst thing Armand had ever done to him but it had stung—no, more than stung; it had cut him open and torn out his heart. Daniel had been freshly restored to his own faculties and eager to reconnect with him, only to read that he was hardly an afterthought, and not a fond one at that.

Daniel bit back a retort and took a breath. “You weren’t shy about discussing your past with Marius,” Daniel said, trying to keep his voice even, lest this explode into another fight.

“More time had passed.” Armand turned away, looking out the window. “With you, the wounds were still raw.”

Daniel looked down, a lump forming in his throat. The last time they’d seen each other before Armand dictated his story to David Talbot, they’d fought viciously and carelessly, venting their spleens and marinating in the bile. They’d been cruel to each other, maybe crueler than they’d ever been, and then Daniel, having hit his limit, walked out the door.

Not forever. He never intended that. But once he was gone, he kept going, and didn’t look back. It was fair enough for Armand to assume he was done with him when he’d yelled exactly that before slamming the door so hard it had cracked.

It had been mean of him and he’d wanted it to hurt Armand at the time.

He just hadn’t known what would happen next. That not long after Armand would go into the sun, without so much as a thought to how Daniel would endure the centuries without him.

Daniel ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands. Hot shame washed over him, along with regret and frustration. Armand glanced over at him and then reached across the table, taking his hand.

He squeezed, his hand cool against Daniel’s blood-warmed skin. Such a small, simple gesture. The touch tingled up his arm and his shoulders relaxed.

Armand let go and gestured to the recorder. “Do you wish to begin?”

Daniel swallowed and nodded. He reached over and hit the little record button on the device.

“So, tell me about the night we met,” Daniel said.

Armand straightened in his seat. He looked up into Daniel’s eyes which he held as he spoke:

“I heard a familiar voice from down the street as I approached the little house. I walked past it nightly, you understand, and checked on it.”

“On Lestat, you mean,” Daniel corrected.

Armand waved a dismissive hand. “Louis’ voice was grainy and I knew that he wasn’t there. I couldn’t sense his presence. But of course it was strange to hear his voice coming from the house. I went to investigate and I found the most curious thing: a mortal boy, desperate and feverish, with recordings of his voice.”

“Desperate and feverish?” Daniel asked, amused.

Armand cut his eyes at him. “No commentary, beloved. This is my story.”

Daniel held his hands up in supplication. “Yeah, yeah. Go on.”

Armand nodded sagely, but Daniel caught the ghost of a smile on his lips. “The tapes surprised me. I wondered why Louis had allowed his voice to be captured in such a way. But then I saw this beautiful creature pacing in the house, tall with soft blond hair and intense eyes. He had a frenetic energy and was walking from window to window as if hoping someone would appear. I knew at once Louis had probably been drawn to the boy’s beauty. Though I still didn’t understand why he’d spoken with such candor. So I remained outside and listened.”

“How long were you there?” Daniel asked.

Armand considered. “Long enough to learn that boy was there for Lestat, who still lay sleeping. Not long enough to decide if the boy should live or die. That was why I had to hold him until I could examine his belongings and learn more about him.”

Daniel, of course, remembered being knocked unconscious and locked in the cellar for three days. How delirious and desperate he’d felt when he’d seen Armand again, how full of awe and desire! Those days were a blur now, but he remembered the strange cocktail of emotions that would become his life for the next few years: terror, curiosity, and burning desire.

“And? What did you find?”

Armand smiled wryly. “That he was a harmless fool in pursuit of danger. But he was beseeching and bold and I found that fascinating.”

“Yeah?” Daniel sat forward.

“For all he knew of our kind, the boy’s excitement at seeing me was equal to his fear, and I was intrigued.”

“Intrigued, huh?”

Armand paused, tilting his head as if in thought, eyes burning into Daniel with such intensity he could feel the heat of it.

After a moment, Daniel asked, “Are you going to call me ‘the boy’ the entire time?”

“If you wish for me to continue, you must let me tell it how I see fit,” Armand said.

Daniel smiled at him. “Sorry, boss. Go on.”

Armand scooted his chair closer to the table and continued his story.

#armand #daniel molloy #armand/daniel #devil's minion #the devil's minion #armdaniel #devils minion #vc fanfic #my fic #vc #tvc #the vampire chronicles #vamptemper #prompted fic #vampire chronicles

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darkcrowprincess · 1 year ago

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reddie thoughts:

*Eddie and Myra are about to be married. Myra is a famous soap opera actress(lol just stretch your imagination for me here for this au) and Eddie is a doctor. Richie and other losers are watching this interview at home*

News lady: I'm here interviewing the lucky engaged soon to be husband Dr Eddie Kaspbrak.

Eddie in a dull sad tone: Hello

News lady: Dr Kaspbrak whats it like knowing that soon you'll be wed to the Ms Myra Chase. Famous soap opera actress of the hit TV show Derry?

Eddie looking sad at first, but than snaps in anger: it's, it's, it's... Fuck! I can't take it anymore!! *grabs the mic from the lady in anger* I don't love her ok! I'm not going to marry her! You hear that Richie! I'm not going to marry her and I love you! I love you Richie!

******

Meanwhile back at Richie's house with all the the other losers and Richie watching this live news interview.

From the tv: I don't love her ok! I'm not going to marry her! You hear that Richie! I'm not going to marry her and I love you! I love you Richie!

All the other losers on the couch gasps and than as one turn there heads to Richie on the other end of the couch.

Richie surprised: What? Eddie?

