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randomfoggytiger · 5 months

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X-Files IWTB: First Time React (Part I)

I needed to watch I Want to Believe for a Christmas present project; and, going into the movie, I knew it would be bad.

I didn't know it would be "broken within ten minutes before Mulder and Scully even get into the helicopter" bad.

On the positive side, I'm enjoying David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson's acting; and they're doing the best they can with the scripts, so A+ for effort!

Now, reaction below the cut:

Eyyyyyyyy, looky looky where we are.

An IWTB reaction.

Me, the canon denier after S8.

Yep.

But never fear! I shall have an absolute blast demolishing all the aspects that don’t make sense and enjoying the parts that deserve praise or kudos. :DDD

My Position Going Into This

When it comes to any art form, I stand absolute on the position that, yes, if it was created to be art, it is art; but art can also be critiqued on its merits or demerits. Otherwise, we all wouldn’t acknowledge what makes one piece of art masterful compared to another piece.

For movies, I focus on writing: does this plot point make sense in the context of generalized or specific circumstances; or, more specifically, do the actions of X person fit into their pre-established character or break it entirely without providing a reasonable motive? Pointing out the flaws of x/y/z character or moment doesn’t ruin my enjoyment-- every movie, tv show, book, etc. has them-- unless the flaw is noticeably glaring; in which case, what can I do about that?

In conclusion: this will be very snarky, but I mean no hate towards CC or anyone who helped create this movie. I have criticisms, justly; but I separate art from the artist always, and judge both on completely different scales and metrics. Any and all snark is exaggerated for comedic purposes... or that's my story and I'm sticking with it. ;)))

And now, onto the reaction~

Live Reaction

The movie’s gorgeous, I’ll give it that: tone, atmosphere, lighting, etc., all spectacular.

For a split second I wished that the man running past the woman victim had been a supernatural creature of some sort-- more X-Files in tone; and would eliminate the Father Joe character completely.

Dakota Whitney (not given her name yet, think it's her) seems in-tune with Father Joe’s strangeness-- another shame, because her character was squandered on a love triangle.

I will say, though, the spectacle seems… a little repetitive already? “Let him go, let him go” repeated three times with three different cuts.

Hmmm, I think this is the thought: compared to FTF, this movie seems like its plot is paper-thin, relying on spectacle or repetitive dialogue (or inane plotpoints? we’ll see) to keep it chugging along.

Scully is here!

After comparing her intro to the Pilot and Fight the Future and the previous five minutes, it seems… bland? The spectacle is gone, but that's not the problem. Everything is medical jargon as she’s giving an account of her patient to an overhead on a screen. The problem is-- and why I mentioned her previous introductions-- when a main character is introduced, their first scene establishes core aspects of their personality. Now would be a good time to get a thumb on how Scully has changed as she's navigated life on the run and in this hospital... instead, we're given nothing, really, just a medical spiel with no point other than to set up that she has a patient who needs experimental treatment. Nothing that is personal to her as an individual, other than she's more muted, downtrodden, etc. It's a very rushed and criminally underutilized scene.

I understand what CC and Spotnitz are going for: defanged Scully, hands tied and trying to keep her head down and live low-profile. Pouring her exhausted energy into trying to do some good, at least for the boy (since she can’t for Mulder.) It sets her up as frazzled and frustrated; and it makes sense why she pitches the FBI’s offer to Mulder when given the chance.

FBI agent just bounces in and disrupts her talk with her patient… that’s a plot point, definitely--

Wait, Scully kept referring to Mulder as Fox Mulder… which, yes, she’s parroting the man’s words back exactly to him but also Scully only ever referred to him as “Mulder”, “my partner”, “Agent Mulder”; and didn’t mention him by name otherwise. This is a nitpick, I know.

Also, from the interviews I’ve read, Gillian Anderson (and David Duchovny) struggled to get back into character in 2008 as well as the Revival (link here.) GA also notes (link here) that she agrees with Scully's characterization: "How she is in this film follows perfectly with where we last saw her and who she has always been." And, if lumping IWTB together with S9, I agree; and, interestingly, it's an aspect of Scully that GA seems to retain in the Revival (I think): saddened, withdrawn, only sparing animation when directly talking to Mulder. It makes sense after the William arc; but it’s sad to think about, regardless.

THAT’S THE FENCE?????

I THOUGHT IT WAS A TINY WOODEN FENCE THAT COULD BE HOPPED OVER.

…That makes a lot of sense, actually. I definitely can see Mulder rigging it up with all the time he had to spare (because, I mean, look at it: rusty, rinky, weirdly tied to the poles.)

I will say: I give Chris Carter props here because that man had a vision and he executed it: atmosphere, ~vibes~, and the kitchen sink. It’s why I maintain he was the ideas man and Frank Spotnitz was his refiner.

WAIT. Is that… is that orange juice on the table? (They remembered Mulder’s orange juice but forgot to iron out the plot. The irony. If this were an indie film, I’d find it endearing and charming. …But it’s not.)

Okay, intro to Mulder now.

Immediately we are shown the nest he’s built, with Samantha taking center-stage on his door. THAT’S how you do an intro; and, to the credit of the people behind the camera, it strikes a descriptive balance between Scully’s dispirited silence and his animated clutter.

OKAY. Mulder’s “What’s up, Doc?” was worth it. (Don’t you just love when creators behind really cool, innovative series make alternate universe stories in their own universe? The “what if”s? The “glad this didn’t happen but it’s not all that bad, yet” one-offs with big budgets behind them? Visionaries, I tell ya.)

