#and the other writer said she didn’t seem prepared for the interview

[tacosaysroar]

I have SO much work to do this week and spent all day in meetings rather than doing any of it. (Boooooo) The meetings were mostly new hire interviews with fresh-from-college hopefuls, and ooof. God, I do NOT miss being that age.

[anna-n-hetfield]

Talk Show

Request: can you do a james hetfield x actress reader where she is super famous and just got done doing a movie so now she is promoting it and she is on a talk show or something and they meet while doing the interview because they are doing the interview at the same time and all of the metallica boys are in awe because they are all a fan of hers but james gets flustered and all shy and reader gets shy and blushy too because she is also a fan of them and her and james just click and all flirty

Author’s Note: Sorry for taking so long. Writer’s block is a real thing, and then just being busy with school. I promise not excuses just explaining. Also, I just made up a handful of movies, not really sure if there was any true movie. Any resemblance to a real movie is coincidence and not purposeful.

Y/N had just finished her recent movie, and honestly she was thankful. It had taken months to do, but in her opinion it was her best work yet. Now, her managers were having her go on talk shows to promote the new movie. It was something that she had always hated. She was afraid that she would reveal too much or not enough.

There was also that other fear of them just making fun of her while she was there. There had been a few jokes about how she got such important roles so quick, ignoring the fact that she just knew what movies she would be good in and what she wouldn’t. And that her agent knew to not bother with the ones that wouldn’t put her in something worthwhile.

It also didn’t help that one of her favorite bands was also being interviewed on this set at the same time. She had been listening to Metallica since their first album which she had just heard by chance at some party. The song Seek & Destroy just took over and sucked her in.

“You’re on, Y/N,” one of the crew members said, motioning for her to follow after him.

She put on a smile and walked towards the curtain. She watched for the countdown and stepped out onto the stage. The audience was cheering as she walked over to the chairs. She let out a little gasp, seeing that the band was out already. Y/N didn’t know that she would be doing the interview with them as well.

All of the boys looked at her in awe, but her eyes landed on James who seemed to be blushing just a bit. She glanced down at her feet, suddenly shy. She had seen the videos of him and the posters, and yes, Y/N did find him attractive. But they hadn’t prepared her for what he looked like in person and what he looked like when he was blushing almost like a nervous teen.

She moved her feet just a little faster, knowing that she was slowing the flow of the show. Her nervousness and in a long gown was not a good combination. Her foot caught on the fabric and sent her flying forward.

Y/N let out a loud gasp and shot her arms out to break her fall when she felt an arm wrap around her and got her back to her feet. She looked over and saw James had caught her.

“Oh, uh, thank you,” she said, feeling her cheeks heat up.

James pulled his arm back to his side and smiled nervously. Almost like he didn’t know what to say. His cheeks reddened even more.

“Looks like we have some falling stars on set tonight,” the host Johnny said, motioning to the set on the other side of him.

Y/N went over and sat down. She looked at Kirk, Lars, and Jason who were all staring at her in amazement. Her almost face landing didn’t seem to phase them any. Then her eyes went back to James who was still blushing and still looking like he didn’t know what to say.

“So, Y/N, how’s that movie coming along?” the host asked, bringing the attention to her.

“Just finished up on filming the last scenes, and I have been told that it will be released in the next few months,” she replied, remembering what her manager said about the movie. Everything had to be hush, hush.

“These boys told me that they were fans of your work,” Johnny said, looking over at the members of Metallica. “And I just had to bring you out to introduce you to them.”

Y/N was surprised to say the least. She hadn’t expected any one of them to enjoy her work. They were mostly rom-coms, and she knew it was mostly for women, but she wasn’t going to judge.

“It’s an honor to know that they like my movies since I am a fan of their music,” she admitted nervously.

“You do?” Lars asked, loudly.

“I knew she was cool like that,” Kirk added on before Y/N could say anything.

She let out a nervous laugh, surprised by their excitement at her admission. She glanced over at James who was smiling so big.

“Have you ever been to one of our concerts?” James asked. There was a since of hope in his voice.

Y/N could feel Johnny’s eyes switching off between all of them so intrigued by the whole conversation, seeming to not want to step in.

She shook her head. “No, I haven’t. Honestly, never been to one,” she said, looking down at her hands.

“Miss Y/N has never been to a concert,” Johnny said loudly, looking out to the crowd in front of the stage. It was clear that he was trying to get a rise out of them.

“We’re playing tomorrow. Why don’t you come out? I’ll give you the whole behind the scenes tour,” James said, winking at her.

She blushed, not expecting that wink. But she found herself nodding, not wanting to turn this chance down. Honestly, she was wanting to see them live because all of her friends had said how amazing they sounded live.

“I’ll make sure you have fun,” James said as he blushed deeply. His words made her think that he didn’t think that she would say yes.

“I’m sure the crowd is jealous,” Johnny said, dragging the attention back to him. “But rest assured that we are going to announce that someone in the crowd is going to win two tickets to the concert at the end of the show.”

The audience cheered loudly. A few even whistled. This was something that Y/N didn’t quite enjoy during these talk shows. It was one thing for her to be on set doing a show, but she didn’t have people cheering and inspecting her every reaction.

“So, boys, what is your favorite movie of hers?” Johnny asked looking over at them.

“Uh, I think mine was The New Day,” Lars said.

“That was the first one I watched of hers, but I liked the one she did after that,” Kirk said. “Rest Of Our Lives.”

Jason smiled and said, “That was a favorite of mine as well.”

Y/N was surprised that those two movies were their favorites. She had felt that they weren’t her best, but yet it was some of the people’s favorites.

“What about you, James?” Johnny asked.

“Uh, honestly, I love them all. I always think the newest one is my favorite until the next comes out,” he said.

The rest of the boys laughed. “If he knows that she is in the movie, he will watch it,” Lars teased.

“James is the reason why we ever heard of her,” Kirk added.

Y/N blushed just as James did. It warmed her heart that he liked her movies. And the way the rest of the band made it seem like he had a crush on her was adorable because honestly she had a crush on him herself.

“Oh, I hate to say it, but it’s time for a break. When we come back, we will draw the name for who wins the tickets to Metallica’s concert tomorrow night,” Johnny said. “I would like to thank Y/N for coming, and remember to go see her new movie.”

[lexosaurus]

Twelve Hours: Chapter 4

Part 4 of 5 of my fic for Ecto Implosion, the DP reverse mini-bang (artists go first, writers go second)

read on: [ao3]

[see all chapters]

Characters: Danny Fenton, Harriet Chin, GIW (mentioned a lot) Tags: Identity Reveal, Flashbacks, Runaway Danny Fenton, Angst Chapter WC: 3961 Summary: When the GIW revealed Danny to the world, the only thing he could do was run. Run and run and run until he escaped to Chicago, trying desperately to disappear. Too bad it didn’t work.

****

“Although many operatives work within the Ghost Investigation Ward, you’ve been especially outspoken about one in particular. The same man we saw in the interview, actually,” Harriet said, weaving the conversation into a new topic.

He’d been expecting this, of course. Though he never connected the dots so blatantly to the public before, he’d made quite enough digs online and underhanded comments to the press that now any search related to the GIW was sure to result in at least one speculative title theorizing about Phantom’s relationship with one operative.

“Operative O,” Danny stated. “We have a history. Operative K too, even if I don’t talk about him as much.”

“And who was he to you, exactly?”

That really was the question, wasn’t it?

As much as he wanted to dodge the question just as he had done so many times before, he knew he had to metaphorically plant his feet and head straight into the incoming media shitstorm with his head held high.

At least he knew Jazz was backstage. She’d flown out for this, leaving her husband and two kids to fend for themselves in the meantime. And while he should have felt guilty for asking her to do this, overwhelmingly, he only felt relief knowing he had someone here. Danny wasn’t alone; he had someone to hold him and ward away all the darkness that was fighting to grab him with its acid-drenched claws and poison every vein in his body. Darkness that would certainly make its appearance later tonight while he was laying in bed second guessing every life decision that had led him to agree to do this interview at all. And when nightfall would come and Danny would be scrambling to call the station, begging them to please don’t air this episode, I’ll pay you whatever you want, this was a mistake, please don’t air it, Jazz would rip his phone from his fingers—smash it against the wall if she had to—and reassure him that everything was going to be okay. He just had to be brave.

He inhaled. Held. Exhaled.

Okay. He was ready.

“Operatives O and K were partners, and the main two operatives assigned to my case. They both seemed similar to the other operatives at first. Clean-cut, sticklers for the rules, dedicated to their jobs. But as time wore on…you know.” He tried not to squirm in his chair, and he failed. “I thought I knew what would happen if they caught me. I was just so sure I would never get caught that I didn’t think about it. And while I knew deep down that what they were showing me in public was just pretense, I wasn’t prepared for how—how—there’s no other way to say it, but how sadistic they truly were.”

“Both of them?” she asked.

“Sure, but O most of all. When they would punish me in the facility, he was usually the one to do it. Or he would order someone else to do it.”

“Did Operative K punish you at all?”

“Sure, they all did, but none as much as O. It was almost like…” He recalled how his lawyer directed him to phrase the next part. Stick to what happened. Stick to what the courts already know. “I could hear him laughing sometimes when he would punish me. He’d make comments, and he’d be smiling.”

“Do you feel as though he took pleasure from seeing you in pain?”

Yes, Danny wanted to shout. But he couldn’t. Legally. 

Harriet must have known he couldn’t say yes, though. She wasn’t stupid, and neither were the other writers or producers for this program.

Realization dawned on him all at once. They were offering a conclusion without Danny having to say it.

“I can’t say whether he enjoyed it or not,” Danny answered professionally. “I can only tell you what I experienced.”

Smartly, Harriet moved forward. “Do you think the experiences you’ve had with Operative O and K have impacted your relationships with people moving forward?”

“Of course,” Danny said as if it were obvious, because it was. “The abuse I received from them has affected every aspect of every relationship, no matter if it’s family, friends, potential love interests—everyone.”

“Is it hard for you to form new connections now, would you say?”

Forming them was hard, but maintaining them was even more so the impossible challenge that he and his therapist were still working through unpacking.

But who could blame him, really? Not with the very real paranoia that crept up his spine every time he picked up his phone to send a text. Even though Tucker reassured him over and over that the app they were using was encrypted, Danny, it’s okay to talk in here, how could they be sure?

Especially after what happened before?

****

03:00:00

Danny stumbled off the train. He’d spent so long hopping from station to station he’d all but forgotten where he’d been heading in the first place.

Which the answer to that was…nowhere in particular. He didn’t know where most homeless people slept in Chicago, and even so, he still hadn’t decided if it would be a good idea to join them. If just one person got too good of a look at him, he’d be dead.

And in the modern day, even the homeless had cell phones.

But this neighborhood looked safer. Or, at least, less populated. The houses and apartments were run down, and Danny was sure there were more than a few unsavory characters close by, but it was dark, quiet, and therefore, a good place to try to hide.

Or, at least, he hoped so. He’d never exactly tried to sleep anywhere other than in his or his friends’ houses before.

He glanced up at the sky. Though it was dark, when he put a bit of ectoplasm into his eyes, he could see the rolling clouds layering on top of each other.

Unlucky, of course. Since when did luck ever try to be on his side? His first day sleeping outside, and it was going to rain.

He tasted the air, and while the acrid humidity had increased into the evening, it still wasn’t strong enough for Danny to be worried. It would rain, but not yet. He still had time to find a shelter.

Or, whatever shelter he could scrounge up. 

His eyes, still alight with ectoplasm, shifted back in front of him, landing on a telephone pole some feet away. Ever unmistakable on the wood was that damn green sticker with the bird so neon it almost glowed back at him.

“Can’t fucking escape them,” Danny growled, whipping around to walk in the other direction. If that street was going to show its hostility so openly, then fine, he’d just go away.

Just like he always did.

He turned a corner, walking by a brick house that would have been lovely if not for the set of caved-in steps leading up to the door, or the window that looked like it had been shattered by a brick. Danny wondered if anyone was squatting there. Maybe he could hide in there, just for now.

But…what if someone else had the idea first? And then that person called the GIW on him? He could check invisibly, but what if people in Chicago were just as adept at feeling when a ghost entered their room as people in Amity were? It was too risky. He couldn’t do something so bold as go inside an abandoned house.

If not there, though, then where else? Where could he go? Was he forever barred from ever getting shelter, getting safety? Was he only destined to continue searching and searching, coming close but never finding a place to be like some sort of twisted version of Sisyphus? And if so, would the Guys in White be constantly at his heel laughing at him as they watched him get so close only to fail, over and over again?

Was this a game to them? 

No, yes, oh Ancients, maybe. Maybe Operative O was so cruel, so sick in the head that he would relish the opportunity to toy with Danny’s mental sanity like this.

Danny’s hands flew up to knot his hair, yanking if only to quiet the shallow breaths and dull the spots that were beginning to dance over his eyes.

He stumbled on. He needed help. He needed Sam and Tucker. God, he couldn’t do this on his own. He’d never been without a home before—he didn’t know what to do! He couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t do this.

No! 

His whole body stiffened, and cold dread splashed down his spine as he realized one of his hands had unwoven itself from his hair to free his phone from his pocket.

No, no, no. He couldn’t. He had turned it off almost as soon as he’d left the border of Amity Park. Well, actually, he tried to smash it against the pavement but failed. He wasn’t strong enough to completely cut himself off from his loved ones. Not physically, but…the other thing.

Mentally.

He was weak.

Too weak. 

His hand trembled as it slid the phone back in his pocket and clutched a cold, metal bar before him. If he turned his cell on, then he could risk everything. He didn’t know if the GIW had the clearance to track his cell, but he wasn’t about to chance it.

He exhaled. He was okay. He took his fears, anxieties, and every twisted creature taunting him from the corners of his mind and shoved them back into their infinitely deep cage.

He couldn’t afford to break down. Not right now.

Unfortunately, in his distraction, he hadn’t noticed the footsteps closing the distance to him till it was too late.

“What are you doing? Get off my fucking gate,” a voice snapped.

Ice froze his sneakers to the ground, and he was slow, too slow to react.

Gate? He looked down, then up, then around. He’d somehow moved to stand in front of a different apartment, this one not abandoned. Sure, the front steps had caved on the sides, and a broken chair sat out front, but the house itself probably had a resident. And this resident, he guessed, was right behind him.

But…he was still on the sidewalk. Okay, maybe his arms were over a front entrance gate, and maybe in his panic it looked like he was trying to look into the house, but he wasn’t trespassing anywhere.

Were they even talking to him?

“Yeah, you, kid! I know you hear me!” The voice was closer now. “The fuck, are you deaf?”

Now, Danny turned as if he was fighting against a pool of syrup. Sure enough, the disembodied voice belonged to someone, though Danny wasn’t sure who because there were multiple guys in front of him. They were all at least several years his senior, and the shortest of the trio probably had at least five inches on him.

Oh. Fuck. 

Danny made eye contact with the man in the middle wearing a baggy, unzipped orange and black jacket over an equally baggy hoodie with the hood up over his buzzed hair. He stared down Danny as if he were Satan himself sent here to personally deliver his reckoning, and wouldn’t that just be the ultimate irony of the century?

“Hi,” Danny said meekly.

“What’s good?” the guy in the orange jacket said, eyeing Danny up and down. “The fuck are you doing in front of my place?”

Danny’s eyes darted between the apartment and the clearly hostile dude before him. “I—I wasn’t—” whatever modicum of confidence he’d ever possessed today was clearly so gone that Danny wasn’t sure it had ever existed.

“You casing my fucking house, bro?” the man asked, stepping forward.

Danny wasn’t typically one to feel physically threatened by a human. Hell no, not when he’d faced ghosts ten times more dangerous every week. But for some reason, as he surveyed the three guys who all very much looked a second away from swinging at him, he felt like a little kid standing before Dash and his cronies without any ghost powers to call on.

He couldn’t afford to risk using ghost powers in front of these guys, and the bigger man to the right—the one in the pale blue beanie—was looking at Danny like he was trying to figure out where he’d seen his face before. Maybe that was why he felt so spooked. Or perhaps it was the way Danny knew that these guys weren’t Dash, they were strangers to Danny, they were three guys who’d clearly grown up on the streets of Chicago. 

And as much as he understood the hierarchy of ghosts, he sure as shit didn’t understand the human social hierarchy. 

He was scared, he realized. He was fucking terrified. He’d been terrified all day and now facing his first night on the streets alone, he was scared even more.

He stepped back and raised his hands, but the trio only advanced further on him.

“Casing my motherfucking house,” the guy repeated, though not to Danny.

Danny had no idea what the guy was talking about. Casing? What?

“What block you from, kid?” the big guy on the right asked. “I swear I seen you before.”

“You haven’t,” Danny said weakly, his voice cracking. “I’ve never met you.”

The skinny guy to the left sneered. “You gonna meet us now, bro.” 

Danny’s back hit the gate, and his heart stuttered. “I wasn’t doing anything, I swear. I was just trying—trying to—”

His breath stopped. Trying to...what, exactly? Find shelter? Keep his sanity together? Not get discovered and kidnapped by the government? 

All three?

“Shut the fuck up,” the leader said. “You know how many times I’ve heard that talk? Bullshit, man. You gonna get it in. Casing my fucking house? You gonna get it in.” 

“Slap his stupidass, bro. Kid’s all doped out anyway. Look at him! Can’t do shit,” the skinny guy said. 

“Where your homies at?” the bigger guy asked.

Danny could barely understand what was happening anymore, and he couldn’t stop the anxiety from rising in his throat like bile, spitting out in a flurry of, “I don’t have any! I’m alone. I just want to leave.”

Then, time slowed desperately and painfully. Danny saw the hand coming, in theory, but denial was too powerful of a drug, and no, this wasn’t happening right now. Except it was.

The fist connected with his cheek in a sickening crack. Pain erupted in his bones, and Danny’s head jerked to the side, his body falling onto the gate. He bobbed, clutching the metal bars for stability as he blinked stars out of his vision.

Oh, Ancients, he was doomed. He was going to get jumped by these guys, and there was nothing he could do in self-defense because the only things he knew involved using his powers.

The man closed the distance, landing his next fist in Danny’s stomach. He doubled over, fighting for air that seemed to have little intention of returning to him.

“Fucking kid,” the guy towering over him taunted. “You don’t fucking go in my fucking house.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” Danny whispered.

He didn’t know if the man heard him, but Danny didn’t think it would matter. His friends were whooping behind him, and the rush exuding from his skin told a tale of how little he intended to halt his quest to ruin Danny’s body tonight.

Danny tried to dart to the side, but without his intangibility, the man’s fist caught his jaw, snapping his neck back and sending a cry of pain into the sky. Not that anyone was listening, of course. The spikes from the gate jabbed painfully into his back, and all Danny could think about was how he was cornered, alone, defenseless.

The man took a step back, but Danny knew that meant fuck all. He was just giving himself space to wind up and sock Danny again, or maybe knee him this time, all while his two friends laughed and jeered, and Danny was fucked, he was so fucked. 

Panic rushed through him, and he turned to the three men with eyes glazed in what he could be sure pure, unfiltered fear.

He wanted to turn intangible so badly and run, but he couldn’t. If anyone saw, if anyone noticed—

There was no incoming blow.

Danny ripped through the veil of dread clouding his mind, and that’s when he saw it. The big guy pointing to him, and the other two frozen beside him.

“What the fuck is wrong with his eyes, bro?” the skinny guy asked. “Ah shit, don’t tell me he’s possessed.”

“That’s the kid!” the big guy shouted, ignoring his friend. “The Phantom kid! That’s him!”

The skinnier guy rounded on his friend with a, “Who the fuck?”

“No fucking way,” the leader stepped back, falling in line with his friends.

“I ain’t playing, bro, that’s him.”

Danny blinked, and the simmering green disappeared from the edges of his vision.

Three.

Two.

One.

FUCK!

He didn’t wait for them to debate his existence in front of them. Three seconds and his decision was set. Invisibility cloaked him, then intangibility, and then he was past the men, running down the street like his fucking life depended on it, which wasn’t far from the truth.

His sneakers pounded on the pavement, his heart pumping in his ears as a slew of curses overtook his brain.

That was it. He was finished. He was done.

He turned a corner and darted down the sidewalk, not caring who heard him or whatever the fuck else people could be thinking at the sounds of someone sprinting with no body to match. Those guys had figured him out—they’d figured him out! 

He was so fucking stupid for thinking he could blend in with anyone. He was a halfa. A freak. He couldn’t do this he couldn’t be here he COULDN’T.

His cell phone rattled in his pocket, and he sidestepped down an alley, accidentally knocking a trash bin over as he made for the back. There was a dumpster there, of course, and he jammed himself into the brick wall beside it, making sure he wasn’t visible to the street before dropping his invisibility and swiping his phone from his pocket.

It was slow—too slow—to turn on. Please, turn on turn on turn on! 

He could feel the fringes of reality slipping from his mental hold like threads on a frayed blanket, and he didn’t stop them from leaving. It didn’t matter anymore. Any second, white vans would be surrounding this whole neighborhood and one sweep of an ecto-scanner later and Danny would be fucked. 

The phone finally finished loading, and Danny’s shaking fingers only failed at entering his password once before he was past the locked screen and jabbing open his messages.

He had several missed calls, but he couldn’t bother himself with those right now, swiping the notifications away. Not when there was so little time and he was breaking, quickly, so quickly.

The phone hardly rang before a worried voice crackled to life on the other line. “Danny?” Then, the voice turned into alarm. “Danny!”

“Tucker,” Danny gagged. Not on bile, but on tears.

Was he crying?

The other number picked up as well with a barely restrained, “Danny!”

“Sam,” he croaked, clutching his phone like the fucking lifeline that it was.

“Wait, Danny.” Tucker’s tone was suddenly serious. “Listen, you shouldn’t—”

 Sam’s voice overtook Tucker’s. “What happened? Are you okay? Please, where are you?”

“No!” Tucker said. “Don’t tell us. Listen, Danny—”

Danny closed his eyes, letting Tucker’s voice turn into a calming drone because so tired of fighting himself and running and it had only been a day, he couldn’t do this, guys, he couldn’t do this alone. 

“—and don’t be an asshole, Tuck,” Sam was saying when Danny had the know-how to tune back in. 

He didn’t know how long he’d been spacing out. Hopefully, only a few seconds.

“Danny, please, are you safe?” Sam pleaded.

“I—” His voice cracked. “I don’t know.”

“What happened?” Sam asked, her voice rushed. “All we know is that they ambushed you at the school, and then you escaped. We’ve both been getting nonstop questioned by investigators and the police since, but we keep telling them we don’t know where you are. Please tell us you’re somewhere safe, Danny. Please.” 

He couldn’t.

Oh, god. How do you tell someone goodbye?

The words slipped out of him. “I was seen.”

There was a pause. Then, Tucker. “By who?”

“Some guys. They jumped me. Didn’t know who I was, and then my eyes…” Danny pinched the bridge of his nose. God, he was so fucking tired. 

“You were jumped?!” Sam cried out.

“Okay, wait, listen. If they jumped you, then it might not be so bad. They probably won’t report you.”

“Yeah, violent people don’t tend to like talking to the cops,” Sam said. “You should still be okay.”

Danny’s incoming sob turned into a laugh, because of course! How could he have been so stupid? No Chicago resident trusted law enforcement.

His life wasn’t doomed. He was going to be okay, at least for today. Tomorrow was a different story, but they wouldn’t tattle, he was going to be fine. 

“You should still leave wherever you are, just in case,” Tucker said. “You can’t tell us where you’re going, though. I mean it, Danny. We’re getting questioned too much. The less we know, the better.”

“I know,” Danny muttered, wiping his cheeks.

“You need to hang up and turn off your phone. We have no idea if they’re tracking your number. We could be sending off a beacon to them right now for all we know.”

“Yeah, okay,” Danny said, though he was still reveling in his bliss to feel any urgency from Tucker’s voice. “I’ll leave here when I’m done calling you.”

“Please do,” Tucker said.

“Danny, please be safe,” Sam interjected. “You know we love you. All of us, your parents included.” 

His stomach jolted, and suddenly he felt like crying all over again. 

They said that? Really? His parents?

