#julian kaye imagine

[dyns33]

Wanting more

Part 2 of my Julian Kaye x reader story

If she forgot about his job, life with Julian Kaye was pretty normal.

They had already created a sort of cocoon, a very domestic routine, and that hadn't really changed after their relationship became official.

After a few weeks, Y/N had asked Julian to come live with her. She had thought he would hesitate, too attached to his bachelor pad and his sense of independence. Scared too, because of his strange schedules.

But no, Julian had been very enthusiastic, collecting the few things he had in his motel to put them in her cupboards.

The schedules were still special. He sometimes came home very late, or after several days, totally exhausted. And he didn't talk about his day. He could not.

"First, I have a confidentiality agreement. And even if I changed the names, neither you nor I want to talk about my clients, and what I do with them."

"You can understand that I'm a little curious. And worried, when I see you so tired."

"Like everyone else when they come home from work, but everything is fine. I want to forget and only think about you. I only think about you all day."

Y/N wasn’t jealous.

She often told herself that she was not jealous. She had no reason to be. Julian loved her and he was just doing his job. Like an actor, a masseur or a doctor. He touched other bodies, but there was no feeling. It's a mechanical act, business, and when he came home, he had already moved on to something else.

To avoid a catastrophe, he had spoken to her a lot at the very beginning of their relationship. He had listed all the things his clients could ask him. He had presented Y/N to Lorenzo, his boss, so that he could also explain everything to her.

The one who had declared that their story could only end badly had understood that he had before him two people who loved each other deeply, and he had sighed.

“Julian never had a girlfriend.”

“I’ve had girlfriends, thank you.”

"Yeah, when you were twelve. Nothing serious since you started working. It's a first, and he tells you everything. No secrets, no shame. Maybe it'll work. The guy always follows the rules, you can trust him."

The rules were simple : the customer pays in advance, the customer says clearly what they want and what they don't want, they have no right to hurt or get attached to the gigolo, no refund.

There had been times when Julian had come home with marks. Bites, scratches, hickeys, hits. Most of the time he tried to hide them, keeping his distance for a few days.

He always apologized, as if it was his fault.

"They're not allowed to leave traces, but sometimes they act without thinking, and I don't have time to stop them. Sometimes I don't even notice."

"It's alright."

"I see this makes you sad. It's not alright."

Y/N kissed him to reassure him, repeating that she wasn't mad at him. He still continued to apologize.

Even though they weren't talking about his work, these marks and his late returns were a bit heavy. But there was nothing else. Julian didn't give any details. He took a long shower before coming home, washing away the lipstick, the perfume, everything that these women had left on him, on this body that belonged only to Y/N.

He wanted to show her, to reassure her, not being able to believe that she completely accepted the situation.

During one evening, he behaved as if he were with a client. It was the most horrible evening of their relationship.

"No. Stop, no." Y/N asked him, wanting to jump out of bed, trying not to cry.

"Baby, what's wrong ? Did I hurt you ?"

"It's so… cold. Violent. I don't feel like it's you."

"Because that's not me. Never me, and they're never you. I want you to know that, really know that."

"I know that, Julian. But thanks for showing me."

“I promise I’ll never show you that again.” he sighed as he took her in his arms, showing her his love and affection.

This was nothing new to Julian, but it had been a long time since he had known tenderness. Being in bed with a woman who just wanted to talk and hug him without asking for anything else. Who will prepare breakfast and dinner for him. Who loved spending time with him.

When her family and friends wanted to get to know her boyfriend, he begged her not to tell them what he was doing. He wasn't ashamed, and she wasn't ashamed, and Julian didn't care about being judged, but he didn't want others to judge Y/N.

They were going to ask prying questions, they were going to make stupid remarks, they might try to hire him to play a prank. It was too risky.

"Tell them I'm a coach, or a psychologist. It's basically the same thing. I get paid to help lonely, desperate people feel better for a few hours."

“What if they want to hire you ?”

“Impossible, I don’t take relatives as clients. I have to remain distant and objective.”

Even saying he was a coach, there were comments. Y/N's family thought Julian was superficial, flashy, with his muscles, his jewelry, his clothes. They were afraid he was with her for the money.

Which was ridiculous, since he had a lot more money than her. It happened that he earned in a week what she earned in a month. And in addition to helping pay the rent, the food, many things, he gave her gifts. Indecently expensive gifts.

"… There's really no need."

"To give a beautiful necklace to the most beautiful woman in the world ? No doubt, it's not necessary, but I want to. Try it."

“Julian, really, it’s too much.”

"For the car, okay, maybe it was a little too much, but it's just a little necklace. Please, I want to see you with it. I want to see it bounce between your tits when you are riding me.”

“You are impossible.” she mumbled as she felt her cheeks heat up, letting his hands caress her neck after attaching the necklace.

Y/N didn't really understand what was happening the evening when Julian prepared a romantic dinner, displaying a big smile. It wasn't a special day, even though he hadn't been around for several weeks, his hours seeming to have decreased.

Still with his proud smile, he placed two papers on the table. On the first piece of paper, there was a telephone number. The other was a check, of a fairly large amount.

"I don't understand." she said, looking at it, and seeing that the check was not for her, but in the name of Julian Kaye.

“My new phone number, and my first paycheck for my new job.”

"… What ?"

"I spoke with Lorenzo. For the past month, I have sometimes been a bouncer in his club, sometimes a bartender, and I give advice to new gigolos. It's not as well paid, but it's not bad. And as I'm not going to see my old clients again, I changed my number."

"Julian. Why ? You love your job."

"I love you more, and before you tell me that you're not ashamed, and that I can do whatever I want, it's not your fault. I kinda did it for you, but also for me. At first, I kept telling myself "think of Y/N, imagine that you are with her, and everything will be fine, then you come home, and you will really be with her". But I couldn't. They weren't you, and they were asking me things that you would never ask of me, and I was starting to be disgusted by these bodies, these skins, everything. I only wanted you. I said to myself, 'but what are you doing ? Sleeping in this bed, instead of being with her ?” So I talked to Lorenzo, and that’s it.”

Faced with Y/N's silence, Julian's smile faded a little, which saddened him. He seemed really proud to tell her this news. Over the past month, he had changed a lot of things for her, without her really noticing it, even if she was happy that he was home more often.

Slowly, she reached out to caress his cheek, sitting on his lap.

“Doesn’t that make you happy ?” he asked shyly.

"I just want you to be happy. Are you happ y?"

Julian looked at her with sparkling eyes before kissing her. Obviously, he was very happy and that was the only important thing.

[darlingshane]

First of all, love your Fall background/header! Love the colors and the pictures!

Second, I saw this picture on Pinterest and I thought I’d share the joy I felt seeing it! (I’m sure you’ve already seen it, but thought I’d share anyway)

It made me think of your recent Julian Kaye fic “A Little Piece of Heaven” 🥰

Aww, thanks! It’s one of my favorite headers that I’ve ever made. This man really inspires me. I’m absolutely in love with it, and with him and Bam Bam 😍😍

Oh god, that’s such a fine look for Julian. I believe that was around the time he was filming American Gigolo. I have such a lousy memory for pics, but I can easily identify them by his looks, and after checking my folder I can tell that – yes, I've seen it before, and it’s just around that time.

He’s a dream, and that picture is a vibe that fits perfectly with that fic. I can see Julian taking you to a party, maybe he knows someone in the business, and surprises you with tickets to a big film premiere or an after party where you get to dress up really fancy. He was initially wearing a tie, but he took it off at the bar as the drinks started coming. He’d have his arm around you almost 99% of the time, cause he can’t keep himself away from you. And as the night progresses, he’d get a little naughty and start whispering sweet dirt into your ear, and kiss your neck when you least expect it.

[montysstuffs]

🍒Cherry Pie 🍒

Dbf!Frank castle X fem reader

Sweet Virginia Jon bernthal>>>>>

AN: Just sooner quick little headcanons before I actually write the whole thing! This is literally all over the place! You can kinda say it’s more of a thought dump!

Minors DNI

•you’re having a bad day at work.

•Shows up to your job to grab your dad a pie for am upcoming bbq

•he stays with you on your break to comfort you

•you both sit in his car and talk about it

•he shushes you as you hug him in the passenger seat of your car.

•your makeup is getting smeared all over his hoodie

•he absolutely hates that you put in all of your effort to doll yourself up, just to have it run down your pretty face

•”you can quit babydoll, there’s nothing holding you back”

•”lemme take care of you, yeah?”

•definitely threatens to beat someone up.

•or as he calls it “set em straight”

•you’re ultimately the bigger person and say no to his offer of hurting someone in your honor

•when your break is over, he promises that he’ll go home to rest

•absolutely not

•he goes inside to grab a coffee while sitting in your section.

•reading a book that no doubt you gifted him a little bit ago

Smuuuuut

•He beckons you over and orders a slice of cherry pie

•He’s messy when he eats it, in more ways than one. He’ll put his thumb in his mouth and expertly suck off the excess cherry filling.

•and of course, two can play at that game

•bending over a table in front of him and letting him have a peek up your skirt/dress

•flirting and laughing boisterously at a group of frat bros that you’re server, just to make him jealous

•”I don’t get jealous easily by little boys, sweetheart.”

•gives you a ride back to his place and he shows you how much better an older man can be

•definitely smokes you out

•your pretty, glossy lips are leaving lip prints all over his cock and hips. The prints smearing as you bob your head.

•”no hands, baby. Lets see how good that mouth is.”

•Sitting on your knees on his floor as he slouches back on his couch. One hand holding the joint, the other cupping your cheek. Looking down at you as you struggle to take all of him without the help of your hands. Your hands are in little fists in your lap like an obedient girl.

[stray-kaz]

Babes in Arms : a Julian Kaye x reader FF : two

18 and up, y’all.

Julian reached home early the next morning, after slipping a note underneath your pillow. Lizzie was up already, and she gave him a curious smile as he took the stairs two at a time to reach the upper landing.

“And where have you been?” she asked him. “You’re in the same clothes you left in two nights ago.”

He glanced down at the overly wrinkled shirt and the once shiny dress shoes that were now well in need of a polishing.

“I was staying with a friend” he answered eventually. “She needed my help. She’s got two kids, you know, and their dad died. I was giving her a hand.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Uh huh” she said sceptically. “Well, remember there’s none of that funny business around here, Julian Kaye. I mean that.”

He nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“I remember” he assured her. “Don’t worry about me, Lizzie. I’m doing fine.”

“I’ll bet that girl you were giving a hand to is doing pretty fine, too.”

He dipped his head a little and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. He gestured to his door.

“Can I go inside now?” he asked her. “Or am I still to be treated like a teenager out past curfew?”

Lizzie rolled her eyes and nodded.

“Go on ahead” she said, sighing. “Just be sensible.”

Julian didn’t respond again as he turned his key in the lock and walked inside, shutting it behind him with an obstinate click. He lit a cigarette and paced the room, wondering if it was happening again. He had fallen for Michelle and look where that had gotten him. And you had children, for crying out loud. He couldn’t imagine being a part of your life without being a part of theirs, too. He knew he had to make a decision that would cause the least pain, but you slept curled against him like a cat and responded to the barest of his touches and laughed at the stupidest jokes and made him wonder, foolishly, if he could be a dad. A dad like he never had. He certainly knew that you weren’t a mother to your kids like his mother was to him.

He sat down hard on the edge of the bed, his hands hanging loose between his knees. He took a drag off the cigarette and squeezed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger of his other hand, his eyes tightly shut. He heard the sudden trill of his cell phone in his pocket and pulled it out, intending to answer but hesitating when he glimpsed Isabelle flashing across the screen. He extinguished the cigarette and let her call go to voicemail. He had no desire to answer and listen to her snidely going off at him for bedding yet another unattainable woman who would use him and run.