Mulder’s going off on a tangent and Scully’s back in her element and I would be content if the movie skipped from here to the almost end with Skinner and Scully finding him and we (meaning me) the audience wonder “WAIT, WHAT HAPPENED” and then there’s the vacation and it ends.

Also, pertinent to stop here and reflect on the first Big Issue of the film:

Mulder and Scully have been living in this house for five years-- as confirmed by the cut lines in IWTB’s script (link here, thank you @dunhamhairograpy)-- which means they were on the run only one year before settling back in Virginia. To satisfy my suspicions, I looked up (on Wikipedia) criminals on the FBI’s wanted list between 2000 to 2003 to see how many years each person evaded capture (if they were ever caught.) In summary, those who were on the run more than a year most likely fled the country and at the very least did not settle back in the state they originally fled; and those who remained locked on American soil were caught within a few weeks to (maximum) a year (three years was the most, I believe. Longer or still at large dipped into other countries, at least temporarily.) The script also confirms that Mulder and Scully are aware that Skinner is aiding and abetting them behind the scenes; and since the agent who interrupted Scully at her hospital immediately cut to the chase-- with the implication that Scully knew where to find her partner-- the FBI likely knew how to find Mulder easily and just… let him be.

Despite the absolute dumpster fire of S9’s mytharc, we are led to assume that, somehow, Skinner and Doggett and Reyes stamped out the interest of alien-men-in-government and every other enemy that wanted Mulder's head and they all… proceeded as normal? Or Doggett and Reyes didn’t but Skinner did somehow…?

BUT THAT DOESN’T MATTER, LOOK AT THIS SHINY MOVIE AND THE PRETTY GOATMAN.

Also, yes, the beard needs work. However, I just remembered that beard oil is a thing but also that hair oil is a thing; and the idea that men might be taking better care of their beards than I do my own locks makes me wanna give them a thumbs up. (…But not Mulder: the texture on his face makes me want to cringe backward from the epidermis to the dermis to the subcutaneous layer of my skin.)

Mulder “who believes that anymore” was a great line for his first facial introduction (not bothering with technical phrases, gotta keep chuggin’); and his reaction at Scully’s snarky “they do at the FBI, apparently” and both of them being like “uhuh, they wouldn’t listen to you/us years ago” was a great nanosecond of screentime and I want more.

Mulder's walking wonky with a feverish passion behind his eyes; and I recognize that insanity from the fervor of spending too many hours indoors and online with nothing else to do but brood.

ALSO, he and Scully both make complete sense here and I cosign this scene.

(...Yeah, I know, we’ll get to those ones later.)

Scully getting around Mulder’s mood and straight to his interest and then igniting his sarcastic “oh” within a sentence or two is masterfully them and yep, I cosign.

Mulder choking on the “I am just as happy having them out of mine” denial stuck in his throat…. also: yes, Scully has a point about the FBI as discussed above but WHY do they want him out of their hair?? There were more people who had death wishes against him than there could be people in positions of power that support him; and with no CSM or Consortium hand-holding their superstar through trials and tribulations because he could “expose” them… again, whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.

Mulder’s being really petulant and I love it but also he’s being too petulant but in a good way, in a sarcastic “at the end of my rope and I’m only barely being polite” One Son way.

Scully's honest “I worry about you” is touching, that’s nice.

I just realized: y’know how DD wrote The Unnatural because he wanted to hear Mulder and Scully talk like normal people, not just regurgitate the plot points back to each other with flowery, long-winded expressions (which are great, don’t get me wrong)? Welp, they sound more… human? natural? broken in? here; and I like that aspect.

Mulder looking at Samantha’s pic and knowing he can’t not help an innocent was a perfect character moment: great writing, thumbs up. (Reminiscent of his prior pattern of reluctantly helping people he disliked or was annoyed by-- Max Fenig in Fallen Angel, Krycek in Sleepless, Skinner in Zero Sum, Crump in Drive, Doggett in Alone, etc.)

He accepts the FBI’s offer; and Scully’s relieved; and I advise you to keep that in mind for later.

The Big Problems Set In

Whether Mulder and Scully called and told the FBI where to pick them up or the FBI sent a helicopter out, unprompted, as a power move is unimportant in the minutiae but incredibly crippling in the larger narrative: it flew TO Mulder’s house to pick him up. There is no way Mulder is undercover or in hiding any longer; and that means, at this point, Mulder is committed. The end, full stop, point blank, period.

The movie is broken and it's only 10 minutes in. From here on out, it will try to claim that Mulder is losing Scully by running further into the darkness; but the reality is, he has no other choice because there is nowhere else to run to regain his freedom AND to not put Scully at cross ends (or in danger) with the FBI.

He CANNOT back out: if Mulder withdraws from this deal with the FBI, he has to leave his home, go on the run again, and risk more aggressive recapture and imprisonment and probably broker another deal to escape full penalty at. a. minimum.

It would be insane for him to back out at any point in the future. He knows it, the FBI knows it, and more importantly SCULLY knows it: she’s the cautious one in this relationship; and she would have weighed the pros and cons before telling Mulder the FBI's offer. Yes, she tends to react without thinking at times-- asking Mulder for his IVF donation without long-term plans, for example, (link here)-- but something as precious as her partner’s life, the only person she sacrificed everything for, would be carefully guarded and protected.

Surely, she wouldn’t want him to back out at any point; especially because she has constantly suspected their own allies in the FBI all the years they’d been there, even Skinner, over and over and over. There would be no inducement or reason for her to trust the FBI to let Mulder stop on his whim (or hers, or theirs); and it’s a good thing she doesn’t do that. …Right?

NOW: would it be in her character to want him to stop? Absolutely-- that’s who she is. But to place him in an impossible position then demand something even more impossible on top of it, after Mulder’s hands are effectively tied until the case is solved? That’s what’s character breaking for her. We’ll get to that.