Was that all they said? 

He had so many questions swirling in his head, but there was no time to ask. Tucker was giving his sign-off, and despite the sudden lightness lifting his spirit from the depths of hell, he still felt the sudden urgency to say something. 

“Wait!” He cut their goodbyes off. “I—I—you guys. I need you to know…” He swallowed, his vision blurring once more. “Thanks for always being there. You know, as my friends. Seriously, I don’t think I could have survived this long without you.”

There was a second of pause. Then two.

“Jeez, Danny, you don’t have to be so morbid—”

Sam cut Tucker off. “You’ll always be my friend, Danny. Seriously, always. I’m here for you.”

“Ditto,” Tucker added quietly.

Danny pressed the end call button, not trusting himself to break down sobbing with his friends on the other line. Thankfully, his tears waited until his phone was off and back in his pocket before they began to fall. Wretched and uncontrollably, tears spilled on his cheeks, down his chin, and onto the rancid alleyway pavement below as sobs ripped his throat raw.

It wasn’t a goodbye forever, Danny tried to remind himself. They’d talk again. Soon. They’d talk again, and they’d tell him about Jazz, his parents, his parents.

Soon, this would be all over, and Danny would be back in Amity Park in his warm home playing video games and laughing with his best friends.

But if that wasn’t their final goodbye, why did it feel like one?

****

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[read more of my fics here]

[harrison-abbott]

When I did my Master’s degree in journalism, up in Aberdeen, a part of the course was dedicated to a workplace placement, where you would go and work with a journalism-related establishment, in order to give you a bit of umph on your CV.

In the North East, I found this literary magazine called ‘Pushing Out the Boat.’ And I got in contact with the editor and told them I’d be interested in working with them for a couple of months.

They accepted. And so it seemed like a great catch.

So I met up with the editor, who was this older chap from England, and the co-editor, who was from Scotland – met them in town and they seemed like nice people and we got speaking and so on. And everything seemed like it was heading in the right direction.

I bought previous versions of Pushing Out the Boat, which was a journal of poems, essays and stories, and then I got in contact with the writers who had contributed to the contents.

Sending out emails, making phonecalls, recording interviews, writing up transcripts of interviews. All of which I sent to the editor. I was enjoying it. The main idea was for me to write up all of this material so that it could be used on the journal’s online blog. There was going to be a launch event for the next journal’s issue. So the journal was looking for ‘advertisement’, in a way, in preparation for the big event that was happening in the summer, the launch party.

And the editor simply never got back to me. With all of the stuff that I sent him.

Perhaps the content I sent along wasn’t for his liking? But I remembered him at the start being a soft-spoken nice guy who was encouraging and seemed interested in me.

And so I compiled this entire portfolio and then I went along to the launch party at the end of the month. One ‘nice’ thing the POTB people had done for me was to give me a complimentary free copy of the latest journal. So I met up with somebody who I’d never met before at the desk, this nice woman, who gave me said copy. She then directed me to where the editor was in the crowd.

There were maybe 200 people in the ballroom.

I found the editor and I went up to him and shook his hand.

The entire communicative moment with him lasted maybe 90 seconds, which was climaxed by him saying: “Thanks for coming. I’m very sorry but I have to go and speak to some other people for the moment. But I will see you later on.” And then he walked away from me. I didn’t see him later on.

Later in the semester I had to do a report on how my placement had been with the literary journal. And I needed a reference from one of the people at the institution, a quote from them to show that I had been there. It was a mandatory thing. I emailed the tutor to do it because I had no other correspondence apart from him. He emailed me back with one sentence, as to the reference I asked him for – a single sentence of maybe fifteen words – and that was it. That was my placement.

[amltdaily]

Before last weekend, I had no idea that Gary Mendez’s death and my mom’s had anything to do with each other.

(This is a TV story, I promise. Just stick with me.)

Last week, I had the honor of moderating some panels at ATX TV Festival in Austin, Texas. I love moderating, funneling a ton of preparation and research into what — if I do my job right — becomes a fun and illuminating conversation. One of my panels was titled “TV Screens for Cancer,” and it was sponsored by Hollywood, Health & Society. Despite what might at first glance seem like very grim subject matter, I was really looking forward to the opportunity to ask a bunch of TV writers about the cancer storylines they’d crafted over the years.  

I had a personal reason for wanting in on the discussion, too. My mother, Susan Roots, died in May 2021 from Stage IV breast cancer.

The fact of that sentence, by the way, is still as surreal to me as it was the week she passed. I don’t have much memory of when, in a fog of grief and distracted by funeral arrangements, I contacted ABC publicity to let them know I couldn’t make a prearranged phone interview with A Million Little Things creator/showrunner DJ Nash. I’d covered the show since its start; I vaguely recall being grateful, given the tight timelines related to broadcast finales, that our Season 3 finale call was moved to a time more convenient for me.

The conversation I eventually had with Nash, though, stands out in clear detail in my brain. I sat at my parents’ white kitchen table, wearing a shirt of my mother’s because I hadn’t brought enough clothes with me when I rushed home. I was about to launch into my questions when he gently interrupted.

“Tell me a story about your mom,” he said.

If you’ve had the experience of witnessing a loved one in the terminal phase of an illness, you know how tough it can be to think of any time when your shared lives didn’t revolve around the soul-grinding details, and how hard it is to think about anything else once the person has passed. When to administer morphine. Which hospice nurse is coming today. Which setting on the hospital bed brings the least discomfort. Nash’s kind, simple request delivered me from that for a moment.

I told him about a car ride I’d had as a kid with my mom, her mom and her aunt. The horn malfunctioned while we were on the highway, honking randomly, loudly and with abandon at the unsuspecting drivers all around us. My mom, grandmother and great aunt couldn’t stop laughing. My mom gasped for breath, wiping at her streaming eyes as she tried to hold it together so we didn’t run off the road. I cackled too, partly because the horn really was ridiculous, partly out of the novelty of seeing these three women lose themselves in such unhinged fashion.

Nash listened. He chuckled. When I was done, we went on with the interview as planned. I’ve been lucky to have a lot of great conversations with people who make TV over the years, but that one stands out — even more so now, for reasons I’ll get to in a minute.

For those unfamiliar with A Million Little Things, it was an hour-long drama that ran on ABC for five seasons. It followed a group of friends in Boston. At the end of the series, one of the friends — Gary Mendez (played by James Roday Rodriguez), whose experience as a breast cancer survivor was an integral part of the show — died of lung cancer.

As A Million Little Things’ boss and the arbiter of Gary’s fate, Nash was a great fit for the ATX panel last weekend. He was joined by fellow TV writers Erica Green Swafford (New Amsterdam), Adam Weissman (The Good Doctor) and Stephen Hootstein (Chicago Med), all of whom generously engaged with my questions about how to balance realistic portrayals of cancer and making good TV.

Remember how I said I like to be super-prepared for panels? Nash knocked all of that askew when, in front of the audience, he revealed something he hadn’t shared before.

“There’s a moment in the finale that was put in for you,” he said, referring to our conversation years before. “When Walter says to Rome, ‘Tell me a story about Gary.’”

ATX (which is owned by TVLine’s parent company, PMC) filmed the event, so you can see my surprise in the video at the top of this post. I was touched. I was flummoxed. I turned an even deeper shade of red than I normally do while public speaking. Reporters are taught to cover news, not make themselves the center of it. So while I was (and am!) flattered by Nash’s gesture, it was a little unsettling suddenly to find myself on the other side of things.

Most of all, though, I felt a deep gratitude that my mom’s existence was, in an indirect yet careful way, immortalized in a medium she adored.

When the panel was over, after making Nash swear to me yet again that he was telling the truth about the origin of Walter’s line, I confessed that I’d since stolen his story thing and used it when I didn’t know what to say to someone who was grieving. I recommend it.

So there you go: A brief moment of human connection in an industry that traffics in transactional conversations left us both with something meaningful. And somewhere, my primetime-drama-loving mom is absolutely overjoyed that she’s now a part — however far removed — of TV lore.

[mindyourownbiscuitss]

As promised here’s my long Brettsey post, because Chicago Fire pulled me back in despite my hesitancy. 

Okay, to start with, I’m probably somewhat delusional, but that didn’t feel like an open-ended storyline nor closure. It felt like an opening for either a recurring role for Jesse next season or a Kara exit. 

They had two chances to give Brettsey closure. At the end of season 10 at the Stellaride wedding and this last episode. Neither happened. Everyone was worried they’d have Matt say that he was happy for Sylvie in her new “serious relationship”. And that he was happy in Portland. Which was totally implied in the season 10 finale. Either they threw that in for the drama of it all or the writers now know something they didn’t know at the time. 

Thinking back to Jesse’s exit interviews and Haas talking about the long distance problems and obstacles, it feels like this was maybe somewhat planned out. Outside of the little things like Sylvie losing her phone for a bit in an episode and her and Matt not being able to catch each other at the right time, there weren’t very many obstacles for them in season 10. She went to visit him twice and only when she came back the second time did the problems start to show. Then they broke up in the season 11 premiere. And honestly what main Fire couple hasn’t broken up at least once for the drama? Brettsey’s was different because Jesse left right after they got together. Also, as the anon brought up earlier, Jesse even said he’d pop in once Sylvie got in a new relationship and look what happened, lmao. 

Now to the episode itself. Despite how sad the ending was, it gave me more hope than 10x05 did. Which, tbf, while I was more than happy they decided to try the long distance thing, I knew it’d be unlikely to be successful in the long run. They could have used this opportunity to give Brettsey real closure like Haas was trying to do in 9x15 for D@wsey. He just couldn’t get Monica back so he had to improvise by having Matt say he wasn’t in love with her anymore after the phone call. That they weren’t in love with each other anymore. Matt all but admitted he couldn’t move on because he was still in love with Sylvie to Stella.  That’s a big parallel to season 9 when he said being with other people makes it worse. He didn’t have that problem when he hooked up with the reporter after his divorce. Why go this route if there’s no plan to get them back together? I mean I know the Fire writers are cruel but they’re not stupid. Or that stupid anyway. And Sylvie? Poor Sylvie. I think they captured it perfectly. She thought she was moving on until she saw Matt again. Then after the hug? That was it. She knew she wasn’t over him. Showing her crying? Weirdly enough gave me hope. This is all leading somewhere because the easiest thing would have been to give them closure. 

This is leading to one of two things, I think. Matt coming back via a recurring role for Jesse. Which seems like the more likely scenario considering the other hints we got with Matt telling Boden that Chicago was home and that a few things had to fall in place to come back, etc. Plus Jesse talking about wanting to come back for appearances but not full time. They could easily have him in a handful of episodes and make it work. Second thing would be a Kara exit. Yes, they’ve written it as she didn’t want to leave for another guy and Chicago is her home. But Matt isn’t just a guy. He’s the love of her life (thank you Wolf Entertainment Twitter for admitting that) and she’s obviously not happy without him. They could have her expand paramedicine out to Portland and become a paramedic out there. She wouldn’t be giving up her career and life for someone else. She’d just be changing location. But this really does feel like more of a set up for a Matt comeback on a part time basis. 

Anyway, I’m preparing to be a clown about all of this. 

[kdrama-movies-more]

Jung Yi-Rang(Na Mi-ran's actor)'s Interview

(google tranlate; link in bottom for orig)

Jung Yi-Rang “Dressed as a man even Han Ji-min was surprised, secretly praying that I was the culprit.” (HIP)

Actor Jung Yi-rang shared his thoughts on leaving ‘Hiphage’. JTBC's Saturday-Sunday drama 'Hiphage' (directed by Kim Suk-yoon and Choi Bo-yoon; written by Lee Nam-kyu, Oh Bo-hyun and Kim Da-hee; production studio Phoenix and SLL) ended with episode 16 on October 1.

In the show, Jung Yi-rang plays the role of Na Mi Ran, a police officer who uses all of her public power for personal purposes to catch her husband cheating, and she did a great job as a scene-stealer.

-How do you feel about the end of ‘Hip’?

▲When I first read the script, I was really excited but also thought, 'How should I understand the genre?' I was puzzled. But what is certain is that director Kim Suk-yoon's sense of trust and the writer's ability made me believe that 'it will definitely work out'. Aren’t you going to go to season 2? (Laughs) The atmosphere of the production crew and actors I worked with was really good, and I also had fun filming it, so I want to see everyone.

-What prompted you to join the project? What other aspects did you focus on to express the character?

▲I enjoyed all of director Kim Suk-yoon's works and was a fan, so I kept checking to see what new works he was working on and knocked on his door. Thanks to this, I had a good opportunity, and because I wanted to do well, I wanted to put more effort into my character and act in an impactful, unique, and memorable way, but I felt like I would stand out too much if I did that in the overall flow. Rather than participating in the work out of greed, I thought it would be better to just melt away like water, so I tried to relax as much as possible.

-Did you prepare separately for the role of a detective, or did you add any styling highlights to express the character? Also, was there any part where you actively expressed your opinions when creating characters or scenes?

▲For some reason, it seemed like the person hunting down the criminal would be agile. I wanted to look thinner, so I tried to lose extra weight, but it was difficult. Still, I did my best to diet. Coincidentally, many other actors had similar hair, so I was offered to cut my own hair. I was a little afraid because it was a lifelong disease, but I cut it off quickly and I think I did very well.

Also, there was a scene in the play where there was a chase scene on a motorcycle, and since I had always driven a scooter, I insisted, 'I really want to film a scene where I drive the chase without a stunt double.' The director gave me some opportunities without risk, so I was able to have fun filming.

-Some viewers predicted Na Mi-ran to be the culprit of the murder case. What did you think when you heard these viewers’ reactions? I'm also curious as to whether all the actors knew about the culprit while filming, and if they didn't know, when did they find out about it, and whether they thought they might be the culprit while filming.

▲I didn’t know the culprit until the end of filming. So I prayed deeply. Please let me be the culprit. I had a sweet dream for a moment, thinking, ‘It would be great to film a crazy criminal scene at the end.’ (Laughs) - I was

-The scene in episode 13 where he dressed up as a man and pretended to be a delivery man was impressive. There were many reactions that said they thought they were watching 'SNL', but I wonder if there were any episodes while filming that scene. Also, please let us know if there is a most memorable scene.

▲When I went to the filming location dressed as a man, people didn't recognize me and didn't even say hello, and seemed to think I was just a visitor. In particular, I remember (Han) Jimin being so shocked that he couldn't speak. There was also a scene where there was a fight with criminals. His martial arts director praised him for being talented and saying he was really better than he thought. He was shaking his fist and falling down along with the other male actors, which gave me goosebumps. It's so much fun and makes me look kind of cool. I really wanted to become an actor, and I am proud of it, so I would like to thank the production team. I am seriously thinking about signing up for Action School as well.

-I wonder what kind of actor Han Ji-min and Lee Min-ki I saw next to each other were.

▲Han Ji-min is prettier than I thought, but she also has an easy-going personality and talks a lot, making the stiff atmosphere cheerful. But he was so focused and good at acting that I thought, 'There's a reason why he's the lead actor.' Lee Min-ki had a special force, so I thought, 'I wish he was my older brother,' but he was younger than me. She called me ‘elder sister’(nunim) and treated me comfortably as if I had known her for a long time. Thanks to this, I was able to film comfortably.

-Your appearance on SBS's 'Same Bed, Different Dreams 2 - You Are My Destiny' also attracted a lot of attention. Is there anything special that has changed since the broadcast? What was your husband’s reaction after watching ‘Be Hip’ with you?

▲Because my husband and I love so passionately and live passionately, there were some things we didn’t feel right about. Should we call it a mirroring effect? I think I've calmed down a bit and tried to take a step back and look at the situation more objectively. I am grateful to the production team of ‘Same Bed, Different Dreams 2’ as it has more advantages than disadvantages.

My reaction after watching the drama was that was disappointed, saying, ‘I wish there was a little more screenplay.’ People also complimented me by saying that the acting was ok and maybe even better. However, every chance I got, I asked who the culprit was, and in some urgent situations, I was tired of testing people by saying, 'What will I do if you tell me who the culprit is?', but I accepted it happily because it meant that I was watching the drama with a lot of concentration.

-If you could have one superpower like the setting in ‘Hip-Hope,’ what would it be?

▲I already had a conversation with senior Kim Hee-won(Won Jong-muk's actor) about what kind of superpower he wanted. Senior says he wants to rule over iron. When I asked him why, he said that he wanted to suck up the world's treasury from the North and South Poles and make it his own. He said something like, 'If you have the ability to make money, why go to the North Pole?' (Laughs) He seemed much more pure than I thought. I wish I didn't have superpowers. I think life is tiring. Simple is better.

-What goals do you want to achieve as an actor in the future?

▲I hope many people will enjoy and be happy with the drama I am currently filming. I hope that because of me, many people will smile, be excited, be happy, and that their pain will heal and they will be excited. I am praying to become an influential actor who makes people around the world cry, laugh, and be happy. Regardless of whether your dream is too big or not, it is good to always have hope and live your dream.

[writingwithcolor]

Using Twitter as a Writer

Anonymous said:

you seem like you know a lot about the process of writing and publication. do you know if it's really true that twitter is the center of literary activity, and if you want to get published, you need an account?

Okay, it is good to have a Twitter account. You can use it to establish your presence and to find writing calls, for fiction or nonfiction. I've found a few calls that way. That way when you post a bio and an editor asks for social media, you can find new readers. It also allows you to connect with other authors and determine personal branding. 

I will say, however, that I didn’t publish my first story by going onto Twitter. My mentor saw me submitting to Sam’s Dot Publishing before it folded and became Alban Lake, and she remembered me. She encouraged me further. You don't need Twitter to become a well-known author, but rather the willingness to get rejected over and over again while still trying. Writers get attention by writing, and not letting one form letter get them down. (You can't even let rude personal letters get you down.)

It is good if you have a website with an email where editors can reach you. This can be a free blogger site on Google, WordPress or Wix, or a fancy customized option. Make sure your contact information is constantly updated on it. 

Twitter is a tool. It can also be a blunt tool in the wrong hands. That's why if you are setting up an account, make sure to apply common sense. Don't post any personal information or act like a troll to others. Stay out of weird controversies such as authors admitting they like the Jon/Sansa ship in Game of Thrones. A reputation can fall easily due to the wrong word, and all you can do is keep quiet. 

Potential employers can also see what you post. They will look you up after an interview, and even before, to see what kind of person you are. 

Twitter has little regulation on political discussions, and trolls abound. (Update: there is a little more regulation with a certain fascist getting banned.) The report button is your friend, and know when to not doom scroll. Obviously, this year made avoiding the addictive feeds super hard. Request to follow topics that relax you. Kittens are mine, and I can never resist a cute pet photo. 

Also, anyone can see your Twitter, if you want editors to find you. That includes people you don't want who will see the tweets, retweets and links. My mom had a habit of commenting on my Twitter account, and not in a nice way. Prepare yourself for that, and have a private account for venting if you need that.

-Jaya

[missymurphy1985]

The Writer (Tommy Shelby X Fem.Reader) - Part One

Warning - SMUT (eventually)

Request? Yes

Taglist @queenshelby @margoo0 @being-worthy @peakyscillian @peakyciills @janelongxox @elenavampire21 @noctvrnalmoth @ysmmsy @cloudofdisney @lauren-raines-x @namelesslosers @misscarolineshelby @screemqueen @cilleveryone @peaky-cillian @misselsbells06 @heidimoreton

You looked in the mirror, straightening out your dress and taking a deep breath. Your boss David, who also happened to be your older brother, had arranged a meeting with you in the offices of the Birmingham Herald at 6pm sharp.

On the way there, you couldn't help but marvel at how you'd ended up here. Your husband had died two years after returning from war having suffered severe injuries, and after you'd taken on his job at the Herald while he was away fighting, falling ill on his return and subsequently dying, your brother, the editor, had kept you on so you weren't destitute. It was against all the principles of the time, a woman working, but your brother never once allowed the other men at the newspaper to talk down to you. You were the best storyteller and strongest journalist they had on the books and he would always have your back. The other men had grown to look at you as a sister almost - you were blessed to be in the position you were in.

Arriving at the Herald, you made your way to David's office.

"Y/n, I'm sorry to call you in this evening..." He smiled, embracing you and offering you a whiskey which you gladly accepted.

"I never have evening plans David, you know that. What was so important it couldn't wait til morning?"

"We've had an incredible offer and I want you to be the one to report it. The story is made for you."

"What is it?"

"Thomas Shelby has agreed to an article on his life to date!"

"Thomas Shelby? As in the Peaky Blinders?! Not a fucking chance David..." You recoiled in horror. You knew the man's history very well, you'd gone to school with his younger brother John and the stories of the Peaky Blinders were infamous. You hated the man - the thought of interviewing him mad your stomach turn.

"This story could launch your career into the big time Y/n! Think about it! The most secretive, elusive man in the country wants to tell his story to you!"

"To the Herald."

"No, y/n, to YOU. He asked for you. By name."

"How the hell does he know my name?" You'd written your articles under a male pen name so as not to distract readers from the content. Not all men were as modern as your brother and coworkers.

"No idea, but he specifically asked for you."

You mind turned - no one knew you worked at the Herald. You'd kept yourself to yourself, even moving out of Small Heath after your husband passed away. You'd lost touch with John just before he went off to war. There was no connection to the Shelby family at all.

"The reason I dragged you in at 6pm is because he wants to make a start today. This evening actually, there's a car picking you up in 30 minutes."

"David!! I can't do this interview for goodness sake, I'm not even close to prepared!"

"You have 30 minutes! Pull your finger out!" He laughed.

You'd crammed as much as possible in that 30 minutes as you could - your mind was whirring at 70miles per hour when the silver Bentley pulled up outside. Glaring at David, who simply smirked in response, you got in the car as the driver greeted you.

"Arrow House ma'am, won't take long to get there," the driver smiled as you asked him where he was taking you. Arrow House? His home? Why would the most secretive man in Birmingham want to meet you in his sanctuary?

************************************************************

Pulling up outside the huge mansion, you couldn't help but be impressed. The gardens were immaculate.

A middle aged lady greeted you at the front door and offered to take your coat. You smiled and handed it over, as she led you through to the dining room. You took the seat she offered.

"Would you like some tea Ms. Y/L/N?" You nodded, and she signalled one of the younger maids to action.

"Mr Shelby will be with you in a moment, please make yourself comfortable," the lady smiled warmly and headed out the door with your coat. You looked around the room. A large painting on one wall of the man himself with a large horse. There was a smaller picture on a cabinet just underneath that caught your eye. A beautiful blond woman, with piercing eyes and a loving smile, holding a small boy in her arms. You didn't know Thomas was married, let alone had a son. The house didn't seem to have much of a feminine feel to it though, it was borderline drab in its decor.

"My wife, Grace. And my son Charles." A voice behind you startled you, and you turned to see Thomas himself walking towards you, a glass of whiskey in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

"She's beautiful, Mr Shelby. And your son is adorable," you smiled, but he didn't return it.

"She certainly was." Your eyes grew wide as the realisation of what he'd said sunk in.

"Oh I'm sorry -"

"No need. It was a long time ago. Shall we get this over with Ms Y/L/N?" You nodded and he led you out of the dining room into a smaller one - clearly an office. The large oak desk sprawled out in front of the bay window. You took your seat opposite his at the desk and pulled out your pen and pad as he poured himself another whiskey. You shook your head when he offered you one, drinking the tea the young maid have brought in to you instead.

Your questions for him were simple at first. You asked about his childhood in Small Heath. His schooling. His childhood friends. Pretty much all one word answers, driving you insane, until you asked about his brothers.

"You knew John, didn't you?" He asked.

"Yes. Same year at school."

"Sadly, he's no longer with us. Shot by the Italians last year." You heart dropped - you heard through the grapevine that John had children and a wife and the news hit you like a freight train. You took a breath and a moment to compose yourself.

"I'm so sorry Mr Shelby..."

"I'm sorry too, I didn't realise you were so close?"

"We were close before the war. Lost touch after that."

"I don't remember seeing you with him?"

"My father wouldn't let me see him, so we had to be careful.."

"You and John were..."

"No no.. god no! Just friends Mr Shelby." He went quiet again, and sipped his whiskey.