Richie stands up, happy and laughing: Really!!

Stan: Richie?

Richie reaching for Stan who has the remote: Give me the remote Stan!

Stan confused: What?

Richie jumping on Stan: Give me the remote control!!

Stan freaking out: Here here take it.

Richie grabs the remote, points it at the tv, and rewinds Eddie's confession.

Eddie on tv: I don't love her ok! I'm not going to marry her! You hear that Richie! I'm not going to marry her and I love you! I love you Richie!

Richie rewinds the tv again.

Eddie on tv: I love you! I love you Richie!

Richie for the next several minutes rewinds the tv to have Eddie say "I love you! I love you Richie!" Several times

Stan getting annoyed now as all the other losers watch on with smiles and laughter.

Stan: Richie you're going to break the tv!

Richie leaning on the floor on his stomach. His feet kicking playfully in the air. Richie staring at Eddie on the TV in love.

Richie leaning his face on one hand, with hearts in his eyes and goofy smile on his face: I don't care 😍🥰!

Eddie on tv: I love you! I love you Richie!

#the losers club #reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #idiots in love #it #my writing #my thoughts #headcanon #richie x eddie #stephen king

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retronator · 2 years ago

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I never played Karateka in the 80s, but as a big fan of Prince of Persia and Jordan Mechner's journals, I was stoked to hear that an interactive documentary about Jordan's prototypical cinematic platformer was in the works by Digital Eclipse.

Released this week, The Making of Karateka on the surface looks like any other game you buy through Steam ($20, Windows-only), GOG, or whichever favorite store or console you prefer (available also for Xbox, PS4/5, Switch). Once the thing loads though, you really get 3 things: a documentary, the original Karateka, and a new remaster.

The documentary part is an audio-visual slideshow retelling Jordan's development story starting with his teenage years pitching his earlier title Deathbounce to the publishing house Brøderbund. It's an interesting look into the iterative process, seen through correspondence letters, journal entries, and many playable builds at various stages of completion. After we reach the eventual rejection of that title, Jordan comes back with a prototype of a visual-narrative experience unseen on home computers. We get to follow Karateka's full life cycle from pre- to post-production, ending with the conception of its sequel (which eventually turned into Prince of Persia). It's a real treasure trove! Fellow pixel artists will appreciate the many graph-paper sketches and interactive overlays of final game sprites compared to rotoscoped outlines and filmed footage. There are also video segments, from a comprehensive breakdown of the music to interviews with other developers reflecting on the impact Jordan's games had on their careers. You'll even encounter a fan letter signed by the one and only "John Romero, Disciple of the Great Jordan and worshipper of the Magnificent Mechner!" (I kid you not, you can't make this stuff up).

Perhaps just as crucial for an interactive documentary like this, you can launch any of the floppy disks in the emulator, trying out various iterations and ports of Karateka.

The emulation is fantastic and lets you fiddle with display settings (monochrome or color display, scanlines, pixel perfect or zoomed) as well as enhance the frame rate. You can even rewind the many deaths you will face if you've never played the game before (like me). If you spend some more time obsessing over the weird artifacts of the Apple II hi-res graphics, you might even go down the rabbit hole of realizing that on the Apple II you didn't really paint colors as much as you used different monochrome dithering patterns that the graphics display would then turn into 4 different hues. A fascinating learning experience if you include some of your own research online!

youtube

Add to this the Commodore 64 and the Atari 8-bit versions to compare how the graphics got adapted across the earlier ports and you have a nice way to relieve the mid-80s with a bit of help from modern emulation (I did beat the C64 version without rewinding though!). I'd love to see more art from the other remakes, especially the 16-bit Atari ST port, but I understand their decision to omit playable versions of those due to the lower quality on the gameplay side of the translations.

This brings us to the final part of the package, the modern remaster. Unlike the 2012 complete reimagining of the game (with 3D graphics and all), Digital Eclipse approached the remake as the ultimate port of the original to an imaginary system along the lines of a 90s VGA PC.

It's well done. Some of the fully-redrawn scenes are a bit overpainted for my taste (I'd prefer a pixel art rendition of the castle than a blurry photographic collage, although there were many games in the 90s that did take this approach), but the in-game graphics are really in style, including the smooth animations that are like one would imagine granted a beefier CPU. It's also a sort of director's cut with previously unseen scenes added, in particular, the battle with the leopard as a clever action-puzzle in the middle. The AI is unfortunately even less challenging than Jordan's implementation. As great as the 6-move fighting system could have been, you yet again resort to simply kicking away opponents as they tirelessly crawl into your range. There isn't even the nuance from the original where you were the one who had to approach some enemies with skilled timing. On the other hand, you now have optional goals and achievements that make the repetitive/easy combat work in your favor (stringing various combos, beating opponents or the level under a time limit …). As the Digital Eclipse president Mike Mika admits at the end of the welcome commentary mode, they didn't manage to achieve their perfect port, but they did come close.

In conclusion, I thoroughly enjoyed playing both the original as well as the remake and while the combat system lacks any sort of depth beneath its stunning animations, Karateka is instead a monumental experience for its presentation. Big characters with personality and realistic motion are displayed through cinematic camera cuts and story vignettes (3 years before Ron Gilbert came up with the word "cutscene"). There are details like animating the unfortunate falling off the cliff at the start of the game, or respectfully bowing to the first guard as they bow in return. Jordan's creative work is precious and worth the attention this release gifts it.