What’s going to be even more frustrating is that Scully will ultimately break their partnership (or start to) because of jealousy over another woman... for script reasons. (Don’t believe me? I don't blame you. But we'll get to it in a future part.) And that’s the show’s greatest flaw: the writers enjoy playing “are they, aren’t they” with Mulder’s driven passion and Scully’s jealousy and wish to be his priority. What’s worse is he prioritizes her more than any other human on the planet, even in this movie; and, at this point, Scully knows and has made peace with how Mulder is (all things.) To sacrifice their growth and trust in each other because of illogical reasons... we’ll get to that.

“Past is the past” says Dakota Whitney. That might be enough for Mulder in the long run but it certainly won’t be for Scully. …RIGHT?

Monica name recycle which is a staple and yet not a Monica Reyes who could have had pull to have Mulder and Scully pulled in on the case… oh, well.

Yes, Mulder has precedent to write off psychic phenomenon evidence when given to him by his enemies-- he’s petty that way-- but can you imagine how annoyed he was when it came out the psychic was a religious guy? A former Father? An issue that used to pit he and Scully against each other? (I see what you did there, writers.)

So: we have religious angle to separate Mulder and Scully in this movie. Also, we have jealousy over Dakota Whitney-- this movie’s nicer variant of Diana Fowley and Detective White and Phoebe Green: a gal who wants Mulder and writes Scully out of the picture despite very obvious rumors and even more obvious clues in the present-- to drive a further wedge (will be discussed next time.) What else could go wrong?

What I do like is that this movie sets up Mulder’s priority list that aligns with his previous character iteration: he wants to chase monsters, but not at the expense of people; and, further, when he doesn’t want to chase monsters, he still will for the sake of others' lives.

Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy Chris, did you have to make Father Joe a pedophile?

Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyy. I understand, I do, that it’s about people who want to redeem themselves, who are afraid of the monsters within, who are burdened with a greater purpose, BUT NONE OF THE PEDO STUFF HAS TO DO WITH THE PLOT.

For instance: Roland’s autism directly correlated with the X-File of his case, Marty’s blindness with hers, as well as all the other men and monsters with supernatural powers or inhibitions. Having a random and prominent flaw that doesn’t contribute to anything in the movie is, quite honestly, a waste of precious run-time; and is another example of the movie’s paper-thin story structure that it tosses around willy-nilly.

Tune’s catchy, though.

Okay, the movie’s editing is weird again. We’ve already “seen” Father Joe in the beginning; so repeating Mulder’s introduction style (angling towards everything but the man’s face) is noticeably repetitive and out of place.

Scully going for the man’s throat is a great set up for her and Mulder’s banter but

issssssssssssssssssss out of place, especially considering they need information out of the man and don’t know how he’ll react to fierce, off-topic interrogation. Yes, harming children is a no-no for Scully, and harming them especially in the name of her faith is a BIGGER no-no; however, she was never this tactless before, not even with John Lee Roche. Further, she stipulates this is Mulder's case, which means she jeopardized his interrogation with her sniping. Not only was it out-of-character, but it could have put an end to the only lead Mulder had to help out the FBI. Her professionalism is rusty, and further, she is sacrificing the high ground for a dig at the man’s ethics. It’s not very Scully, is it?

“Maybe it’s not God doing the sending” so this was personal, Scully, that dig had nothing to do with the case except for your own want to defend your beliefs against this pedophile. You’ve never done this in the past; and you and Mulder have worked past any insecurities you might have had with regards to your faith. So, THIS means you’re insecure. Maybe those years on the road have you overthinking or rethinking; but, regardless. it’s rolling back the character growth you achieved in all things and needed to be handled with defter care.

If the writers were trying to establish her as a bloodhound in this movie ala her old self, they can’t start it out with her being listless and downtrodden and suddenly break that in ways that would harm Mulder’s (and her) investigation and then shove her back into listlessness... and then repeat that cycle over and over with no rhyme or reason.

Also, Whitney is being established as the woman who looks to Mulder, always, because she has a big, fat crush on him that the writers will exploit for maximum drama.

FATHER JOE SENDS SCULLY OUT-- why. Negative energy didn’t inhibit psychic ability in previous cases. If Father Joe's so wimpy that someone watching him with disdain while he does his whammo makes him insecure and unable to… I was gonna say perform, remembered his altar boys, and cringed internally. Anyway, then he needs to be reminded who's in charge here.

The dialogue cracks are beginning to show: Scully’s parting line is cringe. Even though it doesn’t sound natural to say-- that’s never stopped The X-Files before-- what makes it egregious is that there is no connective tissue to her statement. When talking, there is a leadup to a point and a comment that follows it, etc. etc. Scully’s statement-- “Maybe what you see is a way to try to make people forget what you really are”-- is responding to nothing; and is randomly stated. The equivalent of the teacher telling Timmy to go sit in the corner and Timmy randomly yelling "You're not my mom!" before doing so. It achieved nothing; and made her look like a five year old that can't grasp the finer points of communication (because she only reiterated what everyone else in the room already knew.) Also, it sets up Scully as a disbeliever to Mulder and Whitney as believers; and, of course, this puts Scully through a hackneyed journey back to belief even though she doesn’t disbelieve in psychic ability any longer, etc. etc.

The question becomes: if this is a new pattern in her behavior, it will remain consistent. Another problem, too, remains. We (the audience) are not given a good reason why this rational character is behaving outside of her own interests. Scully has training and years of experience that being on the run for a year and in medicine for four? is not going to erase. It’s setting her up to be sloppy and messy with her decision-making skills; and we are given no reason why Scully is this way now; and, further, why she directly contradicts this new pattern in other scenes.

