#John the conductor is scared | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bigassmoonchild · 1 year

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Can I please get the 141 reacting to their and y/n child's first recital or play.

I do ballet and I just think it'd be cute reaction

Or... Getting in a relationship with y/n for quite a while and it's the first time they meet her kid. Whichever works for you hun, have an awesome week💗

thank you so much nonnie! i hope you guys have had an amazing week yourself, please take care of yourselves!! all other asks and requests will be responded to tomorrow! i love you guys!!

Simon 'Ghost' Riley:

he didn't consider himself a child person. he didn't know how to interact with them, he didn't know the first thing about children. even so, meeting your child for the first time had him stressed out.

'lovie, i just don't know what to wear. do i get a suit? what do i say?' and you gave him a little laugh over the phone, little james was calling out from the other room about hearing simons voice.

he listened to your struggle against the child about going to brush his teeth and that simon would still be on the phone to say goodnght. 'simon, it's a child we're talking about. you're not meeting my parents,' you laughed.

just your laugh alone made him feel a lot better about it. 'i still don't know exatly how to go about it all,' he told you. 'i've never really been around kids, especially in my work,' he added quickly.

you hushed james, and he could hear the tap running in the background as you made sure the boy brushed his teeth. 'simon, you could come in drenched in mud and the boy will still love you. don't stress too much about it,' you told him.

simon gave his goodnights to james and your conversation changed directions. even when the day grew closer that he would meet him, simon didn't feel like a world class soldier. he felt like a scared child who wasn't sure what to do.

and when he entered your home, for what felt like the millionth time, he heard the patter of little feet running to the door. james stopped in front of him, eyes staring up at him big and bold.

a huge grin broke out across his face and james reached up for simon, who awkwardly picked up the boy and allowed the hug. james took simon to his room, pointing out all of the different things in there.

and for just a few hours, simon felt normal. like a civilian. 'if anything happens to james i will tear the world apart,' he whispered to you in bed and you gave him a little hum.

Captain John Price:

little lily. that's what he called your little eight year old. she had gotten into instruments, specifically the violin. luckily enough for him, he didn't get to listen to her practicing. he was often away in the office or on missions when she was in her lessons.

all of this came to today. her very first recital. it was a group of them, a small band that they joined together all of kids her own age. all of the parents and family members of the little band had come together in the small performance room that the school had.

john was almost late. you'd saved him a seat, and luckily enough for him he didn't have to wait for the other ages to play. he was slightly red in the face from running, and gave you a weak little smile at the frown you gave him.

'you were almost late,' you hushed to him, watching as the age group just above lily's finished up their last song.

he wrapped his hand around yours, pressing a kiss against your temple. 'almost late is not late,' he told you. rolling your eyes you gave him a sarcastic scoff.

'do you tell all your soldiers that, or just the pretty ones?' you asked him and he deadpanned at you. as the kids filed out and yours filed in, you hushed john as lily took her seat. 'oh gosh, please record this!' you whispered to john and he pulled his phone out.

hitting record, he was beaming wide as he watched the conductor prepare to start this part of the recital. as the first cords struck, you watched as his face fell at the unruly sounds.

no one was in tune, and it was quite difficult to listen to. he still recorded it, though, and turned to look at the little smirk on your face. to john, it felt like forever before the final song played and the kids took their bows.

the lights came back on and everyone stood, ready to collect their kid. 'that was god awful,' you swatted his arm, sharply saying his name but hiding the smile behind your hand.

when lily ran out, she was beaming so wide. just like her father. 'that was good, huh?' she asked and john nodded quickly.

'the absolute best, little lily,' and he picked her up and spun her around. from above her head, he gave you a little grimace.

that night, as you lay beside him, he spoke into the dark. 'maybe we should sign her up for football,' he said and you had to hush the barking laugh that had almost escaped.

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick:

kyle had never thought of himself to be the type of person to love kids. he was surrounded by pain and suffering, murder and (secretly) some war crimes.

but, he loved you. and you loved him. what he hadn't been expecting was for you to suddenly have a child in your possession (the better word would be custody, but he begs to differ). there was some family drama, and you were chosen as the next best option for the little boy.

noah. some nephew or similar relation to you. he wasn't entirely sure, but he tried his hardest to figure it all out. and so, even if he hadn't entirely been wanting to, he found himself at the school play with you. watching noah perform wasn't something he'd ever expected to do.

the play wasn't something he'd ever heard of, but he was more than willing to watch noah. if it meant spending time with you, and eventually spending time with noah, he'd been more than happy to come along.

so he sat there, struggling to keep a straight face as he watched the performance. noah was surprisingly good, but the rest of his castmates weren't entirely up for it.

one of the children was laying half inside of the wing, whining to someone about not wanting to get up. another child was sitting in the middle of the set, back to the audience.

noah, though, was reading off of his script and at least trying to act everything out. the kid had grit, for sure, but kyle wasn't entirely sure if he even wanted to be there.

sure, there was some emotion, but he was also younger which meant there wasn't much. and even when he waited afterwards, still slightly snickering about what he'd watched, he brightened up as noah ran towards the two of you.

hugging you first, he finally jumped at kyle and began babbling on about how excited he was for the next play. there were auditions, but they weren't exactly a cut and dry type.

and even through it all, kyle nodded along with noah and grinned happily at the little boy. he adored noah, not as much as he adored you but it was getting there.

he'd only known the boy a few weeks at this point. even so, noah had seemingly taken a big liking to kyle, and kyle was more than happy to help with raising the boy.

so maybe he was the type of person to love kids. maybe he'd be the type of person to love just about anything if it gave you such a sense of adoration and love.

just maybe, he would think about having some of his own. maybe not putting them in a play, but he would definitely think about it.

Johnny 'Soap' McTavish:

compared to simon, he was better with kids. he knew what to expect, he knew what to do. it's what happened when you had a larger family. the one thing he didn't expect, though, was the terror that was your daughter.

on the phone, she was a sweetheart. absolutely delightful to speak with and quite honestly one of his favorite people (that wasn't you). he could easily see the remarkable resemblance between your personalities, but he would've never expected this.

opening the door, prepared to surprise the two of you, he heard a small shout. 'fucker!' a high-pitched voice called out. you hushed the child, whispering about how that was a grown up words and that santa would never give a child with such language a good present.

she hushed quickly, but he could still hear the two of you squabbling over something he couldn't make out. walking into the room that it was coming from, he quickly realized it was your own.

standing with your back against the door, hands on your hips he could just barely make out the little girl. olivia, you had named her, but he was quick to realize that the sweet little angel wasn't exactly that.

her face was coated in makeup, eyeshadow covering nearly half of her eyebrows. lipstick spread across her cheeks into a grin. blush in her hair, hands covered in something he couldn't discern.

'johnny!' the little girl shouted and jumped around you to throw herself into his arms. he caught her, hugging her close and pointing towards her. mouthing out the words what the hell? you gave him a laugh.

'that's the little angel,' you told him. 'the little angel got into my makeup stash, and apparently does not want to give up her passion of doing everyones,'

that's how he found himself sitting on the floor, allowing her to spread makeup all across his face. somehow, he'd even been roped into getting his nails painted by you.

maybe the two of you weren't perfect little angels like he'd assumed. closer to fallen angels, with the way that you smirked evilly at him.

'why won't we give him some pretty clothes to put on too?' olivia grinned just as wide as you, eyes lighting up at the thought. shaking his head, he moved to crawl away but found himself damn near pinned to the ground by the child.

he now played dress-up and makeup with her at least once a month.

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flimflamfandom · 7 months

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Another Long Running OC - Meet Ludwig Ungerer!

Don't worry - ARTHUR ISN'T DISAPPEARING! But Arthur, while cool and also rad, isn't the only typa guy I wanna write about!

Normally when I write about OCs they're either Arthur Keane or they die within minutes of their introduction. I wanted to break that pattern a little bit, though, and see what I could do with a SECOND guy running around!

Is he like Arthur? Soft spoken, simple tradesman with a heart of gold and looks to match?

no.

This new guy is a very serious composer. In the 20s.

BACKGROUND

Ludwig Maria Ungerer was born in Alsace on December 7th, 1904. He was the youngest of 6, and was raised by a family of church musicians and organ tuners.

Suffice to say, much like Arthur Keane, music was with him at an early age - but not with strings.

Quickly becoming somewhat of a virtuoso when it came to keyboard instruments, Ludwig eventually started to attend schools specifically meant for music. When his family came to America around his 12th birthday, he started studying with the finest musicians in the city, and even spending time in New York. His family wasn't well off - this cost a lot of money.

His siblings resent him for this.

PRESENT DAY

Ludwig currently attends the same college as Ivy, and is obtaining his masters in composition. He has become very interested in serialism, but has always leaned more towards impressionism and post-tonal styles in his work - think a mixture of Vaughan Williams and Mahler, with little Webern-esque experiments on the side. He even experiments some with Indeterminate music - hear that John Cage? He sorta beat you to it! (But not really)

To make ends meet, he works as a copyist during the day and a part time conductor - he has a knack for running rehearsals. He also helps with charts for the band at the Daisy. He's friends with Ivy and owes her the favor.

He lives in a small apartment owned by Bapka. He's in there often - you can hear piano, scribbling, and German swear words leaking from it most days.

HOW'S THE FELLA LOOK?

Ludwig is a German Rex, with the same fur color as Ivy. He's tall, lanky, and has big, beady green eyes. He looks like something out of an expressionist film. He has a deep, quiet voice, and a thick accent.

He does wear glasses - round ones, that only serve to make him look slightly more frightening.

He's unusual in how he dresses, as well - he often wears turtleneck sweaters, and when it's too warm, long or even short sleeved Henleys. In public. In the 1920s, that's at least a tad eccentric.

LUDWIG AND THE GANG

One thing that Ludwig has going for him is his relationship with the Daisy. It's genuinely a good one! He even managed to find them a beer supplier!

Despite his rather awkward and stilted nature, he tends to get along with the Daisy folks just fine. He's intimidating at first, but he really does try to be friendly, even if he accidentally scares people. A lot.

LUDWIG AND LOVE

I have more than one idea for Ludwig shipping wise, but they're a bit far out and would require a lot of planning. He's not going after Lacy, Lacy is Arthur's! But I do eventually want him to end up with...someone. Not sure who, though.

#lackadaisy #lackadaisy cats #flimflamuniverse #lackadaisy oc #Ludwig Ungerer

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janeofcakes · 1 year

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The Final Solution

Here it is, friends. The one shot of which I spoke, the first of the two snippets I shared in the WIP Tag Game. I was inspired by a Tumblr post a few weeks ago, or maybe days, who knows? Everything oozes together into one sloppy puddle these days. I hope you enjoy.💜

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The tarmac around them was barren, bleak and lifeless. There was a line of planes some distance away from them. All had sunny destinations that were perfect for family vacations and weekend get-aways, but that was another world. The private plane they stood close to had an all-together different target, one that held nothing but pain and death.

“John, there’s something I should say,” Sherlock’s words were quiet and full of regret. He looked down at the cold, gray concrete beneath his feet and took a deep breath. He could get through this. He had to say this. He had to tell John how he felt, how he’d always felt.

He raised his eyes to meet John’s again and his breath caught in his throat. The doctor’s face was a mixture of discomfort, sorrow and agony. He knew. John knew what all of this meant. In spite of all Sherlock had just said, all of the questions he answered vaguely, John knew that Sherlock was being sent to his death. This was an assignment he would not complete and Captain John Watson had no delusions that Sherlock would still be alive when it all came to an end. The detective silently berated himself. He should have known that John was not so naive as to not comprehend the gravity of the situation, no matter how easily Mycroft thought it was to pull the wool over the doctor’s eyes.

“I’ve meant to say always and never have,” Sherlock continued, biting back a shuddering gasp that nearly overtook his words.

John must have heard it in his voice because his face twisted in anguish, but he quickly schooled it with the purse of his lips and squinting his eyes. Those deep blue eyes that told so much were fixed on Sherlock like a vice that would never loosen its grip. Anger born by helplessness shone through them, thrusting like spears into Sherlock’s mind, but it wasn’t alone. Unbearable grief filled John’s eyes into glassy orbs of thick water, slowly sloshing this way and that. His inherent rage held it like a dam made of the strongest stone. Anyone else who saw him would simply see the fury, but Sherlock could see it all and it slid into his heart with the cruel whisper of a sword.

“Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again,” Sherlock said hesitantly, his voice kept steady by sheer force of will, “I might as well say it now.”

Sherlock stopped speaking abruptly and bit his lip. His eyes slipped closed and he could hear John’s feet shuffling, his body full of nervous energy and tension. Sherlock shared the sentiment. He was on a great precipice, torn between the desire to confess his true feelings this one last chance he would ever have or carrying it to his grave. Both were exceedingly selfish. He believed John would want to know what he had come to mean to him, but it would make their parting all the more painful. John was Sherlock’s life, his conductor of light, his soul. He loved John with his very being. Why he had never found the courage to tell John was beyond his own comprehension. Sherlock knew what dangers they faced in their line of work. Any day could be his last, or John’s, but somehow it seemed as though there would always be more time. That wasn’t the whole of it though. Sherlock was scared of losing John and confessing his love was the surest way to push John “I’m not gay” Watson away.

Telling John would also mean throwing his whole life on its end. John was with Mary. He chose Mary. Sherlock told him he should forgive Mary for the sake of the child and for John himself. He loved Mary. Yes, she had lied. Nothing about her life was as she made it out to be. She was an assassin for hire, blackmailed by the most sinister of villains. She had shot Sherlock, but she made John happy and they had only just married. Sherlock could hardly tell his newlywed best friend that he loved him when said marriage was just beginning and there was a baby on the way. No. Sherlock couldn’t do that to John, not when things were finally starting to take form. No. John would have the life he had always wanted; a job, a wife and child, and Sherlock would disappear. It was better that way. Better for John, and Sherlock would always put the doctor’s happiness above his own.

