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steddieasitgoes · 9 months

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@steddiemas Day 21 Prompt: Home and/or Dinner

I honestly think this is my favorite one yet!

Tags: Pre-Relationship Steddie, Eddie Munson Has A Crush On Steve Harrington, Holiday Parties, Overstimulation (the bad kind, not the fun kind), Steve Harrington Is A Sweetheart

wc: 2215 | Rating: G

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The holidays were always a quiet affair at the Munsons.

A few gifts, wrapped in week-old copies of the Hawkins Post, placed under a modest tree from Merrill’s. Wayne’s famous (well, famous to Eddie) chocolate chip pancakes in the morning with a questionable amount of syrup and a reheated casserole from Ms. Jenkins down the street for dinner.

No church or family plans, just the two of them, a couple of beers (root beer in Eddie’s case until a few years ago), and whatever movie Eddie had insisted they watch before he turned the TV over to Wayne and the Christmas basketball game.

It was good. Great, even.

Eddie loved his holiday traditions with Wayne.

He did, but sometimes he’d catch sight of Ms. Jenkins welcoming her brood of kids and grandkids into her cluttered trailer or spot Gerald loading the passenger seat of his pickup with toys for his nieces and nephews and wonder what it would be like to have a big family to spend the holidays with.

Turns out, it’s loud.

So, very, loud.

The Hopper-Byers’ new house is bursting at the seams with guests. The entire We Survived The End of the World gang is here along with some guests — Wayne and Ms. Henderson. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair stopped by for about an hour before excusing themselves to finish up holiday shopping (said in a hushed tone to not ruin Santa for Erica — as if she still believes, Eddie had thought). But mostly it was just the usual gang.

Eddie learned, in the form of Dustin’s “you’re being stupid” voice that it's become a tradition for them. Gathering a week before the holidays to pig out on food and dessert, play games, and exchange presents. Celebrate the year coming to an end and them making it.

As the apocalypse gang grew every year, the celebration got bigger and bigger until they were tripping over each other inside of the Byers house. That is, until this year when Joyce and Hopper got their shit together and finally moved into a decent-sized house on the outskirts of Hawkins. It’s no Loch Nora mini-mansion, but it works for them — even if it's still a tight fit when everyone is together.

Murray, Joyce, and Ms. Henderson are gathered in the kitchen — arguing over when to take the turkey out of the oven and the proper milk-to-cheese ratio in macaroni casseroles. A small radio sits in the corner, attempting to play Christmas music over the static. That’s the con about living farther out, Eddie supposes.

El and Max have claimed a fold-out table on the outskirts of the kitchen where they’ve been decorating cookies for hours, it seems. El’s simple and artistic, Max’s a chaotic mess of spilled-over frosting and candy sprinkles. (Eddie’s stolen one from each and thinks they’re both delicious much to their delight.)

The den’s been co-opted by Hopper and Wayne, and the TV volume turned all the way up (“We can hear just fine! It’s you kids that are making it hard,” Hopper gruffed when one of them pointed out the volume). They’re switching between basketball games while nursing beers and pretending not to hear the argument going down in the kitchen.

Jonathan and Argyle are hiding out in his room — smoking and trying to drown out the noise with whatever record he managed to pick up from the store he’s working at. Eddie thought about joining him, but the scowl he earned from Wheeler Jr. had him changing course.

The rest of them have taken refuge in the spacious basement. It’s too chaotic for Dungeons & Dragons so the boys and Erica have taken to playing an intense game of Monopoly. The threats he’s heard hurled at each other have been clever and downright terrifying. Way worse than anything they’ve uttered at his DM table. Those heathens.

For some reason, Steve’s taken on the role of the banker. Something about Dustin skimming from the top last time he held the role and played. Now, house rules say the banker has to be an NPC, and well, Steve fits the bill. Unfortunately, he seems to be struggling with the math of it all judging by the scoffs and annoyed eye rolls thrown his way. Eddie would go help, but he doesn’t think he’d be much help. Godspeed, Steve.

Nancy and Robin are there too, sprawled out on the couch and lost in their own little world. Occasionally Robin gets up to flip the record on the record player, but mostly they sit together, gossiping and talking about who knows what in hushed voices. Eddie might understand every little thing about dungeons and hobbits, but girl talk? That’s an alien language if he’s ever seen one.

As for him? Well, he’s hovering in the middle of it all. With Steve occupied, he’s taken on his babysitter role of sorts. Racing up and down the stairs to fetch whatever snacks the gremlins demand, rustling Max and El’s hair on the way in, and nodding at Hopper and Wayne on the way out. He narrowly escapes being sucked into being the official judge for the impromptu Murray vs Ms. Henderson pie off and almost makes it up to Jonathan and Argyle’s room before Dustin is bellowing for him.

It’s fun, mostly.

Getting to see everyone relaxed and having fun. A far cry from the last time they were all together like this back in March.

In some ways, it's what Eddie’s always dreamed it would be like. Being part of a big family, a cog in a never-ending machine of noise and organized chaos.

But it’s also becoming a lot.

Lucas is about to put a hotel on Boardwalk that has everyone shouting and throwing their own pieces at his head. Steve’s trying to keep them under control but it's a losing battle. One that pulls Robin and Nancy from their own little world to join the chaos.

And then there’s even more noise.

A crash from upstairs, the blaring voice of Joe Strummer coming from Jonathan’s room, more shouting, Wayne and Hoppers stopping, and giggles from Max and El.

Suddenly all Eddie can hear is noise.

It gets louder and louder and louder until finally, he’s certain his eardrums are going to explode.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he pushes through the chaos going on upstairs (dropped pies and frosting stains and shouting at TVs) and makes his way onto the wrap-around porch.

The crisp cold air is the first thing that hits him. Like an idiot, he ran out of the house without a coat or scarf or hell, even the warm hat Ms. Henderson knitted for him earlier in the month. He shivers, rubbing his hands up and down his bare arm as he tries to take deep breaths, watching as his warm breath twirls in the breeze.

As his body adjusts, so do his ears. He can still hear the chaos going on inside, but it's muffled now. Distant. He can hear himself think for the first time in hours and for once, it’s nice.

The snow is falling in slow but steady flakes, dusting the backyard in the white. Or, it should be white, but the hoard of Christmas lights decorating the house illuminates the backyard in reds and greens. It’s a real Christmas wonderland out there, now.

Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and his trusty lighter. The first inhale of nicotine warms him from the inside out, sending the goosebumps packing as he focuses on his steady and slow inhale and exhales.

At some point he zones out, so focused on the snow falling and the repetitive nature of lifting the cigarette to and from his lips that he doesn’t hear the creak of the door or the heavy footsteps that follow until the intruder is standing shoulder to shoulder with him.

“Figured you might be needing this,” Steve says, hand outstretched with Eddie’s coat.

“Thanks, man.”

They swap, Eddie takes the coat from Steve and Steve takes the lit cigarette from Eddie, keeping it safe while he shimmies his way into the monstrosity that he calls his winter coat. When he’s finally situated in the plaid nightmare, he reaches a hand out ready to take his cigarette back only to find it perched between Steve’s lips.

Oh.

That’s different.

Sure, they’ve smoked together before. Bummed off cigarettes in the ally behind Family Video and in the parking lot of Palace Arcade waiting for the gremlins to be done. But they’ve never shared the same one. Never pressed their lips to the same filter. Felt the dampness of their mouths on their own lips.

“Sorry,” Steve says, lips turning up in a small smile as he removes the cigarette. “Couldn’t help myself.”

Eddie nods, unable to say much else as their fingertips brush when he takes it back. Is it weird if he puts it between his lips right now? Is he supposed to wait a minute? Let Steve’s taste linger for a moment. God, he’s being so weird right now. In the end, he brings the cigarette to his lips and takes the smallest inhale, nearly coughing as the smoke floods his lungs because he’s so distracted by the way the filter feels different now that it’s been in Steve’s mouth — as if that makes any sense.

“You okay? You sort of booked it out of the room.”

“Yeah,” Eddie sighs, before leaning against the banister of the porch. “Yeah, m’good. It just—“

“Got too loud?” Steve supplies, mirroring his position. “I get it. I remember my first holiday dinner. There were a lot less of us in ’83 but shit. It was still so loud.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m a pretty loud son of a bitch.” Eddie’s caught off guard by Steve’s snorting. Stealing a glance, he finds Steve lit up in reds and greens, a smile etched on his face so deep he can see the spot where smile lines are going to emerge in the next ten years, catching the way his eyes already wrinkle in the corners. Fuck, he’s beautiful. “But, uh, yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever been in a house that loud before. Not even when I’m fucking around with the Corroded Coffin boys.”

“Well, I doubt that. Your music is very loud.”

“Uh, yeah, ‘cause it's metal, Steve.”

“So I’ve been told,” Steve says, smiling that soft, private smile again.

If Eddie was braver, he’d close the distance between them and press his lips to his. But if this year has taught him anything, it’s that he’s not. Not really. So he lets a quiet fall between them instead. They continue to stand shoulder to shoulder, passing the dwindling cigarette between them despite the pack in Eddie’s pocket being brand new, and watch as the snow steadily starts to pick up.

“You know,” Steve says, then stops.

