#imagine for like forty years you walk on set and the director just hand you the script

[todayisafridaynight]

I DID SAY I WAS SORRY... Best of luck on your quiz tomorrow <3 and hey who knows maybe Jo'll take his shirt off next game

Quiz’ll be easy its just psych. Like the like 90 shots of tsutsumi shirtless living in my psych Ha Gottem.

Christ.

[lunar-jimin]

life goes on, it gets so heavy; the wheel breaks the butterfly

Pairing: Jungkook x fem!reading

Rating: 18+

Genre: smut, angst, fluffy ending, ceo!jungkook, secretary!reader

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: cheating, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, using pulling out as a protective method (don’t do this kids), dom!jungkook, sub!reader, cumming in pants, oral (female receiving), dirty talk, daddy kink, degradation, lovey-dovey sex, impreg kink

Summary: Despite being the golden heir of a wealthy empire, Jungkook is incredibly unhappy with life he’s been handed. When you show up in his office one morning, you change his life in the way he least expected, but in the way he needed the most. 

a/n: This is an anonymous commission for my BLM fundraiser!! If you would like to request something yourself, you can find the link to my official post here! I would also like to thank the lovely @nightowls388​ for beta reading!!

| masterlist | moodboard | playlist |

The air was too hot. Uncomfortable. Sticky. Jungkook loosened the tie around his neck in a desperate attempt to free himself from the confines of his suit. He hated August. It was always too warm, too sunny. He preferred the dark winter days where the snow silenced the universal white noise. Black suits weren’t as suffocating on forty degree days.

He glanced out the window of the Rolls Royce, taking in the pedestrians struggling not to melt in the intense gaze of the sun. He sympathized with their struggle. Even the blast of freezing draft from the air conditioner did little to spare him from the heat. He enjoyed watching people. He was fascinated by the little idiosyncrasies that formed them into unique individuals, each essential to making the world work. Besides, everyone’s life seemed more interesting to him than his own.

There was a point in his life when he was content with the plan his parents had laid out for him before he was in diapers. He looked forward to one day taking over his father’s company, marrying a nice girl, and starting a family. It was a simple plan and one that gained the approval of the adults in his life: something he was constantly vying for as an adolescent. It was what he was raised with. When he went to college, everything changed. For the first time in his existence, he wasn’t being inundated with his parent’s doctrine and found that there was more to life than running Fortune 500 companies. His parents were less than pleased to discover that he had accompanied his business major with a minor in photography. 

But despite the longing that had bloomed in him for something more intriguing than sterile offices and mundane board meetings, he still found himself back home where his parents once again instilled in him the desire to be the golden heir. A year after his return as the prodigal son, his parents set him with the woman who was now his wife. Three years after that, his father decided that he would rather spend his days on the golfing green rather than in sky-high conference rooms, so he handed off the company to Jungkook. Ever since Jungkook had been locked inside stuffy black suits and boring ties. And he absolutely hated it. 

He squirmed in his seat, his desire to escape increasing with each second he was locked in the back of the car. God, why was it so hot? He felt like crying- a feeling that had become increasingly common during the past six months. His brain felt like a bubbling volcano waiting patiently to explode. Sometimes, Jungkook imagined what would happen when it did. He would divorce his wife, leave his job, and move to some island in the Caribbean where he would spend the rest of his days taking pictures. It was a nice dream, but it was only that, a dream. 

He shook his head, trying to contain his runaway emotions. As the car came to a halt in front of the office building, Jungkook tightened his tie and grabbed his briefcase before exiting out into the scalding heat. If inside the car was bad, outside was absolute hell. It was so hot, Jungkook swore he was on fire. He frowned, rushing into the safety of the air-conditioned skyscraper in front of him before he broke out in a sweat. 

He sighed in relief the second he made it through the rotating doors. He had never been so grateful for the large air conditioning bill in all his life. His relief was so immense that it took a full minute to realize something was wrong. Normally, the second he walked through the door, his secretary greeted him with an iced coffee and a pastry, but as he looked around, his secretary was nowhere to be found. Yet another sigh escaped his mouth as he stepped into the elevator. Why of all days did today have to be the day his secretary magically disappeared? He shook his head. 

He noticed her the minute he arrived at his office floor. She was bent over a box, all her attention focused on searching for whatever object was eluding her. It took her a moment to notice his presence, but when she did, she bolted upright before scurrying in front of the desk, hands behind her back. Jungkook looked her up and down, transfixed by the beautiful stranger.

“Can I help you?”

His voice came out harsher than he meant it to and he cringed when you tried to disguise a wince. 

“Um, yes, I’m your new secretary, Mr. Jeon.”

His brows furrowed. 

“New secretary? What happened to the old one? He was perfectly fine.”

He didn’t remember any emails about his secretary leaving, although to be fair, he hadn’t been paying attention to much these days. He might physically be at work, but more often than not, his mind had drifted to far off places. Mostly island paradises. 

“He moved away.”

“Ah,” he gave you a once over, “and what is your name, new secretary?”

You answered him. He nodded as if you had given him the right answer on a quiz.

“And I don’t suppose anyone has told you how things work around here.”

“No sir.”

His hands clenched at the name, a picture of you on your knees before him (with much less clothing) popped into his head. He shook it off, trying to stay the least bit professional. He had a wife for god’s sake. 

“I see. Well, for future reference, I expect you to meet me each day in the lobby with an iced americano and a pastry,” he paused when he realized how demanding he sounded before softly adding, “No cherries though, I hate cherries.”

You nodded, grabbing a sticky note and jotting down his instructions.

“For now, just get settled in. Do you happen to know if I have any meetings today?”

You nodded again, “You have a lunch meeting with the Samsung marketing director at one, sir.”

There it was again. That damn formality. It was really going to get the better of him. 

“You will accompany me. I expect you to take notes, but don’t contribute to the conversation. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jungkook nodded before making a beeline to his office before he got a boner. He let out a sigh of relief as he closed the door behind him. His heart pounded in his chest and despite his desperate attempts, he’s chubbed up a bit in his pants. 

He didn’t want to admit that it’s because you might be the most attractive woman he has ever seen. He didn’t want to admit that he hasn’t been this turned on in months. Instead, he passed it off on the fact that he hadn’t had sex with his wife in three months which left behind quite a bit of built-up tension. 

The hours ticked by and Jungkook attempted to bury himself with the neverending stack of paperwork. He remembered there was a time when he loved to show off his signature (there was a reason fifteen-year-old him never had a girlfriend), but now he wanted to chop off his hands so that he could never sign a contract again. He was thankful when the clock struck eleven, releasing him from his office, even if it meant being stuck talking shop for an hour while eating expensive but flavorless food. 

He stepped out to find you arranging photos on the wall beside your desk. You glanced up when you heard the door open and flashed him a blinding smile. 

“Ready, sir?”

He nodded. The title was really going to be a problem. 

The meeting was the beginning of Jungkook’s personal purgatory. Every day you would greet him with a smile and the best pastries he had ever tasted. (He was surprised when you admitted to him that you had baked them yourself. If you weren't proving to be an amazing secretary, he would suggest that you open a bakery, but he’s selfish.) You were a good listener and caught onto his routines without a struggle. But every day you would show up dressed as pure temptation. It wasn’t even that your outfits were scandalous, just simple pencil skirts and pastel blouses, but you made them look like sin incarnate. It didn’t help that every night he went home to his wife who he barely noticed existed anymore.

There had been a point when he and his wife were, er, passionate. For the first couple of years, Jungkook even managed to convince himself that he was in love with her. But a couple of months ago, weekly dinners turned into once a month before they disappeared altogether. To make the situation worse, his mother was starting to complain about her lack of children, but he didn’t know how to break it to her that he couldn’t remember the last time he had kissed his wife, much less had sex with her. There were no bitter feelings or resentment, just indifference. He had briefly considered couples therapy before deciding against it. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to attempt to salvage the crumbs of his marriage. 

You had only added fuel to the fire. Jungkook found himself just as infatuated with your mind as he was with your body. Not only did you laugh at his dumb jokes and listen to his whining, but you had witty contributions and easily found out-of-the-box solutions. He swore this quarter’s numbers would be higher just from you alone. And you flirted. He wasn’t sure at first, incredibly hesitant to respond in fear of a scandalous HR report. But when he caught your gaze on him when you thought he wasn’t looking one too many times, he realized there was a good chance that you liked him just as much as he liked you. 

Between you, his wife, and his desperate need to escape this world of offices, limos, and quid pro quo, his life was unraveling right in front of him. Still, he tried to hold onto all the pieces before they landed in a disappointed heap in his lap. He wasn’t quite ready to let it all go to shit. He definitely was not ready to meet his parents’ disapproving faces when he lost everything they had worked so hard to ensure he had. 

Two months after you began working, he found himself at an overcrowded party praying he was anywhere but there. Sadly, being a CEO meant that he wasn’t allowed to drink away his woes, lest he make a fool of himself in front of all the investors. Instead, he was forced to stay exhaustingly sober as he watched everyone around him devolve into debauchery. He found his wife pleasantly drunk near the bar talking to one of her friends whose face he recognized but couldn’t remember her name for the life of him.

“Having fun darling?”

He grinned, trying to play the role of loving husband. A role that had become increasingly difficult to mimic. 

“It’s your birthday party, I should be asking you. Have you even had a drink? Probably not,” she turned back to her friend, “He never drinks at these things, something about keeping up appearances. I think it’s dumb. It’s his own birthday for fuck’s sake.”

He rolled his eyes. There she went again, putting him down. It wasn’t the first time she had commented on his festive sobriety. She wasn’t a fan. Maybe it was because he only fucked her after he drank. Still, he conceded to her teasing, figuring one drink wouldn’t hurt. He waved down a bartender.

“A whiskey on the rocks, please,” he turned back to his wife, “satisfied?”

She grinned at him before resuming ignoring him in favor of whatever fascinating conversation her friend was providing. He sighed before grabbing his drink and making his way out to the balcony. The air inside the penthouse was stuffy and he was beginning to feel claustrophobic. He was surprised to find you already out there, nursing your own drink in your hand. It wasn't unusual for people from the office to be at his personal parties. His father had taught him a long time ago that inviting your employees into your personal life was key to inspiring loyalty. It made them feel like they knew you and that they were important to you. But seeing as you were a relatively new addition, he had never seen you outside of the office and if you were sexy in skirts and blouses, the dress you had on should be illegal. He gulped before leaning next to you on the rail.

"Parties not your thing?"

You jumped, spilling a bit of your drink onto the dark street below. 

"Um, no, parties are fine. Rich people parties are just a whole new animal."

He chuckled.

"That's fair I suppose. Even I get sick of those fuckers. They do realize that they aren’t at the office anymore right? No need to brag about how well your stock is doing"

You smiled at him before looking back out at the city skyline. Despite having grown up with views like this, Jungkook still found it breathtaking. Almost as breathtaking as he found you. He took a sip of his drink, trying to drown his thoughts in alcohol. When he looked at you again, he felt his stomach churn. You were so beautiful that he wasn't sure what to do with himself. A sigh escaped him. You broke out of your trance and turned to look at him.

"Something wrong?"

"No. Not really."

You raised your eyebrow.

"I just- I know this sounds stupid and pretentious- but I really just don't want to do this anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"This job. This lifestyle. This life. I was raised to be the perfect CEO with the perfect family, a copy of my father really, but that's not what I want. All my family has ever seen me as is the golden heir and honestly, I don’t know if I can be that anymore."

"Who do you want to be?"

"I don't know. A photographer I guess. And marry somebody I actually choose to fall in love with. And live away from the stress of trying to please every person in my life at the cost of my own happiness."

"You don't love your wife?"

"No, I do. Kinda. I just... My parents picked her out and at some point, I was smitten with her, but we're so different and she wants success and money and, well, I don't care about that as much. She’s not a bad person, she’s just obsessed with her books and her writing, and well, that doesn’t leave much room for family. I’m not much better though."

"Oh."

"And we haven't been too hot lately."

"How so?"

"Um, well, we're really distant, and, um, we haven't had sex in two months."

You snorted and he blanched. He usually never shared that kind of thing with anyone and here he was confessing his personal problems to you, his secretary. The alcohol must be affecting him more than he thought. This is why he didn't drink at parties.

"How? Has she seen you? I would be all over you if I was your wife.”

You realized what you had said a moment too late and you looked at him with wide eyes, a faint blush covering your face. He let out a nervous chuckle. 

“Would you now?”

You nodded before downing the rest of your drink. Jungkook felt something akin to butterflies begin to flutter in his stomach. He had known that he was fairly attractive, but something about hearing someone as ethereal as you admit it made his heart do flips. 

“Yeah, well, it’s really on me I guess. I haven’t really wanted to.”

“You don’t want to have sex?”

Relief washed over your face when you realized that he wasn’t going to linger on your slip up. 

“Yeah. Well no. I do want to have sex. Just not with her.”

“I see. Well, who do you want to have sex with?”

It was a small glimpse, almost imperceptible, but he saw the recognition in your face as you watched his eyes glance over you.

“Me?”

Jungkook gulped. What was he doing? What was he getting himself into? He had a life to protect. Expectations to uphold. And yet, here he was, considering risking it all for a secretary who was making him feel something for the first time in months. 

When he gathered enough courage to look at you, he found you staring at his lips. One second he’s waging a war with himself and the next your mouth is on his. Your lips are just as warm and soft as he thought they would be and for a moment he lets himself be absorbed by them. But reality rapidly floods back, and he pushes you away. You looked at him, obviously hurt by the rejection. 

“I’m sorry.”

He’s being honest. He doesn’t want to hurt you. But he was a coward who was afraid of what people thought of him. And the things people would think about him if they knew he kissed his secretary were not pretty.

“It’s fine.”

You failed to cover up the disappointment in your voice. 

“It’s not you. It’s just I have a wife, and a family with expectations and-”

He sighs.

“Look, it’s fine. Really. I’m just gonna get going, okay? I’ll see you on Monday.”

With that, you leave him to his own devices. He watches your figure go, before turning back to face the city. 

“Fuck.”

If work was hell before, it was nothing compared to what it was now. Every day, he found himself torn between wanting to take you on his desk and wanting to never see you again. Ever since the party, the memory of your lips pressed on his had haunted him like an orphaned Victorian ghost with a thirst for revenge.  It was on replay in his mind to the point he couldn’t properly sleep anymore. He felt like shit, and he was pretty sure he looked it too, but if anyone noticed they neglected to say anything. 

You, on the other hand, seemed to be doing just fine. You hadn’t so much as mentioned the party. You performed your duties with your usual pep and continued to bring him your heavenly pastries. He resented you a little bit for being able to move on so easily. Here he was hung up on a moment he had fucked up, and there you were acting like nothing had happened. He wanted to scream. 

So he pulled back. He only talked to you if it was absolutely necessary. He never looked your way. He threw himself into his job. But you were still there, just as tempting as the first day he had seen you. His mind was being forced to choose between you alongside the island paradise he dreamed of, and keeping up appearances while pleasing his elders. A week passed and he was miserable. He was exhausted and all his will power had been depleted. 

That’s why he ended up doing what he did. Or at least that’s what he told himself. Friday rolled around and Jungkook was at his wit’s end. And then there you were, fifteen feet away from him flirting with some random guy from IT. (Namjoon, maybe?) It was harmless, but it didn’t stop Jungkook’s gut from twisting about inside of him. Why didn’t you flirt with him? Why didn’t you show him any signs of affection? He reminds himself that he rejected you, but it’s no help. Jealousy overwhelms him as he squirms in his leather chair. He barely noticed his hands clamped into fists or the way his jaw had clenched to the point of pain. When Namjoon leans over to whisper into your ear, Jungkook loses the small tidbits of control he had left. 

He pushes himself out of his chair and storms out, not bothering to say anything as he grabs your arm and pulls you away from a stunned Namjoon and back to his office, slamming the door behind him. 

“Can I help you?”

Your tone is curt and your face was twitching with displeasure. Jungkook realized that once he had you, he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to do with you. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He would certainly like to bend you over his desk and fuck you until you couldn’t walk, but he was fairly certain that wouldn’t go over well with you right now. 

“Umm…” 

He felt a blush cross his face as he realized he was still holding onto your wrist. He released it before turning to pace back and forth across the marble floor. 

“Well?”

You folded your arms across your chest, your eyes were alight with something dangerous. Something that Jungkook found incredibly sexy. Before his brain could register with what he was doing, he found himself marching over to you, grabbing you by your waist and pulling you in for a kiss. 

You stiffened against him, but before you had a chance to respond, he had pulled away from you. The guilt was almost immediate, drowning him in regret and confusion. You too looked confused, as you stood stock still, surprise plastered all over your face. Jungkook turned and walked back to his chair. 

“You can go.”

You seemed to barely register the words as you nodded before absent-mindedly wandering out of his office. Jungkook relaxed in his seat as he tried to make sense of what had happened. He knew he had feelings for you, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Nothing he couldn’t control. But he had lost control and now he wasn’t able to trust himself. And he didn’t know if he wanted to.

After that, things went back to normal. Well, as normal as they could be. He gathered the courage to interact with you again. But now instead of friendly glances and gestures, there were secret looks and subtle touches. Jungkook knew he was a wind-up toy one twist away from snapping, but he couldn’t help but indulge in your flirty gestures. 

He found himself growing bolder as the consequences he had once worried about seemed to be a world away. What started with the brush of a hand across the hip, grew to a hand on your thigh in the back of the car. Dark stares and lip bites plagued his day. At night, he would go home and lock himself in his private office where he would wrap his hand around his cock while conjuring up images of you in a variety of wanton states, all for him. 

He should’ve known that staying at work late with you would be a bad idea. Usually, you had the rest of the employees to keep you in check. With them gone, he found himself finding little reason to hold himself back.

“And so that’s why I think it’s a good idea to start engaging with younger consumers.”

You had been discussing ways to boost sales for the quarter, but he had stopped listening long ago, instead focusing on how your shirt was opened a button lower than usual.

“Mr. Jeon?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you listening?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Of course. Younger consumers. Got it.”

You raised an eyebrow. 

“What?”

“Maybe if you spent less time staring at my chest and more time focusing on these market studies, we would already have higher sales.”

“Sorry.”

“Sure you are.”

“You’re right. I’m not.”

The drop of his voice surprised even him. You looked at him with an unreadable look from your perch on the edge of his desk.

“And what is so enticing about my chest?”

Jungkook gulped. Your eyes had darkened and he felt himself start to stir in his pants. 

“It’s a part of you. And you are so sexy I can barely control myself.”

You smirked, before sauntering over to him and lowering yourself into his lap. The scent of your perfume overwhelmed him as you leaned in to whisper in his ear. 

“Then don’t.”

Somewhere inside him, a cord snapped. The control he had been trying to reign in had broken free and he was left to his own primal devices. He pulled your lips to his, finally relishing in getting to properly kiss you. You responded instantly, lips moving against his as your hands buried themselves in his hair. You tugged on the strands and Jungkook moaned into your mouth, hips bucking up into you as his hand grabbed your ass. You returned his moans and he took the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. 

His brain was a mess of emotions and hormones. He was overwhelmingly hard in his pants and your lips felt too good against his. You rolled your hips on top of him and he let a growl, the need to take you battling with his need to preserve the few remaining shreds of his dignity. 

He didn’t have the chance to make a decision though when the office door swung open and the head of a very confused janitor popped in. 

“Uh…I thought you were gone,” he stuttered, “...I’ll just leave.”

The janitor blushed before shutting the door. Jungkook turned back to look at you to find a similar rosy hue had graced your cheeks. 

“Um...I should probably get going too.”

Your voice was meek and the embarrassment of getting caught was plastered all over your face. He can’t blame you though, he isn’t doing too well himself. The fear of getting caught had left him deflated in more ways than one. 

“Yeah, sure, that’s probably good.”

You moved off his lap, readjusting your skirt as you do so. You grab your purse and jacket before walking to the door. Just as you were about to open it, you turn back to look at him. 

“Good night, Jungkook.”

He looked up surprised. It was the first time you had called him by his first name. It sounded heavenly coming from your lips. 

“Goodnight.”

Before he left for the night, he made sure to track down the janitor and offer him a healthy sum of money to stay quiet. He took it happily and continued on his way.

The weekend passed slowly for Jungkook. You plagued his thoughts with images of your rumpled skirt and the feeling of your hands in his hair. His wife was out of town for yet another business trip. He didn’t care. It just gave him more time with the thought of you while his hand was around his cock.

When Monday finally rolled around, Jungkook found himself the happiest he’d ever been to go to work. As he walked into the lobby, the sight of you washed over him like the cold water of a lake on the hottest day of summer. Something about your smile seemed to relieve him of all the heavy stress he was carrying on his shoulders. 

He almost made it through the day without losing control of himself. Despite all the glances he gave you, or the way you brushed your hand against his while you leaned over next to him to explain a chart, he managed to keep it together. But when you bent over in front of his desk to pick up a pen he dropped, he lost all control. The next thing he knew, he was slamming you against his office door, lips attacking yours, while his hips rutted into you. 

Your initial shock wore off almost instantly and you groaned as you melted into him. You wrapped a leg around his waist, dragging him closer to your core. The kiss was messy and he was sure your lipstick was ruined. A fervent need overwhelmed him as he humped you like a desperate teenager. You pulled away to catch your breath, dark eyes looking staring back at his own. 

“Fuck, you turn me on so much, baby,” he growled into your ear, hips moving faster. 

Words seemed to fail you as you whined back at him, pleasure contorting in your face. You suddenly let go of him, before dropping down to your knees. Instead of going to undo his pants like he expected, you simply gave a long lick over his bulge. Jungkook’s legs immediately turned to jello and he had to brace himself on the door to keep himself upright. 

“Oh fuck, what are you doing baby?”

“I’m getting you off. Do you want me to make you feel good sir?”

For once he was happy to hear the name. He didn’t get a chance to respond before you grabbed him through his pants. He threw his head back with a moan. It briefly occurred to him that people might hear through the thin walls, but your hand on his hard cock soon relieved him of all thought. It didn’t take much to get him to the point of no return. Even with all the nights spent with his fist and a bottle of lube he still felt like a rubber band getting stretched to its limit. You were barely touching him, but there he was, on the precipice of cumming in his own damn pants. He barely had time to warn you before spurts of hot cum filled his boxer briefs with white. “Oh, fuck.”

You giggled as he let out soft groans, cock twitching in its confines. The high of pleasure was quickly wiped away as the sensation of sticky underwear rose to his attention. 

“You’re a bad, bad girl, baby. You made me cum in my pants. Do you know what happens to bad girls?”