“Sherlock is really a girl’s name,” Sherlock muttered at a loss for anything else. He tried to keep his lips from curling into a knowing smirk with mixed results.

One look at his face and John turned his head away, a huff of strangled laughter bursting from his lips. He put his hands on his hips and stared resolutely at the concrete beneath his feet, trying to collect himself. Sherlock had seen this before. A war waged within John and he was doing his utmost to keep it at bay. No one side could triumph over the other or chaos would consume John’s mind and the emotions he tried so hard to hide would flow out of the banks of restraint.

“I’m pretty sure it’s not,” John said through clenched teeth when he looked at Sherlock again. He let out a quick, fake laugh, but said no more.

Sherlock took a deep breath and blinked once slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground. With nothing left to do, he raised his right hand and held it out to John. Blue eyes full of confusion looked at it and then melted into sorrow as they reached Sherlock’s face. John immediately took the offered hand and squeezed it tightly in one final handshake. Sherlock saw the first time they touched hands in the lab at Bart’s in his mind’s eye. That first touch of fingers when John handed his mobile over was the impetus for Sherlock’s love. He could see that John was struggling with sorrow and self-loathing that day, and he had instantly wanted to make it better. He wanted to make John more again, into the man he once was. That small spark had grown into a love so large that Sherlock had to make whole wings in his mind palace for John and time spent with him. His very heart, which he had been reliably informed did not exist, increased in size and scope to accommodate the level of feeling he had for John.

“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock whispered when the scrape of John’s shoes on the tarmac brought him back to the present. He retrieved his hand from John and took a step back. John’s hand slowly lowered to his side as he watched Sherlock move. His mouth said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes and every one crushed Sherlock’s breaking heart.

Nodding at John one last time, Sherlock turned his back and began walking toward the door of the plane. He stared straight ahead, closing off his heart as he went. He mustn’t let the emotion overtake him. He would not let John witness his collapse, lest it add to the sorrow the doctor already felt. There would be time to allow the breakdown once he was alone on the plane. Alone. It was what he used to want and he guarded it closely. ‘Alone protects me.’ The words were so hollow now and not at all what he desired. John had changed his very way of thinking and he honestly wasn’t sure he could go back.

Imaging a small ball of ice in his heart, Sherlock willed it to grow until it could encapsulate the whole organ. If he succeeded, he could make it to the plane and into the air before his emotions betrayed him. He could feel the inevitable prick of tears in his eyes and fought to keep it at bay. He hadn’t even taken that many steps, the feeling of John’s body heat still warm on his back, and Sherlock furrowed his brow at that. There was more than enough distance between them, even with the few steps Sherlock had taken. John’s warmth should already be a distant memory. The detective’s shoulders sagged slightly. It felt like he had walked miles.

This thought fled his mind as quickly as it came when warm fingers wrapped around his left elbow, closing against a palm that was suddenly pressed against his arm. The hand tugged Sherlock around and he was facing John again. His John.

The doctor’s arms were around Sherlock, his face buried in the taller man’s shoulder before the detective could say a word. John drew him in snugly, pressing the whole length of his body against Sherlock tightly. A wet gasp sounded near Sherlock’s ear as the force of John’s bone-crushing embrace increased. Thoroughly startled, Sherlock’s own arms were suspended as far out to the sides as allowed by John’s grasp, his fingers spread in shock. His lips were parted in surprise and he was lost for words, solely unprepared for this reaction.

“Don’t…don’t go,” John begged into Sherlock’s shoulder. His voice was heavy with emotion and tears. “I don’t want you to go.”

Sherlock’s icy heart shattered with such force that he gasped aloud and blinked his eyes wide. His long arms wrapped around John almost of their own volition. He tilted his head to rest a cheek against the side of John’s head, the scent of his soft hair drifting into his nostrils as a tear ran down the other cheek. Sherlock fought with the emotions that threatened to overtake him, breathing deeply and slowly in an effort to maintain control as he hugged the stuffing out of his blogger.

“Fuck me,” Mary Morstan muttered from where she and Mycroft Holmes stood at a distance observing the scene.

Mycroft, ever the pragmatist, reached into his breast pocket and removed a thin bundle of pages folded into thirds. He passed the document to Mary without looking at her. Confused, she hesitantly took it, opened it slowly and scanned through the words of the first page. Once she had ascertained its contents, she looked up at Mycroft sharply, her chin jutting out in fury.

“I will give you one chance to walk away,” the elder Holmes said, his eyes still on his brother and the man he loved. “You will not return under any circumstances or contact either of them again.”

Mycroft paused for a long moment, allowing his words to hang in the air, heavy with intent. Mary didn’t move a muscle, her glare seering into his skin. Finally, the tall man turned his head slowly to stare at her with piercing ice-blue daggers.

“If you do not,” Mycroft’s tone was definitive and whispered with a dangerous promise, “I will drop you where you stand.”

Some distance away and well out of earshot, Sherlock shook his head and released his grasp, taking hold of John’s biceps instead and pushing him away. John stared up at him, face full of concern, as Sherlock stepped well back from his friend. He held out his right hand, palm facing John, to prevent any advance. Sherlock’s mind was reeling. He couldn’t organize the thoughts that spun this way and that, not while John was touching him.

“Stop,” Sherlock managed, taking a half step back and bracing himself when it looked as though John would reach for him. “I have to go. This is how it must be.”

“Bullshit,” John muttered furiously, taking in Sherlock’s wet cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. “Your brother can fix anything he wants.”

“This is different,” Sherlock’s voice was unsteady, despite his best efforts.

“When you were gone,” John began, his voice shaking with emotion. He obviously didn’t want to spend any more time on such a useless argument as what Mycroft can and cannot do, “all I wanted was for you to stop being dead. And then, when you came back, I just…rejected you.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say or do. He couldn’t seem to move his body. He was torn between wanting to hear every word and wanting to get as far away from John as possible. Still, he found himself looking at John inquisitively, silently urging him to go on.

“I never asked you where you were or what happened to you or why…” John trailed off as he gazed at Sherlock meaningfully. His expression made it clear that he did, in fact, know exactly why Sherlock had leapt off Bart’s and why he made John watch. Damn Mycroft, meddling in Sherlock’s life without consideration for how his actions affect others.

“You were injured. Badly,” John said flatly. He reached a hand to touch Sherlock’s shoulder, but the detective flinched back and John stopped a few inches from contact. Sherlock would never be able to go if John touched him again. The doctor’s hand hovered in the air as he continued: “I tackled you to the ground and hit you. Your back was covered with wounds.”

“You couldn’t have known, John,” Sherlock said. It was nothing John didn’t know already and obviously did not ease his guilt, but needed to be said. For the first time in his life, Sherlock understood the meaning behind useless placations. He needed John to know that however he felt about it, Sherlock did not blame him for his reaction to the return. It hurt Sherlock, of course. It still did, but he did not blame John in the slightest. John was shaking his head, ready to place the blame where he thought it belonged, but Sherlock would not allow it.

“I made a game of it,” the detective admitted with shame. “My conceit made me think you had done nothing while I was gone. I let myself believe you were lost without me and had just waited for my return like it was inevitable, but it wasn’t. Not in your mind. I was dead to you, and then I just waltzed back in with a fake mustache and a bad accent in a public place, no less. I set myself up for exactly what happened.”

John looked at him with soft, trembling eyes, unable to speak. The hurt was plain on his face and Sherlock’s heart wept for the man before him. God, how he wanted to fold his arms around him and take all the pain away. The pain he put in John’s heart with his carelessness.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock’s voice was low and reverent. He dipped his head to glance down and then met John’s eyes again, his face contrite and sad. “I’m so sorry. You gave me something precious and I…abused it.”

“You abused it?” John huffed a humorless laugh. His hands were at his sides again, his left clenching in and out of a fist. “I’ve done nothing but abuse you since you came back. Even when I was glad to have you back, I held your very presence against you as if I could never forgive it. Like things would never be the same between us.”

“Can you forgive me?” Sherlock asked slowly and against his better judgment.

He knew full well if John said yes he would never be able to get on that plane and he honestly wasn’t sure where that left him. John was right about Mycroft. His pompous brother could get Sherlock out of this mess with Magnussen. It would be difficult, since the British government wasn’t at all happy with the circumstance, and considering its public nature, but Mycroft could still do it. If he did though, what would it really mean for the future? John was married and would soon be a father. Things would never be the way they were. Was living that way better than the alternative?

“Yes,” John said definitively, surprising Sherlock with an answer to his unasked question. He met his blogger’s sincere face with wide eyes and parted lips. “I can only hope you’ll forgive me when I hurt you in so many ways. I was wrong and selfish and…”

“I do, John,” Sherlock interrupted him quickly. “Please believe that.”

John studied him for a long moment and nodded once with the barest dip of his chin.

“I do,” John said solemnly and this time he did reach for Sherlock, but not his shoulder as before. His left hand came to rest warmly on Sherlock’s cheek, cupping it as if it would break. Sherlock couldn’t help but lean into the touch and John’s lips parted ever so slightly to suck in a quiet gasp before closing again.

Suddenly, Sherlock had to say more. John had to know it all. He absolutely had to know the depth of Sherlock’s feeling for him, that he was home. I love you. I love you . Instead of simply saying that, however, his mind went back to the beginning.

“That day at Bart’s,” Sherlock began, already wanting to kick himself, “I saw you for what you had once been. A soldier and doctor, confident and pleased with the life you had chosen.”

John tilted his head curiously and let his hand slide from Sherlock’s face. The detective’s cheek felt instantly cold from the loss of warmth, but John did not simply pull away. He let his hand drift down to rest on Sherlock’s chest, directly over his heart. Sherlock hoped he couldn’t feel it beating wildly, but was sure he could.

“From that day, I’ve wanted to make you happy. I know I didn’t always do the best job,” Sherlock cringed apologetically. “Aside from fixing the psychosomatic limp and entertaining you with cases, I wasn’t terribly good at it.”

“I was happy, Sherlock,” John said quietly, but sincerely. “Very.”

“Still, I was inconsiderate and harsh and certainly did not take your feelings into account on many occasions. Most occasions,” Sherlock pressed on quickly, his tone changing to a more timid one by the end. He inhaled deeply before he went on: “I severely underestimated how my… absence would affect you. Had I known…”

“Don’t say you would’ve done it differently,” John’s voice was harsh and Sherlock only just stopped himself from recoiling. “We both know that’s not true.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed after a long pause, “I wouldn’t have.”

They stood staring at one another, John’s hand still on Sherlock’s chest. The warmth from that point of contact radiated through Sherlock’s body. It was what he had longed for as he looked down at John from the roof of Bart’s that day. What he had wanted every day and night while he chased Moriaty’s factions all over the world. He hadn’t said those three words on the mobile before he jumped because they would’ve done more harm than good and now, here he was on another precipice, ready to jump.

“But I would have put more thought into my return,” Sherlock said hoarsely. “I would have understood and regretted what you had experienced for two years. I would have said…”

“But you couldn’t,” John interrupted forcefully. “Mary was there and I was about to propose. It… It wouldn’t have gone any better.”

John cleared his throat and lifted his hand from Sherlock’s chest. The taller man blinked twice in rapid succession. His hands shot up to clasp John’s before it could retreat completely. John knew what he wanted to say. Had he always known? John stared at him in surprise, but did not pull his hand away.

“Since my return, I have done my utmost to see that you are happy. That your life is happy in every way,” Sherlock’s voice was clear and decisive, like a deduction. The most important of his life. It hadn’t been easy. So much of what he had done hurt him terribly, but he convinced himself he deserved it for hurting John so much and for so long.

He knew now he hadn’t deserved it. Not really. John had spent every day telling him that in his own way. Sherlock had seen that, but had not observed. Looking at John now, as he was about to leave him once again, and for good this time, Sherlock could finally observe.

“I planned your wedding,” Sherlock said bitterly. It wasn’t what he had meant to say and he wasn’t even sure where it had come from. He had wanted to voice it for a long time and could not stop himself from finishing the thought, the accusation, “and had to watch you marry someone else.”

He closed his mouth with a snap and dropped John’s hand as though he had been burned. His friend was shocked, his face slack. Sherlock had said it. Not the words, but he had told John he loved him. He had watched John become someone else’s husband, all the while wishing he was the other groom instead of the best man. He saved the life of John’s former commander, saying ‘We wouldn’t do that to John Watson’. Wouldn’t ruin his wedding day with such a trifle as ‘I love you. Marry me’. No. Sherlock had wanted John to be happy, he still did, so he sacrificed his own.

Now, with his words, Sherlock could see connections lighting up in John’s mind. The switch had truly been flicked on, and lightbulbs and fairy lights were springing to life to sparkle and shine. John’s eyes were wide, his brows raised to his hairline. He was probably trying to work out how his life had become so unhinged. Newly married to a woman who was pregnant with his child and his best friend in love with him, John “Not Gay” Watson. What would he even say to Sherlock? What could he, besides the obvious?

Sherlock stepped back abruptly. He knew John didn’t want him. He didn’t need, didn’t want to hear the words. The heart-crushing words that had danced through Sherlock’s mind for years now. The ones that would destroy him utterly if said aloud. I don’t love you, Sherlock.

The detective’s eyes flashed dangerously in panic when John made to speak, reaching for him as he did so. Sherlock jerked away from his hands, backing up and nearly stumbling over his own feet.

“Sherlock,” John began, but his friend was too quick for him.

“No!” Sherlock nearly shouted. His arms jutted out in John’s direction to hold him at bay. “I can’t hear you say it. Don’t say anything. Just let me go.”

Sherlock turned quickly towards the airplane, his body ready to sprint and run up the stairs. He was dimly aware of John’s protestations and tried to shrug off the hand that grasped his left elbow. He shook and pulled when it would not relent and finally turned to face his friend once more. Sherlock’s eyes were blazing, his expression thunderous. He jerked his arm once more, but John’s ironclad hold did not budge. Sherlock lurched forward and planted himself firmly in John’s personal space. He glowered down at the man in one of his most intimidating stances.