Scully getting scared by Mulder on the pedo colony balcony is a scene I didn’t know existed and I like and he was a reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal snot for doing that and yay, it’s Mulder.

And also, I have another nitpick: Mulder, although he has backed off and let Scully handle her own issues with sexist cops and the like in the past, would never let a crook dictate the terms of where Scully is supposed to be: Scully would decide to walk out when she didn’t believe a word their suspect was saying, not because she was expected to leave. Mulder didn’t advocate for her here, put his foot down, or even blaze up and insist Father Joe stop playing games. Strike one against Mulder's characterization.

JUST AFTER I MADE THOSE POINTS Scully admits she was wrong and Mulder immediately defers to her. Which… uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, time to break that down.

This doesn’t seem like a lot; but that tiny detail completely demolished Father Joe’s introductory scene AND Mulder and Scully’s first scene back in the FBI saddle.

“All I had were questions-- you challenged him.” That’s a very Mulder thing to say… in other circumstances, but not in this one. Here, Mulder shouldn’t have “just had questions” especially because he was bugged that the other FBI people were a little too doe-eyed about Father Joe; and that annoyance would have made him act out on the priest. Furthermore, Scully’s fury against criminals IS something he loves about her BUT was out of place here, too. And all of this is negated because Scully left, anyway, and he didn’t stick up for her. It’s like if Scully and he were middle schoolers and their classmates kicked her out of a group discussion only for him to wander over after it's done and say, “you did great back there, sweetie!” without sticking his neck out for her at all. It smacks of spinelessness, the opposite of Fox Mulder.

Great acting by DD and GA; but terrible, terrible scenario.

The precedent has been set that Scully will lash out, get shunned to an outer circle, and Mulder will ho-hum, let it happen, get his info, and give her a pat on the head later. That’s never been them; and this pattern is immediately broken by a following contradictory scene. This back-and-forth cycle continues, over and over, flip-flopping Mulder and Scully in and out of character, and further damaging the script with one-off, disconnected responses.

Also, aren’t Mulder and Scully past this unnecessary drama of poking the bear (an old, Irish? pedo priest) before they get their necessary information? ESPECIALLY NOW WHEN MULDER'S FREEDOM IS ON THE LINE.

Scully finding out Mulder is humoring Father Joe and deciding to leave the situation and beat them all to the car NOW is in-character; but--

wait. WAIT. NO, I WAS WRONG. SCULLY’S JUST LEAVING LEAVING??? WHAT.

Okay, another essay time-- wow, I’m not even 20 minutes into this movie, HOW-- before we keep going: Scully leaving, now, because she doesn’t want to humor Father Joe has never stopped her in the past. Ten seconds ago she and Mulder were bantering, five seconds ago she bantered as she left, one cut later she’s somber and serious and dour and down and Mulder has to chase after her. WHAT HAPPENED IN A MILLISECOND to change her entire attitude, especially since she doesn't have a new piece of information to react to?????

In order:

Sees Father Joe is being humored (tilts head back in her normal, almost-amused, incredulous style):

Makes a bantery “It’s been fuuuuuuuuuun” remark and an upbeat “no thanks” remark:

Walks off (which is dangerous to her partner, will talk about that in the below paragraph) with a bantery “anyway, he doesn’t want me here” handwave:

Mulder is amused (but knows he has to go convince her):

MILLISECOND LATER with no new info or reaction “This isn’t my life anymore, Mulder”:

SO, we’re supposed to assume Scully wanted to hand Mulder over to the FBI from the start, sit back, and just let him run willy nilly around with them without her being there; and only came along because he asked her to come but still bailed on him when she didn’t like the case…?

Let’s take John Lee Roche as an example of why Scully wouldn’t react this way: during that and Grotesque and even Folie a Deux, Scully had Mulder’s back even against her own professional interests. She only left him in FTF and One Son because she thought Mulder didn’t need her any longer. Scully’s nature has always been to ride along, even when she doesn’t want to-- How the Ghosts Stole Christmas, an excellent example: even before her keys were stolen, she was still trying to talk herself out of joining Mulder. But now, NOW when it’s inconvenient, she decides to skip out? Now she has even less excuse: this is her partner’s freedom on the line; and he stipulated FROM THE GET-GO that he needs HER to work WITH him to solve this, BEFORE she called the FBI to agree.

THIS is not Scully. THIS is ridiculous.

Now, to those who are reading this and thinking, “well, she could have done that”-- true, Scully could have. Anyone can do anything, IF there is a logical reason or it’s in a person’s best interest to take that action. For instance: Never Again was in-character for Scully because it fit into the mold of previously established reactions to father figures and feeling second place. Why this isn’t in her character is because the two keys to Scully’s loyalty-- being prioritized and depended upon as well as valued and trusted-- are being handed to her on a silver platter and she’s rejecting them (AND her partner’s safety) because she doesn’t wanna do it. Again, that’s never been who Scully is: Scully does the hard thing because it needs to be done; and she only shirks or avoids the emotional mirror being held up to her while still doing her job. There’s a life on the line here-- two, possibly, if Mulder doesn’t follow through on the deal-- and Scully would rather dump the problem in his lap when the logical, realistic, and easily graspable answer is do this case for a few rough weeks or months (because Mulder has always worked fast), then have unlimited freedom and time to go back to doing what she wants. This is not the place to write in this reaction: have one for Scully if, in the discussion for his freedom, Mulder starts pushing for reinstatement instead of simply finishing this case and letting his past go. That’s not what happens here (at the very least); so it makes no sense for her to be doing these actions-- especially with the information she and Mulder are working on-- now.