“No, sir.” 

“They get punished.”

“And how are you going to punish me, sir?”

Jungkook had to stifle a groan. You were still on your knees in front of him, calling him ‘sir’. Despite having just had one of the better orgasms in his life, his dick twitched with interest. 

“Stand up.”

You quickly obey, rising to your full height, but keeping eye contact the entire time. 

“Take off your panties.”

Your eyes grew wide at his demand, but you obeyed him nonetheless. The second you grasped the pink lace in your hand, he snatched them from you, immediately bringing them up his nose. He inhaled, letting himself get lost in the musky aroma.

“Shit, baby, you smell so good. I can’t wait to eat your wet pussy. But not today. You were bad today and only good girls get their pussy eaten.”

You let out a whimper but kept your mouth shut, body frozen in place. He stuffed your panties into his pant pocket before walking over to his desk and taking a seat. 

“You may go.”

You looked like you wanted to say something, probably about your lack of undergarments, but you held your tongue and turned to leave. 

“Oh, and one last thing.”

You turned back to him.

“I’m going to need a new suit. It seems I’ve spilled some coffee on this one.”

He smirked and you nodded, before stepping out the door. 

He didn’t try to hold himself back after that. He would take you whenever the opportunity arose. It didn’t take long for him to fulfill his promise to eat you out. He would forever remember the way you whined his name while his mouth pulled not one, but two orgasms from your dripping pussy. And when he finally got to feel your mouth around his cock, he was fairly sure he had found nirvana. 

He wouldn’t fuck you though. He knew it was silly as if he would be betraying his wife any more than he already was by having sex with you, but for some reason, he felt the need to draw a line. To separate the boundary between the fantasy land he had created with you and the cold reality that he returned home to. His wife had become all but a ghost in his life, and as a result, Jungkook found you providing his only emotional support in addition to sexual release. He didn’t want to admit that somehow, in a few short months, you had grown from being just his secretary to his closest companion. 

He didn’t want to admit it because he was too afraid of where it would lead. He was already teetering on the edge to give it all up, even before you had shown up in his office looking like a gift from heaven, but now, now he was fairly certain that even the tiniest breeze would push him over. And he didn’t know if you would be there to catch him if he fell. 

But that didn’t stop him from starting to dream of a future with you. The island paradise in his mind expanded to include you. Flashes of laughing children, nights under the stars, and soft kisses danced through his mind. You would have your own bakery, he would take pictures, and together you would create your own little family. One that was far removed from the hassle and the stress of his painful existence.  

Jungkook was over the moon to discover that you would be accompanying him on a work trip to Japan. For one whole week, you would be one door away. Even if it was a ruse, Jungkook would be allowed to pretend, for one whole week, that you were his and he was yours alone. On the plane ride alone, he made you cum three times in the cramped bathroom. During the day, you would both try to hold it together. Merger meetings were laced with subtle glances and hidden touches. At night, you would become a whole other animal. 

You tested his limits. Dared him to give in and finally give you what you both wanted: him inside you. Every night you would knock on his door in translucent nighties that highlighted the fact you had discarded your bra. After the second night of showing up in see-through clothes, Jungkook decided to return the favor, opening the door with his shirt unbuttoned, leaving his abs out for anyone to see. While you were both visibly affected by each other’s teasing, neither of you gave in until the last moment, each of you leaping into each other's arms and making a mess of the hotel furniture. But he still didn’t fuck you. It was his line. His final frontier. 

On the last night of the trip, Jungkook suggested that they finally test out the jacuzzi on his balcony. Bad idea. When you showed up in a tiny red bikini that did little to protect your dignity, Jungkook felt himself spiraling out of control. Instead of greeting you like he usually did, he thrust a cocktail in your hand while trying to will his dick into submission. He made it through about ten minutes in the hot tub, trying to participate in regular conversation with you. But he couldn’t, not when your tits were sitting right there. He was no longer sure if the sweat dripping down his forehead was from the warm water or the pent up tension. 

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“I can’t take this anymore,” he groaned.

“Can’t take what?”

Your eyes gleamed, daring him to admit to what they both knew he so desperately needed. 

“There is nothing more I want then to sink into your pretty pink pussy right now.” 

“So why don’t you?”

It was the first time you had questioned why he refused to have sex with you, and now that you were finally confronting him about it, he found himself at a loss for a reasonable explanation. The line that he thought he was creating by refusing to have sex with you had long ago been blurred to the point of no longer existing. And here you were, with your warm body inches from him, wanting him just as much as he wanted to you and he knew that he was done for. 

“Fuck it.”

With that, he pulled you onto his lap, attaching his lips to yours for the three millionth time. He would never tire of your kisses, the way they comforted his soul, and quenched his constant need for your touch. You eagerly responded to him, tongue licking the seam of his lips. As the two of you began to explore each other’s mouths, his hands came up to the string keeping your bikini top together and gave it a quick jerk, letting the scarlet cloth fall from your body. He pulled back and groaned at the sight of your perfect tits, the water around you swishing as he rolled his hips up into yours.

You whined out, “Fuck, baby. Just like that. God, I can’t wait for you to be inside me.”

“Yeah?” Jungkook’s voice was low with lust, “Me neither, baby. You’re gonna be such a good slut for me aren’t you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Even after months of you calling him ‘sir’ in less than professional situations, Jungkook still hadn’t gotten used to it. He felt every inch of his skin tingle with sheer pleasure every time the word fell from your shameless mouth. You whined, teeth pulling at his bottom lip as you pressed down on top of him, just as desperate as he was. He moved from your mouth to your neck, kissing down to your collarbone, where he stopped to take the time to leave a rosy mark that signified you were his and his alone. Once he was satisfied with it, he continued down your chest, taking one of your pretty pink nipples in his mouth, sucking on the hardened bud. You moaned out his name, hips stuttering against his. God, he loved your breasts. 

Your hands tangled themselves in his hair, pulling on them to the point of pain. Jungkook didn’t care though. He loved when you showed him just how good he could make you feel. It made him feral. Sure, receiving pleasure was gratifying, but there was nothing quite like watching you squirm from his ministrations.

He reluctantly pulled away from your tits to pull the ties keeping your bikini bottoms intact before discarding the garment in the same manner as your top, leaving you naked on top of him. He took a moment to pull back and admire how beautiful you looked. You sat there as he looked you over, a blush rising to your cheeks. You crossed your arms over your chest in an attempt to make yourself less vulnerable to him.

“Oh no baby, don’t hide yourself from me,” he gently pulls your arms away, “you’re too beautiful to stay covered up.”

Your blush intensified. He smiled at you, wrapping his large arms around your body and carrying you out of the hot tub. Your lips reconnected with his as he stumbled his way into the hotel room, tossing you on the king-sized bed. 

“Are you gonna be a good girl for me?”

His voice was as dark as his eyes. You nodded in response, voice escaping you. 

“That’s my baby.”

He pulled off his wet swim trunks before joining you on the bed, where your wet body had begun to soak the sheets. If he had his way, they would be much wetter by the time the night was over. He wasted no time diving into your pussy, lips attaching to your clit, drawing out your sweet moans. His fingers found your entrance, circling it a few times to collecting your slick, before slipping one in. Your back arched at the sensation and Jungkook let out a chuckled against your clit. 

Your whines grew higher and he could tell that you were getting close to finishing. After months of exploring your body, he was well acquainted with how to play your pussy like an instrument, conducting your symphony of pleasure. He slipped in a second finger, crooking them upwards in search of the spot he knew would make you scream. When you cried out he knew that he had found it and not five seconds later, you were coming all over his digits. 

“Fuck, Kook.”

“I hope you don’t think that we’re done yet,” he growled as his fingers slowed before leaving your sopping cunt, “when I’m through with you, you won’t be able to walk for days. I'll have to carry you to every meeting and explain to them that I fucked you too hard for you to function.”

You clenched around nothing at his words and he mindlessly took his cock in his hands, giving it a few quick strokes. 

“You like that don’t you? You would love for the entire world to know how much of a whore you are for my cock.”

“I would. I’m a whore for your cock, please give it to me. I’ve been a good girl.”

Without bothering to warn you, he lined himself up before sinking into you. You both groaned at  the feeling of your tight cunt stretching around his cock. After months of dreaming of what your pink walls would feel like around him, he could confirm that the sensation was much better than anything his imagination had conjured. 

He started with slow thrusts, trying to give himself time to come off the edge he had already been worked up to. Your legs came to wrap around his waist, pulling him closer to you. As soon as you had adjusted to his girth, you began to roll your hips up to meet his.

“Go faster.”

“Uh uh, if you want Daddy to go faster, you have to beg like a proper slut.”

It just slipped out. Jungkook knew he had a daddy kink, but it generally stayed repressed deep within after his wife had shamed him for it. But you didn’t seem to mind. If anything, you squeezed him even tighter.

“Please Daddy, please go faster. Fuck my tight pussy.”

He conceded to your wishes, pulling all the way out, before thrusting back in. He set a tireless pace, pounding into you so hard the bed began to shake. He leaned down, meeting your lips in a sloppy kiss. Your teeth clacked together, but Jungkook didn’t care. He just wanted to be as close to you as possible. 

He pulled away from your lips and his cock twitched at the visual of the string of saliva connecting your mouths. Without him to silence you, your moans mingling with the sound of skin slapping creating a beautiful symphony for Jungkook’s ears. 

He felt himself approach the edge, honing in on his release. Luckily for him, your pussy was tightening around him, signaling that you were close too. 

“Fuck, are you gonna cum for me, baby? Are you gonna come around Daddy’s cock like a good girl?”

“Yes Daddy, I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna-”

Your voice broke off into a high pitched moan as you clenched around him. You threw your head back, hands clawing into his skin. The mix of pain and pleasure sent him over the edge with you. He quickly pulled out before covering your pussy and stomach in white strands. As soon as the waves of ecstasy rescinded, he collapsed on top of you, exhaust claiming his muscles. 

He laid there for a minute before hopping up and heading to the bathroom. When he came back out, warm towel in hand, he found you passed out on the soaked sheets. His heart skipped a beat at your blissed-out face and for a moment he wished he could feel as peaceful as you looked. After making sure you were thoroughly clean, he collapsed on the bed next to you. Sleep was quick to come to him, but not before he took you into his arms, burying his face into the crook of your neck. 

A dam had burst. The two of you went at it like rabbits, he would take you any and every way could, whenever he could. He couldn’t get enough of you. He would take you in the back of the limo, in the elevator, empty conference rooms. It was to the point he was sure the entire company knew of your amorous relations, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. All he thought about was you. Even the fear of disappointing his parents was beginning to diminish. As his feelings for you grew and blossomed, his desire to please anyone else faded into a faint buzz in the background of his mind. You had him whipped. 

He knew things were bad when his five year anniversary with his wife rolled around and he didn’t feel a thing when she told him that she wouldn’t be able to be there due to some book tour. Sure, a little part of him was upset that she didn’t care enough to even try to change the tour dates, but he knew that he didn't have a leg to stand on. In fact, he was rather grateful he wouldn’t have to plan some dinner to celebrate a love that had died long ago.  

When you heard that he was spending his anniversary alone, you had offered him some company. He felt a twinge of guilt about the idea of having sex with a woman that wasn’t his wife on their anniversary, but not enough to stop him from inviting you over. So there you were, in his foyer, with an overnight bag, a bottle of wine, and a smile that could light up the heavens. He grinned back at you, taking the bottle and leading you into the living room. 

“I’ll get us some glasses, yeah?”

“Sure. Do you mind if I change? Work clothes aren’t the most comfortable.”

“Oh, yeah, go ahead. There’s a bathroom down the hall to your left.”

When he returned to the living room with two glasses and a bottle opener, you were curled up on the couch in a tank and shorts. You were flipping through the photography book that he kept on the coffee table. You were so immersed in the pictures that you didn’t notice his presence.

“So whatcha want to do?”

You jumped, startled by the sound of his voice. 

“It’s your anniversary, you should decide.”

He placed the opener and the glasses on the table next to the bottle before taking a seat next to you. 

“I don’t know. How about we just drink and talk for a bit?” he paused, “Maybe that’s stupid.”

“Nope. Nothing about you is stupid.”

There was your damn smile again. Jungkook hated the way his heart pounded faster because of it. He smiled back at you. It only took a few sips of the merlot before Jungkook had begun to relax. He had been drunk around you plenty of times, but there was something about wine that made him want to pour his entire heart out to you. 

He watched as you laughed at your own joke, strands of hair that had fallen loose from your tight ponytail danced on your cheek. The world seemed to slow down a little, time coming to a halt, making the room for him to exist with just you and no one else. It was somewhere in that warm, fuzzy space that the words came tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. 

“I think I love you.”

Even the air in the room stilled. You stared at him, eyes wide with shock.

“What?”

You looked like a deer in headlights. Jungkook felt like one.

“Nothing. I was just running my mouth. Don’t mind me. Go back to telling me about this dream bakery of yours.”

Much to his chagrin, you didn’t budge, eyes still fixed on his rigid body. Your surprise had evaporated and you were now looking him up and down as if you were trying to analyze his inner thoughts. You both sat frozen for what felt like ages before you moved to kneel in front of him, taking his shaky hands in yours. When you opened your mouth, your voice was soft, caressing his soul.

“I love you too.”

The world stopped in its tracks. Jungkook swore his heart stopped beating in his chest. And then your lips were on his and even though he had kissed you more times than he could count, this felt different. This felt like the collision of two planets, the implosion of a star. Fireworks weren’t enough to describe the cascade of emotions pouring through him. His hands grasped your cheeks, gently caressing the soft skin. You hummed against his mouth as he pushed you back to lie on the couch, while your legs spread to make room for him between your thighs. 

Jungkook swore he felt a tear trickle down his cheek, but he couldn’t tell if it was from you or him. He honestly didn’t care. The woman he had grown to love loved him back. He now knew that you would catch him if he fell. And so he let himself tumble over the precipice he had once been so terrified of.  He could finally admit that your embrace was home and that your arms eyes were the safety he never felt. He loved you. You loved him. The stars had aligned. 

He trailed his kisses away from your lips and to the crook of your neck where he inhaled. You smelled of the remnants of your perfume mixed with your own personal scent. He swore if he breathed it in enough, he would get high off it. Instead, he placed soft kisses on the delicate skin, before taking it in between his teeth, shamelessly marking you. The whole world would know that you belonged to him, almost as much as he belonged to you. 

You moaned as he sucked the bruised skin into his mouth before shifting lower so that his face was right between your breasts. Your flimsy tank top did nothing to stop him from tearing it in two. 

“Jesus, Kook,” you groaned as he took in the sight of your braless chest, bare before him. 

“What? I can buy you all the tank tops you want. I would buy you the whole world.”

And it was true. If that’s what it would take to make you happy, that’s what he would do. Tears glinted in your eyes at his words before Jungkook ripped a moan out of your mouth when he took a nipple in his. He sucked on it before releasing it with a pop. 

“These are the best tits in the world. I love them almost as much as I love you.”

He dove back in taking the neglected breast in his hand, rubbing the nipple. Your hips bucked up into him, desperate for more concrete pleasure than the little he was teasing you with. 

“Slow, baby, I’ll get there. Slow.”

You whined in response, head thrown back against the arm of the couch while Jungkook swirled his tongue over you. Even though he was unbelievably hard in his sweats, he found no motivation to do anything about it, his sole focus on you and your pleasure. 

He moved to kiss down your stomach. When he reached the hem of your shorts, he pulled them off, before moving to kiss over your lace panties. An obvious wet patch marked the center and Jungkook once again took the time to stop and smell you. The aroma overwhelmed him, driving him mad with carnal lust. 

“Fuck baby, your dripping, and I’ve barely touched you yet.” 

“That’s ‘cause you’re taking forever. Please baby, I need you.”

And how could he deny you when you were so sweet and all fucked out, just for him. He pulled your soaked panties to the side, groaning at your soaked, pink lips. He dove in, licking one long striped from the bottom of your cunt up to your clit. You bucked against him desperate for more. 

In response, he wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding you in place. His tongue found your clit, eliciting angelic moans from you while he drew abstract shapes on your bundle of nerves. Your thighs began to quiver in his grip and he smiled against you. The thought of you coming from just his mouth had his dick twitching in excitement. 

“Fuck, Kookie, I’m gonna cum.”

“That’s right baby, cum all over tongue.”

Seconds later, you're soaking his mouth while you writhed in pleasure. But Jungkook didn’t stop. He was too blissed out with his face in your cunt. He would stay like this forever if he could. He pulled one hand away from your thigh, to sneak around to your entrance, a finger slipping inside.

“Oh god, Kook, it’s too much.”

“You can do it, baby. I know you can.”

You looked like you were about to protest before he curled his finger up, hitting your g-spot. You cried out, more slick pouring out of you, if that was possible. He knew that there was a large wet spot staining his ten-thousand-dollar couch, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Slipping another finger in you, he began to flick with his tongue, daring you to come again. It didn’t take long.

“Oh shit, Kook, shit, shit, gonna cum, shit, shit-”

He’s never heard you scream so loud in all the months he’s had the privilege of giving you orgasms. Before he could properly register what was happening, you were squirting all over him. Your hips bucked out of your control as you painted his face with your orgasm. Jungkook swore that if he had any less self-control, he would’ve come all over in his pants. 

As you came down from your high, Jungkook scooped you up, carrying you to the bedroom. He laid you gently on the bed, giving you a few moments to recover as he stripped himself of his own clothes. You sat up, watching him closely as he slowly revealed himself to you. He was well built, he knew that, but you often told him how much you appreciated his muscles, as if the way you kissed and bit his abs weren’t enough of a clue. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t started working out more just to please you. 

But he also knew that he could never step foot in a gym again and you would still love him just as much. That was the difference between you and his wife. You loved him without condition, without the need for him to be someone he wasn’t. His wife had fallen in love with only one version of him, a version that no longer existed. 

He joined you on the bed, crawling up between your legs, giving you a soft kiss when he reached your lips. You fell back on the pillows letting him take in your face, your body, you. He bucked up against you, tip rubbing your clit and you let out simultaneous moans. 

Just when he was about to slip into you, his phone rang on the bedside table. He groaned, lifting himself up to see who dared to call him when he was about to have sex with the love of his life. A flash of guilt rushed through him when he saw his wife’s name light up the screen. Of course it was her. Despite everything, this was a woman who would keep up appearances until her dying breath. And here he was, about to have sex with another woman in their shared bed. He sighed, swiping to ignore the call, before tossing it back on the table. 

This time, he didn’t wait to enter you, thrusting in immediately. He groaned at the feeling of your soft walls encapsulating him. Ever since the first time you had had sex, he had always made sure to use a condom, but he couldn’t bring himself to care that he wasn’t using one now. Being inside you without the extra barrier felt so intrinsically right. In fact, part of him was excited about the idea of going raw and risking getting you pregnant. 

“You wanna get me pregnant?”

Your voice was soft and curious. He stilled inside of you, 

“Umm…?”

His voice trailed off as he tried to come up with a reasonable response. His brain failed him. 

“It’s okay if you do. It’s kinda hot actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t mind having your kid.”

Jungkook couldn’t help the moan that fell out of his mouth. He thrust softly in you. So many hormones were flooding his brain that he could barely focus on what was happening. 

“Well, then I guess it’s my duty to make sure you’re nice and pregnant for me by the end of the night.”

“Yeah, Kookie,” you whined, “give it to me. Want you to cum in me. Want your baby.”

The two of you met in a messy kiss as Jungkook pounded into you, balls slapping your ass. Desperation flooded him, determination to knock you up with his child overriding every other need. He’d never had the desire to get someone pregnant like this before. There was something about you that pulled at all his primal instincts. 

You were tightening again, your moans drowning out the sound of skin slapping accentuated by Jungkook’s own grunts. Jungkook himself wasn’t too far from finishing himself, having been on edge since you squirted all over him. 

“Fuck baby,” you moaned, “you fuck me so well.”

“Yeah. Are you gonna cum for me? Are you gonna cum so that I can get you pregnant?”

“Yes, fuck, I love yo-” 

Your voice faded into a scream as tears rolled down your cheeks as you came for the third time that night. The look on your face triggered Jungkook’s own orgasm. He roared as jets of white cum covered your inner walls. His hips stuttered as he chanted your name. Your legs were wrapped tightly around his waist, holding him deep within you. 

He rolled over without pulling out, keeping you tight in his arms.

“Mmm,” you hummed, “hope that did the trick.”

“Yeah? Me too,” he smiled. 

You grinned back.

“Are you not gonna pull out?”

“We gotta keep my cum in you so we make sure it does the trick.”

“Okay,” you chuckled.

“What?”

He pouted.

“You’re just cute.”

“I’m not cute.”

“Sure...”

He giggled when you rolled your eyes, pressing a peck on your lips. The two of you stayed like that for the rest of the night, wrapped in each other's arms, talking until sleep carried you off into dreamland. 

Jungkook woke the next morning before you. He took a moment to admire your face, not believing that you were really all his. He softly kissed your forehead before wiggling his way out of your embrace. 

He quietly slipped on a tee and some sweats before making his way to the kitchen where he put on a pot of coffee. While he waited, he checked his phone, expecting to find a voicemail from his wife. He was surprised to find none. He opened the phone app and his stomach dropped. There at the top of his recent calls was a twenty-minute call with her. He must have accidentally answered it. She must have heard everything. Anxiety crept up on him as he began to pace the white kitchen floor. Before he knew what he was doing, the phone was dialing. 

“Hello?”

Her voice was groggy.

“Hi.”

His voice quivered. 

“What do you want Jungkook?”

“Oh, umm, I’m sorry I guess,” his voice is quiet, “For what you heard.”

“You mean listening to you moan about how you wanted to get your secretary pregnant?”

He cringed at her dripping sarcasm. 

“Yeah. That.”

“Don’t be.”

“What?”

“Don’t be sorry. I don’t care.”

“You don’t?”

“Jungkook,” she sighed, “I think we both knew something like this was going to happen.”

“Yeah, I guess. But that doesn’t mean that it was okay for me to cheat on you.”

“That’s true.”

They both stay silent for a minute, letting it all sink in. 

“I suppose that means this is the end of the road for us then, huh?”

“Yeah, it is. But it’s okay. We weren’t meant to be. All things being said, you sound like you really love her.”

“I do, I really do.”

“And if I’m being honest, I’ve kinda had a thing for my editor for a while.”

“Seokjin?”

He was honestly surprised that he remembered his name.

“Yeah.”

They both laughed. 