I highly recommend The Making of Karateka to all retro gamers and/or game developers for its immersive documentation which provides an experience that goes beyond the usual video documentaries. It's interactive—just like the subject it's talking about—something I want to see more in the future. And if the $20 by any chance seems high to you, consider that the original retailed at $35 (and that was in 1984 dollars).

youtube

#Feature #Gaming #Pixel Art #Digital Eclipse #Jordan Mechner #Platformer #Documentary #cover2 #title3

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adore-laur · 1 year ago

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REWIND: PART TWO

——

The neon aquarium gravel is a direct portal to memories of Reese's childhood.

Kaleidoscopic pebbles of blue, green, and orange sit idly on the bottom of her little brother's fish tank. They remind her of being a kid and how her sole responsibility at night was to feed her two goldfish she won in a ring toss game at the county fair. Sunset and Rocky were their names.

She envies the weightless joy of youth that younger siblings feel. To be that innocent age again, the only worry being the thought of accidentally tipping the fish food container too much and dropping flakes of earthworm and vitamin confetti onto the useless pets.

It didn't mean much until it meant everything.

Reese, at twenty-two years old, is just a girl swimming around in the metaphorical fishbowl most days, even when it turned from a sphere into a rectangular prism over the years of her fleeting adolescence. When it was moved out of her room once she became an adult, she tried to catch and keep any wave of purpose in the water. It was to no avail, since the obvious point is that there's no waves in a fishbowl, only stagnant water that doesn't change unless someone makes an effort to. The handbook for navigating adulthood was never given to her, needless to say. Change happens everywhere around her, but she stands and waits in the middle, sticking to her comfort zone of antisocial tendencies.

It used to be harmless until it wasn't.

She currently stands in front of the glass, watching the glow-in-the-dark anemone swiftly move in the murky water. If she tries hard enough, she can pretend that she's underwater with the calico fish. She can hide herself in the soft limbs like in the beginning of Finding Nemo. It's quite simple to do with enough practice. It would take less than a minute to drown out the noise of her brother playing a video game and the TV turned up loud in the living room where her grandmother spends most of her time.

It was fun until it became a habit.

In the reflection, Reese can see her hair still braided and clipped up from the night before like a lunatic cartoon character. She always looks forward to waking up in the morning and undoing the twisted strands, letting the soft and subtle curls fall over her shoulders. She prefers her hair frizzy instead of straight, like how it is naturally. The volume hides her face better.

The lighter stripes of her brown silk pajamas glow fluorescently from the decorative luminosity surrounding her. She should probably take her clips out and change into something nicer since it's already the afternoon. She should also listen to some music to give her brain a break.

"Nuna, your phone is playing a pretty song."

Pause. She can continue later.

Her brother's voice sounds drowned out in the background, almost like she's actually underwater. Reese emerges above the surface and snaps out of her aquatic trance, shifting her gaze to see Rowan lifting one side of his headphones and giving her an impatient look. The melodic chime of her ringtone becomes clearer now that her ears aren't clogged with dissociative imagination.

"Shit," she mutters under her breath, clumsily taking her phone out from her pocket.

Skimming her eyes over the unknown number on the screen, she has a gut feeling she might know who it is. It's been two days without a call from the man named Harry she met in the grocery store. He had said he'd give her a call about a potential interview, so who else could it be? Granted, it could be someone calling the wrong number, or spam calls about her nonexistent student loans, but she's always been good at hanging onto false hope until the branch breaks.

"Hello?" Reese quietly answers, sitting down on Rowan's space-themed bed sheets.

"Hi, is this Reese?" A friendly voice crackles through.

It's him. The warm, polite tone and British drawl are familiar, like a home-cooked meal on a dreary day in autumn. It brings color to her cheeks, the rare kind. A powerful blush of spiderwebs across her face weaved with volcanic vertigo of the heart.

What is he doing to her?

Reese wipes her sweaty palm on her bouncing leg. "Y-yes, this is she."

"Hey!" he greets on the other line. "It's Harry. Sorry I couldn't call sooner. I've been quite busy with work, so I'll try and make this quick."

Is this real? It feels like a distant dream. She feels like she's floating outside of her body right now.

"It's okay," she says, leaving it at that. She clams up easily.

There's shuffling on the other end and what sounds like a door softly closing. "So," he begins, "when are you available?"

Reese gulps and picks at her nails. He's so casual about everything. "I'm free anytime," she replies, trying to match his easygoing tone. "Whatever fits your schedule."

"How about tomorrow? Eight o'clock bright and early?"

If there's one thing about Reese's social anxiety, it's that she needs more than a twenty-four-hour notice if she's going to participate in plans without being a nervous wreck. She supposes she can make an exception for Harry.

"That works for me," she tells him with a ghost of a grimace.

"Perfect, I'll see you then. If you could just bring a resume, that'd be wonderful."

Rowan yells at the computer screen, and Reese throws a dirty sock at the back of his head. "No problem," she mentions distractedly. "Um, where are we meeting?"

"My house, preferably," Harry says. "If you're comfortable with that, of course. It would just be convenient since I have work tomorrow and I also have Marlowe with me."

She absentmindedly nods as her brother sticks his tongue out at her. "That sounds great." She then mouths a threatening "I'm gonna kill you" to Rowan.

"I'll text you the address, yeah?"

"Okay."

She can hear him hum a tune and walk around. He must be getting something done or going somewhere. "How's your rutabaga, by the way?" he asks after a few seconds. "I saw it fall out of your bag when we were in the parking lot."

Reese's face sets on fire. She utters a small, "You saw that?"