Only, when he looked at you, he didn’t see a woman who would up sticks and leave. You had deep roots here, and Benji and Violet. And, most of all, the way you were for him, the way you moved, soft and curving around him like a vine, striving to become as intertwined as possible. And you asked him what he wanted. He only had cause to begin to understand what you wanted when he inadvertently touched your throat and you had moaned quietly before biting your lip and clamming up when he asked you why.

He could feel it now, the uptick in his heartbeat, from slow and steady to a hammer, just from the thought of you. He ran his hands through his dark hair and groaned, toeing off his shoes. He undressed on the way to the shower and kicked the bathroom door shut.

**********

Groggily, your mind slurring from sleep and the warmth of the covers, you slowly opened your eyes and turned your head to the side, searching for Julian. He wasn’t there anymore. Eyes opening wider, now much more awake, you sat up, holding the covers to your chest with one hand and rubbing your eyes with the other. Aiming for balance, you slid your hand under your pillow to prop yourself up, and felt a slip of paper waiting for you. Biting your lip, you unfolded it and ran your eyes over the words.

Honey, I had to go. I have to head to work. I wish I could have stayed right there next to you, but alas. There’s a friend of mine, Bo, who spends most of his days on the bleachers near the pier. Tell him you know me and he’ll direct you to where I am, if you want to see me. Tell the kids I had a great time at the beach with them. -xx J

You smiled to yourself and leaped out of bed. The kids were spending the day with your deceased husband’s mom today anyway, so why not take a trip to the pier?

**********

You shielded your eyes from the sun as you approached the bleachers, guarded by a big black man who glared at you. He seemed surprised when you kept coming anyway. He held up a hand to stop you in your tracks.

“Lady, I’m sorry but you need to step off.”

“I’m looking for Bo?” you asked.

“Do you know him?”

You shook your head.

“No, but I know Julian Kaye, and he sent me to get directions to his work. I won’t be any trouble, I promise.”

“Hey! Let her pass, she’s a lady.”

You looked up to see who you assumed was Bo waving you over, a curious smile on his face. You climbed up to stand two rows down from him.

“So you know my man J, huh?” he asked you.

“Yes” you nodded.

Bo looked you up and down, noting the high waisted skirt and high brand tee tucked into it. He arched a single eyebrow at you.

“You’re a little young, aren’t you?”

“Will you tell me where he is or not? My age doesn’t figure into this. I like him, okay? Now where’s he at?” you retorted, hands on hips.

Bo let out a shocked laugh.

“Girl’s got some spunk!” he exclaimed, amused. “Yeah, babe.”

He rattled off directions for you, you thanked him and sauntered away, swinging your hips a little, the sudden memory of Julian’s hands gripping them hard burning into your mind.

**********

The tiny bell over the diner door tinkled and Julian looked up from his position behind the counter to see who had walked in. When his gaze landed on you, he smiled and came out. You stood a little uncertainly at first, a pleased smile frozen on your face, but Julian took less than five seconds to wrap his arms around you and rest his chin atop your head, his hands rubbing gently up and down your back.

“I guess you found Bo” he said quietly.

You nodded.

“He was extremely accommodating” you said dryly.

He chuckled and stepped back to look down at you, light in his dark eyes.

“Sorry, I should have warned you.”

“It’s okay” you answered, shaking your head. “I’m glad I found you.”

He looked behind you and out the door, squinting against the sun.

“Are the little ones with you?”

“No, they’re with Daniel’s mom for the day.”

Daniel was your husband’s name, he knew. Julian nodded and guided you to an empty booth.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, gesturing at the menu board. “Want anything?”

Your eyes lit up; you were starving, having fed the kids but not yourself on your way out the door to make a beeline for Julian.

“Chocolate waffles, please” you said quickly.

He laughed and nodded.

“Anything to drink?”

“Apple juice, please.”

“Beautiful and well mannered” Julian murmured so no one else would hear.

You blushed and he briefly kissed your cheek before turning to start on your breakfast.

**********

After Julian’s shift finished, he made sure you would never regret wearing this skirt again. He took you to his home, which was the last thing you expected, and was kissing you before the door was even shut, which was the first thing you wanted. He tugged the hem of your tee out of your skirt and ran his fingers along your stomach, goosebumps forming in their wake.

“I have to ask” he mumbled, words muffled as he left damp kisses down the column of your throat. “Do you want this?”

Lights lit up in your brain as he lifted you onto the counter, knocking your knees apart so he could fit between them. You barely had a thought left, but he had asked.

“Yes” you whispered emphatically, and felt his lips curve into a grin.

“Well, all right then.”

He wriggled you out of your underwear and pocketed it, then eased you gently into a different angle and sank down in front of you, nudging his head up under the hem of your skirt. An unpleasant tingle shot up your spine and you dug your hands into his hair, pulling his head away from between your thighs. He stared up at you, confused.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, rising to his full height, eyes still on yours.

“Stop, please” you said very quietly.

His eyebrows drew together in puzzlement.

“Why?”

You shook your head, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“I’ve never liked that” you admitted.

He looked down at you, inwardly chastising himself for not checking with you first; in his not limited experience, most women wanted that, but apparently you didn’t.

“Okay...” he said slowly. “What is it that you want?”

You released a long sigh and closed your eyes.

“Just your hands, please.”

He lightly touched your face and you opened your eyes to see him holding his hands up for you and waiting expectantly. Feeling red hot, you took them and carefully slid them under your skirt, placing one on your thigh to keep you steady and the other against your most intimate place. Your eyelids fluttered closed as the pad of his thumb brushed against the taut bundle of nerves while his knuckles rubbed in jagged circles against your heat, your hips twitching.

Julian watched your face closely as he withdrew for a few seconds and then plunged his middle finger inside you, returning his thumb to its original position. Your mouth opened on a gasp and your whole body bucked towards him, almost falling off the edge of the bench. He caught you quickly, kissing your temple.

“Easy now” he murmured.

“You catch on quick” you muttered, leaning against his shoulder.

He laughed.

“Bed?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Please.”

He carried you over and laid you down gently and watched as you hurried to rid yourself of your remaining clothing. You saw his jeans tighten and bit your lip, lifting your gaze to meet his. You sat up on your knees and gestured to his hands which were beginning to reach for the bottom of his plain t-shirt.

“Can I do that?” you queried, a little shyly.

Julian nodded and stepped closer for you to be able to reach him. You dragged the t-shirt off over his head and traced the tattoos down his chest and abdomen. His muscles contracted and twitched under your touch and he breathed out harshly through his nose when your fingers plucked at the button on his jeans; it popped free and you dragged the zip down slowly, Julian’s eyes fixated on your hands. He watched as they pushed and pulled his jeans down, but stopped them at the top of his underwear.

“Wait a minute” he mumbled, and went to his bedside cabinet, rummaging around to produce an unopened square foil packet.

His eyebrows rose when you shook your head at it and pulled a face.

“What?”

“I loathe those things” you told him.

“You’ve never said anything before.”

You shrugged.

“I didn’t think I could.”

“You know, you can say anything. Are you using something else?”

“The pill.”

You reached for him again and linked your hands together behind his neck.

“You’re clean, aren’t you?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“Then drop that thing and come here.”

“Okay, honey. Whatever you say.”

But he said it with a smile as the packet tumbled from his fingers and hit the floor, and he shed his boxer briefs to crawl over you, his mouth finding yours with ease as his hands gently pulled your legs apart at the hip. Perfectly, blissfully, his tongue pushed past your lips at the same time he filled you to the hilt. Your eyes opened to his already staring at you, pupils black and blown as he pulled away slightly to rest his forehead on your shoulder, allowing you time.

But time was what you didn’t want or need, and you squeezed around him, and he let loose a guttural sound against your fevered skin.

“It’s been a...a while since I’ve done it like...like this” he stammered into your ear. “Don’t think I’ll last long.”

Your chest heaved into his as you shook your head frantically.

“It’s okay, it’s fine, please just move” you begged him, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he obeyed.

Jaw clenched, he wrapped his arms around your back to pull you into him, hips pounding, driving into you. The mattress bounced as Julian dragged countless moans from your lips, his pace unforgiving. He was falling, he could feel it, he could see it as clearly as he saw you, as he felt your legs wind around his waist, pushing him ever deeper, your head thrown back just as the room turned white and his hips stuttered erratically, emptying himself inside of you.

He collapsed and pinned you under him, your breaths fanning out across his neck and shoulder. You kissed him anywhere you could reach, heat everywhere. Your heart hammered even as you felt peace flood your mind and invade your body. You could love Julian, you knew you could.

Julian slowly rolled off you and leaned up to cradle your face in one big hand. He pressed forward to kiss you, lazy and slow, his nose bumping yours.

“Hey” he murmured, raspy and hard earned.

“Hey.”

He stood and went for a clean cloth, running it under water and returning to you on the bed. Your legs still apart, he had no trouble moving in between them to gently clean you up, murmuring soothing words as you hissed at the cold contact against your sensitive skin. When he was done, he leaned his head against the inside of your knee and looked up at you, brown eyes soft and warm. You felt pliant and at ease, your chest rising and falling gently with each breath.

“I suppose you need to pick up the kids” Julian spoke at last, and you sighed.

“Yes, I do” you agreed.

He helped you dress and walked you outside to your car, well aware of Lizzie’s knowing gaze burning into the back of his head. He leaned you against the side of your car and kissed you goodbye, your hands venturing gently up into his hair. He waited for you to drive away before he turned to walk back up to his apartment.

“That your girl?” Lizzie asked him, her tone arch.

“Maybe” Julian replied, and closed his door.

Tagging: @succsessions​

[thejollywriter]

The Reformationist

Delilah Jones has done many things to try and help folks. But when she’s approached by the descendant of Irene Adler to try and catch a serial killer no one else wants to hunt, she gets the impression she’d been missing her truest calling. She finds herself apprenticed to the the descendant of one of the cleverest hustlers to ever turn a trick, and hunting a killer without conscience or hesitation. 

It’s a hard day to be Delilah Jones. (Chapter One is below, I hope you enjoy)

***

“You still working security?” I asked Kaye as I approached the front door to Lexi’s. It was an erotic club near the middle of Redwood, a good place for a good time if that’s what you wanted. Lots of talented dancers and performers, lots of beautiful people for most attractions, too.

“Personal security to the boss, but given your shared history, I figured I better be the one to meet you at the door, lest someone else catch your ire.” Kaye said.

She had a sawn-off shotgun in her hands, a strap anchored to the base of the pistol grip. She kept both hands on it, finger off the triggers. Kaye was tall, leggy, skinny, smoked a lot, and had a prickly hair that tended to change color as her moods did. She was also ferociously capable as a fighter, and loyal to boot.

“Way to make me sound unhinged. Like I shouldn’t have good reason to hold a grudge.”

“They do business. That you didn’t catch that isn’t their fault.”

“You weren’t in my bedroom,” I met Kaye’s eyes. “And you don’t get to pass judgment on me from your place of reverence.”

“Leave your piece.”

“Didn’t carry.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.”

“I don’t. But if you search me, I won’t react violently.”

“Good. Julian?”

Standing near Kaye was a twink with a mechanized crossbow. He lowered the crossbow to the end of the strap, and approached me. I held my arms out, and his hands moved swiftly over my body.

“No gun.” He said. “But I still feel like she’s armed.”

“Rigged.” I winked at him. “Don’t find out how extensively.”

“Remember your manners,” Kaye said. “I’ll be nearby.”

“Ain’t my manners you gotta worry about.” I said, and walked through the front door.

Light tubes shimmered over the entrance, the gamut of color rotated overhead as I passed through the entryway onto the dance floor.

It sloped, gently, from the front door, urged you down and to the right, towards the stage.

Most nights, it worked.

There was a bar along the left wall, but no one served drinks right now. The lights were on, the dance floor deserted, and cartons of liquor were stacked in the middle of the floor to be distributed to the bars throughout the club.