“Let. Go,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled the threat in a deep tone. His eyes were narrowed into razor-sharp slits that would have burned through anyone else’s skin in seconds.

John. John Watson simply stood in front of Sherlock, taking the full impact of his ire without flinching. In contrast with Sherlock’s sharp angles and fierce stare, John’s face was calm and soft. His features seemed lighter, as though the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. His blue eyes were deeper and darker than usual, welcoming Sherlock in to swim in their comfort and safety. The corners of John’s mouth turned up ever so slightly, flirting with a smile. Sherlock’s brows darted up, furious at the very thought that John would mock him for his feelings.

“I love you,” John’s words cut through the dizzying haze of anger. The sound of Sherlock’s rapid breathing and the murderous flow of blood in his ears suddenly vanished. The hint of a smile had vanished and John looked very serious. “I love you, Sherlock. I love you.”

Sherlock’s whole demeanor changed in a split-second and the wide expanse of his shoulders eased until he was more his own height, rather than the deadly looming and decidedly taller-looking one. His mind ground to a halt and he blinked in confusion. He stared at John for what felt like hours while his slowed brain struggled to resume its usual pace.

“I think I always have,” John said plainly and then scrunched up his brow, pressing his lips into a thin line. “No. No, that’s not right. I know I always have.”

Sherlock straightened his neck, angled his shoulders down and tucked his chin, observing John with a furrowed brow. He looked at him with troubled confusion, unable to piece together all he was hearing. Sherlock tilted his head to the left and straightened his neck again, trying to size up the man before him. The iron grip on his arm was more relaxed now, but Sherlock had no desire to pull away. He blinked once slowly and opened his mouth, but John seemed unwilling to let him speak.

“I’m an idiot,” John began solemnly, “but I’m not stupid. I felt the spark the moment we touched. When we burst through the door of 221, breathless from running our asses off that first time, do you know what I wanted to do?”

The silence hung heavily between them, hot and charged. Sherlock did not answer. He did not move or even blink. He felt as though his very life was suspended, its safe release dependent upon John’s words. He watched John’s darkening eyes as he stepped closer to Sherlock.

“I wanted to push you up against the wall,” John’s voice was low and intimate, “and snog you senseless.”

Here, John paused again. His breath quickening, eyes dilating. Sherlock blinked in astonishment.

“I wanted to bodily drag you up the stairs and stay in your bed until you came apart at the seams,” John’s throaty tone fluttered into Sherlock’s ears like a melody. He closed his eyes to fully absorb the words and absolutely not imagine the scenario John had described.

“Why didn’t you?” Sherlock’s own voice was a full octave deeper when he opened his eyes to look at John.

“You had just finished telling me you were married to your work, i.e. not interested. Get lost, Watson,” John quipped, the words taking on his typical tone.

A sigh passed through Sherlock’s lips and his shoulders drooped slightly.

“What an idiot I was,” the detective mused, then furrowed his brow again. “You never brought it up again. Why?”

“I was scared,” John shrugged lamely. “I’d spent so much time telling everyone I wasn’t gay. I knew you believed me. I didn’t think you’d even take me seriously if I did try again, or told you I was bi. I was a coward.

No, I was,“ John went on quickly when Sherlock started to protest. “My parents were furious when Harry came out at 15. They threw her out of the house, completely disowned her and spent every god forsaken minute telling me just how wrong it was to be gay. By the time I was done with medical school and had joined up, I didn’t care anymore what they thought, but their prejudice was so deeply ingrained in me that hiding that side of myself came so naturally. It had become my normal.

When I met you,” John’s voice went a little unsteady and he stopped to gather himself. “Once I knew I was in love with you, I knew I couldn’t hide it and I couldn’t ask you to hide it. I know I didn’t have to, but it took a long time to get my illogical and biased upbringing the fuck out of my head.”

John stopped and studied Sherlock’s face. The detective wished he knew what John saw there because the doctor’s shoulder sagged and his eyes filled with sadness. He let go of Sherlock’s arm to rest his hand on the taller man’s chest again. John seemed to relish the feel of Sherlock’s heartbeat.

“I was going to say something, you know,” John told him quietly. “I’d finally worked myself up to it. Knew I’d be ready if you said you really didn’t feel things that way, though I was sure that whole sociopath lark was bollocks by then. I was going to tell you just before you…”

John’s voice cracked and gave out and he looked down at his feet. Sherlock’s heart broke. He raised his arms and lightly placed his hands on John’s biceps. The doctor did not need holding up, but Sherlock felt the need to do so regardless. When John looked up at him again, there was defiance in his eyes and the line of his jaw was hard.

“I used to think he knew somehow,” John bit out as if the words were rotten, “at least for a while. I thought he’d done it on purpose because he knew how I felt and wanted you all for himself. Didn’t make any sense, but it didn’t stop me from wishing I’d killed him. He’d taken that away from me too. I was so angry, Sherlock, and so alone.”

Soon, John’s hands were on Sherlock’s biceps as well and their bodies were close again. Sherlock never wanted to be any further from John than this again. John loved him. John loved him. John “Not Gay” Watson loved him. He felt as though all of his Christmases had come at once. Never had he thought this day, this fantasy, would become a reality.

“And when you came back I…” John’s expression morphed into one of horror. Sherlock was ready to quell his guilt once again, but realized all too quickly that was not what put John in his current state. “Oh, shit. Mary.”

John dropped his hands and twisted out of Sherlock’s grasp so he could look to where his wife and Sherlock’s brother stood watching them say their goodbyes. Regretfully, Sherlock turned his head toward them. Only Mycroft looked smugly back at him, the picture of stuffy nonchalance. Sherlock furrowed his brow, assessing his brother as John stomped over to the man.

“Where is she?” John demanded. “She’ll kill him now that she knows.”

“ Now that she knows?” Mycroft repeated snidely. He fixed John with a condescending gaze and leaned on his umbrella. “You must have known she at least suspected before today, Dr. Watson.”

“I swear to god, Mycroft, if you don’t tell me where she is I will do some really unpleasant things with that bloody brolly,” John threatened, very close to the elder Holmes now.

Part of Sherlock didn’t mind watching John and his brother trade insults. He always loved seeing John outwit the insufferable git, but deducing Mycroft had brought to light something far more important.

“She’s gone,” Sherlock said loudly so they would both hear.

John instantly turned on his heel and stared at the detective incredulously. Mycroft lifted his chin and looked down his nose at the younger in self-satisfaction. Sherlock walked over to where they stood. He glared at his brother and then looked at John with a softer expression.

“What do you mean she’s gone? Where is she?” John asked, his voice full of tension.

“He’s sent her away, John,” Sherlock told him carefully. He did not want to say any more than that because he honestly wasn’t sure exactly what his brother had done with her. John stared at Sherlock for a moment, letting the words sink in, before turning abruptly back to Mycroft.

“What have you done?” John asked sharply. He looked on the verge of a good shout and Sherlock was trying to decide whether or not to let him. John did not need the added stress of whatever Mycroft’s response would be, but releasing his anger might help to calm him. It could go either way and was a difficult line to tread when it came to John.

Before either John or Sherlock took action, Mycroft smoothly reached inside the breast pocket of his coat and extracted a small bundle of folded pages. He offered it to John, who glanced at it and then fixed hard eyes back on the taller man.

“What’s this?” John asked gruffly.

“Annulment documents,” Mycroft answered haughtily. “All they require is your signature.”

John took the bundle hesitantly, unfolded the pages and began to read. He took two or three steps back as he scanned the words carefully, turning slightly away from the Holmeses in the process. Burning with anger at his brother’s interference, Sherlock squared his shoulders and took a step toward the elder.

“What the fuck, Mycroft,” he demanded and was gratified by the momentary flash of surprise on the older man’s face. Mycroft had known Sherlock his entire life, obviously, but even he could count the times he had heard the detective use that particular word on one hand. “Why can’t you just leave it be, you insufferable ass?”

Mycroft raised an imperious brow in response. His haughty attitude made Sherlock’s blood boil. He was certain that his brother had nearly pushed John away from Sherlock several times throughout their friendship with his intrusions into their lives, some very intentional. Sherlock moved closer to his brother as he spoke in a low, dangerous tone.

“Your obtrusion into my life is tiresome to say the least,” Sherlock began, his demeanor a deadly calm, “but you have no business nosing into John’s.”

“Now, Sherlock,” Mycroft tilted his head up to look down his nose at his brother, “I have no intention of interfering in Dr. Watson’s affairs, I assure you.”

“Bullshit,” Sherlock snapped, borrowing from John’s vernacular. He was toe to toe with Mycroft now, their faces close. “John does not want to leave his wife or child. He has responsibilities and is a man of great principle.”

“Done,” John’s voice sounded decisively from over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock spun to face his friend, who had stepped closer to him and his brother again. The detective gaped and moved away from both men, his eyes locked on John. The doctor held out the unfolded papers in offer to Mycroft, who nodded slightly as he took them. Sherlock could see both John and Mary’s signatures on the top sheet as they passed from one hand to another. He looked back into John’s face, not giving a toss that his brother bore witness to his shock and confusion.

“I trust you’ll get these to the proper authority,” John commented tersely, adopting a military stance as he spoke to the elder Holmes.

“I will, indeed,” Mycroft replied superciliously. “It will be official within the hour.”

John chewed on his upper lip for a moment before pressing his lips together in a thin line and inhaling pensively. He met Mycroft’s gaze, his own eyes hard like that of a captain, and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Good,” John clipped. “Thank you.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth lifted minutely and he raised his chin slightly in approval.

“Mary Morstan will not enter your life again,” he told John in a decisive tone before turning to Sherlock and saying, “Your name is clear. My car will return you to Baker Street immediately.”

With a tap of his umbrella, Mycroft turned his back on them and walked to the two sleek, black cars parked not far away from where they stood. John watched him a moment and then turned his eyes to Sherlock. His whole demeanor changed in an instant the moment he saw the detective’s stunned expression. His features softened and his shoulders lost that crisp, military edge. He took a step toward his friend, reaching out his palms cautiously as though assuring a skittish animal.

“Sherlock?” John asked in a quiet, uncertain voice.

“Why?” Sherlock broke in, the word catching in his throat. He swallowed audibly and tried again. “Why would you do that? Your life, your marriage…”

“Was a sham,” John finished for him. “It was all a lie. She lied from the moment I met her. I don’t even know who she is.”

“But you love her,” Sherlock protested, his voice full of confusion and hurt. John was a man of principle and high standards. He would never shirk that responsibility. Sherlock didn’t understand. He felt as though he was looking at a stranger.

“I hate her,” John said sadly and Sherlock blinked in disbelief. John took a small step closer, giving Sherlock every opportunity to move away, but he did not. The detective had to know everything. He needed to understand.

“She shot you, Sherlock,” John said so much more with his eyes than words could ever express. Anger and terror swirled in their oceanic depths, but also sorrow and fondness. There was an unspoken sentiment hovering around them all, winding in and out of the other emotions. Sherlock felt his own bemusement and uncertainty fading away.

“She killed you, Sherlock,” John whispered, feeling the impact of every word like a bullet. “I don’t know what brought you back, but I will thank my lucky stars for the rest of my life.”

John did touch him now. He placed his hands on Sherlock’s biceps gently and gave them a squeeze. His brows were high on his forehead as he searched Sherlock’s silvery eyes for any sign of comprehension. When John parted his lips to speak again, his expression and tone hardened:

“And I could never forgive her for it. You’re my life. You mean everything to me, Sherlock. I’m not me without you.”

Sherlock struggled to process John’s words. It was a lot to take in, even for his brain. He had admitted more than once that he was not an expert at emotions and sentimentality, but so much had changed since he had met John. His perspective had certainly altered dramatically during his two years of hunting Moriarty’s network. Still, it was difficult to wrap his head around the sentiments of others and John had always been an enigma. Some parts of him were so easy to read and others never failed to surprise the detective. It was one of the many reasons Sherlock loved him with such intensity.

As pieces of the puzzle that was John Watson clicked into place, his words making more sense as the seconds ticked by, Sherlock began to feel his confusion lift. The tense muscles in his body began to ease and his hands ached to touch John. Something still ate at Sherlock’s mind, however. One niggling, enormous, hateful thing.

“What about the baby,” it wasn’t a question. It was a blockade to all Sherlock wanted, all he hoped, however vainly, that John wanted to. He watched as John’s shoulders sagged and his brow wrinkled in a kind of anguish. The doctor did not take his eyes off of his detective as he let out a low, deep sigh.

“It’s not mine,” was the simple answer.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. He had known this, of course, but that John had also was incomprehensible. His mind scrambled for an explanation, something that would explain John’s possession of this knowledge. He could only see one and the realization burned in his veins with the fury of an uncontrollable blaze.

“How?” Sherlock stammered and then growled, “Mycroft.”

“No, it wasn’t him. He didn’t say a thing,” John said quickly. He squeezed Sherlock’s arms again, knowing it would ground the detective.

Sherlock tried to slow his own breathing, looking into John’s eyes as he forced himself to concentrate on calming himself. Without intending to, he glanced toward the black cars a short distance away, knowing his brother sat inside one of them.

“No. No,” John snapped in a stern voice that regained Sherlock’s attention. “Look at me. Keep your eyes focused on me.”

His own words from so long ago stung and Sherlock flinched, only just resisting the urge to pull away. He knew John had not meant to cause harm, but must have realized what he had done because his eyes widened and then fixed on Sherlock more intently. John moved his hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek gently. It was warm and welcoming and more comforting than the detective could express.

“I knew,” John told him. He raised his brows as he looked up into Sherlock’s eyes, his own full of honesty and resolve. “I knew as soon as you told us at the wedding.”