Eddie turns, watching the gears tick in Steve’s brain as he decides what to say next. It’s magical watching it all pass on his face — the knit of his brows, his pupils dilating and returning to their normal size, letting the hazel shine through. The way his lips open and close like some gasping fish.

“If it ever gets to be too much, you can tell us. Tell me. Hell, I know I need a break after a few hours with those shitheads. Maybe we could come up with a code word or something.”

“A codeword? That’s might nerdy of you, Steve.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, waving his hand through the air as he bites back a chuckle. “But yeah, a code word. It’d be easier to say than “hey it’s too loud and I can’t think” you know. Plus, it would annoy the shit out of Henderson.”

“Well, then. Count me in. You know I love annoying the shit out of that kid. Gotta keep that ego in check somehow.”

They spend the next few minutes going back and forth trying to decide on a word that could work. Steve wants something common — a fruit or a vegetable. Eddie disagrees, saying it has to be something uncommon so they don’t accidentally say it, but common enough that it doesn’t sound weird casually being dropped in conversation.

They wrack their brain, throwing out silly words left and right until there’s a crash from inside. Their heads swivel in tandem toward the source of the noise. A flurry of shadows passes on the other side of the window as Steve shakes his head and sighs.

“Come on,” he says, handing the cigarette back to Eddie. “If we’re not at the table the minute the food gets served, we won’t be eating. The gremlins know no manner.”

Eddie laughs, stubbing out the cigarette on the ashtray precariously balanced on the banister, “Teaching ‘em manners seems like a job for their babysitter.”

“Nah,” Steve snorts. “Maybe one for their Dungeon Master, though.”

Just as the words leave Steve’s lip, there’s a shout from inside followed by another crash.

“Think it might be a job for both of us, actually,” Eddie laughs. “Together?”

“We need all the help we can get,” Steve says. “Together it is.”

#steddiemas #steddie #steddie fic #steddie fluff #steddie ficlet #steddie fan fic #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #steve fic #steve harrington ficlet #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fan fic #eddie munson ficlet #eddie fic #stranger things #eddie munson fluff #stranger things fic #dani writes

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strangerthingsbigbang · 3 months

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Title: No Parents, Big House

Author: Alduade (BooperDooper3000) Artist: Medusapelagia Beta: Excited_Insomniac Characters: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Jim ‘Chief’ Hopper, Dustin Henderson, Nancy Wheeler, Billy Hargrove. Relationship(s): Eddie Munson & Steve Harrington Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Graphic Depictions of Violence Rating: Mature Additional Tags: Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Nonconsensual Drug Use, Hurt Steve Harrington, It’s Not As Bad As It Sounds, Stranger Things Season 2, Steve Harrington Centric, Past Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Period Typical Attitudes, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart Wordcount: 16,690 Summary:

Steve Harrington was known for many things: he was a ladies man, someone who cared about his looks and social life, a teenager who was always confident and energetic. Someone who loved to party, and had a big house with no supervision to support his raucous lifestyle. Steve Harrington wasn’t known to be quiet, or sad, or scared. But during the Autumn of 1984, he was just that: scared. Because Steve knew that he was no longer alone in his home. He was being watched.

No Parents, Big House by Alduade

art masterpost by medusapelagia

#stranger things #stranger things big bang #stbb: 2024 completed works #Steve Harrington #Fiction #Fanfic #Eddie Munson

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mayalaen · 2 months

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Title: InCONsistencies Author: Mayalaen Artist & Co-Creator: @alicetallula Betas: Arbeds Ghost and someone else who wishes to remain anon Fandom: Stranger Things Event: @strangerthingsbigbang Main Pairing: Eddie/Billy, Steve/Chrissy, Eddie/Billy/Steve/Chrissy Word Count: 60k (11 chapters) Tags: Too many to list here, but there's a lot of warnings, so check them out if you need them.

Summary:

The sign outside the building reads Hawkins National Laboratory. However, those who work within those high-security gates know that it’s much more than just a lab. Hopper’s specialist team isn’t the most conventional, but with their success rate, nobody argues with their methods, including the directors. When a priority rush job comes from the highest level of government, the directors assign Hopper and his team of misfits to take on the serial killer known only as Vecna.

This fic is an extension of my CONventional Psychopathy 'verse. It shouldn't be considered part of the main series, but it's definitely in the some universe.

I eventually plan on including at least one other fandom in the CON 'verse.

This is a stand-alone fic and reading CONventional Psychopathy isn't necessary to understand what's going on, but if you like it and want more, check out the rest of the 'verse 😁

#stranger things #fanfic #art #alicetallula #mungrove #metalhamsandwich #cunnington #murder husbands #conventional psychopathy #con 'verse #i made this #strangerthingsbigbang

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wipbigbang · 2 months

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Round 2 Of Artists Claims For The Regular WIPBB Are Open! Round 2 lasts until July 31st! You may claim 3 fics this round!

This is one of the fics open for claiming...

Stranger Things #110 Title: Put me together again Pairing/Characters: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Rating: Explicit | E Warnings/Tags: Graphic Violence, Non-con/Rape Forced Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Police, Age Difference, Eddie Munson is a journalist, Steve Harrington is a boss's whore, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Prostitution, non consensual pet play, Rape/Non-con Elements, Drug Dealing, Medical Examination, Dark Steve Harrington, Dark Tommy Hagan, ExJunkie Eddie Munson, Alternate Universe - No Upside Down (Stranger Things), Alternate Universe - 2000s, improper use of a gun (because there is a proper one?!), no underage even if it may seems so, Daddy Issues, Boot Worship, Vomiting, Organized Crime, Crimes & Criminals, Murder, Forced Feminization, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Impact Play, Anal Plug, Homophobic Language, Attempted Murder, Drug Use, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Suicide Attempt Summary: Three years ago, Steve's life changed for the worse. His father died, and his mother started to use drugs and became one of Tommy "The Butcher" Hagan's whore. Trying to survive and to keep his little brother, Dustin, out of the drug lord's hands, Steve is forced into prostitution. One night, he meets Police Officer Jim Hopper, who is investigating Hagan, and the ex-journalist Eddie Munson, who is seeking revenge against Hagan for personal reasons. Is Steve the key they were looking for?

#111 Title: Sing if You're Glad to be Gay Pairing/Characters: Eddie Munson / Steve Harrington Rating: Explicit | E Warnings/Tags: Graphic Violence dubious consent, period-typical homophobia / homophobic language, explicit relationship between 17 year old and 18 year old, suicidal ideation, bullying Summary: August, 1983:

Steve Harrington -- the man who would be king -- fell from the gentry's grace at the inaugural jock party of Eddie's senior year after Carol Perkins and Melissa Cargill caught him sucking off Tommy Hagan in the senior Harringtons’ suite. The Saturday soiree went from giving head to getting heads rolling as the coup d'etat kicked off. The moral majority had found Harrington on his knees, and they intended to keep him there. There was no forgiveness from his former friends; there was no atonement allowed for knowingly and willingly performing such an evil act. He was expelled post-haste from the sanctimonious sanctum of Hawkins’ high school high society.

Months before Will Byers disappears, Steve Harrington is outed, bullied, and shunned. Eddie would be overjoyed to find another gay kid in Hawkins if it wasn't THAT gay kid.

#112 Title: Pairing/Characters: Scott Clarke/ Wayne Munson Rating: Mature | M Warnings/Tags: Chooses not to use Warnings Graphic description of past injury Summary: After Wayne Munson gets a severe head wound in the war, he's sent home to deal with the aftermath. Between survivors guilt and the never-ending struggle to do day to day tasks, Wayne finds himself falling for the physical therapist making house calls.

Scott Clarke is fresh out of school and eager to prove himself as a resident, but when one truly difficult case comes across his desk, he can't help but try and make things just a little easier for Wayne. Even if that means going to his home for therapy visits rather than forcing him into the office.

The list of remaining fics and the link to sign up are below!

#signal boost #looking for an artist #stranger things #steddie #steve x eddie #eddie x steve #scott x wayne #eddie munson #steve harrington #scott clarke #wayne munson #wip big bang

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francescacammisa1 · 2 months

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Qual era il segreto del suo fascino? Forse sono riuscito a capirlo soltanto anni dopo. Nonno era dotato di una qualità quasi irreperibile negli uomini, una virtù straordinaria che forse è per le donne più sensuale di qualunque altra cosa: lui ascoltava. Non faceva finta di ascoltare per buona educazione, aspettando con impazienza che lei finisse e tacesse, finalmente. Non carpiva le frasi della sua interlocutrice per terminarle bruscamente al posto di lei. Non la interrompeva e non saltava dentro il suo discorso per arrivare al dunque e passare oltre. Non lasciava che lei parlasse al vento mentre lui pensava che cosa risponderle quando avesse finalmente finito. Non fingeva di interessarsi o divertirsi, si interessava e divertiva davvero: era un infaticabile curioso. Niente insofferenza. Niente manovre per portare la conversazione dai futili argomenti di lei a quelli cruciali di lui. Anzi: adorava gli argomenti di lei. Gli piaceva proprio aspettare lei, non le metteva mai fretta se lei aveva bisogno di tempo, e assaporava tutti i suoi arzigogoli. Sempre con calma. Mai correre. Aspettava che le finisse, e anche quando aveva finito non si buttava né si precipitava, amava ancora aspettarla. Forse c’è ancora qualcosa da aggiungere? Un piccolo risvolto? Amava lasciarsi prendere per mano e farsi condurre nei posti di lei, al ritmo di lei. Amava accompagnarla come il flauto fa con la melodia. Amava conoscerla. Amava capire. Sapere. Amava scendere in lei fino alla soglia della consapevolezza, e fors’anche un poco oltre. […] Esistono miriadi di uomini che amano da pazzi il sesso, incondizionatamente, eppure odiano le donne. Mio nonno, credo, amava una cosa e l’altra. E con grazia: senza fare calcoli. Senza prendersi la sua parte. Senza mai avere fretta. Amava perdersi e non rincorreva il piacere.