I found the stairs that led to the upper office, and climbed them. The office looked down on the club through one-way glass. And inside, I found them standing by their desk with their arms crossed.

Andy was a handsome butch, a looker under any circumstance. I’d met them a couple of years ago, when I was but a lowly freelancer and they, I thought, were just a waiter in the club. Dancer, too, and I’d paid for their attention.

Management changed, and rules of contact, and we started to share as much as could be shared with limited time in a rented booth in a strip club.

I loved them, full stop and without compromise. I still couldn’t tell you if they loved me too, or if it was just business.

The cynic’s answer is what I’m leaning towards, these days. It wasn’t always.

“Andy,” I said by way of greeting. I managed not to bark their name, which surprised me. They were tall, strong in the shoulders, with scruffy black hair and bright eyes.

“Delilah,” they stood up straight. “Good to see you.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“This is--”

“Oh you’re a specimen, aren’t you?” The other lady asked. She was British, built finer’n fine, with strong cheekbones and a mischievous smile and quick eyes that missed nothing. “You’ll do nicely.”

“Irene, this is Delilah Jones. Freelancer.”

“I was told that you’re something of a private detective.” The lady said.

“On occasion.” I said. “Who are you?”

“Delilah, please--”

“You’re a blunt one, aren’t you?” The lady faced me, hands in her slacks pockets. They were black linen, with a sharp crease, she wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a maroon vest.

She was, in fact, stylish, and if I was in a better mood, I’d probably be attracted to her.

“It’s been a day already,” I said. “I was asleep when I got the call, so, that’s put me on the wrong foot.”

“The day’s not likely to get any shorter,” the lady said. “So if you need coffee or liquor, now’s the time to fill up.”

“You know where the bar is,” Andy said, and didn’t look at me.

“I’m good.” I said. “What’s the gig?”

“Not to pivot unexpectedly, but what is the tension?” She looked back and forth between Andy and I. “There’s history, that’s evident for sure, but what was the nature? Base guess is romantic but one can’t always rely on the basest of deductions when you meet people, can you?”

“Certainly not.” I crossed my arms. “It was nothing. What’s the gig?”

“Come now, we love a good story, don’t we, and I’m absolutely dying for clarification--”

“I didn’t stutter,” I said, harder than I needed to. “And if you want my help, you better offer some clarity as to why I’m here.”

“I wanna catch a killer!” She took a few steps towards me. “He is cunning, violent, malicious, and methodical. The FBI called me crazy and said he wasn’t a serial murderer. The LAPD ignored my requests for help, and marked the internal files on the homicides as ‘nhi.’”

“NHI?” Andy asked.

“No human involved,” I said. “It’s what they say when sex workers get killed, or gang members, or homeless folks are involved in a crime. Shorthand so they can write the cases off, and the details don’t make it into the national registry for crime statistics.”

“A disgusting practice,” the lady said. “But one I can’t seem to circumvent with the powers I possess.”

“You still haven’t introduced yourself,” I said. “Andy used a name for you, but is it yours?”

“Hardly mine, it was my great-grandmother’s, but it’s got a certain poetry and I rather enjoy the beauty of poetry, you know?”

“Her name was Irene?”

“It certainly was, and her last name changed as her interests did, but she was known, professionally, as Adler for quite a while.” Irene grinned at me. “You’re not crazy, and yes, that’s my name.”

“Irene goddamn Adler.” I said, and couldn’t hide my awe. “Holy shit. Your ancestor’s exploits are legendary. The work she did in Milan during World War One is still talked about in the circles I’ve moved through.”

“That’d make her intensely happy, it surely would. It was in Milan that she met my great grandmother, the partner who helped her author the generations of Adlers to come.”

“The great Irene Adler was married to a trans woman?” I whispered. “You’re joking.”

“I wouldn’t be so crass.” She was within arm’s reach now and she grinned at me with ruby lips. “Irene was a freelancer, contracted by MI5 to help with weapons smuggling. Her handler was a closeted woman, a Navy Commander, and to say they fell in love at first sight is to understate it. Irene loved her, intensely, and was immensely protective of her wife.”

“I can only imagine. And given the thoroughness with which she hustled that detective, I can imagine the lengths she’d go to protect her wife.”

“Just so.” She offered me her hand. “That marks me Irene, and you Delilah Jones, trans woman and a freelancer of some renown. What say you, Miss Jones? Will you help me catch a killer?”

“I certainly will, Miss Adler.” I grinned, shook her hand.

“Then the first order of business is coffee, while we get up to speed.”

“We have space here,” Andy said.

“No,” I said. “I’ve got a place. Thanks for the call.”

I tried not to savor the look of jealousy on Andy’s face as we walked out.

(End Chapter)

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[aion-rsa]

The November Man and Pierce Brosnan’s Anti-James Bond Roles

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He’s nastier than I remembered. In fact, Peter Devereaux, who is Pierce Brosnan’s lead spy in the grisly B-actioner The November Man, is a downright scumbag. But this is by design in a film that’s clearly coasting off audiences’ familiarity with the actor as James Bond 007. And despite his penchant for a fashionable enough gray sport coat, Devereaux displays little elegance or wit while he’s on the job; he’s a bastard who’ll sneak into his former protege’s kitchen with a gun and then hold the young lad’s girlfriend hostage and at knifepoint.

“Scenario: Your target has just severed the femoral artery of a woman you have been intimate with. What do you do?” Brosnan’s not-so-super spy bellows right before slicing a young woman across the thigh. He all but sneers as he leaves the rookie to clean up his mess.

This is just one of several anti-Bond set-pieces in The November Man, which is an even uglier piece of work now than when it premiered seven years ago. Yet as the movie comes back to prominence this week due to Netflix’s algorithm, I couldn’t help but be reminded of how the picture must have looked like a breath of fresh air on the page for Brosnan. Indeed, it’s one of several flicks that contributed to a pattern the actor cultivated over the last 20 years: a deconstruction if not outright indictment of the 007 image which made him an international star. The November Man is the slightest of those efforts, however it remains a notable one wherein Brosnan again thrived in taking the glamour, not to mention the piss, out of his most famous role.

Naturally suave and urbane, cultured yet more physical than many of his detractors ever gave him credit for, Brosnan seemed like the natural choice to play 007 back in 1986 when he was first cast in the role. He looked like such a good fit that it might have been one of the contributing factors for why 1980s audiences didn’t fully warm to Timothy Dalton in the role after he stepped in because Brosnan’s ‘80s television series, Remington Steele, was renewed and Brosnan was forced to bow out. When the Irish actor finally got a second chance to slide into the tuxedo nearly 10 years later via 1995’s GoldenEye, Brosnan was more seasoned and mature than his days on NBC, but he was still unquestionably the most chic 007 audiences had ever seen.

At the time, it felt like the return of the rightful king to many casual fans, an heir claiming his rightful throne. Audiences went wild for GoldenEye, which remains in this writer’s opinion one of the best 007 adventures to date more than 25 years later. While the amount of reinvention that Eon Productions and director Martin Campbell had to do to justify Bond’s continued popularity in the post-Cold War era would look like small potatoes compared to what the same team would attempt 11 years later with Daniel Craig’s hard reboot of the franchise in Casino Royale, GoldenEye still remains a blast of fresh air for a series that was feeling increasingly stuffy by the end of the 20th century. Bond had to deal with the world changing, but unlike Craig’s Bond, he didn’t necessarily have to change with it yet.

There’s thus a melancholic element to Brosnan’s Bond 007. He’s not so much a “relic of the Cold War,” as the wonderful Judi Dench’s M says in her first tête-à-tête with a Bond actor, as he is a man that time has passed by. He’s aware his moment is gone, so he spends the 1990s justifying his relevancy, and at least in the case of GoldenEye (and I’d argue all of Brosnan’s first three Bond films) he proved it in the moment with a playful smirk and the best one-line groaners this side of Roger Moore. However, some of those movies aged, they were what audiences wanted from the character then.

However, this is not the only version of 007 that Brosnan could have played. The actor was in fact famous for his behind-the-scenes grappling with the producers and his attempts to take the character in a darker and more grounded direction. In 2017, he recalled to Total Film that, “There was a certain frustration within me as the films went on, as I could see the world happening around me and the movies. I wanted Bond to get a little more gritty and real and down and dirty, but however you try to nurse it along, the scripts would come along with the same outlandish scenarios.”

In essence, he seemed to want to play the Bond that Daniel Craig eventually embodied, or at least a less gloomy variation on it.

One imagines this was the reason even before he left the Bond role that Brosnan began exploring that side of the character wherever else he could. By the time of 2014’s The November Man, the anti-Bonds were almost as familiar for Brosnan as the real thing, and he mostly appeared to be indulging the type of B-actioners that actors of a certain age have turned into a subgenre ever since Taken. However, even before hanging up the tux for good, Brosnan was doing much more interesting work subverting that same public persona.

His performance as Andy Osnad in John Boorman’s The Tailor of Panama stands out as the most contemptuous and articulate deconstruction of the sophisticated 007 image. Based on a John le Carré novel, The Tailor of Panama imagines a disgraced libertine MI6 agent (Brosnan’s Andy) who decides to enrich himself in South American exile by manufacturing a crisis and hoodwinking a hawkish and imperialist American military while also manipulating one particularly demented ex-pat tailor (Geoffrey Rush). Largely underrated now, the 2001 film—which opened between The World is Not Enough (1999) and Die Another Day (2002)—features Brosnan at his smarmiest.

In essence, he is being asked to play a “real” version of James Bond. Hence he comes across as a callow, arrogant, misogynistic prick who after reaching middle age decides to use his immature work ethic to cash in like some of his past adversaries. People die because of his machinations, and lives are ruined. He even attempts to rape an alleged friend’s wife. It is one of Brosnan’s best performances and perhaps the most hard-nosed deconstruction of the Bond archetype attempted by any performer who’d starred in an Eon production.

However, the best inversion of the persona came from Brosnan again a few years later in Richard Shepherd’s hugely under-appreciated The Matador (2005). As a comedy premised around a literal pub gag, the film pivots on “a hitman and salesman walk into a bar….” Brosnan unsurprisingly plays that hitman, Julian Noble. But despite his honorable surname, there’s nothing chivalrous about Julian. A deranged and bitter killer who never thought he’d live so long as to reach an age filled with regret and loneliness, Julian probably remains Brosnan’s best on-screen performance and a proper menace for Greg Kinnear’s buttoned up family man, Danny Wright.

Awash in self-pity and laggard energy, Brosnan comes across like milk that spoiled weeks ago, and which has now grown arms and legs and is dragging itself out of your refrigerator. It’s hard to say Brosnan’s Julian was ever as sober or clear-eyed in his younger life as any version of 007, but he represents the uncouth reality of that character’s vices through his obsessions with booze, teenage girls, and finding pleasure in murder. He’s also one half of a terrific buddy comedy.

A small character piece, Shepherd’s Matador luxuriates in a clever script that despite its barebones narrative still surprises, especially as it becomes a three-hander between Brosnan, Kinnear, and Hope Davis as the everywoman wife who proves too far out of the aging Bond type’s league.

If you haven’t seen this amusing tonic of a film, hunt it down.

Read more

Movies

The top 10 best Pierce Brosnan films

By Duncan Bowles

Movies

Casino Royale and GoldenEye Director on What’s Next for James Bond

By Don Kaye

All of which paved the way for the more rote but overt The November Man. With its plot focusing on a Brosnan spy who’s out to avenge an old flame, not-so-coincidentally named Natalya (which is also the name of Izabella Scorupco’s Bond Girl in GoldenEye), the film traffics in Bond nostalgia; it even casts Olga Kurylenko who appeared in Craig’s Quantum of Solace. But there appears to be only faint nostalgia in Brosnan’s interpretation of those old ways here. Mostly his Devereaux is just a bitter old man filled with contempt.