Sherlock blinked and his brow creased, disbelief overtaking him once again. He thought back to that night, the moment after he told them both about the baby. They were both shocked, and rightly so, then happiness. Sherlock studied their faces right at the moment between the two emotions in his mind’s eye and saw it. How could he have missed it before when it was so obvious? Nervousness and then resolution danced across Mary’s features before she smiled happily. John’s had been pensive and then resigned. After he congratulated them, John had put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and thanked him. He had looked up at the detective with an uncertain smile that did not reach his eyes. It almost looked pained more than joyful. At the time, Sherlock thought it was because of how their friendship would change. No more midnight cases or taking risks, perhaps no cases at all. Now Sherlock saw it for what it was: John was trying to hide the fact that he knew his wife was carrying a child that was not his own.

“John, I’m so sorry,” was not what Sherlock had meant to say, but is what came out of his mouth.

“Don’t apologize,” John gave a shallow shake of his head. “I know you had no idea at that moment. I’m sure you figured it out as time went on, but…”

“I wanted you to be happy,” Sherlock interrupted quickly, hoping he could keep John’s inevitable fury at bay. “I thought you were happy.”

He watched John carefully. He wanted to wince against the onslaught, but the doctor surprised him again.

“I know,” John admitted in a soft tone. “I wasn’t. Honestly, I can’t even say I was up until that moment. I was happy with Mary when it was just her. She got me through something I’m not sure I would have on my own and I’m glad for that. I am, but it all changed when you came back. I just wouldn’t admit it to myself. I was so angry, but I still knew I didn’t want to spend my life with her anymore.”

John paused for a moment to inhale deeply, steeling himself for what he wanted to say next. For the second time that day, Sherlock became very aware of the fact that John Watson was cupping his cheek for longer than was custom and made no move to stop.

“I was always so careful because of it,” the doctor said with some shame in his voice. “I felt like I still had to marry her. I’d only just asked, after all. It seemed… like my duty to follow through, but I knew I didn’t want to bring a child into the mix. Two or three weeks before the wedding, she kept surprising me. She seemed to want to catch me off guard so I’d forget to use protection or something, but I didn’t think about it at the time. I had no reason to suspect her of anything. It all fell into place the moment you told us at the reception.”

John glanced at his own hand on Sherlock’s cheek in the silence that followed. He cleared his throat a little uncomfortably and let his hand slide back down to Sherlock’s bicep. Looking at his friend’s face, John bit his lip and loosened his fingers, allowing his arms to slowly fall back to his own sides. Sherlock’s arms felt cool with the lack of them. He looked into John’s haunting eyes and wanted to ask every one of the questions that skipped through his brain. He knew it would overwhelm his friend, but he found he could not stop himself no matter how much restraint he employed. His lips parted, ready for the words to fall from within, but John stopped him.

“I love you,” John said delicately, but surely. In his mind, their lives had led them here and this was the only possible conclusion. Yet, he seemed only hopeful, rather than sure, that Sherlock would reach the same one. “I’ve never wanted to be with anyone like I want to be with you for…for the rest of my life.”

His last words were a whisper, a prayer, a song drifting into the air and around their shoulders. Sherlock let them wash over his face and invade his senses. He drank them in and absorbed them instantly, deep into his body, into his soul. With his eyes locked on John’s, he swooped in and pressed his lips to John’s, even as the man began to speak hesitantly:

“That’s the bones of it, really.”

First it was a soft press of lips, warmth spreading from one man to the other and back again. They parted briefly, not but a millimeter between them, and kissed again. This time it was slow, sweet and chaste, and it spoke volumes. Every shared experience and feeling passing between them. All the unspoken words from months and years ago suddenly laid bare, both men aware of it all at last. All of the pain and hurt finally behind them as they shared a breath, the very essence of life.

Sherlock tilted his head and slotted their lips together, dimly aware of John’s hands coming to rest on either side of his face. His own arms moved until his palms were pressed against the crests of John’s hips. He wrapped his hands around the sturdy frame and settled on the small of John’s back. Their lips fit together perfectly, like a puzzle with a missing piece that was finally found. John parted his own to allow a soft sigh to escape from deep in his throat. He flicked the tip of his tongue across Sherlock’s lush, lower lip before closing his mouth again.

Feeling a sudden rush of heat, Sherlock deepened the kiss, raising his right hand to cup the back of John’s head. He skipped his own tongue along John’s mouth in a gentle question, the corners turning up at the answering part of lips. Their tongues slid together slowly, exploring and discovering, tasting. A low moan traveled from Sherlock’s mouth into John’s and he could feel a smile on the doctor’s lips.

When they parted a moment later and Sherlock pulled back to look at his blogger, the sight nearly knocked him off his feet. John was beautiful; soft and grinning, his eyes bright and excited. He was happier than Sherlock had seen in some time, since before the fall, and he knew the look was mirrored on his own face. Sherlock’s smile grew as he felt the light touch of fingertips playing with the curls that hung just around the nape of his neck. It was both teasing and luxurious at the same time, and he longed to feel his hair smoothed between full-length fingers.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock breathed. “Come home with me.”

“I’d love to,” John answered with a gentle kiss. He took the detective’s hand in his own and tugged playfully. “Come on.”

Anthea stood still as a statue as she watched the second black car drive along the airport’s winding path off the tarmac, 221B its final destination. With a sigh of satisfaction, she turned on her heel and walked to the back passenger door of the car that remained. She opened it efficiently and sat, tapping the glass that separated front from back. She took her blackberry from the pocket of her suit jacket as the car began to move. Typing out a message, she waited for her companion to speak.

Mycroft Holmes shifted next to her, still holding his umbrella in one relaxed hand. He turned his gaze away from the window to look straight ahead. Her own eyes still dipped down to look at her phone as she typed.

“Morstan has been neutralized?” he inquired in the steady tone of one who already knew the answer.

“Yes,” Anthea replied as casually as people talk about the weather. “She will not be found or missed. Your brother’s future with Dr. Watson is secure.”

Mycroft leaned back in his seat just a fraction more and let out a long sigh of relaxation. The barest of smiles flickered across Anthea’s face. His demeanor was all the commendation of a job well done she needed. She tapped send and replaced the blackberry into her pocket. They sat in silence as the car drove on, away from Heathrow and into London proper.

---------

Sometimes Mycroft isn’t so bad. Hope it wasn’t complete rubbish. 🤣 I’m off to work on my other WIP now and hoping I’ll be able to share it sooner rather than later. Love, Jane

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #john watson #johnlock fanfiction #Johnlock fanfic #tarmac scene #sherlock fix-it

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slushie5544 · 2 years

Text

A night in the Rerto Bird Club

So I'm gonna lie, this was a random idea I had literally yesterday after I watched a bunch of 70s music videos! I also tried to make this a challenge where I don't have any dialogue (Minus the lyric quotes). I also based Groove's dance off John Travolata's dance scene from Saturday Night Fever. This is after ahit events where the two director's are finally more focused on their hobbies/passions rather than trying to fight for a trophy every year.

Words: 3,321

Characters: Dj Grooves, the Conductor, and mentions of other ahit characters, but not much..

Summary: Not paying attention to the weather warnings, the Conductor finds himself stranded in a storm and needs to seek shelter, but when he finds himself stuck in a bar club He tries to make the best of the situation until a certain penguin arrived on the scene.

The Conductor was described as many things depending on who you asked: short-tempered, unusual, old-fashioned, and even terrifying according to the many Express Owls, but there was one thing everyone could agree on unanimously, he was one of the most stubborn birds anyone could meet. With his love and passion for his Express Train being one of his top priorities, it was no surprise he refused to leave his post at the train station despite multiple storm warnings having been announced. And sure the clouds that morning were a bit darker than usual and the wind nearly blew off his hat a couple of times, but he didn’t let that stop him! He had a train to attend! If these storm warnings were true then he had to make sure his baby was locked up securely for the worst.

By the time he had gotten to the central station, droplets of water were falling from the sky and his ears twitched at the faint sound of thunder in the distance. Maybe the storm was just going to pass over, it was still quite nice out despite the wind and cold rain, that’s what he kept trying to tell himself at least. He entered the building through a revolving door and expected at least some type of line of passengers, but instead, the station was barren. Not even one other creature was there besides the Conductor. Jazz music from the speakers above and the only other sounds that could be heard were the sounds of raindrops hitting the window ceiling and a pesky cricket that no one could ever find. His gaze turned to the queue board that was above the check-in, not a single station had someone waiting. Looking up at the post clock in the center of the station he took his pocket watch from his vest to compare the times. He was on time, just as he had always been for years. Did everyone really believe the storm was going to be that bad?

A scoff left the owl’s beak as he put his watch away and shook his head. He wasn’t going to let some pesky rain scare him from work! If he didn’t have any rides for the day, then he would just do maintenance on his train while he had the opportunity. There was always something to do and it didn't matter what it was, the owl needed to busy himself or his day was all for nothing! Even on his days off he was usually spending time with his grandchildren, who while sure were always a treat to spend time with, they were more than a handful for anyone to take care of for more than a few hours. The sound of wind whistling past the revolving doors made the Conductor’s ears perk up and turn around, then the roar of thunder made him jump with a hoot; maybe he'll just make today a half day!

After it seemed the rain wasn't going to let up any time soon the owl locked up the station doors and traversed his way back home. Unfortunately, he never realized how far he actually lived from his work until now as he fought against the powerful wind to keep standing. He hadn’t even brought an umbrella with him, so the added weight of his drenched feathers only made the fight against the elements even more difficult. Another clash of thunder was heard and the rain only became more excessive. He needed to find shelter, his home was still quite a ways to go and there was no way he was going to make it back to the station in this storm. The streets were becoming flooded as little to no cars drove by and most buildings had been closed for the day. A curse left the owl’s beak as he shivered and rubbed his arms; a flash of lightning only made his ears flatten as he awaited for the roll of thunder to follow.

He had kept walking for only another block when his ears twitched upwards, the sound of music could be heard from an alleyway. Turning to look over, said the narrow road had only two street lights that barely illuminated the streets, the only other light source the Conductor looked could spot was the small neon sign above a door.

“The Retro Bird Dine and Bar!!”

Taking one last look at the main road, he hoped to see any type of car to possibly wave down, or another establishment to take refuge. Sadly the only thing the owl could see was the dense fog that made it impossible to see anything past a couple of feet in front of him. A flash of lightning lit the sky which was quickly pursued by a roar of thunder was what made the Conductor let out a hoot as he dashed for the door. Getting closer, he could see lights flashing from the cracks of the door and the muffled sounds of music could be heard from the other side.

As he opened the door he was greeted by a sight he had to process for a minute. Various creatures danced together with colorful strobe lights flashing red, blue, and yellow as the sounds of disco music played throughout the club. There were moon penguins, express owls, mafia members, even the klepto cats were grooving with the beat of the music.

“You should be dancing, yeah~! Dancing, yeah~!!”

Many of the dancing members sang along to the funky music as they cheered excitedly seeing others show off their dance moves. The conductor on the other hand simply grumbled and walked past the dancefloor to make his towards the place he came here for! The bar was run by a mafia member who was wiping down a glass while eyeing the yellow bird sitting before him. The two exchanged brief greetings, but overall the Conductor was in no mood for the formalities and after only two sentences in he ordered for two drinks of scotch. His head was pounding from the music, and the flashing lights gave him a headache. A couple of drinks was sure to calm him from the crappy day today. He was only to get a couple of drinks though! Nothing more!

It was by his fifth drink that the bartender had decided the Owl needed a break from the bar and perhaps he should try some of their carp-related food options. However, he wasn’t hungry, instead, he was more concentrated on the lyrics of the song playing. His head rested on his arms that were folded atop the bar as the music continued. One of his feet even tapped along with the beat while one of his claws tapped along with the singing. He couldn’t remember the last time he heard this song and hearing it now on the speakers brought back memories he hadn’t thought about for nearly twenty years.

“I’m still standin’, even after all this time! Pinkin’ up the pieces of my life without you on my mind.”

His ears perked up as he nodded his head slightly to the end of the song and was actually smiling as he remembered the first time he heard the song and took the lyrics to heart with his family. Sadly, in his mildly inebriated state just remembering those creatures he had to call family made the owl frown. He loved his daughter and would do anything for his grandchildren, but he would rather be completely hammered than have the others float through his mind. So he did the only thing he could think of in a situation like this. He needed more drinks!

He was only really able to down half a glass when the sound of a scratching record made the entire club go silent and he set the cup down, however, he kept his back turned to the dancefloor still. Murmurs and gasps were heard throughout the crowd at first, but a voice from the speakers made the Conductor’s ears flatten and his clawed hands clench the glass even tighter as he brought the rest of his drink to his beak. He kept his back still to the crowd as he refused to look at who was speaking, he then ordered another drink, but the mafia employee had been hesitant at this point noticing the shift in attitude. Though who was he to stop a customer from giving him more pons? So with that, the Conductor was now only his seventh drink of the night.

Throughout the announcement, the owl could only focus on how annoyingly smooth the penguin’s voice was. He spoke of how the storm was still raging outside, but for everyone to enjoy their time at the club with courtesy water and snacks that didn’t need to be cooked. With that, the music started up again and the crowd cheered and continued on dancing.

“See how the sun shines brightly in the city, on the streets where once was a pity-”

What a joke! Of course, this was the one club where that obnoxiously charming DJ had to be! There was no way in hell the Conductor was going to stick around any longer. He stumbled off of the bar stool he had been sitting on and miraculously made his way to the entrance/exit. Unfortunately, when he attempted to open the door a gust of wind simply slammed it back shut. He tried again, this time with most of his body being used to push the door open. It wouldn’t budge, and the Conductor was now sitting with his back against the door out of breath. Guess he didn’t have a choice and was stuck in here until this storm died down.

More cheering and shouting had finally convinced the Conductor to investigate the dancefloor that he had been trying to avoid, guess if he was stuck in this stuffy room he might as well see what the huge fuss was about this time. He used the wall behind him to balance himself back onto his feet as he stumbled over the crowd. Trying to swim through the crowd had been almost as difficult as trying to walk outside as he was pushed and shoved by numerous animals and humans jumping around as they hyped each other up. The pushing and shoving added to his double and spinning vision made the poor owl feel as if he was going to be sick right there. Looking back and forth the Conductor realized he was lost, he had no idea which way was the way out of the audience and his heart started to race. The blasting music and the hollering of everyone made him close his eyes and cover his ears as he tried to walk forward hoping to get out of this dreaded crowd.