Amos Oz - Una storia di amore e di tenebra

Edward Hopper Artist

#amos oz #edward hopper

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ballcrusher74 · 5 months

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Sorry for the rapid fire ask but, what could a dimension hopper possibly want for exchange of goods??? If you can go anywhere and do mostly anything (while avoiding the time gods) what's need for material items, or does the silly fella take something other then currency?

Metanoia takes other things than just currency ! Sure, he takes the basic dollar bills and coins (he's able to convert these into reality tokens, which is an interdimensional currency, his preferred one but he'll still take whatever), but since he's a nomadic hobo basically with no other side hustle, he does accept food, drinks, and maybe even staying somewhere for just a night- just basic need things that he can't really get himself (he would also steal these goods but he's basically got a bounty on his head for his crimes already, he doesn't need to get caught getting food)

He does also accept trades ! Though, he does also kinda scam people with this. Depending on the item and it's rarity, he will more than likely show you some shabby product of his and claim it as a 'one of a kind' thing and that it's a legendary object that others have sought out but he just so happens to have it, and then just run off with whatever you offered. He is very much a con-artist when it comes to trading

He still has an aspiring dream of becoming a gajillionaire, but with his current methods, I don't think he's getting there lol

#also i am so ok with rapid fire asks about ocs pleaske please send me more i love talkign about my ocs im desperate

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hairmetal666 · 2 years

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I was tagged by @violetsteve and @2btheanswertothequestion 💜💜

Rules: In a new post, show the last line you wrote and tag as many people as there are words.

"It’s a game; an intricate, delicate game."

I'm working on expanding the Forever is the Sweetest Con steddie au, because I love them so much as con artists accidentally falling in love. Can't get them out of my head, actually (and in this scene Steve is learning the ropes from his crime family Robin, Hopper, and El 😈)

I'm tagging @rewritingicarus @vecnuthy @henderdads @mixsethaddams @alleiwentcrazy @steviethebanished @thefreakandthehair feel free to disregard if you done it already or aren't into it 😆

#i haven't done a tumblr tag thing before #sorry if it's annoying #con artist au #wip #i made robin the artful dodger because it amuses me #steddie #i'm weirdly paranoid i miscounted the words

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seph7 · 7 months

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J.T. Walsh (1999)

I like Oliver Stone movies, but I stayed away from his Nixon when it was in the theaters in 1995, and never rented it on video. As the child of good California Democrats, I grew up hating Nixon. When I was in my twenties and he was president, he gave me more reason to hate him than I ever wanted. When he died I didn’t want to think about him anymore.

One night, though, flipping channels after the late news had closed down, I happened onto Nixon running on HBO, and I didn’t turn it off. I was pulled in, played like a fish through all the fictions and flashbacks, dreaming the movie’s dream: waiting for Watergate.

It came into focus with a strategy session in the Oval Office. Anthony Hopkins’s Nixon is hunching his shoulders and looking for help. James Woods’s impossibly reptilian H. R. Haldeman is stamping his feet like Rumpelstiltskin and fulminating about “Jew York City.” Others raise their voices here and there—and off to the side is J. T. Walsh, the canniest and most invisible actor of the 1990s, doodling.

As almost always, Walsh was playing a sleaze, a masked thug, here a corrupt government official, White House adviser and Watergate conspirator John Ehrlichman—as elsewhere he has played a slick Hollywood producer, a college-basketball fixer, the head of a crew of aluminum siding salesmen, a porn king who makes home sex videos with his own daughter, a slew of cops (Internal Affairs bureaucrat on the take in Chicago, leader of a secret society of white fascists in the LAPD), and a whole gallery of con artists, confidence men who seem to live less to take your money than for the satisfaction of getting you to trust them first.

Walsh in the Oval Office is physically indistinct; he usually was. At fifty-two in 1995 he looked younger, just as he looked older than his age when, after eight years as a stage actor—most notably as the frothing sales boss in David Mamet’s Glengarry Glen Ross—he began getting movie roles in 1986. Except near the end of his life, when his weight went badly out of control, his characters would have been hard to pick out of a lineup. Like Bill Clinton he was fleshy, vaguely overweight, with an open, florid, unlined face, a manner of surpassing reasonableness, blond in a way that on a beige couch would all but let him fade into the cushions. He had nothing in common with even the cooler, more sarcastic heavies of the forties or the fifties—Victor Buono’s police chief in To Have and Have Not, say, or the coroner in Kiss Me Deadly, their words dripping from their mouths like syrup with flies in it. He had nothing to say to the heavies appearing alongside of him in the multiplexes—Dennis Hopper’s psychokillers, Robert Dalvi’s scum-suckers, Mickey Rourke, with slime oozing through his pores, the undead Christopher Walken, his soul cannibalized long ago, nothing left but a waxy shell.

Walsh’s characters are extreme only on the inside, if he allows you to believe they are extreme at all; as he moves through a film, regardless of how much or how little formal authority his character might wield, Walsh is ordinary. You’ve seen this guy a million times. You’ll see him for the rest of your life. “What I enjoy most as an actor,” he said in December 1997, two months before his death from a heart attack, “is just disappearing. Most bad people I’ve known in my life have been transparent. Not gaunt expressions—they’re Milquetoasts. It’s Jeffrey Dahmer arguing with cops in the streets about a kid he’s about to eat—and he convinces them to let him keep him. And takes him back up and eats him. What is the nature of evil that we get so fascinated by it? It’s buried in charm, it’s not buried in horror.”

Walsh’s charm—what made you believe him, whether you were another character standing next to him in a two-shot, or watching in the audience—was a disarming, everyday realism, often contrived in small, edge-of-the-plot roles, his work with a single expression or a line staying with you long after any memory of the plot crumbled. As a lawyer happily tossing Linda Fiorentino criminal advice while an American flag waves in the breeze outside his window, Walsh taps into a profane quickness that for the few moments he’s on-screen dissolves the all-atmosphere-all-the-time film noir gloom of John Dahl’s The Last Seduction. In The Grifters, as Cole Langley, master of the long con, he radiates an all-American salesman’s glee (“Laws will be broken!” he promises a mark) that makes the hustlers holding the screen in the film—Anjelica Huston, John Cusack, Annette Bening—seem like literary conceits. Yet it all comes through a haze of blandness, as it does even when Walsh plays a sex killer, a crime boss, a rapist, a racist murderer, as if at any moment any terrible impression can be smoothed away: How could you imagine that’s what I meant?

In the Oval Office his Ehrlichman, whom America would encounter as the snarling pit bull lashing back at Senator Sam Ervin’s Watergate investigations committee, retains only the blandness, occasionally offering no more than “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea” before returning to his doodles. It was this blandness that allowed Walsh to flit through history—in Nixon playing White House fixer Ehrlichman; in Hoffa Teamster president Frank Fitzsimmons, locked into power by a deal that Ehrlichman helped broker; in Wired reporter Bob Woodward, who helped bring Ehrlichman down—but as Walsh sits with Nixon and Haldeman and the rest you can imagine him absenting himself from the action as it happens, instead contemplating all the roles in all the movies that have brought him to the point where he can take part in a plot to con an entire nation.

What makes Walsh such an uncanny presence on-screen—to the degree that, as the trucker in the first scenes of Breakdown, or Fitzsimmons as a drunken Teamster yes-man early in Hoffa, he seems to fade off the screen and out of the movie, back into everyday life—is that while the blandness of his characters may be a disguise, it can be far more believable than whatever evil it is apparently meant to hide. Even as it is committed, the evil act of a Walsh character can seem unreal, a trick to be taken back at the last moment, even long after that moment has passed—and that is because his characters, the real people he is playing, can appear to have no true identity at all. You can’t pick them out of the lineups of their own lives.

At the very beginning of his film career, in 1987, in David Mamet’s House of Games, Walsh is the dumb businessman victim of a gang of con men running a bait-and-switch, then a cop setting them up for a bust, then a dead cop, then one of the con men himself, alive and complaining, “Why do I always have to play the straight man?” The straight man? you ask him back. In Breakdown, in a rare role in which he dominates a film from beginning to end, he first appears as a gruffly helpful trucker giving a woman a ride into town while her husband waits with their broken-down car. She disappears, and when the husband finally confronts the trucker, with a cop at his side, Walsh’s irritated denial that he’s ever seen his man before in his life seems perfectly justifiable—even if, as Walsh saw it, that scene “had a residual effect on the audience. ‘Don’t catch me acting’—when I lied, deadpan, on the road, you hear people in the audience: ‘He’s lying!'”The moment came loose from the plot, as if, Walsh said, “I’m not just acting”—and that, he said, was where all the cheers in the theaters came from when in the final scene he dies. He had fooled the audience as much as the other characters in the movie; that’s why the audience wanted him dead.