Which is not to say Brosnan shares such animosity toward Bond. The actor genuinely appears grateful in interviews about that time in his life. However, even during the lesser installments of Brosnan’s tenure in the role, there was always a darkness and edge to his Bond that many franchise fans tended to undervalue.

While never as blunt or brooding as Craig’s self-loathing 007, there was a hidden brokenness to Brosnan’s interpretation that only would be seen in flashes. When they did appear, however, they were crueler than any actor in the role since Connery up to that point. It’s there when his Bond executes Vincent Schiavelli in Tomorrow Never Dies (1997). There isn’t a quip or smirk. There is just disdain on Bond’s face as he responds to Schiavelli’s pleas of “I’m just a professional doing a job” with “Me too.” And when he similarly shoots in cold blood one of his lovers, Sophie Marceau’s Elektra King in The World Is Not Enough, there is a perversity to the scene that makes even Dench’s M shudder.

Brosnan’s Bond likely could’ve been more than the 1990s’ most suave action movie joker. And he’s spent a lot of his post-Bond career proving exactly that.

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[mehlsbells]

My upbringing was starkly black and white, everything strictly categorised as sin and acceptable, allowed and not. The massive ‘sin: not allowed’ category swallowed everything in legalism and immutable consequences. I fell in love with noir partly because it has no such hangups.

I savoured noir’s evocative language and sexual undercurrent. I learned to believe exposing repressive authority and dirty deeds was valiant even if ultimately futile, and justice could be delivered even when corrupt systems stymied it. The hardboiled detective attracted me from every angle, and I dreamed of both being and fucking the daring mystery-solving, smoking, drinking, dame-bedding wiseass. The detective archetype is dangerously appealing; stalwart antiheroes holding to their personal code while all around them people sold their souls for a bottle of scotch, a land deed, a tempting woman or a hard man. Terribly tragic, and as such, terribly romantic.

Like a suspect in a smoky dive bar, what constitutes ‘loyalty’ in noir is hard to pin down, but while most supporting characters treat loyalty as a purchasable, expendable, flexible commodity, [anti]heroes Spade and Archer, Gittes and Dewitt, Mars and Hammer, et al. hold fiercely to their personal definitions thereof. These ideals often keep them from working with a partner, as they can’t find others who share their notions longer than a book’s opening chapters, a film’s first act. Sometimes, in a twisted blessing, their partner gets murdered before committing betrayal. (‘Committing betrayal.’ What a cruel grammatical construction.)

Fairly unique among their set, Charleses Nick and Nora manage loyalty and happiness to and with each other, but not only does their teasing openly relay insecurities in everyone outside their connubial circle, their origin story is shot through with loyalty conundrums. The crux of The Thin Man revolves around characters leveraging Nick’s allegiance to an old friend to make Nick and Nora investigate a suspicious death/disappearance, similar to the relationship between Marlowe and Terry Lennox in The Long Goodbye.

Marlowe: You didn’t have much choice, huh? So you used me. Lennox: Hell, that’s what friends are for.

Many noir tales examine murder, corruption, lost love, incest, power, grasping for companionship in sex and booze and partners. Few are so nakedly about friendship, loyalty, and the unique betrayal they set you up for as The Long Goodbye. As the game Lennox and Marlowe play in their first scene tells us, all Marlowe’s relationships are games of liar’s poker he’ll lose. The only question is: sooner, or later?

The film’s opening involves the great Philip Marlowe cajoling his hungry cat to eat first a concoction of cottage cheese and raw egg, then generic cat food. The two mewl, mumble and scratch in their understanding standoff. The film ends with Marlowe coolly justifying shooting his once-friend because Lennox indirectly killed the cat. Everything between is a meditation on loyalty.

As best exemplified in Nick and Nora Charles, noir understands relationships featuring fidelity and comfortable insults are the ones which really matter, so the snarky–sweet caring–codependent way Marlowe and hungry cat banter intentionally evokes true friendship. Altman called that opener important and Marlowe’s relation to his cat commentary on friendship: no matter how hectic his life, Marlowe is concerned the cat eats, whether the cops scare him, if he’s lost in LA’s mean streets.

Like most of his genre, Marlowe is destined to traverse the criminal underworld, continually learning the hard way he’s more loyal to friends, clients, even his constantly stoned neighbours, than they to him. He can’t bring himself to act on his cynicism until he’s burnt, and is a lost soul not because he’s dumb or drugged – he turns down even his neighbours’ hash brownie – but because he can’t find anywhere to put his trust.

Though they harass him and he blusters against their threats and handcuffs, Marlowe’s relationship with the cops is his most stable. He despises their work, they hate and stymie him, but at least he knows where he stands. Everywhere else is shifting sand and empty promises, golden and glittering by daylight, cold and dangerous at night. Under it all play morphing renditions of “The Long Goodbye,” refrains evolving and fading as quickly as relationships, adding atmosphere as Los Angeles underworld characters succour the detective and each other until betrayal becomes convenient.

As he searches for answers in mysteries and others, Marlow smokes to dull the pain – take a shot every time he strikes his match on a new surface, you’ll be drunk before the halfway point. Elliot Gould’s physicality superbly conveys Marlowe’s hurt and insecurity, shambling gait literalising existentially unsure footing.

Altman’s shots and Zsigmond’s cinematography also expose Marlowe’s mental state. The beautiful police station tracking shot puts us in Marlowe’s gumshoes, showing his strain as he attempts to sort through the mountain of information, theories, and grief he’s been buried under. The long dolly across the grounds of the clinic has a similar effect, moving first methodically, then more frenetically as Marlowe’s frustration builds. Exposition of addresses and phone numbers unroll with slow camera movements over long takes, revelling in the acting’s stillness, taking a less usual route than montages to make the viewer feel Marlowe’s tedium and loneliness.

The odyssey is wrapped in perfectly exposed beach scenes, daytime sands yellow-tinged and California to their core, nighttime painted deep blacks and grainy red with Eileen’s dress the only spot of yellow. Doubled imagery and symbols of duplicity abound, the most striking of which involve the beach. First we see Marlowe in the glare off Wades’s window, projected between quarrelling lovers as they snipe at each other. Later, in the same window, Eileen is shown two-faced as she and Marlowe talk while her husband charges suicidally into the inky sea.

The whole film is a gorgeous depiction of our ugliest impulses, and Altman is the perfect director for it. Through various lenses and genres, Altman’s work examines intimacy and pain which can be leveraged by only those closest to us. Noir’s peripheral characters are who many of Altman’s other films center: desperate, impotent men; disloyal lovers; marriages on the verge; frustrated humans performing drastic acts. The Long Goodbye digs into side stories many noirs don’t unless impacting the protagonist directly: Farewell, My Lovely is more concerned with Marlowe’s relationship to the women in his path than the women themselves; American Gigolo hardly contains a conversation Julian Kaye isn’t in; Evelyn’s relationships in Chinatown mostly evolve when Jake is around to observe, and he’s around almost every frame. Some of The Long Goodbye’s more virulent events or breakdowns happen while Marlowe is out of the picture, or listening to nothing but crashing waves.

Altman is interested in examining these stories for their own sake, and shows it by examining side characters with the reflections motif, too. Zsigmond uses Eileen’s windshield brilliantly to reflect her facade as Marlowe chases her through the streets. The stoned hippy neighbours are introduced surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows, one dancing with herself in the mirrored glass. The gate-guard-slash-impression-artist is reflected in Harry’s shiny car sidepanels, a symbol of security who pretends to be many other people, then shows himself more trustworthy than people pretending to be someone they’re not.

The guard also displays The Long Goodbye’s wicked sense of humour, along with the horny lookout whose ogling of stoned half-naked neighbour women allows Marlowe to sneak away. There’s the slapstick of Harry swinging haplessly on the gate trying clamber over as he imagines a detective should. Marlowe plants a sloppy handprint on the interrogation cell two-way mirror, then paints his face with fingerprint ink, cops impotent to stop his clowning. The guard dog fetching her owner’s stick from the waves has a twisted hilarity to it.

Which brings us, as the film continually does, back to loyalty. Relationships with animals are throughout: besides his cat, Marlowe nervously banters with the guard dog and talks as cheerfully as a damned man can to strays lying in the road. Ultimately animals’ loyalty – even only to the hand that feeds and then betrays them, pictured perfectly with mounted ducks – is still stronger than that of everyone else in his life, and loyalty is important to him.

If only I’d recognised earlier how much my identifying with pulp heroes was due to my own sense of loyalty, deservedness of recipients be damned. “Their cynicism exactly stems from their compassion, [their] hardness is a scar tissue of a heart they can’t stop the world from breaking over and over.” I weirdly admired Marlowe hoping against hope, believing those he loves once, then again. You know what they say about fools.

Marlowe: Nobody cares but me. Lennox: Well that’s you, Marlowe. You’ll never learn, you’re a born loser.

The Long Goodbye is Chandler’s most personal work. “You writers have your own special way of describing, don’t you?” is the movie acknowledging this sure as Chandler’s book commented on his deep insecurities, ideals, and philosophies. (The film references the book many times, including the face-bandaged man as a nod to Book Terry’s extensive plastic surgery.) Roger Ebert said in his original review, “The private eye as a fiction device was essentially a way to open doors; the best novels of Chandler and the others are simply hooks for a cynical morality.” Like Inherent Vice, the criminal underworld is alluring backdrop and murder the smaller mystery behind the real question of whether the detective can uphold his personal code in a world where ‘a man is only as good as his word’ simply means most men are no good. The real question, the crux and heart of the matter, is Will they keep clinging to that code? Why do we keep falling for those who throw us over?

The thing about franchised noir detectives is, as characters or story properties, they can’t fundamentally change. They solve mysteries, their settings are updated from 50s to 70s to aughts to 2019, they jadedly swear they’ll never trust again, they may seem to learn their lesson. But in the end the stories reset. Sure as sunset and the next story, they get let down, used, double-crossed, stung, only to begin again when the next sultry shadow darkens their door. Once again they give their loyalties to a friend in need, a dame with legs up to there. Once again the dames and mates evaporate; or worse, explicitly sell our fallible hero upriver, relying on said hero’s tragically loyal personal code to prevent retaliation.

We’ve all had those dames and mates. We’ve all sworn to never love again, only to willingly set ourselves up for more heartbreak. People who mean what they say only so long as they feel like it. Family who love you so long as you’re meekly in line. Dames who say “I love you” in the night and “I’m leaving you” in the morning. Business partners who call you family until it’s more expedient not to be. Friends who say forever but mean for as long as you’re fun, and you’re no fun when you’re stumbling through a haze of pain or grief. Homme fatales who sell you out when a better offer comes in. Lovers who are loyal while you do exactly what they want.

In the first of two crucial scenes which start placidly before exploding into brutal violence, thug Marty gives a speech to/about his girlfriend Joanne. “Delicate and sweet . . . I love you. I do. . . . The single most important person in my life.” Ah, love, the highest form of loyalty.

Then he hits her across the face with a glass bottle.

Do we feel sorry for her? is the same question Tarantino asks in Once Upon A Time… In Hollywood when Brad Pitt’s Cliff smashes sadistic Sadie’s face with a can of dog food. The blow to Joanne’s face is lighter and unprovoked, but though her crimes are lighter, her madonna-like framing is window dressing. She blithely enjoys fruits of Marty’s torture, murder, and extortion, knowing her flippery is bought with blood money. (Her blow’s aftereffects are visually replicated by Jake’s bandages in Chinatown – directed by Polanski, who is depicted in Once Upon A Time, making these films a Möbius strip of themes, imagery, period, and settings.)