Scully says “You’ve done all they’ve asked for you to do” as if implying that Mulder’s finished his task NOW, RIGHT NOW-- that one talk with a psychic has won his freedom. …I’m sorry, how did she conclude this and where was this established?

Mulder was brought on to find an agent; Scully thinks that agent is dead, so oh, well! You’re done here, Mulder, let’s go~.

Scully. You know and Mulder knows and I know that the FBI said one agent but really meant the whole case. Don’t be stupid. You’re not a stupid person. They never stipulated either way, c'mon, you were there, you know this.

The problems aren't over AND IT'S ONLY 20 MINUTES IN.

Next pet peeve: as a general rule, Mulder is understanding with those on the wrong side of the law; however, Father Joes is a pedophile. Further, we’re not shown the scene where Father Joe has humanized himself, his reasons, or even his current character enough to justify the soft way Mulder is dealing with him.

All we have is that--

Father Joe isolates himself in a compound.

Father Joe told Scully to leave the room when she barked at him.

Mulder handles Father Joe gently despite him being a pedophile and despite him kicking Scully out of the interrogation (which sets up her feeling left out.)

Mulder is sitting in the car with Father Joe (and Whitney) and not Scully despite the two of them driving to the same place together.

Father Joe’s castration and inner torment is not brought up until later when he wants to appeal to Scully.

So, for all intents and purposes, Mulder is being needlessly sweet to a guy that confessed (at this point) to touching more than a couple altar boys and ostracized Mulder's partner just because he’s… psychic. Does Chris not remember how Mulder was initially not nice to Samuel in Miracle Man until after he pulled the Samantha card, was never nice to Modell in Pusher, and still picked fights with various witnesses because of their personal decisions? Again, the only time Mulder was nice or at least professionally kind with flawed characters was AFTER they owned up to or tried to atone for their sins…and, AGAIN, we aren’t shown that scene between he and Father Joe. AND THAT'S ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT SCENES BETWEEN THEM BECAUSE IT SETS THE TONE FOR THEIR PROFESSIONAL RELATIONSHIP. It falls into the “reply without a preceding remark” territory that I mentioned about the dialogue, except this time it's with characters. Really bad.

The writers try to save the interaction by having Father Joe sympathize about Samantha whereas the other agent up front doesn’t… but that only breaks the scene even more.

Male agent up front believed in psychic Father Joe before Mulder was even asked aboard the case.

Male agent up front believes in psychic abilities but still pokes at the man who was an “authority” on them by mocking Samantha’s “E.T.” abduction.

Male agent has been professionally distant and disdainful from the get-go; but it’s in HIS best interest to not create rifts with Mulder who is helping Father Joe help the FBI (and him) find their missing agent.

There is nothing in male agent’s character to suggest he is an irrational man; so, therefore, his random poke only serves to undercut his teammates’ efforts thus far to find and bring Mulder on board. This would waste everyone’s effort and precious time.

This scene only serves as a convenient excuse to simultaneously lore dump about Samantha and attempt, too late, to humanize Father Joe. Lore about Samantha is fine, but not if it contradicts (read: breaks) male agent's character. And humanizing Father Joe is pointless here because every monster can sympathize with others in their own crooked way. A truer test of character would be to show him go out of his way or comfort zone to help another person-- and that isn't what happens here.

Conclusion

Will I do a part two? Yeah, probably: I need to get to "the split" and Skinner and the vacation-- can't leave it (not even) half-done, after all.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

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zilabee · 1 year

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- OH GOD Paul surrounded by adoring men at the piano. The shiny love of it. I watched it five times, putting off everything that comes after. Paul Bond is glowing out of his fucking skin, and how is he even meant to cope with Paul McCartney looking at him, and telling him things and his hands and his hair. Fuck. Is this the bit that made David Hepworth wax lyrical about Paul's hair? I feel like it is, because I feel like all men watched this bit and wriggled helplessly the way Glyn Johns does when Paul plays and sings right at him, forcing him out of his moodiness and into love. Fucking hell Paul. It is insane that nobody is screaming at him. When Ringo said he would just watch an hour of Paul playing the piano... honestly 12 hours straight.

- When Paul Bond smiles and nods and looks genuinely like he is going to f l o a t away, and he says 'Yeah, sure', but his voice means ''oh god look at you, I love you, anything you say is fine, please don't notice that I'm hard".

- Glyn Johns not at all sure he can manage another day of sitting about with angsty Beatles. I bet he's been sobbing to George Martin overnight, begging not to go.

- The great thing about a piano is there it all is, there's all the music ever, that's it, you know?

Tiny Kevin!

- Paul deciding they should write a script and make a film, and I know he's just filling time, but oh god inside his head must be a ride. "We're in a band who peddle drugs." I love that Ringo is going to be the kindly schoolteacher who inspires Glyn to lead a better life.

- Ringo wants to do a silent film sped up. We could have had a benny hill beatle chase through twickenham, everyone running from MLH who's trying to herd them onto a plane for africa.

- It's the first thing you ever said to me. At Chiswick Park, years ago, we did something. You said what kind of a tree is that, and I said it's a Yew, and you said no it's not, it's a Me.

- And then another fabrication of a conversation, cut into the wrong times, with all the wrong rhythm, and unreliable reactions. But even without that it's an awful dragging thing, too forced and tired, suffocating them, pulling them down even while they try to make fun.

- Peter Sellers shows up and then quickly shows himself out, because he doesn't want to be part of whatever weird thing it is.

John: We'll hold some sanctions against George. Very tightly. Paul: Wheat- John: Yes Paul: And coal. John: Wheat and coal. Bread loaves. Meat. Biscuits. Cardboard cutouts.