Harry laughs, a beautiful and breathy sound that her phone doesn't do justice. "I did, yes."

"Nice." She cradles her flaming cheek and pinches her eyes shut. "Well, the rutabaga turned out fine. It's in soup now."

"Oh, yummy. You should bring some over."

How is he so casual about everything? It's like he's asking her to bring an agreeable dish over for a goddamn Thanksgiving get-together.

"I'm serious, by the way," he adds before she can manage to stutter out an answer. "Marlowe and I are suckers for soup. You don't have to, obviously. Completely up to you."

Reese traces the stitching on the bed comforter. "Yeah, I can bring some. For sure."

There's babbling in the background as Harry replies, "Great. Okay, I'll let you go now since Marlowe is two seconds away from screaming at me. See you tomorrow at eight, right?"

"See you tomorrow.”

"Goodbye, Reese."

"Bye."

Reese hangs up first and immediately throws her phone across the bed, then runs her damp palms over her flushed face. She despises phone calls, and now she has to do an in-person interview with a handsome man? She's done for.

"Was that your boyfriend?" Rowan childishly snarks, his eyes still focused on a video game.

"Shut up, dude."

——

The apricot-colored doorbell lays under her thumb, ripe and ready to signal her arrival. If she presses it, there's no turning back. No resetting the clocks, no rewinding the tape, and no pausing to rethink her decision.

Reese forgot to eat something before leaving, but she loses her appetite when she gets bad anxiety anyway. She arrived ten minutes early because of that exact anxiety settling horribly in her throat. There's no reason to be nervous, though, right? She'd met him before, he was kind, and he was nice enough to give her a chance.

Dreadful pessimism isn't helping her case. She needs to think positively, even if she doesn't believe it.

Remembering her grandmother's slightly offensive encouragement about how everyone her age already has a full-time job and that this should be a walk in the park, Reese presses the fateful doorbell and waits. She looks up at the grey sky and takes a deep breath, letting the warm thermos of soup in her shaky hands soothe her anxiety. She feels her heart kick like a drum, the pounding reaching all the way to her ears.

The white turtleneck she wears is making her sweat profusely. The resume in her pocket that she typed up and printed at the last possible minute isn't folded evenly. There's a queasy ache quickly forming in the pit of her stomach. She just needs to fast forward through it.

But what if this whole thing goes south? What if she's not prepared? She can't do this!

"Come in!"

Reese jumps at the muffled voice coming from inside the house. Taking another deep breath and shifting the thermos under her armpit, she turns the metal doorknob and opens the door.

Immediately, she's greeted with the inviting smell of breakfast. The kitchen is the first room she steps into, a small area with lime green walls and dark ceramic flooring. It's a simple layout with granite counters and an old-fashioned stove on the right side, and a wooden table with two chairs on the left side. She was surprised when the address led her to a street hidden away in the downtown area, trees hanging over bumpy pavement and kids riding bikes. From the outside, it seems like a friendly neighborhood. The perfect place for people who have their life together.

The sound of the faucet turning on breaks the clouds of her thoughts. Reese looks over to the noise and sees Harry standing over the sink washing his hands, wearing a white tank top and a pair of pristine black slacks. And Holy Mother of God, he has a lot of tattoos. His entire left arm is completely covered. There's black ink from his shoulder all the way down to his wrist. The first one her brain processes is a black heart.

"Hey, Reese," Harry says, drying off his hands with a towel draped over the stove handle. "Sorry it's a mess in here. We just finished having breakfast."

We. She scans the room until she sees Marlowe sat in her highchair with a tipped-over bowl of Trix cereal in front of her. Her short hair is pulled into pigtails on the top of her head, and the bib around her neck has bumblebees on it.

"Hi. Nice to see you both." Reese shuts the door and holds the thermos out. "I, uh, brought that soup we were talking about."

Harry's mouth forms an 'o' shape as he takes it from her and unscrews the top to smell it. "Mm, you're the best. Thank you so much."

If she wasn't blushing before, she definitely is now. "I also have my resume," she says, walking further into the room.

Harry puts his hands in his pockets, pursing his lips. He then looks up at her under his eyelashes and smirks beautifully with two dimples. "Can I be honest with you? I've never conducted an interview before. I haven't got a clue what I'm doing."

Reese lets a natural smile take over her face. "Let's just wing it, then. That's what I do all time."

Maybe not the smartest thing for her to say with a job on the line, but it's better than acting like she's prepared when she's the furthest thing from it.

"Yeah, we're winging this thing," he says with a shrug before holding his hand out. "Please, have a seat."

They both head over to the kitchen table. Harry tugs up the material of his slacks before sitting down, then pulls out the chair next to him for her. Not across, but next to him. She's going to pass out.

"All right," he says with an exhale, "let me first address the elephant in the room." He crosses his legs and faces her. "I'm divorced. My ex-wife didn't want anything to do with us, so I'm a single dad."

Reese's eyes widen. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

"I prefer it this way, just me and my daughter." He clears his throat as he shifts in his seat. "Now that that's out of the way, all I really need to know is that you're capable of making sure Marlowe is safe and taken care of for a maximum of six hours a day while I'm at work."

It saddens Reese to think that he's parenting all on his own. He doesn't have family close by. He's a pediatrician. How he juggles it all, she'll never know. Her mood lifts knowing she could be of help to him.

"My little brother is nine," Reese says softly, "so I've been taking care of him since I was thirteen. I've dealt with all the ups and downs of the baby and toddler years."