“We’ll talk when you get back, yeah?”

“Yeah. Goodbye, Jungkook.”

“Goodbye.”

He hung up before leaning against the counter, throwing his head back to look at the ceiling. A breath of relief escaped as all the weight he had been carrying for so long fell from his shoulders. It was over. His dead marriage was finished and now he had the rest of his life to love you. He laughed giddily before running to wake you up and tell you the news. 

Six months later, he’s on a beach in Jamaica, trying to take a picture of you without you noticing. He’s almost successful, your nose is buried too deep in a paperback you had propped up on your pregnant stomach, but you looked up when you heard the shutter click.

“Jungkook,” you groaned, “I told you not to take pictures of me.”

“I’m sorry, baby, I can’t help it. You're too sexy carrying my baby.”

You rolled your eyes behind your shades.

“Whatever. As long as no one else sees them.”

“Of course, baby. I’m keeping you all to myself.”

You grinned before turning back to your book.

A month after his conversation with his now ex-wife, their divorce had been finalized. He’d simultaneously quit his job as CEO, unafraid of disappointing anyone else at the expense of his happiness. He had made more than enough money to support the two, soon to be three, of you for the rest of your life. Together, you had moved to Jamaica, where you were working on opening a bakery and he had begun a fairly successful photography business. And in three months, the two of you would welcome a beautiful baby girl into the world.

He sighed, overly content with his life. He glanced down to your hand to spot the sparkling diamond on your ring finger. A month ago, he had taken you out on a boat ride where he had asked you to be his wife. You had eagerly accepted. 

Now he was blissed out in that island paradise he had dreamed about all those months ago. His stress levels were an all-time low. And, sure, maybe his parents weren’t that happy with him, (all though his mother was over the moon when he announced the impending arrival of a grandchild, finally), but whenever he woke in the morning with you by his side, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. You were his whole world, and he wouldn’t give that up for anything. 

masterlist

[jimlingss]

The Colour of Our Voices [9]

Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10

➜ Words: 3.3k

➜ Genres: 98% Fluff, 2% Angst, Slice of Life, Broadway!AU

➜ Summary: He wasn’t supposed to hear. He wasn't supposed to know. But the instant Jimin came into your life and pulled the curtains back, you couldn't hide backstage anymore. You were no longer merely a phantom of the opera.

➜ Warning: Intoxication. 

cr.

The phone rings.   It wakes you, deafeningly loud. It shakes you in the middle of your slumber. Usually, you’re the one dialing, but you don’t dwell. With one eye open, you grab your phone off the nightstand.   “Hello?”   “Hello?”    The voice on the other line is unmistakable. “Hi, is this Ms. Y/N?”   “Yes, it is.” You clear your throat, trying to rid of the grogginess. “How may I help you?”   “I’m the casting director for the original production of When Summer Meets Winter here in New York. We were wondering if you were still interested and willing to set up a convenient date to meet and audition for a main role.”   “W-what?” You sit up, hauling the rest of your limbs that are still asleep. Your mouth opens and closes, brows furrowing, wondering if this is a dream. “I mean….I would love to!”   “Great, I look forward to meeting you soon.”   “I just—” You rub your swollen eyes, utterly confused. The opportunity fell straight into your lap out of nowhere. “I didn’t even put in an application. I didn’t sign up, so I’m just wondering how you got in touch with me….”   It’s not possible that the director would actually give you a referral. But why would someone reach out to you like this? It’s never happened before. It’s never happened to anyone before. No one like you without any fame or recognition.   “Well, aren’t you the voice of Erik, the Phantom in Phantom of the Opera?”   The line goes silent. Your mind is reeling.   “Pardon?”   //   “The Phantom of the Opera production proved to be a lackluster performance and has an even more uninspired director—” Seokjin looks away from his phone, jaw dropped to the ground. He’s offended to no end. “Lackluster?! Lackluster?! She complimented me! What the hell is this?!”   Taeyeon takes away the phone from his hand and continues to read for herself.   Her eyes skim along the blog post to pick up where he stopped. “The casting was severely shortsighted and purely on appearance alone without consideration for talent. They were unable to cast a sufficient troupe and failed to see that it is talent that makes audiences stay.”   “Oh my god. This is ridiculous!” Seokjin slaps his palm against his forehead, turning around in complete disbelief. He is stunned to silence.   “Now I am able to understand how one of the most popular musicals known to the mainstream could do so poorly in Broadway theater here in New York. But the production...doesn’t go without surprises.” Taeyeon pauses and everyone around is on the edge of their seats, breaths held in their throat. She inhales and continues to read, articulating carefully. “The only redeeming quality of the production was the wonderful and rather charming singing. But all the credit is not due to the dull actors or stale taste of the director. It is credited to the ghost singer, Y/N…”   Heads turn. Eyes pinpoint to you.   You hold the spotlight that’s coloured red — painting you into a demon that’s crawled from out of hell, someone worthy of their hatred and disgust. This is the attention you never desired.   They regard you with spite, animosity, malice.   Director Kang swipes the phone out of Taeyeon’s grasp. He looks at it and continues reading silently. A muscle in his cheek twitches. There’s murmuring amongst the crowd. He swallows hard and decides to repeat it out loud, as if to let the simmering anger purposely over-boil.   “The real singer of Phantom is disguised as an innocent intern who sweeps the floor and does coffee runs. It was revealed to me after the show while I was still recovering from the physical torture of being seated in such a corny performance. Y/N approached me out on the street when I was caught unaware. While I was unable to make further contact with the ghost singer afterwards, the claim was indeed confirmed by inside sources I was able to obtain.”   All of it is exposed — how Seokjin has a speaker within his clothes, how the pitch is turned down, how you’re the one behind the curtain.   The secret is out. It’s been revealed to the world.   The curtain’s been pulled while you’re in the middle of a lyric, and now you’re suddenly center stage with the red spotlight and the faceless audience watching.   Director Kang scrolls to the end of the critic’s article. His voice is quiet, a murmur, slow to read like he wants everyone to hear. He wants you to hear.   “I found myself constantly wondering when it would be over. Ultimately, even the tender singing of the ghost singer could not make up for the empty performance. However, it is spectacular how they could turn such a beloved, well known musical into a boring travesty. I would recommend it to anyone who would like an inauthentic experience and who suffers from insomnia as it would certainly put them to sleep…”   The director suddenly slaps the phone to Seokjin’s chest.   The actor winces and takes it back. You flinch as well.   The pointed glare is narrowed in on you. His jaw is clenched, teeth gritted.   It’s a mistake — you can fix this. You didn’t mean what you said. It came out when you were furious and not thinking. Maybe you can go see Min Yoonji, tell her it was all a misunderstanding and she’ll take down the blog post!   Yet, you can’t utter these things. You can’t beg your way out of it.   It was chaos when you came, people staring, murmuring. It’s been spread everywhere already, not just contained within this production. Everyone knows now — the entire community of Broadway.   You’ve single-handedly ruined this production with your recklessness. You’ve illegitimized their production, and with the anger in their stares, you know you’ve destroyed their livelihood.   You’ve wrecked it all.   But there’s no noise of the destruction. There is deafening silence in the studio.   “Clean out your stuff.”   “Director—”   “Enough. Get out.” He points to the door. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”   It’s the worst. There’s no yelling, screaming. He doesn’t even throw a chair like he once did to an actor with a supporting role who failed to show up during dress rehearsal. There’s nothing.   You’ve always envisioned yourself leaving this job with a role in hand, having a secure future, knowing you’d make it on Broadway like they did. You’d be able to walk with your head held up high. You’d hear people’s reluctant praises, grumbling about how you actually did it. The director would nod his head in approval. Seokjin and Taeyeon would offer a small smile.   It was your dream — what you imagined on hard days. It’s what Jimin had accomplished.   But the reality is that you’re cleaning out your belongings while crying. You empty the locker you were once so excited to have. There’s no acknowledgment, no pitiful stares or goodbyes of the people you’ve worked with for the past year.   Twelve months. Three hundred sixty five days. Eight thousand sixty hours. Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes. Thirty-one million five hundred forty thousand seconds.   It was the job that you hated. The one that you loved. The one you were so happy to get.   You’re fired just like that, gripping your cardboard box, absolutely humiliated.   Even as you leave the studio, up the stairs and into the lobby, you can hear the whispers. You can feel people’s eyes following your backside.    In the snap of a finger, the span of one morning, you are fired.   //   The rosette wine tastes disgusting.   It sits heavy on your tongue, bitter on your lips and dries out your mouth to the back of your throat. It’s a taste you have yet to acquire, but maybe you’ll find at the bottom of the bottle.    You grip the neck, taking another swig. It’s a disgusting mouthful as if you’re downing mouthwash after making out with a stranger at a club and you’re still able to feel their bad breath on your own. But instead of making those reckless decisions in an attempt to find instant gratification, you’re sitting on the floor of your bathroom in the dark.   It’s comforting. You can’t see anything. Hopefully, if you drink enough, you won’t feel anything either.   “Bitch, who do you think you are?” you ask yourself, and respond to yourself. It’s a one woman show. A one way conversation. “You’re talentless, poor, and now jobless. Congratulations to a new low.”   You toast yourself with another swig.   This wine is probably the last thing you’ll buy in a while. It’s your final purchase, one you shouldn’t have gotten, but that you desperately needed. What you have saved isn’t even enough to pay the rent at the end of this month.   You should go home.    “Home? Fuck.” The back of your head hits against the wall and you sigh. “They don’t want me there.”   But if you don’t go home, what are you supposed to do here?   Oh yeah...you have that one audition. They called you this morning.   But they don’t want you for you. You didn’t earn it through merit. It’s because you’re popular news, a scandal they can capitalize on and use as a method of publicity. You didn’t get it because of your own talent or skill.    You start sniffling. “Oh shit…”   Quickly, you take another drink before you can burst into tears. You swallow past the thick lump forming in your throat, letting your eyes sting. You won’t cry — you already did enough of that earlier.   You don’t want something like that. To go to an audition where they won’t take you seriously, where their sole purpose is to satisfy their own curiosity. Where you’re Y/N, the ghost singer. Not Y/N, the aspiring actress.   Fuck — you take another sip — you have no job, no real auditions, no work. If you stay, you’ll have to give up on Broadway. Maybe you’d find work elsewhere, at some company, an office job at a cubicle. It doesn’t sound so bad halfway through the rosette.   A nine to five job would be stable. You’d hate it. But at least you’d have some income.   You take another drink with a sigh, and another, and another. Until you come up empty. Until the bitter liquid doesn’t meet your lips anymore. You tip the bottle over your lap with a giggle, and when nothing is spilled, you realize that it’s all finished. Perhaps you could go to the convenience store and find something else to drink…..   But your train of thought is suddenly interrupted.   It’s perfect timing.   You can hear the sound of water running between the walls of your apartment, trickling down the pipes in steady streams. But the noise is joined with someone’s muffled voice. It’s faint, but audible, a sweet tone leaking past the walls.   Jimin’s singing in the shower.   His bathroom is placed right next to yours, both a coincidence and a rather big invasion of privacy. The wall between your apartment seems to be especially thin here too despite it being a place where pipes should run. But it’s echoing, his singing melody quiet, though still discernible.   “In my life, she has burst like the music of angels, the light of the sun. And my life seems to stop as if something is over and something has scarcely begun.”   You gather your knees together, listening carefully. It’s nice. But Jimin’s voice has always been pleasant to the ears.   “In my life. There is someone who touches my life. Waiting near.”   “Waiting here…” you finish singing the phrase, closing your eyes to savour the melody.   “A heart full of love. A heart full of song.” You murmur after him, a duet that he’s unaware of. “I'm doing everything all wrong…”   You hate that you hate him. You hate that it turned out this way. You hate yourself for hating Jimin.   And with that hatred, you find the strength to get on your feet again, stumbling upwards.   He once came pounding at your door when he heard your voice. Now it’s you who’s coming after hearing his voice. It’s close to midnight, but you knock on Jimin’s door like a crazed man.   “Jimin! Jimin, come out!” You drum against the surface of his door with your closed fist. You miss him. You miss him so much that it hurts. “Right now!”   Jimin opens the door and finds you staring at him.   “Y/N?”   You reach over to hug him, wasting no time to envelop his torso in a tight embrace. Your arms wrap around his body, uncaring that the dark strands of his hair continues to drip — he’s always toweled off his head haphazardly; you often worried he’d get sick from it.   He’s shirtless, just in his pajama pants, but you don’t care about that either. It’s actually kind of nice to see him without his shirt, but you don’t want to admit that out loud. Instead, your cheek unabashedly squishes against the skin of his chest. He smells of shampoo and orange soap. And he’s as warm as you remember. Toasty like a sizzled out campfire that just had a roaring flame.    You’ve been wanting to hold him again ever since he held you in the backseat of that taxi.   He’s caught off guard, stiffening automatically. But his senses pick up the scent of something familiar radiating off of you. Alcohol. “Are you drunk?”   Oh yeah. You’re supposed to be pissed at him.    “What’s the matter with you, huh?”   “What?”   You let go, stepping back and pointing your finger right at his face. It’s hard to point when he keeps swaying back and forth, or rather it’s you who’s swaying, balance completely off. But you manage to bring your index finger right between his eyebrows where that knot usually forms when he frowns. You hate that knot. “The hell’s wrong with you, Park?”   Your voice is slurring. You’re tipping from side to side. Jimin is utterly confused.   You lower your arm with an exasperated sigh. You wish he just got it — that he could read your mind. You hate having to explain. “Why’d you stay with me when I got this removed, huh?”   You point to your stomach, finger circling the general area of where your stupid appendix used to be.    “You’re not making any sense.” Jimin cringes at how loud you’re being and looks down the hall to see if there’s anyone there. He takes a sigh of relief when there’s no one angry enough to make a noise complaint and his hand reaches out to take you inside his apartment. “Y/N—”   But you flinch back and wag your finger at him. “Nuh-uh. Don’t touch!”   “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.”   “Don’t wanna get confused,” you scold him. He was such a sly dog. “Naught, naught, Minnie. Wanna make my head more of a mess than it already is...”   “Can you at least come inside?” he coaxes gently after realizing you’re completely barefoot in your pajamas, your toes sticking out from the end of your pants. It looks cold, and he quickly steps back to give you space.   You oblige, but enter only enough to shut the door. You wanna be able to escape if you need to….though you’re not sure where the door knob is. He could probably stop you if he wanted to.   “Were you drinking by yourself?” he asks, searching your expression.   “Why?” Your head quirks and your lips pout. “Why’d you care about me?”   He swallows hard and scratches the back of his neck. “I’ll always care about you, Y/N.”   “You oughta hate me.”   Jimin holds your stare, completely calm. His brown eyes are gorgeous. They remind you of a puppy’s. And you kind of want to ruffle his damp hair with your fingers. “I don’t hate you.”   “But, but,” you blubber. He still doesn’t get it. “You’re supposed to! It’s only natural.”   He smiles softly, eyes lit with mirth and amusement. “Why is it natural?”   “Cause I’m so mean!” you cry out. It’s official. Park Jimin is dumb and needs you to spell everything out for him. “Told you I hate you. That you were annoying and bothersome and, and irritating, and that I regret teaching you, and how we’re not even friends, and we’re strangers, and that you’re annoying, and bothersome, and irritating—”   “Okay, okay. I get it.” He laughs tenderly, like he’s having fun watching you, and that’s annoying.   “Does that not bother you?”   “It does.” Jimin locks his eyes with yours again. His voice softens. “It does…”   “But you don’t hate me?”   He shakes his head. He didn’t even need to think about it.   But you already knew his answer.   Automatically, you burst out into tears. Jimin’s alarmed at once, eyes wide, nearly falling out of their sockets. His palms lift, but he remembers your warning of not wanting to be touched, so he doesn’t lay a finger on you. But he’s still at a loss, not knowing what to do, reduced to awkwardly fumbling the air.    “Y/N, a-are you okay? W-What’s wrong? Are you hurt?!”   You hiccup, numb to the feeling of patheticness. But then you feel a sudden urgency. “T-There’s something I wanna tell you. It’s really, really, really important!”   Jimin nods slowly and puts down his hands as you wipe your eyes with the long sleeve of your pajama shirt. “What is it?”   “I!” You point to yourself and then point to him. “Love! Your! Voice!”   Jimin blinks.   You continue like it’s something you must get off your mind before you forget, “I never got to say — you have such a good tone. It’s sweet. Like sponge cake. And it’s natural. I’m jealous.”   Your sniffle and sigh, lolling your head to the side. You think about it for a moment and then hum, once again confirming your own opinion. There’s no way in this world that you can be wrong. You’ll stand with your beliefs until the end of time. “Your tenor is so nice. It’s purple.”   “Purple?”   The corner of Jimin’s mouth curls, brow lifted.   “Purple!” you tell him quickly, as if you’re afraid of dying and fearful that no one gets to hear this secret. “The colour of your voice is purple.” You pop the ‘p’s with your lips and giggle tearfully. It bubbles out like the fizz of the wine and instantly, Jimin smiles. “You have beautiful voice colour.”   “What’s your colour?” he asks quietly, all too curious.   “Orange, obviously.” You can’t believe he doesn’t know. This wasn’t new news.   “Duh.” Jimin plays along with a heartfelt laugh.   “Duh!” you repeat after him with an enormous grin. “But I don’t like it as much.”   “Why not?”   “Cause I love purple!”   Your finger peeks out of your sleeve again. This time, it isn’t to point at his face but to jut at his chest, poke right over where his heart is. You smile up at him and Jimin notices how moist your eyes are, glassy almost. He can see each of your lashes when you’re this close, and he can’t help letting his eyes run over the slope of your nose to your cupid’s bow.    Your lips look soft. A bit stained from the wine. You have an intoxicating scent that isn’t from the alcohol alone. He has an urge to pull you in close by the waist, the small of your back, to breathe in deeply, and to kiss you.   Jimin wants to kiss you. He has since the first time he heard you sing and wanted to hear your voice muffled between his lips. He hasn’t — only yearned to. But it’s difficult to push away the longing at this moment. Though he swallows hard and dispels the thoughts away.    He won’t kiss you. Not tonight at least.   For now, he’ll hang onto how your voice calls his name, the slurred sound of you telling him you love his voice, the way your lips form when you say that his voice is purple — and the noise you make when you giggle and confess how much you love that colour.

[etherealwaifgoddess]

The Truth At Last (1981)

*A One In A Million AU fic*

Summary: After 40 years together the truth of Rose's identity comes out at last.

Word Count: 1.7k

Author’s Note: Thank you to the lovely reader who asked about if/ when Rose tells the guys she's actually from the future. I know I gave a mini head canon in my answer but the more I thought about it the more the plot bunnies hopped around and this little fic was born.

The Truth At Last (1981)

“Come on lazy bones, let’s go!” Bucky shouts up the stairs. You place a hand on your husband's arm, settling him in his excitement. Even at the ripe old age of sixty-three, Bucky still gets overly excited at new things like a child. He gives your youngest grandchild a run for her money at times and she’s only four. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Steve grumbles as he descends the stairs to join you in the foyer. He’s fumbling with the buttons of his favorite blue shirt, unable to get the buttons through the holes as quickly as he’d like. His arthritis is flaring up again, it’s been doing that more and more lately. 

You push past the pang of sadness at seeing your husband struggle and pull him close when he reaches the bottom of the stairs, “Come here, love. I’ve got it.” you tell him, fixing the buttons of his shirt with quick efficiency. 

Steve checks his hair in the mirror by the door; the blonde is shot through with white and silver, though the cut is the same as when you met him. Even at sixty-two he’s quite striking. Bucky and you make sure to remind him of that regularly too. “You look great, Stevie.” Bucky assures him, pressing a quick kiss to the other man’s cheek before you head out the door. 

The walk to the new cafe is only four blocks from your old brownstone but the three of you take your time. There’s no need to hurry anymore. Now that you’re all retired, you can spend your days together doing whatever piques your interest at your own pace. Bucky had retired at fifty-five after an accident at the docks; his foot healed quickly but he realized he was getting too old for that type of work. Steve had been doing commissions only since the kids were born, taking jobs here and there as needed. It had helped tremendously when the kids were young. The last two years though, his arthritis had worsened and he’d stopped taking jobs. He claimed he wanted to create for himself while he still could. You were the last to retire, finally giving your notice the year before, and leaving your beloved library after almost forty years of service. You still go in once a week to lead story time for the children but you left the heavy mantle of Library Director behind. 

The cafe is a little brick shop with a lavender awning and wide glass windows. It’s cheery looking and definitely fits in with newer shops that have come into the neighborhood in recent years. Bucky holds the door open causing a little bell to chime up above and the scent of coffee hits your nose. It smells like heaven. 

Bucky insists on ordering for all three of you, so you and Steve take a table by the window while Bucky hurries over to the counter. You sit quietly looking around, letting a gentle melancholy sink into your bones. You miss the days of setting up shop in a Starbucks to work on your college papers, sipping an endless stream of lattes and staying right up until they closed for the night. Being back in a cafe like this dredges up those fond memories and you wish you could share them with the guys. You’d always meant to tell them, but even after forty years together, the timing never seemed quite right. And the longer it went, the more impossible it seemed.

“Here we go!” Bucky interrupts your reverie, placing a tray with three steaming cups and a plate of treats on your table. He slides into his seat and snatches a lemon scone with a wide grin, his sweet tooth just as wild as ever. 

You reach for the cup immediately after recognizing it as a latte; eager to devour it despite the steam flowing freely from the foam. The first sip is overwhelming, the taste of espresso and steamed milk hitting your tongue for the first time in four decades.

“It’s called a cafe au lait.” Bucky explains, “This is the only place in the city that serves them and they’re just the best.” 

You’re lost in your own little world, practically on the verge of tears as your taste buds welcome the familiar flavor. “God,” you murmur to yourself, “I missed this.” 

“What, doll?” Bucky asks, his nose wrinkling in confusion. 

You look up to see two pairs of blue eyes staring at you in confusion. 

“Nothing,” you assure them quickly, “It’s nothing.” 

“You said you missed this? Did you come here without us? They just opened last week.” Steve chimes in. He’s like a damned dog with a bone. 

You’re overwhelmed by the memories the latte has drug up and the guys are pestering you in unison with increasingly teasing questions as to what you meant and how you could have had one before in order to miss it. 

Steve is chuckling at Bucky’s last guess, “If she’s able to climb out a window at 2am-”

“Because I have had them before! Okay?!” you snap, cutting him off. “Hundreds of them. I practically lived off them while I was studying for my masters!” You huff out an exasperated breath, your pulse racing with frustration. 