Back to the questions. Mundane as they were, you needed them to get the full story. He wasn't forthcoming with the details. You had to really press him, but he spent most of his time drinking his whiskey and looking out of the window at the dark clouds rolling in outside.

"Listen, Mr Shelby, you clearly don't want this any more than I do so please, if you don't mind, I'd like to end the interview here." Your voice was stern, patience had officially gone out of the window he was so fixated with.

"Jack said you were feisty." You froze at mention of your late husband's name.

"How did you know Jack?"

"We served together in France. Good man."

"Is that how you knew my name?" He didn't answer, just nodded, again watching the weather changing quickly outside.

"Storm looks bad."

"If I leave now I should be fine." The first rumble of thunder made you jump, Tommy noticed your fear instantly.

"Scared of storms?"

"They used to scare Jack.." a second rumble had you grasping onto the chair.

"Stay until it passes." Was that a request or an order.. you weren't sure but he took your hand gently and led you into the hallway away from the window, into the main dining room again.

"Frances, have the curtains closed please." He spoke to the older woman who greeted you at the door and she dutifully obliged, closing the curtains in the large windows.

Tommy sat you at the table and gave you his glass of whiskey, your shaky hands accepting it this time. Every thunderstorm brought flashbacks of Jack's terror filled eyes.. his anguished cries of pain.. and ultimately the sound of the gun he placed at his temple before he took his own life. You took a sip of the warm liquid as Tommy sat beside you, a fresh glass of his own in his hand.

"Jack saved my life."

"He did?"

"Yes. We were underground digging.. we could hear the Germans on the other side of the dirt digging towards us... They broke through first and grabbed me. Jack beat them to death with his hammer to get them off me." Tommy's memory made you smile, and you laughed gently.

"He was always brave.. and strong. Put everyone else first. He never told me.."

"He never wanted praise, it was just part of his job. In return.. I said if anything happened to him I would make sure you were looked after."

"What?"

"The men at your office? They're under my watch. They respect you because you're a damn good writer, but they also know if they gave you any shit..." He raised his eyebrow and you couldn't help but smile. Even after his death, he was making sure you were okay. That was the Jack you wanted to remember.

"In that case Mr Shelby, I thank you."

"Call me Tommy eh? Here's to the bravest man in France." He clinked his glass with yours and you felt him almost begin to relax.

"I noticed a piano in the hall - do you play?"

"I did as a boy. My mother was a keen player, I used to watch her all the time. Gave it up after she died."

"I played for Jack all the time. It soothed him when he couldn't sleep." He smiled, a warm genuine smile that you couldn't help but return.

You'd spent the evening drinking whiskey and talking with Tommy, the whiskey hitting you much quicker than it did him, and you could feel your eyelids growing heavier.

"I have a spare room upstairs y/n, maybe stay tonight, I'll have my driver take you home in the morning." He stood before you had chance to argue and you followed him up the stairs.

He led you into a beautiful bedroom, the decor in here much more appealing than downstairs and the large oak double bed even more so.

"I don't want to impose Thomas..."

"That storm isn't letting up any time soon, and you're exhausted. You're welcome to stay. There's fresh clothes in the wardrobe. My wife was the same build as you, they should fit. I'll have my driver take you home at 7am. Goodnight Y/n..." His blue eyes lingered on yours a moment and you felt a rush of something you hadn't felt in a long time... Scaring you. Quickly looking away, you bid him goodnight.

[where-theres-smoak-2]

Here’s the transcript of an interview LB did a couple of weeks ago. Be prepared to be annoyed at her not knowing wtf she’s taking about but pretending she does especially in the Darkling and the decision to make Alina half Shu sections:

https://www.penfaulkner.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/10/Literature-on-Screen-Shadow-and-Bone-Transcript.pdf

So there were a few bits in this interview that I want to talk about. I am going to shock you here and say there were actually parts of this interview where I agree with what LB says and gave me the tiniest bit of hope. But before you get too worried its the parts where she is talking about season 2 and her involvement in the show and writing process. Here is what she said when asked what her involvement in season 2 is:

With season two, I've been able to be a little bit more involved in casting, costumes, production design, meeting with directors.

Then I think I am going to step back. I'm not going to be as involved in reading the scripts. I think at this point, we are going to be diverging quite a bit more, and it's all I can say. I really cannot say more than that. I'm about to be descended upon by Netflix assassins. For me, there has to be a moment of saying, “This doesn't belong to me anymore.” The books are mine, they will always be on the shelves, and this has its own life now.

She also said something similar a little later in the interview when talking about changes between the books and the show and how she got negative reactions to saying the show was like an expensive fanfiction:

Which to me is like, "Why are you so mad about fanfiction? It's amazing, first of all. Second, all adaptation is fan fiction. That's what it is. All adaptation is fan fiction." To me, this is the way adaptation should work, where you keep the core and you keep the heart, but you're allowed to play. Otherwise, you cannot ask, I think, a group of smart writers, talented directors, amazing actors to simply transcribe. I don't think that's exciting for anyone.

That funny thing about that second statement about tv adaptions basically being fanfiction is I said it myself in a post a while back. It does seem like LB is more open to changes from her book and it also looks like she is not going to be as involved with the writing process for season 2, we also have heard in other interviews that they are going to be diverting away from the books in the next season, whether that is a good or bad thing is yet to be seen but I do think it is a good thing that LB is taking a step back from the show, as she herself said the books are hers and they will always be there so the show should be the show and it should be allowed to have a life of its own. I've said before but I prefer it with tv adaptions if they don't follow the books because to me that's more exciting than if I know exactly what is coming next, I like to be surprised.

Something else I learned from this interview is this:

Eric Heisserer, he is our showrunner on Shadow and Bone season one and in season two he'll be co-show running with Daegan Fryklind who is one of the wonderful writers from season one.

So from a google search I found out that Daegan was the writer for episode 6 and episode 8. Again whether its a good or bad thing that she'll now be co-running the show with Eric I don't know but it is still an interesting bit of information and I'll take any info I can get on season 2.

However whilst I was feeling optimistic about everything LB was saying about season 2 and was actually kind of impressed at how she seemed to have let go a bit and was happier with the idea of changes from the books than she seemed in the past, but she then said this:

Petra: Following on from that, actually, somebody is asking, and I know you've said that the story is going to diverge from the books in future seasons, do you – Let's assume this is a spoiler too but I'm going to ask it anyways, and you can tell me to get lost. Do you want the shows and the books to end in the same place, the same way?

Leigh: Yes I do. [laughs] Yes, I do. Look, I wrote the books the way I wrote them for a reason, and that – I haven't seen any sense that that is going to change at all, but there are certain things that I know if we get to move forward will change because we'll want to see these characters continue in their adventures. Also because there's a finality to some things that happen in the books that then is sort of undone in later books, I'm really being abstruse here, but I guess my point is there are certain things that are essential to me that stay the same and certain things that I don't care. You learn which things and, fortunately, I've been on the same page with the writers from moment one.

Just no, please no, no, no. This I just don't understand ok. LB and the showrunners/writers must be aware of how unpopular the ending of her books were right? I mean I've seen an interview where LB herself says that she was aware that the ending was controversial amongst fans and that many of them were angry at the ending. You could put up a good argument that it was the thing people hated the most about her original trilogy, the ending. So why on earth would she or the showrunners want to keep that ending? Like any part of it? I mean she says there are some things she doesn't care if they are changed and others she thinks are essential they keep and unfortunately I feel like it most likely Alina losing her powers that she wants to keep and that for me was the worst part of the ending. To be honest it kind of makes me really wary about continuing with the show because I don't want to get invested in the show just to be really let down by the ending. Also if that many book readers didn't like the ending what do they think is going to happen when the tv viewers see that ending, its likely going to be game of thrones 2.0.

As you predicted some of the things she said about the darkling and Alina being half Shu did annoy me. I feel like with Alina being half shu she just sort of glossed over the question which the interviewer brought up the critique that she had wished that they had explored Alina's Shu heritage outside of just the racism she faces and dive deeper into that which LB just basically said they will be exploring more about what it means for Alina to be Shu and Ravkan in season 2. I will say I do hope that they do cover more of the other cultures particularly the Shu culture as we got to know a little about the fjerdan culture through Matthias but we know very little about the Shu culture.

As for the darkling I am not going to go too much into it because its not really anything new I'm just resigned to the fact that LB and I are always going to have different opinions on his character and not to sound too harsh but I don't really care what her opinion or views are anymore. One thing I will point out though is this little tidbit:

Leigh: Look, there's never been a problem creating sympathy for the Darkling. This is a very beloved character, sometimes to my great frustration.

I mean this is nothing us darklinas didn't already know but the next time an anti says that LB never had a problem with people liking the darkling/darklina show them this interview where she openly admits that she found it frustrating. I do kind of feel for her I guess it must be frustrating to write a villain that you meant for everyone to hate only for them to become the most loved/popular character in your series.

[no-reply95]

I was scrolling through the Beatles topic on Twitter the other day and came across a tweet from Mark Lewisohn referring to a talk he’d given to the Fab4cast podcast on the Get Back sessions and Spring period of 1969. I assumed that it was a recent talk so I gave it a listen but the talk is actually from 2019.

I tend to find Lewisohn’s podcast interviews to be very interesting. He’s obviously got decades worth of Beatle knowledge stored up so you’re almost guaranteed to learn something new or hear an anecdote that you’ve never heard before but more than the factoids he’s accumulated over the years I find his interpretations of the band extremely telling.

The part of the conversation that really caught my attention was when the podcast hosts brought up the fact that John and Paul’s weddings were really close together and wondered if the two events were connected in any way, I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that this probably got the biggest reaction out of Lewisohn, the main points of the exchange are outlined below (time stamp 47:12)

Host: “Well also in this period there are two events, the marriages of John and Paul, within 8 days of each other… I read that John wanted to marry on the 14th, two days after Paul’s wedding but couldn’t do it because of legal issues, how much was his [marriage] a response to Paul’s marriage do you think?”

Lewisohn: “I’ve read that people say that it was but never heard John say that it was so there’s no validity to those claims they’re just people assuming that John didn’t want to be outdone by Paul… that’s the kind of writing that annoys me because it becomes part of the fact and it’s some writer thinking that’s what it probably was… Unless someone out there can find a Lennon quote in which he actually says it in which case I stand corrected and I’ll be very happy to do so”

There’s a lot going on in these quotes so I’m gonna break down my thoughts on this further:

The illusion of John’s honesty

What Lewisohn displays here is something I believe is pretty common within the Beatles’ authorship. I believe in Revolution In The Head Ian McDonald referred to John as “truth” and Paul as “beauty” and I think a lot of writers do tend to assign those attributes consistently to John and Paul. Reading (or listening) to the Lennon Remembers interview now, it’s hard to believe at one stage people took what John was saying as fact and never even questioned whether there were emotions or agenda behind what he was saying, despite the contradictions (“Me and Paul stopped writing together in 1962” vs “Me and Paul worked really closely together on Sgt. Pepper”) and because John was so charismatic and would speak openly in interviews and to people he knew about both the good and bad in his life I think people, and in this case Lewisohn, assume that John told us everything of note that happened in his life, which I don’t think is a realistic expectation of anyone, let alone someone as famous as John. I think it’s problematic to take John’s or anyone else’s words, especially when they’re said in public, as the gospel truth because everyone has an agenda and John was no different. I also think it’s unrealistic to believe that John would ever announce that the reason he and Yoko got married when they did was in any way connected to Paul, that would have sullied the sanctity of “John and Yoko TM”, I mean, how can you be the greatest love story ever if the reason you decided to get married was because your musical partner who you may have unresolved romantic feelings for got married? I don’t think John would publicly embarrass Yoko like that or risk undermining the strength of the brand he was trying to create with his new relationship by admitting that Paul’s marriage spurred them on. That Lewisohn is apparently holding out for a lost interview of John stating that Paul was involved in the timing of his marriage to Yoko just sounds pretty far fetched to me.

The timing of John’s wedding in relation to his and Yoko’s divorces

As discussed in this podcast, Paul and Linda got married (pretty unexpectedly I believe) on 12 March 1969 and John and Yoko got married 8 days later (and apparently they wanted it to be sooner) on 20 March 1969. Aside from the extremely close proximity of John and Paul’s weddings it should be noted that John’s divorce from Cynthia was finalised in November 1968 and Yoko’s from Tony Cox was finalised in January 1969.

So why am I bringing up John and Yoko’s divorces? Because it meant that they were free to marry each other from January 1969, there was no longer a legal issue preventing them and if John’s bursting out in song about it, you would assume that they would have started planning their wedding ASAP… but curiously they didn’t. How do we know John and Yoko weren’t planning a wedding before Paul married Linda? Because once Paul was married John and Yoko started scrambling to get married ASAP, suddenly there was a rush and need to be married that hadn’t existed before, John suddenly wanted to marry Yoko on a ferry but they couldn’t be married there, then John wanted to marry Yoko in Paris but they needed to be resident in Paris for a period of time before they could get married there so eventually they settled on Gibraltar as they could get married there at short notice. Clearly there was a sudden need for John and Yoko to get married that didn’t materialise until around March 1969, am I and countless other people (including Paul himself) crazy for assuming that Paul’s wedding impacted John’s sudden desperate need to be married? If it wasn’t Paul’s wedding, what was it?

Authorial interpretation and assumptions

I’m really fascinated by the visceral reaction Lewisohn had to just the suggestion that the timing of John and Yoko’s wedding was connected to Paul and Linda’s. For Lewisohn to state it annoys him was pretty shocking to me because, given what is publicly known about this period and the lack of any other logical reason for John and Yoko’s wedding to be so close to Paul’s and Linda’s, I don’t think it’s bad writing to point out the proximity and suggest that the timing was more than a coincidence.

Based on his reaction, you would assume that Lewisohn would be set against any form of interpretation where the principal in question hadn’t confirmed that the interpretation was in fact correct but that would be an incorrect assumption to make. Some of you may be aware of the Hornsey Road shows Mark Lewisohn was giving in 2019 around the 50th anniversary of Abbey Road. During these shows Lewisohn played a clip from the, now infamous, 4-4-4-2 meeting tape and gave a presentation on the Abbey Road period in the Beatles’ history. One of the points Lewisohn raised during the show was that during the sessions, after the car accident in Scotland, a bed was brought into the studio for Yoko so she (and sometimes John) could rest while work on the album progressed. According to Lewisohn, one morning they turned up to the studio and someone had removed one of the legs from the bed, leaving it with 3 legs *dramatic pause* which was him heavily hinting that he thought Paul broke Yoko’s bed on purpose and then bragged about it on the Ram album by including a song called 3 legs, I’m not going to go into the validity (or lack thereof) of this claim but I find it very interesting that Lewisohn was annoyed about authors suggesting that the timing of John and Yoko’s wedding was connected to Paul and Linda’s but he seems happy to publicly speculate that Paul was sabotaging Yoko’s bed in the studio based on the title of a song that he would release on Ram two years later and nothing else.

Is there any evidence that connects John’s wedding to Paul’s?

I’ve already outlined the suspiciousness of John and Yoko choosing to get married right after Paul, when they had been free to marry for weeks prior but is there any other evidence that either proves that the weddings were connected or is Lewisohn right to deem that suggestion as lacking in validity?

Interestingly there actually is unverified eyewitness testimony that does connect John and Paul’s weddings (something not mentioned by Lewisohn in this podcast). I believe there’s an anecdote from Les Anthony (John’s chauffeur at the time) about him driving John and Yoko around when news of Paul’s wedding suddenly came across the radio, to which John apparently said to Yoko that “we have to get married now”… I couldn’t track down the exact source for that story (if anyone knows the source please let me know) so I’m not sure how credible that anecdote is but, assuming it is accurate, then that would suggest a correlation between John and Paul’s weddings that Lewisohn is adamant doesn’t exist.

Why does this matter?

I do think that this podcast interview could be indicative of a few future concerns I personally have around the way the Beatles discourse will progress in the future. Firstly, this was only a podcast interview so it’s unlikely that when Lewisohn releases the final book in his trilogy that he’ll discuss the weddings in this manner (I.e. although he’s adamant the timing of John’s wedding had nothing to with Paul he failed to offer any sort of explanation regarding why John and Yoko were rushing to get married when they’d had weeks to prepare a wedding).

It’s a slight worry that Lewisohn seems to believe that John announced every single thing that happened in his life of note, especially concerning Paul and Yoko. If John had told us everything of interest about him, surely his Dakota diaries would be the basis of a Netflix series by now and not locked away in a vault (assuming they haven’t already been destroyed). To me, like several authors before him, Lewisohn seems to be mistaking John’s emotional honesty with factual honesty. It didn’t escape my attention that several clips of the Lennon Remembers interview were inserted into this podcast and Lewisohn quotes extensively from it in Tune In as well. There’s nothing wrong with using Lennon Remembers as a source but if you do use it you should be analysing the veracity of what was said as we know that John was in a torched earth mentality at that time and even he himself has said what he said in that interview wasn’t meant as a timeless manifesto. It’s a shame that given his ability of analyse sources Lewisohn has never (to my knowledge) critically analysed Lennon Remembers, given that other sources have been analysed this makes LR a strange omission.

Finally, Lewisohn does tend to make some good insights and does have the ability to read between the lines (I.e. him noting Paul’s tendency to say “we” when in most cases he means himself) but with John I do think he has a bit of a blindspot. Why Lewisohn is happy to speculate without evidence in some cases (3 legs) but he draws the line at the suggestion that John and Paul’s weddings being connected is anyone’s guess. If Lewisohn can turn his attention to reading between the lines with John and the other Beatles too and connecting the dots then we should get a Beatles biography that finally addresses a lot of the issues we cover on this site. However, if we take the approach of only using John and Yoko’s PR to understand the events that transpired before and after the band broke up then the story hasn’t moved much further than 1970 and given all that we know now I think that would be a huge shame.

[harrystylescherry]

In My Feelings Part One

a/n: welcome to part 1!! it’s a bit long--and the other parts will be too so prepare yourselves. i’m honestly so excited for this series and these characters and I hope you all are too!

what it is: you and harry hate one another but that doesn’t stop you from fucking

warning: choking and a lot of cursing

word count: 11.7k

pls pls pls reblog if you liked it!

i’d love to hear your feedback :)

SERIES MASTERLIST

here we go:

September 16, 2020

You were standing in your bathroom, blurring the red lipstick around the edges of your lips in front of the mirror while Charlotte sat on the lid of the toilet behind you, telling you about a fight she had with her boyfriend the night before. 

“Can I be honest with you?” You asked her, resting both hands on the edges of the sink, looking at her through the mirror. 

“It’s stupid, isn’t it? We’re fighting over nothing.”

You scrunched up your nose and nodded. She finished her sigh just as Sarah came to lean against the doorframe, her eyes on her phone. 

“They said they’re going to meet us there in, like, half an hour. Is that good?”

Charlotte said “yes” at the same time you asked, “they?”

“Ooo.” Charlotte’s attention moved to her lap and Sarah averted her eyes when you looked at her. 

“He’s coming?” She nodded and you groaned. 

“I’m sorry! Mitch was with him and when he asked what he was doing tonight, Harry asked if he could come...and Mitch said yes.”

“And he knows why we’re going out for drinks?”

“Yes.”

“So he’s not going to be a dick to me tonight?”

“Are you going to be a dick to him?”

“Haven’t decided yet.”

Charlotte chuckled as Sarah sent you a disapproving look. 

You had been friends with Sarah for a little over a year. You were a writer, freelance for a while, and you did a small piece on her and a few other female drummers about what it was like; specifically asking about the misogyny that existed within the industry, whether or not there was some kind of stick-togetherness attitude among the few that there were. You two had really hit it off during her interview and so she asked you to get a drink, and then a few days later you asked her to get dinner, and then you went shopping, and then you had a wine night…and it all grew from there. 

Then she started inviting Charlotte since they started seeing a lot of one another again during the process of making the album. Then, since Mitch also really liked you, Sarah finally invited you out with the four of them and Adam (who also enjoyed your company). Harry did too at first, and you enjoyed his, but the more time you spent around him...the more you found that you didn’t really like him. You didn’t really like him at all. 

He refused to ever take responsibility for his actions, to admit that it was he who had fucked up, who hurt someone. You saw the way he cared for his friends and could see the love in his eyes when he talked about his family...but when he talked about his exes or other girls he was dating...you wanted to laugh. He seemed to twist everything. Everything was always their fault. 

One night in particular, you were all sitting around the kitchen table at your place, all a little bit more than tipsy. 

You were all talking about past relationships, sharing horror stories, and embarrassing date stories when you turned your attention on Harry. 

“What about you?” 

He had been mostly quiet. 

He shrugged, “My last relationship ended...badly.”

“Oh?” You asked. 

“Yeah, Harry cheated on her.” Mitch brought his beer up to his lips and Harry shot him a look. 

“Oh.” You said. 

“It wasn’t my fault.” Harry tried to reassure you and you just raised your eyebrows at him. “I’m serious. I..didn’t really have a choice.”

“What?” You were giving him a chance to explain. 

Sarah sat back in her chair, “Harry, just stop talking.”

“What?” He asked her. “It wasn’t my fault.” 

You scoffed under your breath in disbelief at the words that were coming out of his mouth. 

“What?” He turned his attention to you.

“I’m just pretty sure you had a choice.”

“I didn’t.” He argued. “She saw it coming. I mean, really, she had to.”

“Anyway, I once dated this guy who had a booger wall.” Charlotte cut off the conversation and you let a giggle escape your lips, mixing in with the laughter from everyone else. 

You didn’t forget what Harry said, though. You thought that it revealed a major part of his character you had seemed to miss. What kind of person cheats on someone and then talked about it like it was nothing? Like none of it was his fault?

It just got worse from there. You later learned that they had dated for over a year. On occasion, when he got drunk enough, he would talk about how much he loved her, how terribly she broke his heart--and all you ever did was roll your eyes. He was the one who cheated and he was acting as though it was the other way around. He also called her heartless on occasion, once even let the word ‘bitch’ slip from his drunken lips. 

You didn’t like the way he spoke about her. You had never met the girl, but Harry cheated on her. In what world did that make her the bad guy?

His ego was also the size of the fucking sun. At first, you couldn’t tell if he was trying to impress you or simply belittle you. 

When Sarah told him that you had been published in the New Yorker and had been featured in a short story collection, he said, to your face, that he had never heard of you. You had no doubt that he hadn’t, but he didn’t have to fucking say it. When you told him that the story in the collection was all about your time living in New York (as were the other stories), he said that it wasn’t his kind of thing. 

The man read Murakami and had the nerve to insinuate that your work wasn’t good enough for him?

Anytime the conversation was on you and what you were currently working on, who you were currently writing for, he always interrupted, talking about some song he wrote or something amazing he had read. It had become insufferable. 

“Aren’t you two tired of hating one another?” Charlotte asked. 

“Nope,” you answered.

“For literally no reason.” Sarah commented as you walked past her and back into the main area of your studio. 

“It’s not for no reason. I don’t like who he is as a person. Also, have you seen his chart? Shit is a toxic mess. That’s all I need to know.”

“(Y/N), you don’t know shit about astrology.” Charlotte had taken your spot in front of the mirror. 

“Maybe not, but I read his chart.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Sarah said. 

“Did you ever ask him why he doesn’t like me?” You asked the both of them as you shoved your stuff into your bag. 

“He says the same thing you do. He doesn’t like you as a person.” 

“Exactly. So we have our reasons.” 

Sarah rolled her eyes, “You two are so fucking annoying. And it’s not even, like, the entertaining kind of annoying. I swear the last time we all went out you looked about ready to punch him in the face.”

“I was.” 

“Yeah, it’s a bit scary sometimes.” Charlotte added.

“He says and does dumb shit. All the time. Every time.” You pulled up the legs of your mauve colored trousers so that you could slip your feet into your nude heels. The pants were high-waisted and hugged your hips. Your plum, short sleeve sweater was tucked into the pants, but so sheer that your matching bra was completely on display--the tattoo on your rib cage was completely visible through the material. You shrugged on the matching blazer, since it was late September and getting a bit chilly in London before hiking your bag up onto your shoulder. 