Harry nods, his eye contact very intimidating. "What's his name?"

"Rowan."

"I'm sure he loves having you as a sister. I assume you have experience with changing diapers and formula feeding, then?"

"Yes," she replies, fixing the sleeves of her turtleneck. "I live with my disabled grandmother, so I helped with those things a lot. I also know CPR. And the Heimlich maneuver."

She needs to rewind. Oversharing never ends well.

"That's amazing," Harry says. He reaches over to Marlowe and adjusts her bib. "I told you she was deaf, right?"

"You did."

"Do you know any sign language?"

Reese rolls her lips in before muttering, "Not really, no. Sorry."

"Don't apologize." Marlowe starts fussing, so Harry takes her out from the highchair and places her on his lap. "You don't need to worry about it since she's not talking in sentences yet, however there are a few signs that are important. The only ones you'll really need to know are hungry, drink, play, and sleep."

"I'll look those up as soon as I get home," she tells him while making a mental note for herself.

Harry bounces his daughter on his leg and says, "I can teach you right now, if you'd like."

She'd like that. She'd really, really like that.

"Go ahead."

Smiling, he clasps his hands over his daughter's tummy. "So, for hungry, she'll usually be the one to sign it to you. She'll cup her hand around her neck and bring it down to her stomach like this." He does the gesture twice, and Reese mimics it. "Perfect, just like that. You can always ask her yourself if she's getting hungry by doing that as well. She'll eat pretty much anything you give her."

He continues, "For drink, it's really easy. Just act like you're holding a cup and taking a sip from it. If she does that, I have pre-made bottles in the fridge. If she doesn't take that, she's a major fan of apple juice. You can just put some in a sippy cup."

Reese nods. It's endearing to see him so passionate about the language.

"And if she wants to play," he says, "she'll do the hang ten sign like a stereotypical surfer dude. That's how I always describe it."

"Like this?" Reese asks, holding her pinky and thumb out and then twisting her wrist back and forth.

"Exactly," he praises, eyes lightening a shade. "See? You're a natural. Um,"— he looks around the room for a couple of seconds — "we have a bunch of toys laying around. She's quite independent when she plays, so I'd just watch her and make sure she's safe and not putting anything in her mouth."

She focuses on a stray stuffed animal on the floor. "Of course."

"Then for sleep, just spread your hand over your eye and bring your hand down to your chin while closing it into a fist. She has naps around eleven that last for an hour or two. You can put her in her crib and pray that she falls asleep." Reese laughs quietly as he adds, "Then you can watch TV or clean up. Whatever you'd like. Don't forget to turn the baby monitor on."

She blows out a sharp breath. "Okay."

Harry cracks a kind smile. "I've written everything down in detail since it's a lot to remember." He stands and grabs a piece of paper on the counter. When he sits back down, she sees that it has several bullet points with scrawly handwriting next to each one. "In case you forget or need to know where something is, this is for you. And as always, don't hesitate to call me with questions or concerns. I just... I don't want you to feel overwhelmed because she's deaf and needs extra care, so I also pulled out some books and flashcards for you if you need them. They're in the living room."

"It's not overwhelming at all," Reese sincerely replies. "I'll make sure she's taken care of. I promise."

"Thank you from the bottom of my heart," he says, his eyes never leaving hers. "Even as her dad, I'm still learning how to make sure I'm doing everything I can to make things easier for her, you know? I trust you to provide her with that."

"I understand. You're doing a great job." She understands completely. Everything she does is for her grandmother and brother. She has no choice but to be the provider. It's all she's known for years.

Harry is silent for a beat, nodding thoughtfully before he carries on. "For the more technical stuff, Marlowe has a hearing aid that helps her hear faintly. She's not completely deaf with them on, but usually it helps to gesticulate more and focus on facial expressions. When she takes her nap, just take them off."

"In terms of my work," he adds, "I'd still like to take her with me some days since she's gotten used to it. I don't work weekends, so would babysitting Monday, Wednesday, and Friday work for you? It'd be six-hour shifts unless I work overtime. And for hourly pay, I'll leave it up to you as long as it's reasonable."

Eighteen hours a week. Three days. Six hours each. It's a good start. Great, even. Rowan's old enough to watch their grandmother for a short period of time. It works out exceptionally well.

"Those days work perfectly," Reese says. "I'm not sure what a reasonable wage would be, though."

Harry jerks his chin up. "Give me a number."

She freezes and swallows. "Um... ten dollars?"

"Higher than that, come on."

"Twelve?"

He knocks on the table. "How about fifteen?"

Reese chokes on her words when she says, "O-okay. Fifteen. Sounds good."

"All right, that's settled." He sets his elbow on the table and cradles his cheek, staring intently at her. "You're hired, by the way."

Rewind, rewind, rewind.

"Huh?"

"I decided a while ago that you're hired," he casually rephrases.

He's giving her severe whiplash at eight in the morning. "Thank you... so much," she tells him. "You're serious?"

"Yeah." He rubs at the back of his neck before hesitantly asking, "Can you start today? You can say no."

Reese presses pause and checks her mental calendar. Empty. Completely empty, so she shrugs with a giddy smile. "Sure, why not?"

"Wonderful." He stands and gently sets Marlowe on the ground. "Do you have a PayPal account?"

"Yes, I can write that down for you."

After she scribbles down her username, along with some other essential information he might need, Harry leads her to the connected living room and places a hand on his hip, pointing to something. A thick silver ring on his finger catches Reese's attention as he rambles. She can make out an engraved hand doing some symbol that's not familiar to her. She assumes it's sign language.