Very few members had moved out of the way as the Conductor tried to shove and push past them, some even tried to get his attention. But, he was solely focused on getting out here now. Storm be damned, he’ll blow that door up if it meant he could get out of this claustrophobic death trap of a club! With his eyes barely open at this point he kept them glued to the floor, but he might as well have had his eyes shut still as he tripped over someone’s foot. The fall felt as if he was in slow-motion. The ground was getting closer and his body was weightless for just a second with the blaring music becoming muffled for that split moment.

When he blinked and opened his eyes again his face had landed on the colorfully lit dance floor where it seemed the crowd had left some room, he finally made it to the center of it all. He vaguely remembered a hooded dweller helping him back up and likely asking if he was ok, but the Conductor waved them off. His attention was more focused on what he was watching, or specifically WHO he was watching.

“Dance, dance! Boogie Wonderland! Dance-!”

There he was, the most annoying and charismatic penguin to live: DJ Grooves. However, instead of turning back in disgust, the owl could only watch along with the crowd as the glimmering penguin danced with the music. He wore a golden holographic long-sleeve shirt that was unbuttoned from the top which seemed to fit him perfectly as it never once slipped when he stretched his arms out pointing upwards with his hips being thrown in the opposite direction, when he switched sides he tapped his foot and proceeded to laugh hearing everyone cheer him on. He leaned back slightly with a knee pointed forward as he pointed randomly into the crowd and thrust with the beat.

What the penguin didn’t know was the direction he had been pointing at happened to be where the Conductor was standing, said owl felt his face burn from the scene, but he couldn’t stop watching. Maybe it was from the alcohol, or maybe it was from the fall and now he had a concussion, but he was mesmerized by the way the DJ danced among the crowd. His mouth was agape by the next move as the penguin shuffled through the middle of the dance floor only to stop and turn as he jumped with a few spins then ran through the center and slid to a stop on his knees.

“I find romance when I start to dance in, Boogie Wonderland~ All the love in the world can’t be gone-”

This was dangerous, he needed to get out of this crowd before he did something he might regret! Turning around the Conductor attempted to push back into the sea, but after only being surrounded and pushed around for a minute he was back to the center of the floor. This time he was even closer to the dancefloor where Grooves was shuffling around gracefully on his platformed shoes. It was a marvel how the penguin could even stand in those let alone dance with the amount of energy he was giving. It almost reminded him of when he was just a bit younger and was able to pull off the moves his rival was showing off.

That was it, that damn showoff was trying to rile the owl up, the way he flaunted his tailfeathers as he lowered his glasses and winked to some of the crowd members. The Conductor felt the heat in his face spread to his neck as he clenched his clawed fist together close to his chest with his heart feeling as if it was going to jump out any second. He didn’t remember when he had started nodding his head to the music but by the end of the song, everyone including himself was clapping for the DJ who gave a bow and took a swig of water from a bottle that had been tossed in his direction. He thanked the audience and even blew a few kisses to some of the members, but something seemed to change in the penguin when his gaze fell upon the Conductor. At that same moment, the lights dimmed and the song had changed to one more funky.

“Cause there’s music in the air and lots of lovin’ everywhere, so give me the night. Alright, Tonight~!”

The crowd had finally dispersed as everyone was trying to find a partner to dance with to the new song. As for the owl though he was still trying to get past the crowd of creatures and people, no matter what direction he looked there was still no way out of this cluster. The music became background noise for the owl as he felt his breath become erratic, the flashing lights were becoming overwhelming and if he got pushed one more damn time someone was going to lose a damn arm! The feeling of nausea was coming back to the owl, but he tried to fight off the gut-wrenching feeling in his stomach. Being in the storm sounded like paradise compared to this hell!

In his panicked frenzy, the Conductor hadn’t even noticed as a blue flipper grabbed a hold of his arm until he was being pulled in a direction. He couldn’t even fight off the other as he simply closed his eyes with his head low trying to concentrate on not being sick. In just a matter of minutes, the owl was free from the cluster and he simply hunched over holding his knees to catch his breath. He noticed a bottle of water had been offered to him, thanking the other he took the bottle without looking at the individual and took some swigs of the refreshing drink.

Once he was at least able to breathe and knew he was able to keep his vomit down the owl looked up at the one who had assisted him. His ears flattened to his head and his hands clenched the bottle even tighter. The pompous yet dazzling penguin waved and asked if he was ok now, but the Conductor couldn’t find the right words. His glasses had been raised and rested on his head which was a rare sight as the moon penguins were known to have sensitive eyes and had to wear their sunglasses to protect them from bright lights. Though with the dim lights of the club and now away from the brightly lit dance floor, it gave him an excuse to take them off.

“-And if you feel alright, then we can be lovers’ cause I see that starlight look in your eyes~ ! Don’t you know we can fly?”

He had never noticed before but now that the older bird was this close to the penguin he noticed the blue and grey color of his eyes shined the lights almost like they had literal stars in them. The Conductor thought he heard the penguin ask him a question, but he couldn’t hear it. In fact, he couldn’t hear anything other than the music that was playing. He set the bottle down on the counter and stepped over to the disco penguin who raised an eyebrow at the owl.

“And if we stay together, we’ll feel the rhythm of the evening taking us up high~ Never mind the weather, we'll be dancing in the street until the morning light~!”

The Conductor wasn’t sure if it was a mixture of alcohol and panic attacks tonight mixed with the fall he had earlier, but neither party was prepared for his next move as he threw himself at the penguin and crashed their beaks together. Thankfully for the both of them, Grooves was much bigger and was able to keep himself up with the other in his arms. However, that didn’t mean he hadn’t stumbled back slightly from the sudden force against him. His clawed hands were gentle to touch the penguin’s face as he broke apart and looked him in the eyes with their beaks still close together. The other’s eyes were wide and his breathing was slightly hitched, but the Conductor paid no mind as he rested his head on the shoulder of the other bird and closed his own eyes. The last thing he remembered was the soothing feeling of someone rubbing his back as he drifted in and out of consciousness

The rest of the night was a blur for the owl, when he woke up the next morning he was in his bed at home, but he couldn’t remember how he had gotten there. Looking to his side a folded piece of paper was placed on his bedside table. When he read it his feathers rose and a familiar feeling of heat engulfed him from his head to his neck.

“You're always welcome to my parties darling, though maybe next time you'd be more comfortable with a meeting in a more comfortable crowd. Just give me a call when you're up for it, or you know where to find me darling~”

#ahit #ahit dj grooves #ahit conductor #ahit fanfic #the conductor #disco train #dj grooves #literally i spent two days writing this #i blame john travolta for inspiring me

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hpdabbles · 4 years

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MORE ADAMS FAMILY ADOPT HARRY

The first day of term is always a hectic one. Just getting the children onto the train could be a headache and a half, especially when herding muggle-born and their families who stop to stare at anything randomly.

The conductor has been working this job for over thirty years, had seen lots of young faces come and go, strange, different, and magical. He experienced a lot through the years, have lived with the war was at it’s peak, and counted the children who disappeared never to be seen again on the along the tracks.

He has watch children , laugh, cry, scream, and run about as the train loaded for the trip. He’s good at his job, can get the trip done on time every time and had most of the work down to a art form. There has been trails and tribulations but he’s survived them all.

But nothing could prepare him for the day the Addams crossed the barrier.

At first he thought them a average magical family, the mother in a fabulous tight black dress, that played homage to robes at the edges and while the father looked more muggle he had a eye catching grin, that almost made up for it. The three children with them were all dress in black of different shades, the little girl in a black dress with her hair down in interesting loop braids. The youngest seems to be the boy in a white stripped shirt the only other color on him and the oldest- who most likely was the first year- wore a long trench coat with a fedora.

The family of five moved with a grace that screamed aristocrats, charm in each of their steps, but the conductor could not pin point the family line they came from. He watched as the children eyed everyone there, the eldest with a smile that held his father’s charm and cutting edge while the young girl seemed unimpressed with everyone around her.

The eldest pulled out the informative parchment Hogwarts gives muggle-borns families every year- explaining how to write letters, where to do, what the train entitles the likes- for his parents. The three bend over the parchment talking among themselves as the young girl walked around looking at the train with a almost detached interest.

The conductor couldn’t take his eyes off them, because while they seemed magical they also didn’t seem like they were around wizards or witches often.

As he was watching them he took notice that the youngest boy was playing with something and it came to a great alarm that thing, turn out to be a dagger that he passed between his hands. His parents didn’t notice as the young male turn around, thus keeping it out of their sight, twirling it back and forth while watching bystanders as if though he was picking a victim from the crowd to sink the blade into.

The conductor couldn’t allow that to happen. He was walking in their direction before he realized it. “Excuse me sir! Your boy is playing with a knife! He could cut his finger off!”

The man looked up form the parchment but instead of scolding the boy he smiled fondly. It had a hint of madness that had the worker feel slightly off-footed. “Yes. My Pugsley is quite good with the blade, he can cut a finger nail clean off. He wanted to bring his machete, but I had to talk him down and remind him this is Harry’s big day. Gomez Addams, a pleasure to meet you, good sir.”

He held out his hand and the conductor had no choice but to take it. The strange man shook it with a firm grasp. He gestured to the woman who offered her own smile, and the red of her lips stood out on her deathly pale skin. “My wife, light of my bleak empty life, Morticia.”

“Oh Gomez” The woman sighs in a lovely accent that he can’t identify,placing her hand on his shoulder in a act of utter devotion. It made the conductor feel slightly envious. A perfect marriage is something that has escape him through the years.

“And this here, is Harry, my eldest and soon to be student of Hogwarts.” He pats the shoulder of the boy with the fedora, his Spanish accent making the words honey. One green eye peaks up at him from around the brim and the boy offers him a wink and a smirk. “ My daughter Wednesday and Pugsley is the lad with the knife. They are terrible vile monsters who I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.”

The conductor wasn’t sure what to make of a man who spoke in such loving tones but used such hateful words. “It’s...a pleasure? My name is John.”

“I once knew a man named John. He died screaming.” Gomez says with a eager smile and John finds himself taking a step back. He been a conductor for years, with some parents screaming in his face, demanding special treatment for the children who would be Heirs to noble and ancient house and never had he ever felt more terrified for his life then at that moment.

Suddenly Harry stepped forward, taking the burned of having to say anything back to the obvious mad man. “Dad, I have to get onboard, the train leaves in three minutes and I haven’t even found a seat.”

Morticia let out a sigh, reaching down to bring the child into a hug. The black of their clothing matching as she brushed his hair under his hat. “You will write to us won’t you? Keep us updated on everything. Try your best in class?”

“Yes, Mom” Harry said in a strange accent. Unlike his parents he sounded less like he grew up in a foreign language and land but there is still hint of it in the way he says Mum. “I want to make lots of friends too.”

Morticia smile turns slightly strain but then it evens out and she hugs him tight her arms wrapping him all around his back. “Of course you will. Get going now.”

“Have a lovely time Harry.” Gomez says stepping forward to hug the boy as well, with the same amount of arms as his wife, which surprises John. Most fathers only do side hugs and they are fleeting, but the way Harry leans into the touch with a smile has something in John warming.

Not many children get to experience such loving parents.

“Try not to let them make you too....normal while your there, Harry” Wednesday comments stepping up to her brother who laughs after letting go of his father and pulls her in a hug of her own. She makes a face but she returns it either way, and despite the lack of emotion in her expression John gets the sense she is relishing in her brother’s embrace.

“I’m already normal. Will you love me even though I am?” Harry asks and Wednesday is quick to agree, claiming he is her brother and it matters little anything else besides that. John thinks it adorable though he can’t help but wonder what do they mean with normal?

“Bye Harry! Blow something up and send me the scabs!” Pugsley chirps, going for his own hug which Harry easily accepts. The two brothers lean from side to side during their hug in a strange but excited hug and the fedora wearing one laughs loudly.

“I don’t like scabs, you know that. Would a toilet seat be alright? I promise to drop one of your bombs in it and send you the pieces left over.”

Pugsley beams like a star in the darkest of nights, jumping around in a circle and cheering. He’s acting like Harry offered his old racing broom.

John slowly backs away from the odd family, Gomez sees the actions calling out. “Have horrible day John!” as he makes a run back to the front and get the train going.

It’s much later, that he finds out Harry in the black fedora is Harry Potter and the most famous boy in the magic world has been adopted by the Addams Family, who have been known to mingle with some of the darkest of people. Rumors where one of them used to sleep with one of the Slytherin heir, learning Parseltongue and had been killed by a group of muggles who beheaded him for it.

The family is known in MCUSA for always tip toeing their laws, close to breaking them but never being caught and could be considered the American version of the Ancient and Noble House of Black, madness and all.

Harry Potter also prefers to go by Harry Addams Potter and bad things tend to happen to any of his classmates who don’t seem to understand that. If a boy who was able to kill a Dark Lord at the age of one is powerful, John shudders to think what Harry raised by blood thirsty evil Addams will accomplish.

He hears from one of his nieces that one of accomplishment is actually Harry overflooding all the female bathrooms until every female who ever participated in throwing books at Moaning Myrtle apologizes to the ghost. The boy somehow makes a point of letting them know he did it without a any proof to get him expelled.

His niece then proceeds to gush about Harry Addams Potter scaring some of his Slytherin housemates into leaving the Hufflepuffs alone, and that his “Dreamy in a scary way” which John doesn’t know what that even means.

#Anonymous #Harry Potter #Hpdabbles #Addams family #In which Harry Potter gets adopted into the Adams family #Morticia Addams #Wednesday Addams #Pugsley Addams #Dark but not evil Harry #Harry is the black sheep of the family as a normie but they love him anyway #John the conductor is scared #Part 2

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jasontoddsguns · 3 years

Note

If you're okay with it, can we have a Billy Batson Headcanon dump?