- How beautiful if they'd just gone to a quiet surreal war with him. MLH wouldn't have had the necessary imagination to turn it into a lovely odd little film, but maybe Denis O'Dell might have called someone.

- Honestly I just find the whole conversation hard to look at and I don't want to think about it. I know lots of it is joking around, some of it should be just fine, but there's no life in it. It's exhausted. It's physically painful watching Paul having to be still and surrounded by people who are sick from drugs and drink and stagnation. I don't know how he wasn't tearing his face off. They need to open all the windows and drink a lot of water.

(If I'm overreacting here it's because I find it so hard to be near people who are in that space, all muted and stagnant. I can't deal with it at all. It makes me claustrophobic in my own skin. I can feel it wrapping around my brain, pulling me down. Somehow John's constant chatter and joking makes it worse not better.)

Paul: To wander aimlessly is very unswinging. Unhip. John: When I touch you, I feel happy inside. I can’t hide, I can’t hide... Ask me why, I’ll say I love you. Paul: What we need is a schedule. John: A garden shed-ule.

- LSKDJfoijweojsdflsdf. Everything about how they talk to each other. SHWSdjfjkwjefuisjdfsdf. No words. (I mean, it's not like Paul wouldn't love a garden shed! Almost as good for him as a schedule probably. They could just get a little one and put it in the corner for him.)

- John stroking his hair when he's talking about how he's late because he stayed up getting stoned and high and watching films. He's so soft with his words about it being wrong to get in late, and it's awful because it's meaningless and they both know it.

- So much of John being kind and tender with Paul through Get Back is meaningless and they both know it, and that itself is this soft close thing between them.

- And then eventually getting up, taking his coat, and having to pull Paul towards the music. "I'll even sing you half a song I was writing, come on." Luring Paul to work with the promise of a new song, like holding out a treat to the dog. It's a lovely softness. I think in real life it comes sooner after Paul's 'we can't carry on like this', as though John does notice then that he's half killing him by being blurred and not quite there, and pulls himself up.

Well there's a madman a-coming, gonna do you no harm, he's wearing pink pyjamas and he lives on a farm, he's gonna get you, got to get to somewhere to be alone [...] Fifteen raw potatoes standing all in a row, don't you try to count them, you just got it to go, you've got to get somewhere to be so glad to be on your own, and nowhere to go, nowhere to go, because you're going alone, nowhere to go because you're feeling alone, feeling alone, go home...

- Is it the little rock and roller he was hoping to write on Sunday? It's about feeling alone and having nowhere to go which is fine. Paul sits turned away from John and curled deep in his music which is also fine. Everything's fine. So that's good.

#get back #get back january #long post again I know I know #I'm sorry #but it's the hardest couple of days for me #couldn't word it but I didn't mean to suggest that John is only moving them to do some work for Paul's benefit #I think it's something he very much needs #and usually Paul would be urging him into and he's confused that it's just not happening #and realises he'll have to do it himself #a bit like Paul talks about how they are cross if he's bossy but then confused if he isn't #get back words

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jamiebluewind · 2 months

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My friend @winterpower98 is going to school to become an ASL interpreter, so we've been practicing together for a few months. I mostly just checked her signing and didn't sign myself because I was slower and didn't want to take up her valuable practice time clumsily trying to sign. Still, I intend to learn if for nothing else than having a way to communicate when I had a migraine.

Then I got sick.

I'm honestly not sure what's wrong with me, but in early January, I got a bad cough, asthma issues, and other various NASTY symptoms (leaving out to not get too tmi). The symptoms got worse quickly and I ended up at doctors and urgent cares and ERs. They found that I didn't have any of the major contagious things, but still my lungs were crap, my voice was nearly gone (just a whisper), and I was badly malnourished and dehydrated. One very scary phone call from a relative and two days of forcing my raw voice to work well enough to talk to police and relatives later, I lost my voice completely (save for little squeaks and rumbles). That was six weeks ago.

Winter and I didn't practice ASL the first two or three weeks I was sick (and I was honestly in no shape to do it anyway). Being mute was... okay at first. Annoying but manageable. But then as time went on, it got ROUGH. Being trapped in my own head and unable to convey things in real time took a toll on my mental health that I honestly wasn't expecting. Imaging being unable to even laugh or make frustrated noises or make sounds when you're crying hard and having a panic attack? It was hell! I couldn't got to therapy, see a doctor by myself (had to write a script for whomever came with me), contact services and doctors that didn't have messaging/email (they'd call back anyway despite me saying that I was completely unable to talk), tell people what I needed during a panic attack or sensory overload, or get my intrusive thoughts out (I say the out loud and work through them to see they aren't logical). When one doctor got really frustrated with me and proceeded to insult and lecture me for a solid 30 minutes (in front of my other friend who got very close to losing her temper), there was no way to report it because I had to CALL to place a complaint. I was limited to typing on my phone when I needed to communicate and even THAT was slow and not always possible (can't type during a coughing fit or if I had to leave my phone charging). Getting people's attention to notice me or read a message was also difficult, so I had to sit quietly AND patiently AND ignored so much of the time that I eventually broke down crying.

Eventually, I started doing a little ASL again. I wasn't expecting how hard it would be to sign things when I had only watched before. My movements were slow and clunky, sometimes I did the wrong sign, and I could only "talk" to one person, but the growing pains were worth the feeling of ACTUALLY communicating again. It's only been a few weeks, but I can already express my emotions/frustration and convey simple concepts during a conversation (instead of typing and having the conversation move on before I finish or just not feeling like my words were worth the effort on top of breaking the flow of a conversation). Yesterday, my bestie/roommate decided to start practicing the ASL alphabet and asked for a list of words I used the most so she could understand me too.