"This is our puppet theatre." Reese mentally stumbles back into reality at the sound of his voice. "It's cardboard, but it gets the job done. Like I said earlier, visual stimulation really helps Marlowe, so if you want, you can put on a show for her. Lots of finger puppets to choose from."

Looking around the living room, she likes how small it is. The cardboard theatre, which has Marlowe's Theatre written on the top, is tucked into the corner, surrounded by tiny finger puppets of different animals. All the essentials are in one place — a TV and bookshelf, a couch and a recliner, as well as an indoor patio. Toys are scattered in every crevice, and if there's one word to describe the home, it'd be cozy.

"Any questions?"

Reese jerks her head to Harry, fizzling out from her trance. "Um, no, I think you covered everything."

"I'm glad you said that, because I'm about to be late for work," he lightheartedly says. "You can hang out with Marlowe while I get ready, yeah?"

Reese nods and gives a thumbs up as Harry starts to head to another room. She holds her head and rubs at her temples to stay present. She hasn't fully processed what happened yet.

She just got hired. That's what happened.

After a few minutes of observing Marlowe crawl around and fascinatingly look at stuff, the creak of the wooden floor makes his daughter's eyes light up and move past Reese's shoulder. Turning her head around, she only has a single second to prepare herself for what she sees.

Harry stands in the open doorway, doing up the last button of his white doctor's coat. She completely forgot he was a pediatrician for a moment. He wears a plain white button up underneath, along with the same slacks he already had on. His hair is slicked back a little save for one strand that has naturally fallen loose.

Reese's throat goes dry. She has an impulsive thought of wanting to ask why the hell his wife would ever leave a man like him.

He just smiles at her and then goes to clean Marlowe's mess on the highchair. Once he's wiped it down with baby wipes, he scoops her up and signs something to her, a single hand gesture remarkably similar to the one on his ring. She does it back. He then kisses her forehead twice and pinches her cheek.

"Call me if you need anything at all," Harry says, carefully passing his daughter over to Reese. "I'm ten minutes away if there's ever an emergency. Have fun, okay? I'll see both of you soon."

Reese sets Marlowe on her hip. It reminds her of when her brother was young. "Bye. Have a good day."

He shuffles over to the table to grab the thermos of soup and then walks backwards with a wave on his way out. "You as well. Thanks for the soup, Reese."

The door closes shut, and the movie begins.

——

Six hours pass in the blink of an eye.

Reese and Marlowe had fun together, thanks to her being one of the most relaxed babies she's ever met. There were no tantrums, and she went down for her nap with no trouble at all. She also ended up putting on a puppet show for her, finding it much easier to not have social anxiety around kids since they couldn't care less about what she says or does.

Overall, she really enjoyed today. It's been a while since she's felt content. She deserves this.

Harry had come back right on time, his doctor's coat slung over his shoulder and a box of frosted cookies to give her as appreciation for babysitting. He looked exhausted, so she didn't keep him long before saying goodbye and driving home with a smile on her face.

Currently, Reese saunters into her room and immediately flops onto her bed, reaching over to turn her star projector on. It's dark outside now. Just as she's about to get comfortable under the blankets, her phone buzzes on the bedside table.

Tapping the screen, she sees a text message from Harry as well as a notification saying someone sent a hundred dollars to her PayPal account.

It reads: Just wanted to say thank you again for babysitting. Marlowe went down really easy tonight. Let me know if you got the PayPal transfer. I added an extra ten dollars for gas.

Pause. She needs to think before she ends up replying with something stupid.

Her fingers shake as she types out and sends: we had fun! i think she liked my puppet show. and yes, i got the money

You actually did that? You didn't have to. I know it can be a little dehumanizing, especially when she doesn't laugh.

you must not be very good then haha. she was laughing the entire time i did it

Did she? I suppose my Mr. Tiger character is a bit outdated.

she's really sweet! i don't think she cried once

That's good to hear. I've got to head to bed, but I'll see you on Wednesday. Just wanted to thank you again and make sure you got the money.

have a good night!!

Goodnight, Reese.

The fake stars above Reese twinkle dimly as she replays the scenes of today. Her tangled film will unravel and show flashes of conversations or significant happenings until she drifts off into unconsciousness. It's how it always goes until dreams fill the spaces, vivid fragments of a different reality that cruelly vanish once she wakes up.

Dreams of escaping the immutable fishbowl with a soaring leap, diving into the unfathomed ocean.

Dreams of a single day unburdened by anxious thoughts, worrying no more with a spirit and soul free of misgiving.

Dreams of kind eyes looking into hers with undivided attention, the color as green as spring grass with flecks of sunlit marigold.

——

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles fluff #harry styles x oc #dadrry #dad!harry #harry styles #adore-laur

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monstersinthecosmos · 2 years ago

Text

September 8, 1973

Everything hurts.

Joints rusted shut, and a migraine brewing behind his eyes.

And the sunlight. In his face, squeezing deep in his brain as he tries to lift his head.

Everything is heavy.

His neck cracks as he straightens up, and there’s static in his mouth, spots in his vision. And the room around him is so familiar, like he’s seen it in a photograph, but he isn’t sure where he is right away, or how he got here.

The microphone light is still on, even though the recorder is out of tape. Hot when he touches it, and he flinches, and it all comes back to him.

David Bowie, and a gross little room, and realizing too late that he was in the presence of a predator.

And the other things, too.