Walsh’s richest role came in John Dahl’s Red Rock West. The mistaken-identity plot—with good guy Nicolas Cage mistaken for hit man Dennis Hopper—centers on Walsh’s Wayne Brown, a Wyoming bar owner who’s hired one Lyle from Texas to murder his wife. As Brown, Walsh is also the Red Rock sheriff—and he is also Kevin McCord, a former steelworks bookkeeper from Illinois who along with his wife stole $1.9 million and was last seen on the Ten Most Wanted list. Walsh plays every role—or every self—with a kind of terrorized assurance that breaks out as calm, certain reason or calm, reasoned rage. He’s cool, efficient, panicky, dazed, quick, confused. You realize his character no longer has any idea who he is, and that he doesn’t care—and that it’s in the fact that they don’t care that the real terror of Walsh’s characters resides. You realize, too, watching this movie, that in all of his best roles Walsh is a center of nervous gravity. His acting, its subject, is all about absolute certainty in the face of utter doubt. Yes, you’re fooled, and the characters around Walsh’s might be; you can’t tell if Walsh’s character is fooled or not.

At the final facedown in Red Rock West, all the characters are assembled and Dennis Hopper’s Lyle is holding the gun. “Hey, Wayne, let me ask you something,” he says. “How’d you ever get to be sheriff?” “I was elected,” Walsh says with pride. “Yeah, he bought every voter in the county a drink,” his wife sneers—but so what? Isn’t that the American way? Get Walsh out of ‘this fix and it wouldn’t have been the last election he won.

Watching this odd, deadly scene in 1998, I thought of Bill Clinton again, as of course one never would have in 1992, when Red Rock West was released and Clinton was someone the country had yet to really meet. In the moment, looking back, seeing a face and a demeanor coming together out of bits and pieces of films made over the last dozen years, it was as if—in the blandness, the disarming charm, the inscrutability, the menace, the blondness, moving with big, careful gestures inside a haze of sincerity—Walsh had been playing Clinton all along. He was not, but the spirit of the times finds its own vessels, and, really, the feeling was far more queer: it was as if, all along, Bill Clinton had been playing J. T. Walsh.

#j.t. walsh #jt walsh #underrated actors #greil marcus

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undercaffinatednightmare · 2 years

Text

What’s this 2? 😱 enjoy my insomnia.

This was supposed to be for Angsty August, but…..life happened.

Swan’s Last Song

(I am unaware of Crawdads in Maine so Where the Crawdads Sing didn’t make sense)

Hints of violence, abuse, and non-con but I kept it vague. Biggest shocker - I didn’t curse 😱

1956

Killian leaned on the doorway and watched the love of his life and daughter walk through the water as it lapped against their ankles. Every now and again, five-year old Alice stopped and pointed at something by her toes. Her mother picked up the object and told whatever stories or magic she knew of the shells before they returned it to the ocean.

It had taken him 20 years to find his happy ending. Now that he had it, he was never letting go.

The ship he’d spent years restoring was moored not far from the cabin they were clearing out.

When they decided to return to the place they both once called home, he offered to finish clearing her former home of anything personal. Soon, the place that had been her isolation would be sold and the last tether of darkness removed from their lives. He found himself anxiously waiting for a time when they no longer needed to look back.

Eyes the color of sea glass met his and the smile that brought sunshine into his life lit the face of the woman he loved. She turned her attention back to their little Starfish and he returned to his task.

The cabin had always been rough and dilapidated, but 10 years without even the minimal care she’d been capable of, left it ready to fall about his ears. The only place left to clean out was the corner she used for storage. Her small library that had once been so precious to them both had been left to mold and rot in the elements. Like he’d been during the years without her.

His eyes fell to the worn copy of Peter Pan sat on the shelf alone. Faded edges of the postcards he sent her over the years peeked out from the pages. Tears blurred his vision as he opened the book. In all their years apart, he’d only sent the same message - Wish you were here. All the places he wanted to take her sat between the pages of her favorite book.

One postcard fell at his feet. The lighthouse she used to keep with the same words he’d used over and over again across the front. On the back, she’d drawn an image of two children sitting reading. The spot they met to read every day.

After his wife and daughter were sleeping soundly in the soft, fluffy bedding of their rented bedroom, he returned to the spot where they’d first fallen in love. It had been love they shared, regardless of what his father or his brother thought. Love of the sea, love of reading, love of each other.

Surprisingly, the lighthouse had been turned into an art studio with paintings and sea glass art all signed by his favorite artist - Cygnus. He shook his head and rubbed a hand over his jaw. Of all the surprises for her to have. After loading her pieces into his truck, he picked up her supply box. The lock popped open and something hit the ground.

Killian bent down and picked up the small, tarnished charm. He closed his fist around the image of a swan and shoved it into his pocket. He continued loading her things until all that was left were the ghosts.

/////////

1945

Killian gripped her slim hand tighter. “Emma, love…” Bloody hell. He couldn’t breathe. He hadn’t seen her in years, but seeing her eyes rimmed red and the resignation in her shoulders made his chest ache. “Mr. Hopper? Could I have a moment?”

“Killian! It’s good to see you again. I’m grateful you made it home in one piece.” His family lawyer smiled and shook his hand. “If it’s alright with Emma?”

Her cheeks brightened and she murmured a quiet, “It’s fine.”

Mr. Hopper led them to the room reserved for the defense counsel and nodded as he shut the door. Emma immediately looked at her hands. “I hear you’re to be congratulated.” He froze. “When is the happy day?” Her smile was still sad, but he knew she meant every word. His Emma didn’t mince words.

But she wasn’t his anymore.

“We haven’t chosen one yet.” He let out a long breath. “Emma, that’s not why - you know that’s not why I came.”

She tilted her head and watched him with those green eyes that always seemed to see into his soul. “Killian, I’ve never wanted anything other than your happiness.”

It was his turn to look down. “That’s my line, surely.” He took a deep breath and stepped closer to her. “Not a day has gone by that I didn’t think about you.”

“Killian?” Eloise sang from the hallway.

Emma nodded to the door. “She needs you, Killian.” Her whisper cut like a dagger to his heart.

“I won’t leave-“

“There you are, darling!” Eloise burst in and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Mr. Hopper was saying he knows someone who can marry us!”

He watched as the two women evaluated each other. Emma’s eyes barely seemed to flicker, but he knew from experience how quickly she could take a person’s measure with that gaze. Eloise, on the other hand, gave Emma the same inspection you would give a bug before you squash it. It was the same look he’d seen others give Emma. It still turned his stomach.

Eloise took his hand and gave him a sly smile. “Come along, let’s go meet Mr. Hopper’s friend. Maybe we can salvage this trip and do some actual wedding planning.”

Killian winced, but reluctantly followed her out. He could have sworn he heard Emma whisper, “Everyone leaves, Killian.”

His father introduced him to Eloise Gardner after he’d returned home from the war. Killian’s ship had been attacked at sea and his left hand permanently damaged. She was the opposite of Emma in almost every way. Eloise was the sort of woman his father always expected him to marry - wealthy, sophisticated, and connected.

But she wasn’t Emma.

The following day, he arrived at the courthouse early and sat in the gallery. His stomach clenched as one resident after another testified against Emma. She sat beside Hopper in a demure navy dress with a white collar. It was the most unEmma-like thing he’d ever seen her wear and for a brief, mad moment, he wanted to laugh.

Sheriff Arthur King was called to the stand and Killian tensed. The sheriff had never been a great fan of Emma’s. “Sheriff King, can you describe for the jury the manner in which you found the victim’s body?”

“Friday, October 22, we received a call from Mr. Robert Gold reporting his son, Neal, missing. He didn’t return home that morning and the family was concerned.” Sheriff King began. “Some kids found his body out by the lighthouse on the island.”

Albert Spencer, their county prosecutor, pounced on his words. “You say he was concerned. Did he have reason to be concerned about his grown son in the town of his birth?”

Killian pinched the bridge of his nose to keep from making any comments. Neal was an ass. They’d been friends as boys, but sometime after Neal’s mother left town, neither of them could stand one another.

“He told his father that a young lady was claiming to be pregnant. I dare say a father or brother about town would be nettled by this, but Neal was a virile young man.” Arthur explained. “There was only one person who was ever seen threatening him.”

“Is that person in the courtroom today?” There was a predatory gleam in Spencer’s eyes as he stared at Emma.

“She is.” Arthur nodded. “Should I point her out?”

Spencer took his glasses off and glanced at the jury. “I don’t believe that’s necessary.” He nodded at Judge Mills. “That’s all, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Hopper? Your witness.” Judge Regina Mills was formidable, but fair. At least there wouldn’t be favoritism to either side. Regina might dislike Emma, but she out right hated Spencer.

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Archie stood and walked closer to the witness stand. “Sheriff King, have you had any issues with the defendant? Any arrests or warnings?”