“Tonight’s going to be interesting.” Sarah mumbled as she pulled on her denim jacket. 

“Always is.” Charlotte said before pulling open your apartment door and stepping out into the hallway. 

Sarah followed her and you were last, picking your keys off of the tiny hook to the right of the door before closing it behind you and locking it. 

The bar was crowded for a Wednesday night. It was one of your usual places, not far from your place in Chelsea. The interior was a light pink, mirrors different shades of gold and sizes covering the left wall, where the booths were. The other walls were covered in photos: vintage shots of women and landscapes. The bar itself was made from dark wood, the men behind it in crisp white shirts and dark blue pants. 

You held the heavy, wooden door open for Sarah and Charlotte who walked in behind you. Just as the last person from a group climbed out of the booth closest to the door, you slid in and pulled off your jacket once you settled as Charlotte slid in next to you. 

“Cosmo?” Sarah stood in front of the table, pointing to you. You nodded and Charlotte told her she wanted a martini. 

You kept an eye on Sarah as she moved to the bar and ordered your drinks. Your brow furrowed when you saw two men approach her but you relaxed when you realized it was Mitch and sighed when you saw that Harry did, in fact, tag along.

“No matter what he says tonight, don’t let him get to you.” Charlotte reached over and squeezed your thigh. “We’re here celebrating you. I love Harry, but if he pisses you off tonight, I will kill him.” 

“Thanks.” 

“And no smoking tonight, you really need to stop doing that.” She said as she checked her phone and you rolled your eyes. 

“I know, I know.”

She was in the middle of giving you an annoyed look when Sarah reappeared at the table. She handed you and Charlotte your drinks, before taking her own from Mitch’s hand. Sarah slid in next to you, and then Mitch next to her, and Harry sat next to Charlotte. 

“Hey, (Y/N)!” Mitch greeted and you smiled, bumping your fist against his. 

You looked over at Harry and nodded, “Harry.” 

He lifted his hand to you in a half-assed wave as he took a sip from his whiskey. 

Charlotte whacked his arm. “Harry, we didn’t even cheers yet!”

“To what?” He asked.

You saw Mitch shake his head out of the corner of your eye as Sarah said, “To (Y/N).” She bumped your shoulder with hers before raising her glass. “You’re going to be great at Vogue.” You felt your cheeks heat up as you, Mitch, and Charlotte clinked your glasses with hers and paid no attention to the fact that Harry had barely raised his. 

“Thanks, guys.” You said after the three of them gave you words of encouragement. 

“So,” Harry started, grabbing your attention, “will you be making enough money to move out of that box?”

You took a deep breath. “Maybe. I don’t know, but I like where I live.” You turned your attention to Charlotte, thinking he was done, but of course he wasn’t. 

“I figured that, you know, since you’re this great, famous writer you’d be able to afford to live somewhere with an actual bedroom.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not famous, Harry.”

“But you were published in The New Yorker. I figured that meant something since you mention it enough.” He tried to hide his smirk with his glass. 

“Harry, oh, my god.” Charlotte chastised. “You didn’t even fucking congratulate her. This is a big deal.”

“Isn’t it just a staff writer position?” He said it just loud enough for you to hear and you took a long sip of your drink. 

“It is.” You spoke up. “And that might mean nothing to you, but it means a lot to me, so if you could not be a dick about it for two seconds, that would be nice.”

Sarah tapped your arm and you gave her your attention. She was asking about when you started, if you had your first assignment yet, or if you had to pitch ideas at meetings like she had seen on TV. 

You weren’t one hundred percent sure how it worked and you told her that. You had just gotten the call that you got the job on Monday, and you were meant to start the following week. 

You had made the move to London only a few months before you met Sarah, freelancing for several magazines that were fashion focused. Your favorite work you had done was for The Gentlewoman and those two articles were what had apparently made you stand out amongst the other candidates.

You had floated through internships in college, working your ass off every semester, trying to juggle those responsibilities on top of classes. It was at one of those internships that you had met the editor who was putting together the short story collection, who had given you that huge opportunity. After that, you had a small story published in the New Yorker. It was less than two pages, but it felt like a huge moment for you and so of course you were excited about it. Of course it was the thing you cited when you told people you were a writer. 

This job was everything to you. Vogue was the epitome of fashion writing--of the fashion world--and you were beyond excited and beyond proud of yourself. But of course, Harry was there to ruin it. 

“Oh!” Charlotte put her drink on the table. “I read your poem in that journal. I loved it.”

“Thank you.” You were a bit surprised that she had read it, that she had even found it. You weren’t very confident in your abilities as a poet, but you had managed to get a small piece published in a tiny online journal. “How did you find it?”

“Harry sent it to me.”

You looked over to him, surprise coating every inch of your face. 

“I searched your name, looking for that story you wrote, the New Yorker one, because Mitch kept telling me to read it and I found it.” 

“And?” You prompted.

He shrugged, “I mean, it was a little simplistic. It didn’t really seem like there was much depth there, a bit shallow.” He brought his drink to his lips as you scoffed. 

“Says the guy who reads fucking Bukowski and praises him like he’s god’s fucking gift. He’s a misogynistic piece of shit whose work is about as shallow as it gets.”

Mitch bit back a smile when he saw Harry’s reaction. It looked like he had been punched. 

“And what makes you the expert on poetry?”

“I studied that shit for four years, Harry. I write it. Also, I can fucking read.” You had really only taken one poetry workshop, and a few poetry classes, but he didn’t need to know that. He also didn’t need to know that you only wrote it every so often, being slightly intimidated by it. 

“I’m a writer too, you know.”

“It’s not the same.”

“You’re right.” He smirked, “People actually give a shit about what I write.”

“Maybe, but at least I don’t openly praise a man who called all women aggressive and disloyal whores. And not even in a creative way. The man compared women’s bodies to race track betting. When you talk about how much you love him and his work, failing to recognize how fucking problematic it is, you become just as bad as the man who wrote it.” He was glaring at you. “You want to read misogynistic poetry, fine, that’s your business--but at least read it from men who know how to fucking write.” You downed the last of your drink. “Excuse me,” you said to Sarah, “I need another.” 

No one said anything. 

Mitch and Sarah stood up from the booth and let you out. 

“She thinks she knows fucking everything.” Harry said to Mitch once you were gone and Mitch only rolled his eyes in return. 

“I told you not to be a fucking dick.” He said, kicking Harry under the table.

“I’m not!”

“Are you serious?” Charlotte asked and he scoffed. 

“All I did was ask her if she was moving.”

“No you didn’t. You asked her if she was still poor and then compared her apartment to a box.” Charlotte said. 

“And then she fucking attacked me.”

“You said some pretty cruel things first.” Sarah pointed out. 

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

“You want to think that, fine, but neither did she.” Mitch said. 

Harry looked towards the bar where you were standing, his eyes zoning in on your ass. He always thought you were hot, sexy even--but you fucking ruined it with how much of a bitch he thought you were. The second he saw you that night he thought you looked good, thought your tits looked good in your top, thought it was some kind of cosmic joke that you could look like that and be so fucking annoying. 

You acted like you knew everything. You never failed to tell him he was wrong or to correct him in front of other people. You took every opportunity you could to make him feel stupid, to make him look like he didn’t know shit about anything. You were constantly ragging on him for his taste in books and it made him feel bad. It was a bitchy thing to do. 

You also thought you were so much better than everyone else. You never shied away from sharing your accomplishments, letting everyone know just how successful you were. You carried yourself like you were the shit, and he couldn’t for the life of him understand why. 

“You’re staring at her again.” Charlotte leaned over to him and whispered. 

“She really flirts with anyone, doesn’t she?” Harry said as he watched you touch some blond’s arm at the bar. He leaned in to say something to you and you laughed. 

“Jealous?” She took another sip from her martini.

“Of what?” Harry asked.

“Fine. You want to pretend like you don’t ogle her all the time, then you do that.”

“I can think that she’s hot and a shit person. Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

His eyes went back to you once she turned to say something to Sarah. You had taken a cocktail napkin from the guy before turning and making your way back over to the group, a fresh drink in your hand. 

Instead of asking the couple to get out and let you in, you just motioned for Mitch to scoot over and he did, so you could sit on the outside, directly across from Harry.

“Who was the guy?” Charlotte asked. 

You shrugged, “He’s a bartender somewhere a few streets over. Told me to stop by for a drink sometime.”

You pushed the napkin over to her and she picked it up, examining the ink that spelled out his phone number, where he worked, and his days for the rest of the week. 

“Seems a bit weird.” Harry commented, taking the last sip of his whiskey. 

“Why?” Your fingers toyed with the stem of your glass. 

“What kind of guy gives a stranger his work schedule? Why wouldn’t he just ask you to get a drink now? At this bar?”

“He did ask me to have a drink with him, but unlike you, I don’t ditch my friends for strangers.”

“I didn’t even--” He started but a chorus of  “oh, you dids” rang around the booth and Harry closed his mouth. 

“You’ve done it more than once, actually.” Mitch commented and Harry sent him a glare. 

You sent Harry a satisfied smile and he rolled his eyes. 

“Still a bit weird.” He mumbled. 

“Holy shit, would you just shut the fuck up?”

Everyone’s eyes snapped to you. 

“Seriously. Just shut the fuck up. It’s not that hard.”

You had enough of him for the night. He seemed to have a problem with everything you said, with every aspect of your life. For whatever reason, nothing was ever good enough, nothing was ever okay with him--not that you necessarily minded whether or not he approved of you or your life, but it was infuriating that he refused to ever mind his own business or keep his mouth shut. You always tried to be civil with him--as much as you possibly could--but tonight was supposed to be a celebration of you and your accomplishments and he was absolutely ruining it. 

“Sorry?” He leaned forward. 

“You fucking heard me.” 

You could tell by the look on his face that his “Sorry?” wasn’t because he didn’t hear you. He was giving you the opportunity to take it back. He squeezed his glass in his hand and you saw his jaw tighten in the low light. You could sense that he was holding back some choice words, possibly not wanting to be more of an asshole, but it was more likely that he just didn’t want to cause a scene. 

“Bathroom?” Charlotte turned to Sarah, who nodded. 

Mitch said he was getting another drink and told Harry that he would get him one as well while you stood up from the booth to let them out. 

You knew that the tension between you and Harry had made them uncomfortable and for a second, you felt bad. You didn’t want to throw off everyone else’s night just because you and Harry couldn’t manage to get along, but ultimately, it was his fault. He had started it and you were intent on finishing it--which is why, when Sarah asked if you were going to join them, you shook your head and sat back in your seat. 

“Great.” He muttered when he noticed you hadn’t left. 

“I don’t know what the fuck your problem is, but I’m tired of your shit. Especially tonight. You don’t fucking like me? Fine. I don’t like you. I didn’t even fucking invite you. You think my place sucks? Fine. You think this job means nothing? Fine, but those are your opinions, which could very easily be kept to yourself. You chose to come here. You knew why we were coming out and you still fucking chose to tag along. So maybe, I don’t know, stop being a fucking dick for two seconds so I can actually enjoy tonight? Because believe it or not, this job fucking matters to me and I worked my ass off to get it.” 

“Are you done?” 

You scoffed bitterly before leaning over to grab your bag. You shoved your glass across the table in his direction. “Fuck off.”

Before he could say anything back, you were pushing your way through the crowd of people, moving towards the front door. 

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, cracking his knuckles as he stared down at the wooden surface of the table.

He knew he was being an absolute prick. He knew that maybe he had gone a little too far, especially since you were right--you didn’t invite him. Mitch did and Harry knew it was more of a pity invite and that Mitch didn’t actually expect him to say yes. Mitch had reminded him at least three times that they were going out to celebrate your new job and he even made Harry promise not to start a fight with you, not to ruin the night. 

He shouldn’t have pushed it. He should’ve backed down after your lecture and just let all of you get on for the rest of the night, but for whatever reason, he couldn’t do that. 

Part of him got off on riling you up. He would watch your jaw tick as he slid something underhanded into the conversation, he could see the fire in your eyes when you threw curses in his face, felt the bite of each of your insults, couldn’t help but be impressed when you constantly refused to back down. You were stubborn. Always so fucking stubborn. Always had to have the last word. Always had to be right. They were traits that he hated, but also found slightly enticing. As angry as you made him, as much as he didn’t like you, a small part of him was hungry for more of it. 

When Mitch came back to the booth, he sent Harry a questioning gaze as he placed their drinks on the table. 

“She, uh...left, I think.” Harry mumbled and pointed his thumb in the direction of the entrance behind him. 

“What the fuck, man.” Mitch sighed in frustration. “I told you not to do this tonight.”

“It’s not just me!”

“Tonight it was. You started it.” He shook his head. “The two of you are so fucking annoying.”

“I don’t know why Sarah even likes her.” He brought his glass to his lips. 

“Harry, you’re the only one who doesn’t like her.”

Charlotte and Sarah reappeared. “Where’s (Y/N)?” Charlotte asked as Sarah sighed and looked over at Harry, her arms crossing over her chest. 

You knew Charlotte was going to give you shit for it when you went back inside, but you didn’t care. 

You stuck the cigarette between your lips and brought your lighter up, giving it a flick to light it. You dropped it back in your bag as you took your first drag, a relaxed sigh leaving you. 

It was a nasty habit you had picked up the summer you studied in Paris a few years ago. You only ever smoked when you were drunk, stressed out, or both, and you always swore you would stop. 

You heard the sudden echo of laughter pour from the bar as someone opened the door and then the click of familiar boots approach you. 

“Leave me alone.” You said, not even bothering to look at him. 

“No.” Harry said. 

You sighed, “What do you want?”

You crossed your arms over your body trying to shield yourself from the cool fall breeze that was slipping through your sheer sweater. You tapped your heel against the bricks you were leaning on and flicked the ash of your cigarette. 

“You look good tonight.” He cleared his throat and you tried to hide your shock. “Your top--it’s nice. It looks...great on you, actually.”

Harry hadn’t complimented you since the beginning, when you were friends, or something close to it. It felt odd and slightly uncomfortable, but there was a tiny part of you that couldn’t help but be flattered. 

“What do you want?”

“Really, though. You look fucking hot.” He took a few steps closer. 

You snorted. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”

“What’s your problem? I’m just trying to give you a compliment.”

“You don’t have to be nice to me, Harry. There’s no one around.” You gestured to the empty sidewalk in front of you. Even the security guard had moved inside for the time being since it was getting chillier. 

“You make it sound like I’m nice to you when there are people, which I’m not.”

Smoke swirled from your lips, “True.”

He leaned his left shoulder against the wall, only a few inches from you. He reached his left hand up and brushed his fingers over your ribcage where your tattoo was. “Never knew you had that.”

“Why would you?” 

He dropped his fingers from your skin and locked them around the belt loop in your pants, pulling you into him. Before you could react, his lips were on yours, his right hand gripping tightly onto your waist. You wanted to fight it, to push him off of you and tell him to fuck off, but his lips were so soft and your skin was burning where he touched you. 

Against your better judgement, you kissed him back--and you didn’t miss the smirk he was fighting against your kiss when you did so. You took it as an opportunity to slip your tongue into his mouth and he sighed, swirling his over yours, fighting for control. He turned you so your back was against the wall and he was in front of you, his body shielding you from any onlookers. 

“You taste like fucking cigarettes.” You could feel his breath on your lips. 

“Then stop kissing me.”

He shoved you further into the brick, the stones rubbing harshly against the skin of your back. His hands were gripping your jaw so hard you thought there would be bruises. 

He groaned when you rolled your hips into his, one hand holding onto his bicep to keep you upright, the other hanging down at your side, still holding the half smoked cigarette. You landed a nasty bite to his lip and suddenly his hand was on your throat. 

“Fuck,” he said as he gave it a small squeeze. His other hand brushed down your arm until he reached your hand and pulled the cigarette out of it, tossing it on the sidewalk. 

You bit your lip and lifted your eyes to his, which were dark, his pupils pushing out the green, hungry for more. 

You tried to put your lips back on his, but he held you there against the wall. 

“Want more?” He asked. 

You refused to answer.

He leaned in just enough that his lips hovered over yours and you held back the whimper that dared to slip out. You could smell the whiskey on his breath and you knew you wanted another taste, despite how much you knew you would hate yourself for it later. 

“No.” You narrowed your eyes at him. 

“Fine.” He dropped his hand from your throat. “Your loss.” He backed away from where you stood and winked, before sauntering back through the front door of the bar.

Harry didn’t know why he did that. He couldn’t even believe he had done it. He blamed most of it on the whiskey. He was tipsy and you were hot and you were…there. 

For the rest of the night, he tried not to think of the way you pushed your hips into his, the way your mouth felt against his, the way he could feel your skin through your top. He had to adjust himself at least three times, hiding the red lipstick stain on the back of his hand from when he had to wipe his mouth of you before arriving back at the table. 

He spent the next two hours wondering if you were struggling with the heat between your legs as bad as he was. He wanted to know if you were wet, if he had turned you on despite how much you claimed to hate him. The thought only made it worse for him and he couldn’t believe how unbothered you seemed to be. 

You barely looked at him for the rest of the night, your eyes only flickering to him when he spoke, but never staying on him. You refused to give him your attention and it made him want it, which infuriated the fuck out of him. 

He wanted to drag you back outside and kiss you again. He wished he had grabbed your ass when he had you up against the wall. Watching you walk back and forth to the bar was torture now. 

He watched your lips move as you talked to Mitch about this song you thought he would like. He noticed how faded your lipstick was, how it was blurred between your cupid’s bow and at the corner of your mouth. He couldn’t stop the smirk that twitched at his lips.

“Can I help you?” You turned to him, eyebrows raised. 

“I don’t know. Can you?”

You rolled your eyes and turned back to your friends. 

September 22, 2020

You hadn’t thought much about Harry since the night at the bar. You had been a little too busy with getting ready for your first day and then actually having your first day. Also, you hadn’t seen him, so out of sight, out of mind. 

You had to admit to yourself that you liked the kiss. It was honestly one of the best first kisses you had ever had because it wasn’t soft, it wasn’t hesitant, it wasn’t this careful thing--it was rough and hard and unfortunately, it turned you on...a lot.

You were in the middle of changing into a pair of leggings and a t-shirt when your phone buzzed with a text from Sarah:

Harry’s here hanging out with mitch btw

You knew she had one hundred percent waited until the last minute to inform you of Harry’s presence so that you couldn’t back out of your wine night without looking like a complete asshole. You reacted to the text with a thumbs up and tossed your phone back onto your bed. You sighed as you pulled on your oversized hoodie and then threw your hair into a ponytail. 

You kicked your dirty clothes into a pile on your wooden floor, swearing that you would pick them up later, before stepping into your Air Force Ones. You made sure to turn all the lights off and swipe the bottle of wine from off your kitchen counter before leaving your flat. 

Sarah’s place wasn’t too far from yours, just a short twenty-minute tube ride--everything in London seemed to be a twenty-minute tube ride--on a side street that seemed much quieter than yours. You hopped across the street quickly, refusing to wait for the crosswalk’s permission, and did your best to dodge the small puddles left from the rain earlier. 

You only had to wait a few seconds for her to buzz you in before you were pulling open the big black door and bouncing over to the elevator. 

The idea of seeing Harry wasn’t bothering you as much as it normally would--not because of the kiss, but because Sarah had promised that the two of you would stay in her bedroom and the boys would be playing some game in the living room. 

When she opened the door to her place, you enveloped her in a huge bear hug despite the fact that you had seen her only a few days before. 

“Hey, (Y/N)!” Mitch turned to look at you from his spot on the couch next to Harry. 

“Hey!” You called back, barely noticing that Harry hadn’t even bothered to turn around. 

“C’mon. I’ve already set us up with two glasses in my room.” She grabbed the full bottle from your hands before turning to walk down the hallway and you followed. 

“I see Mitch’s visit is going well.”

She rolled her eyes as she closed the bedroom door behind you. “I swear when he’s in London, Harry sees him more than I do.”

“That kind of sucks.” You took the full glass of red from her outstretched hand once you were sat on her bed, legs crossed underneath you. 

She shrugged, “It’s whatever. Him and Harry are close so it doesn’t bother me much. Also, it lets us do this without being bothered.”

You nodded in agreement as you brought the glass up to your lips. 

You hadn’t told Sarah about the kiss and you weren’t sure if you should. There was no way for you to know how exactly she would react. You had a feeling that she would use it to try and convince you that maybe you didn’t dislike Harry as much as you claimed to, which would be completely false. You knew you would sound defensive, only pushing the idea that you liked him--even if it was just a little bit. And you didn’t. He was an asshole. You were allowed to like a kiss and hate the person. 

You also didn’t know if she would tell Mitch or not. You knew she had probably told him other stuff that you had told her and that was perfectly fine with you. You learned a long time ago that whatever you told a friend who had a boyfriend, her boyfriend most likely knew just as much about your life as she did. You considered Mitch a friend--but he was Harry’s friend. Harry’s best friend and you didn’t want to release that kind of mess. 

“Does Harry tell Mitch everything?” You couldn’t help it--but you immediately wanted to take it back. 

You saw the interest on her face. “I think so. Why?” 

“Just wondering how close they were.” You tried to play it off, but you knew she wanted to pry and she was trying hard not to. 

She thought for a moment. “Really close. I mean, they talk all the fucking time. Like, all the time. And when they’re working on a record...oh, my god. It’s a real bromance.”

You forced a smile and tried to hide the fact that you were growing a little anxious. “Wow.”

“Yeah, wow.” She took a sip. “Anyway, how was Monday? How was today?”

You pushed away the panic that was forming over whether or not Harry had said something to Mitch and told her about your first two days at Vogue. 

Monday had been exciting. Your building pass was waiting at the security desk along with someone from HR. They brought you to your tiny desk and helped you set up your computer before taking you around the office and introducing you to everyone you needed to know. You had a long sit down with one of the senior editors who would be looking over most of your work, giving you assignments, etc. It had been a bit of a whirlwind--and today had been the same. You had gotten your first assignment: a small piece for Vogue Online about the new Gucci fragrance campaign. 

You had already started it when you got home that afternoon. You had already reached out to the campaign designer and director to talk to them a bit about the whole concept. To say you were a bit eager would be an understatement, but you didn’t think it was a bad thing. 

After nearly an hour of talking about work and what Sarah and Mitch had been up to, you were out of wine and desperately needed to pee. 

“Grab the other bottle on your way back?” Sarah asked as you stood up from the bed and you nodded. 

The door to the bathroom was closed but the light was on, so you leaned against the wall in the hallway and began to pick at your nails as you waited. 

When you heard the door open you looked up, you saw Harry standing there, hand still on the doorknob. 

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer.” You smirked as you pushed yourself off the wall. 

“Don’t flatter yourself. Just trying to process the fact you’ve got yourself a job at Vogue while you run around dressed like that.” His eyes were on your faded The 1975 sweatshirt. It was a bit ratty, you had to admit, there was a small hole at the neckline, near the hood and the ending of the sleeves were a little frayed. 

“Always such a fucking dick.” You mumbled under your breath as you moved to walk past him. 

Before you could step through the bathroom door, he grabbed onto the sleeve of your hoodie. 

“Don’t say anything to Sarah.” He demanded, his voice low.

“About what?” You feigned stupidity. 

“Don’t be fucking annoying. Don’t tell her.”

You ripped your sleeve out of his grasp. “I’m not.” You shoved him lightly out of the bathroom’s doorway before shutting it a little too harshly. 

You were relieved that Harry had pretty much just guaranteed that no one would know. No one needed to know. It was never going to happen again--he pretty much made sure of it every single time he opened his mouth. 

Obviously, it had crossed your mind that maybe he liked you a little more than he led on--he fucking kissed you--but after that little encounter, you were more than sure that it was just a drunken moment of weakness. 

He could’ve been attracted to you, but you were sure that’s where any nice ideas about you ended. He had complimented you that night and you had caught him staring at your ass or your chest on more than one occasion--the man wasn’t exactly subtle. You could even admit that, yes, you did find yourself attracted to him sometimes. You blamed it mostly on the clothes. You couldn’t deny that he knew how to dress. Maybe, sometimes, you had thought he had nice eyes or a nice body--his tattoos often mesmerized you while you were drunk, but that’s where the attraction ended. It was purely physical and usually reared its ugly head when you had a few cocktails in you. 