ASL has giving me back some of my autonomy. With a few signs and some finderspelling, I was able to tell Winter that I needed to eat, wanted leftovers, there was a bowl in the fridge, and to please add water (easier to swallow with my irritated throat). I can ask how people are, tell them how I'm doing, or just be a little goofy because I want to (like quoting NADDPOD and telling my friends "fuck you, I love you, eat a rat").

While being unable to talk for 6 weeks (and limited a bit before that) is nothing compared to the experiences of the deaf/Deaf, mute, and nonverbal communities, it made me realize how hard it is to navigate the world when your speech is impaired. It also made me develop a new appreciation for ASL. Originally, learning ASL was a novelty to me that might come in handy when I had a hemiplegic migraine (makes it hard to talk), but it was mostly to help Winter in her studies. Now it just feels... important. Like something more people should learn, be aware of, and accomodate for.

Tldr; Being unable to talk for over 6 weeks (and probably many more weeks after that) made me realize how important being able to communicate is to mental health, how society is not made to accomodate people with limited to no verbal communication ability, why learning ASL is so important, some of the struggles that people with limited to no verbal communication go through, and the fact that I am privileged in a way that I've never considered before.

#sick #sickness #temporarily mute #mute #asl #american sign language #paradigm shift #asthma #isolation #storytime #bluewind talks #sometimes I go nonverbal or get a hemiplegic migraine that makes it difficult to talk #but that's only for a few hours to a couple days #I've also had a constant woo woo throbbing sound in my left ear for years but that's just a thing #what I go through is NOTHING compared to the deaf/Deaf and mute and nonverbal communities #I have other things that require accomodations (like autism and left side weakness) so I ABSOLUTELY know how important they are #I wish this world was more accomodating for all of us #long post #rambles

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blackacre13 · 2 years

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The actress au is so good! please write more parts

Part seven is here; here's part eight!

“Good girl,” Lou whispered, her voice dropping as Debbie’s eyes fluttered wide, gasping as Lou kissed her again, her fingers coming up against her neck, leaving slight pressure this time as Debbie did her damndest not to moan into her touch, disappointed when the blonde pulled away, swinging the door open into the sunlight as she looked back at a shocked and still Debbie, left blinking as the sun peeked through the stage door. “Coming?”

“Oh, Ms. Miller!” A page spoke rushing over to the blonde before Debbie had time to properly collect herself enough for a response, Lou greeting the other woman with a pleasant smile, nodding along as she took a water bottle from her and a stack of post-it notes. Debbie only able to hear a mumble of, “I told him I wasn’t doing that bloody project. If he thinks I’m gonna read the script anyway….well,” she sighed. “I guess he’s right. Fuck. Thanks for this.”

Debbie stepped out awkwardly, trying to peek at the script in Lou’s hands to distract from the fact that the two stars were coming out of an empty sound stage away from where they were shooting together, but the page didn’t seem to notice or care, her own duties getting in the way of any sort of curiosity or gossip.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Ocean, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I have a Mr. Becker on the phone for you?”

Debbie’s face went pale as she managed a small nod, feeling Lou’s deep eyes on her, practically boring into her skull with something Debbie couldn’t quite interpret. Hurt? Pain? Confusion?

There were too many things to explain. Too many rumors to squash. And she wanted Lou to know them all, but she certainly couldn’t do any of that here and now.

“Ms. Ocean?” The page prompted again, holding out a smartphone as Debbie muted the screen, tossing her what she hoped was a gentle and professional smile.

“I’ll call him back from my trailer,” Debbie muttered. “Could you just maybe give the two of us a second. I just—“

“I’m sorry, I actually need you in hair and Ms. Miller in makeup. Ms. Miller, if you’ll just come with me.”

“Lou,” Debbie pled, turning to the blonde as Lou’s eyes flashed with hurt.

“I’ll see you on set,” she spoke blankly, nodding towards the page before following her off, Debbie’s stomach flipping wildly as she watched Lou’s fingers crumple the water bottle in her hand into a ball as she stalked off.

Debbie’s eyes were blazing as she stomped back towards the trailer, flinging the door open as she scrambled for her phone, angrily and blindly dialing before she held the phone up to her ear with a hiss.

“Bee?”

“You know I hate that name.”

“That’s why it’s funny.”

“What do you want?”

“You know what I want, Bee.”

“I did this movie to get away from you, Claude,” Debbie growled.

“And what is it, they say? Distance makes the love go longer?”

“Heart grow fonder,” Debbie sighed, sinking down on the couch, burying her head between her knees as she moved the phone to speaker. Here it went. Claude Becker. Fucking up her life once again. Ruining anything good that ever came into her path.

“Aw, I knew you’d agree, Bee,” he chuckled. “So, how’s it been babe? That Miller chick is hot. Heard you two get to french a little.”

“I can’t believe I ever pretended to date you,” the brunette huffed, banging her head against her thigh. “Are you just calling to tell me the same thing again, Claude? Because it’s getting a little old repeating the same speech. What we had was good. It worked. It did its job. But it wasn’t real.”

“It was real to me, baby,” Claude whispered, and Debbie grimaced, practically feeling the stubble of his beard against her cheek through the phone.

“Claude,” Debbie exhaled, unable to believe she was having this conversation yet again. “This was never real. And it never will be. And you’re Fucking things up more than you even know, okay? We used to be co-stars. We used to be each other’s date on the red carpet. But, hey, our managers arranged it. None of it is real. None of it is—“ her mind drifted off, thinking of the hurt in Lou’s eyes as she walked away. She had desperately wanted to run after her and explain. Tell her there was nothing to worry about. But if their roles had been reversed, Debbie knew her mind would be racing and she was too stubborn and focused to make room to listen to anyone. She would’ve been spiraling.