In different ways, Joanne and Sadie establish The Long Goodbye and Once Upon a Time‘s cruel worlds, where psychopaths and rich ruthless men get their way. Both center men with drinking and smoking habits, a dubious past, and a personal moral code. Marlowe and Cliff fight against the establishment, for themselves and their friends. Though they don’t believe in innocence, they want to believe people exist whose souls at least aren’t as dark as the rest of ours. Within their morality is loyalty; Cliff to Rick Dalton, Marlowe to Terry or at least the idea of him: “Terry Lenox was my friend you motherfucker . . . you don’t deserve to be alive you fuckin’ pig.” Rick and Terry don’t return the loyalty, yet Cliff and Marlowe can’t help themselves. It’s their code.

The Long Goodbye ending Ebert calls “off the wall” I see as wish fulfilment, same as Once’s. In the film Terry gets justice delivered by Marlowe, Bracket’s screenplay ‘fixing’ the book’s injustice. Altman revels in this playground where disloyalty equals death and real world consequences are momentarily suspended for a warped fairy tale ending.

The final shot is reminiscent of Holly Martins waiting on a tree-lined boulevard in The Third Man, another film featuring a man unendingly loyal to a death-faking friend who didn’t deserve such fidelity. The Long Goodbye’s last shot brings yellow in again, reminding us of Eileen’s dress, the faded sun on the beach, letters and pledges of friendship aged and brittled by time. Only here, Marlowe’s the one walking away, getting as happy an ending as one can hope for in noir.

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Lennox blindsided Marlowe, then called him a fool for expecting others to do what he would in keeping his word. Pulp detectives are thrown under the bus or off a cliff with the shrugged excuse along the lines of “I knew you were tough enough to survive” or “sorry, you were just collateral damage.” Given enough time, “I threw you under the bus to save myself” becomes “It was the best option for both of us” becomes “you survived and are better for learning this lesson, you should be thanking me!” This essay draws parallels to Marlowe and Veronica Mars’ getting run over because of their clinging to loyalty, “an anchor that binds.”

But every detective also has their breaking point, the point at which they say the rules have been violated enough to justify them taking matters into their own hands. 

Marlowe: I have two friends in the world. One is a cat. The other is a murderer.

Is loyalty its own reward? Chandler’s book seems to argue it is, but Marlowe shooting his once-friend in the film argues something else. Grown and free of the romanticised prism Younger Me viewed Marlowe through, do I believe Chandler’s ending or Brackett’s?

The teenager who first read Chandler’s book would choose idealism: be true to your code, give your loyalty, those who turn on you will get what they deserve while you can keep the moral high ground. Even with grim answers in front of me, maybe I’d make like Marlowe, clinging stubbornly to loyalty disavowed by its recipient, or keeping myself preoccupied searching for answers and other mysteries.

While I want to hold to those ideals still, what are movies for if not to show us what we really want, wish-fulfilling our basest instincts? Watching now, I can’t help but savour that moment Marlowe tosses his cigarette, reaches into his waistband, and coolly shoots the man who treated his loyalty as commodity.

For #Noirvember, I wrote about the concept of loyalty in noir in general, and "The Long Goodbye" in particular. My upbringing was starkly black and white, everything strictly categorised as sin and acceptable, allowed and not.

[starlabsforever-blog]

Dude, I have so many. So here's a bunch for Killervibe :) Location (Freelance Whales), I Can't Help Falling In Love With You (Elvis), Hold My Heart (Sara Bareilles), Issues (Julia Michaels), I Dream and Ocean (Charlene Kaye)

I went with Location. The song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JqIz5_qbxrA

Also, kudos to @mosylufanfic for giving me someone to bounce ideas off of for this one

I Am Sensing Your Location

The first time it happened, Cisco was right in the middle of a fight. He was taking down a couple of rough customers with Cindy, and needless to say, it was a very inconvenient time to be rendered incapacitated on the ground by a headache.

When he came to, even the scumbags Cindy had cuffed were concerned. Cindy brought him to Julian, much to Cisco’s annoyance (“You realize you just swapped out one migraine for another one, right?”). Julian diagnosed Cisco with a serious case of off-his-meds and referred him to someone who would write him a prescription of dubious legality.

It wasn’t getting better. On the contrary, it was getting exponentially worse, but Cisco hid it from the others as best he could. They had enough to deal with.

At first, he thought it was just the vibing circuits of his brain throwing a fit because of some electrical anomaly, and he didn’t think there was any sort of significance to the vibes. After all, it had been a long while since he’d had random vibes of any importance. Thanks to Cindy, his skills were becoming honed enough that he could see things at will when he needed to. When he had the migraines, it was usually the visual equivalent of static- flashes of light and color, occasionally punctuated by a shape or a blurry image if his brain was feeling generous, but they were disjointed and never made sense. Until he had the fourth migraine, and he saw Caitlin. 

It wasn’t a very clear image; it had the the same cobalt tint and smear around the edges as the rest of his vibes. He saw her face clear as day, but where she was or what she was doing he couldn’t tell.

It happened a few more times, but it was always the same- too blurry, too vague. He was tempted to vibe in on her intentionally, to see if he could clear up the picture, but he didn’t. He told himself it was because of the migraines. Really, it was because he was terrified of what he might see.

“You just couldn’t wait to see me again, huh? You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

“Shut up.” Her hands misted dangerously.

“Actually, I’m kinda inclined to do the opposite of that. You’ve done nothing to convince me that you’re not gonna Frozone my ass as soon as I stop stalling.”

“I’m not going to kill you, Cisco,” she said, and for a second, her eyes were murky blue-brown, like the bottom of a lake.

He stepped forward, hands up. 

Then her eyes glinted, and she said in that horrible, inhuman voice, “I’m going to put you through hell.”  

Cisco woke up screaming.

When his voice gave out, he pulled the covers over his head, bunching his hands up in them, trying to calm down with the breathing exercises Caitlin had taught him a millennia ago. He was drenched in sweat but at the same time he felt cold clear through. He told himself that it was just a dream, that it wasn’t the right shade of blue. It had had the distorted, trippy feel of a hallucination, so it must have been a fever dream or else just stress.

That goddamn fight in the woods. Infantino Street wouldn’t leave him alone. He clutched onto his phone, his fingers hovering over Cindy’s contact, but he ended up dropping it on his nightstand. She was great and she cared and all, but she hadn’t seen him having a breakdown of this magnitude, and he wasn’t sure she would know what to do with him. He wasn’t sure she would be any comfort at all.

What he really wanted was Caitlin. Not the pale, distant woman who’d left H.R.’s funeral, and certainly not the hell maiden he’d just seen in his nightmare. He wanted his best friend Caitlin, who watched The Walking Dead with him, who hated when he stole her pizza pockets, who had spent nights sleeping on his couch just to keep her company. He wanted her so badly and it made him want to cry. 

He sat up and leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. He didn’t need any help from his nightmares or his vibes to worry about Caitlin. He had no idea where she was or what she was doing, or if she was even alive, and his overactive imagination had been more than happy to remind him of all of the horrible fates that she could have suffered. That was all this was, was his overactive brain and his anxiety, and the sleep deprivation certainly couldn’t be helping.

With his nightmare fresh in his mind, he was weak. He just had to know that she was safe, that she was okay, that she was alive somewhere. Then that would give him enough peace of mind to sleep. He hadn’t slept much for the last three weeks.

He rifled through his dresser and found what he was looking for, folded up in the bottom drawer. It was a blue t-shirt that said Trust me, I’m the doctor. He had bought it, but she was the only one who ever wore it. The last time she’d worn it must have been months ago, the last time he’d gotten badly hurt enough that she’d insisted on going home with him. He hoped it would be good enough.

He held it with both hands, close to his face. It still had the faded scent of her lavender shampoo. He breathed in lavender and closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on Caitlin.

Nothing.

He huffed, frustrated, and tried again. He knew how to do this. These days, he didn’t even need an object, so why couldn’t he do it now?  Maybe he needed to be in the right mindset. Okay, be zen. Calm down. Deep yoga breaths. He picked up the shirt and tried again. Still nothing.

He tossed the shirt to the ground, frustrated. He scoured his apartment, hoping he’d find an old earring of hers or something that would have soaked up her presence, but there was nothing any better than the t-shirt, not here.

He drove his truck to STAR Labs, because the migraine nibbling at the nape of his neck threatened to split his skull in two if he tried to open a breach. He raced to the elevator, his pulse still humming from the adrenaline of his dream.

He tore her desk apart, but everything felt felt too trivial or impersonal. The things he’d used before, Barry’s suit, Zoom’s hat. Dante’s car keys, were more than just a favorite pen or an earring left behind. It had to be something special.

He saw it in the corner of his eye, just a glint at the bottom of her desk drawer, and it felt like a godsend.

Her wedding ring. 

He scooped it up, hands trembling, and closed his fingers around it.

Nothing happened.

He put his foot through the drawer and got a splinter in his leg.

Cisco kept trying to vibe her, but either he hit the same wall of blocky static or he was seized by an unbearable migraine. He took to wearing the wedding ring on a chain around his neck, just to keep it close to him. He decided Ronnie wouldn’t have minded. 

He asked Cynthia if she’d ever not been able to vibe before. “Um, like, hypothetically. Have you ever had a block for a specific person?”

She looked at him a little suspiciously, but didn’t ask. She didn’t ask him for much these days. “Once. My partner. He was in serious trouble and I was trying to- to make sure he was okay.”

It was a striking parallel, but it just made him more frustrated. He never asked for these stupid brain-splitting powers, okay, and the one time he really needed to use them, the omnipotent power of the multiverse had decided, nah, you don’t need to know whether Caitlin’s alive. 

“How did you get past it?” he asked Cynthia. 

She stiffened. “I never got the chance,” she said, and turned away.

The migraines basically kept him from sleeping, ever, so that’s why he was slumped over his couch at 3 AM and at least a little high on pain medication. He was tightly clutching Cait’s wedding ring, his hand loosely over his heart, and not quite on the upside of the spectrum of consciousness when his world sputtered into blue. 

This time, there was no migraine, and no acid trip. He saw Caitlin, with her shock-white hair and pale skin. She turned around and her eyes were brown, they were brown. She wore all black and red lipstick, and she was in a room he’d never seen before. He tried to look around to find maybe a window or any distinct feature that could help him locate her, but there was nothing. Lonely white walls and a depressing beige carpet. She sat on a bed in the corner, playing with something in her hand. 

“Caitlin,” he whispered, even though he’d never tried that before. Predictably, she didn’t look up. He tried to focus on the shiny, silvery object in her hand, and his heart stopped when he realized what it was.

The pieces of the necklace he’d made her.

He had no idea where she’d found the remnants, or why or how she’d kept them. That didn’t matter to him nearly as much as the fact that wherever she was, she still had it and she apparently spent a lot of time looking at it.

Something he’d once made to protect her.

He focused on her face, trying to make out her features through the blurry unfocused lens. Her eyes were downcast and her face was lined, tired. She was slumped against the wall behind that bed, hugging herself.

Even though he was almost positive it didn’t work this way, he tried to project thoughts to her- Caitlin, Cait, where are you? I miss you. I need you. I still want you.

He wasn’t sure it was him calling out to her so much as his heart bursting out of his chest, mourning for her, yearning for her. His hand closed over the ring.and the atmosphere changed.

It was as sudden as a flash of lightning but as subtle as a heat wave. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw her eyes lock with hers. Then the necklace slid out of her fingers.

He came to on his living room floor, still clutching the wedding ring tightly in his fist.

Caitlin stared at the broken pieces in her hand. Its purpose was purely sentimental. Even before Killer Frost, she hadn’t been much of a sentimental person, but having your life turned upside down and fundamentally shaken had an effect on you. 

She didn’t know why she brought these. She shouldn’t have. She needed to spend this time with herself and reflect on herself and if and when Central City ever fit into that picture again, she would go back. Everything around her had changed, and she was changing, too. She had to. 

But she could only be so strong for so long. When she felt this helpless and hopeless, she just held the biggest remnant of the silvery snowflake in her hand, thinking of the hands that had made it for her. She closed her eyes and imagined his strong, warm hands, his smile, his voice, his arms.  