Furudjfkddjfjdksjdjf

- As mentioned before Billy steals other people’s clothes, mostly other magic users but he’ll make exceptions for some JL members.

- Billy has scars from his time on the streets and some bad foster homes. Billy also has Lichtenberg scars that light up when he gets emotional.

-Billy’s eyes light up too! Like a cat’s. It scares the shit out people.

- Billy’s Magic sometimes leaks out of his mortal form, which leads to him sparking.

- Billy knows how to lock pick and pick pocket however, due to his moral compass, he never uses these skills.

- Billy sometimes gains memories through the wisdom of Solomon. It’s a weird conversation when a 10 year old starts talking about Julius Caesar like he knew him personally.

- Billy sometimes forgets his age. It’s partially because of how often he lies as Captain Marvel, but it’s also because of the memories he gains from Solomon.

- Billy cannot cook, no one every bothered to teach him.

- Billy will eat food from the trash and from the ground. He doesn’t care.

- John Constantine and Zatanna have taught Billy some magic.

- Billy lives in a small apartment that he bought using JL money. The heater doesn’t work but Billy loves it there. Mostly because he doesn’t have to worry about foster parents.

- When it gets too cold in Billy’s apartment, John Constantine will let Billy sleepover at the house of mystery

- As mentioned in this post, The entire JL has a competition center around Billy.

- Billy has no pop culture experience, due to the fact he doesn’t have a phone.

- He does not know what ‘Among us’ is. Victor tried to teach him out of pity.

- Billy is small for his age, partially because of malnutrition.

- Tawny will sometimes follow Billy to school.

- Billy has a CRAZY aura that generally scares off most demons and Magic users.

- Like most little kids, Billy trauma dumps on the shortest notice he often doesn’t realize that he did it in the first place.

- Billy is a street kid. He knows how to cuss.

-Leaguers will sometimes pick Billy up and just carry him around.

- When Billy gets cold at the watchtower, he will steal other hero’s capes.

- Billy’s hair is fluffy and people feel compelled to ruffle it.

- Billy will bite people of threatened.

- Billy will sometimes use bigger Leaguers as his own personal jungle gym.

- Batman tried to hack into a government database to gain custody of Billy. Billy employed Victor (Cyborg) to defend against this.

- Billy tries to be friends with Superman’s son (Jon), But due to his trauma and strange childhood, he often feels disconnected.

- Billy has an easier time being friends with Damian, because Damian also has no idea how to socialize.

-Billy’s soul form is a tiger.

- Like a conductor, Billy can take large amounts of energy in his mortal form.

Other HC about Billy-

#dc #Billy batson #shazam #Captain Marvel #inbox #anon #asks #thank you for asking #:)#I’ll probably have more soon #feel free to add on

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helloliriels · 2 years

Note

Can I do one of your fake fic titles?

I was thinking: “Dungeons, Dragons and Detectives”

Dungeons, Dragons and Detectives

"He called me a twink? I'm not a twink, John. My gear is top tier raid lvl, BiS ... except for my staff?! I don't understand. Do you need a HoT before you-?"

"Sherlock, I think he means-YES! Might need more even, I'm going in! I think he means-"

"I know what a twink is, John! I could see if i was wearing MC40 gear and running around Stormwind trolling general chat for raids like it was 1999! But you- Christ, John! Don't just go storming in! Let me heal you UP first!"

"2006," John corrected.

"Fine, 2006. But seriously, John, he's an idiot! It's not like I prematurely level capped? Can't he see I'm at 80 already?"

"No, Sherlock-"

"Should I ask him what he meant? I think I will-"

"SHERLOCK HE MEANT IRL!"

Sherlock stopped typing. Stopped chatting in vent. Stopped everything.

The only sound John's tapping and clicking ...

After a moment he opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

"... Sherlock?" John's voice sounded scared now ...

"How can I be a twink in real-Oh!"

The line went quiet again.

"How'd he get that impression?"

John growled over the line, "I'm gonna pound you into submission! Sherlock, HEAL!"

"Yes, John," Sherlock purred into the line ... clicking away obediently,

"There!"

"There!" They both cheered, panting.

"WoohoOoo!" John hooted, "you want this Sherlock?" He asked.

"Give it to me!"

"Now that's sexy," John remarked, giving Sherlock the pink staff.

Sherlock's priest posed beside John's Bear. Taking a screenshot by the dragons head.

"You should roll a pally, John. Look far more heroic in a set of gleaming armor while swinging that hammer," Sherlock taunted, "be my conductor of LIGHT!"

"See ... it's lines like that-" John started.

"What?"

"What ...?"

" ... "

"Fair point."

| WoW | twink | someone take away Sherlock's keyboard |

#twink #wow #johnlock #fake fic titles #ask games #liri answers #haha #had fun with this one #ty for the ask!

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jocia92 · 3 years

Link

In a Zoom interview, Stevens explains he knew how to speak German having studied it in school and having visited Germany several times in his youth. Eggert also spoke about the film via Zoom from Berlin, where she is rehearsing for a play that ironically is about Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

Angela Dawson: Dan, were you fluent in German before signing onto I’m Your Man?

Dan Stevens: I’m always nervous about the word “fluent” because I feel like if I say that somebody’s going to throw me into a situation where I’m totally out of my depth. I would say that my German is good. I’ve always loved the language. I’ve spoken it since I was about 13, maybe even earlier because my parents had friends who lived in Germany. We used to vacation there quite a lot when I was a child, and then I studied it at school. I did a movie (Hilde) there about 13 years ago playing an Englishman who spoke German. So, I had been in a German movie previously, but nothing like this. This was a totally different thing.

The level of German that is required for Tom, even for a German, is pretty strange and unusual. So, I definitely polished it up to get out there and tackle this role but I (had the language skills) to begin with.

Dawson: Maren, how was Dan’s German?

Maren Eggert: He really worked on it a lot. He did well because he has a talent for languages. He really wanted to do it so he threw himself into it. I’d tell him I wanted to speak to him in English so I could practice it, but he wanted to speak German so he could practice it. So, he really worked on that. I think it was great for the part because he’s just so charming and friendly. As an actor, he has the ability to go straight into a character. He doesn’t make mistakes with his performance.

Stevens: Sometimes she would speak to me in English and I would answer in German, which is a great exercise. I had the whole cast and crew speak to me in German the whole time. Occasionally, we’d have certain conversations in English but most everything was in German. It was great because it kept me in the zone of thinking in German.

Dawson: Dan, you play a robot so there’s something not-quite-human in how you act as Tom.

Stevens: Ultimately, he has to be lovable but also a little strange. I think that was one of the motivations for Maria (Schrader, the director) looking to cast outside of Germany for a foreign actor who could speak German. However good your German is, it’s rare to find an outsider who can sound totally German. The idea that Alma’s ideal robot would speak German, for practical purposes, but maybe have a bit of an accent—a little bit exotic, but not too exotic is what he defines it as—so they settle on British for her. She’s confused by this but the algorithm—the program—has created this for her. It’s one of the many things that throws her about this whole experiment.

I wanted to create something that was uncanny but not in a too weird a way. It’s strange but also intriguing and ultimately kind of lovable.

Dawson: The scene in which Tom is in a field with a herd of deer surrounding him unafraid has a lot of symbolism in it. Alma sees him as this man she’s falling in love with yet she also realizes that the reason the deer are unafraid is because he’s not human. What’s your interpretation of that scene?

Stevens: That whole sequence with the deer and with Alma and Tom lying in the grass and talking about memories, that was a big step on in terms of the evolution of Tom’s humanity, I suppose. Most of the time, we’re in Alma’s apartment or in the museum. As he says, (being out in the field), “is a nature experience.” Getting them out of the city and out of those conventional settings and putting them in this bucolic setting of a German forest and having these lovers wandering through it, it has that classical feel to it. Whether directly or indirectly, it gets through to the viewer that we’re in this beautiful setting, isn’t it romantic? It tees up what’s to come. It’s a beautiful sequence. It’s also the first time I’ve spoken Korean.

Dawson: Maren, what’s your interpretation of that scene?

Eggert: For Alma, it really helps her put Tom in the right space. At this point of the film, she’s already falling in love with him but there’s this moment where she can watch him from a distance.

Dawson: The release of I’m Your Man couldn’t be timelier because so many people have been locked away unable to pursue romantic relationships for over a year now. People are lonely; they miss human contact.

Stevens: I don’t know about the loneliness so much but it definitely spoke to me when I read this in the Spring of 2020. It was the peak of the pandemic. It was definitely a time of deep reflection both inward and outward—that sense of “how did we get here?” It was a collective thing about looking at humanity which is sort of what Tom does all the way through the movie. He’s looking at Alma but also trying to learn about her environment—this world that she’s in—as quickly as he can. He’s trying to get that information. The most affecting scenes I found in an odd way was the sequence where Tom is watching a young couple watching epic fail videos at the coffee shop. It’s not something I habitually watch but my kids love them. Maria forces us to sit with them quite a bit. It’s not just one or two fails, it’s a whole bunch of them. It goes on almost too long and stops being funny and starts being a little sad. You get contemplative about humanity in that scene and start feeling sorry for Tom that he has to absorb all this. It’s like, “What are we doing?”

So, a lot of that sentiment I was really feeling last spring and summer. I feel that a lot of that went into the film. I guess it’s still resonating with people. The technological question of coping with loneliness—I hadn’t thought of that as a consequence—but I suppose you’re right.

Dawson: In films and other stories about robots, people always seem to be mistrustful, yet robots are increasingly part of our lives. Why do you suppose our first instinct as humans is to be wary of robots?

Eggert: I don’t know. Maybe because we can’t control it. We can’t see inside. It’s like a stranger and we always react (with caution) to strangers. Personally, I can totally understand Alma’s reaction because I would react the same: I’d want to control the robot. Throughout the story, she has to learn to know this robot. That’s the fascination she has with it.

Dawson: Do you think having Maria Schrader direct this, an actress herself, helped tell the story from a woman’s point-of-view?

Eggert: Yes, of course. She really encouraged me a lot. We have a lot in common in terms of how we look at filmmaking and how scenes work and with the character, she really pushed me to go a little further. She encouraged me and I think that really was between us women.

Dawson: What are each of you working on now?

Stevens: I’m shooting Gaslit, a miniseries about Watergate in which I play John Dean. People I’ve spoken with remember watching (the Congressional hearings) and seeing it as one of the first political soap operas. It was very much an analog political soap opera scandal. So, that’s been a lot of fun. We’re in the final weeks of that.

Eggert: I’m working in theater; I do a lot of theater here in Berlin. It’s a project on Frankenstein and Mary Shelley. That too is also about artificial intelligence and connects to I’m Your Man. It’s really fun to think about what scares me and what is this monster. It opens in two weeks. Afterwards, I’m doing another movie where I’m playing a conductor, so I’m training to do that. I wanted to be a conductor as a child, so I’m looking forward to playing one.

#ich bin dein mensch #i'm your man #dan stevens #maren eggert #forbes #interview

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timeless-hollywood-classics · 4 years

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Rhonda Fleming (born Marilyn Louis; August 10, 1923 – October 14, 2020) was an American film and television actress and singer. She acted in more than 40 films, mostly in the 1940s and 1950s, and became renowned as one of the most glamorous actresses of her day, nicknamed the "Queen of Technicolor" because she photographed so well in that medium.

Fleming was born Marilyn Louis in Hollywood, California, to Harold Cheverton Louis, an insurance salesman, and Effie Graham, a stage actress who had appeared opposite Al Jolson in the musical Dancing Around at New York's Winter Garden Theatre from 1914 to 1915. Fleming's maternal grandfather was John C. Graham, an actor, theater owner, and newspaper editor in Utah.

She began working as a film actress while attending Beverly Hills High School, from which she graduated in 1941. She was discovered by the well-known Hollywood agent Henry Willson, who changed her name to "Rhonda Fleming".

"It's so weird", Fleming said later. "He stopped me crossing the street. It kinda scared me a little bit -- I was only 16 or 17. He signed me to a seven-year contract without a screen test. It was a Cinderella story, but those could happen in those days."

Fleming's agent Willson went to work for David O. Selznick, who put her under contract.[5][6] She had bit parts in In Old Oklahoma (1943), Since You Went Away (1944) for Selznick, and in When Strangers Marry (1944).

She received her first substantial role in the thriller, Spellbound (1945), produced by Selznick and directed by Alfred Hitchcock. "Hitch told me I was going to play a nymphomaniac", Fleming said later. "I remember rushing home to look it up in the dictionary and being quite shocked." The film was a success and Selznick gave her another good role in the thriller The Spiral Staircase (1946), directed by Robert Siodmak.

Selznick lent her out to appear in supporting parts in the Randolph Scott Western Abilene Town (1946) at United Artists and the film noir classic Out of the Past (1947) with Robert Mitchum and Kirk Douglas, at RKO, where she played a harried secretary.

Fleming's first leading role came in Adventure Island (1947), a low-budget action film made for Pine-Thomas Productions at Paramount Pictures in the two-color Cinecolor process and co-starring fellow Selznick contractee Rory Calhoun.

Fleming then auditioned for the female lead in a Bing Crosby film, a part Deanna Durbin turned down at Paramount in A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (1949), a musical loosely based on the story by Mark Twain. Fleming exhibited her singing ability, dueting with Crosby on "Once and For Always" and soloing with "When Is Sometime". They recorded the songs for a three-disc, 78-rpm Decca album, conducted by Victor Young, who wrote the film's orchestral score. Her vocal coach in Hollywood, Harriet Lee, praised her "lovely voice", saying, "she could be a musical comedy queen". The movie was Fleming's first Technicolor film. Her fair complexion and flaming red hair photographed exceptionally well and she was nicknamed the "Queen of Technicolor", a moniker not worth much to her as she would have preferred to be known for her acting. Actress Maureen O'Hara expressed a similar sentiment when the same nickname was given to her around this time.