“Your what?” Steve chokes out in confusion. 

“Oh hell.” You mutter, now you’ve done it. The conversation you’ve been avoiding for two thirds of your life is upon you and somehow you’re still not ready. 

“I think this is an at home type of conversation.” Bucky suggests. “Let’s just finish this up and we can head home.” 

The three of you drink your lattes quickly and Bucky asks for a paper sack to take your treats home in. None of you are willing to eat anything with the nervous energy buzzing around. You feel like you’re going to vibrate out of your bones between the caffeine and the terror of what you’re about to reveal to your husbands. You can’t even imagine what this will do to your marriage. To your family. The happy plans you had for your retired lives together are turning to ashes in your mind. 

You and Bucky take your usual seats on opposite ends of the sofa leaving Steve to opt for the middle seat opposed to his favored recliner. You barely know where to start but the guys are waiting patiently for you to begin. “I know things are going to change after this, but please, please know how much I love you. How much I’ve always loved you.” You choke back a sob before continuing, “I didn’t move to New York in 1941. I’d lived there since college in 2028….” Slowly, and through a sea of tears, the whole truth comes out. It takes almost an hour and you feel like your insides have been scraped raw between your memories and the quiet tears freely flowing from all three of you. By the time you’ve finished you’re convinced they’ll ask you to leave. They haven’t said a word, just gripped each other’s hands desperately and sniffled at the occasional stray tear. 

“We always suspected you had an interesting past.” Steve chuckles wetly, “But I never saw that coming.” 

Bucky huffs a teary laugh which brings one of your own up and just like that the tension that’s been brewing for the past hour spills. Steve scoots forward to take you in his arms, peppering you with kisses while Bucky moves in to hug you overtop Steve. 

They have questions, lots of them, but you expected they would. The guys take turns; Steve asking about your life growing up and Bucky mostly wanting to know about more “cool future shit” as he’s calling it. You’re discussing the challenges you faced trying to adjust to life in their time after knowing how much better it was for women in the future when Steve gets himself so worked up in self righteous fury that he has an asthma attack. You hold the inhaler patiently to his lips, pressing the cylinder to release his medication for him since his hands still ache. When his breathing evens out enough that you and Bucky are no longer concerned, Bucky starts teasing Steve about trying to be the center of attention despite this being about you. 

You spend the full day on that old olive green sofa together. Things you haven’t thought of in ages coming to mind, and you happily share the memories with them. You’re all stiff-muscled and sore by dinner time when you finally get up to rummage through your kitchen for food. The heaviness in the air is gone now, a subdued feeling of relief in its place. You all agree the children won’t be told. It’s better just keeping it between you three. The guys seem to truly understand your reasoning in not telling them and aren’t holding it against you. All in all, they took the news remarkably well. You should have known though. The love you share is the love of a lifetime and something that strong doesn’t just flicker out. 

You’re putting three little frozen chicken pot pies in the oven when you hear the guys shouting in outrage over the sound of the television in the living room. You head towards the sound of their discontent.

“Rose!” Steve calls to you, “The MLB just went on strike! Can you believe it?! They’re cancelling 23 games!” 

“Oh my god.” you gasp, surprised that the league took such drastic action. Baseball was the only sport watched in your house, both of the guys completely obsessed from July through October every year. It’s going to be odd seeing how this strike plays out and you’re sure the guys will be complaining about it well past when the season ends.

“But you probably already knew that, right?” Bucky teases you lightly. 

You stare at him in shock for a moment before swatting him with your dish towel. “Jerk.” 

Steve snorts in his effort not to laugh, but Bucky laughs with his whole body, amused by his own self. 

“Funny.” you chastise him, “Really funny, guys.” 

They settle but are still wearing twin grins of amusement. Throwing an eye roll their way, you head back to the kitchen to start on the salad. After everything, a little teasing is a small price for years of hiding, and one you’re more than willing to pay. 

[httpheh]

five times they had an unresolved tension, and that one time it got resolved part 1/? — 

 Tom is a household name in the modeling industry. Graduated from the prestigious Hogwarts School of Arts, he signed an exclusive contract with the renowned designer Salazar Slytherin, and started walking on London’s Fashion Week. 

 Ever since then, the model’s face would regularly grace Prophet’s cover, showcasing designs fresh from Slytherin’s sketches. He became everyone’s favorite in less than a year, even Cedric Diggory, who debuted in Ilvermorny’s Winter Collection paled in comparison. 

 Harry skimmed through the glossy pages of Prophet’s newest issue, barely listening to Hermione’s ramblings about the company’s work ethic. "Really though, Harry. The pressure’s really high. I have to stay until seven in the evening every day to clean up after the photoshoots. And general meeting starts at seven in the morning.”

 Despite her protests’, Hermione seemed to be proud of herself for being able to get accepted as an intern in Prophet, which is her lifelong dream ever since she was eleven. 

 “He’s everywhere I swear.” Harry remarked, staring at Tom’s face on the magazine. Hermione hummed, “He’s Slytherin’s favorite. Shows up in every season of Mosmordre’s look-book,“ 

 "Everyone likes him; Prophet’s sales doubled when he was featured on the cover. Something Slughorn took a mental note of. Our director’s practically head over heels for him.”

 Letting out an amused laugh, Harry slide the magazine across the table, giving it back to Hermione. 

“Well, at least you got a stable job.” He remarked, mumbling a thanks as a waitress puts his drink on the table. She snorted, “Well, It’s not my fault you decline to intern at Prophet together.“ 

 "My speciality is with nature, not people.” He retorted, pouring too much sugar into his tea. 

“And how’s your application to Fantastic Beasts and— What’s the name?“ 

“Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them. Still haven’t got the news. they probably rejected my pictures again.”

Both went silent; Hermione flipping through Prophet and Harry drinking his hot tea, cursing silently as the tea slowly burnt his tongue. “Anyways, how’s Sumatra?” Hermione asked, changing the subject. “Its exotic. My memory card’s full of shades of green up and brown below.”

 Harry unzipped his camera bag, revealing a few of his best shots in the tropical forests. Hermione’s mouth gaped in awe, remarking that the view reminds her of the forests’ in Amazon. “With this, Fantastic Beasts have absolutely no reason to reject your pictures. Look at them! I’ll pay for them!“ 

 "Thank you for the mental support, Hermione. But only three freelancers got featured in each issue. I can’t set my hopes too high.” 

Hermione made a dismissive gesture, “Nonsense, I would hex anyone who rejects this masterpiece.” 

“Neville helped me in most shots though, he ought to get credit for that too.” 

“Neville? I heard his pictures got showcased in last month’s exhibition.” Harry’s eyebrows perked, “Really?” 

Hermione stared at him, “This is why you got to pay more attention on what’s happening around you. Yes, Neville Longbottom is now an accomplished photographer, probably in process of being a professional and setting up his photo studio. So why don’t you start by interning at Prophet?” 

“Like I said, Hermione–” 

“I get it,” She interrupted, “It’s a matter of preference, but can’t you start by taking pictures of people? You could imagine them as trees or something.” She suggested. 

Harry knew their conversations are always going back to this matter. “People are different, Hermione. I simply prefer nature better.” 

“Yes, but one must settle with less if the situation calls for it.” 

Hermione has always been a persistent person; he couldn’t blame her, it was what made her top of the class, graduating with perfect scores. “I’ll think about it.” He finally replied dismissively.

 Hermione looked as if she wanted to say something, but refrained as she took a sip of her tea, which has been left on the table untouched for a bit too long. 

It was seven fifteen in the morning. Harry rubbed his eyes, his hands searching for the familiar thin object resting next to his nightstand. 

Wait, he thought. His alarm doesn’t ring until eight-thirty. 

Peering at the phone screen, Harry groaned. “’Ello?” 

“Harry! Are you free today?” Hermione’s voice resonated across his messy flat. “What?” Yawning as he got out of bed, Harry leans against the wall for support while searching for his spectacles on the floor. 

“Prophet’s photographer got sick, the usual fill in is out of the country. Can you fill in instead?” 

“Found it!” He mumbled, adjusting his spectacles on his nose. Hermione’s groan could be heard from the line, “You just woke up didn’t you?” 

Harry shrugged, “My circadian rhythm is not like the others.” 

“Anyways,” Hermione continued, “Can you fill in instead?” 

Sandwiching his phone in between his shoulder and his ears, Harry opened the fridge rather hastily, scanning for a bottle of orange juice inside. 

“So, I’m a fill in for a fill in?” He confirmed, pouring his orange juice on a tea cup. There was a pause. “You don’t seem delighted.” 

“Outstanding deduction, Mr. Holmes” His sarcastic remark earned a light groan from the other line. 

“Just a shot, and you’ll be free.” Harry took a shot of his orange juice, wondering how she will react to the new pun he just discovered. 

“Interesting, just tell me the time and I’ll be there.” 

Harry swore he could hear Hermione giggling. “Brilliant! I need you to be here at seven forty-five.” 

And he wondered why he agreed. 

Prophet’s headquarters is located in the heart of Diagon Alley, which also happens to be the place where the bloody traffic is. Slamming the taxi door behind him, Harry struggled to get past the sea of people, bumping into at least a dozen of people and more curses being directed at him ( in different languages too!). 

The entrance to Prophet requires a thorough body check; his bag was scanned, he had to walked through the x-ray at least three times before he remembered to put his Iphone 4 into the x-ray machine to be scanned. 

In the end, the security gave him the Visitor’s ID and told him to wait at the lobby, despite his reason of being the fill in of this fill in for this certain photoshoot. Harry couldn’t blame him; the fact that his reasoning has too few of an information has made him looked suspicious. 

“Harry!” A familiar voice shouted, and Harry turned to see his saviour Hermione running towards him. “Quick!” She yanked his wrist, dragging him across the lobby to the elevator. Hermione punched the floor, waiting for the doors to close before saying anything. Harry, who has earned a Doctorate in Reading Hermione’s Body Language, braced for the future attack. 

“Fucking Goyle. He must’ve mistaken you as a bloody model up for casting. Now we’re late!” Harry raised his eyebrows. 

“A model?” He asked, knowing that Hermione doesn’t like to be interrupted. 

“Yes, a model. Look at you, your body is so… petite.“ She retorted. The elevator made a ding! as the doors opened, revealing the busy photoshoot scene. 

Harry ignored her last statement, tailing her as she made her way to the casting director, who introduced himself as Armando Dippet and to the Head designer, Salazar Slytherin. 

“Now, Mr. Dippet and Slytherin, may I introduce you our new photographer intern , Harry James Potter.” 

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dippet, Mr Slytherin.” Harry said, extending his hand for a handshake. 

“Wildlife photographer, are you, M’ boy?” Dippet asked, shaking his hand firmly. Harry froze, “How did you–” 

“Miss Granger has referred us to you.” Slytherin supplied, shaking his hand as soon as Dippet lets his hands go. 

“It’s not everyday we get a wildlife photographer. I think we could flirt with the idea of having a wildlife photographer in charge of today's photoshoot. What are your thoughts, Slytherin?” Dippet’s voice was calm, yet there was an authoritative aura behind it, Harry observed. 

“That would do. After all, I am impressed with how he captures the Sumatran tigers with such precision and beauty. I am looking forward to how he will capture my designs.” 

Before Harry could muster a word, Hermione decided to speak up, “Harry is a dear friend of mine, Mr. Slytherin. You do not need to worry, Mosmordre’s look book will surely be a work of art.” 

“Then, we will leave you to familiarize yourself to the studio. We will do Polaroid casting first, then Tom at one. Consider yourself part of Prophet’s family now.” Harry forces an awkward acknowledging smile as Dippet patted his back, leaving him with Hermione to check on the designs. 

“You could’ve told me the truth!” 

“I’m very sorry!” 

Both shouted at the same time, ignoring everyone’s curious stare. “I’m very sorry, I’m just so desperate and showed them a couple of pictures you sent me last night and they just.. liked your style?” Hermione’s voice was softer than before, as if trying to not hurt his feelings. 

Harry snorted at the thought, “You could, you know, not lie to me.” 

Hermione lets out a frustrated groan, “Just help me out, this once. Please.” 

[yespolkadotkitty]

En Guard

Oh, Christ. I apologise.

I wrote this for the lovely @wolvesandhoundshowltogether​, and had lots of help from @constip8merm8​ and encouragement from @restingnurseface​ .

Henry Cavill and Pedro Pascal fight over you. That’s it, that’s the fic. Apologies to both actors and anyone who has ever fenced.

With Queens of the Stone Age piping through his headphones, Henry headed for the rec room of the sumptuous manor house-cum-country club taken over by the film and production crew of Zero Sum Game.

A heavy storm front had delayed filming for forty-eight hours, but they’d recently wrapped on a very emotional scene, and the Director had suggested that everyone get some R&R.

Henry pushed into the rec room to find his colleague Pedro already there, bent over the pool table, idly potting some balls.

They riffed well off each other on set, respectively playing MI6 and FBI officers on opposite sides of a case but forced to work together.

“Hey, man,” Henry greeted, pulling out his ear plugs.

“Hey,” Pedro replied affably. “I’d invite you to play, but there’s only one cue. That I can find, anyway.”

Henry shrugged, indicating he didn’t mind, and grabbed a tight thriller from the shelf of paperback on the back wall, dropping into one of the overstuffed leather armchairs to read.

For a few minutes, the room filled with only the sound of Pedro’s cue hitting the balls, and Henry turning the pages.

Pedro potted the last ball, and straightened up, stretching, the hem of his long-sleeved t-shirt riding up as he did so, revealing a strip of tanned stomach. “So, no filming for forty-eight, huh. Thought I’d ask out that make-up artist.”

Henry paused and looked up again from the book, uttering your name. “That’s who you mean?”

“Sure.” Pedro leaned on the cue lazily, running his free hand through his hair. “I feel like she might say yes. Y’know?”

Henry closed the book. “I’m afraid I’m having coffee with her tomorrow. Sorry,” he added with a shrug - feeling anything but sorry. He’d had his eye on you since the day you’d shown up on set, all sass and long-lashed eyes and make-up brushes, and you made his heart race.

Pedro was a great guy - but he couldn’t have you.

“Well, who knows what she’ll say when I ask her, right?” Pedro smiled, lopsidedly. “After all….” He gestured with the cue as if it was a fancy rapier. “Would she prefer you over this?” he waved the cue in the air. “I’ve been fencing for years. I could make anything into a finely honed weapon.”

Henry smirked, standing up to his full height, and rolling his shoulders back. He cast around the room for something to use as a weapon, and his gaze lit upon a huge golf umbrella. He deftly snatched it up, proffering it like a sword. “You may have a blunt tool, but mine is sharp and very flexible. What do you think she’ll prefer?”

Pedro laughed out loud. “Oh, amigo, it’s on.” He advanced on Henry, brown eyes narrowed, a smirk crossing his face. 

Henry bent into a slight crouch, gauging his opponent. He might have weight and height on Pedro, but the Chilean would be faster. “En guard,” he challenged.

The two men circled each other in the large room, as a heavy rain started to pound on the big picture windows. 

“Rules of engagement?” Pedro asked lowly as Henry watched him, preparing to strike.

“Well, our faces are our fortune, so no headshots.”

“Agreed. And no aiming for the family jewels, dude.”

They both grimaced at that. “Agreed,” Henry muttered.

He tried to calculate where Pedro might strike first, and made a jab at the other man’s shoulder. Pedro deflected. Dammit.

They continued to circle each other like hunter and prey, roles reversing every few minutes. 

“Maybe our girl is tired of steak, hmmm?” Pedro goaded him. “Maybe she’d like to try a little Chilean beef for a change?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, mate,” Henry shot back, taking another strike. He hit Pedro’s thigh with a satisfying smack.

“You get that one for free,” Pedro taunted, jabbing at Henry with the cue and hitting his shoulder, but Henry barely felt the poke of the cue.

The two men moved around the room, the back of Henry’s booted heel eventually hitting the step down into the rec room. He backed up into the hall, Pedro’s brown gaze tracking him as he did so.

They advanced into the huge hallway of the manor house, and the glint of steel caught Henry’s gaze. Pedro noticed at the same time, them both gazing up at the display of fencing swords pinned to the wall.

Henry lunged first, grabbing one of the swords from the display. It slid out and he crouched into the beginner’s position, jerking his head to indicate that he’d wait for Pedro to arm himself, too.

The other man tossed the pool cue aside and snatched a sword. “Vamonos, Cavill.”

Henry rolled his shoulders lazily. “Come at me.”

They rushed each other, the swords crossing with a metallic clang that echoed in the huge hall. Pedro was light on his feet, dancing away from Henry’s thrusts, and parrying expertly, but he misjudged a step and backed into a suit of armour on display, his dark blue shirt catching on the edge of a gauntlet. He pulled, swearing under his breath in Spanish, and Henry had a moment of discomfort, wondering if you’d find that sexy.

With another curse, Pedro cast aside his rapier and pulled off his shirt, leaving it hanging off the suit of armour. He bent to pick up the sword, and raised a brow at Henry, silently asking if he wanted to continue.

“Age before beauty, old man,” Henry teased.

“Bastardo,” Pedro countered, and rounded on Henry, striking a glancing blow off his hip. “My point.”

Henry retreated down the corridor, planning his strategy. 

******

Pedro saw Henry - handsome bastard - look behind him to check his footing. He snatched an antique dagger from the suit of armour that had pinned his shirt, and gauged his aim, throwing. The dagger whistled through the air and caught the sleeve of Henry’s t-shirt, pinning him to the huge oak door.

Without missing a beat, Henry stripped out of his t-shirt, leaving it hanging by the dagger’s point in the wall, and re-armed himself. “That’s against the rules, Pascal.”

Pedro rolled his shoulders, winking at the Englishman. “All’s fair in love and war, si?”

“I won’t take my eyes off you again,” Henry growled, and Pedro knew a moment of disquiet, thinking that you’d definitely like the roughness of Henry’s voice, the command in his gaze.

He shrugged it off, twisting the sword in his grip. “Come and get it, cabrón.”

Henry braced himself to charge, and Pedro stood his ground. He might not have Henry’s brute strength, but he was wiry, and fast-

Creaking on the stairs behind Henry’s back made them both look up.

*****

You paused on the third step from the bottom. Filming had paused for two days, right?

You weren’t complaining, but if that was true, why were the two hottest guys you’d seen in a long while sparring, shirtless, with swords?

You’d come out of your room to the clanging of metal, wanting to investigate, and it had been so worth your while. Hearing some of their verbal sparring would keep you chuckling for days.

“Um, hi..?” you ventured.

Henry set down his sword first, with a clang. Pedro followed suit. They both wore expressions of naughty boys caught fighting in the school yard.

You looked from one to the other. Henry, broad and built, with eyes the shade of the ocean in a hot country, his hair curling damply over his forehead, and Pedro, shorter but lean and wiry, a whole meal of tanned skin, ruffled dark hair and broody brown eyes, not to mention that husky voice.

“We were…” Henry cast about, his gaze settling on your face.

“Practicing,” Pedro finished. “For, ah… the fencing scene. It’s, um, recently been written in.”

“Right,” Henry added. “Very recently.”

You bit down on your lip to keep from laughing. A fencing scene in a tight government agency thriller. “Have you been drinking?”

“Absolutely not!” Henry objected.

Pedro shrugged. “A little.”

Henry glanced at his co-star in surprise. Pedro shrugged again.

You took a few more steps towards them, and carefully picked up the swords from the floor. “I’ll just take these.” You gestured to the shirts hanging off the dagger and the armoured suit. “Perhaps you can both clean up a little, hmmm? We’re not animals, after all.”

You looked at each in turn.

“Of course,” Henry murmured.

“Yes, ma’am,” Pedro added. They both looked cowed, and your heart softened. 

“See you tomorrow, Henry?” you asked over your shoulder, setting the swords back in their brackets.

Out of the corner of your eye you saw Henry pump his fist, and decided not to call him on it. You could tease him mercilessly about it later.

“Looking forward to it,” he replied, smoothly, in that delicious accent.

You stood back, admiring your handiwork with the swords. “Now, are we going to play nicely together?”

They both nodded mutely, Henry already wiggling his sword out from under the point of the dagger. Where had that come from?

“Oh, and Pedro?” you added, sweetly.

He looked up, thoughtful brown eyes meeting yours.

“Why don’t you join us, tomorrow? I’ve got a craving for both grass-fed British steak and Chilean beef.”

You didn’t quite hear their jaws hit the floor as you walked away, but you could imagine it rather well.

[baekchelor]

𝕕𝕒𝕪𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕕𝕖𝕔𝕖𝕡𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

pairings: George Mackay x reader genre: romantic comedy rating: pg13 synopsis: on the set of his new film, golden boy George Mackay learns a basic human truth: that the heart is deceitful above all things.

❝i  love  you  i’ve  never  loved  anyone  else, never  will.❞                                                                                                                  —linda  nightingale

                                                                                               EPILOGUE ◄ ᴘʀᴇᴠ

The night of the Academy Awards, George can't take his eyes off of Y/N. Truthfully, on a daily basis, George finds it hard not to stare at his girlfriend's pretty face. But this particular night of February, it is even harder.

She looks Gorgeous. Now that George [shamefully] admitted to himself he enjoys —to no say like— Taylor Swift's music, he can tell Y/N that Taylor must have written that song about her, not Joe Alwyn. He is a friend of George. They are close, and he is nice, but no way in hell, he is more gorgeous than Y/N.

As they walk through the red carpet, a cheeky smirk on his face, George sing-songs to Y/N's ear, "You're so gorgeous". When Y/N chuckles and briefly looks back at him, George continues, "I can't say anything to your face. 'Cause look at your face."

He remembers back when he decided on the nickname, not only he chose it because Y/N is drop-dead gorgeous, but because she made him so happy, it turns back to sad and there's nothing George hates more than what he can't have.

George laughs, wholeheartedly. He loves this girl more than life itself, and he is confident the internet is already flooding with pictures of him looking at Y/N Y/L/N with stars in his eyes. In fact, he can even imagine the headlines Dean will show him about it.

As Y/N tries to hurry away to give E!News an interview, George manages to grab her hand and pull her towards him. He kisses the back of her head, "Love you."

With a vast, crimson streak across her cheeks, YN playfully smacks George in the tummy, "Stop it you."

This time, Y/N turns around completely. She doesn't respond with another love confession or a mundane me too. It is explicit. It is in the aura around them, and it is in her eyes, and in her smile, "Forever."

She doesn't need to stand on her tiptoes, she's wearing heels, so she's at the perfect height to sweetly peck his cheek. The fans looking from the stands go nuts, squealing and shouting euphorically.