The sheriff shifted in the seat. “There was an emergency call years ago. I don’t remember the details.”

Archie nodded and looked at his notes. “But you do remember the nature of the call?”

“Family squabble, I believe.” Sheriff King acknowledged. “But as I said, I can’t remember the specifics. Had to have been 10 years ago at least.”

“And nothing since then?” Archie took his glasses off. “I’ve heard all the tales too. The Swan Girl. If half these tales are true, she would be a fearsome creature indeed, but I also heard tales of a young girl, abandoned and left to fend for herself on Swan Island at the tender age of seven. So, Sheriff King, I’ll ask again about that call.”

Sheriff King sighed. “You understand I’d be answering without all the facts in front of me?”

“I do.” Archie replied. “I also trust you to recall that oath you swore a moment ago.”

“That was back when my wife, Gwen, was answering phones for the the station. She said, well, she described it as a little voice, was asking for help.” Arthur explained. “Gwen said she sounded scared and asked me to go check on things.”

“And did you? Go check on things?” Archie pushed.

“Of course I did.” Arthur glared. “Mr. Teach answered the door said his daughter was playing jokes. Said she’d run away again and asked me to help him find her.”

“Were you able to find her?” He asked.

Emma was staring at her hand. She had a scar on her palm that she never told him about. “Wasn’t hard. Little girl making phone calls when her house hasn’t got a phone. She was at a neighbor’s house, hiding. She knew she’d misbehaved and didn’t want to get in trouble.”

“Do you remember how she looked when you found her?” Archie pushed again, still using that calm voice of his.

“She looked scared. I told her what happens when you play tricks on the sheriff and scare your father like that. She got those big, wide eyes like when any kid’s been caught and asked if I’d already been to her house. When I told her how scared her father was, she just stopped talking. I let her think about what she’d done and took her home.” Arthur explained.

Killian stared at the man. He’d known Sheriff King for a lifetime. He thought of him as an honorable man. But he’d missed it. Even now, he didn’t see where things had gone wrong.

“Thank you for that, Sheriff. I have one more question about that day. Did you ever tell her that the sheriff’s job was to take care of the good people and put the bad people in jail?”

“I don’t recall exactly that, but I’ve said something similar to other youngsters over the years.” Arthur acknowledged.

Killian’s heart sank. Emma’s shoulders straightened as Archie looked between her and the sheriff. “You said you never got that call again?”

“Nah and old Ed Teach took off not long after.” Archie shook his head.

“Edward took off. Do you know if he took his daughter?”

“Your Honor, is this really relevant?” Albert objected.

“I believe there’s a key point here, Your Honor, if I may continue.” Archie nodded.

“Alright, but get to your point, Counselor.” Judge Mills warned.

“Thank, Your Honor.” He nodded. “Sheriff, do you know whether or not Edward Teach took his daughter the day he left town?”

“Ed Teach only came home to run the lighthouse and collect his salary. He always said she wasn’t his anyhow. Said he came home from the war and there she was.” Arthur sounded annoyed. “And before you ask, I drove him to the train station myself and never laid yes on him again.”

“Why didn’t he take her to the orphanage when her mother left?” Archie asked.”If he didn’t want the trouble?”

“She was useful after Victoria was gone. How else was he going to get his laundry done?” Arthur shook his head. “And anyways, she took the job when he left.”

Archie looked down at his papers. Killian missed whatever the next question was. His eyes were focused on Emma as she stared straight ahead. She’d only mentioned her father once - ‘He hurt me, but now he’s gone and I’m glad’. He rubbed a hand over his face.

Was he just one more scar across her heart?

/////////

1931

Killian ran the last two blocks to school. The morning had run later than he expected and he and Liam missed the bus. It was still cold enough outside that the air burned his lungs each time he inhaled. At the doors, he stomped his feet and jumped when he heard something in the bushes. A pair of bright green eyes staring at him.

Liam arrived behind him and the mysterious eyes vanished. "Something wrong, little brother?" Liam asked following Killian's gaze over the shrubs.

"I thought I saw -" Killian trailed off before rubbing behind his ear. Maybe he imagined the green-eyed fairy.

At lunch, he studied his mother's book of fairytale as he ate. His book mentioned offering fairies food - especially bread. Would a peanut butter sandwich work? Carefully, he wrapped half the sandwich for later. Now he just needed to find her again.

The moment school let out, Killian ran for the bushes nearest the entrance. But his fairy wasn't there. Deciding the search was too important to wait, he continued looking. Eventually, he didn't recognize his surroundings. Fear filled him and he started shaking. How would he get home? How would Liam find him? What would he do for dinner?

Questions threatened to drown him as he sank to his knees. He was lost with no way back. A sob felt stuck in his chest.

"What are you doing?" A voice asked. He snapped his attention up to find the source of the voice. The leaves rustled and a girl in too big clothes slowly emerged. Her hair was long and stringy, her face streaked with dirt and it looked like her shirt was permanently the wrong color, but she watched him cautiously.

"I - I got lost." He wiped his cheek and stood up. She was a tiny thing with green eyes that blazed defiantly back at him. "Are you a fairy?"

She huffed and sat on a rock to stare at him. "What's that?"

He reached over to poke her shoulder. "Are you an angel?"

"I'm a girl." She wrinkled her nose at him.

"Oh." Killian deflated and the fear returned. "I don't know where I am. I’ve never been this far"

"It's my secret place. You can't tell nobody." She warned him hotly.

"Can you help me get home?" He tried to control the way his lip wobbled, but failed.

She sighed and walked past him. "Come on."

He followed after her quickly. As they slipped through the trees, he handed her the sandwich he saved. "I thought you were a fairy and you're supposed to give fairies food."

"How do you know so much?" She asked with a mouthful of peanut butter.

"I read it in my book." He pulled his fairytales from his bag. "Haven't you read these stories?"

She stopped dead in her tracks and stared at her worn boots that were several sizes too big for her. "I can't read."

Killian frowned at that. "But we learn in school."

"I don't go to school." She replied sounding angry. "Papa needs me at home."

He bit his lip to keep from asking all the questions now racing through his head. "I can teach you. If you want.”

She shook her head. “No one keeps their promises.”

“I will!” Killian shot back. How could she think he would keep his promise?

Tears shimmered in her eyes for a moment and she blinked them away. “Can you get home from town? I don’t like going there.”

He nodded, somehow determined to have her trust him. Thankfully, no one asked why he needed an extra sandwich. Their housekeeper accepted it easily. So Killian was able to find Emma and give her a sandwich while she showed him the secrets of Swan Island.

They settled on a spot and Emma marked the path with special shells until he could remember. Killian was excited about having a friend to read with. She liked it best when he pretended to be Captain Hook as they read Peter Pan. Liam helped him with some of the words, writing meanings in the book so he could learn it easier. So he tried to do the same for Emma.

Once they finished the book, he gave it to her as a present. The smile on her face could have lit the night sky. She threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek, making them both blush.

By summer, Emma was ready to learn to write and Miss Belle French at the library was willing to help them. She became their accomplice over the years and Emma’s only other friend.

//////////

1939

Emma pushed him back to his spot against the tree so she could finish her sketch. "Stop being weird." She tried to scowl, but he saw the way her lips twitched. "Are you going to let me finish?"

"One condition?" He asked hopefully as she arched an eyebrow at him. "Let me take you to the movies tomorrow."

Her mouth fell open. "In - in town? Killian..."

He leaned forward and caressed her cheek. "Please, love?"

She bit at her lower lip nervously. "I know what they say. I know what I am to them. Why would you want to be seen with me?"

Killian brushed a wayward curl from her face. Out here on her isolated part of Swan Island with the summer sun glittering across the water, she was absolutely stunning. Golden hair, sun-kissed skin and those green eyes that had mesmerized him from their first meeting. He'd fallen in love with his fairy girl almost instantly. "Emma, I just wanted one night to treat you like a princess."

"You're doing it again." She tilted her head into his hand. "What aren't you telling me?"

He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against hers. "I leave for college next week. My father got me into an early placement in Vanderbilt's pre-med program."

"Killian, that's- that's great." Her watery smile was pure happiness for him. It nearly broke him.

"It means...it means I won't be able to visit, love." He let out a harsh breath. "He wants..."

"He wants you to have a life outside of Storybrooke." Her eyelashes veiled whatever was going through her head. "You should. You should have an amazing life, Killian. You deserve it."

"It's punishment because I told him I want to marry you." The magic of their secret hideaway seemed to shatter as she stood up.

"Killian..." She whispered with so much hope and hurt in her eyes, all he wanted to do was protect her from people like his father. The people who couldn't see how precious she truly was.

"I love you." He whispered into her hair. "It's not goodbye."

"Everyone leaves, Killian." She sighed and leaned into him when he wrapped his arms around her.

"Will you let me escort you on a proper date?" He kissed her forehead.

"O-okay."

Killian felt nervous preparing for his date that Friday. His father was displeased, but he relented and allowed him to drive the new coupe. Emma said to meet at the library, so he drove to town and knocked on the door. He had no idea why. He would have seen her home regardless of the journey. Miss French opened the door and smiled at him.

"Good evening, Mr. Jones." She smirked and let him inside. "She'll be down in a moment."