The chair skids, then clatters to the floor as he stands up too fast. As he claps his hand over his neck. The skin of his palm stings against the tiny leftover wounds, and he stumbles over to the wash basin, the filthy mirror, tugging as his collar to see better.

It’s because of the lasers, look how good it healed.

Daniel bends over the sink and pukes.

The two punctures are so tiny. They could be insect bites. Not proof enough.

He spins on his heel, frenzied as he looks for his bag. Still here. And he’s across the room a moment later, reaching his hand in to touch the cassettes for himself. And rewinding the tape deck back, just a little, enough to hit play and hear Louis’s voice.

His fingers wiggle at his sides, and his mind warps around it, trying to see a path through, to come up with a task list.

Louis had been so calm at the bar, didn’t hesitate when Daniel proposed an interview.

“But no one will believe you,” he said gently. Amused, but not gloating.

And, god. Daniel knew. He knew something was off, but came anyway.

He rubs the bite mark on his neck, shaking all over. Trying to make a plan. Louis’s voice drifts up from the tape and he scrambles for his notepad to write the details down. His handwriting doesn’t look right. Hands are too shaky, or his world is upside-down.

What the fuck are you doing?

Shaky breath. The tip of his pen digs a dimple into the paper. Ink pools there as he waits for his ears to stop ringing.

The list starts to take form. He flips to a clean page.

- pack - get gas - find him

Somehow he can see Lestat in his mind. Louis’s words were too vivid, and Daniel doesn’t feel like he’s been in this room all night. Feels like he went through something, like a fever dream, and his mind feels completely fucked.

He wonders if he has time to get his oil changed before he goes. Definitely can’t get the noise checked out. But maybe if he doesn’t push too hard, if he takes his time…

Could be bad if he got stuck out there. In one of those desert roads, where there’s nothing in any direction except the open sky.

A part of him wants to be there now. Drawn to it, a little flame inside that’s possessing him already.

I have to know, he thinks. He rubs his face and says it out loud. “You have to know.”

And he’s out the door, before he can think about it any more. Squeezing his bag to his chest, panicking over the safety of the tapes. He imagines the list in his head, adding to it as he breaks out into the daylight.

- make copies - write a transcript - keep them safe

He doesn’t remember where he is. Squinting against the sun, and everything hurts again, and if he hadn’t emptied his stomach already he might puke right here on the sidewalk.

Saturday morning, and people are outside. A mom with her kids. Someone taking a run. The brunch crowd at the cafe on the corner. He has the grace to be embarrassed, just for a moment, imagining hurling in front of all of them. Even dry heaving could be bad. But it clears after a second, as he watches them, and he feels like he’s wrapped in plastic. Like the slipcover they had on the couch when he was a kid. He’s frantic as he looks back and forth, at all their faces.

They don’t know, he realizes. He imagines screaming it, and imagines no one would hear him. They don’t know. YOU DON’T KNOW.

Sickness rises anyway. He hugs his bag to his chest and staggers to the next house, ducks his head over their fence, dry heaves until yellow bile drips down into their flower bed. His face burns and he squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to catch his breath, waits for everyone to move on before he straightens up and heads on his way.

The neighborhood, like the room, feels like he’s seeing a photograph. Like he’s trapped under plastic. Unsure where he is, but he heads up the block on instinct, lets his subconscious bring him home. Squeezes his bag, hearing the tapes rattle, passes block after block in a daze.

Not quite that he doesn’t know the way. He thinks he knows the way, even with his mind so disjointed. But it’s… not the same world anymore. Like he woke up something else.

And he’s out of breath when he makes it up to his door, and his face is cold as he pats his pockets for his keys. Wonders if he has the composure to talk to the super, if he can talk to any human right now without screaming, but he finds them tucked into the side pocket on his bag.

The apartment should feel safe.

He locks the door behind him. Rushes to the window to shut the blinds. Turns in a circle, looking at everything he’s amassed since he’s been out here. All the second-hand furniture, and his record collection, and the posters he hung on the walls.

The collection of tapes. The wedding invite dangling off the corner of his bulletin board. The book he borrowed from Connie.

His heart races. He wonders if he should take anything with him.

Clothes, sure. That’s fine. But.

Everything else is just stuff.

He grabs a duffle from the closet. Doesn’t pay attention to how many outfits he grabs, or what they look like. Whatever’s clean, whatever he can reach. And he grabs his toothbrush. Chews a few aspirin before packing the rest of the bottle.

And food, food. He chugs a glass of water over the sink, then another. There’s not much, being honest. A few apples, a bag of chips. He grabs the cereal box off the top shelf—not cereal at all, but his savings account—and squeezes his hand around the rolled up wad of hundreds. Needing to know it’s real.

Well, he can get food. He’ll get food on the road. That’s easy.

He stands in the kitchen doorframe, looking over the apartment. Dim, with the dirty yellow light coming through the closed blinds. It makes everything feel drab, but he tells himself that he was happy here. It wasn’t like this before.

There’s not enough room in his bag for the tapes. Maybe room in his trunk, but he’s shaking, wants to go now. Go go go. Doesn’t think he can stomach two or three trips to load them into the car. Maybe he can leave them for somebody. Maybe if—

And the phone is sitting there. He wonders if he should call his mom. And his eyes burn, stupidly. He rubs at them, and sniffles, and shakes it off as he crosses the room, sliding his apartment key off his key ring. Not calling his mom, but he kneels on his desk chair, tugs the phone closer to the edge.