Charlotte loved to tease you about how he was your type: brown hair, tall, tattoos, the jewelry. She loved to say that it was bound to happen at some point, even if it was just a fuck and you always laughed in her face because you had to at least like the person you were fucking--even if it was just the tiniest bit. No part of you liked Harry. There would never be another kiss. He didn’t fucking deserve it. 

Mitch was in the kitchen, fingers digging into a half-eaten packet of milk chocolate digestives when you went to grab the next bottle. 

“You two exchange some words?” He smirked and motioned his head in the direction of the couch where you were sure Harry was sitting. 

“What makes you ask that?” He handed you a biscuit and you took a bite. 

“He’s all pissy now.”

You shrugged, “We exchanged words but they weren’t, like, mean. At least they weren’t on my part. He was the mean one.”

“So why is he so fucking grumpy?” 

“Is that not his natural state?” You took your half eaten biscuit and the bottle back to Sarah’s room. 

“We should see if they want to watch a movie.” Mitch said as he put the Xbox controller on the couch next to him. “I’m tired of this game.”

“Don’t think that’s a good idea, mate.”

“Why not? You and (Y/N) can’t be civil long enough to watch a movie? There’s no reason for either of you to talk.”

“Fine.” He dropped his controller on the coffee table and then pointed to the end of the couch, on the other side of Mitch. “But she sits over there.”

Mitch rolled his eyes as he stood up and disappeared down the hallway to get you and Sarah. 

Mitch returned with his arm around Sarah who had the bottle of red in one hand and her glass in the other. 

“More beer?” Harry asked as he stood from the couch and Mitch nodded before telling him to get a snack as well. 

Unfortunately, you were already in the kitchen, unwrapping a packet of microwavable popcorn. 

You acted as if he wasn’t there as you tossed it into the microwave and punched the correct button. You turned around and leaned against the counter, arms crossed over your chest, eyes on the floor. 

He knew that you were purposefully avoiding looking at him--which was annoying. He hadn’t even done anything. 

He pulled two beers out of the fridge and placed them on the counter right next to you. He saw your eyes flicker to him, more specifically to his hands, and for a moment, he wondered if you were thinking of that night, when one of them was wrapped around your throat. 

He felt his cock twitch at the idea of it, your small whimper echoing in his mind, the same way it had the night it happened, over and over again as he got himself off. 

“S’cuse me.” He mumbled, knocking his knuckles against your hip, trying to get into the drawer you were in front of. 

“Wow, it has manners.” You muttered as you scooted a few inches to your left, letting him pull the bottle opener out of the drawer. 

“Bitch.”

“Prick.”

“I can’t believe Sarah hangs out with you.” He shook his head and closed the drawer. 

“Could say the same thing about Mitch.”

He scoffed and went to one of the cabinets where Sarah kept her snacks. You both fell back into silence as you pulled the popcorn out of the microwave and emptied it into the bowl you had on the counter while Harry pulled out a bag of chips. 

He grabbed the beers from where they still sat next to you. “You sit on one side. I sit on the other. Don’t talk to me.”

“Not a fucking problem.” You gave him a sickly sweet smile before you walked past him, making sure to bump your shoulder into his bicep as you did so. 

The four of you were settled into Sarah’s couch, watching Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal bicker on the screen in front of you. You had the popcorn bowl sat in your lap and tossed a piece or two into your mouth in between laughs. 

You heard Harry whisper something to Mitch, who then looked over to you. “He wants the popcorn.”

“But I want it.”

Mitch held his hand out and you reluctantly handed him the bowl while he muttered something about the two of you being children. You watched him place it in his own lap.

You pouted, “But now I have to reach over Sarah!”

“Oh, my god. Then just go and sit next to him!” Mitch motioned to Harry and you saw Sarah try to hold in her laugh. 

You looked over at Harry who was giving you a death glare. It was a warning. 

You sighed in annoyance before standing up from the couch. You grabbed your glass off the table and Sarah grabbed your wrist before you could walk away. She reached over and grabbed the third bottle of wine and held it out to you, “You might need it.” 

You grumbled as you took it. 

“I’m not moving over.” Harry said when you stood in front of him. 

Mitch and Sarah immediately moved over to make room for you and you plopped down, making sure that no part of you was touching Harry. You refilled your wine glass and then took the popcorn bowl from Mitch, resting it in the space between you and Harry. 

Without moving your eyes from the screen, you dipped your hand into the bowl and flinched when you felt a small sting. 

“Did you just flick me?” You whispered to Harry. 

“I was here first.” He said back, his hand still in the bowl. 

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Then wait your fucking turn.” 

You huffed and turned back to the TV. It was truly amazing how easy it was for him to piss you off--how easy it was for you to piss him off. 

You pulled your knees up to your chest and tried to ignore his presence as you tried to hide your growing smile behind your knees. It was the scene where they were in the diner--your favorite scene--and Sally was gearing up to give the best performance of her life. 

You couldn’t stop the premature giggles that started to spill from your mouth and you felt his eyes on you, causing a blush to heat your cheeks. He watched you through the whole scene; you could see his head turned out of the corner of your eye and refused to give him the satisfaction of looking in his direction, refused to give him the opportunity to give you shit for laughing or whatever he could manage to find fault in. 

You were wiping away the tears that crept at the corners of your eyes as the scene ended when you felt something tap against the side of your calf. It was Harry, tapping the green bowl against your leg. 

“Want some?” He asked. 

October 3, 2020

You were scurrying around your apartment, trying to pick out an outfit for the night as you spoke to your younger brother on the phone.

“How’s school going? Sophomore year any different?” He was going to a college in upstate New York, close enough to where your grandparents lived that he could be there for your two younger siblings, but far enough away where he could have his own life--just like you told him to. 

“Yeah, it’s good. Thanks for the money for books by the way.” 

“Did grandma let you use it?” You put the phone on speaker and placed it on your bed as you picked up a black dress you had and held it up to your body in the mirror, considering it as an option. 

“I didn’t tell her.” He laughed lightly and you smiled. Your grandma would’ve freaked if she knew you had sent him money for school. She liked being the one to take care of you all. 

“Good. What did you do with the money I know she gave you for the same thing?” You dropped the dress to the floor, where it landed on a growing pile of clothes. 

“Put it in my savings.”

“Good!” You called as you moved to your closet. 

“Please tell me you’re not sitting home on a Saturday night, (Y/N).”

“It’s only seven! And I’m not. Just trying to figure out what to wear.”

“Nothing too short! Also, make sure you wear a jacket!”

“Yeah, okay, dad.” You mocked him. 

“Hey, I gotta say it since he can’t!” A small silence fell over the two of you before he spoke again. “I’ll let you get ready. Love you!”

“Love you, Ry!” You hung up and then turned back to your closet, in nothing but your bra and underwear, your hands on your hips. “Right...what the fuck am I going to wear?” 

You finally settled on a pair of your favorite pants. They were a forest green and made of leather, hugging every single inch of your hips and ass. You had already pulled on the black, satin-like top that was just long enough to be tucked in, the two tiny straps indenting the skin of your shoulders while a string of boning scooped under your breasts, pushing them up ever so slightly. You pulled on your socks and your Saint Laurent black booties which you had bought resale. 

You pulled on an oversized black blazer to wear as a jacket and fluffed up the waves in your hair before running out the door. 

While you rode the tube, your phone was blowing up with messages from Sarah and Charlotte. You were a solid thirty minutes late and it didn’t help that the bar they chose was a little further away than usual. 

You groaned as someone squeezed past you, or at least tried to, you were already squished against the wall next to the doors. You absolutely hated the Piccadilly line. It was always so crowded and this Saturday was no exception. You were on there for another fifteen minutes and you knew that they were going to absolutely drag. 

You had no idea what made them pick a bar all the way in Covent Garden. You were sure that it wasn’t close to where any of you lived--not that it had to be, but usually when it was just a bar kind of night, you would all meet somewhere in the middle, not go so out of the way. 

You hopped off the tube when the door opened at Covent Garden and hurried through the convoluted hallways of the station. 

You knew they were going to give you shit for being late, but the tube ride over had really soured your mood and you were now in no mood to rush. You slowed down once you were outside and walked the few streets to the bar slowly, enjoying the fall breeze and how pretty the old buildings looked in the glow of the street lamps. 

You slipped past friends laughing, hands clasped together between them, and then a businessman talking hurriedly to someone on the phone with an undone scarf dangling around his neck. You walked around tourists crowding around the outskirts of the market, taking pictures in its light. 

You made a quick left onto Southampton Street and let out a breath when you reached the entrance of Eve Bar. It looked more like an entrance to some secret society. The outside was covered in a soft blue tile, the bronze logo for the bar sitting above the door, an eye settled in the middle of the ‘V’. The doors were black--and heavy--you noticed as you pulled one open. 

“What the hell?” You whispered when you saw the huge neon sign that read “resist everything but temptation”. You looked at the walls, the confused curve in your brow deepening when you noticed the open books mounted on both walls on either side of you, an apple resting in the middle of each one. 

You texted the girls that you were pretty sure you were there before walking down the stairs, sinking into the bright pink lights. 

Charlotte was there waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs. 

“She’s with us.” She said to the security at the door who simply nodded and moved his attention back to the crowd at the bar. 

There were branches everywhere: sticking out of mirrors on the walls, coming down from the ceiling and wrapping around light fixtures, sprawling out from the shelves of liquor at the bar. Everything was dark and made of wood and the space was incredibly narrow. The bar was directly across from the blue velvet couches which were covered with people. 

“I don’t see them.” You said as your eyes scanned over the crowd. 

“We’re around the corner!” She called back. 

As she pulled you towards the back of the room, you noticed the butterflies all over the walls, all heading in one direction, partially covering each mirror, parts of the ceiling, poised on branches. 

“Oh!” You said when Sarah pulled you around the corner. 

The small alcove was painted a brighter blue, the velvet couch to match. The ceiling was covered in green vines and fairy lights which creeped along the walls and wrapped around the corner you had just turned. The butterflies were clustered all over the vines and it...looked like a fairytale. 

“How fucking cool?” Charlotte asked. 

“Really cool, actually.” 

“Harry found it.” Adam said as you kissed him hello. 

“Really?” You couldn’t help but sound a little surprised. 

“Yes, really.” Harry said. You turned to him and paused, never really sure how to greet him or if you even should. He made the decision for you by taking a sip of his drink. There was no more room on the couch so you sat on one of the little velvet stools at the end next to Charlotte. 

You pulled your wallet from your pocket. “Anyone need a refill?”

“Who the fuck invited her?” Harry asked once you were around the corner.

Adam held his hand up in surrender even though Harry was looking directly at Sarah, knowing exactly who it had been. 

“We did.” She said. 

“Why?”

“Because we like hanging out with her and we knew she would love it here.” Charlotte said. 

“Well, I don’t and I made the plans.”

“I don’t mind that she’s here.” Adam jumped in and Harry shot him a look. 

“You’re outnumbered, Harry.”

“Bloody outnumbered…” he mumbled. “I made the plans. I didn’t invite her. I don’t like her.” He spoke slowly as if they couldn’t understand. 

“Well, she’s here now. So get over it.” Sarah shrugged. 

Harry sat back on the couch, trying to convince himself that it didn’t matter that you were there. He told himself that he wasn’t going to let your existence ruin his night. 

The conversation moved on while he sulked until you caught everyone’s attention when you came back around the corner. 

“Thank you so much. Seriously.” You smiled at the young guy that Harry recognized from behind the bar. He had a tray of drinks in his hand and told you it was no problem at all as he slid the tray onto the table and unloaded the drinks. Harry watched you slip a five pound note into the pocket of his apron while he did so and he tried to swallow the scoff that rose in his throat. 

Of course, he thought. 

The girls and Adam thanked the guy as he walked away with the tray. You sat back down on the stool and picked up your gin and tonic, taking a sip. Your eyes flickered to Harry as you did so and then to the Manhattan on the small wooden table.

“I didn’t ask for another.” He said. 

“You were almost done and I got one for everyone else so…”

“How do you even know what I drink?”

“I’m not an idiot, Harry. I know a Manhattan when I see one.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” 

“Whatever.” You shook your head and moved your attention over to Adam, who you apparently hadn’t seen in a while. 

He hated that blazer on you. It was huge. It swallowed your body, hovered over your shoulders and made you look like you had borrowed it from your dad. He knew it was the ‘look’ you were going for, but he didn’t like how small it made you look. He watched as your freshly manicured nails reached up to toy with one of the several gold necklaces you had layered around your neck, your other elbow resting on your knee as you held your drink, talking to Adam about work. 

He saw the hickey on your neck and he hated how much he immediately disliked it. It was the size of a pound coin, the center a deep purple, fading into pink at the edges. It looked fresh and you hadn’t even bothered to cover it up.

“The fuck is that on your neck?” He asked. 

“I’m sorry?” You asked. He could hear the annoyance in your voice. 

He ignored Sarah’s warning look and pointed to his own neck. “That. What is it?”

“Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but it’s a hickey.” 

“Oh, my god, let me see!” Charlotte leaned over and grabbed your shoulder, trying to turn you in her direction. 

“It’s not that bad.” You said and Harry laughed. 

“Not that bad? It looks like you hooked up with a fucking vampire.” You completely ignored him, which he also didn’t like. 

“Who was it?” Charlotte asked. 

“That guy from the bar the last time. The bartender. I went out with him last night.” 

You seemed to have completely forgotten about Harry’s existence as you spoke to the girls about the night before. 

Adam leaned over and whispered to Harry, “You alright? You look a little angry.” Harry’s jaw ticked but he didn’t say anything. 

He didn’t know why he cared so much. Maybe it was because you rejected him last time. Told him you didn’t want any more when he was so sure you did, when he did. Maybe it was because you hadn’t put up any kind of fight when he told you not to tell Sarah, like you wouldn’t ever dream of telling someone what had happened. He felt rejected--by you and he didn’t fucking like it. 

You weren’t supposed to reject him. It was supposed to be the other way around. 

When he saw you graze your fingertips over the spot, a small smile on your lips, he stood up and told Adam he was going to the bathroom before disappearing around the corner. 

When he came back, the first thing he noticed was that your blazer had come off. 

Your hair fell over your shoulders in waves, moving slightly as you talked animatedly to Adam and the girls. Your gold chain bracelet slid up and down your wrist as you moved and he followed the line from the tips of your fingers all the way back up to your neck--and his jaw tightened. 

He sat back down in his previous seat, his eyes still on you. He downed the last of his drink before reaching for the one you had brought back for him and bringing it to his lips. You still hadn’t looked at him. He studied the hollow of your throat, his fingers twitching at the idea of tickling that soft spot before taking their rightful place around your neck. 

“What about you, Harry?” You finally looked at him. “Trick any girls into sleeping with you lately? Or did they all refuse to sign those pesky NDAs?”

The anger welled inside of him. “I haven’t got to trick anyone into doing anything.” 

“Do you make them sign those things because it’s bad? And you don’t want word getting out that Harry Styles can’t fuck?” 

Everyone was silent. 

“You’re a real fucking bitch, you know that?” 

“Okay, who wants another drink?” Sarah stood up quickly from where she sat. 

“I’ll take one.” You raised your empty glass, your eyes not leaving Harry’s for a second, a smirk dancing on your lips. 

Two gin and tonics later and you were itching for a smoke. 

You could see that you had majorly pissed Harry off. He had barely looked at you since and every sentence out of his mouth was short and punctuated. 

You were elated. Usually, he was the one being absolutely cruel while you tried to keep it civil, but gin made you a little mean and he had slightly embarrassed you by pointing out your hickey. 

You knew he hated having to make people sign those things. Mitch had let the fact slip one wine night he had completely crashed, a little tipsy and eager to share. He told you that Harry despised them, made the moment a little awkward, always killed the mood just a bit. Despite how routine it had become, it still bothered him and apparently he swore he would never get used to it. 

It was the perfect place to drive the knife. The comment about him not being a good fuck was just the twist it needed. 

You were warm from the alcohol and the lack of ventilation in the small alcove. You could feel how flush your cheeks were without having to touch them and decided that a bit of cold air would do you good. 

You pulled your pack out of your blazer pocket along with the lighter before dropping it back on the stool. “I’ll be back.” You said as you stood. 

“(Y/N), you really need to quit.” Charlotte gave you a disappointed look and you smiled. 

“I know, I know.”

“We’ll have another round ready for you when you get back.” Adam said and you blew him a kiss. 

The walk to the front door felt like forever because of the amount of bodies you had to squeeze through. There was zero personal space and it made you grateful that you guys were alone in the back. You slid past a couple talking in hushed tones on the stairs and pushed the heavy door open, letting the cool air smack you in the face. 

You walked a few paces to the left and leaned on the tile front of the restaurant next to the bar. You shivered when the cool surface made contact with the skin of your back, but the air felt nice on your face, cooling you down immediately. 

You performed the drunken ritual: cigarette between your lips, flick the lighter with one hand while you shield the flame from the wind with the other, over and over until you get it lit. 

You slid the Bic into your front pocket, struggling a bit because of how tight your pants were and settled for squeezing the pack under your arm, knowing there was no way you were getting it in there. 

You sighed in frustration when you saw him out of the corner of your eye. 

“You really have a thing for cornering a girl when she’s just trying to smoke.” You said as Harry walked over to you slowly.

“Charlotte’s right. You should stop.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks for the advice.”

“Remember the last time we were out here like this?”

“Yeah, what about it?” You took a drag. 

“Wanna do it again?”

You snorted, not believing for a second that he was serious. The laughter bubbled up when you saw that he was, in fact, not kidding. “Oh, my god.”

“What? You didn’t like it?” 

Another drag. “I did.”

“So, what’s the problem?” He took a few steps closer. 

You smirked, “Problem is, it’s you I didn’t like. Still don’t.”

“I don’t fucking like you either.”

“And yet you kissed me.”

“Yeah, almost a month ago.”

You turned to face him directly. “And here you are, asking to kiss me again.”

“That doesn’t mean that I like you.”

You ignored him and dropped what was left of your cigarette, using the heel of your boot to put it out on the sidewalk. “Then explain this to me because--” 

You were cut off by his lips hard on yours. He had one hand above your head against the tile, the other tightly holding your jaw. He bit your lip harshly before pulling away, “Shut the fuck up.”

His lips were on yours again, his body leaning into your own and against your better judgement (again), you kissed him back. 

Your hands ghosted over his cream colored dress shirt and you moved them up his chest to wrap your arms around his neck. He removed his hand from your jaw, which had left you with a numbing kind of sting, and pushed you back into the tile. Both of his hands raked down your back, his tongue slipping easily into your mouth, before resting on your ass, where he tried to grab at it. You smirked when he couldn’t dig his fingers into the tight leather. 

“You and these fucking pants.” He groaned against your lips. “Wear a skirt next time, yeah?”

He tried to kiss you again but you moved and grabbed hold of his jaw. “You don’t like my pants?”

“Never said that.” 

“If you don’t like them then--” 

In less than a second he had the hand that was holding his jaw pinned against your back. His forehead was on yours, breath fanning your lips. “I told you to shut up.” 

Eyes boring into his, you rocked your hips forward and tried to hide your smile when he had to bite his bottom lip to stop himself from moaning. 

You tilted your chin forward, wanting to kiss him again, but he didn’t move. For a moment, you stood there like that, chests rising and falling, breaths ragged with an awful kind of desire, foreheads touching, no one moving. 

He let your arm drop from behind your back and you let your other hand slide down his shoulder before you looped your fingers through the belt loops on both sides of his hips. His hands went to cup your jaw, but not as roughly as before. He brought his lips down on yours and kissed you slowly, and you moaned, but you wanted more. You pulled his hips against your own and cursed yourself for wearing these pants, barely being able to feel him at all. 

Frustrated, you let your right hand slip between your bodies, letting your palm rest directly on his length. He moaned when you applied some pressure. He was extremely hard and you could tell by the sound that left his lips that he was suffering--that he wanted you, badly. You applied a little more pressure, teasing him, before moving your hand back up and hooking your fingers on the waistband of his trousers, holding him there. 

He sighed into your mouth before moving his right hand to the back of your neck and tangling it in your hair. His left hand slid down, brushing over your breast, before landing on your waist where he squeezed, causing you to flinch slightly. He kept his fingertips dug into your skin as he pulled on the hair at the back of your head, causing you to tilt it to the side and a soft sigh escaped you at the sensation.

He bent his head down and flicked his tongue over the hickey on your neck and you shuddered. This skin was sensitive, too sensitive. 

He licked it again and gave it a soft kiss as your eyes fluttered shut. You winced when he pulled the already bruised skin into his mouth sucking so harshly it hurt--but you didn’t want him to stop. You felt the pool that had formed between your legs and as much as you wished that you wanted to stop, you didn’t--you couldn’t. 

He swirled his tongue over the spot, giving you a small break before he was nipping at it again, pulling it between his teeth, making you whimper and grip onto the sides of his shirt, definitely wrinkling it. 

After the third time, he moved to the skin surrounding the bruise. He sucked lightly, leaving open mouthed kisses as he went, before working his way back up to your jaw. He removed his hand from your hair and gripped your chin between his fingers, his thumb resting on your bottom lip. 

“You like that?” He whispered as your eyes fluttered open. You opened your mouth to answer and he let his thumb slip inside, so you caught it between your teeth. Then, with your eyes on his, lashes fluttering, you swiped your tongue over his fingertip, sucking it ever so slightly into your mouth. He let out a low groan before pulling it out. 

“Jealous?” You asked. 

He put his lips back on yours and you let your hands roam over his chest, swirling your fingers in the hair on his chest, before letting them slip underneath the soft material of his shirt to run over the swallows. He had one hand planted firmly on the back of your neck and the other grabbing desperately at your ass, pulling you as close to him as he possibly could. 

“Come home with me.” He mumbled against your lips. 

“Absolutely fucking  not.” You whispered back. He pulled away slightly, his brows furrowed in both confusion and shock. 

He kissed you again, slowly--and you knew what he was trying to do, so you pushed him away before you completely lost it--before you said yes. 

“Why not?”

“Because I’m drunk, not fucking stupid.”

You pulled his hand from your ass and slipped out from under him, walking around him and towards the door of the bar. 

“You coming back in, or what?” 

[p---ink]

What’s On Your Mind?

Author’s Note: Hi :) Remember me? I’ve missed you guys, and Tumblr altogether. I felt absolutely guilty about not writing, but the writer’s block was strong on this one guys. And while I’ve had lots of ideas for stories I couldn't quite put them onto paper...or screen. Anyway, wanted to try something new. So this one is about a Thor! I dedicate this one to you @swaggysposts​ since I know you love Chris Hemsworth. Its pretty short, but still, tell me what you think, my love! 

Summary: Avenger reader has a crush on the god of thunder.

Warnings: some lite language and fluff. 

Word Count: 4.7k

Part Two   Part Three

“I’m sorry? Did I hear that right? You said you can what?” Mr. Stark asked, without a doubt forgetting that there were stranger things in the world. 

Clearing my voice, and speaking a bit louder I say, “I can read minds, sir.”

“That’s what I thought you said.” Stark voiced out loud placing a sleek pair of sunglasses on his face. He was still pretty skeptical of my claims, but another part of him was very anxious. Or would the word be embarrassed? Mortified? Yes that was definitely the perfect description.

Whatever the feeling was, I knew the cause was because he knew that if what I was saying was true, he would have to start groveling because of the dirty thoughts that raced through his mind when we first introduced ourselves.  

‘Forgive me for looking Pepper, but this girl has the ass of a professional volleyball player’ was what he thought as he opened the door for me on the way in.

“I can’t hear what you’re thinking though, because It only works through touch.” I lie, as I watch his worry fade away. I needed this job, and I couldn’t be disqualified because of harmless thoughts that we could all be guilty of sometimes. Besides it wasn’t Tony’s fault: these jeans did do wonders for my bottom. 

Something told me though, that if this Pepper weren’t in the picture, he’d have no problem saying what he thought of me out loud. And he was a handsome man, couldn’t be much older than 40, so maybe in another universe I’d consider him. Not this one though. 