His nerves felt more rattled than they had earlier. Bloody hell. A quiet noise interrupted his anxious thoughts and he whirled. Emma stood with her golden hair in curls and a pink dress that didn't look like anything he'd seen her wear. Words failed him and he held his hand to his chest as she approached.

"You look..." He whispered.

Emma’s cheeks turned pink and she smiled shyly at him. "I know."

Flustered, he fumbled to hold the door open for her and practically jumped to get the car door before she did. "Allow me."

"Now you're a gentleman?" She teased.

Killian leaned closer and hummed in her ear. "I'm always a gentleman."

Emma sat beside him in the darkened theater. Their fingers laced tightly together throughout the film. He had been uncertain she would enjoy The Wizard of Oz, but he remembered how much she enjoyed reading the book together. Being tucked in the dark like this made him think of the future he wanted for them. She had seen the pain the world offered; he wanted to show her it’s wonders.

After the show, he tucked her arm into his as they walked towards the town's only diner. He was so focused on her that he almost missed the way Neal Cassidy stood in front of them, finally breaking their bubble of happiness.

If Storybrooke had a town son, it was Neal Cassidy. The son of the mayor and great-grandson of the town's founder, Neal could do no wrong - at least according to Sheriff King. Liam had been relieved when he graduated and no longer had to deal with the entitled prick. Killian had fewer run-ins being younger, but each one left him with a bitter taste.

"Well, well look who left her cave." Neal’s eyes held a predatory light that made Killian tighten his grip on Emma. He smirked at Emma, ignoring Killian entirely. "I always knew you were hiding a set of legs, Swan."

Emma tensed at the nickname. "We'll leave you to your evening, Cassidy." Killian nearly growled.

"I can take Swan home." Neal stepped closer and Killian moved to put himself between Emma and him. Cassidy laughed. "What's this, Jonesey? Did you already get a taste?"

Killian saw absolute red. He launched himself at Neal, knocking both of them to the sidewalk. For a moment all he could hear was the sound of his fist hitting Neal’s face. There was a tug on his coat and he pulled free of the fabric as Neal tried to throw him off.

Distantly, he could hear Emma screaming his name, telling them both to stop, but he couldn’t. Didn't she see it? Didn't she know how dangerous Neal was? A moment later, cold water soaked them both causing them to splutter and break away from their fight.

Emma stood with a bucket ready to douse them again. Killian had no doubt she'd use the bucket to knock sense into them if she needed to. Gods he loved her fire.

She helped Killian to his feet and glared at Cassidy. "Go home, Neal." There was a snap in her voice Killian hadn't heard in years. She kept a tight grip on his arm and practically dragged him all the way back to the library. She didn't say a word to him until Miss French opened the door and shooed them into the back. "What were you thinking?" She demanded as she cleaned the blood from his hands.

"He's dangerous, love." Killian hissed as she rubbed too hard against his knuckles. "You don't know-"

"Did you ever think that I'd be blamed?" She snapped at him. "His story will be that I started it. I-"

"Emma, all I want is to keep you safe." Killian cupped her face gently. After a moment, she closed her eyes and leaned into his hand. "I know you can take care of yourself. I just don't want you to always need to."

She looked down at the blood streaked on her own fingers. "They'll take you away." She whispered.

Killian gently washed her hands clean and kissed her knuckles. "I'm yours, love. They can't stop me from loving you."

///////////

1941

Killian wanted to run straight to the lighthouse on Swan Island. Instead, he dutifully went to his father’s house. Part of him hoped his father would finally release him from his ridiculous family obligations. The other part of him knew his father still held a grudge against Emma because of the fight with Neal on their first date.

She’d always known that the consequence of interfering with Neal would be losing each other. He wanted to prove her wrong. They wouldn’t lose each other - he was hers.

Emma lived on the remote island in the rundown shack by the lighthouse. Her father had been the lighthouse keeper and in his absence, Emma began doing the job. She earned a smaller wage than the men did, but he was relieved she could afford food and other necessities when she was alone.

There was a car parked almost at her door. He didn’t recognize it, but he supposed that was bound to happen since he was in school. A shudder ran down his spine as he considered all the changes once he went to war. Neal Cassidy walked out of Emma’s house and shot a smirk back at the door. He finished buttoning his shirt as he walked to the car.

Killian felt his heart shatter across the rocks. He turned back toward town. With any luck, he’d never have to return. It wasn’t his home now.

///////////

1945

Brennan Jones sat in the chair beside the judge that morning in court. Killian could hardly believe his father was being called as a witness for the prosecution. Had Emma known the hate ran this deep?

“Mr. Jones, we appreciate you giving us your time today.” Albert began. “Your youngest son Killian-“

“Is a decorated war hero.” His father added.

“Of course. He was involved in an altercation with the deceased before the war, wasn’t he?” Albert asked.

“Are you suggesting that my son…”

“No no, I’m only asking about the altercation. What were they fighting about?”

“What does any young man fight about? A girl. Specifically, they were fighting over Miss Teach. Killian had insisted on taking the girl to the movies. Mr. Gold informed me that she was being quite indiscreet out by the library. It’s unseemly for a girl -“

“Objection, Your Honor. Unless Mr. Spencer plans to call Mr. Gold to corroborate?” Archie started. “Or Lieutenant Jones as he and the defendant were the only witnesses to the altercation in question.”

“Sustained. Mr. Jones, please answer the question and refrain from anything unless you witnessed it.” She warned his father.

“Very well. The sheriff came to inform me that my son and Mr. Cassidy were in an altercation over Miss Teach. My son returned home with minor injuries and I told him to disassociate himself from any further meetings with the girl from that night.” His father finished looking annoyed.

“And did he?” Spencer asked.

“He did. At least until he returned to tell me he’d been called up.” His father replied. “I knew he’d go see her so I went over to stop him.”

“Do you know if he saw her?”

His father paused and looked at Emma with something resembling sadness. “He didn’t. He informed me that evening Miss Teach and Mr. Cassidy were together and he looked forward to finishing his medical degree after he returned home.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jones. Your witness.” Spencer stepped away.

“Mr. Jones, you said you drove to Swan Island that day? Did you see anything unusual?” Archie asked, sounding almost excited.

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t see Killian, but I saw Mr. Cassidy leaving. It struck me as odd at the time. From everything I knew, Miss Teach never wanted to speak to Mr. Cassidy.” Brennan sighed. “And I did speak with Miss Teach.”

“What was that like?”

“It was…odd. It took some time for her to open the door after I knocked. She looked shaken. I think she might have been crying. And…she was wearing a scarf and a heavy coat. Not at all what you expect in July.” His father looked like a weary old man for a moment. “I apologize, Miss Teach, I should have asked you if you were alright when you clearly weren’t.”

“Did you say anything at all?” Archie asked the next question in a gentle tone.

“I told her Killian was going to the war and she shouldn’t try contacting him.” Brennan rubbed his forehead and looked at Killian for the first time. “A foolish mistake, I see now. She reminded me that he wouldn’t see her again because of my interference. She-” Was his father crying? Killian could barely recall a time after his mother’s death when his father cried. “She asked if I would allow him to write to her. She promised not to write back. She wished only to know he was alive.”

“We’re all very grateful that he is, Mr. Jones.” Archie acknowledged. “Have you spoken to Miss Teach since that day?”

“In passing only. I gather he wrote her the occasional postcard and someone was helping him get them to her, but when we met in town, she only asked how he was and if I would pass along a postcard she painted. To my knowledge, she never broke her promise to me.” He finished quietly.

Killian sat in stunned silence. The postcards were from Emma? His eyes watered and when the session took a break, he had to step outside to breathe.

Brennan sat on a bench nearby and Killian joined him. “I’m so very sorry, my boy. I did you a great disservice. You still love her, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think I ever stopped, but…” Killian took a deep breath. “Da, I was at her house. I saw him leaving. She was crying? I should have gone in. If I’d gone to see her…”

“She wouldn’t have allowed you, my boy.” His father finally met his eyes. “It…never occurred to me that she wouldn’t want him there. I knew something was wrong, but I missed what was in front of me.”

Killian shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“She knew the sheriff wouldn’t respond. Not after she’d been denied help the first time she asked. She wouldn’t have let you in because you would have killed him.” Brennan sighed.

The next witness was Neal’s friend, Peter Banning. “The last time I saw him, he had a charm on his neck. It was a swan. He said it was from her.” Peter spat.

“And where is this charm now?” Spencer asked.

“Whoever killed him has to have it, wouldn’t you think?” Peter sneered at Emma as she continued staring straight ahead.

All Killian heard about the next few days was that charm. He remembered seeing it hanging by Emma’s easel. She said it belonged to her mother. She kept it to remind her not to trust people. How had Cassidy gotten it?

Unfortunately for Spencer, every witness who mentioned it also mentioned going through her house before the murder and after. That made all the evidence collected mishandled and the prosecutor was forced to throw it all out. Killian finally allowed himself to breathe when Neal’s fiancée admitted that the knife wound had been from her, except he was already dead. She just wanted to make sure.

When the judge read the verdict “Not guilty.” Emma sagged against Archie and wiped tears from her eyes.

She was free.