Y/N strokes a thin thread of hair away from his forehead. "Thanks," he smiles, and the crowd woos again. George still wears his hair long. Months ago, he wrapped up filming for the movie that requested him to let it grow —he portrayed a self-thought unconventional young doctor who lives in Namibia—. Howbeit, Y/N loves how he looks with long hair, and George loves how she twirls her fingers around the golden locks. So as long as he finds it bearable, he will keep the Bodevan Cash look.

"They're louder than usual tonight," he jokes, following Alma and Vanessa to the spot where they're meant to get interviewed.

"Wonder why," sarcastically, Y/N muses. "Mr Oscar Nominee."

George leans closer to her ear, out of earshot for their managers and Ryan Seacrest, "I prefer London Boy if you please."

Y/N laughs, but she isn't able to joke further because Alma announces they're up next. As they expected, the first question is how they feel about Dharma running for Best Motion Picture. The following is meant for George and concerns his nomination for Best Supporting Actor. Although Dharma is a contestant in seven other categories, George and Dev Patel are the only actors among the cast, whose performance were acknowledged by The Academy.

To say the least, he is the favourite on his category. Even Ryan Seacrest seems to think so, he didn't even try to hide his favouritism. "No reason to be nervous," he says, cheering George on.

If George answers with the truth, he would seem a haughty ass, so he just laughs Ryan's comment off. But George isn't nervous indeed. He is beyond honoured, of course, and when he heard his name as one of the nominees, he went nuts. Y/N went nuts. Daisy and his parents, even Alma, shed tears when George screamed the news via FaceTime.

The thing is, he had a month to think it through. Yes, it would be a lie to say he doesn't want to take an Oscar home, but if he doesn't manage, he couldn't care less. George is not an arrogant-ass, he believes Dharma has already given him the best thing in his life. And that is Y/N. Not an award. None award on his home would compare to wake up next to her (George did win a BAFTA, a Golden Globe, a Critics Choice Award and a Cannes Film Festival Award.) She is the award at home. They moved together into a flat in Notting Hill, and there's no bigger prize than brewing coffee every morning and snuggle until both really, really, really have to go. And that is what he tells Ryan Seacrest, "I won't get luckier than this."

George smiles, gazing affectionately at the point where his and Y/N's hands intertwine. They're at the designated seats inside the theatre, they've been inside for forty minutes already, and George still can't believe he got this lucky. Hell, he even offered his dad to buy a Lotto ticket for him. That much lucky George feels. He might even be Irish. Not because he is an Academy Award nominee, and won every fucking statue during the Awards Season. It is because he won Y/N over Luke Hemmings, Dev Patel and Henry Cavill, and she is his, and he is hers.

Every girl George has been with, once the light of reality bathed over them, shifted in form and emotion. Saoirse, Doone, Daisy... the better George got to know them, the most he realised they were perfect for each other on paper, but in real life, they couldn't be further from that. In turn, Y/N painted it all golden. She taught George love is not in the colours he encountered. Love isn't red —you are in love, but don't want to be in love. You don't want to deal with it—, like with Daisy. Neither is black and white —sometimes you treat each other great. Then there are other times when you just fuck each other's lives entirely up. No in-between—, like with Doone.

Y/N showed him love is gold, warm, like daylight.

"Hey, lover," Y/N calls his attention. He loves the nickname, it is his ultimate favourite. A month into their relationship, George learned the origin of Y/N's nicknames for him did reside in Taylor Swift's songs. And Y/N confessed it never got through her head that George called her Gorgeous to subtly let her know he discovered London Boy and Heartbreak Prince were love songs. George chuckled at her naivety, and Y/N burst out laughing when the boy admitted to howling the songs on a bender. Several times. Nowadays she calls him Lover, he calls her as well, and last January, they did leave the Christmas lights. "It's time."

George lets out a breath, "Here we go."

On cue, instrumental music begins, and Sandra Bullock emerges on stage. The first thing that comes out of her mouth is a joke, and it helps George with the jitters starting to creep under his skin. "Timmy, dude, you won this award last year, you know. Wouldn't it be nice to let someone else have a chance? I mean, how much is enough? Think about it." Then she turns a bit more serious, praising the performances of the five nominees in the category, Timotheé included, before she introduces a clip of their astounding acting.

George shakes his head, half in amusement, half in disbelief when his face appears on the screen. The chosen scene to show the audience a glimpse of his performance reveals a blind James reuniting with Marina, the Mumbai Gate behind them. If the Academy knew what went through his mind while they filmed the scene, they would've never selected him. He feels like a cheater. The only bit of acting during James and Marina's reunion was the fact that James was blind. Nothing else. He loved the girl to whom he read the script, as much as James loved Marina, if not more. George wasn't acting. At all.

Y/N squeezes his hand, fingers laced, as she beams at him with love and pride. George is forced to break eye contact when Sandra Bullock speaks again, "Here are the nominees for performance by an actor in a supporting role." Sandra allows a brief pause, then resumes, "Don Johnson. Shall We?" The crowd applause. "Ethan Hawke. Blue." Another big acclaim. "Eddie Redmayne. Amaranth." Applause. "George Mackay. Dharma." The attendants burst into a fit of claps, as the camera broadcasts George's face. He is smiling, clapping as well, and he realises the jitters have entirely taken over. He is nervous. Fucking Nervous. The only way out is to trace his eyes in the direction of Y/N, George knows a mere glance from her has the same effect than a cup of Chamomile tea.

To George's relief, the camera stops paying attention to him as soon as Sandra Bullock mentions the last contestant, "Timotheé Chalamet. Because of the Flowers."

George tightens the hold of his fingers around his girlfriend's palm, he knows what will happen once the cheers for Timotheé dry down, and he doesn't feel ready. Daisy and his parents are peering at him, he can't see them, he doesn't even know where they're seated. Still, George can feel their gazes over him, and he can tell they're smiling, proud of his achievement.

Greta Gerwig has turned around on her seat to take a look at George. She gives him a quick thumbs-up, and she and her husband, Noah, share a cheerful mien. George winks her way. The next category Greta is up to is Best Director, and George really wishes she goes home with two Academy Awards tonight. She already got an Oscar for Best Screenplay, and both George and Y/N hugged her tight, exultant.

Sandra finally pronounces the coming five little words:

"And the Oscar goes to..." A knowing grin curves her features when she practically screams, "George Mackay!"

The Dolby Theatre erupts in cheers, some attendants even rise from their seats to give George a standing ovation. Before he rushes on stage, he leans towards Y/N and kisses her. The kiss is quick, not enough for George. Although she's resumed the clapping and stares at with so much joy, and contentment around her irises, George kisses her again.

The touch of their fingertips linger, he grabs her hand and pulls her up with him, to hug her tight. In the mids of all, Y/N whispers, "I love you." And without halting her applauses, she beams, "You deserve this, London Boy."

George lingers on his foot, the look in their eyes speaking for them. Y/N points at him, all flushed, and tells him he's got chapstick on his cheek. George laughs and lets Y/N wipe it off. She has tears in her eyes, she's still clapping, and George really wishes he could kiss her ten times more. Scratch that, make that twenty.

George walks to the stage. The path is short, but he fist-bumps Greta and points at Dev Patel and Michael Fassbender before hurrying up the short stairs to where Sandra is, waiting to hand her the Oscar. A motherfucking Oscar.

George gives her a kiss on the cheek, a quick hug, and receives the statue with a broad, crooked smile on his face. Baffled, he stares at it. Never in a lifetime, George thought his hands would carry the weight of an Oscar. Actually, it isn't as heavy as he imagined, its weight is due to its meaning. George dreamed about it, many times —Which actor doesn't?—, but never ponder he genuinely stood a chance. Y/N talked him into attending Vanity Fair's after-party, after all, and George is unsure if it ended up being a good idea or not. He does feel like celebrating, no point in denying it, but George also feels like kissing her all over the face and taking off her dress.

George's carefully written and memorised speech dies on his throat when he stands before the microphone, "I-I... Oh my god. Uh..." He just won an Oscar. He is an Academy Award Winner. Holy shit. "My parents are here somewhere. I love you. My sister, Daisy, thank you for everything." His trail of words is interrupted by another wave of applause. He smiles, "I'm so appreciative to Greta, to anyone who's had a hand in getting me here. To The Academy. To the crew and cast of Dharma, I could never be here without you."

George holds the statue up, in the course of Y/N. Her flooded eyes are fixed on him, and she's biting her pink lips in an effort to hold her tears prisoner. "Y/N Y/L/N", he says, voice shaky at the end of her name. He falters a minute. His throat has run dry, his legs have turn shaky, his palms are sweating..."To me, it seems a miracle that you exist...touch you, be with you —so much, that I'm terrified of losing you." George is no fool, he can see Y/N is trying hard not to burst into tears. She has her lower lip tightly hidden below her teeth, her breathing has turned heavy and slow, and George knows he understands what he means. He was so afraid of losing her, that they spent months apart due to it. Tonight, he wants her to know that he won't be afraid anymore, that he trusts in them, in their love. George is confident they are endgame, that one day she will wear a bright diamond around her pretty little finger. No paper rings. "But hear me out, love, even if we lived in different worlds, I'll find a way to you," It is Dharma main plot, an everlasting love that finds each other every time. What better way to honour the film that gifted him an Oscar and the best thing in his life, than to use it as a metaphor. "I will always be James, you will always be Marina, and we will always be in love."

A/N: Hello, hello! This is the final version of the Epilogue. I’m so so so hyped you like this story. Never in a million dreams did I imagined this would have the response that it did. I’m truly pumped that you have had fun while reading this and like the characters so much. Hope you like this ending better than the last haha 😛😛 And stay tuned because next week I will present all of you ASHORE, the Bo Cash fic. 

[birdycurtains]

What about Tony being an old school horror director who feels like he’s about to be upstaged by Peter, a new horror director - think Blumhouse - and Tony, never having met him, both hates and fears him, until he bumps into him at a movie theater and hit it off until Peter introduces himself -des

this inspired me beyond belief, i have no idea why. i don’t think this was the direction you intended, but once i started i couldn’t stop haha. - birdy

He Calls Him Anthony

wordcount: 2,357

Friday nights were sacred. They were nights centered around going to see old movies at the IFC, and there was never to be a schedule conflict. Because that was one of the three nights he was awarded for seeing his daughter a week. 

And he would die before he didn’t take Morgan to see a truly good movie every Friday night. 

This night was Sunset Boulevard, he did always enjoy a good Wilder film, as did Morgan. Her twelve year-old self had mastered the art of the Norma Desmond gaze.

But here was Peter Fucking Parker, waltzing out of a showing down the hall. 

Morgan blearily leant into her dad's side as he attempted to speedily walk out of Parker’s field of vision.

It wasn’t that he hated Peter Parker, well maybe he did just a little. 

He was once that fresh face on the scene, basking in the limelight, being the true face of modern horror. 

But now his takes weren’t exactly fresh, and what the younger audiences were looking for. They wanted a twisted gore, with just this side of odd comic relief, that Parker had perfected while Pepper was serving Tony divorce papers.

So maybe he was envious, maybe he was just tired of everytime he attended a premier, or so much as breathed in the direction of the media, he was hounded with questions of what exactly did he think about Peter Parker?

In the beginning, he didn’t care or think much. But as trailer after trailer was put out, the movies being produced at a rapid rate while maintaining or increasing their following, even Morgan was asking her father if they could rent this, or if they could go to the cinema to see that.

And maybe he caved once, and with a hoodie, and sunglasses, a hat. For good measure of course. He went and saw one. With Morgan, because she insisted, and who was he to deprive her. 

It was good. And he resented Peter Parker for the same craft he held a torch for.

So here was Peter Parker, coming out of Casablanca. And making a bee-line towards him. 

“Mr Stark! Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark?”

God damn it. 

Tony willed his body to face the younger man. Morgan follows in suit, her eyes widening in realization, and proceeding to prod her elbow directly into her father’s side.

“Mr. Parker, well, nice to see you.” 

Tony could play nice, put on his ‘customer service’ voice, and act chummy with Peter Parker.

Although, the in-person Parker didn’t exactly match what he imagined.

This one wore thread-bare jeans, and converse that had seen better days, three years ago. 

He didn’t match the one he had seen plastered over last month's vanity fair, the pictures that had circulated his time-line a little more than his liking. 

They ran in the same circles, it wasn’t like he was actively looking for him.

“Gosh, Mr. Stark, it’s an honor to meet you really. Please, call me Peter.”

He was like a chihuahua that took a five-hour-energy-shot. 

His handshake was firm, and he slipped his glasses back up his nose as he collected himself. 

“I’m sorry for bothering you, but I thought I had seen you here before, I come here all the time y’know, every time they have a Rocky Horror showing, I’ve got tickets.” 

It was easy to catch that he was a New York native, unlike Tony himself. His Queens drawl interweaving between vowels and catching on to his r’s. It was rather cute, and personable. 

Did he just- Tony called him cute. Christ.

“My daughter and I like the classics.” He put simply smoothing down Morgan’s unruly strands. 

“Yeah, me too. I’m usually knee deep in everything going on right now, that to just enjoy the good ol’ stuff-”

He gave a dramatic sigh of pleasure, Tony felt his ears turn red.

 “That’s everything man. You would know of course. God, of course you know-  I mean”

The younger man cut himself short as he realized he was gripping Tony’s shoulder, his face and neck flushing red.

“I’m sorry- I’m probably taking up your family time. But, we should totally get together. Like talk shop or whatever?”

Peter flashed him the brightest smile, he swore the dim hallway was a little brighter.

“Yeah.”

The man was gone with a friendly wave as he jogged back to a small group of people, probably his friends, towards the exit.

Tony looked down at the ground and focused on his hand that hung limply by his side. On it was a chicken scratch phone number. 

Peter had written down his phone number. On Tony’s hand. 

And he hadn’t even noticed.

~

A few days later, Tony decides to grow a pair. He types the number into his phone, makes an individual contact for a Mr. Peter Parker.

He never thought this day would come. And he’s not sure the exact connotation behind that thought.

Does he call? Does he text?

In all honesty it has been a minute since he attempted friendship, or even communication outside of his usual social circle. 

Things had never been like this when he and Rhodey had initially become friends. Even the rest of his band of misfits had just happened naturally, never really taking this much preamble communication.

He texts.

~

They decide to meet at a small cafe around the NYU campus. Peter had said the place was quiet and usually uncrowded, one of his favorites.

Going against his gut, he trusts Peter and agrees.

Now here he is, looking presentable for the public eye, it’s a Monday. He’s just dropped off Morgan at school, and here he is. At another school.

“Anthony!”

He winces just the slightest, and is met with the vision that is Peter Parker at eight a.m. on a Monday morning. For someone so heavily criticized and praised in the public-eye, appearances must be everything on some level for the man. He doesn’t exactly aim to disappoint.

He looks so effortlessly cozy, dolled up in his black turtleneck and rust orange suede jacket, and those same glasses from the week prior perched against his brow bone. His hair looks soft, and his eyes are warm.

“Mr. Parker.”

That’s good. Set some boundaries, before you directly tell him he looks soft.

“I told you.” Peter sighs wistfully, wrapping his hands around a deep mug of hot chocolate? 

He looks up again with the same kindness and warmth.

 “Call me Peter.”

~

He invited him to dinner.

He doesn’t exactly know how it happened. It was somewhere between talking about how Peter had wound up picking up where his uncle left off, and how working as a barista in the cafe they were sitting in was Peter’s favorite job during college.

He could imagine a littler Peter, running around behind the counter making drinks and warming up scones. His open textbook to the left of the register, just like he described.

It made a fluttering in his chest somewhere, to know a personal and small detail of the Peter Parker. 

Not in a, I’m a huge fan of the Peter Parker.

But, in a, this kind young man, I am having the privilege of getting to know, kind of way.

The point is he invited him to dinner, at this high-end steak house he’s familiar with. A reservation for eight. 

It’s eight forty-five, and he’s on his second glass of red wine, Peter’s on his third.

Things are comfortably warm, they’re talking about Tony’s first movie, and how much of a shitshow it was, but the critics loved it.

The steak is amazing, they order dessert.

And he doesn’t budge or comment when Peter hooks his foot around his own. He only smiles softly, and watches Peter’s curious eyes watch as he brings a piece of poached pear to his mouth.

He hails Peter a cab at the end of the night, and Peter thanks him for dinner.

He calls him Anthony, once again.

~

Peter calls him this time.

It’s in the late hours of the night, and Tony, never really one for sleeping through the night anyway, has a lapful of script he’s reviewing, making sure it fits his artistic vision and what-not.

His voice is rough around the edges, a haze of sleep almost.

Tony wonders what it sounds like in person. If he were in bed next to him, or with him. Maybe with a lapful of Peter Parker, and not dialogue bleeding into his iris’.

He invites Tony over for Thursday night.

Peter knows the custodial schedule. That should mean something right?

He texts him an address later in the day. It’s in the Upper East Side, not too far from him, it’s in a cozy neighborhood of brownstones. 

Very Peter Parker.

~

Tony, will never understand Rocky Horror.

Peter had invited him when he arrived a little late, just five minutes, but he could see the worry drip off his shoulders as he greeted him at the door.

His home was a beautiful thing, filled to the brim with the most eclectic vintage interior, but it somehow matched.

He had learned from their meeting at the cafe, that Peter’s aunt owned a store that specialized in all things vintage and antique. It hadn’t surprised him to see it rubbed off on him.

In the downstairs parlor, it was decorated with dozens of Peter’s movie posters. Some were beta’s that Peter and an artist had worked on together. Peter flushed when he caught him staring. 

Tony would never get used to the fact that this Peter Parker was shy and not open about his work in his personal life, he liked to keep things very separate. 

He watched him put together a heaping bowl of kettle corn and followed him up a winding staircase, Peter remarked it was his favorite thing about the house.

He told him they were watching Rocky Horror Picture Show. 

Tony had never seen it in his entire life, he knew the cult following it had, but he couldn’t piece together that this is something Peter loved so much, but was so different from the direction he took with his work. 

He only smiled and agreed and saddled up with Peter on the pink floral couch. 

They’d never done this before, but it felt so familiar, like they had been through this scenario a dozen times, and it was just natural to lean into each other and fumble for the sugary popcorn between them.

It was around the scene when Frank N Furter was doing the backstroke with the rest of the cast in the swimming pool, that Tony realized their closeness.

How he had his arm wrapped around Peter, and Peter had just melted into his side.

The younger man must’ve felt the pressure of Tony’s gaze burning into the side of his face, since he turned his head to face him. 

It was all very cliche in this sense. 

A romantic scene directed and scripted and cast.

Except the love interests were him and Peter.

Peter kissed him first. That’s all he can clearly recall, the seconds prior being a blur of ‘is this actually happening’ to ‘it’s actually happening, do something’.

Finally the cognitive gears in his brain rekindle their function, and his lips are moving against Peter’s. He’s so warm and soft, he tastes like cinnamon sugar. 

Peter’s hands are grounding against his chest, holding him to reality, in any other case he would’ve drifted off somewhere because he has to be dreaming.

But this is real. And Peter’s real.

And, oh no. 

Tony gently pulls away from Peter’s grasp, and takes a breath. And Peter’s got this smile on his face like he won the grand prize at a carnival game.

“Peter- I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. This is not going to happen.”

The smile falls faster on Peter’s face than the pit in his stomach.

There’s something hurt and cold in his eyes. The warmth is gone, and the guilt gnaws at Tony as he flees the Parker residence. 

~

It’s been two weeks since the Rocky Horror incident. 

Peter’s texted, and called. He believes he’s got Anthony all figured out. 

To be truthful he does. 

He had called Anthony out on his behavior six days ago, and hasn’t sent another message since.

Peter left a voicemail stating that Anthony wasn’t going to let himself enjoy something without finding an excuse for why he can’t. Peter wants this, and Anthony wants this, then that is all that matters. He is going to be filming at this location for the next two weeks, he can make his peace by showing up or not.

Tony stared at the message for ten minutes before Morgan told him to go get Peter.

She knew.

She always knows.

~

When Tony saw Peter again he was rushing past people ushering him to stop.

But Tony was on a mission, he felt like one of his main characters in the final leg of the movie, finally making it out alive, and this was the final call, where he would live to the credits, or the antagonist would leave no survivors. 

Peter was beautiful.

Even if he did look like Prom Queen Carrie at the moment. 

His hands and clothes were covered in fake blood, helping arrange the set to a T.

When Peter looked up at him, he knew he would make it to the credits.

His boy ran at him and swallowed him in his warmth. 

It was a pining, longing, and apologetic kiss, with bloody hands cradling Tony’s face.

“You’re dumb, and you hurt my feelings Anthony.” Peter whispered as he pulled away. 

“I’m sorry.” He replies, his eyes watery, insecurity wrung out like a rag, he wanted Peter and Peter wanted him. He chanted it a million times into the crook of Peter’s neck, just holding him. 

Peter pulled away and held him by his shoulders “It’s okay Anthony.”

He smiled that big beautiful warm smile of his, and pushed him away.

“Now. Get off my set. I’ll see you at nine, bring Morgan, they’re playing Psycho tonight.”

[theyearoftheking]

Book Forty-Three: Storm of the Century

“Now I know how easy it is to just get... yanked out of the world. I wish I didn’t, but I do...”

It’s been blisteringly, hot-as-balls here in Wisconsin for the past few weeks. It’s gotten to the point the heat is actually making me anxious in a, “Global warming is real, and going to kill us all...” kind of way. To be clear, the recent heat hasn’t just convinced me global warming is a threat. I’m a woman of science. A woman of science who composts and celebrated the fact we’re officially out of plastic grocery bags (we use them for cat litter disposal); and hopefully will never see another one again. Wow. That was quite the overshare. I swear to God, my life is more than celebrating the fact I can now scoop cat poop into paper bags. 

Ok, that didn’t help. I’m just going to stop now. 

Back to the heat... I’m not going to lie, reading Storm of the Century had me fantasizing about a cold, snowy blizzard. Which, thanks to quarantine, I won’t have to leave the house to go drive in. I kinda hope this whole social distancing thing will extend through March, so I can live in Uggs and leggings all winter long, drink lots of tea, and continue to binge watch Cold Case Files with my daughter. A girl can only dream... 

In the introduction, Steve talks about how he wanted to try his hand at a screenplay, and a jailhouse image wouldn’t leave him alone: “...that of a man...sitting on the bunk in his cell, heels drawn up, arms resting on knees, eyes unblinking. This was not a gentle man, or a good man... this was an extremely evil man. Maybe not a man at all.” 