If she allowed herself to, she missed him so badly that it hurt. She closed her hand around the necklace.

I need you

She jumped and glanced around wildly. Hearing things, definitely. She was alone.

And then for a split second, she wasn’t.

Cait

She wasn’t sure if he was there, exactly, but she felt him. She felt his presence like a burst of warm sunlight, like a sudden summer storm, like two arms wrapped around her. 

Then like a crack of lightning, she was alone again.

Cisco slept with the ring around his neck that night. He decided Ronnie definitely wouldn’t mind.

The next morning, his head was full of cotton, but the migraine was gone. He didn’t feel as lonely as the last night before, or as desperate. Something had shifted.

He held the ring against his chest and closed his eyes, thinking with all of his might, Cait, I’m here. Wherever you are, I’m here.

Somehow, what had felt like an unnavigable chasm between them was just the tiniest bit smaller.

[hellsbellschime]

Jon bernthal our baby we have to support him I miss his face. It better get picked up AMERICAN GIGOLO is a present-day reimagining of the iconic 1980 film. Bernthal will play Julian Kaye, who is introduced 18 years after he's been arrested for murder and struggling to find his footing in the modern-day Los Angeles sex industry, while seeking the truth about the set-up that sent him to prison all those years ago and also hoping to reconnect with Michelle, his one true lov

What the shit? I will absolutely watch this but I cannot imagine my Frank as a gigolo. 

[funnythingshere0-blog]

Noel Fielding: 'Everything Salvador Dalí did was funny'

New Post has been published on http://funnythingshere.xyz/noel-fielding-everything-salvador-dali-did-was-funny/

Noel Fielding: 'Everything Salvador Dalí did was funny'

Noel Fielding was born, or so you’d think, to play Alice Cooper. The eyeliner, the dangling black locks, the camped-up goth vibe, the way the comedian and Bake Off host dresses more outlandishly than anyone in any room, with the possible exception of Prue Leith.

Cooper has long been one of Fielding’s heroes. His parents were fans and inducted their son into the rock musician’s oeuvre, perhaps even instilling into little Noel the subversive philosophy of Cooper’s School’s Out. “I love his music. He was a punk before punk.”

The Adventures of Alice and Noel, from the Guardian’s Guide, 2012. Illustration: Noel Fielding

And then one day, Cooper appeared as a guest on the pop quiz show Never Mind the Buzzcocks, on which Fielding was a team captain. Their relationship blossomed. “He invited me to his show and then I did a cartoon strip about him in the Guardian.” He also interviewed his hero for the paper.

So when Fielding went to audition for a role in a new drama for Sky Arts’ Urban Myths series about the time the glam rocker met the venerable shock artist Salvador Dalí, Fielding was a shoo-in to play Cooper. But he had other ideas. He suggested to directors Jane Pollard and Iain Forsyth he should play Dalí. “I mean, both Alice and Dalí are heroes to me, but Dalí has been important to me since I saw a painting of his with a burning giraffe in the background. When I was aged 12, I just went: ‘This is it for me.’ And I went to art school because of that.”

But you grew up to become not an artist, but a comedian? “Yeah, but Dalí’s a comedian as well. Everything he does is funny, for shock. He’s the most ridiculous man played straight.” And in any case, Fielding has never quite set aside his artistic chops. The comedian has held a number of different exhibitions, including The Jelly Fox, a video installation shown at the Saatchi Gallery in London in 2012. Fielding is, in many respects, the Salvador Dalí of British comedy.

Understandably, the directors wouldn’t countenance casting Fielding as Dalí when they had as surefire a lookalike as Cooper. Instead, they sent him away for six weeks to research the Cooper role. He was assigned a voice coach to make his stab at Cooper’s flat, Michigan accent more convincing. “It is scary playing someone you know. You don’t want to let him down.”

We’re chatting in Fielding’s dressing room at Pinewood Studios between shots for the new drama, The Dalí and the Cooper. Fielding, wearing a prosthetic nose, tells me he was mollified when he found out who’d been cast to play Dalí. “I love David Suchet. I’m obsessed with Poirot. Then I saw him in The Importance of Being Earnest, where he did Lady Bracknell and he was amazing – he did it like a dinosaur, like a velociraptor.

“I was very nervous because I was thinking, him and Sheila Hancock” – who plays Dalí’s 79-year-old wife, muse and manager Gala Dalí – “they’re big actors who’ve got a lot of experience. And I’m learning how to be an actor.” Suchet gave him some helpful tips about watching footage of Cooper from the early 1970s. “David said watch him with the sound down. Then you’ve got nothing but the body language.”

Noel Fielding and Sandi Toksvig, left, with judges Paul Hollywood and Prue Leith on Channel 4’s The Great British Bake Off. Photograph: Channel 4/PA

We meet on the day in March last year when it was announced that Fielding and Sandi Toksvig would replace Mel and Sue in Channel 4’s retool of of The Great British Bake Off. “I know it’s odd – I look like a goth – but I think it’s quite an inspired choice,” says Fielding. Yet even Fielding – no stranger to fame – admits to being blindsided by the fuss. He didn’t go home last night to elude the media scrum. “I forgot it was such a big show. My phone’s on fire.”

His PR agent has been scrambled to Pinewood to make sure Fielding talks about Cooper rather than, presumably, blabbing nuggets about his nascent rapport with Bake Off’s mahogany tiger, Paul Hollywood. “I’m not allowed to talk about it,” he says. “I like the show and I like Sandi Toksvig, so I thought it would be fun.” Given all the media rumpus, it’s astounding he can keep his head in the game.

The Dalí and the Cooper riffs on the day in 1973 when Cooper comes off stage during his Billion Dollar Babies tour to be told by his manager Shep Gordon (the superb Paul Kaye) that Dalí is in that night’s crowd. “Well, if that gives you wood, drop your kimono and get ready for the happy ending, kemosabe, because the D-Man wants to work with you.” Such, at least, is how comedy writers Roger Drew and Ed Dyson, who worked on The Thick of It and Veep, imagine the conversation.

Waiting for the D-Man … Noel Fielding as Cooper and Paul Kaye as his manager Shep Gordon in Urban Myths. Photograph: Sky UK Limited

What the D-Man wants to do, it turns out, is to make Cooper the subject of his latest artwork. But there is a problem. Gala Dalí refuses to pay this American oik for the privilege. Shep is a tough businessman (he wears a T-shirt emblazoned “No head. No backstage pass”), but even Shep’s lurid professional backstory ill-prepares him for professional dealings with this woman whom he pegs as a ball-buster. Gala tells Shep she was once in a threesome with Paul Éluard and Max Ernst but neither could satisfy her. Hancock clearly revels in this role.

While Shep and Gala wrangle over the money, the Dalí and the Cooper meet. As Suchet’s Dalí shoots Fielding’s Cooper, who’s half naked and clutching props such as a brain capped with an eclair over which crawl some ants, the two men discuss what it is to be an artist. Dalí can’t quite believe that his subject is not Alice Cooper all the time, but is developing a fond relationship with something usually frowned upon by surrealist artists and rock’n’rollers, namely golf. Unlike Dalí, Cooper isn’t always on.

Fielding grasps why the character he plays left his madness on stage. “He knew Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Keith Moon and Harry Nilsson and they all died. He worked out that he couldn’t be that character off stage. And that’s kept him in good stead, I think. In the days playing golf, and in the evening cutting his own head off with a guillotine. What a life!”

The Dalí and the Cooper. Photograph: Sky UK

What makes Fielding’s performance so compelling is that he’s is channelling something of his twentysomething self. “In this Alice is 24 and Dalí’s 69, so Alice is trying to hold his own. He’s a huge rock star and he’s quite cocky. He’s like me when I was doing the Boosh and we were doing arenas. Not cocky in a horrible way, but you’re just sure of yourself because you’re, like, 20,000 people came tonight – you’ve got a spring in your step. You’re not really old enough to realise that’s only going to last for so long.”

Fielding’s greatest fame came in his 20s when he and Julian Barratt starred in the surrealist comedy The Mighty Boosh. The characters he created then – flamboyant zookeeper Vince Noir, a Cockney hitchhiker and hermaphroditic merman Old Greg – are remembered fondly by fans. “People keep asking me if the Boosh is coming back and I say I hope so. I’m not bothered people ask me about it. TV’s become quite disposable, so to make something that lasts a bit of time – it won’t last forever – is quite nice.”

As for the Urban Myths directors, they were trying to create a piece of TV that looks like the era run which the drama is set. “We had a rule book,” says Jane Pollard. “We would only use tech devices we could have used in 1973. So there’s no screen, all the effects are in camera.” This kind of self-denying ordinance is of a piece with their use of music. “It would have been so easy to have put in some Alice Cooper music.” So why didn’t you? “Because he wouldn’t have been listening to Alice Cooper.” Instead, they commissioned Jarvis Cocker to write the soundtrack, which he performed with Richard Hawley.

Back in his dressing room, Noel Fielding gets the call. Despite the prosthetic nose and the lavish eyeliner, they need him in make up sharpish. He toddles off obligingly on high heels, but not before I ask him one last question. Has playing Alice Cooper given you an insight into how to mellow? “Maybe. I mean I’m on Bake Off – now I might start playing golf. “ He is, please God, kidding.

[dyns33]

Wanting something

I didn't watch the series but I wanted to do something about Julian Kaye. I may do a second part, I'm not sure yet.

When Y/N had met Julian Kaye, she had initially thought he was going to ask her for money.

It was a little suspicious that a man like him would come and talk to a woman like her for no reason.

Then she had thought that he had lost a bet, or that he wanted to win a bet. A stupid, nasty bet.

Then, after several hours of talking and exchanging numbers, Y/N decided that he must just be strange, desperate, or with questionable taste.

In any case, Julian Kaye seemed to really like her, and for a month, it was bliss to be with him.

They saw each other at least four times a week, he treated her like a queen, listening to her, not rushing her, and not caring what others thought.

“Why would I care ?” he asked her. "I don't know them. They didn't know me, nor did they know you. They don't matter. I'm happy with you, that's the only thing that matters."

Y/N’s life wasn’t always easy. She wasn't very good with people, with social relationships. Her love life was quite empty. Her family was worried about her, and some of her colleagues made fun of her for it, saying that she was probably frigid.

With Julian, Y/N didn’t feel frigid. She felt loved, respected.

She wanted more.

On the evening that celebrated the first month of their meeting, she decided to do something special. She invited him to dinner at her place, cooking all day and they spent hours on the couch, talking, then kissing, until midnight.

Julian's cell phone then rang.

"Hmm. A month."

"Yes." she sneered, wanting to kiss him again. “A month exactly.”

“For more, you will have to make a new transfer.” he said politely, putting a finger to her mouth.

"… What ?"

"You paid for a month. I know, it's hard, but that's business. I'll let you think about it, you have my number."

He then left her alone on the sofa, totally lost.

In the end, Y/N had been right about one thing. Julian had approached her about money, but not her money.

She understood this when one of her colleagues, the worst of all, came to question her about the gigolo she and the others had hired to offer her a good time and unwind her.

According to her, it was a charitable act. He had to act like her boyfriend for a month, and Y/N might be less annoying after getting fucked good.

"I still bet it was wasted money, because you're so stuck up that you weren't going to jump on him, even if he got naked in front of you, his legs spread apart, with whipped cream on his chests. Was I right ? Did you have sex or not ?"

Y/N had never been so ashamed in her life. She locked herself in the toilet of the office to cry.

Julian's number was deleted. She didn't plan to see him again, ever.

It was by chance that they met in a bar. He had the nerve to smile at her as he raised his glass, which made her blood boil. Maybe the three drinks she had already had didn't help.

Instead of going home to save what little dignity she had left, she went to see him, hesitating between slapping him and insulting him.