Killian walked to her house the way he had thousands of times before. She was standing in the middle of her home. It had been ransacked by so many people, her things thrown everywhere. Broken plates and sea glass lay in shards at her feet.

He watched her for a moment before he knocked. “Hey, beautiful.”

She whirled and looked at him with fire in her eyes. “Where’s your wife? She was delightful.”

“She’s right here.” He said. “At least, I hope so.”

Emma frowned at him. “She-”

“Eloise went home. Her home. She left three days ago when I wouldn’t leave the courtroom.” He shrugged.

“Why are you here, Killian?” Emma whispered.

“Because my father isn’t the only Jones who needs to beg for your forgiveness.” He looked down at the debris between them. “If you like, I’d kneel at your feet, but I’m hoping you won’t make me.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Aye.”

“You left me.”

“I did, but I’m here and I never want to be apart again. Can you forgive me? For being a jealous idiot? For never writing what I should have to you all those years? For being a coward because I was too afraid I’d find you happy with someone else?”

“You’re many things, Killian Jones, but coward is not one of them.” She shook her head and hugged herself. “What did you want to write?”

“I love you.”

“That’s what you wrote.” She scoffed quietly.

“I wrote I wish you were here. That’s not the same thing.” He smiled.

Emma rolled her eyes. “You were in the war? And wished I was there?”

Killian scratched behind his ear, “I wished we could have seen what those places were like before the madness. I wanted you back in my arms.”

“I wished I was there too.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks and he closed the distance. He handed her his handkerchief and pulled her into his arms. “My love, there wasn’t a day I didn’t think of you. I want to make you happy.”

“I love you too.” She whispered into his chest.

///////////

1956

Killian was out on his sailboat, The Jolly Roger, with his wife and daughter. Emma had been quiet since their short return to Storybrooke. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping, Mrs. Jones?” He grinned.

She relaxed in his arms. “Ghosts were keeping me up.”

“Anything I can help with?” He tightened his hold on her.

Emma shook her head. “They’ve moved on.” She turned and brushed a kiss to his lips. “I’m pregnant.”

He cupped her face and kissed her. “Truly?”

That night, after his girls were asleep, Killian crept up to the deck. He looked down at the swan charm in his palm and dropped it into the ocean. The ghosts could stay gone.

Tag!

@teamhook @earanemith @ilovemesomekillianjones @jonesfandomfanatic @caught-in-the-filter @kmomof4

Huge THANK YOU to cheerleader and beta @xarandomdreamx who has dealt with the onslaught of fics!

And all my enablers on discord 😘

#csangstyaugust22 #captain swan au #writing weekend #undercaffinatednightmare fics #Iiterary liberties

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agendaculturaldelima · 3 months

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#ProyeccionDeVida

🎬 “APOCALIPSIS AHORA” [Apocalypse Now. Final Cut]

🔎 Género: Bélico / Drama / Guerra de Vietnam / Película de Culto

⌛️ Duración: 153 minutos

✍️ Guión: John Milius y Francis Ford Coppola

📕 Novela: Joseph Conrad

🎼 Música: Carmine Coppola y Francis Ford Coppola

📷 Fotografía: Vittorio Storaro

🗯 Argumento: Durante la guerra de Vietnam, al joven Capitán Willard, un oficial de los servicios de inteligencia del ejército estadounidense, se le ha encomendado entrar en Camboya con la peligrosa misión de eliminar a Kurtz, un coronel renegado que se ha vuelto loco. El capitán deberá ir navegar por el río hasta el corazón de la selva, donde parece ser que Kurtz reina como un buda despótico sobre los miembros de la tribu Montagnard, que le adoran como a un dios.

👥 Reparto: Marlon Brando (Coronel Kurtz), Martin Sheen (Cap. Benjamin L. Willard), Dennis Hopper (Fotógrafo Norteamericano), Laurence Fishburne (Tyrone Miller), Harrison Ford (Coronel Lucas), Jerry Ziesmer (Civil), Glenn Walken (Teniente Carlsen), Scott Glenn (Teniente Richard M. Colby), Frederic Forrest (Jay "Chef" Hicks), Sam Bottoms (Lance) y Colleen Camp (Chica Playboy).

📢 Dirección: Francis Ford Coppola

📼 Distribuidora: United Artists

🌎 País: Estados Unidos

📅 Año: 1979

📽 Proyección:

📆 Martes 09 de Julio

🕗 8:00pm.

🎦 Cine Caleta (calle Aurelio de Souza 225 - Barranco)

🚶‍♀️🚶‍♂️ Ingreso libre

🙂 A tener en cuenta: Prohibido el ingreso de bebidas y comidas. 🌳💚🌻🌛

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denimbex1986 · 4 months

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'WHO IS TOM RIPLEY? Steven Zaillian’s recent Netflix series adaptation of Patricia Highsmith’s most infamous literary creation starts and ends on this question.

Ripley adapts the first of five books Highsmith dedicated to the exploits of the con artist–murderer-aesthete, and the portion of the story that has been reinterpreted the most: New York shipping magnate Herbert Greenleaf hires the low-level grifter to travel to Europe and convince his vagabond son Dickie (Johnny Flynn) to return to the United States. Highsmith’s novel is a masterwork of crime writing, and Ripley is a chameleonic figure who has been interpreted, alternately, as a charming sociopath, a consummate con man, and a serial killer. He has been played by actors of dizzyingly different registers like John Malkovich in Ripley’s Game (2002), Dennis Hopper in The American Friend (1977), Barry Pepper in Ripley Under Ground (2005), Alain Delon in Purple Noon (1960) and, perhaps most famously, Matt Damon in The Talented Mr. Ripley (1999).

Andrew Scott is the latest and proves to have the most insidiously perfect take on Ripley. The Irish actor, who will be recognizable to many as the “Hot Priest” from Fleabag (2016–19), as well as the maniacal, screeching Moriarty on Sherlock (2010–17), just picked up awards for his performance in the film All of Us Strangers (2023) and the play VANYA, a new reimagining of Anton Chekhov’s classic. There’s little that ties his Ripley to previous Ripleys: Damon’s was lovelorn; Malkovich made him cunning; Hopper, bombastic; Delon’s was mean-spirited; and Pepper, let’s just not. Scott, meanwhile, possesses a soft-featured handsomeness that can “mold into ordinariness” at will. This Ripley is a negative space. He observes and absorbs. Scott’s performance dispenses with charm and charisma almost entirely, in fact, and throughout Ripley’s eight episodes, the character is mostly uncomfortable, ill at ease, and clawing.

Significantly, Ripley is the first adaptation of Highsmith’s character to depict “the unequivocal triumph of evil over good” that she thought her book explored; certainly, it’s the only adaptation that finds Ripley “rejoicing in it.” Ripley will always win. But neither the book nor the series gives us anything to hold on to. There is nothing to root for. Zaillian and Scott’s narrative, visual, and performance choices empty out Ripley of the charm and emotionality that drove previous adaptations. Here, Ripley is a slippery mask that doesn’t ever quite fit right. And in embracing the character’s elusiveness and refusing to make his emptiness attractive, Zaillian and Scott have given us the definitive on-screen Tom Ripley.

How to film a vacuum of personhood? Zaillian told Vanity Fair that the choice to film Ripley in black-and-white came to him early in the process, and was inspired, in part, by the black-and-white edition of the Ripley book he had on his desk. “As I was writing,” he said, “I held that image in my mind.” The black-and-white imagery strips Ripley’s story of the postcard beauty we’ve come to expect from previous adaptations. While the golden cinematography of Purple Noon and The Talented Mr. Ripley capture the sandy ease of wealthy American expats enjoying bright negronis and crystalline seawater, Zaillian didn’t “want to make a pretty travelogue.” And pretty it is not. While there is much to praise about the moody monochrome cinematography, it doesn’t distract. Ripley’s New York is a rusty compilation of ugly details: the rotten wood of the window, exposed wire covered by a sad little painting of a boat, an overflowing shower, a musty slab of soap, the noise of other people’s bowel movements. When he arrives in Italy, the Mediterranean water is black and inhospitable. It’s a graveyard, not a postcard.

Ripley indulges in repetition and the administrative details of criminality. The paperwork, the travel, and the negotiations are granted much screen time. It’s tedious work, conning people. When we first meet Tom Ripley, he’s running a small-time mail fraud, and constantly looking over his shoulder. It’s his frustration with petty paperwork grifts, rather than any fascination with Europe or love of art, that makes him accept Herbert Greenleaf’s mission. But Ripley is a quick study: by the second episode, he’s got conversational Italian down, and he understands the unspoken rules of Dickie’s lifestyle. And he’s a hard worker. This Ripley practices. He has to, in order to maintain his cover. His forgeries are a craft, and he carries his tools—stamps, glue, a rubber goop to forge passports—with him.