I have to give Steve credit for trying a new format, and I thought he was successful. I fully anticipated reading a dry screenplay, full of director’s notes. But instead it was a vividly descriptive screenplay, with plenty of Steve’s humor and snark throughout. For example, “He bends out of the frame, and we hear the SOUND OF VOMITING. (Sort of like the SOUND OF MUSIC, only louder.” and then later on, “He gestures to the girl, who is (pardon the pun) just about CATatonic.” The girl in question, her name is Cat. Groan. But also kind of snort-laugh. 

There were also plenty of references to Steve’s universe:

The story is set on Little Tall Island (the former home of Dolores Claiborne)

“There hasn’t been a murder on this island for almost seventy years... unless you counted Dolores Claiborne’s husband, Joe, and that was never proved.” 

“Crawl out of the sewer” (It)

“A friendly, grinning, Saint Bernard” (Cujo)

Storm of the Century takes place seventy years after Dolores Claiborne killed her husband. Little Tall Island is bracing themselves for... you guessed it... the snow storm of the century. People are stocking up on groceries, getting the town hall ready in case the island loses power, and picking their babies up from daycare. 

While all this hustle and bustle is going on, Andre Linoge bludgeons Martha Clarendon to death with his cane (black, with a silver wolf’s head on the top); while whistling “I’m a little teapot”. 

Local kid Davey Hopewell is walking home when he stumbles across the crime scene, and immediately alerts the police. When Constable Mike Anderson arrives on the scene, he finds Linoge calmly waiting to be arrested. Creepy. Of course a murder happens just as a massive snowstorm is starting, and he can’t contact the authorities on the mainland. 

Mike tries to get Linoge into the jail, but the door won’t budge. So, he needs to parade him inside the grocery store, to get to the attached jail. While in the grocery store, Linoge locks eyes with a few townsfolk, and spills some dangerous secrets. He seems particularly fascinated with Mike’s son Ralphie. Mike eventually gets him locked in a jail cell, and calls on teams of men to guard the cell. 

All hell breaks loose. 

Linoge has the ability to visualize a crime from his cell, and have unwilling participants commit it. For example, he has one woman bludgeon her boyfriend to death, and he has one of his guards hang himself. And he keeps leaving little notes everywhere, “Give me what I want, and I’ll go away!” 

What Linoge wants is one of the town’s children. He puts them all into a deep sleep, and makes the parents pick which one of the eight children will leave with him. If they can’t decide, or decide not to give him a child, he’s going to kill all the kids. Mike is the only parent that strongly objects to this, but the town (and his wife Molly) quickly overrule him. The parents all pick a stone out of a sack, and whichever parent picks the black stone, loses their child. Of course Molly picks it, and Ralphie leaves with Linoge. 

Mike is understandably heartbroken, and leaves Molly and Little Tall Island for San Francisco. One day he’s out getting groceries, and sees an older man and a teenage boy walking down the street singing, “I’m a little teapot.” He’s convinced it’s Ralphie. He chases after them, and Ralphie turns around and snarls, showing him his fangs. Mike decides to leave well enough alone. 

And that’s pretty much where the book ends. It was an annoying, and frustrating end: I hate it when the good guys get screwed over without any silver lining. But there was a rather prophetic moment in the book. Mike tells some of the local townspeople, “You know the story about Job? In the Bible? Well, here’s the part that never got written down. After the contest for Job’s soul is over and God wins, Job gets down on his knees and says, “Why did you do this to me, God? All my life, I worshiped You, but You destroyed my livestock, blighted my crops, killed my wife and my children, and gave me a hundred horrible diseases...all because You had a bet going with the devil? Well, okay... but what I want to know, Lord- all your humble servant wants to know is- Why me? So he waits, and just when he’s about made up his mind God isn’t going to answer, a thunderhead forms in the sky, and lightning flashes, and this voice calls down, “Job! I guess there’s just something about you that pisses me off!” 

Well, I guess there’s just something about Mike Anderson that pisses God off too. 

Overall, I thought the book was good. There were a few loose threads for me: what exactly IS Linoge? Is he a monster like Pennywise, or a villain like Leland Gaunt? Lots of fan sites claim he might be Randall Flagg. And what’s up with the word “Coratan?” That was never really teased out. I also feel like three quarters of the screen play was the lead up, the end felt kind of rushed and unsatisfying. But all in all, it was a quick, fun read. And now I need to watch the television series. 

Speaking of television series... there was a character I thought was named Fred Andrews... which made me sniffle, thinking of Luke Perry in Riverdale. 

You can imagine how dumb I felt when I realized his name was FERD and not Fred. Selective dyslexia strikes again. 

Total Wisconsin Mentions: 28

Total Dark Tower References: 39

Book Grade: B-

Rebecca’s Definitive Ranking of Stephen King Books

The Talisman: A+

Wizard and Glass: A+

Needful Things: A+

The Green Mile: A+

Rose Madder: A+

Misery: A+

Different Seasons: A+

It: A+

Four Past Midnight: A+

The Shining: A-

The Stand: A-

Bag of Bones: A-

The Wastelands: A-

The Drawing of the Three: A-

Dolores Claiborne: A-

Nightmares in the Sky: B+

The Dark Half: B+

Skeleton Crew: B+

The Dead Zone: B+

Nightmares & Dreamscapes: B+

‘Salem’s Lot: B+

Carrie: B+

Creepshow: B+

Storm of the Century: B-

Cycle of the Werewolf: B-

Danse Macabre: B-

The Running Man: C+

Thinner: C+

Dark Visions: C+

The Eyes of the Dragon: C+

The Long Walk: C+

The Gunslinger: C+

Pet Sematary: C+

Firestarter: C+

Rage: C

Desperation: C-

Insomnia: C-

Cujo: C-

Nightshift: C-

Gerald’s Game: D

Roadwork: D

Christine: D

The Tommyknockers: D-

Next up... ugh... I put it off long enough. It’s time to come back to the twisted world of the long-deceased Richard Bachman. It’s time for Regulators. Mount up!

Until next time, Long Days & Pleasant Nights,

Rebecca

[cam-rowe]

Camille Rowe: « I would have loved to act in Kill Bill »

« Clara Bow... Why do I have Clara Bow’s name in my head when I think about Camille Rowe ? » The author and journalist, Simon Liberati, tells us the story of how he met the French-American actress and model, Camille Rowe.

Because I’m an old man, and because of age, I mix up pre-war actress with today’s It girls. One hundred years later, no one knows the name of Clara Bow, the first it girl (the name was invented for her). Blonde with big blue eyes, she was the queen of Hollywood, she shared lovers with her enemy Marion Davies, the other blonde with big blue eyes, mistress of Randolph Hearst and a castle on the side of Lower Topanga, the Spiral Staircase where the Manson family lived. I think of those girls because Camille Rowe reminds me of Tarantino, she should film with him, it would suit her. 

In the meantime, Camille Rowe has just played a role in a choral film inspired by the work of Anna Gavalda: ‘I wish someone was waiting for me somewhere (j’aimerai que quelqu’un m’attende quelque part).’ A movie by Arnaud Viard, with Jean-Paul Rouve and Alice Taglioni. An hour and half long feature film. It’s a very moving film where you can see her with a beanie, red nose and wet eyes because she cries a lot. Some directors are really into giving roles of morose girls who are not really boring, but «Annagavaldian » which mean not really funny to models and it girls. 

I remember Abel Ferrara’s movie, ‘The Blackout’ where the poor Claudia Schiffer gave the line to Beatrice Dalle in a psycho-rigid version. At the time an article from France Dimanche or d’ici Paris kind of cruelly recounted Claudia’s troubles with Abel. 

I don't think the shooting of Arnaud Viard was that chaotic. Camille Rowe plays the role of Jean-Paul Rouve’s little sister, a frustrated theatre actor who became a wine merchant and soon committed suicide, who pays her, her fantasies of art photography. He lends her 10.000€ so she can do her project of the moment with Diane Arbus (she likes deformed people) all in Dijon. Then Jean-Paul Rouve dies of love for Elsa Zylleberstein (an actress who have cancer) and then Camille finds herself crying for a good forty minutes with the rest of the family (choral). 

When I was able to reach Camille Rowe on her cell phone while she was shooting with Jen Eymere for the cover of L'Officiel, the first question I was dying to ask her was: "What were you thinking about that was so sad that you could cry for 40 minutes over Jean-Paul Rouve's death?" "As it is a... melodrama, we often kept the first takes. So it wasn't hours of tears a day either. I was thinking about a traumatic event that happened to me, so I kept the after-effects long after the three weeks of shooting [sinister laugh]. I promised myself I'd never do it again. The worst thing is that in my life I'm the kind of person who cries easily..." 

Yet Camille Chrystal Pourcheresse, better known as Camille Rowe, is a French- American model and actress born on January 7, 1990. She is 30 years old. The beautiful age... Daughter of a prosperous restaurateur, she had, according to Wikipedia, a happy childhood "in a favoured district of the capital". When I went to look for her photos on the Internet, I told myself that I knew her face. Magnificent blue eyes spread apart, huge mouth, curious nose a bit too big, a bit wet, a bit charming (like Anatole France) sublime breasts, thin thighs... Californian style. Hair beach blond surf and warm sand... I know this face maybe from the Baron or Montana, from a Purple dinner or from the Cora cafeteria in Soissons (where I live), I didn't dare to ask her... When L'Officiel commissioned the portrait I'm trying to write, I didn't really feel like it, I was in a deplorable mood, retyping a book that was already more or less a failure, Prayers Answered, whose title I stole from Truman Capote who in exchange sent me a spell, but I always tell myself that things come from encounters, even furtive ones, ordered with a frame... a 10- minute interview on the phone can get me out of the slump. I'll call her at 1:00. 

The voice is really lovely. Not too charming, not manicured, not dragging, not grunge, but open ... She tells me that she's walking down the street to go to the shooting and I already regret having had the laziness to walk a hundred kilometres in traffic jams to meet her. I've heard many voices in sixty years, few so open... Nothing to do with the idea I had of her, coming from a mix of Wikipedia, articles by Elle and photographs by Terry Richardson where she was sticking her tongue out in an old Purple from ten years ago. I also have a 2018 César box set with ‘Rock'n'roll’ by Guillaume Canet but I have to admit that I forgot the content of this film except that Marion Cotillard is trying to learn the Canadian accent. Hence my second question ... I read (in Glamour? in Elle? in the UGC press kit?) that Camille Rowe had a hard time losing her French-American accent to play a choral film. 

the banks of the Saône. It's true that we can't imagine Jean-Paul Rouve's sister speaking with the accent of Laurel Canyon and Linda Hardy.

- “It's not a question of accent but of intonation. It comes out when I'm speaking in a group, when I'm expressing emotions... At first, it didn't really fit with Dijon.” 

- “I can assure you that you can't hear anything...”

- “Thank you [happy laugh], that means I've done a good job so.”

 - “Did you like Dijon?”

 - “Yes, I loved it. There's a lot of wineries there. My boyfriend and I went for a walk and tasted some good wines.”

It's true that she doesn't look like she's sucking ice cream. Not a drunk, no... but a well-to-do person, as they say in the press. The blur in the eyes, the wet nose and the infectious laughter can make you think that... Kind of like Romy Schneider. The comparison is not infamous. Clara Bow didn't spit on a drink either... The stupid question now that I've stolen from an old issue of Miss Tender-Aged... 

- “Camille, ideally, what role would you have liked to play in the cinema?” 

- “The movie I really would have liked to play in is Kill Bill.”

I was right to think of Tarantino, Camille Rowe has a Margot Robbie side to her as Sharon Tate... Something joyful, Californian, uncomplicated and a little attracted by evil at the same time... 

- “In the film, you photograph deformed people. In life are you a fan of Diane Arbus?” 

- “As for art, I prefer painting. I am not a fan of photography. On the other hand, I like horror films... Otherwise, I'm quite interested in serial killers...”

An opening? I don't believe it. I read (on Wikipedia?) that she likes old David Cronenberg... So we quote some movies... If I had come instead of phoning her, I could have told her that I spent several evenings with Cronenberg in Geneva in November (his daughter is a photographer too) and that he has a great sound system on his iPhone that allows him to listen to or zap people depending on whether they are sitting in front of him, on the left or on the right... 

- “You'll never guess what they're doing to my makeup while I'm talking to you... They're scraping scabs off my nose.”

That girl is really charming... Rowe power... Only good-looking people talk about this kind of stuff. 

- “Do you have plans?”

- “Yes, a Canadian sci-fi film... And an English film...”

- “Your first role? - When I was 12 at school in Edmond Rostand's Chantecler, I played a chicken... A mean chicken. I liked that [sinister laugh].”

Rowe-power got a magic touch. 

-

(CREDIT FOR TRANSLATION: kareninapetrova)

[forever-more-never-again]

Level Nine (A Request)

Requested: @rororo06

Word Count: 1471

Pairing: Reader X Bucky

Warnings: Violence, Torture mentioned

Request:  Can you do a bucky x reader where the reader is a really well known high clearance agent.

Masterlist

Your breath came in soft pants as you crouched behind a boulder. The constant ringing and echoes of bullets ricocheting around you.

“[Y/n]! It was a setup! Get out of there!” Agent Maria shouted in your ear.

You gritted your teeth and tighten your hold on your pistol, a simple intel retrieval mission now a matter of life and death.

But they didn’t call you the Shadow Viper for nothing.

“I’ve got this Maria. Have one of the others set off a blast at forty five degrees west and get them out of here.”

Maria knew better than to continue to fight you on your decision to see the mission through.

Taking a calming breath, you watched a cloud of dust bloom in the distance followed by a resounding boom.

Shouts in German and then you saw the moment you wanted. A clear shot into the underground bunker as the Hydra soldiers ran to the explosion.

Keeping low to the ground and the shadows, you ran towards the open tunnel.

Pistol held to your waist, you slunk around the dark corners, the smell of dust and mold filling your senses as your eyes tracked any hint of movement.

After a few minutes, you reached the control center. You internally smirked at the single lone guard sitting in front of a few monitors.

It was child’s play to sneak up behind him and pistol whip him unconscious.

Pushing the limp body out of the chair, you slid in and began typing and scrolling through the monitors, trying to find what you needed before the soldiers came back from the diversion.

“Where are you?” You muttered under your breath. Eyes stopping and fingers shaking when you stopped on the image you wanted.

A sterile white room. Nothing inside of it. Except for two things. A cryo chamber and an electrocution chair.

“So they do have a plan.” Your heart began pounding, blood pumping in your ears.

Images of Bucky strapped to the chair, screaming out for someone to save him. Ice encasing his face, freezing him for ages. It washed over you in rage.

Standing abruptly, keeping in mind the room number, you ran.

A haze settled over your vision. And that was dangerous for anyone that crossed your path.

No hesitation was in your movements as you headshot the soldiers in your way. Feet pounding on the cement.

And then you were at the door.

Reaching into one of your pouches on your suit, you withdrew a grenade.

Pulling the pin, you threw it into the room and sprinted.

Outside, the biting German wind was howling more than before.

Soldiers shouted as they saw your shadow, bullets coming so close, you could feel the slight breeze and almost taste the gunpowder as they sailed over and behind you.

And then the bunker let out a rumble and began to fold within itself as it lost its stability and integrity.

Tapping your communication in your ear, you reported, “Maria. I need immediate evacuation. Have the Jet meet me in Five right where the drop site was.”

Maria sighed, and you could imagine the tired, yet pleased expression that was probably on her face, “Got that Shadow Viper.” There was a moment of hesitation, and then in a softer tone, Maria continued, “And [Y/n]...James found out about the mission. You’re going to want to talk to him when you get back to the tower.”

You cursed under your breath.

Your relationship with Bucky, the previously known Hydra asset The Winter Soldier, was a highly controversial and secret topic within Shield and the Avengers. Being a level Nine Clearance Shield Agent was already tricky enough since the only other known was Maria Hill.

Being in a relationship with the Winter Soldier had some of the field agents and directors questioning your trust and ability to put a mission first.

The ride back to the Avenger tower was silent as you replayed the mission and how Bucky would take the information.

You hadn’t wanted him to find out that you had been sent on an intel mission to find out if the information that Shield had received, that Hydra was gathering resources and the old machinery, to capture him back and restart the project Winter Soldier.

Even though it had been a couple years since Bucky had broken free from their conditioning and the genius teenager in Wakanda removed the trigger words, You knew, from late night pillow talks, that Bucky still held immense amounts of guilt and fear that he would return back to the mindless killing machine that Hydra had created him to be.

Walking into one of the meeting rooms on the top levels of the tower, an intern left to gather Maria and let her know you returned.

“[Y/n]....”

Taking a calming breath, you turned from the windows that you had been staring out of, to stare into the eyes of liquid honey.

Bucky stood in the doorway. His body tense. His mouth set in a frown and his metal arm fidgeting as if he wanted to hide it.

All the signs that he was agitated and upset.

Walking up to him, you kept a few feet between you. Silence filled the room. Thick and oppressive.

With a sigh, you decided to be the first to break it, “Listen Bucky-”

He cut you off. Now that the silence had been broken, it was like a switch turned on his voice, filled with hints of distrust and anger, his golden eyes flashed down at you, “What were you thinking [Y/n]!? And hiding it from me? I had to find out when an agent joked about my girlfriend following in my footsteps!”

You scowled at that, you made a mental note to get that agent’s name and get him blacklisted from Shield.

Wiping that thought aside, you looked at Bucky and kept your voice calm, “This is exactly why I didn’t want you to find out. You’d blame yourself or think the worst and worry. But see!” You raised your arms to your side and did a quick twirl, “I’m fine! I’m not a level nine clearance agent for nothing you know!” You huffed, crossing your arms.

Just because you were a woman. You and Maria both had to deal with prejudice.

Bucky snorted and rolled his eyes, “I don’t think your weak or anything. Jesus, [Y/n], you should know me better than that by now!”

You breathed in deeply through your nose and close your eyes for a moment, “Your right. I’m sorry James.”

You shivered when metal touches your arm.

Looking over, you saw Bucky’s metal arm resting on your arm. Raising your eyes to his, you saw the worry that had been buried under anger and irritation.

In one movement, you were huddled within his arms.

His heart thundered in his chest as his voice grew low and gravely, his emotions leaking out, “I was so scared that they would capture you. That I wouldn’t even know because I didn’t know you were on a mission. Even though I know you're capable and skilled. Hydra...if they really want to restart the Winter Soldier program, then they are dangerous and if they had you...if they had hurt you…”

His words trailed off, as he drew in a shuddering breath.

You cupped his cheek in your hand, drawing his gaze back to yours, “James...Bucky...I’m safe. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere and I’m not going to let Hydra get their hands on you either. I won’t keep secrets from you anymore. I love you.”

Bucky’s golden eyes searched yours and found whatever he was looking for, because he leaned down and captured your lips with his.

Rough and rushed, the heady scent of wood and oil filled you as your hands snaked up to tangle within his brown locks.

His hands slid down your back and pulled you closer to him, making you gasp out.

He took advantage of your open mouth and began to map the inside with his tongue.

A dramatic cough drew the two of you apart. Flushed and embarrassed to be caught like horny teenagers, you saw Maria smirking behind Bucky.

“Are you done?” She asked, mirth in her tone.

Scowling at her for a moment, you turned your attention back to Bucky and smiled softly at him.

Grabbing his normal hand, you whispered, “I’ll see you tonight?”

He smiled back and squeezed your hand, “Absolutely Doll. And I love you too.”

And with that he walked out of the room, nodding politely to Maria on his way out.

Maria raised an eyebrow at you, smirking still, “So...Will there be makeup sex?”

Your hand rose up and smacked her chest as you laughed, “Oh my god! Maria!”

FOREVER Taglist:

@sxph-t @mialeelavellan @rainydaysrnevergrey  @platonic-plots @sociallyawkwardcircus-freak-hi @ayyidkeither @queenbbarnes @mythixmagic @chas-z @thefridgeismybestie @strangersstranger @princess-evans-addict

Bucky Taglist:

@evyiione

Avengers Taglist:

@jadepc @marvel-is-a-mood

[mendelpalace]

GamePro’s SNES Criterion Collection

Back in 2011, the now-defunct GamePro published a piece including Criterion Collection-style covers for a handful of SNES titles, along with descriptions of the hypothetical bonus materials that would come with such deluxe rereleases. Though the cover images are still floating around online, a bunch of the descriptions are probably lost, including those for games like Street Fighter II, Donkey Kong Country, U.N. Squadron, Desert Strike, and Chrono Trigger. 

A few can still be accessed via the Wayback Machine though, so I decided to repost the ones I can still get to:

An old enemy brings bounty hunter Samus Aran back to Zebes, where she discovers that the Space Pirate threat is greater than ever -- and thus begins one of the most evocative games ever made. Thanks to its simple but powerful storytelling; outstanding soundtrack; and massive, lonely world, Super Metroid, created by Nintendo's well-known R&D1; team, is a masterpiece of design that has come to represent the Super Nintendo at its pinnacle.

SPECIAL EDITION DOUBLE-DISC SET FEATURES

DISC ONE

All-new 16:9 transfer optimized for high-definition televisions

Video introduction by writer/director Yoshio Sakamoto

Two Interactive Audio Commentaries: one by Yoshio Sakamoto, Satoru Iwata, and Shigeru Miyamoto; and one by producer Makoto Kano

New Leaderboards: Test your sequence-breaking skills against the best speedrunners in the world

DISC TWO

Return to Zebes (2011): A 90-minute feature documentary on the making of the game

From Zebes to the Bottle Ship (2011): A 30 minute documentary about the history of the Metroid franchise

Deep Red: Scenes from the film that helped to inspire Super Metroid

Sequence Breaking: Noted speedrunners offer a guided tour of sequence breaking in Super Metroid

Into Tourian Base: An interactive map of Zebes with developer commentary and notes

Play the complete, original Metroid for the NES

Illustrated production history with rare behind-the-scenes photos, original press kit, and the U.S., European, and Japanese trailers

PLUS: Complete OST featuring original and remastered tracks from Super Metroid

A party of four child prodigies must band together to fend off a mysterious, malevolent alien force in this cult-classic role-playing game, scripted by influential Japanese copywriter and author, Shigesato Itoi. Ness, Paula, Jeff, and Poo embark on a fantastic adventure that spans a quirky, contemporary world, with a charming sense of lighthearted humor that shines through to the engrossing story’s awe-inspiring ending.