She then played another leading role opposite a comedian, in this case Bob Hope, in the The Great Lover (1949). It was a big hit and Fleming was established. "After that, I wasn't fortunate enough to get good directors", said Fleming. "I made the mistake of doing lesser films for good money. I was hot – they all wanted me – but I didn't have the guidance or background to judge for myself."

In February 1949, Selznick sold his contract players to Warner Bros, but he kept Fleming.

In 1950 she portrayed John Payne's love interest in The Eagle and the Hawk, a Western.

Fleming was lent to RKO to play a femme fatale opposite Dick Powell in Cry Danger (1951), a film noir. Back at Paramount, she played the title role in a Western with Glenn Ford, The Redhead and the Cowboy (1951).

In 1950, she ended her association with Selznick after eight years, though her contract with him had another five years to run.

Fleming signed a three-picture deal with Paramount. Pine-Thomas used her as Ronald Reagan's leading lady in a Western, The Last Outpost (1951), John Payne's leading lady in the adventure film Crosswinds (1951), and with Reagan again in Hong Kong (1951).

She sang on NBC's Colgate Comedy Hour during the same live telecast that featured Errol Flynn, on September 30, 1951, from the El Capitan Theater in Hollywood.

Fleming was top-billed for Sam Katzman's The Golden Hawk (1952) with Sterling Hayden, then was reunited with Reagan for Tropic Zone (1953) at Pine-Thomas. In 1953, Fleming portrayed Cleopatra in Katzman's Serpent of the Nile for Columbia. That same year, she filmed a western with Charlton Heston at Paramount, Pony Express (1953), and two films shot in three dimensions (3-D), Inferno with Robert Ryan at Fox, and the musical Those Redheads From Seattle with Gene Barry, for Pine-Thomas. The following year, she starred with Fernando Lamas in Jivaro, her third 3-D release, at Pine-Thomas. She went to Universal for Yankee Pasha (1954) with Jeff Chandler. Fleming also traveled to Italy to play Semiramis in Queen of Babylon (1954).

Fleming was part of a gospel singing quartet with Jane Russell, Connie Haines, and Beryl Davis.

Much of the location work for Fleming's 1955 Western Tennessee's Partner, in which she played Duchess opposite John Payne as Tennessee and Ronald Reagan as Cowpoke, was filmed at the Iverson Movie Ranch in Chatsworth, California, (known as the most heavily filmed outdoor location in the history of film and television). A distinctive monolithic sandstone feature behind which Fleming (as Duchess) hid during an action sequence, later became known as the Rhonda Fleming Rock. The rock is part of a section of the former movie ranch known as "Garden of the Gods", which has been preserved as public parkland.

Fleming was reunited with Payne and fellow redhead Arlene Dahl in a noir at RKO, Slightly Scarlet (1956). She did other thrillers that year; The Killer Is Loose (1956) with Joseph Cotten and Fritz Lang's While the City Sleeps (1956), co-starring Dana Andrews, at RKO. Fleming was top billed in an adventure movie for Warwick Films, Odongo (1956).

Fleming had the female lead in John Sturges's Gunfight at the O.K. Corral (1957) co-starring Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas, a big hit. She supported Donald O'Connor in The Buster Keaton Story (1957) and Stewart Granger in Gun Glory (1957) at MGM.

In May 1957, Fleming launched a nightclub act at the Tropicana in Las Vegas. It was a tremendous success. "I just wanted to know if I could get out on that stage – if I could do it. And I did! ... My heart was to do more stage work, but I had a son, so I really couldn't, but that was in my heart."

Fleming was Guy Madison's co star in Bullwhip (1958) for Allied Artists, and supported Jean Simmons in Home Before Dark (1958), which she later called her favorite role ("It was a marvellous stretch", she said).

Fleming was reunited with Bob Hope in Alias Jesse James (1959) and did an episode of Wagon Train.

She was in the Irwin Allen/Joseph M. Newman production of The Big Circus (1959), co-starring Victor Mature and Vincent Price. This was made for Allied Artists, whom Fleming later sued for unpaid profits.

Fleming travelled to Italy again to make The Revolt of the Slaves (1959) and was second billed in The Crowded Sky (1960).

In 1960, she described herself as "semi-retired", having made money in real estate investments. That year she toured her nightclub act in Las Vegas and Palm Springs.

During the 1950s, 1960s, and into the 1970s, Fleming frequently appeared on television with guest-starring roles on The Red Skelton Show, The Best of Broadway, The Investigators, Shower of Stars, The Dick Powell Show, Wagon Train, Burke's Law, The Virginian, McMillan & Wife, Police Woman, Kung Fu, Ellery Queen, and The Love Boat.

In 1958, Fleming again displayed her singing talent when she recorded her only LP, entitled simply Rhonda (reissued in 2008 on CD as Rhonda Fleming Sings Just For You). In this album, which was released by Columbia Records, she blended then-current songs like "Around The World" with standards such as "Love Me or Leave Me" and "I've Got You Under My Skin". Conductor-arranger Frank Comstock provided the musical direction.

On March 4, 1962, Fleming appeared in one of the last segments of ABC's Follow the Sun in a role opposite Gary Lockwood. She played a Marine in the episode, "Marine of the Month".

In December 1962, Fleming was cast as the glamorous Kitty Bolton in the episode, "Loss of Faith", on the syndicated anthology series, Death Valley Days, hosted by Stanley Andrews. In the story line, Kitty pits Joe Phy (Jim Davis) and Peter Gabriel (Don Collier) to run against each other for sheriff of Pima County, Arizona. Violence results from the rivalry.

In the 1960s, Fleming branched out into other businesses and began performing regularly on stage and in Las Vegas.

One of her final film appearances was in a bit-part as Edith von Secondburg in the comedy The Nude Bomb (1980) starring Don Adams. She also appeared in Waiting for the Wind (1990).

Fleming has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. In 2007, a Golden Palm Star on the Palm Springs Walk of Stars was dedicated to her.

Fleming worked for several charities, especially in the field of cancer care, and served on the committees of many related organizations. In 1991, her fifth husband, Ted Mann, and she established the Rhonda Fleming Mann Clinic for Women's Comprehensive Care at the UCLA Medical Center.

In 1964, Fleming spoke at the "Project Prayer" rally attended by 2,500 at the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles, California. The gathering, which was hosted by Anthony Eisley, a star of ABC's Hawaiian Eye series, sought to flood the United States Congress with letters in support of mandatory school prayer, following two decisions in 1962 and 1963 of the United States Supreme Court, which struck down mandatory school prayer as conflicting with the Establishment Clause of the First Amendment to the United States Constitution.

Joining Fleming and Eisley at the rally were Walter Brennan, Lloyd Nolan, Dale Evans, Pat Boone, and Gloria Swanson. Fleming declared, "Project Prayer is hoping to clarify the First Amendment to the Constitution and reverse this present trend away from God." Eisley and Fleming added that John Wayne, Ronald Reagan, Roy Rogers, Mary Pickford, Jane Russell, Ginger Rogers, and Pat Buttram would also have attended the rally had their schedules not been in conflict.

Fleming married six times:

Thomas Wade Lane, interior decorator, (1940–1942; divorced), one son

Dr. Lewis V. Morrill, Hollywood physician, (July 11, 1952 – 1954; divorced)

Lang Jeffries, actor, (April 3, 1960 – January 11, 1962; divorced)

Hall Bartlett, producer (March 27, 1966 – 1972; divorced)

Ted Mann, producer, (March 11, 1977 – January 15, 2001; his death)

Darol Wayne Carlson (2003 – October 31, 2017; his death)

Through her son Kent Lane (b. 1941), Rhonda also had two granddaughters (Kimberly and Kelly), four great-grandchildren (Wagner, Page, Lane, and Cole), and two great-great-grandchildren.

She was a Presbyterian and a Republican who supported Dwight Eisenhower during the 1952 presidential election.

Fleming died on October 14, 2020, in Saint John's Health Center, Santa Monica, California, at the age of 97. She is interred at Hillside Memorial Park in Culver City, California.

#rhonda fleming #classic hollywood #classic movie stars #golden age of hollywood #old hollywood #1940s hollywood #1950s hollywood #1960s hollywood #1970s hollywood

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officialwagnerrant · 3 years

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Wagnerrant Review #5 - Not enough Holländer

Work: Der Fliegende Holländer Bayreuther Festspiele Date of performance: 25.07.2021

Team Director: Dmitri Tcherniakov Conductor: Oksana Lyniv With: Georg Zeppenfeld, Asmik Grigorian, Eric Cutler, Marina Prudenskaya, Attilio Glaser, John Lundgren

Trigger warning: S*icide mention, mass m*rder mention.

Review: @dichterfuerstin

Dmitri Tcherniakov’s Der Fliegende Holländer looks more like the latest episode of Netflix Germany’s Dark than like an old sailor’s tale. The audience is presented with the foggy image of a small town. Grey brick buildings, grey pavement, grey streetlight. Just the rubber boots that are part of most of the costumes pay a small tribute to the original setting. Maybe the small town is a fishing village. And just like the sets, the story told on stage has little to do with what’s written in Wagner’s libretto.

It’s a crime story, rather than a mystery. Instead of being a sea captain, the Holländer appears as a man referred to as “H” who according to the writings on stage has a “strange, returning dream”. This dream, or rather memory, is shown during the overture. “H” is shown as a little boy whose mother has an affair with no one less than Daland himself. When her affair is discovered, the village shuns H’s mother to the point where she commits suicide in front of her son. The set is a little too calm for how booming and fast Oksana Lyniv’s overture is, and it’s radically different to what Wagner wrote in his libretto, but it works with the music pretty well during the first two acts. He remembers Daland, Daland has a vague idea who the stranger is. And Mary, excellently sung by Marina Prudenskaya and in this production upgraded to Daland’s wife and Senta’s (Step-)mother, seems to know exactly. She carries the Holländer’s picture around and is visibly scared of him. Add to this the perfectly spooky and mysterious atmosphere. It takes a while for the audience to realise that the “dream” is in fact a memory that the wondering of how much of it is true and what’s going to happen is always prevalent, especially every time the Holländer walks past the house where his mother died.

The characterisations in Tcherniakov’s production are on point. Mary is just strict enough, Georg Zeppenfeld’s Daland is not only audibly full in character, his facial expressions are on point throughout the entire opera. Of course, the modern setting does make him basically trading away Senta more awkward and actually less understandable. Especially since Senta is very young. Daland’s daughter doesn’t seem much older than sixteen thanks to Asmik Grigorian’s brilliant acting. She’s way younger than the Holländer, even Erik seems too old for her. But she’s sassy. She’s impudent, she smokes, she dyes her hair. She isn’t that dreamy girl carried away by the tale of the mysterious dutchman, she rather seems to mock him, and yet falls in love when she meets him in at dinner. Asmik Grigorian conveys all of this not only in her acting but also in her voice. Of course, she sounds older, but it doesn’t matter. The sound is clear, the diction well, and the Festpiel-debut successful. John Lundgren’s Holländer is equally well-acted. Though he doesn’t do much. The Holländer’s a very passive character, spending most of his time watching, and being strange. He constantly seems out of place thanks to his white sweater in contrast to the rather brown costumes everyone else, including Senta, wears. Making the Holländer stand out is a standard decision, but it is very well executed by costume designer Elena Zaytseva. Lundgren’s voice fits as well, apart from becoming audibly strained in act three. He isn’t as booming as most Holländer’s, rather pretty, but that is perfect for this characterisation, where the Holländer isn’t punished for cursing on God but traumatised because he saw his mother getting hounded until she killed herself. He isn’t even a captain, he’s alone. To the end of the opera, a handful of men he met at the pub who listened to him telling his story become his crew and get spared when the Holländer shoots into the crowd gathered on the town square to celebrate. For two hours the audience wonders where the production will lead. Will Senta die where the Holländer’s mother died? Will they die together as it’s written in the libretto? And in the end, it’s a mass shooting and arson committed by the Holländer. Although this ending makes perfect sense for the Holländer the way he’s set up in Tcherniakov’s production, it’s a somewhat disappointing ending. Daland doesn’t even appear on stage. Shouldn’t he have some kind of reaction to the Holländer’s doing? For the first time Grigorian’s acting isn’t sufficient enough for the audience to understand what she’s feeling, the production doesn’t really provide good answers. And while making Mary Daland’s wife made her more important, the character didn’t have enough to do to explain why it’s her who eventually shoots the Holländer and then has to be cared for by Senta. The ending is an ending for a crime story. It’s a thriller, but not the one Wagner intended. For the Holländer, the focus should be a little more on the bond between Senta and the Dutchman. But on it’s own, the story told by Dmitri Tcherniakov is interesting and thought-through.

At least Oksana Lyniv’s conducting stays consistently emotional. The 43-years-old Ukranian conductor makes her Festspieldebut in this production, as the first ever woman to conduct an opera at the Bayreuther Festspiele, and she does it well. She manages to remain unfazed by the many interruptive noises in this production. Be it chairs or tables collapsing in act one, or gunshots in act three, and she’s singer-friendly. Maybe a little too singer-friendly, sometimes the orchestra does seem too much in the background. But overall, she does an amazing job. Her overture stands out the most, but the entirety of her Holländer is nothing short of beautiful. And fulfils the most admirable task of holding orchestra, soloists and chorus together, which is especially difficult this year: Due to the pandemic, half of the chorus acts on stage, the other half sings in the chorus-hall and their singing gets transmitted into the audience via speakers. And somehow this needs to sound natural – and be on time. Lyniv and chorus master Eberhard Friedrich work together well, so the audience doesn’t hear that something’s different this year.

This by the way also isn’t noticeable in the production. Neither does the stage seem empty nor are there six feet distance between every two singers. It’s a standarf production, and just as it’s standard for Bayreuth, director Dmitri Tcherniakov got booed by the audience. Undeserved, it’s a captivating and interesting to watch production, but it won’t make history as one of the strongest Bayreuth-productions either - it just isn’t enough Holländer.