Ripley’s foreignness aids him. In a 1989 essay for Granta, Patricia Highsmith recalled the image that became the genesis of Tom Ripley: a young man walking alone on the beach in Positano, Italy, early in the morning, who “looked like a thousand other American tourists in Europe that summer.” Highsmith never met that man, but the image grew and expanded into the famous character. An American in Europe, becoming acquainted with the ways of living in Italy, France, and Germany, just like Highsmith herself had done. Europe as a concept, not a destination. It was freedom. In the same essay, the author recalls a secret sort of affinity for Europe, one “so deep and important that I might not wish or need to discuss it with friend or family.” I wonder if Zaillian read this very essay. His Ripley, too, looks out at the tiny beach of Atrani, which looks similar to the Positano that Highsmith looked upon, and sees a faraway, solitary figure. In Ripley, people who interact briefly with either Ripley or Dickie see them as interchangeable, just two Americans. His foreignness, ironically, allows him to blend in.

Highsmith’s Ripley holds good taste above everything else, and so does Zaillian’s. Ripley’s lack of refinement is palpable at first. He makes all the wrong choices, sartorially and otherwise (in the film, it’s the lime-green Speedos; in the series, the paisley robe), which puts him on the wrong foot with Marge Sherwood and Freddie Miles. Played in the film by Gwyneth Paltrow cosplaying Housewives of Mongibello, and in the series by a po-faced Dakota Fanning, Marge is as desperately oblivious to her lack of talent as Dickie is. She spends her days scribbling away at a memoir about her experiences in Atrani (which Ripley edits in a delightful montage of disdain) and eyeing Ripley suspiciously. He and Marge find each other equally repellent: he is too “vague” for her to grasp (some light-coded homophobia there) and she is tacky (he throws away the hand-knit scarf she makes for Dickie). As the series progresses, he starts to build up a new persona, one that feels truer to him than “Tom Ripley”: “This was the real annihilation of his past and of himself, Tom Ripley, who was made up of that past, and his rebirth as a completely new person,” writes Highsmith. This new Tom Ripley is suave, well dressed, and well regarded, while Marge is condescended to by the Italian police and drinks too much at parties. And Dickie, well, he’s dead.

The murder of Dickie Greenleaf is a turning point for Ripley. It is his graduation from grifter to murderer and is one of the few constants of every interpretation of the text. In the book, it is semi-premeditated. Ripley conceives of this idea earlier, on the train (always the train with Highsmith), knowing that Dickie is going to politely excise him from his life, from his lifestyle: “He knew that he was going to do it, that he would not stop himself now, maybe couldn’t stop himself, and that he might not succeed,” writes Highsmith. The screen has always reinvented this moment for dramatic effect. In Purple Noon, Ripley stabs French Dickie (renamed Philippe Greenleaf, and portrayed by Maurice Ronet) in the heart, on Dickie’s own boat. A risky, impulsive decision. Ripley stages the murder as quietly rageful: neither man raises their voice, Dickie politely severs their relationship and Ripley’s bludgeoning of Dickie is wordless. He looks at Dickie’s ring, as if for confirmation to proceed before striking him in the head with the oar. It’s not about Dickie; it’s about his lifestyle, one that Ripley feels he deserves more than Dickie.

Anthony Minghella’s The Talented Mr. Ripley interprets this moment as an emotional and moral upheaval, with Ripley pushed over the edge by Dickie’s ferocious rant. Jude Law’s Dickie is a petulant child who wreaks havoc with his limited attention span and oversized charm. His first interaction (and last) interaction with Ripley is bullish: he mocks his untanned skin (“Did you ever see a guy so white, Marge?”), his lack of refinement, his inability to ski, his obvious worship of Dickie. He is violently repelled by Ripley’s desire to be close to him at all costs. So, when the oar strikes his head, we understand. He calls him a “leech,” a “third-class mooch,” and, most damningly in Dickie’s mind, “boring.”

And, in Damon’s hands, he kind of is. In a 1998 interview, the actor spoke about wanting Ripley’s “humanity to come across,” morphing him into someone who does not “ever manipulate anybody” and who “come[s] from a position of pure honesty all the time. He believes what’s happening and he believes the world he’s indulging in.” At this point in his career, Damon was always in the right place at the right time. Both he and Paltrow were Harvey Weinstein’s golden children. Damon, together with his co-writing buddy Ben Affleck, had just earned a best screenplay Oscar for Good Will Hunting (1997) and Paltrow had picked up her statuette for best actress in Shakespeare in Love (1998), both Miramax releases. It makes sense with Damon’s persona and limitations that he would interpret Ripley as a beacon of honesty, an accidentally talented murderer. He was charming, but not electrically so, unlike Law. Politely handsome, unlike the beatific Alain Delon. Smart, but not obnoxious. His Ripley is a charmless striver looking for love, not money.

Minghella’s adaptation is beautiful, turning the story into an overtly queer text, leaning into Ripley’s identity as a closeted gay man in the 1950s who falls for the petty, vagabond Dickie. It works hard to carve out the humanity of Tom Ripley. The film even opens on a note of regret, with Ripley narrating: “If I could just go back, if I could rub everything out—starting with myself, starting with borrowing a jacket …” It’s a different register, and one that tints the entire film with a note of sick, inescapable sadness. In a different way, Ripley and Dickie were intertwined in Highsmith’s first sketches of the character. In her diary, in 1954, she sketched out a character that would, eventually, be split in two:

A young American, half homosexual, an indifferent painter, with some money from home through an income, but not too much. He is the ideal, harmless looking, unimportant looking, numerous enough, kind of individual a smuggling gang would make use of to handle their contacts, hot goods.

Minghella leans into this merging of identities visually, using mirrors and twisted reflections, all tinted with an overt, and one-sided, desire on Ripley’s part. In Minghella’s version, it’s Dickie who ruins Ripley, setting him on a path of lies and other murders to cover up that initial murder, which ends with him killing the one person, Peter Smith-Kingsley (Jack Davenport), who seemed to see good things in him. Ripley is desperately lonely, encased in shadows.

Zaillian’s Ripley, meanwhile, is all shadows. Gothic, even. This is where Tom Ripley feels most at home, alone but never lonely. Even in the dark, he is not corroded by the darkness that threatens Damon’s Ripley. This Ripley is on a journey towards comfort and beauty. Once he arrives in Italy, he is smitten not with Dickie himself but with the possibility of beauty and the tranquility that the Greenleafs’ money can afford him. If anything, Dickie Greenleaf is the least interesting character in Ripley. Johnny Flynn’s take is not rude, or irascible like Jude Law’s. He might even be considered kind, at times, although deeply, pathetically uninteresting. A laughably mediocre painter, Dickie doesn’t seem to care about much at all: not about his parents, his money, or Marge. When Ripley first meets Dickie and Marge, they are asleep, napping on an Italian beach. He casts a shadow over them. But Ripley is not particularly motivated by murder. It is, like most things, tedious, hard work. The disposal of Dickie (and, later on, of Freddie Miles) takes up more screen time than the murder itself. It is almost comically extended, including a little sit-down to rest after disposing of the corpse. After he bludgeons and disposes of Freddie (Eliot Sumner), Ripley has to go all the way back to the site where he dumped the body to retrieve an incriminating object. Ripley revels in repetition, in its protagonist treading the same steps repeatedly. It is through sheer dumb luck that he isn’t caught, not through his cleverness. And Ripley delights in the lucky tedium of Tom Ripley’s crimes.

The blandness of Dickie and his cohort’s characterization stands in sharp contrast with the undeniable, easy gorgeousness of their lives. Dickie’s villa overlooking the town, his marble floors, his Montblanc pen, and his Picasso, casually hanging in his study. They are so used to it all that they fail to see the value of it, or how intensely Ripley wants what they have, not who they are. Ripley never asks for anything, but in a rare moment of honesty—hidden in plain sight, buried in a rant against refrigerators—he talks about freedom. For Ripley, freedom is not just money but also the invisibility it can buy.

This Ripley covets symbols, things that will act as signifiers of the freedom that wealth can afford. Like the Ripley in the books, who is largely uninterested in sex, desire is not his driving engine. Instead, it’s covetousness. As Scott pointed out, Ripley has an “almost sensual relationship with things.” The moment Ripley walks into Dickie’s house, he comments, “Nice pen,” and promptly pockets it. Dickie doesn’t even notice. That pen casually reappears as Ripley alternates between signing his name or Dickie’s. The camera foregrounds objects, returning to the same ones over and over again, like a murderer returning to the scene of their crime: Dickie’s typewriter and signet ring, the glass ashtray. Every time he settles into a new room, Ripley lovingly sets out his things. He does not imbue them, however, with any sentimentality. He’s not keeping Dickie’s things because they remind him of Dickie, but because they’re nice things and he would like to have them. There is pleasure to be found in objects, as much as there is in art. In the last episode of Ripley, he is gifted Dickie’s ring by Herbert Greenleaf. His work is finished. He has killed Dickie twice over. And he gets to keep the ring. In the end, Tom Ripley is where he wanted to be: alone and surrounded by beautiful things. Dickie is just another object to him, and when he speaks of Dickie, he’s really talking about himself: “Everything about him was an act.”

Art critics speak of negative space as the area surrounding a subject. The brilliance of Ripley lies in how it understands Tom Ripley not as a subject possessed of rich interiority but as the oppressive, empty space that defines those around him. He is the darkness that overtakes Dickie, Marge, and Freddie. Beautiful things smooth out the rough edges of Tom Ripley. As the series progresses, and the Ripley we first meet is well and truly annihilated, something truer emerges: an impeccably dressed black hole.'

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