SPECIAL EDITION DOUBLE-DISC SET FEATURES

DISC ONE

Fully animated opening and ending cinematics from Studio Ghibli.

In-game commentary from director/producer/writer Shigesato Itoi, designer Akihiko Miura, and composers Keiichi Suzuki and Hirokazu Tanaka.

Live recording of the “Earthbound Orchestral Experience.”

Excerpts from the new translation of Saori Kumi’s Earthbound novelization, read by the author.

DISC TWO

The Man that Fell to Earthbound – Retrospective Q&A; with Shigesato Itoi about Earthbound’s critical and commercial reception.

It Hurts -- documentary feature chronicling the troubled production of Earthbound 64.

Outgrowing Onett - A short film from director Mamoru Hosoda (The Girl Who Leapt Through Time, Summer Wars) that bridges the gap between Earthbound and Mother 3.

Brand new trailer of “Mother 3DS,” the highly anticipated, “definitive” edition of Mother 3.

All-new localization effort overseen by acclaimed director and screenwriter Brad Bird (The Incredibles, The Iron Giant).

Complete HD reimagining of the original Mother.

PLUS: Concept art gallery, and interviews with the game’s development staff.

In a galaxy far, far away, join Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, Princess Leia, Chewbacca, and even Wicket the Ewok as they wage intergalactic war against the evil Empire and the sinister Sith lord, Darth Vader. In this ultimate HD edition of Super Star Wars trilogy, you’ll experience the entire saga, including racing a landspeeder through Tatooine’s wastelands in A New Hope, battling colossal AT-ATs storming Hoth’s rebel base in The Empire Strikes Back, flying the Millennium Falcon through the Death Star’s core in Return of the Jedi, and many more memorable adventures from the classic sci-fi trilogy.

SPECIAL EDITION DOUBLE-DISC SET FEATURES DISC ONE

All three Super Nintendo classics in their original form: Super Star Wars, Super Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back, and Super Star Wars: Return of the Jedi.

Remastered 16-bit visuals and crystal clear audio optimized for high-definition televisions.

New inventory management menu allows you to hang on to your weapons and powerups through all three games.

Save system lets you save your progress at any time.

New beginner-friendly “Apprentice Mode” eases newcomers into some of the most challenging Super NES games ever mad

DISC TWO

Deleted Levels: Two new playable missions previously cut from the games including R2-D2’s battle through Jabba’s palace.

A History of Sculpted Software: A 15-minute documentary chronicling the developer’s daunting task of reenvisioning George Lucas’ epic science-fiction series for the Super Nintendo.

From Giant Scorpions to Frog Dogs: An all-new 10 minute documentary examining the genesis of Super Star Wars trilogy’s most bizarre enemies.

Digital Strategy Guides: Digital versions of the original strategy guides to help you master what are considered some of the toughest video games on the Super NES.

Ladies and gentlemen: Start your engines, and prepare to challenge some of Nintendo’s most famous gaming characters in a high-speed battle of skill, wits...and luck! A huge critical and commercial success, Super Mario Kart is a seminal race-combat game from the 16-bit heyday of the early 90s that is so well loved, it continues to rank highly on “Best Game Ever” lists almost 20 years since its first release. Its key to success is its finely tuned, beautifully balanced multiplayer battle system that feels as fresh and fun as it did nearly two decades ago. Now’s your chance to rediscover the multiplayer magic of one of the best Super Nintendo games in three different forms, including an all-new Director's Cut!

SPECIAL EDITION DOUBLE-DISC SET FEATURES

DISC ONE

Director’s Cut: Featuring all-new polygonal graphics, the characters and courses are completely reimagined for a stunning, cutting-edge visual experience.

Enhanced Edition: A digitally remastered 16-bit version, with 1080p sprite-graphics taken from the original release, and authentic original gameplay

The First Cut: The completely untouched original version of the 1992 Super Nintendo release

Battle On!: Watch as the game’s original creators challenge one another in multiplayer combat and talk about their favorite weapons and characters

The Kart Legacy: A documentary on the legacy of Super Mario Kart, its numerous sequels and ports through the generations, and how it spawned an entirely new genre of racing games.

DISC TWO

Beyond F-Zero. The Making of a Two-player Racer: An in-depth interview with creator Shigeru Miyamoto about Super Mario Kart’s multiplayer design philosophies.

Unlocking Mode 7: Tadashi Sugiyama and Hideki Konno talk about the technical aspects of using Super Nintendo’s Mode 7 to deliver a great gaming experience.

Digitally remastered music by composer Soyo Oka

Bios and gameography of each Super Mario Kart character: Mario, Luigi, Princess Peach, Yoshi, Bowser, Donkey Kong Jr., Koopa Troopa, and Toad.

Cities are living, breathing things -- just as much as the inhabitants that walk their streets -- and nowhere is this more apparent than in Will Wright's masterpiece. Providing one of the earliest examples of free-form emergent gameplay, Sim City for the Super Nintendo is a seminal work, grounded in reality but limited only by the player's imagination.

SPECIAL EDITION DOUBLE-DISC SET FEATURES

DISC ONE

Two editions of the game: The original Super NES classic and SimCity+, a specially optimized widescreen edition for modern high-definition televisions.

Social Play: Connect your cities to those of your friends around the world.

Video introduction by Will Wright and Jeff Braun.

Fully voiced tutorial and advice featuring Nolan North as the voice of Dr. Wright.

DISC TWO

Af Wubbas Do (2011): A 60-minute feature documentary chronicling the history of the entire Sim series, from City through Copter to The Sims.

Urban Canvas (2011): A 30-minute exposé of the radical computer artists who use the SimCity series' landscaping and planning tools to produce works of visual art.

The Full, Uncut Raid on Bungeling Bay for Commodore 64: The game that inspired SimCity's creation.

Interactive gallery of real-life cities modeled in the game.

Original press materials and trailers.

Digital copy of "Street Music," an album featuring music from and inspired by the series.

Years ahead of its time, Actraiser was one of the most loved games released on the Super Nintendo Entertainment System. Genre-bending civilization-building simulation with side-scrolling action, the game didn’t continue as a decades-long franchise like some of its other contemporaries, but it was never forgotten. Stepping into the omnipotent shoes of “The Master” to save the land and its people from the evil Tanzra and his six lieutenants is not only many gamers’ first memory of playing a “god game,” for some it is also their fondest memory from the entire 16-bit era.

SPECIAL EDITION DOUBLE-DISC SET FEATURES

DISC ONE

All-new 16:9 remastered transfer optimized for high-definition televisions

Switch between the original 2D art assets and the all-new polygonal art with the push of a button.

Video introduction by director Masaya Hashimoto and writer Tomoyoshi Miyazaki.

Audio commentary track with the game’s designers.

DISC TWO

“The Creation Story” (2011), a forty-minute short documentary on the development of the game.

“Lightning in a Bottle” (2011), a roundtable discussion with Masaya Hashimoto, Tomoyoshi Miyazaki and Peter Molyneux about ActRaiser’s influence on game development and the “god games” genre.

The complete Yuzo Koshiro soundtrack performed by the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra.

An interactive gallery of over 100 never before seen sketches, concept art, and other design documents.

All that stands between a world’s freedom and its conquest by a ruthless tyrant is the intrepid pilot Fox McCloud and his dauntless friends of the Star Fox Team. Featuring the groundbreaking technology of the Super FX chip, Star Fox brought Nintendo into the world of 3D computer graphics. And flying through the sky and in space in the Arwing starship is perhaps the best way for Nintendo to bring polygons to its consoles.

SPECIAL EDITION DOUBLE-DISC SET FEATURES DISC ONE

Remastered audio and visuals, featuring Dolby Digital EX surround sound and a 16:7, HD presentation. Game’s original 1992 audio and visuals are also on the disc.

Two audio commentaries: One from the game’s executive producer, Hiroshi Yamauchi, and producer, Shigeru Miyamoto, and another with commentary from the point of view of Andross, the game’s villain.

Updated motion-comic version of the original Star Fox comic that ran in Nintendo Power from February 1993 to December 1993.

DISC TWO

“Defenders of Corneria”: a 90-minute documentary on the making of the original Star Fox.

“Fox Through the Ages”: A look at how Fox McCloud and the series has changed since their 1992 inception.

“Arwing Declassified”: A collection of other designs considered and rejected for the iconic Arwing starship.

“The Art of Star Fox”: Images of Fox McCloud, the Star Fox Team, and the memorable worlds from the franchise.

Original promotional ads from Japan, Europe, and North America.

PLUS: The Complete Original soundtrack.

[rivalsofnycupdates]

“Trust can take years to build, but only a second to break.”

■ ABOUT. ■  

name: Margot Yang age: forty-eight occupation: Porn Producer at Sweet Kiss Studios gender: cis-female pronouns: she/her sexuality: utp

■ HISTORY. ■ (tw: abuse)

Margot wasn’t always the confident and strong woman she is today. In her youth, she was a shy, and reserved girl who believed in fairytales. She would often daydream of growing old with a husband and a beautiful child. It was a dream she’d wanted for a long time and a dream that had come true. She met a man through a friend, and she adored him from the first day they met. She without a doubt fell head over heels for him. They married and had a beautiful daughter, and if someone who didn’t know their relationship, would say that she’s living the life she’d dreamed of as a kid. Though her life didn’t turn out the way she’d imagined. While her husband was a great man, and a good father, his only flaw was his anger and his way of managing it often meant using her as a punching bag when his anger got out of control. She justified the first few times, though after it happened more than she could count on one hand. She promised herself and threatened to leave him. Though her daughter was young and she didn’t want her growing up without a dad.

She stayed by his side for years until one day she struck back, though what she fought as self-defence, the judge ruled against her and she was charged with battery and six years in prison. Six years in a women’s prison wasn’t part of the dream she’d set for herself. The starting of her sentence was rough. She tried to keep to herself and stay out of trouble though that was always easier said than done. A few months into her sentence, she understood how to survive. She learned the proper politics of the ward, learned the moves she needed to do, she made friends with the right people, and in her case, she’d partnered with a very powerful woman by the name of Mila Torres who had lots of connections. She was a prime member of the Quantum of Devils gang in Texas and despite living out of state it was a gang Margot had read about in the paper. At the age of thirty-four, she was released from prison. Her daughter wasn’t allowed to see her since the devil man himself had sole custody and she was left with no one to pick her up when she was released. 

Margot knew she needed to start making money, though very few places hired ex-convicts. Margot had always wanted to earn a straight living in order to prove to the courts that she could be a responsible parent. Though that seemed to be much harder than she’d expected. She was desperate and ended up lying on her application for a business job. She was happy at first, though it all came crashing down when her employer found out. She was fired within two months of her new job, and with nowhere else to go, she decided to reach out to Mila. She never intended working in strip clubs, though it ended up being one of the only places that would hire her legitimately. The strip club life was amazing in her eyes, it provided an illusion of happiness, a dream-like state for incredibly horny customers. The more experience she gained from performing, the more interest she had with playing with the illusion. As she expressed more interest in potentially moving away from stripping, that’s when she was informed that the club had been expanding and they would be moving to New York. Margot took that opportunity to present the idea of pornography as another source of income. Garrett Miller wasn’t sure of the idea at first, though Margot worked her ass off, searching for the right people to help her build Sweet Kiss Studios to the production company it was today. 

■ WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON? ■

Margot ultimately owes her career and the life she has to Garrett Tubbs Miller. He continued to remind her of this. She didn’t have any intention of leaving the life she’d created though she was very much aware that one wrong move, might entice Garrett to take everything she’s worked hard for away from her. The move to New York was one she was excited for, for many reasons, she knew that her daughter had moved to the big city for school and hoped that maybe she could resume that relationship. 

■ KEEP THIS AWAY FROM YOUR ENEMIES ■

While working her ass off as a producer in an industry she loves, she’s been working mostly at making a name for herself and her art production. Her sole belief in the porn industry is that great porn makes for very little acting. It’s for that reason, she has a very unique and some might say unethical ways of choosing her actors. Of course, there’s an audition process, which is standard that most actors are familiar with. Although the callback is where things get interesting. When adding a new actor to her roster, she often shows the actors the studio, as she’s showing them around the studio, she becomes incredibly flirtatious and seduces her actors in order for her to see for herself just how good they are both in their abilities for acting and skill. Sometimes she’ll ask someone she trusts to do the tour and the seducing in a room that has a one-way mirror, for her to watch. She’s aware her methods are unethical, it’s for that reason she has each actor sign a non-disclosure agreement before the tour and of course, denies her method whenever asked.

■ RELATIONSHIPS. ■

■ Waylon Rushton: Margot met Waylon in the industry. In preparation for her studio’s big reveal, she knew she wanted to have movies not only for straight people though for all sexualities and with her belief in keeping things real; she needed an expert for homosexual movies.

■ Anthony Williams: Since the opening of her studio, she sees most of the Devils members hanging around drooling behind the class. Though there was one that carried a maturity while walking in. A man she’s often found herself in bed with during her free time.

■ Lucy Yang: Lucy was her pride and joy, and although she doesn’t have the relationship she once thought she’d have with her daughter, she’s hoping her return to New York could reunite them. 

■ CONNECTIONS. ■

■ Tamar Nicholls > Porn Director

■ Lincoln Nicholls > Porn Director

■ Mila Torres > Best Friend

Margot Yang is an OPEN character and is portrayed by Sandra Oh who’s FC IS SEMI NEGOTIABLE.

[something-fanfiction-ie]

On Set

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Warnings: You have a giant ass crush on Tom and he is blissfully unaware of it, also there is an argument but he is acting and it’s not with you. 

A/N: Okay, so it’s more of a blurb than anything, and I know it isn’t Daughters To Wed, but it’s more than I’ve been able to get out in a hot minute. I’m trying to get my creative juices flowing so that I can give you guys the best chapter two that I possibly can. As always, thank you all so much for your love and support! I love you very much and I hope you enjoy this little daydream I had at work the other day. 🤗

___

“Cut!” You glance up, red pen poised above the page and eyes catching the back of the director in front of you. 

Around you, all sorts of behind the scenes people are buzzing around with all sorts of things piled high in their arms. Leaning into the right arm of your chair, you watch Tom listen very intently to whatever the director is saying, looking very much the big movie star he is as makeup artists and hairstylists rush over to fix anything that needs fixing. 

“Alright everybody, let’s take that again.” Michael yells, waving an arm in the air. A hush falls over the set and everyone in the scene gets ready for another take. Tom walks back to his marker, rolling his shoulders back just before the cameras begin rolling again. 

“I’m just trying to do what is right, Blaire.” Tom sighs, easily falling back into character. He holds the back of a chair, staring into the eyes of his co-star, Liana Liberato. She lets out a half hearted laugh, running her hands through her hair and rolling her eyes. 

“Joining the army is not what is right, Knox!” Tom throws up his hands. 

Your eyes flicker down to the page, seeing the exact line Liana had just spoken. When you look up at Tom again, watching him play your character the way he felt was right, you realized that maybe he was more in tune with Knox than you. Striking a line through the sentence, you rewrite the paragraph based on Tom’s acting.

Knox rocks back onto his heels, his jaw tense as he stared across the table into Blaire’s watery eyes. In reality, they were only a few feet apart, but it felt like there was a giant chasm between them. He should feel sorry, he knows that, and maybe he will be sorry later, but for now, Knox was unforgiving and stubborn in his decision. 

“I won’t apologize for volunteering for something that I was going to be forced to do anyways.” Tom delivers the line in a way that sends goosebumps up your arms. He takes a step back and then shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. Liana follows with her line, but you’ve completely zoned out. The end of your red papermate pen sat on your bottom lip, your eyes trained on Tom for the rest of the scene. 

Anyone who saw you would know that you were hopelessly in love with the young actor. While you often entertained the crush with a silly day dream in your head, you knew that it would never be. 

Sure, Tom was awfully chummy with you the majority of the time, but you were fairly certain that Mr. Hot Young Marvel Star wasn’t interested in the unusually young author that liked to hang around set a lot. 

When the cast was finally released for a break, you couldn’t help the fluttering of your heart when you saw Tom make a bee line for your chair. 

Tom Holland in modern clothing was breath taking, but Tom Holland in vintage forties attire was a kink you never realized you had until you had seen it. His usually unruly curls had been gelled down, save for one curl that you couldn’t decide gave him more of a Sinatra or Elvis vibe. He wore a yellow and brown stripped button up, tucked into brown trousers, and saddle shoes. 

His smile was wide as he approached you, grabbing the left arm of your chair and peering down at the book in your lap. 

“I don’t know why you’re always editing, it’s already published and it’s fantastic.” You put your pen in between the pages and close the book, smoothing one hand over the cover. Even after all this time, you still couldn’t get over the feeling you got when you saw your name engraved into the front, just below the title. 

“Yes, Thomas?” You ignore his statement. This is a conversation the both of you have had many times before, but you didn’t really want to try and explain how none of your work never felt finished, that even published and bound in a hard cover, you still felt like it could be better. 

“How did I do?” You twist about in your chair, pretending to give him your full attention. Of course, you had already been doing that, but Tom needn’t know that. 

“Sweetheart, if I’ve told you once then I’ve told you a thousand times. You always do a phenomenal job of bringing Knox to life.” Somehow, his smile gets bigger. The corner of his eyes crinkle in delight and you want nothing more in that moment than to be a painter or photographer. 

You wish you could make a picture of that smile to carry around with you for the rest of your life, but all you would ever be able to do is write about it. You could imagine a character in your mind, putting him together with all the little things you loved about Tom. 

Like the way he smiled, all teeth and one eye crinkling a little more than the other. Or his smell, which was a combination of soap, fresh air, and Tessa. The character would definitely have Tom’s laugh, a laugh that warmed hypothermia victims to recovery and lit up whole rooms. Maybe that last bit was a little exaggerated, but that was definitely how his laugh sounded to you. 

“(Y/N)?” You jumped a little, falling through your cloud and landing back on earth. 

“I’m sorry, what did you say, Tom?” He chuckled and you made sure to add ‘heart warming’ to the list of descriptors you would use to describe him. 

“Never mind, I’m going to go grab a snack. Do you want anything?”

You.

“A water, please?” Tom nods, placing a hand on your shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze before  walking away. You sink a little into your chair, letting out a small sigh. 

Liana, who has been talking with the ever present, Harrison, gives you a knowingly amused smile. Harrison does the same when he sees what she is looking at, the both of them already aware of the major crush you harbor for the twenty-two year old heart throb currently raiding the snack table behind you. 

If Tom didn’t figure out how you felt by the end of filming, then you might have to add ‘utterly oblivious’ to the list as well.

___

Permanent Taglist: @embrace-themagic, @itsyaboyo, and @readeity

[maealbert]

Life in Perspective // The Liaison

NEW!

The Liaison Master List

A/N: It’s been a long time my loves! I’ve been so distracted with keeping up with Little Reid, 50 Ways, and starting Next Gen (despite the series not being over yet). I HOPE YOU ENJOY AFTER JUST A LONG HIATUS!

“Girls, let’s go!” Lucy calls up the stairs. “You can’t be late for your last day of school!”

“Hey, I got called in for a consult,” Spencer says rushing through the living room and packing his messenger bag. “Can you pick up Emily on your way into work? Her car is acting up again.”

“Yeah, I’ll get her.” Lucy says as she tosses on her jacket. “Girls! Let’s go!”

“Deep breaths,” Spencer says kissing her forehead. “You can’t stress yourself out.” He adds placing a hand on her stomach.

“Oye, I know.” Lucy says nodding her head.

“I have to go.” Spencer says. “I’ll see you at the office.”

The girls come bounding down the stairs, Jules was carrying Isaiah. “Come on now kids, we can’t be late. I still have to drop off Isaiah at the babysitter’s and pick up Emily for work.” She says ushering them out of the front door and out to the car.

_______

Knocking on the apartment door she waits for Emily to answer the door. But no answer had come. “Emily?” She says knocking on the door again. “Emily, are you awake?” Reaching for the doorknob she turns it and the door opens. “Emily?” Walking into the apartment she smells coffee. “Are you even ready for work?” Stepping into the kitchen she sees the coffee pot on the floor, coffee split across the tile. “Emily? What happened in here?” Lucy says as she picks up the coffee pot and sets it on the counter. She grabs the roll of paper towels and spreads them across the floor to soak up the coffee. “Alright, Emily. I know you get excited about coffee but don’t you think this was a little over the top?” Standing back up she sees Emily on the floor. “Emily!” She turns her over and feels her neck. A weak pulse. “Oh my gosh…” She fumbles for her phone and quickly dials her number.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Emily Prentiss, she’s forty-nine years old, she’s passed out, she’s got a weak pulse, I can’t hear her breathing.”

“Address?”

“4321 East J Street, apartment 89.”

“An ambulance is their way, stay with me on the phone until they get there. Have you done CPR yet?”

“No! My mind didn’t think about that!” Lucy says as she pulls her hair up into a ponytail and begins doing chest compressions.

“Do you how many--”

“130 compressions. I know how to do CPR, ma’am. I work for the FBI.” Lucy says as she breathes into Emily’s mouth before doing more compressions. She presses her ear to Emily’s chest and hears her breathing. “Oh thank god, she’s breathing.”

A knock comes on the door. “Paramedics.” A man calls.

“It’s unlocked!” Lucy calls. The door opens and two men come in dressed in blue uniforms.

“How long has she been down?”

“I don’t know, I just got here.” Lucy says as she moves out of their way.

“Did she hit her head?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see anything.” Tears filled Lucy’s eyes. “Is she going to be okay?”

“She’ll be just fine, ma’am.” One of the paramedics spoke as he placed an oxygen mask on Emily. “Are you family?”

“N-No,” Lucy stammers. “I’m her colleague. I came here to pick her up because I was her ride to work and I found her like this.”

“Okay, well we can’t let you ride in the ambulance because you aren’t family-”

“That’s okay,” Lucy says. “I have to make a few calls to let our team know what’s going on. I’ll follow behind.”

Lucy nods her head as she pulls out her phone before following behind the paramedics outside. “JJ! I need you to relay a message to the whole team. Emily and I won’t be at work.”

“Why? What’s going on?” JJ asks.

“Don’t freak out, she’s going to be fine,” Lucy says jumping into her car. “I came to pick up Emily for work and found her passed out on the floor. I don’t know what happened just yet, but when I find out I’ll be sure to fill you all in. Now, the team has a case. I’m not going to be able to join you guys, someone has stay with Emily. There’s a stack of files on my desk, Garcia knows what to do, but I’m asking you to be the liaison for me. I know you’ve done it a million times before and I seriously owe you double that--”

“Hey don’t worry, Garcia will fill us in on the case and I’ll handle the rest from there.” JJ says. “Just keep us updated on Emily.”