The typewriter, he should take that. It has a case, though. He feels around for it under the desk as the other line of the phone rings.

Connie answers.

Daniel pauses for a moment, unsure what to say. She doesn’t know. They don’t know. And his voice is raspy when he tries to speak.

“It’s Daniel,” he says quickly. He tucks the receiver against his shoulder as the tugs the case out from under the desk. “I have to leave town. Can you do something for me?”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t have time, can you do something for me?”

“Sure? Daniel are you—“

“I’m going to leave my key under the doormat okay? I don’t know if…” he grunts as he gets the latch of the case unstuck. “I’m not sure when I’m coming back, I don’t know. They might evict me or something. Can you just come get my tapes?”

“Your tapes?”

“Yeah you know. My interviews. All my…” he looks at then, lined neatly on the shelves. Each labeled. Each one of them is a real person. “All my interviews. I don’t have time to pack them up, can you just. Is it too much?”

“Well, no, I just—“

“And anything else you want, just. It’s yours. I have your book, and. You know if you want any of my records or anything.”

“Danny you’re scaring me.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Eyes burning again.

But he laughs.

[previous day] | [next day]

#vamptember #vamptember 1973 #daniel molloy #vampire chronicles #stuff i wrote

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slowlystupendousdelusion · 1 year ago

Text

Going to London on a whim definitely paid off cause I managed to wrangle my way into Macbeth twice

Some further thoughts:

1. Okay so I think it might have been the arts interview where Tennant says not to worry about understanding Shakespeare because if the actors are doing their job right you will be fine. He's right and this cast utterly succeeds at that.

2. I'm generally terrible for my mind wandering when I'm watching things (the rewind button on my remote is much abused) but I was enthralled from start to finish. Even with having seen it multiple times. Not a hint of my mental shopping list.

3. My potentially controversial opinion is that I might like the cheap seats better? When I was in the stalls I was off to the side, whereas the standing tickets obviously you're looking at the stage head on. I think some of the visuals were far more striking from the back - you get full impact from the lighting and the blood seeping out at the death scene and the people behind the screen at the back. I don't think the warm to cool light changes are as noticeable from the front. However, you obviously have a much better view of the actors and the nuances of their performances (although because of the set up of the theatre from the side you are blocked from seeing everyone on stage at some points). It's a bit more intense up close, and it does feel like the actors are looking directly at you (Not me quailing in my seat during prolonged eye contact 😅)

4. I think I went through the overall choices made before but some more things I enjoyed: how much humour is imbued throughout, Lady Macbeth being warm and likeable, Macbeth lying prone multiple times through the play mirroring his final send off, Macduff "all my pretty ones?", Macbeth's little face when he gets both swords, him questioning the manhood of the cutthroats, the absolute softness of Macbeth's embrace before completely pulling the rug out from under you and murdering a child in the same gesture.

4. Minor miracle how Cush Jumbo managed not to get her bloodied hands on her very white dress? Very impressed with this.

5. I think the one thing I would say is that they should have made Fleance/Macduff's son/Young Siward have more obvious costume changes between them

6. I still love how pared back the stage and costumes are. It's incredible how rich the experience is with actually not a lot.

7. I think I'm sold on the binaural audio; the play opens in darkness and you hear a bird move from one side to the other in your headset. Not only do I look from one side to the other like a fool, but my brain reckons it can see the wings in the gloom. There are multiple moments that the delivery is far more intimate than would be allowed without use of the audio. I think this could be really beneficial for larger theatres for those in the cheaper seats too. Also, maybe better for inclusivity for those with visual or aural impairments if everyone has a headset? The drawbacks for me are the occasional crackle you get from the mic pack, and I guess maybe it feels like you're further removed from the actors themselves. Also I guess if I'm sitting at the side my left and right sounds don't quite match up with where the actors are looking based on where the left to right sounds are for those sitting centrally? It didn't really affect my enjoyment any, but would perhaps need to be considered if this was used in different performances/larger theatres etc.

8. What the binaural audio did not stop was me hearing the woman sitting next to me gasping and jumping about ten foot into the air multiple times during the performance. She absolutely had not noticed anything going on behind the screen at the back until they started hammering, and of course I then jumped myself cause I was not expecting noise/motion from that side. This was incredibly funny but awkwardly coincided with some of the most intense parts of the play. (Although I imagine if I hadn't already seen it I might have been less entertained)

9. Have I said how good it was? It bears repeating

10. Standing Ovation discourse: Friday night I was surprised by how few stood? As the painfully British person I am, I was hoping that someone else would stand up first but they didn't in my block. Also I almost garotted myself on the headphone wire when I stood up so maybe this was a consideration others were having. I was sort of shocked that others didn't stand after we did (not because I think I'm some kind of influencer but IME British standing ovations are motivated by social pressure in a "oh gosh all these other people are standing up, I guess I better had too" sort of way. There has to be enough people doing it to overcome the innate "you must not make a scene" directive that burns within our souls.) No one stood in the front row of my bit at all. Sat Mat had noticeably more people standing, including in the front row.

11. The person sat next to me said to her husband as it ended "I certainly wasn't wowed by it" and I was utterly shook. I don't think I heard any one else being particularly critical (but also I would never say anything so damning about a show I'd seen in the theatre itself so maybe it's not a fair sample)

12. Honestly I needed a full on hour or so to decompress after seeing this, I was fizzing under the surface.

#jammy git #macbeth #donmar warehouse #david tennant #cush jumbo #do i need to spoiler tag for a 400 year old play?#shakespeare #theatre

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