“Hey Kid,” Stark started, interrupting my own inappropriate thoughts, “just saying ‘I can read minds’, wont be enough. You’ll have to prove it.”

“Of course! Sorry—” I was cut short by the sound of the thick glass doors of the conference room being slammed against the walls. 

A brown haired boy with deep chestnut eyes, that looked as frantic as the rest of his face, rushed out apology after apology as he took his seat next to the older man. 

Tony, who hadn’t spared the younger boy a glance, said, “Ah, perfect. Tell me what he’s thinking.”

‘Spiderling’ was the name he had assigned him through thought. As I concentrated on his confused features, he looked from me to Stark.

“What who’s thinking? Is Dad—I mean Mr. Stark, referring to me? How could she possibly do that? Oh God, he hasn’t said a word to me since I got here. He must be really upset because I’m late. Geez, I hope he doesn’t take Karen again. I’d rather he kill me.” I repeated, after relaying all of the boy’s thoughts as fast as he could think them. 

“Is she right?” Tony asked the boy. He felt both amazed and amused. Amazed with me, and amused by Spiderling for thinking of him as a dad. He would never let him live that one down. 

After swallowing his astonishment, and turning his attention from me, Spiderling answered “Yes.”

“Good. And at least we both agree on your punishment. I’d rather kill you, too. Saves me less trouble in the future.” Tony stated. He was punishing him because apparently this was the third time he’s been late to the interviews he was supposed to be in charge of. 

Spiderling let alarm overtake his features, but before he could say anything, Tony continued on with more questions. 

“Do you have any other skills, we should know about?”

“Well just a bit of hand to hand combat. But it still needs a lot of work. Other than that no—”

“How did this happen?” Spiderling interrupted, wonder getting the best of him.

“Kid,” Tony starts, but he goes ignored by Spiderling. 

“Were you bitten by some kind of radioactive insect like me? Or are you super smart like Mr. Stark? Or perhaps it was gamma radiation like Dr. Banner! Or maybe a super serum like Mr. Rogers!—”

“Don’t make me remove your batteries, junior!” Tony interrupted, then he looked to me. “I’m sorry. He’ll keep going if you don’t nip it in the bud early.”

But he didn’t have to tell me that. His own mind, like Spiderling’s, was racing a mile a minute. 

“No its fine really. He’s just curious.” I reply with a chuckle. “And to answer your question Spiderling: maybe I was born with it, or maybe its Maybeline.”

I began to grow embarrassed by their silence at my terrible joke, until Spiderling stifled a chuckle. “I get it!” He said between snickers. “Wait why’d you call me Spiderling?” He asked. ‘Is she picking on me?’ He thought. 

Needing to correct his thoughts to clear up any offense I say, “No! I would never pick on you, I just thought that was your name because Mr.—”

“Y/N, was it?” Tony interrupts, yet again. “I think you’d make an excellent addition to our team! When can you start?” 

“Really?” I ask gleaming, ignoring the fact that he wanted me to shut for outing what he really thought of his younger protégé. “I can start right away! Thank you so much for this opportunity!”

“Yeah, don’t mention it.” He hurried. “F.R.I.DAY, will prepare your room, and Peter here will show you around.”

At that Peter hopped to his feet mind racing with thoughts of excitement on the hopes of a future friendship. “Follow me!” He said, grabbing my hand.

“Not so fast, champ. I need to speak with Ms. L/N alone for a moment.” Tony stated, nodding at Peter as he excused himself from the room. 

Tony cleared his throat, and relayed his thoughts, thoughts that were hard to separate from Peter’s louder ones earlier. “So Y/N,” He started towards me, leaning in close as he chose his words carefully. “I couldn’t help but notice, that you didn’t need to touch Parker nor I to read our thoughts. Care to explain?”

Flustered at being caught I stumble across my words as I try to explain, “Ah yes, well its rare, but sometimes I don’t need to touch the person.”

“Mmm.” Tony hummed, not believing a word I said, and I knew then the gig was up.

Cocking my head, and wearing a semi-sympathetic expression I say, “Don’t worry. I don’t even know who Pepper is.” 

And before Stark could protest, I ran to Peter’s side, so we could begin the tour around my new home. 

That was all a little over eight months ago. And so much had changed now. Peter’s hopes became true. We were the best of friends. His boy-like charm never grew old to me, and nor did my gifts to him.

“Cerulean” I’d say, when he’d think things like ‘What’s your favorite color?’. He always thought questions like that as a sort of game. I never got tired of playing along. 

It seemed to never click in his mind though that he could never scare or surprise me when he hid behind corners or couches, because I could hear his thoughts before he got the chance to. 

But besides the little stunts he’d try to pull by hiding his thoughts in order to frighten me, Peter was as transparent as they were. The boy was an open book, and he rarely kept a secret. It made us perfect friends, because he never seemed to get tired of me knowing every single detail about him. 

Though the other avengers treated me like family, Peter seemed to be the only one welcoming of my “gift”. 

If you asked Steve, he’d think something along the lines of “I’m too old for this shit” when I’d answer questions he hadn’t had the chance to ask. Then he’d immediately curse himself, for thinking a swear word when I’d tease him with one of the team’s inside jokes, like “language.”

Bucky tried his hardest to keep his thoughts in a vault, but it never worked. I knew exactly how many dead bodies he had under his belt, and where he kept his hidden stash of plums. 

Natasha, however, never tried to hide her kill count. She always made it a point to up the number by one as a threat to me, every time I accidentally crept inside her head. I always made it a point to keep my distance whenever she was deep in reflection.

Banner was interesting. His mind had two voices of course, and neither one of them gave a shit about whether I heard them or not. There were the deep thoughts that I struggled to understand most of the time, then others were one-word sentences only. They were louder than the rational side of his brain. 

“La, la, la, la, la”, was literally all that Sam would think whenever there was something he wanted to hide. Sometimes he’d do it just to piss me off, because he knew if I said to ‘knock it off’, he could accuse me of evading his thoughts in the first place. 

In truth, I never tried to read what they were thinking. I found the process invasive, and distracting from my own feelings. I worked hard to shut it all out, doing my best to make truth of that lie I told Stark all those months ago. But it was very draining, and took more energy than my body could exert. One person was easy enough to ignore, but more than ten, proved to be a task.

Most of my entire life I spent working in order to shut out all of the world around me. I avoided crowds whenever I could, blasted my music through my headphones whenever I couldn’t, and made sure to drug my body heavily with painkillers and vitamins whenever the last two weren’t options. 

It was so much work just to go out into the world. So much work until I met him. 

The son of Odin was the only person whose thoughts I would pay to hear. Coincidentally, he was also the only person who’s thoughts I couldn’t read. I could never hear him, I would only ever feel him. He radiated a rare intensity I had never felt before. His thoughts, or should I say feelings, even managed to drown out all of those around him. I had no choice but to focus on him whenever he was around. 

When I was with him, he literally clouded my brain. I didn’t have to work to shut him or the others out. He did it for me. 

I usually thought that was refreshing. But in the time I grew to know him, I found it mostly frustrating at times. 

You could say I liked him, but that would be putting it lightly. 

Liking someone for me, was a rare luxury. My crushes were always narrowed down to celebrities, and other people who didn’t know I existed. 

It was a pain to date people whose thoughts about you were always on display.

And if you thought dating was hard as a telepath, try having sex. Imagine being able to hear all of your partner’s most inner thoughts about the faces you make when you cum, or discovering that you have a small birthmark on your ass that you would otherwise know nothing about. 

Yeah, it wasn’t the greatest experience.  

I had never experienced the actual joys of feelings for someone, and wondering if they liked me back. Thor was my first. And chances are, he would never feel the same way. 

He was a literal god, and he lived up to that fact. I was just an average Midgardian, with a silly school-girl crush. It would never happen. 

Silly thing that Fate was. She had to make the only man I found irresistible, unattainable too. What a bitch. 

“Hey. Are you ready?” Natasha asked referring to our daily training. 

“Yes, what’s on the agenda today?” I ask, a bit confused that she isn’t in her workout attire. 

“Well you’ll h–”

“What? Why?” I squeak, before she can finish her thought…well before she can finish her sentence. According to her thoughts, I’d now be training with Odinson.

“I think you’ve graduated from me, kiddo. You can read my thoughts fast enough to predict as well as react to all of my oncoming moves.” Natasha relayed, a hint of sadness detectable through her words. Though she behaved like an older sister to me, she would miss throwing me around on the mat. “We’ll have to see how you do against someone whose actions you can’t predict, just in case that problem comes up out in the field.” She informed me while walking away, before I could confront her. 

“Can’t it be someone else?” I yell to her, but she doesn’t answer. 

“You wound me, Y/N.” That deep familiar voice bellowed from behind me. “And here I thought you enjoyed my company.”

Oh you have no idea, I thought to myself, as I spun on my feet to face him. I craned my neck to peer up at his eyes. One was a pretty hazel, while the other a deep blue. Cerulean. Funny how he’s the reason I’ve grown so fond of the color after all of these months.

“It’s not that I don’t like you. I just don’t think its fair is all. You know? With you being a god.”

“You’re worried you won’t be able to handle me? Do not fret. I wouldn’t dream of giving you more than you could handle.” He said, wiggling his brows suggestively, while flashing a smile. I suppose I failed to mention that he was a massive flirt that could put even Tony Stark to shame. “I promise to take it easy on you.” He furthered, smirking and winking his hazel orb.

“Why do I feel like your idea of taking it easy is vastly different from mine.” I say, trying to settle the butterflies. 

“Whatever you’ve heard about me is nonsense. I’m a merciful master.” He assured.  “We’ll just do some light work today: of course we’ll start with stretching, then 30 laps around the facility to build your stamina, a few hours of work on the machines to build your muscle—because my lady you are a dainty little thing, and then we’ll end the day with an hour or two of sparring.” 

At the sight of my dumbstruck face, Thor says, “I’m sorry that must be too light. How does 50 laps and three hours of sparring, sound?”

“Are you joking?”

“You’re right. I have some matters to attend to on Asgard, but I think we can squeeze in 75 laps, take it or leave it.”

Realizing how deathly serious he was, I quickly say, “I’ll leave it. Let’s get started.”  Deciding to address the subject of excessive training later, I turn to begin my stretches. 

Quiet. As usual. I was alone with my thoughts, which was something that only happened quite literally when I was alone. I couldn’t help but be immensely aware of his presence.

Moments like these i’d die to know what he was thinking. Especially when I could feel his stare. It burned worse than fire on my skin. 

Fire couldn’t compare to his actual touch, however. The same touch I now felt on my upper back.  For a man who weighed over 600 pounds, he was as stealthy as a cat when he wanted to be. His thick fingers against my spine raised goosebumps to my flesh. I would have jumped out of my body if he wasn’t there to keep me grounded. 

“My apologies. It was not my intention to startle you.” He informed, through a deep hearty chuckle. “I just needed to correct your form. Your time on the field will suffer if you continue with your training like this.” 

“Oh.” I replied, tensing a bit as one of his hands traveled around to my stomach and the other pushed against my spine to straighten my posture. My mind was hazy, and if I had even understood the words he spewed a moment ago, that status now changed.

“It all makes me wonder what the Lady Spider has been teaching you.” He continued, as if he didn’t notice the change in my demeanor. “Better.” 

When he stepped away from me, I released a small shaky breath. “What’s on your mind?” He asked. Maybe he did notice the change.

I mentally decided that I would ask him the months-long question I had always wondered about. “What’s on yours.” I state instead of ask, trying to resume my stretches.

“Pardon?” Thor asked. “Do you wonder about what is I ponder? Or is that your answer?

“Both.” I say without hesitation. “Why can’t I read your mind?”

“I’m afraid that’s by design, my lady.”

I stop stretching and turn around to ask, “How?” He had my full attention now. 

Shortly after he corrected my posture, Thor had propped himself up against one of the machines to properly examine my form while I stretched. I tried to ignore how awkward that made me feel. 

“Since an early age I’ve had to learn to guard my thoughts.” He stated. “My brother is the God of Mischief, and Loki often played games of the mind. Mother took notice of how much it was ailing me, and taught me a few useful tricks on how to keep him out. I guess I’ve always practiced them, even in his absence. I don’t know if I even know how to stop it.”

“Oh.” I breathed out. Trying to make sense of his words. 

While I was doing that, he asked,“May I ask why it is you wish to know? I thought you hated your gift.”

“I do. But I guess it still feels odd to not be able to use it on someone. I have no clue what you’re thinking let alone how you feel about me. It unsettles me.” I immediately regretted saying the last part as soon as it was out. 

His reaction did not aid my embarrassment. A thunderous laugh erupted from his throat. It was the kind of laugh that you could feel in your abs, and I knew this because his whole torso shook as it spread through his vocal cords. He was genuinely amused. 

His amusement prompted me to ask, “What’s so funny?”

“How I feel about you.” I think he mutter softly, before following a little louder to himself, “It’s weakened you.” 

“What did you say?” I never had to ask someone to repeat themselves unironically, until I met him. 

“Your ability I mean. It has impaired you.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I think the word is ‘spoiled’. Yes that seems to be the perfect descriptor.” He teased.

His words made me feel small and silly. Almost insignificant. “Excuse me?”

Sensing my irritation, he quickly told me, “I meant no disrespect. Its just most of your kind and some of mine are not awarded the same privileges that you have. We rely on body language and hidden meanings behind words to determine how someone feels. Well with the exception of me of course, because who would not adore me?” He joked. “But that’s beside the point. You have not yet learned how to read between the lines. Which is why I unsettle you.”

“I know how to read body language, I’m not an idiot.” I say a bit more sharply than I intended. My sense of inferiority getting the best of me.

“I’m not implying that you are, just that if it were not for your talent you would know have known what was on my mind ages ago.”

“That makes no sense. If I couldn’t read minds, i’d be in the same place I am now: unable to know what it is you think.”

“My dear, even if you could read my mind it would make no difference, for I’ve already made my feelings towards you painfully clear. One need not the aid of your capabilities.”

“Thor, could you stop the riddles—”

He ignored my pleas and kept going. “But just to be explicitly clear this time, since obviousness is lost on you—” 

“Stop insulting—”

“I shall tell you how I feel about you.” He stepped and leaned in closer, as if what he was about to say was a secret meant for only my ears.  “Listen closely because I will say this but once, so be wary not to misunderstand: I desire you.” He explained, words dripping with the utmost sincerity. 

My brain started racing. And I suddenly realized just how close he was. “You desire me?” I repeated to myself.

“Yes. I desire you.” He stated again, anticipating my uncertainty. 

If my heart wasn’t beating fast before, it surely was now. My poor ribcage wasn’t built for this.

“A-A-as a friend right?” I stutter out. “Because we aren’t, we aren’t close, like the rest of the team? Yes,” I breathe out. “That has to be what you mean.” I say that last part more to myself than to him. Clearly I’ve misunderstood his words, even though he warned me not to.

“While I would value a companionship, I’m afraid that is not all I mean when I say I desire you.”

“Eerr” Words are hard to form all of the sudden. Stammering out sounds is all that I can do. 

The air around us stilled, and it was pregnant with silence. He gave me a moment to think before asking, “Would you like further explanation.”

“Yes please.” I rush out quickly. “I think that will clear things up a bit more.”

“Right it would. Well If you wish to know what’s on my brain when you’re near, I shall tell you.” His words are teasingly slow, and he knows this.

"But I doubt,” He continues, “i’ll be able to properly convey just how bad I long to be in your presence when you are gone. Just how much I battle myself when it comes to finding any excuse to touch you. As you know, I lost one of those battles today. I don’t know if you can handle, just how much I imagine your warm embrace to be. How tender I’ve imagined your lips to feel. I just know them to be softer than rose petals and sweeter than nectar.”

“In fact,” He started. I could almost physically see the lightbulb go off over his head. And then, he began ridding us of the rest of our space, extending his long arm to snake around my waist, and pulling me against his chest at a speed faster than lighting. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to put that theory to test.”

It was like a lucid dream. I was only allowed to watch everything play out before me, without the luxury of making any actions myself. It took great focus on my part to even will my head to move. My nod was so subtle I was unsure if he could even see it. But the God of Thunder had more than enough to go off on.

He joined the hand around my waist with his other, and shortly after I could feel my feet rise from the ground. My hands that were previously glued to his chest, found their place behind his neck to support the rest of my body. His head met me the rest of the way, before he blanketed his lips over mine.  

He released one of the hands around my waist, to bring it up to my face. His fingers, now fastened to my jaw, slightly parted my lips allowing him to further explore my mouth with his. As massaged my tongue with his own, I could feel his eyelashes dance across my cheeks. That’s how close he was.

Most beards are scratchy and rough, but his felt like silk against my skin. His lips were even softer, and were like velvet in comparison. 

I inhaled the scent of rain on freshly cut grass. It reminded me of dewy meadows and Irish springs. His touch was firm, but he managed to hold me with care, like a bull who had trained for years with the sole purpose of entering a china shop. 

He tasted like what summer felt like, if you could make sense of it. The kiss had the same intensity behind severe thunderstorms. Beautiful but deadly. I found myself teetering on the edge of a cliff: desperate to chase this thrill, but also wary of whether or not it was worth dying for. 

I mentally decided that I could expire in his arms, and be perfectly content with that decision.

I got more into it. I thought that if this was a dream I’d take full advantage of it. Surely dream Thor would be fine with me taking over the kiss. It felt only natural. 

I decided it was time for my tongue to do the exploring. My lips needed to memorize the feel of his. My hands wanted to study every strand of hair that lived on the nape of his neck. That was only fair right?

I was enjoying his embrace so much, that I mistook the spinning in my head for shock from kissing a god, instead of the telltale signs of an impending headache. The lack of air in my lungs was because he took my breath away in a figurative sense, instead of the literal physical sense it actually was. The ache that spread throughout my body wasn’t because of the suffocating grip he had to keep me pressed to his chest, but because our bodies were on the brink of fusing into one. 

On second thought, maybe dying in his arms is more painful than I previously thought. 

I tapped out, and he immediately released me, placing me gently on the ground. I struggled for air, but it was like he didn’t miss a beat. Not a drop of sweat in sight on his gorgeous face. Instead, I could see a bright smile forming. 

“Are my thoughts clear enough, now?” He asked, breaking out into smirk.

But I had no time to acknowledge his joke, for I could feel reality setting back in. And reality is, I was a flustered fuck. 

“I’m sorry.” I stammered. “I must be holding you from your business on Asgard!”

“What? No—”

But he had no time to argue, for in a flash I was already gathering my gym bag and heading for the door.

“What about your training?” I heard him yell.

“I’m sorry! Maybe another time!” And after that, I practically sprinted to get out of earshot before he could protest or stop me. 

I raced passed Peter who was on his way into the gym. “Y/N! Are you okay?” I heard him yell. But what was strange is that I couldn’t hear him think it, despite being more than enough distance away from Thor.

“I’m fine.” I yelled back, hoping he wouldn’t follow. Maybe Peter’s mouth was faster than his thoughts.

No. That wasn’t it, because as I raced through the tower, everyone’s minds were silent, even though they were chatting casually with one another. That never happened. 

I burst through the nearest lady’s room, desperate to calm my nerves, when I saw Natasha applying red lipstick.  The action by itself wasn’t disturbing, but the expression she wore was.

“Don’t tell the others.” She voiced, in a threatening tone.

“Don’t tell the others what?” I asked confused. Maybe she’d be able to take my mind off of things. 

She looked at me like I had grown two heads, much like the first day we met when I proved that I could read her thoughts. “I know you read them. But this is different Y/N, the guys will never let me live this one down.”

“Nat, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the date.”

“You’re going on a date?” No wonder she was so panicked. The woman was more comfortable with killing than she was with being vulnerable.

“Yes—What is wrong with you?” She half-yelled, interrupting herself as if she just realized something was wrong.

I had, had enough with trying to not think about him, because the task was damn near impossible so I decided to just say it. “Thor admitted his feelings for me. And then we kissed!” I cried. 

Oh, Nat mouthed, taking a more comfortable position against the bathroom sink. She leaned against its counter, and crossed her arms,“And now you can’t take your mind off of him.”

It was my turn to look at her like she was a lunatic. “How did you know that? Are you a mind-reader too?”

Song for the Chapter: Waiting For You by the Aces:  Pretty Self-explanatory lyrics. Think of the song from Thor’s POV

part II

A/N: If you made it this far, don’t be afraid to tell me what you think :)

[multimetaverse]

HSMTMTS 2x12 Review

Second Chances was a lacklustre finale for an uneven season. Let’s dig in!

Earlier this week I re-watched S1 in preparation for the S2 finale and the contrast between the two seasons is jarring. In almost every way S2 has been worse and after seeing this finale I’m less optimistic that Tim will be able to fix the long list of things that have gone wrong. Tim has said in some of his interviews today that pretty much all of S2 was written before the pandemic and that they didn’t have to do as much re-writing as people might think due to the stringent safety measures Disney put in place. Of course, that removes an excuse for the bad writing we’ve seen so much of this season as according to Tim what we saw of S2 is largely what he envisioned minus big crowds and background dancers.

 Across his many interviews today, the one consistent point is that Tim does not have any real plans for future seasons; things like Ricky’s endgame he hasn’t decided on and he can’t even guarantee the summer season the finale sets up due to the weather in Salt Lake. I do think a S3 is an almost certainty given the show’s popularity but I’ll take Tim at his word that he truly doesn’t know if they’ll be renewed since it seems to be a new Disney tradition to wait until seasons are done airing before making a renewal decision (the same thing happened for the popular and well received Mighty Ducks: Game Changers which got a silent renewal only after all of S1 aired). That being said as poor of a season finale as Second Chances is it is also a terrible potential series finale. In large part it goes back to his lack of planning, he wants to keep all options open but in doing so Tim is crippling the show’s ability to deliver any pay offs or tie up loose ends.  

The one mostly well done plot line this season was Portwell which got a happy ending tonight as they canoned. The only good thing about the big brother angst was that it was so insane that it had to be addressed and sure enough it was and Gina got her first kiss with a guy she really liked. If Tim is to be believed the reason we didn’t get an on screen Portwell kiss was not because of their age difference or covid concerns but because he felt that everyone’s first kiss was different so he wanted it off screen so viewers could fill in the blanks themselves. Tim’s line of reasoning is profoundly stupid. Imagine if they had Jamie show up and he and Gina talked off screen and Tim tried to claim that because everyone has a different relationship with their own siblings that he wanted the audience to fill in the blanks as to how their conversation went!

Still we saw great character development on Gina and EJ’s part as both really grew from the people they were in S1. As Tim noted, EJ bringing Gina back in 1x10 was kind of the set up for this story line. The only thing missing was a brief Portwell scene sometime in eps 2x01-2x04 to set them up. The consistent development they got from 2x05-2x12 is unlike any other ship on the show; only Rini exceeds their development. 

Unfortunately I don’t think that will last in S3 because Tim will always favour Ricky over EJ and if he wants to do Rina he’ll dispose of Portwell before doing so. I was surprised that they never bothered to have Ricky and Gina have a conversation about Gina’s S1 confession. It was a huge mistake to have Gina pine over Ricky for half the season and it was no surprise that Gina’s story line got instantly better once she stopped interacting with Ricky. Tim has made clear in interviews that he’s still interested in the possibility of Rina which makes his poor writing of them even more bizarre. What conclusions are the audience supposed to draw from the Rina story line this season? That Ricky never cared that much about Gina? That it’s totally fine for the show if they don’t interact for 6 eps in a row? That Gina has moved on? I’ve said before that a wiser man than Tim would recognize that doing both Portwell and Rina will do tremendous damage to the show and he should pick one and not do the other. Of course he’s not that smart but it is wild how he’s accidentally written their story line to make for a perfect end to Rina. 

Second Chances was great and is the only part of the finale that would have been well suited to being part of a potential series finale. 

The Rini closure was a sad inverse of their S1 opening night confession. They’ve fallen so far from being the it couple of the series and I fear Tim doesn’t actually know what to do with them now. He really needs to decide if he’s tearing down that treehouse for real. 

The less said about the Valentine’s chocolates the better but at least Gina and Nini are cool again and Nini can explore her budding music career with Jamie’s help. Tim repeatedly said in interviews that the scripts about Nini’s music career were all written before Driver’s License came out and I think he understands that the audience is just going to see the show as copying from Olivia’s life. 