“I will,” Lucy says. “I gotta go.” She says before hanging up and turning on the lights and sirens she had in the SUV and following closely behind the ambulance.

______________

“Agent.” Lucy turns around, a fresh cup of coffee in her hands. A doctor stood behind her. “I’m sorry I’ve gotten to you so late. After finishing work on Agent Prentiss, I got called to the OR. I wanted to update you on her condition.”

“Of course.” Lucy says following the doctor to his office. “We got her stabilized but we put her in a medically induced coma so her body can recover.”

“So what happened?” Lucy says leaning closer to his desk.

“She suffered from a heart attack.”

“A heart---heart attack?”

“If you hadn’t found her when you did, she wouldn’t have made it.” The doctor sighs. “You saved her life.”

“When I can see her?”

“Now if you’d like.” The doctor says standing up from his desk. “I can take you to her room.”

“Thank you.”

_____________

“How is she doing?” JJ asks.

“They put her in a medically induced coma.” Lucy explains. “He said it’s supposed to help her body recover. He’s hoping she’ll be awake no later than tomorrow morning.”

She hears JJ sigh. “I can’t believe she had a heart attack.”

“A woman her age with a job like this is at risk to suffer one.” Lucy says as she walks over to the window. “I’m just glad Spencer could pick her up. I don’t know what mental state he’d be in right now if he’d been the one to find her.”

“Well take care of yourself too, alright? Stress isn’t good for the baby.” JJ says.

“Yeah, I know…” Lucy sighs. “I’ll keep you all updated.” She says before hanging up. Turning around she looks at Emily. Letting out a deep breath, she leans against the window. Seeing Emily’s hand twitch, she quickly walked over to the bed pulling the chair over to sit down. “Emily? Can you hear me?” Lucy grabs her hand. “If you can, squeeze my hand.” She waited a couple seconds before feeling Emily’s hand wrap around hers. “That’s good.” Lucy sighs in relief. Soon Emily’s fluttered open and she turned her head to look at Lucy.

“What happened?” Emily whispers before clearing her throat.

“Let me get you some water.” Lucy says getting out of the chair and walking over to the table to pour Emily some water. She hands the cup to Emily and sits back down in the chair. After she drank some water, she handed the cup back to Lucy. “Uh.. I found you unconscious in the kitchen. Doctor said you had a heart attack. You wouldn’t be alive if I hadn’t found when I did.”

“So that’s what a heart attack feels like…” Emily laughs. “I must really be getting old.”

“Emily..” Lucy says in low tone. “How have you been lately?”

“Fine?” Emily says furrowing her eyebrows in confusion. “Why do you ask?”

“Not only can your age affect your health but work can too.”

“Lucy, I’m fine.” Emily says.

“Emily…”

“Lucy, really.”

“Well…” Lucy lets out a deep breath.

“Come, Luce. Spit out.” Emily says.

“The Director is putting you on personal leave.”

“Personal leave? Why?”

“Because this, Emily. You’re working yourself to death...or near death in this case.”

“But I’m fine!” Emily exclaims. “Who is going to run the unit if I’m not there?”

“Rossi maybe? Or JJ can step up again.” Lucy says shrugging her shoulders.

“No, I refuse to put in leave again.”

“Emily, this is for your health. You’re not being suspended.” Lucy says shaking her head. Her phone started to ring and she pulled it out to see the babysitter calling. “Bella, what’s up?”

“Are you at the hospital still?”

“Yes, why? What happened?”

“Now don’t freak out, it’s a minor issue. Isaiah and I were playing on the playground and he fell off of the monkey bars. I didn’t get to him in time and now we’re in the ER with a broken arm.”

“A bro--Oh my god.. I’ll be down in a few minutes.” Lucy says before hanging up.

“What’s going on?” Emily asks.

“Just be glad you don’t have kids.” Lucy says getting up out of the chair and running out of the room.

Maybe what Lucy told Emily, maybe that’s what should be happening. Laying in the hospital bed, Emily stared at the ceiling. She has been working yourself too hard. She’s been trying to keep up with the work and making sure that she had everything filed before the deadline. Making sure everyone else was in line with their work. Keeping everyone in line. After the incident with Barnes way back when, she didn’t want one thing to slip. Reaching for her phone on the bedside table, she tossed pulled out her contacts.

“Hey Ma.. Yes it’s Emily, how many daughters do you have? .. Look I’m in a bit of pickle… I’m fine now but I’m gonna be on leave for a while… No it’s not an investigation again.. Just taking a vacation for a while… Well the reason I called is because I was wondering if you and dad still owned the lake house in Tahoe? Great.. Key is in the plant, how could I forget? Yeah I’ll let you know when I get there, thank you.”

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[ahouseoflies]

The Best Films of 2018, Part III

Parts I and II are here and here.

GOOD MOVIES

70. Mid90s (Jonah Hill)- I usually applaud filmmakers for letting visuals tell the story instead of spelling everything out, but Mid90s needs to spell some more stuff out, especially at the truncated end. His brother brought him an orange juice, so all of the abuse is forgotten? I need a bit more there.

I was always going to be in the tank for this though, having been the same age as the protagonist at the time, owning some of the same shirts as him and hanging some of the same posters on my wall. Despite the "My First Screenplay" beef I had up top, each supporting character gets something to do. Hill shows promise as a director (and the fingerprints of his influences) by being able to shift between poles of emotions in a matter of seconds.

69. McQueen (Ian Bonhote)- Although it waits too long to get into McQueen's depression, this documentary does an adequate job of showing the ups and downs of his life. It was great seeing things I've only read about, like the Voss show.

Here's the thing though: I'm not a genius, but if I were, I would hope that my closest friends and advisers would be able to articulate what made me great. A little less "We were working sixteen-hour days." A little more "He changed art forever."

68. Beautiful Boy (Felix Van Groeningen)- For better and worse, this portrait of a parent's worst nightmare is unrelenting. Surprisingly, the toughest moment is when Nic is fierce with pride, clean for fourteen months. Because when you pause and see that there's an hour left in the movie, you shudder at how low he might end up going.

Van Groeningen's sort of french braid of past and present hasn't changed for his English-language debut, but things worked best for me when he locked in on Timothee Chalamet's mannered but touching performance. I wish the movie had a proper ending.

67. The Kindergarten Teacher (Sara Colangelo)- This takes a little while to get sick and twisted, but I liked it once it did. Part of why it works is Gyllenhaal's commitment to the role. As dark as the character gets--and the film does seem hell-bent on establishing her as a failure when I'm not sure that's true--Gyllenhaal never judges her. It's probably her best performance since SherryBaby.

As for Gael Garcia Bernal, who plays a poetry professor who kisses people and then apologizes and says that he misread the moment and acts all bashful, are we sure about him? Are we sure he's good at acting?

66. The Spy Who Dumped Me (Susanna Fogel)- The spywork of the last half-hour is way too convoluted, but the comedy is fast and loose in service of a sweet female friendship. We're at the stage with the genius of Kate McKinnon in which I just assume that she came up with anything funny on the spot. For example, there's an off-hand joke that her character went to camp with Edward Snowden and was surprised that the news didn't mention how "into ska" he was. It's so bizarre that it had to be improv. Later, when Edward Snowden shows up as a character, I had to admit that the movie was tightly written. But I assumed it was McKinnon first. 65. Ready Player One (Steven Spielberg)- Halfway through Ready Player One, there's a sequence that takes place inside The Overlook Hotel of The Shining. The characters are walking through a photorealistic recreation of that setting, down to the smallest details, but it has been repurposed with different angles for this film. Not only have I literally never seen something like this in a movie, but I never imagined the possibility of such a thing existing. And somehow...it's corny and derivative.

So goes Ready Player One. It takes the simple pleasures of a Chosen One narrative with a killer villain, loads every corner of the frame with Ryu or Beetlejuice or a Goldie Wilson campaign poster, and punishes you with maximalism. Each piece reliably contributes to the whole, sometimes in thrilling and amusing fashion, but no matter when you check your watch, forty-five minutes are left.

When imdb came out, Steven Spielberg was one of the first people I looked up. What shocked me was how many projects I attributed to his direction when he had only produced them. In my kid brain, Spielberg had directed Gremlins or Goonies or An American Tail. They had his imprimatur of whimsy and wonder and childhood identification even if they were, you know, a bit more conventional and less purposeful than the movies he directed. Well, not since Tintin has there been a Steven Spielberg-directed film that feels more Spielberg-produced.

My favorite reference was the Battletoads. Or more accurately, imagining the seventy-two-year-old filmmaker going, "Oh, you know I gotta get the 'Toads up in this bih!"

64. Ben Is Back (Peter Hedges)- Despite a little bit of note-card screenwriting--"Get a line about how insurance doesn't care about drug addiction in there!"--The first two-thirds take their time revealing information to the viewer, dropping bread crumbs of the family history quite gracefully. Roberts and Hedges play off each other well, and their charisma powers the first half. She, of course, has an ample bag of Movie Star tricks, but, surprisingly, he already does too. You can see, in the confrontation at the mall, for example, how the mother's dissembling and conniving would pass down to him.

So it's a real bummer when the final third decides to separate the leads and rushes to a baffling conclusion. It falls apart like few movies in recent memory.

63. Avengers: Infinity War (Anthony Russo, Joe Russo)- Whatever. I admire the skill that it must have taken to balance the revolving wheel of characters--even if it does feel like check-ins half the time. The movie is exhausting in a bad way until it's exhausting in a good way. More importantly, here are my power rankings. (Their power in my own heart. Thanos is obviously the most powerful.)

1. Rocket 2. Hawkeye (Renner Season even when it isn't.) 3. The Collector 4. Black Panther 5. Thanos 6. Iron Man 7. Ned 8. Nick Fury 9. Star Lord 10. Thor (His scene with Rocket is the best one in the film.) 11. Gamora 12. Hulk (Your boy is so earnest in this. "They KNEW!") 13. Spider-Man 14. Wong 15. Okoye 16. Doctor Strange (Way cooler in this than his own movie.) 17. Captain America (His hair was beautiful.) 18. Drax 19. Pepper Potts 20. Falcon 21. Groot 22. Black Widow 23. Winter Soldier 24. Loki (Is he alive? Was he alive before this? Can he impersonate people or whatever even if he's dead? What's his deal?) 25. Scarlet Witch (Her first line is, getting out of bed, "Vis, is it the stone again?") 26. Gamora's Sister (No, you look it up.) 27. War Machine (Do you think Cheadle forgets that he's in these? Like, he misses a day of shooting just because he forgot?) 28. Vision 29. Whatever Peter Dinklage Was

62. The Old Man & the Gun (David Lowery)- Sissy Spacek's character explains, on a tour of her house, that she pulled up some wallpaper and found a signature from 1881 underneath, which is so unique that--ugly as it is--she couldn't bear to cover it. The movie is sort of about that. Does a way of life from a long time ago matter now?

Does it matter how you present yourself? How much does intention cancel out action?

The questions play themselves out in a way that is formally interesting--Lowery swish-pans and advances the scenes in a way that he hasn't since Ain't Them Bodies Saints--but informally pretty dull. Redford is engaging as possible, but I feel like I maxed out on my concern for a person who refuses to change.

I've had the Sean Penn "on one" scale for a long time, but I'm introducing the "off one" scale for Casey Affleck, who is so purposefully muted that he seems like he's going to pass out in some scenes. Keep doing you, Case. As far as acting goes.

61. Disobedience (Sebastian Lelio)- I admired how little the film spelled out about the setting and the characters' pasts. The beginning is cautious without being slow, and the women seem drawn to each other with a sort of magnetism that is difficult to pull off. While the triangle of people at the center is realistic and fair, the picture is ultimately a bit staid. I don't want melodrama out of the story either, but I do think it would work better if the characters were more passionate about anything, even the religion that makes them lack passion. 60. Crazy Rich Asians (Jon M. Chu)- This movie is sweet, and it nails the rom-com fulcrum scenes that it has to. Hear me out though: Both of the leads are winning, and Henry Golding's charm keeps us from acknowledging that his character is a psycho. Here is a list of things that, over the course of a year, he does not bother to tell his girlfriend:

a. That his family is the wealthiest in Singapore. Or wealthy at all. But more notably, he tells Rachel no details at all about his family, such as his brothers' and sisters' names. b. That he skipped an important trip home a few months ago, which caused a rift in his family. c. How to pack or dress for their trip to visit his family. d. That his mother did not want them sleeping together at her house, not that he "wants her all to himself." e. That his family wants him to take over their business, which would necessitate a permanent move to Singapore. f. That he went out with one of the women attending the bachelorette party, and that this woman has very good reason to sabotage Rachel and Nick's current relationship. g. That the wedding they're attending is also a super-rich affair that will be covered by international media. h. That the wedding party they're attending the night before is a formal affair with hundreds of guests, not the "family party" that he presents it as. By the way, this is one of the two times that he not only doesn't accompany her to an event, expecting her to meet him there and find him, but he doesn't even send a car. i. That he's thinking about proposing to her. "We haven't even talked about that stuff," Rachel tells her mother.

Communication is key, Nick.

59. Lean on Pete (Andrew Haigh)- I liked the first half and its patient doling out of information. Haigh sews quite a few credible threads to show why the gruff Dell would take a liking to Charley. When the film diverges into a drifter story, I got frustrated with it. To me, drifter characters aren't interesting because they take unpredictable actions, what enliven films, and make them predictable. A dine-and-dash is a dangerous, exciting thing to happen in a movie, but when this scared kid has already done so much similar running, it dulls that edge. This is Haigh's least successful film, but it's still empathetic and sensitive.

58. Hereditary (Ari Aster)- The first third of Hereditary is when it is at its most intimate and compact as a story of grief. And with the bridge of a genuinely shocking event, it becomes less Don’t Look Back and more of a hellish explainer.

Ari Aster is a master craftsman already, investing every element with intention, down to “Why are clocks so present in the frame?” That craft extends to Toni Collette, who is even better than she normally is. But in refusing to be mysterious and small, the film didn't connect with me on a level beyond admiration..

57. Gringo (Nash Edgerton)- The expository information about the company comes too late, the ending is too tidy, and I'm not sure what my girl Mandy Seyfried is doing in this. But it's funny overall, in large part because Theron and Edgerton bounce off each other beautifully, projecting a very specific brand of nouveau riche awful. She says, "Fat people are...hilarious," and he wears too many accessories in his pick-up basketball game, for which there's a running clock.

Many of these crime comedies fail because all of the characters are painted with the same cynical brush, but Oyelowo is so likable here as a frazzled guy in over his head, playing against the type of simmering dignity he inhabited as someone like Martin Luther King. I'm glad that he's getting at-bats with something this different.

56. Bad Times at the El Royale (Drew Goddard)- If you like table-setting (and I do), then this is going to be a fun time. Each room at the motel gets a two-sided mirror, each character is two-faced, many events are presented from two perspectives, and there's even a double in the title. It's hard not to share in Goddard's delight as he patiently lays out all of the Tarantinian pieces.

Once he has to start declaring things though, somewhere halfway in the meandering two and a half hours, the film doesn't end up having much to say. I'm not sure I wanted another Cabin in the Woods ending, but I did want it to add up to more than the modest pleasures that it does. Kudos to Chris Hemsworth and his dialect coach for finally piecing together a serviceable American accent.

55. Thunder Road (Jim Cummings)- As far as calling card movies go, this one is a pretty smart character study. It centers on how the things we find important, the impact of words in this case, can often be the things we struggle with the most, through dyslexia and spoonerisms and messed-up jokes in this case. That being said, no offense, the film would be 25% better with a more capable lead actor. 54. Annihilation (Alex Garland)- Much like Sunshine, another Alex Garland script, this story handles the mystery elegantly, with jolts of real horror, until we get where we're going, which doesn't live up to the promise. I do appreciate that it respects the viewer's intelligence--withholding answers to questions, sometimes never answering questions. I'm grateful that it exists. 53. BlacKkKlansman (Spike Lee)- Like Chi-Raq and Red Hook Summer, BlacKKKlansman would make for a hell of a YouTube compilation if you cut together its best moments. It's sharp and vital when it's at its best, which is pretty much any time it's commenting on the present, through "Now more than ever" Nixon campaign posters, mentions of how David Duke's policies might show up in Republican platforms, or the searing epilogue that brings back one of Lee's oldest tricks.

Like a lot of his recent work though, it's a mess tonally, and basic stuff like the timing of the cuts seems amateurish. I also think Lee's relationship with Terence Blanchard is hurting him at this point; the music doesn't match what's going on at all. I wish it hung together better than it does.

52. Widows (Steve McQueen)- This is the messiest film that Steve McQueen has made, which is its biggest strength and its biggest weakness. That loose quality allows for some expressive moves, such as when the alderman candidate takes a real-time two-minute ride from the poor area where he's campaigning to the tony area where he lives, in the same district. This is a film with admirable ambition to go with its cheap thrills.

But that same messiness produces as many bad performances (Farrell, Neeson, and, yes, Duvall) as it does good ones (Debicki, Henry, Kaluuya), and it elides so many moments near the end that I have lingering questions about whether a major plot point was even resolved. This is definitely the type of movie that has a three-hour cut that is better, and I still hope that director's cut doesn't waste five scenes on Debicki's prostitute relationship with Lukas Haas. (Where is his sliver of a face on the poster?)

51. The Death of Stalin (Armando Iannucci)- I feel as if I have to adjust to the astringency of any Iannucci property, and when I do, I laugh a lot. This movie is hilarious, and I'll save you from a list of the jokes that work the best.

Iannucci and his collaborators take one of the most violent, tyrannical periods of history and expose its perpetrators as sniveling, feckless children who might accidentally spit in their own faces as they're trying to spit on someone else's. Destabilizing those in power--in this case de-memorializing them--and portraying them as lost, scared humans is the goal of satire. So even though he does it so well, part of me wonders, "Is that it?" Bureaucracy is dumb? Isn't this an easy target? For what it's worth, I felt the same way about In the Loop, despite everyone else's praise. I'm waiting for Iannucci to find a weapon sharper than the middle finger.

50. Tully (Jason Reitman)- In a way, it's refreshing for a screenwriter to be bad at writing men. The outdated, clueless, manchild dad is the biggest weakness of the script, especially since everything else is pitched with such realism. There's also one scene that I hate but probably shouldn't spoil.

Put aside that character though, and this is a movie with wit, verisimilitude, and even a bit of visual agility. The protagonist--Marlo, a Diablo Cody name if there ever was one--has a special needs son, and I appreciated the honest way that Marlo's frustration with him sometimes outweighed her understanding.

49. Fahrenheit 11/9 (Michael Moore)- Fahrenheit 11/9 is diffuse, but it's effective enough to be in the top half of Moore's work. He stays out of it mostly (besides that familiar narration, as gentle as it is ashamed), but his heart is clearly in the searing Flint section. In fact, I wish he had made a documentary that focused only on that American travesty, not all of them.

He has the same challenge that many of us do--pointing out the crimes and perversions of Trump while keeping the high ground--and he doesn't always avoid the low-hanging fruit. Dubbing Trump's voice over Hitler's is the type of shit that people hate him for. At most turns, however, Moore's choices make sense. A long diversion into the Parkland kids, even though I find them kind of tiring personally, serves as an inspirational peak to the valley of any people of a generation or two earlier than them.

48. Isle of Dogs (Wes Anderson)- Many Wes Anderson movies are flippant about death and disease. When the effect works, it's refreshing and disorienting. When it doesn't, like in this movie, it feels cold, as if he's moving dolls around in a playhouse.

But in every other way, the sweet and wry Isle of Dogs benefits as a manicured chamber piece. The details are obvious (the tactile fur on all of the dog puppets), less obvious (a translation provides the legend "very sad funeral" to accompany a news story), and even less obvious (more than one joke about how many syllables should be in a haiku). If the narrative--jaded stray finds redemption through guileless child--doesn't offer much in the way of re-invention for the director, then I'm glad the large canvas does.

47. You Were Never Really Here (Lynne Ramsey)- I wanted an artsy crime film, and I got an artsy crime film. I have no idea if I liked it. It's bleak and groady, more of a violence movie than an action movie, concerned with the cycle of abuse and the oily spread of vengeance. It begins twenty minutes after most films of its type might choose to, and it begins in earnest at the hour mark. The atonal Jonny Greenwood score is a perfect approximation of whatever kind of dark clouds are floating in the protagonist's head.

Even when it doesn't work, the film is a reminder that Lynne Ramsey is a real artist. Although this doesn't come close to the catharsis and real-world relevance of We Need to Talk About Kevin, it reveals a focused point of view. Whether it's depicting a sequence through only surveillance footage or cutting to a half-second of flashback, she includes exactly what she wants to.

46. The Commuter (Jaume Collet-Sera)- I gave Non-Stop two-and-a-half stars, and this is a much more elegant version of Non-Stop. Even though it succumbs to gross CGI and outsized conspiracy, the class-conscious table setting is non-pareil, and it lets Neeson act his age.

45. Vice (Adam McKay)- Vice is a difficult film to evaluate because its greatest strength, the resolute, partisan, experimental point of view, is also its greatest weakness, the hand-holding, pedantic, antic point of view. There are moments in this film--the menu scene, the fake-ending--that are more inventive than anything else this year. And credit to McKay for a sui generis structure that covers thirty years in the first hour and two years in the second hour; if nothing else, he has the talent to make unitary executive theory fun.

It's a big, angry, auteurist, '70s swing, so it also takes a lot of chances that don't work and, quite obviously, it wields poetic license in the way that Ron Burgundy swished around a glass of scotch. Sometimes it doesn't know when to trust the viewer, like when it freeze frames and flashes "George H.W. Bush, President, 1989-1993" over a Bush-looking guy talking about "Barbara and I" as his son misbehaves in the background. Through no fault of McKay's, the story feels anti-climactic as well. Although I felt more distance than I expected from events that I consider recent history, the dominoes are still falling in the world that Cheney shaped.

One thing that is less debatable is Christian Bale's transformation into Cheney. That word "transformation" is used any time a famous person wears a wig. This performance, which spans decades and is not directly related to any of Bale's other work, is different. The portrait of Cheney is one of monolithic evil, which Bale suggests, but it's also grounded in reticent, clenched jaw micro-movements. Cheney, who is four inches shorter than Bale, seems like the smallest and biggest man in any room. At this point, if you told me Bale was playing Grendel, I wouldn't bat an eye. In fact, his Grendel might look a lot like Dick Cheney.