"Good evening darling."

“I’m not your darling, you fucker.”

"…Excuse me ? Look, I'm sorry but the rules were clear. I have schedules to respect, I'm a professional. If you come and tell me that you're not satisfied, you told me that you chose the pace, so I followed. And if you fell in love or something stupid like that, I warned you about that too."

"Warned ? Warned ?! My lovely colleagues didn't give me the rules when they hired you, sorry ! You should be ashamed ! I thought… I should have known it was too good to be true… "

"… Wait. You didn't know ?"

He had been annoyed at first that she was angry with him, but Julian immediately calmed down when he realized that Y/N hadn't hired her. He thought she had hired her, he too had been somehow trapped.

He would never have accepted this contract if he had known.

"I sometimes get weird requests, from clients who want me to play a role. This request was simple, a romantic meeting, to play perfect boyfriend, don't talk about my job if you don't talk about it directly… Shit. Oh, Y/N, shit, I’m sorry. Really. Who are the bitches who did this ?”

Like a gentleman, he offered her a handkerchief, and he listened to her again, about her colleagues, about her relationships, gently stroking her arm to comfort her.

“Sorry…” she sobbed when she saw the time. "It's late. You have to work, I… I'll leave you be."

"No, it's okay. One day without. And a good lesson for me, I'll check my clients better the next time. I only make ladies cry if they ask me to."

This made her laugh. During their month together, Julian had made her laugh a lot. He was truly a charming man. Y/N tried not to think about it too much, telling her heart to shut up, because none of it had been true.

She did her best to forget, as the weeks passed normally. The work was painful, the others making fun of her even more than before. Their murmurs and laughter followed her everywhere. She was thinking of resigning soon.

One day at lunchtime the whispers continued, but they seemed different. She heard someone approach, putting a hand on her shoulder. Y/N sighed before turning around, expecting a colleague.

“… Julian ?”

"Hello darling." he replied, kissing her. “I came to kidnap you, we’re eating together today.”

"… Eh ?" was the smartest thing she could say.

A bit lost, she let Julian take her hand and lead her outside, to a small Italian restaurant, as if everything was perfectly normal.

He chuckled when he saw her look full of questions. He had thought a lot about what had happened, he hadn't liked that she was so hurt at all, and he wanted to teach her colleagues a little lesson.

"They think you're not good enough to seduce a guy like me ? Well, they're wrong."

“They’ll think I’m paying you.”

"Sweetheart. To pay for my services for more than a day, you must be rich or very in debt. I inquired, they contributed fourteen to pay my month's salary, it is impossible for me to be there because you give me money.”

The little game seemed to work. When Y/N returned to work, her colleagues were totally disturbed because they had seen it. They were even more disturbed when Julian came to pick her up in the evening, and when he returned again and again several times during the week.

It was a bit fun, she was willing to admit, but also difficult. Y/N tried to forget him, and that wasn't possible seeing him almost every day.

The worst part was that he also came to see her when she wasn't working, which seemed pointless. Her colleagues couldn't see them at her place. But Julien arrived with his flowers and his huge smile, taking a place on her sofa and asking her how her day was.

Y/N thought that maybe he didn't have many relationships outside of work. No friends. Nobod. Perhaps it did him good to talk with someone who didn't pay him and therefore didn't see him as a piece of meat or a product.

He told her about himself. About his past, his beginnings very young, much too young, in the industry. He talked about prison. He didn't hide anything from her, and Y/N felt that it was important, because he shouldn't talk about it often, if he ever talked about it.

It might sound crazy, but he loved his job. He would have been capable of doing anything else, but he liked to please, he liked to give pleasure to women, he liked to have a lot of money while lying by a swimming pool. He wasn't ashamed of it.

This continued for months. Y/N quit, considering when more of her horrible coworkers she could find a better job.

Julien continued to come. At her new job and at home. He also invited her to his place, where it was clear that he never invited anyone.

As they shared a bottle of champagne in front of a movie, Y/N leaned against him, a little drunk. He put his hand across her, his head against hers.

“We look like an old couple.” she joked.

"Hmm."

"It's nice. I wonder if I'll ever get that… I mean, for real."

Julian's head left hers, although his hand remained on her shoulder. Y/N felt that he was tense, that she had said something stupid, and the best thing to do would have been to say nothing, but she had been drinking, and she didn't think.

"I mean… Romantically. I'm not your type, it's okay. We're friends. It's great. I try to remember that we're just friends."

“Why do you say you’re not my type ?”

"Please…"

“You also think you’re not good enough to seduce a guy like me ?”

"I am not stupid."

“Well, you clearly kinda are.”

There were times in life when people forgot how to breathe. All that was left was the sound of their hearts pounding in their ears, and the feeling that something important was happening.

It took a little while for Y/N to remember how to breathe, and for her to slowly turn to Julian, who was still watching the movie.

“Julian…”

"No. Don't say anything. I know what you're going to say."

“What am I going to say ?”

"That you like me. But that my job is too weird for us to be together. I'm just a whore, very handsome, very nice, with money, but above all with a rotten past, a crappy apartment, the…"

"I love you."

"Stop."

Julian was not ashamed of his job, but he was aware that it closed certain doors to him, like love. A family life, a normal life. No one would want to date a gigolo. No one could talk about what he was doing. No one could trust him or be proud of him.

“Julian.” Y/N insisted. "I don't care about your work. Maybe it will be difficult, but I don't care. I love you. You told me how you started, you told me why you keep going, you're careful, you're professional. You… It doesn't matter if you don't like me, we can just be friends. But I love you, I really love you, I don't care about others. Remember ? I I don't care about anyone else."

She wasn't sure if he had meant that when he told her, but he looked at her intently, before kissing her.

When he told Lorenzo that he had found someone and wanted to change his schedule, his boss asked him if he had forgotten the rules.

But Y/N had technically never been one of his clients, not offering him a penny, so Julian declared that no, he had been very lucky to find love, someone who accepted him as he was. he was, this made his friend sigh.

“We’ll see how long this lasts.”

"Yes, we will see." Julian replied before hanging up to take Y/N in his arms, looking at her like the first day, like a man who wanted something.

He seemed satisfied when she pressed her lips against his.

[darlingshane]

Did you see that EW article where Rosie O’Donnell basically said that JB was unhappy with American Gigolo playing the role of Julian Kaye?

Yeah, I saw! A friend asked me about this yesterday, too, so I'm going to extend the answer I gave to her, now that I've had some more time to think about it.

I'm not sure if he ever verbally expressed he was 'never happy' (rosie's words), but Jon and Rosie had very serious, angsty scenes. I'd imagine he wasn't especially cheerful filming those, I guess she might have gotten that vibe from the character.

For what I've gathered, Jon initially signed up to do this because of David Hollander, the original showrunner, that was fired in the middle of filming and I think he wasn't completely thrilled about that. I believe that Jon was going to be originally credited as a producer when it was announced back in 2020, but he didn't get that either. So that might have contributed too. Along with the fact that maybe he was promised a project that changed the moment David was fired.

This is just my opinion, I really don't know anything. But I do know that Jon takes his job seriously, and I wouldn't say he was unhappy playing a gigolo, as Rosie implied, I'm sure he enjoyed some aspects of it.

He never promoted the show beyond posting a couple of pics on the set, and one of them was captioned 'ugh' lol. So yeah, perhaps it wasn't what he expected when he took the part.

[montysstuffs]

WIP List

So I have a list of things I plan on writing or have already started writing!

The Quarry girls kinks (working on it and almost done 🫡 )✅

The quarry College AU Headcanons (started but still working)

It will come back (Mean ex boyfriend!Nick Furcillo x Fem Reader) (started and I think I need 1 more day to finish it 😈😈) ✅

The devils in the details (Luke Nightingale x reader x Daniel) (this is a very big maybe but it’s not yet started)

Sugar daddy! Billy Russo headcanon (not yet started)

Sugar daddy! Julian Kaye headcanon

Skin (first time Ryan x fem reader) (not yet started)

[darlingshane]

American G i g o l o Imagine with Jon Bernthal

[funnythingshere0-blog]

Noel Fielding: 'Everything Salvador Dalí did was funny'

New Post has been published on http://funnythingshere.xyz/noel-fielding-everything-salvador-dali-did-was-funny/

Noel Fielding: 'Everything Salvador Dalí did was funny'

Noel Fielding was born, or so you’d think, to play Alice Cooper. The eyeliner, the dangling black locks, the camped-up goth vibe, the way the comedian and Bake Off host dresses more outlandishly than anyone in any room, with the possible exception of Prue Leith.

Cooper has long been one of Fielding’s heroes. His parents were fans and inducted their son into the rock musician’s oeuvre, perhaps even instilling into little Noel the subversive philosophy of Cooper’s School’s Out. “I love his music. He was a punk before punk.”

The Adventures of Alice and Noel, from the Guardian’s Guide, 2012. Illustration: Noel Fielding

And then one day, Cooper appeared as a guest on the pop quiz show Never Mind the Buzzcocks, on which Fielding was a team captain. Their relationship blossomed. “He invited me to his show and then I did a cartoon strip about him in the Guardian.” He also interviewed his hero for the paper.

So when Fielding went to audition for a role in a new drama for Sky Arts’ Urban Myths series about the time the glam rocker met the venerable shock artist Salvador Dalí, Fielding was a shoo-in to play Cooper. But he had other ideas. He suggested to directors Jane Pollard and Iain Forsyth he should play Dalí. “I mean, both Alice and Dalí are heroes to me, but Dalí has been important to me since I saw a painting of his with a burning giraffe in the background. When I was aged 12, I just went: ‘This is it for me.’ And I went to art school because of that.”

But you grew up to become not an artist, but a comedian? “Yeah, but Dalí’s a comedian as well. Everything he does is funny, for shock. He’s the most ridiculous man played straight.” And in any case, Fielding has never quite set aside his artistic chops. The comedian has held a number of different exhibitions, including The Jelly Fox, a video installation shown at the Saatchi Gallery in London in 2012. Fielding is, in many respects, the Salvador Dalí of British comedy.

Understandably, the directors wouldn’t countenance casting Fielding as Dalí when they had as surefire a lookalike as Cooper. Instead, they sent him away for six weeks to research the Cooper role. He was assigned a voice coach to make his stab at Cooper’s flat, Michigan accent more convincing. “It is scary playing someone you know. You don’t want to let him down.”

We’re chatting in Fielding’s dressing room at Pinewood Studios between shots for the new drama, The Dalí and the Cooper. Fielding, wearing a prosthetic nose, tells me he was mollified when he found out who’d been cast to play Dalí. “I love David Suchet. I’m obsessed with Poirot. Then I saw him in The Importance of Being Earnest, where he did Lady Bracknell and he was amazing – he did it like a dinosaur, like a velociraptor.

“I was very nervous because I was thinking, him and Sheila Hancock” – who plays Dalí’s 79-year-old wife, muse and manager Gala Dalí – “they’re big actors who’ve got a lot of experience. And I’m learning how to be an actor.” Suchet gave him some helpful tips about watching footage of Cooper from the early 1970s. “David said watch him with the sound down. Then you’ve got nothing but the body language.”

Noel Fielding and Sandi Toksvig, left, with judges Paul Hollywood and Prue Leith on Channel 4’s The Great British Bake Off. Photograph: Channel 4/PA

We meet on the day in March last year when it was announced that Fielding and Sandi Toksvig would replace Mel and Sue in Channel 4’s retool of of The Great British Bake Off. “I know it’s odd – I look like a goth – but I think it’s quite an inspired choice,” says Fielding. Yet even Fielding – no stranger to fame – admits to being blindsided by the fuss. He didn’t go home last night to elude the media scrum. “I forgot it was such a big show. My phone’s on fire.”