#Der Fliegende Holländer #wagner #richard wagner #opera #opera review #wagnerrant review #not a rant

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ble-ed-mo-re · 4 years

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Biggest headcanons. I'm bad with words lmao

thats valid man me too. im only doing the beta and alpha kids

john/june/jone: transfem genderfluid and gay for men [she/he/they], puerto rican, autistic + adhd, they love stimming by rubbing their knuckles and playing with slime. biggest spin is movies, specifically ghost/horror films. she can and will info dump to you about ghost busters. rose: nonbinary poly lesbian [they/she], black japanese mix, autistic + ocd + psychotic, very monotone voice, unable to express their emotions well in their tone, knitting is a stim for them, especially when the wool is very very soft. experiences delusions in which they arent human.

dave/dove/d*ve: transfem bigender and bi [he/she], black japanese mix [albino] autistic + adhd + did, has a lot of repressed stims, favorite one is doing conductor hands while listening to music. spins are dead things/archaeology, info dumps constantly over the anatomy of animals. when overstimulated he goes nonverbal.

jade: intersex transfem pupgender poly lesbian [she/pups], polynesian, adhd + severe separation anxiety, stims by flapping her ears/hands and jumping, definition of “cant sit still”, her house is full of stray dogs she found. very blunt and to the point, doesnt take shit from anyone.

jane: cis bi [she/her], puerto rican, autistic, has a hard time understanding boundaries, loves the texture of cake. spins are baking and detective/mystery stories. expressive voice, non expressive face. (i dont have many for jane sorry)

roxy: transfem catgender poly pan [she/they/he/purrs], black, autistic + adhd, stims by typing and petting fur/soft fabrics, loves audio stims. top spins are cats, coding and gaming. is a proud mother of twenty dozen cats. she can beat your ass at any game, but will sometimes let you win.

dirk: trans(cant decide between fem or masc) gay [he/him], japanese, autistic + did + npd + ed, scared to stim around people, his favorite stim is hand flapping and fiddling with cords. he knows everything about mlp (all gens) and if given the opportunity he will talk about it for hours. insecure over his monotone voice. recovering from a severe eating disorder. hes not too affectionate, shows affection by stimming near people he loves.

jake: intersex transfem nonbinary and gay for men [he/they], polynesian, autistic + adhd + did, is almost constantly in a state of dissociation, brain ghost dirk is his comfort factive. like jade, stims by flapping and jumping. doesnt understand social cues at all, cant understand tone changes either. very affectionate, very huggy/cuddly.

BONUS:

davesprite: intersex trans gay man [he/him] black japanese mix [albino], autistic + adhd + did, next to the same headcanons as dave. stims by flapping his wings, absolutely loves it when people pet and preen him, will never admit it though. verbal stims by cooing and cawing.

hal: agender gay [no pronouns, alt are he], japanese, autistic + npd, doesnt like people (other than roxy and davesprite), stims by humming and beeping, extremely blunt and comes off as rude. doesnt know how to show that he cares, but does care alot about the few people he knows. if given the chance, will info dump about everything in existence.

#john egbert #june egbert #rose lalonde #dave strider #Dove Strider #jade harley #jane crocker #roxy lalonde #dirk strider #Jake English #davesprite #lil hal #hal strider #homestuck #headcanons #autistic headcanon #adhd headcanon #did headcanon #asks

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tchimurenga · 4 years

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Harriet

March 2021 [][][] I didn’t see the film Harriet starring Cynthia Erivo when it first came out, but I did see it. Not a boycott ... just late as all hell. Back before I realized that #ADOS was trash, I allowed the noise chorus to influence me that it was no big deal to see this film. More than the trash about Erivo being Black British and her having said offensive remarks about NuAfrikans*, I allowed the cacophony of #blackmaletears to overload my senses. The concern about a “fictitious Black male brute of a slave catcher invented for this film, only to be killed in the end by Harriet’s former master thus positioning himself as a sort of white savior,” is how the story went. I should have known betta. I do now, and I promise to do betta from here on out. Now that I have seen it, here are my thoughts.

I hadn’t planned on this happening, but in this film I saw several positive portrayals of Black men, at least five:

Walter

Former slave-catcher-in-training, portrayed by Henry Hunter Hall. All the noise and fuss, all the whoopin’ and hollerin’ and cryin’ I heard about a Black male slave catcher in this film; how come I never, ever, not once, heard there were TWO Black male slave catchers, one of whom switched sides and became a slave free - er? How come I never, ever heard about this young brutha who says to Araminta**, “ ... since you talk to God and God OBVIOUSLY talks to you, maybe I should help you?” ? How come I never, ever heard about this young brutha who proves himself to the point where Araminta entrusts the safety of her family to him? Makes him promise her that he will get her family to safety and he says yes? How come I never ever heard about this young brutha? Because he did not fit in with the #ados (which is trash) talking point, that’s why.

Ben Ross

Araminta’s father, portrayed by Clarke Peters (my man Lester from HBO’s The Wire and Big Chief Albert Lambreaux from Treme). I saw a loving and devoted husband and family man; one who surreptitiously aided enslaved Afrikans in their escape to freedom. A father who understood his child needed to be free and instead of his love smothering her with worry and trying to keep her “safe” on the plantation he encouraged her to run. It was Araminta’s father who put her in touch with her first crucial link to the Underground Railroad, Reverend Green. When she tells her father she doesn’t trust the pastor he tells her to do as he says. Fortunately Araminta was an obedient child. When Peters’ character refuses to open his eyes to look at her before she leaves I found the scene amusing. It was done so he would be able to truthfully answer that he had not seen her. Later in the film when Araminta returns to take her brothers and a few others with her to freedom, Peters’ character now has a blindfold on so that he cannot see them. Still amused, I thought “this man really does not want to be able to see them.” I soon realized what was truly in play: the last sight of his children leaving for what could perhaps be forever may have been too much for him to endure. Lastly, when Araminta returns and informs her father that he is in danger because of his aiding and abetting enslaved Afrikans and that he must leave with her now, he realizes his baby girl’s words are wise and he doesn’t argue with her. No “man tones” or “mansplaining,” he agrees and he leaves. End of discussion.

Reverend Green

When we first meet Rev. Green, portrayed by Vondie Curtis-Hall, he is leading folks in the singing of “Keep Your Hands On The Gospel Plow,” a traditional Black church hymn. Many of us will recognize it because the rhythm is that of “Keep Your Eyes On The Prize,” sung during the Civil Rights Movement and as the soundtrack for the documentary series Eyes On The Prize. This was our first clue: Reverend Green had Black folks singing about freedom. Araminta does not trust Rev. Geen when her father tells her to go to him, and Araminta’s older brother tells her the exact same thing when they set out for freedom, and for good reason. For no sooner than he finishes leading them in a chorus of The Gospel Plow does he tell the enslaved Afrikans that they must obey their earthly masters even when the masters aren’t around. The quintessential handkerchief-headed, fried-chicken-and-biscuit-eatin’, non-violent-turnin-the-other-cheek Negro Christian pastor. Not. Rev. Green is the trickster. The OG Spook sitting by the door (to freedom). It is Rev. Green that Araminta sees when she first sets out for freedom, her first contact on the Underground Railroad. When Araminta returns after one year and brings her family members and others to Reverend Green’s door, not only does he embrace her and tell her how happy he is to see her; not only does he bring them into the church sanctuary and give them the information they need, when it is time to hide them under the church there are at least three other people down there waiting. These other individuals bypassed Rev. Green all together and just hid out. With a look of “surprised but not”, the pastor tells Araminta “the word about her returning to take folks to freedom has “gotten out.” Obviously, the word was also that Rev. Green was the man that needed to be seen. Shout out to Kasi Lemmons for the family hook-up in hiring her husband.

William Grant Still

Conductor on the Underground Railroad, portrayed by Leslie Odom. My my. Brutha Still. Looking good. So handsome. And sharp. Fine clothing. Able to read and write. And absolutely committed to breaking the law of the land to free the enslaved. William Grant Still was absolutely, positively breaking the law. And he absolutely, positively didn’t give a damn. Once he and Araminta’s relationship deepens he tells her she is too important to simply just go off on missions whenever she chooses. I appreciate this aspect of his strategic and tactical mind. What I didn’t appreciate is when interviewing Araminta upon their first meeting Still noted that she may be suffering from “brain damage” because she said God talked to her. He ain’t had to go there. Be that as it may, Still asks Araminta if she wants a new name now that she is free. She decides to take her names of her mother and husband. Araminta Ross is now Harriet Tubman, thanks to Still asking the question. Towards the end of the film when news of the Fugitive Slave Law is announced, Still shows up with white abolitionists toting guns, with real bullets, who let off actual shots. Still does not carry a firearm but he shows up on the scene with the folks who do and that’s alright with me.

John Tubman

Husband of Araminta/Harriet Tubman, portrayed by Zachary Momoh. Next to Walter, this is my favorite character. The film opens with Araminta/Harriet laying out in an open field and Tubman coming upon her. She has had one of her “spells,” blackouts from a horrendous head injury inflicted by an overseer when she was a child. Momoh’s character gently caresses her face and calls her by her nickname “Minty”. Tubman does not lose his patience or his temper with her; there is no wondering of how long he has to put up with this or why he even has to; no asking of why she doesn’t get a grip or get “over” whatever this ailment of hers is. There is a loving acceptance of who and how she is, and worry that she might forget his name. Minty begins to repeat his name, assuring him that she knows who he is and that she will never forget him. One of the most touching and loving scenes I have ever witnessed between a Black man and woman. My only other comparison of this film would be to the version that Our Mother Cicely Tyson did in the 1970s. Though young when I saw it, I got the distinct impression from that film that John Tubman “punked out” (as we used to say) and was too scared to run away with Harriet once she returned for him. In no way shape form or fashion did I get that impression from this portrayal of Tubman. The only impression I got from this film was that John Tubman LOVED-DE-DED him some Araminta. I said he LOVED-DE-DED him some Araminta. Tubman wanted to make the trek with her but we are reminded that she wanted him to stay. She did not want him to risk his status as a free man, so she made the decision to run alone.

When Araminta/Harriet returns after one year to bring her husband to freedom and he informs her that he has remarried, to say that she is shocked angered hurt and heart-broken are the least of the descriptors we can use. But it is here where Tubman details his love for her. He tells her that when she left without him, he prayed for her. When her master “whipped the sight out of his eye” (a scar crosses his face from forehead to cheek covering his eye) in an attempt to get Tubman to tell where Minty was, he prayed for her. Tubman tells Minty when he heard, erroneously, that she had drowned trying to be free, he prayed for her. “I would’ve died for you,” he tells her, “if you’d’ve let me.”

GAHT DAMN! Where dey do that?!

If the love had been any thicker it would’ve stopped the playback on my laptop.

At least five positive, redeeming qualities of Black male characters in this film about one of the greatest Black women who ever walked this earth. How sad and miserable must some folks’ lives be that they didn’t have the eyes to see this?

But I digress.

From Araminta to Harriet

This was not a film about Black men but about a Black woman. One Black woman. Although this film did not begin with Harriet’s childhood it did a good job for me of showing her develop into a confident Black woman who understood and embraced her purpose. Despite naysayers surrounding her, Harriet not only knew she needed to bring others to freedom, she knew she would be victorious in doing so. This portrayal of Harriet Tubman has made real for us the dictum of “if God be for us who can be against us?” Harriet not only believed God told her she must free others but that God guided her missions safely so she would never, ever lose a “passenger” on the Underground Railroad. There is no earthly explanation for an event such as this; you simply say Ase’ and keep it moving.

On a related note, I appreciated the film’s portrayal of Harriet’s “spells” as visions where the audience gets to see what she sees. I always appreciate when something is made manifest before my eyes as it draws me in to the story more. I love suspending disbelief. I want to be taken on a journey; it’s why I’m here!

“No Black People Were Harmed During The Filming of this Movie”

Years ago, decades, I would see that disclaimer at the end of a film about animals and wonder, why don’t we have one for Black people? This was well before we had both the phenomenon and the language of trauma porn. The energy of the past few years has confirmed that this is an actual phenomenon that concerns a critical mass of Black people; to the point where former Shadow and Act editor Brooke Obie has coined the term “Hurston-Walker Test”*** for it.

On this point, then, I was saddened and a bit unnerved at the demise of Janelle Monae’s character at the hands of Harriet’s former master and his hired slave catcher. She was violently murdered. Fortunately, if that can be said, that was the only instance of trauma porn I detected. And yet, it existed. Six of one, half dozen of another.

As for the White Savior, I saw none. I saw a demon who gave an instruction to a brute. Said demon killed said brute when the instruction was disobeyed because hey, that’s what the system of white supremacy allows. I then saw said demon attempt to kill Harriet Tubman, who disarmed him by shooting him in his hand. Should Harriet have finished him off? Of course she should have, and she would have had Thandisizwe Chimurenga been the director. But there was no white savior in this film. None.

I’m glad I saw Harriet. I wish I had seen it when it first opened and I had written this then.

Sonia Sanchez asks us what work does this do? Each of us must ask this question and answer it for themselves. I have stated above the work I think this film does. I make my commitment to doing so in writing on other films from here on out.

*NuAfrikan or New Afrikan: descendants of Afrikans enslaved in the United States between 1619 and 1865, designated at the 3rd Black Power Conference held in March 1968 in Detroit, Michigan.

**Araminta, Minty for short: Harriet’s name at birth.

***Hurston-Walker Test, named for Zora Neal Hurston and Alice Walker: “Those who love us never leave us alone w/our grief. At the moment they show us our wound they reveal they have the medicine.”

#Harriet #Harriet Tubman #Cynthia Erivo #adosistrash #blackmaletears #blackmenmatter #blackwomenmatter #blacklovemstters #lesliodom #janellemonae #undergroundrailroad #williamgrantstill #johntubman #brookeobie #hurstonwalkertest

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