The wildcats just deciding to drop out of the Menkies was a lame cop out. Tim has said he always meant for that to happen though they were originally going to compete at the Menkies then drop out (presumably that’s where we would have heard Lily singing Home). Somebody should have mentioned the $50 000 prize money which the East High theatre department could surely use after Miss Jenn and Mr. Mazzara burned it down (remember that story line that had no consequences?). And that NYU scholarship could have been life changing for one of them and yet no one even brought  it up once this season. 

I did like the twist that it was EJ and his dad who got Mazzara into Caltech. He’d be a fool not to take it but I’m glad he confessed to Miss Jenn. She’s had a really rough season and I hope she redeems herself in S3.

Howie was acting so weird tonight and last ep that I have a hard time believing he was really so awed by Kourtney’s talent rather than feeling guilty for helping to steal the harness. The harness is another useless plot device; there are no consequences for Lily stealing it, she’s not caught, East High pulls off another version of the transformation off screen, and then East High withdraws from the Menkies anyways. Doubtless the harness will eventually come up to serve Rily angst. 

At least Lily was straightforward, I’ll give her that. She has such an odd way of speaking, almost child like. As awful as it is there is potential for a forbidden/secret romance story line with Rily. It really does not speak well to Ricky’s character that he’s so easily fallen for Lily’s act when he has no reason to trust her and she never apologized for making fun of Big Red during the auditions or making Ashlyn feel insecure during the dance off. 

The one way in which S2 was drastically better to S1 was in regards to the Seblos story line. Clearly Joe being bumped up to regular made a big difference. We got the first same-sex kiss between two boys and the first love song sung by one boy to another in Disney history and that is a legacy to be proud of. Of course, there was still some Disney censorship such as Carlos and Seblos being unable to use the word gay in the same ep that focused on Carlos singing In a Heartbeat to Seb. 

S1 of HSMTMTS had a clear direction, the wildcats would have to try and come together to stage High School Musical and Ricky and Nini would have to decide if they still had a future together while Gina and EJ had to work on being better versions of themselves. It was simple sure but it worked very well. There was a lot of heart but also a lot of humor and the show never took itself too seriously. What has S2 had? Beauty and the Beast was hardly the main focus of the cast or the writers and the central couple that S1 was built around is now broken up either for a long time or for good. There was a lot less of the meta moments that jokes that made S1 such a hit, for far too many eps this season the show took itself way too seriously. Hell even the lighting this season was darker than in S1. 

Olivia Rodrigo’s team had complained in a recent article that Olivia wouldn’t be able to potentially tour until fall 2022 due to her contractual commitments which is a sign that they think a S3 is very likely though I wonder how late S3 filming would have to start to keep her occupied until late 2022. There’s no confirmation of this but I thought it might be worth keeping an eye on; a post on r/hsmtmts by someone who claims to have a source working on production says that the plan is for S3 to be a summer theatre camp possibly with Camp Rock renditions and the plan for S4 is to jump 6 months ahead to the final semester of senior year and end with Ricky, Nini, Big Red, and Kourtney graduating from East High. They also say that part of the delay in the S3 announcement is a conflict between Tim and Disney executives. Tim wants to move production to LA and film on sets as it’s easier and cheaper while the Disney execs still want some on location shooting in Salt Lake. Again this is all unconfirmed but if it pans out it will represent a major shift in the series. 

Regardless if Tim wants the show to remain successful he needs start planning out what he wants to happen. He should not assume he’s getting more than 4 seasons. If the series gets a S3 but then is suddenly cancelled then how would he want all the main story lines to wrap up? And if they make it to S4 where does he see it ending? The graduation of the current juniors is a logical series ending point but if Tim wants to do something different he needs to start thinking of that now. I can’t say I’m excited anymore for S3 but I do really hope that Tim and his writers can turn things around and that will only happen if they recognize what they did wrong and learn from their mistakes. 

Until next season Wildcats

[justasparkwritings]

Troll In Love: Part 1

Pairing: Park Jimin x Reader

Genre: Enemies to Lovers / Exes to Lovers, Non-Idol AU

Rating: PG-17

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: Swearing

Summary: What happens when your work nemesis and your ultimate troll team up to flip your world upside down? 

Note: This piece is for the #thebtswritersclub fic exchange! Look out for Part 2 later this week. 

This fic is dedicated to, written for the incomparable @xjoonchildx​, who I have been lucky enough to be paired with. A major fan, this was an intimidating endeavor, and I’m kind of in love with what I’ve created for her. And if she hates it .... it’s trash okay? jk... kind of. 

Banner by me. 

Monday: Pitch Meeting

           “Everyone has an inherent archnemesis,” Claire began her presentation, eyes peering across the conference room, attempting to make thoughtful eye contact with her peers.

          Finally, a staff writer, this pitch marked her first foray into feature writing. It wasn’t like she hadn’t tried, in her three years at the company as a freelance writer, it wasn’t that she didn’t draft proposals, complete preliminary research, no, she absolutely did. But there was always someone in front of her, someone who always came around the corner, nicking first place with seconds to spare. Claire hated you from the moment you arrived, bright eyed and excited, a recent college graduate gunning for a position at the magazine. While it took her years to pitch a cover story feature, years to move from an assistant to full-time staff writer, you had done so in a handful of years.

          Today, Claire decided, that would change.  She had prepped and planned for weeks, laid in wait for Marissa to give her the go ahead to pitch her idea to the team. Adjusting her Dior, she shifted from heel to heel before speaking again.

          “We all have that one person who no matter what we post, they find a way to demean it, turn it negative, make it about something completely unrelated. Whether that’s politics, or religion, or sex, there is that one troll we can’t help but root against. My proposal is to use a few members of staff to find their internet trolls, to engage with them over a period of time, and if they’re willing, interview them, both separately and together. I want to discover what it is that makes them keep commenting, why they always seem to gravitate towards certain posts, who their audience is and how it relates to our greater understandings of our enemies.” Claire sighed, the heavy lifting of her presentation just beginning.

           “I like it, who do you want to use?” Marissa asked.

           “Someone from each of our most high-profile teams, or the people in our office that have the largest social media followings. For a few that overlaps,”

           “Who are those people?”

           “Y/N, Jaxson, Hoseok, Emma and Bridgette,” Claire explained. “They have an average Instagram following of ten thousand, and on Twitter it’s twelve thousand.”

           “What do you post that gets you so many followers?” Gillian questioned.

           “My ass,” Jaxson laughed. “But really, it’s Drag Race content,”

           “Good, you have a list. I need written permission from each of you to interview you and your top internet harassers.”

           “I’d like to request that my name be off the list,” You asked, hand still raised.

           Hoseok asked, knowing the answer deep in his bones. “Why?”

           “I just, I don’t think it’d be a –

           “Nonsense, you have a large following, I’m sure there’s someone who pisses you off regularly,” Marissa interrupted.

           “Yes, there is! What’s his name? Jimin?” Claire pretended to scan her page, her cursory glance perfunctory instead of practical.

           You heard the gasp leave Hoseok’s mouth before you registered what was happening.

“Fuck you!” You snapped. “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate, but the sentiment remains.”

           “It was, but it also sealed your fate.” Marissa stood. “Start assembling your team and listen to Claire, I’m sure she has a list of things she needs from you.”

           “I do!” Claire chimed.

           “Great, get me the contracts from legal and get it to each of the people you’ve listed before 5PM today, I want signed consent before you leave this building.”

           “What if I don’t want to?” You asked, your final plea.

           “You owe her for the debacle with your last interview,” Marissa reminded you.

           “It’s not my fault they were drunk both times! I got the article done and out. It was one of our biggest issues in the last year and was followed up by two other feature pieces by me that beat that record,” You countered, your success an unnecessary brag in a room full of people who feared and admired your work.

           “I don’t care, Y/N, handle it,” Marissa sauntered out, her assistants following close behind.

           Slouching in your chair, your eyes landed on Claire, glaring daggers into her perfectly straight midnight bob. She was everything you hated, a brown noser, a narcissist, a career driven monster who had been biting at your heels since you arrived. She was jealous, blinded by some lofty goal that she’d be an editor or editor in chief before 28, a feat rare in fashion, unless you were Elaine Welterwroth or Margaret Zhang, of course. They had become editors and editors in chief by ages 29 and 27 respectively. Though Zhang had begun her career blogging at 16, a fact that only infuriated Claire who was too busy popping pimples and trying to lose her virginity to her junior varsity boyfriend.

          Claire could spend days listing everything she hated about you. She hated your easy interactions with coworkers, the ability to have the entire room stop and listen when you spoke, the craft of your written work and relationships maintained with subjects years after interviewing them. She hated how you left work with Hoseok on your arm or went to drinks with the assistants and interns. How you achieved so many bylines, becoming an editor in your own right without so much as breaking a sweat, while she was scraping the barrel to be noticed. You seemingly had everything Claire wanted, and Claire was sick of it.

Monday: Your Office

           “Thank you, for your participation,” Claire said, sitting across from you in your office.

           “You aren’t welcome, I’m actually rather unimpressed with your ability to ambush not only me but the other people you’ve trapped into doing your article,” You crossed your legs, adjusting the waist band of your trousers and continued to scowl at her. Claire had only heard of your less than cheerful personality, though it remained largely rumored, she had never had it confirmed or dared to see it in person.

           “How, charming,” She rolled her eyes.

           “Look, you don’t want to be talking to me, I don’t want to be talking to you. Just tell me what you want so I can send you on your way.”

           Claire watched as you reached across your desk to grab your black and white planner, flipping open to the weeks page and holding your pen at the ready. The inside, covered in stickers and hand lettered phrases, fit the persona Claire so desperately wanted to mimic.

           “I need you to read and sign this,” Claire slid the agreement across your glass desk. “Then, I need you to identify the username of your troll, and I need to borrow an intern from your team.”  

           “You can’t have one,”

           “Marissa said I could have whatever I needed, and I need an intern to comb through your tweets.”

           “I can save you the trouble, I rarely tweet, when I do, it’s addressing the same ass hat,” You explained.

           “Well, I need their handle,”

           “Fine,”

           “And the intern,” Claire was firm.

           You rolled your eyes, before pressing the intercom. “Hey Alexis, can you send Erin to me?”

           “Sure thing,” Alexis replied.

           “Thank you,”

           Claire rolled her eyes.

           “Jealous?” You questioned.

           “Read the contract, sign it and send it back to me along with answering the Form that’s in your inbox,” Claire directed.

           “Great,”

           “I’ll be back on Friday to go over your tweets and exchanges before we decide on a tactic to reach out to them and ask them to come in for an interview,” Claire explained. It didn’t annoy you that she was prepared, but it did piss you off a little to know how much she had thought this through. Maybe you should give her a chance, professionally, not socially, Claire would remain a bottom feeder.

           “Who says they’re in the city?” You questioned.

           “If not, we’ll Zoom with them, okay?”

           “Excuse me, you wanted to see me?” Erin peered through the door; wavy bangs parted slightly to expose her forehead and freckled cheeks.

           “Yes, your projects are on hold. Claire here needs your help with her feature article, and as my intern, you are to report to her for the remainder of the project,” You explained.

           Erin’s eyes widened, never had she been reassigned to a special project, let alone with Claire who was notorious for running interns and assistants into the ground. “Who will take over my work?”

           “Can you make a list of where you’re at and send it to me? I will meet with the team tomorrow to talk about where we need to fill in the gaps,”

           “Okay,”

           “Claire, this is Erin, if you are a bitch to her, I will ensure you don’t ever write a feature piece or move past copy editor here or anywhere,”

           “I don’t know where you get off thinking you can speak to me like –

           “I am your superior, and you will respect my intern or face the consequences,”

           “Fine,” Claire turned and left, leaving Erin wondering what on earth she had been roped into.

Tuesday: Happy Hour

           “You gave the real handle?” Hoseok asked over drinks after work, a little happy hour to celebrate leaving the office before 7PM.

           “What was I going to do? She could easily look at my Twitter and Instagram and find out, why lie?”

           “What happened to preservation?” Hoseok mocked.

           “Either I give in and get Claire off my back, or I get called to Marissa’s and have consequences, like I’m a fucking child.”

           Hoseok eyed you suspiciously. “Did you give her his name?”

           “You saw in that meeting, she already knows. I blame you,”

           “Me?”

           “Yes you, always talking about dance classes with Jimin, the good old days of photographing him and styling him in college. He abandoned me to go to school with you, and you’ve taken it all in stride.” You explained. It wasn’t a new story, a new plea, a new exploration of your tempestuous non-relationship with Jimin. It was sad, really, listening to you express the hurt you’ve never let go of.

           “He didn’t abandon you to come to school with me,” Hoseok laughed.

           “Potato, Tomato,”

           “You should talk-

           “Nope, you made your once monthly ‘you should talk to Jimin’ comment a week ago over margheritas, you don’t get another for ten more days,” You scolded.

           “Fine, fine.”

           “I don’t even know where he is,” You muttered, pink liquid of your Paloma slipping down your throat.

           “That’s a lie,”

           “Can you stop calling me out and let me hate him?” You hadn’t meant to snap, but the constant chatter revolving around Jimin was too much to handle, it was too much in two days, too much in the years since you last saw him. Park Jimin was, and has remained, too much.  

           “Fine,” Hoseok resigned. “Have you looked at your tweets lately?”

           “No, I refuse to go back and read whatever horrors I wrote in 2019,”

           “You should,” He suggested.

           “I guarantee Claire will force me to read them. Probably aloud at some last-minute staff meeting she puts together on Friday to fucking fillet me,” You rolled your eyes again, the last dregs of grapefruit clumping together as they slid down the side of your glass.

           “Maybe if you weren’t so,” He starts.

           “Bitchy?”

           “Your words, then she would like you,”

           “She’s hated me since I got there, I’ve tried being nice. I’ve tried being cordial. Claire and I will never mix,” You explained.

           “He’s gone blonde you know,” Hoseok’s eyes have flittered past you, glancing down the street at the setting sun, glad he brought his latest Gucci jacket to keep him warm in the early spring evening.

           “Didn’t you hit your moratorium on how long you can talk about Jimin in a conversation?”

           “You said his name!” Hoseok argued.

           “He isn’t Trump, Hoseok. I can say his name, sometimes.”  

           Hoseok let the moment simmer, cooling gently before turning it up to a raucous boil. “I’m having a kick back next Wednesday, will you come?”

           “If he’s not there,” You answered.

           “I can’t promise that,”

           “Then I can’t promise either,” Chewing the ice from your glass, you let your mind wander to the possibilities of what might happen should you show up to Hoseok’s party and are greeted by Jimin. Blonde Jimin. Jimin with the sparkling eyes and winning smile. Jimin who harasses you on the internet weekly, Jimin who you haven’t spoken to since you were 22, Jimin whom you hated with every fiber of your being.

           Worst case scenario, you couldn’t avoid him and would be forced to speak words to him. Best case, you time it perfectly and he’s either just left or hasn’t arrived and you can doll out pleasantries before Irish-goodbying and never having to confront him.

           “Y/N, please, you haven’t seen my new place yet and it’s finally furnished,” Hoseok pleaded.

           “I’ll think about it,” You resigned.

           “Great!”

           “I fucking hate you and our friendship,” You scoffed, signaling the waiter to bring you the check. You should’ve ordered food, being buzzed and talking about Jimin was never a good idea.

           “I know you do.” Hoseok winked before picking up the tab for you both.

           “At least tell me you haven’t invited Seokjin,” You asked, slipping your coat over your shoulders.

           “Well-

           “You’re fucking with me, right?” You questioned. “You fucking invited both of my exes to a, I’m sorry, kick back? Hoseok, no.”

           “I love you, and I’m sorry, Seokjin helped me find some great pieces for the place, and you know he’s friends with Namjoon and Jungkook,” He tried to explain.

           “That doesn’t mean I want to stare at them over my tenth flute of champagne and my plate which will be piled high with cheese and crackers and pieces of salami.”

           “You and Seokjin are fine though, you ended-

           “Don’t say amicably,” You cut him off.

           “Well, close to it. Please,” He begged. Begging never looked good on Hoseok.

           Staring into his dark irises, a shade mimicking your own, you couldn’t hold the anger brewing. Being around Seokjin was always a better alternative than Jimin. Though the pity he often felt towards you, at your angered state which has never really subsided, was embarrassing. “I’ll think about it.”

           “I love you,” Hoseok pulled you into a hug.

           “Yeah, yeah, then why do you keep doing this to me?”

           “Because I love you,”

           “Tell Taehyung to call me,” You said, waving to him before stepping into the waiting Lyft you’d called at the bar.

           “I will, can’t make any promises,” Hoseok winked before turning towards the subway, where he’d pull out his head phones and scan through the photos he’d taken throughout the day, waiting to get home to Taehyung to analyze, edit and critique them.

Thursday: Claire’s Makeshift Office

           “Are you ready?” Claire asked, sifting through the papers on her desk.

           “You had me come to your office, after you scheduled a meeting to ask if I’m ready? Yes Claire, I’m fucking ready,” You snapped.

           “Erin,” Claire gestured towards your intern who tried to hold her eye roll.

           “So, I combed through your tweets, sifting through your interactions with Mochimin, which is a very creative username,” Erin began.

           “Yeah, his name and nickname combined,” You rolled your eyes.

           “And we read through them all, well mostly me… and I have to ask, are you sure these are your tweets?” Erin questioned.

           “Yes, and what should be his responses,” You answered reaching forward to grab the printed copies waiting for you. You scanned over the interactions, the subtweets, the blatant tags, the retweets and comments not just by Jimin, but a few of your friends too.

           “Why have you been telling us he’s the troll?” Erin asked.

           Her question caught you off guard, eyes wide, shock echoing in your bones.

           “What the fuck? What do you mean? Look at how he fucking responded!”

           “Y/N, you’re the troll!” Erin laughed. “It’s you, not him,”

           “I am not! This is a fucking joke! It’s not April Fools yet, way to put the cart before the horse!” Your voice radiated throughout the small conference room.

          Claire, not having an office of her own, had requested it to conduct most of her teams work. It was your least favorite of the conference rooms, colder both in décor and temperature than the others, it was situated on the corner leading to the kitchen. Glass on two walls, it was the definition of exposed. Everyone could see your outburst. Everyone could watch you fall to pieces. You guessed Claire had planned it this way, to demonstrate how focused her team was, how dedicated to the project they were, to show everyone her value as a staff writer instead of a freelancer. You also assumed she did this to ensure that whatever break down you were beginning to have, would have at least ten witnesses, ten people to side with her that your behavior was irresponsible and reckless.

           “Oh please, get over yourself,” Claire chuckled. The light in her eyes proved your assumptions, she was enjoying this. “Do you see how you interact with him?”

          “What do you mean how I interact with him? He started this!” You lowered your volume, side glances from colleagues passing by alerting you to the unprofessional decibels you’d began reaching.

          “In almost every interaction, you bait him, hook line and sinker. It’s you, Y/N,” Erin explained.

           “No!”

           “Yes, this poor man, just living his life while you’re purposefully harassing him!” Claire feigned shock, eyes widening, mouth slightly open. It was taking everything in you not to resort to physical violence.  

           “I would never,” You glowered.

           “You have! For years, it’s always you,” Erin said again.

          “I, no, that’s impossible. He started it!”

          “Admitting is the first step,” Claire’s placid smile was demanding to be smacked off.

          “Fuck you! This is ridiculous!”

          “July 10, 2020: Thinking of one man in particular, hoping the bleach in his locks burns in the summer heat.Followed by his comment: thinking of one woman in particular, hoping she knows I wear a hat and use purple shampoo.” Erin read.

          “I, I, no!”

          “October 13: Nothing makes me happier than not being invited to a birthday bash with all my friends. He responded: All you have to do is ask. On your birthday, he tweeted: Happy B-Day to the girl who … oh never mind she hates me. You responded: nobody asked for your half-hearted bullshit, next time I hope you choke on it.”

          “He started it!”

          “Why are you so awful to him?” Erin wanted to know.

          “I am not, he began harassing me first,” You tried to argue.

          “Does Hoseok know?” Claire chided.

          “Know what?”

          “About your vendetta,”

          “It’s not a vendetta!”

          “Then explain why you tweet or subtweet him at least twice a week, and then when he responds, tweet him again! You don’t even tag him, just vaguely mention discernable parts of his personality or appearance,” Erin explained.

          “I do not! How do you know what he looks like?” You tried to counter.

          “His profile picture, and a certain friend of yours doesn’t mind sharing-

          “You asked Jungkook? Or was it Taehyung? Or I’m sorry, both?” Your eyes were wide, breathing labored, anger boiling to inhumane levels.

          “Well, if we asked Hoseok you would’ve kno-

          “You called or texted or DM’ed Jungkook and Taehyung, and asked about Jimin?”

          “Yes,” Erin bowed her head, guilt written into the freckles her blush tried so desperately to hide.

          “I cannot believe you, Erin,” You spat.

          “I’m sorry Claire wanted me to,”

          You turned your gaze to Claire, who had begun to cower in her seat.

          “You did the one thing, the absolute one thing that you knew, you fucking knew, would set me off. You did this on purpose, you fucking bottom feeder, you fucking dillweed you crossed the fucking line, Claire,” You spat. Your volume had lowered into a low growl, far more deadly and intimidating than any yelling you had done.

          “We have the proof, Y/N, you can’t deny it, you attack Jimin regularly,” Claire unskillfully attempted to move the conversation away from Jungkook and Taehyung. Like you would balk at her intrusion.

          “You don’t get to violate my personal life, to violate the lives of the people I care deeply about, to expose sources and put them in danger should this article go south, poking and prodding into the lives of people who are dealing with their own bullshit to push your own fucking agenda, Claire,” You were seething, Te Fiti in Moana, Mrs. Weasley against Bellatrix, Kim Kardashian against the ocean searching for her diamond. Your wrath knows no bounds, and Claire had finally crossed the line into territory she could never come back from.

          “It’s for the job, nothing personal.” Claire shrugged. You could see it in her eyes, she wanted blood and was elated to be getting it.

          “This is entirely personal.”

          “Well, you can ask Jimin about it when we interview him,” She smiled, lips upturning revealing her veneers, red lipstick perfectly matte and shaped against her thin flesh.

          “No, absolutely not,” You shook your head.  

          “Yes, that’s part of the deal you agreed to,”

          “I take it back. I revoke my consent!”

          “It’s non-negotiable,” Marissa said. She had sauntered in during your berating, watching as you tried and failed to continue believing that you weren’t the troll. “You have agreed to this, and you will sit through the interview and cordially answer Claire’s questions.”

          “Marissa, this is crossing a line,” You stated.

          “You have to be held accountable,” Claire said.

          “Fuck you, Claire. Believe it or not, there are somethings that are beyond your understanding and a few that are not appropriate for work,” You continued to scold her.

          “Y/N, why are you being so hostile?” Claire was mocking you, with Marissa by her side, she was invincible.

          “You picked me on purpose. What have you been working with Hoseok? Is this some larger plan to get me to talk to Jimin? I don’t want to talk with Jimin or talk to Jimin, isn’t it bad enough he’s being brought into my work? Oh and let’s not forget you using Erin and Hoseok to gain access to Jungkook and Taehyung, who are beyond off limits.” You listed each of her offenses, careful to leave out indiscretions that occurred before this project of hers began.  

          “You agreed to-

          “No, I was forced to do this by you, Marissa,” You began.

          It wasn’t hard to glower at Marissa, one of the most decorated editors in chief, beloved by Condé Nast, best friend of Anna Wintour… Everyone aspired to be her, but in the last year, through your promotion and growing turbulence within the magazine, her leadership had begun to falter. Her steady hand, guiding each staff writer and editor towards success and elevating everyone’s work, was crumbling at an alarming pace. Yet, no one knew why or if anything was being done to rectify the damage her wake was leaving.

          “I was coerced into this under some pretense that I owe Claire something for a so called fuck up that resulted in the biggest boon in our magazines readership in the last year, which was followed up by not one but two feature bylines and my promotion. I have done more than enough at this company, in this industry, to sit here and be forced to engage with a man who destroyed my world. I will not speak with him, or to him or listen to him. I will not, and if you force me, I will get legal involved. Should this bullshit continue, you can expect my letter of resignation next week.”