His PR agent has been scrambled to Pinewood to make sure Fielding talks about Cooper rather than, presumably, blabbing nuggets about his nascent rapport with Bake Off’s mahogany tiger, Paul Hollywood. “I’m not allowed to talk about it,” he says. “I like the show and I like Sandi Toksvig, so I thought it would be fun.” Given all the media rumpus, it’s astounding he can keep his head in the game.

The Dalí and the Cooper riffs on the day in 1973 when Cooper comes off stage during his Billion Dollar Babies tour to be told by his manager Shep Gordon (the superb Paul Kaye) that Dalí is in that night’s crowd. “Well, if that gives you wood, drop your kimono and get ready for the happy ending, kemosabe, because the D-Man wants to work with you.” Such, at least, is how comedy writers Roger Drew and Ed Dyson, who worked on The Thick of It and Veep, imagine the conversation.

Waiting for the D-Man … Noel Fielding as Cooper and Paul Kaye as his manager Shep Gordon in Urban Myths. Photograph: Sky UK Limited

What the D-Man wants to do, it turns out, is to make Cooper the subject of his latest artwork. But there is a problem. Gala Dalí refuses to pay this American oik for the privilege. Shep is a tough businessman (he wears a T-shirt emblazoned “No head. No backstage pass”), but even Shep’s lurid professional backstory ill-prepares him for professional dealings with this woman whom he pegs as a ball-buster. Gala tells Shep she was once in a threesome with Paul Éluard and Max Ernst but neither could satisfy her. Hancock clearly revels in this role.

While Shep and Gala wrangle over the money, the Dalí and the Cooper meet. As Suchet’s Dalí shoots Fielding’s Cooper, who’s half naked and clutching props such as a brain capped with an eclair over which crawl some ants, the two men discuss what it is to be an artist. Dalí can’t quite believe that his subject is not Alice Cooper all the time, but is developing a fond relationship with something usually frowned upon by surrealist artists and rock’n’rollers, namely golf. Unlike Dalí, Cooper isn’t always on.

Fielding grasps why the character he plays left his madness on stage. “He knew Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Keith Moon and Harry Nilsson and they all died. He worked out that he couldn’t be that character off stage. And that’s kept him in good stead, I think. In the days playing golf, and in the evening cutting his own head off with a guillotine. What a life!”

The Dalí and the Cooper. Photograph: Sky UK

What makes Fielding’s performance so compelling is that he’s is channelling something of his twentysomething self. “In this Alice is 24 and Dalí’s 69, so Alice is trying to hold his own. He’s a huge rock star and he’s quite cocky. He’s like me when I was doing the Boosh and we were doing arenas. Not cocky in a horrible way, but you’re just sure of yourself because you’re, like, 20,000 people came tonight – you’ve got a spring in your step. You’re not really old enough to realise that’s only going to last for so long.”

Fielding’s greatest fame came in his 20s when he and Julian Barratt starred in the surrealist comedy The Mighty Boosh. The characters he created then – flamboyant zookeeper Vince Noir, a Cockney hitchhiker and hermaphroditic merman Old Greg – are remembered fondly by fans. “People keep asking me if the Boosh is coming back and I say I hope so. I’m not bothered people ask me about it. TV’s become quite disposable, so to make something that lasts a bit of time – it won’t last forever – is quite nice.”

As for the Urban Myths directors, they were trying to create a piece of TV that looks like the era run which the drama is set. “We had a rule book,” says Jane Pollard. “We would only use tech devices we could have used in 1973. So there’s no screen, all the effects are in camera.” This kind of self-denying ordinance is of a piece with their use of music. “It would have been so easy to have put in some Alice Cooper music.” So why didn’t you? “Because he wouldn’t have been listening to Alice Cooper.” Instead, they commissioned Jarvis Cocker to write the soundtrack, which he performed with Richard Hawley.

Back in his dressing room, Noel Fielding gets the call. Despite the prosthetic nose and the lavish eyeliner, they need him in make up sharpish. He toddles off obligingly on high heels, but not before I ask him one last question. Has playing Alice Cooper given you an insight into how to mellow? “Maybe. I mean I’m on Bake Off – now I might start playing golf. “ He is, please God, kidding.

[funnythingshere0-blog]

Noel Fielding: 'Everything Salvador Dalí did was funny'

New Post has been published on http://funnythingshere.xyz/noel-fielding-everything-salvador-dali-did-was-funny/

Noel Fielding: 'Everything Salvador Dalí did was funny'

Noel Fielding was born, or so you’d think, to play Alice Cooper. The eyeliner, the dangling black locks, the camped-up goth vibe, the way the comedian and Bake Off host dresses more outlandishly than anyone in any room, with the possible exception of Prue Leith.

Cooper has long been one of Fielding’s heroes. His parents were fans and inducted their son into the rock musician’s oeuvre, perhaps even instilling into little Noel the subversive philosophy of Cooper’s School’s Out. “I love his music. He was a punk before punk.”

The Adventures of Alice and Noel, from the Guardian’s Guide, 2012. Illustration: Noel Fielding

And then one day, Cooper appeared as a guest on the pop quiz show Never Mind the Buzzcocks, on which Fielding was a team captain. Their relationship blossomed. “He invited me to his show and then I did a cartoon strip about him in the Guardian.” He also interviewed his hero for the paper.

So when Fielding went to audition for a role in a new drama for Sky Arts’ Urban Myths series about the time the glam rocker met the venerable shock artist Salvador Dalí, Fielding was a shoo-in to play Cooper. But he had other ideas. He suggested to directors Jane Pollard and Iain Forsyth he should play Dalí. “I mean, both Alice and Dalí are heroes to me, but Dalí has been important to me since I saw a painting of his with a burning giraffe in the background. When I was aged 12, I just went: ‘This is it for me.’ And I went to art school because of that.”

But you grew up to become not an artist, but a comedian? “Yeah, but Dalí’s a comedian as well. Everything he does is funny, for shock. He’s the most ridiculous man played straight.” And in any case, Fielding has never quite set aside his artistic chops. The comedian has held a number of different exhibitions, including The Jelly Fox, a video installation shown at the Saatchi Gallery in London in 2012. Fielding is, in many respects, the Salvador Dalí of British comedy.

Understandably, the directors wouldn’t countenance casting Fielding as Dalí when they had as surefire a lookalike as Cooper. Instead, they sent him away for six weeks to research the Cooper role. He was assigned a voice coach to make his stab at Cooper’s flat, Michigan accent more convincing. “It is scary playing someone you know. You don’t want to let him down.”

We’re chatting in Fielding’s dressing room at Pinewood Studios between shots for the new drama, The Dalí and the Cooper. Fielding, wearing a prosthetic nose, tells me he was mollified when he found out who’d been cast to play Dalí. “I love David Suchet. I’m obsessed with Poirot. Then I saw him in The Importance of Being Earnest, where he did Lady Bracknell and he was amazing – he did it like a dinosaur, like a velociraptor.

“I was very nervous because I was thinking, him and Sheila Hancock” – who plays Dalí’s 79-year-old wife, muse and manager Gala Dalí – “they’re big actors who’ve got a lot of experience. And I’m learning how to be an actor.” Suchet gave him some helpful tips about watching footage of Cooper from the early 1970s. “David said watch him with the sound down. Then you’ve got nothing but the body language.”

Noel Fielding and Sandi Toksvig, left, with judges Paul Hollywood and Prue Leith on Channel 4’s The Great British Bake Off. Photograph: Channel 4/PA

We meet on the day in March last year when it was announced that Fielding and Sandi Toksvig would replace Mel and Sue in Channel 4’s retool of of The Great British Bake Off. “I know it’s odd – I look like a goth – but I think it’s quite an inspired choice,” says Fielding. Yet even Fielding – no stranger to fame – admits to being blindsided by the fuss. He didn’t go home last night to elude the media scrum. “I forgot it was such a big show. My phone’s on fire.”

His PR agent has been scrambled to Pinewood to make sure Fielding talks about Cooper rather than, presumably, blabbing nuggets about his nascent rapport with Bake Off’s mahogany tiger, Paul Hollywood. “I’m not allowed to talk about it,” he says. “I like the show and I like Sandi Toksvig, so I thought it would be fun.” Given all the media rumpus, it’s astounding he can keep his head in the game.

The Dalí and the Cooper riffs on the day in 1973 when Cooper comes off stage during his Billion Dollar Babies tour to be told by his manager Shep Gordon (the superb Paul Kaye) that Dalí is in that night’s crowd. “Well, if that gives you wood, drop your kimono and get ready for the happy ending, kemosabe, because the D-Man wants to work with you.” Such, at least, is how comedy writers Roger Drew and Ed Dyson, who worked on The Thick of It and Veep, imagine the conversation.

Waiting for the D-Man … Noel Fielding as Cooper and Paul Kaye as his manager Shep Gordon in Urban Myths. Photograph: Sky UK Limited

What the D-Man wants to do, it turns out, is to make Cooper the subject of his latest artwork. But there is a problem. Gala Dalí refuses to pay this American oik for the privilege. Shep is a tough businessman (he wears a T-shirt emblazoned “No head. No backstage pass”), but even Shep’s lurid professional backstory ill-prepares him for professional dealings with this woman whom he pegs as a ball-buster. Gala tells Shep she was once in a threesome with Paul Éluard and Max Ernst but neither could satisfy her. Hancock clearly revels in this role.

While Shep and Gala wrangle over the money, the Dalí and the Cooper meet. As Suchet’s Dalí shoots Fielding’s Cooper, who’s half naked and clutching props such as a brain capped with an eclair over which crawl some ants, the two men discuss what it is to be an artist. Dalí can’t quite believe that his subject is not Alice Cooper all the time, but is developing a fond relationship with something usually frowned upon by surrealist artists and rock’n’rollers, namely golf. Unlike Dalí, Cooper isn’t always on.

Fielding grasps why the character he plays left his madness on stage. “He knew Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Keith Moon and Harry Nilsson and they all died. He worked out that he couldn’t be that character off stage. And that’s kept him in good stead, I think. In the days playing golf, and in the evening cutting his own head off with a guillotine. What a life!”

The Dalí and the Cooper. Photograph: Sky UK

What makes Fielding’s performance so compelling is that he’s is channelling something of his twentysomething self. “In this Alice is 24 and Dalí’s 69, so Alice is trying to hold his own. He’s a huge rock star and he’s quite cocky. He’s like me when I was doing the Boosh and we were doing arenas. Not cocky in a horrible way, but you’re just sure of yourself because you’re, like, 20,000 people came tonight – you’ve got a spring in your step. You’re not really old enough to realise that’s only going to last for so long.”

Fielding’s greatest fame came in his 20s when he and Julian Barratt starred in the surrealist comedy The Mighty Boosh. The characters he created then – flamboyant zookeeper Vince Noir, a Cockney hitchhiker and hermaphroditic merman Old Greg – are remembered fondly by fans. “People keep asking me if the Boosh is coming back and I say I hope so. I’m not bothered people ask me about it. TV’s become quite disposable, so to make something that lasts a bit of time – it won’t last forever – is quite nice.”

As for the Urban Myths directors, they were trying to create a piece of TV that looks like the era run which the drama is set. “We had a rule book,” says Jane Pollard. “We would only use tech devices we could have used in 1973. So there’s no screen, all the effects are in camera.” This kind of self-denying ordinance is of a piece with their use of music. “It would have been so easy to have put in some Alice Cooper music.” So why didn’t you? “Because he wouldn’t have been listening to Alice Cooper.” Instead, they commissioned Jarvis Cocker to write the soundtrack, which he performed with Richard Hawley.

Back in his dressing room, Noel Fielding gets the call. Despite the prosthetic nose and the lavish eyeliner, they need him in make up sharpish. He toddles off obligingly on high heels, but not before I ask him one last question. Has playing Alice Cooper given you an insight into how to mellow? “Maybe. I mean I’m on Bake Off – now I might start playing golf. “ He is, please God, kidding.