          Standing and shoving your chair in, you turned on the heels of your Oxfords and marched straight to your office. Closing your laptop and shoving your planner into your tote, you grabbed your phone.

          “Where are you going?” Hoseok asked. He moved in time with you, following down the many corridors of your office and towards the elevators.

          As you stepped in, you pressed lobby and waited for the doors to be closed before turning to him.

          “Did you tell Erin she could contact Jungkook and Taehyung?” You asked.

          “She did what?” Hoseok yelled, soundwaves bounding off the metal and plastic of the elevator, reverberating in your ears.

          “Did you?”

          “No, I can’t believe she, are you serious?” Hoseok couldn’t lie, a fundamental flaw in his design made it impossible for him to tell the smallest fib.

          “Did you work with Erin and Claire to get me involved in this feature? To get me to talk to Jimin?” You didn’t mince your words or pad your language to make him feel less attacked. You needed the answer, and you needed it now.

          “No, I didn’t know Claire was doing this until she pitched it. You think I would-

          “Hoseok, they called Jungkook and Taehyung. They want Jimin to come in to be interviewed, they won’t stop until I-

          “Until you what?”

          “Marissa has always supported me, championed me. But Claire has her number, she has her locked and loaded, aiming for me and I don’t know why,” You confided.

          “She has been slipping lately,” He agreed. “There’s only one way to stop this,”

          Together you stepped out of the elevator, moving past the turnstiles to the revolving door.

          “Am I crazy?” You asked, the insecurity beginning to overtake your bravery.

          “No, something weird is going on,”

          You clarified, “No, I mean, am I crazy for… for doing this to Jimin?”

          “I don’t know if you’re crazy, but you’ve definitely not been your best self,” Hoseok answered.

          “He makes me so-

“You still love him,” Hoseok interrupted.

          “I-

          “Go talk to him,” Hoseok encouraged. “Call me after, we can get drinks and wallow or pick out an outfit for your hot date.”

          “What if he-

          “Just, talk to him, okay?” Hoseok requested.

          “Okay,”

          “I’ll check in with Jungkookie and Taehyungie,” He assured.

          “Thank you,”

          “I’ll also scope out open positions, we can’t stay here,”

          “I love you, Hobi,” You confided, a statement that flowed so easily past your lips, you didn’t have to think or parse through the emotions that went along with it. You’ve always loved him, always will.

          “I love you too, Y/N,” Hoseok draped his arm around your shoulders before placing a kiss to your forehead, a gentle embrace, a squeeze of confidence, a gesture of love. He moved swiftly from you back into the building, and as you watched him walk away, you took a deep breath.

          Taking your phone out of your pocket, you dialed a number you had tried to forget.

          “To what do I owe this unexpected delight of a call?” He asked. His voice was the same, chipper and cunning in the same breath.

          “I need to speak with you, ASAP,” You told him.

          “Okay, I’m working from home today, come over whenever,” He invited you without hesitation.

          “You still live at the same place?”

          “No, moved up. I’ll send you the address,”

          “You know who this is?” You asked, uncertainty back in your bones.

          “What, Y/N, you thought I deleted your number?” Jimin laughed, one of only a few sounds that shot right to your knees, making any posture unstable in the docile sounds of his joy.

          “I, I don’t know, I guess. Look I’m going to hail a cab, I’ll be there in 20,”

          “I look forward to it, just tell the doorman you’re here for me and he’ll let you up,” Jimin said.

          “Okay, see you soon, I guess,”

          “I can’t wait,” Jimin was smiling, you couldn’t see it, but the lilt in his voice was all the assurance you needed. Bracing yourself for the impact of him, of his voice, of his laugh, of the way he looked at you, you hailed one of the last remaining cabs in the city and prayed for courage.  

Next: Troll in Luv Pt. 2

[samnyangie]

It’s from a book called ‘conversation in the wings’ by Roy Harris; it’s a transcript of the interviews he had with actors and this is the section of rsl.

Just a warning it’s quite long.

(Source)

________________________________________

1994: CONVERSATIONS IN THE WINGS

The Author's Intentions Are Good

by Roy Harris

Conversations in the Wings

1994

This interview took place on Friday, May 24, 1991, on the Mainstage at Playwrights Horizons where Jon Robin Baitz's The Substance of Fire was playing. Considering that he is the youngest person who talks here about acting (he was 22 at the time of the interview), it is remarkable that Robert Sean Leonard speaks with so much ease and apparent knowledge on a subject that can be as elusive as this one. The clarity he has as he discusses how he works on a role is not unlike the focus he brings to the characters he creates on stage. At the time of this interview, Mr. Leonard had recently finished a run of Romeo and Juliet for the Riverside Shakespeare Company.

Roy Harris: So let's start at the beginning. If you get a script and you read it and say to yourself, "I've got to do this," what makes you feel that?

Robert Sean Leonard: Well, that's hard to say. It depends on if you're reading for a certain character-I mean, if you're not sure who you're going to play yet. I guess I read specifically for the author's intentions of the play.

Roy Harris: Do you ever take a role-maybe it's not so wonderful-to be a part of that writer's particular world?

Robert Sean Leonard: Oh, yes. But if the play is important to you and that moving to you, then a small role becomes important because of what the author's saying. I'll be doing Our Town in London this fall and early winter. George is a very nice, I thought, young juvenile role to do. But then I read the play again, and I was astonished at the simplicity and importance of Wilder's message. Suddenly, George became much more important to me. I realized his place in that world, and it was big. If you look at the play, no one talks to each other. Except for the soda fountain scene. And there they talk. That's why they get married. Seeing this made playing him exciting. The way George has to deal with life and death is amazing.

Roy Harris: When you decided to do, for instance, the Greek pianist Alexandros in When She Danced, what made you make that decision?

Robert Sean Leonard: Joanne Woodward told me I had to do it.

Roy Harris: That's a good reason; she's very smart.

Robert Sean Leonard: Well, that play defined the undefinable qualities and questions about what I do as an actor. And I'd never seen that in a play before. So, I guess it was both things: the play itself and what a wonderful character.

Roy Harris: When you were working on Alexandros, what did you find the most challenging thing about it?

Robert Sean Leonard: Oh, come on, Roy, you remember?

Roy Harris: Well, I have to ask you now as if I weren't there. I'm an impersonal interviewer now.

Robert Sean Leonard: His incredible self-confidence. The guy walks into a room and you look at him. I've never been able to do that. I've seen other people who have that. And, it's not a quality you can play. It's not like an accent. It's a within quality. And you're in awe of it when you see it.

Roy Harris: Well, you have a quality as an actor of self-effacement. Do you think you had to get past that, go beyond it in some way?

Robert Sean Leonard: Oh, yes, but what a time I had working on it. It was a breakthrough for me. Sitting at that piano, standing up and saying, essentially, "I am a prodigy." I would say it in the mirror at home and I couldn't do it. It goes against everything you try to be as a human, as an actor. To never assume you know because then you'll stop growing. That was completely foreign to me.

Roy Harris: Did you feel you were the right choice for the role?

Robert Sean Leonard: Oh, yes.

Roy Harris: Me, too. It has to do with the other quality we talked about: something reserved and thoughtful. If you don't have that, then the sureness of Alexandros will be obnoxious.

Robert Sean Leonard: What was fascinating for me: to have an amazing bravura, and at the same time, as Quixote says, to have the humility to "love pure and chaste from afar." To love purely requires a lot of humility. It goes against the bravura. With Alexandros, I had the humility, but as you know, it took weeks and weeks to get the right assertiveness.

Roy Harris: It was fascinating watching it happen. All right, let's back up a minute. You got that role a couple of weeks, at least, before we started rehearsal. What sort of work did you do, if any, before the first day of rehearsal?

Robert Sean Leonard: Well, the bravura element didn't even occur to me until I started saying the words out loud in rehearsal with the likes of Marcia Jean Kurtz, Elizabeth Ashley and Jonathan Walker all sitting there watching me. Actually, the thing I dove right into was the Greek accent. That sort of gives you a center. It's a tangible task. And you have to accomplish it in a certain amount of time. The accent gives you a guideline. You go to the dialect coach and you sit down and start. "No," he says, "the A is pronounced this way. It's always pronounced this way." It was so refreshing to have a guideline as your beginning point. Otherwise, where do you start?

Roy Harris: Did the actual pronunciation of particular words tell you anything about who the person was?

Robert Sean Leonard: I would say the rhythm of it more than the pronunciation of it. The clipped musical rhythm gave me a sense of his spontaneous movement, his vital energy. There's a snappiness to Alexandros, which I really don't have as a person. Something happens to you when you get to have that snappy, clipped musical speech coming out of your mouth. You change inside.

Roy Harris: Let's say it's Thursday night and tomorrow you're going to work on the scene where you introduce yourself to the translator, Belzer. What sort of ordinary, basic work do you do on the scene?

Robert Sean Leonard: You know, the first time this ever came up was when I was doing Beachhouse with George Grizzard. I was sixteen. I was up there one day doing it, you know, just doing it, and Melvin Bernhard the director said, "What are you doing here? What is this about?" And I had no clue. I was just asking my dad where the letter was. Well, he said, "Do you have any assumptions about it? Who's it from? Is it from your mother? If so, what would that mean to you?" When I went home that night, I wanted to quit the business. I cried. And to this day, it's always an obsession of mine-not getting general and relying on some phony charm. What I want to do is get specific and ask myself the necessary questions: what is his intention here? what's he after? why? So, to answer your question, I read the scene, trying to pick out where they're starting, where they're heading, and how they got there. If something changes, where does it change? However, I usually find out more in rehearsal than at home.

Roy Harris: Sometimes, do you find after a rehearsal or a series of rehearsals on a particular scene that there's more there?

Robert Sean Leonard: Oh, sure. The more you work, the more you find. You can be hitting your head against a wall, as I was with Alexandros, and the director can say, "It's because you're not as confident as he is." Like any trouble you have, once you define it, it's so much easier to deal with. Then you know what you're after.

Roy Harris: Do you try to look and see an intention in every line, or a basic intention in a scene?

Robert Sean Leonard: I'm sure that you should, but I've found that there's a level of subconscious work that goes on. I find that it's much better for me to find out what's there with the person in rehearsal. It doesn't mean I don't I really think about it before though.

Roy Harris: Would you say-I'm asking a loaded question now-that you are more an instinctive actor or one more given to plan?

Robert Sean Leonard: I think I'm more instinctive than planned, but both, I guess.

Roy Harris: From having watched you in two different rehearsal situations, I'd say you seem to have done a lot of work when you came in.

Robert Sean Leonard: I would say that's basically true. But there are all sorts of ways of being prepared. For instance, take Romeo. My God, I spent hours just finding out what all those words mean. And then, with Shakespeare, it's so maddening because one thought can mean many different things. You don't have to choose one. Another form of preparation is just knowing your character so well-the background you've come to through what the playwright made up-that when something comes up, you instinctively know what's wrong or right.

Roy Harris: When you re working on a role, do you ever get a picture of what the character should look like?

Robert Sean Leonard: Yeah, and it's never me!

Roy Harris: Well, it shouldn't be you. You're playing somebody else.

Robert Sean Leonard: But I never get that out of my head. I can think back on every role I've done and picture who should have played it instead of me-what type of person; what he looked like.

Roy Harris: Does it help you to do that?

Robert Sean Leonard: Sometimes. Slowly the picture in your mind becomes you. I can look back now and say, yes, I'm Eugene Jerome. Yes, I'm Romeo. But it took a while for me to get there, to get me in the picture. It was always someone else.

Roy Harris: When you're working on a role, do you ever get a sense of how that character should dress?

Robert Sean Leonard: Actually, not much. I know there are actors who do. I guess it doesn't matter so much. I just had a problem with that on The Speed of Darkness, however. The designer was very intent on including the actors in her plans. I drove her crazy. "I don't know. Why are you asking me? Whatever you put on me, I can justify." She didn't like that. But I guess it would depend on the role. The only battle I lost was she put a letter jacket on me, a varsity letter jacket. It was the only thing I didn't like. Any time I see a varsity jacket on stage, I think, 'Oh, here comes a young actor.' I want to be a person. It's too much a sign to me. But I ended up wearing it. She liked it too much.

Roy Harris: When you're in rehearsal, what are you looking for from other actors?

Robert Sean Leonard: Well, hopefully we'll all be pretty solid in our agreement about what is going on in this play and what our part in it is. Of course, there are technical things: like you don't upstage someone when they're talking. An important thing is knowing when the scene is moving, and knowing when it's time to take a moment for yourself. And that's hard. A lot of actors get up there, and understandably, the play is about them. If you're playing a milkman, the play is about a milkman. But when that becomes your only reality, you lose sight of the intentions of the play. You know, it's so obvious to me when an actor feels he is the most important thing in the play. It's so portentous. Every line means something. It's so boring. Maybe that's why I'm a little afraid of finding intentions in every line. Then it all gets too much meaning.

Roy Harris: Have you ever worked with an actor-you don't have to give a name-whom you had a problem with?

Robert Sean Leonard: Sure. I worked with an actress in a film who had no clue, didn't know the first thing about acting. The camera would go to you, and she'd be off camera reading her next film. She would say her lines not looking at you. That drove me crazy. On stage, I must say I've never worked with anyone where there was a problem. I've worked with people who really snapped with me and then people who were just all right to work with.

Roy Harris: Who is an actor you've really liked working with?

Robert Sean Leonard: Cynthia Nixon - when you work with her, she's so in tune with what's going on. When a scene is playing, it just lifts and rises. She's like a dancer. I love all her work. Something happens when that actress walks on stage. It elevates into another world.

Roy Harris: What are you looking for from the director?

Robert Sean Leonard: An unshakable vision. You know when they have it, because you'll ask questions and immediately there's an answer that makes sense, and it makes sense in relation to everything that's happened so far.

Roy Harris: What if it's a vision you don't agree with?

Robert Sean Leonard: That doesn't matter. I want a vision that's like a force running through everything.

Roy Harris: What happens when there's not a vision?

Robert Sean Leonard: Well, my sister told me once, when she was in third grade, her whole class went into the city. When they came up from the subway, the teacher-for a moment-didn't know where she was. My sister saw that look, and suddenly was terrified. She lost all faith. And that's horrible when it happens with a director, and it can happen in an instant. If they have an unshakable vision, it won't happen.

Roy Harris: Have you ever had a director tell you something and you felt that you just couldn't do it?

Robert Sean Leonard: Couldn't from myself?

Roy Harris: Yes.

Robert Sean Leonard: Well, no, because the minute someone asks something of me, my first reaction is, "God dammit, I can do this. I can do whatever they want." You know, to me the author's intentions are God, and the director the channel for those intentions. The very idea of not being able to do something a director asks, or being averse to it, is upsetting to me.

Roy Harris: Have you ever been in a situation where some or all of the actors didn't trust a director? How do you deal with that?

Robert Sean Leonard: Good question. Well, if a director can't give you an answer for why he wants you to do something a certain way, then you shouldn't trust him. If I initially don't trust a director, I try to find out why I don't. Maybe it's me. But if he can't give you an answer, you can't get bitter. You have to rely solely on yourself, or on yourself and who you're playing with. You do the best you can and hope for a short run.

Roy Harris: What director would you most like to work with?

Robert Sean Leonard: Mark Lamos.

Roy Harris: Why?

Robert Sean Leonard: In everything of his I've seen I always witness such clarity and devotion to the author's intent, even if it's complex, as in Hamlet or The Master Builder.

Roy Harris: For someone your age, you've had a chance to play some very good roles. What's been the most challenging role so far?

Robert Sean Leonard: Romeo. I think I misunderstood him the whole time I was playing it.

Roy Harris: Oh, Bobby, everybody who plays him feels that, don't they?

Robert Sean Leonard: Probably. When I took the role, I thought, I'm going to make him honorable, which I think he is. Most people feel he's a sap. My mistake was making him that way from the beginning.

Roy Harris: What do you mean?

Robert Sean Leonard: A friend of mine said late in the run that that first scene is not about a man who knows love. It's about a kid who thinks he knows what love is. Then he meets Juliet. He said, you should make us puke in the aisles when you tell Benvolio what you think love is. And he's right. From the moment I walked on stage, boy, did I play passion. All through the Rosaline stuff with Benvolio, it was passion. Consequently, when I met Juliet, I just didn't have anywhere to go. It was like starting with a nine and getting to a ten.

Roy Harris: But you seemed to have a good time working on it.

Robert Sean Leonard: Well, I learned from it. You need to see his feeling about Rosaline in order to really appreciate the great feeling he comes to have about Juliet. I didn't look at it intelligently enough. I didn't realize the simplicity of: he doesn't know what he's doing and then he does know what he's doing. It's also our job as Romeo to convince the audience that once he's in love with Juliet-and some people would scream at this-it's worth dying for. With all the mistakes I made, it was a great experience.

Roy Harris: Ten years from now you can do it again and think what that will be like.

Robert Sean Leonard: I'll have a whole new series of questions about it. That's why acting is so phenomenal. You can't ever be good enough.

Roy Harris: Does there come a point for you in rehearsals, or probably in performance somewhere, where you think you got it?

Robert Sean Leonard: No. There are points where I feel I've gotten something. I've never given a perfect performance. I wonder who has?

Roy Harris: Well, if they think they have...

Robert Sean Leonard: I don't want to talk to them.

Roy Harris: Me either. Have you ever been praised by a friend for a performance that you thought was bad, or certainly not adequate?

Robert Sean Leonard: Sure.

Roy Harris: How do you deal with that? How does it affect you?

Robert Sean Leonard: Well, you're praised very often for things that you don't deserve to be praised for. But you learn pretty quickly who does that and who doesn't. So I guess you learn who to listen to. How do you deal with it? I get very indignant. I go home and I say, 'Well, they're wrong.' When I was filming Dead Poets Society, I noticed that Peter Weir (the director)-as soon as he'd say, "Cut"-would look to John Seal (the cinematographer) first. As soon as the play is done, I consider myself a cinematographer; I check with myself. Then I check with the director. A friend may be right in saying something I did was false, but I have to go by what the director is asking for. So, it's complicated when friends say things. Very complicated. It's very sacred between you and the director, and frankly, people need to honor that.

Roy Harris: What's the biggest difference between acting on stage and acting for the camera?

Robert Sean Leonard: In some ways, they're very different and then in some ways they're not so different at all. It's a little like recording music and then playing it live. In one sense, you're part of the whole, but fragmentally. In film, you're offering pieces, and the director makes it whole.

Roy Harris: Do you prefer one over the other?

Robert Sean Leonard: No. I don't know. I think I prefer theatre. Is that three answers?

Roy Harris: You can change your answer later. I'm trying to find out what your feeling is at this moment. In film, you go in on the first day of shooting and you may shoot pages 68-72. In terms of preparation, how do you shoot something that's in the middle of that character's (for want of a better word) journey? What do you do with all that comes before?

Robert Sean Leonard: Homework becomes much more important in film, ironically, because in film, usually your work has much less to do immediately with other actors. It's much more a solitary art. Because you start with page 68, you have to know exactly where that character is and has been before page 68. Hopefully, the director will know, too. And you will discuss it together, as Peter Weir did with me through the shooting of Dead Poets.

Roy Harris: Where do you think the director is more important, or is he: in film or stage?

Robert Sean Leonard: They're more important for different reasons in both areas.

Roy Harris: Have you ever been asked to do something by a film director that you didn't want to do, or thought you shouldn't do?

Robert Sean Leonard: Yeah. Usually it has to do with poor writing. Sometimes the director will want something because of what's in the script, and you have to do it, even if you're not sure it's right.

Roy Harris: Let's say you did a role on stage for six weeks, night after night, and then you go and make a movie of it. A scene you've done many times, you're now going to do and the camera is going to be this close to you. Does it do anything to your way of thinking about it, to know the viewer is now so close?

Robert Sean Leonard: The relationship with the director becomes much more intimate. It would be like having the director on stage with you at all times, saying, "How about this? how about this? or how about this?" They are creating with you at the moment, and they know, and hopefully you do too, the journey of this character. It would be wonderful to do it on stage first because your homework would be done for you. An obvious thing is that when the camera's so close you do bring it down, even though you try to keep it as truthful as you would anywhere. In film, you do a lot more with your eyes, where on stage you use your hands and body language.

Roy Harris: So far, what is your favorite film role?

Robert Sean Leonard: Well, I'd have to say Dead Poets Society is for me in film what Brighton Beach Memoirs was for me on stage. It was kind of my baptism because I suddenly found myself on the set with a powerhouse of a director. It also has to do with the time. I was nineteen. Peter took me in as the leader of this gang. He had me read poetry. Also, I had to play Puck, and he wouldn't tell me which scene we were going to do, so I learned all of Puck. Without a doubt, it was the most glorious film experience. It was college for me. All of the guys, we lived together. We had a whole floor of a hotel, and we became this group of young men. We did everything together. We created together. Ethan Hawke and I used to practice scenes listening to Beethoven's Ninth.

Roy Harris: What is your favorite scene there?

Robert Sean Leonard: Well, for personal reasons, the scene with Ethan on the roof where we throw the desk set off. We came up with that scene. Originally, it was a scene which ended very sadly, with Ethan saying his parents didn't love him. Peter pulled us aside and said, "Okay, we know all this. Let's just have a scene about friendship." And the three of us came up with the scene where we destroy the desk set. That was a real accomplishment for me because improvisation has always scared the hell out of me. I don't like it that much as a working technique. When the director is as strong as Peter is, then improv is wonderful.

Roy Harris: We've talked a little about this, since you and I are such fans of hers, but what was it like to play Joanne Woodward's son in Mr. and Mrs. Bridge?

Robert Sean Leonard: It's funny. They're an amazing team, she and Paul. He's reserved. Though I don't know a thing about him, I like him a great deal. Joanne is-well, you know, there's a love you have for certain celebrities. I think she knew I had this huge feeling, and she takes that feeling and makes you feel comfortable. It's okay to have it. Know what I mean?

Roy Harris: Absolutely.

Robert Sean Leonard: She embraces this feeling you have about her, and it frees you. Therefore, working with her was a dream. She's completely honest in her work.

Roy Harris: What was a favorite scene of yours in that film?

Robert Sean Leonard: I don't know. I was so racked with his age throughout the filming-you know, when he was fifteen, when he was seventeen, when he was nineteen. But I guess it would be the boy scout scene. I was so worried that no one would buy that I was fifteen years old. I was twenty at the time, so they gave me braces to help me get a sense of youth. It helped. Really, though, it was memorable because Joanne was so wonderful in it. She did everything for us. She made us all look good. I remember during filming looking over at Paul when I don't kiss her and begin to sing. And he wasn't Paul, he was Mr. Bridge, my father, and looked at me with such hatred, and it was startlingly clear that he loved his wife more than me. For him, his son wasn't going through something; no, some guy just hurt his wife. The most joyous scenes were coming home from the air corps through the final scene where I take her hand. For me, Douglas is the only one in that house who grows up with a true sense of other things in the world. After all, he's the one who writes the books.

Roy Harris: Well, you do feel he's the least selfish of those children.

Robert Sean Leonard: Yes, well, I think that's evident even when he's behaving like a brat with her. I wanted people to feel: yes, he's doing it, but it's killing him to do it. I remember feeling, 'If this guy can write about these people so brilliantly and so warmly, there's got to be something there, and I'll be damned if I'm not going to get that feeling into the film.' In his air corps training, Douglas met so many different kinds of people that he was able to look at his parents objectively and with love. To me, it's the only moment in the film where anyone reaches out to Mrs. Bridge as a human being, not the mother. Actually, Paul would probably disagree with this. But I guess we each see it from our own point of view in the film.

Roy Harris: One more quick thing before we close. If you could work with any actor, actress, director, and pick your own role; in other words, what's your ideal situation?

Robert Sean Leonard: I think doing The Seagull with Joanne would be an amazing experience. Doing anything with Ian Holm. I've always had a dream of playing Horatio to someone else's Hamlet. Horatio to Gary Oldman's Hamlet would be very good.