And now she had to deal with Claude Becker of all things and make it back to set and see how she could 1) act like her career depended on it because it did, and 2) make sure Lou was okay and that there was still a chance to figure out who this Lou and Debbie was without anyone else being the wiser. Fuck.

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void-galaxy-shenanigans · 2 years

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Y’all. I’m so frustrated.

I know I’m autistic & it’s not actually my fault. But...

Nonverbal/non-speaking.

If there is not a severe punishment attached to force me to speak aloud, I...can’t.

(severe punishment is relative...being yelled at, being verbally degraded, being swung at even if I don’t actually get h!t, being fed any of our sensory no foods...those are all severe, not just full ab*se)

I don’t mean I’m mute all the time. I physically could speak (99% of the time, there are exceptions).

I mean I mentally can’t.

As in, (a) head empty no thoughts (brain only has capacity for very basic functions & I can barely play very easy mobile games that are pattern based), (b) can only stim via singing, cannot form coherent language aloud, (c) brain thinking in pictures, couldn’t translate it to words aloud no matter how hard I try, (d) brain thinking in a mix of every language I know but I couldn’t translate it all into any one language or make it make sense if I spoke it, (e) brain is thinking in consistent English, but I can’t make it make sense if I spoke it, (f) brain has deleted any & all information on all languages we know & I can’t retrieve it; I forgot route was a word today & got frustrated trying to play a game because it's a crossword type puzzle & I needed to know that was a real word, (g) all languages sound like gibberish or Simlish aloud & I can’t mimic that language to save my life, or (h) “thoughts go so fast, brain no perceive; head look empty...head too full”, & I can’t speak it because can’t maintain grip on any thoughts.

Sometimes I do actually go mute, from anxiety or exhaustion or shutdown. But usually I could speak somehow...but can’t make it make sense, or some other struggle.

& gods, it’s so frustrating.

I love language. I love to communicate, to be understood (or as closely understood as possible), to learn language...I love seeing the joy as people realize you speak their language & they don’t have to translate / have their kid(s) translate.

I love talking.

But if I am not at work (will get fired if I don’t at least script), around ab*sive people who will punish me, or around someone who makes me feel like I must speak....I have max an hour a day that I can speak without it draining me & steadily declining in clarity.

Yet allistics assume if you’re quiet it’s because you’re not saying something mean (‘if you don’t have something nice to say don’t say anything at all’), or because you’re tired of them or angry at them or something else negative. They don’t assume you have no words or ran out of words.

It takes so much energy to translate my brain into something verbal, let alone anything that makes sense & is even mildly grammatically correct.

I can write all day long, but never being able to speak aloud without difficulty is...frustrating, & getting old fast.

I’ve been home alone for roughly 6 days (since Friday morning last week), minus about 16 hours Sunday to Monday (parents came back from one trip, slept, then went to visit family). Our dog understands nonverbal communication so I don’t *need* to speak. & it’s very quickly getting old how draining talking is.

I forget whole names exist until I see them again. I forget words exist regularly. Real words often look fake or sound made up even if they’re real language.

I’m an author. I love to communicate. (My love for writing might be why I communicate so effectively in writing but not aloud 🤷‍♂️.) But I tend to not be able to speak.

& people like me aren’t generally represented in media. The ones who speak, but only extremely limited...yet have a wide vocabulary full of metaphors that they grew to love & are learning every language they can get their hands on (español, deutsch, français, Russian....) just for the love of language & communication.

Maybe that’s why I love stories where all the characters have a limited number of words every day, tell people they aren’t worth wasting words on, & character A may tell character C (often a cheating ex) to fuck off before spending all their words for that day to connect with character B (often a love interest). Because I do have limited words, but people don’t assume I’m out of words or “just didn’t get words today”. Because in that kind of world I wouldn’t be so alone. People wouldn’t assume I’m stupid or unintelligent/retarded, or infantilize me, or otherwise misunderstand my lack of verbal words. They wouldn’t assume me communicating via vague noises meant I was condescending them or didn’t care.

Living in a neurotypical, allistic world when you can’t speak or can barely speak is exhausting.

& I know it isn’t my fault. I’m autistic, & I’m still proud to be autistic. But...I just wish I didn’t have to struggle so much.

~Nico

#autistic adult #autist #autistic #actually autistic #autistic masking #autistic spectrum #ableism #cw ableist language #autism spectrum disorder #autistic pride #nonverbal #non speaking #non-speaking #non-verbal #non verbal

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threemothsinsweaters · 2 years

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Well, I decided to actually write that, because why not? Basically: this is my take on selectively mute Emmet headcanon as a selectively mute person myself

I will basically compare my experiences as a selectively mute person to how I imagine they could apply to Emmet, so its purely a personal thing and anyone is free to interpret that headcanon as they want, after all, everyone experiences things differently

Do not come for my head for experiencing things differently than you do or something, simply scroll if you don't like some parts!

That being said, I will talk under the cut so I don't clog up the space with such a long post!

First of all: I'm a way more extreme case than how I imagine Emmet being, because he can still talk to people way more than I can - so some things will be altered between personal experiences and projecting onto him (Don't worry, all will be explained though!)

One of the first things I would like to mention is scripting - which is what most people imagine him doing a lot of the time, even when he is not portrayed as selectively mute. I, personally, script a lot, and I think it helps me with actually being able to say anything in social situations instead of staying silent 24/7

Most of the time I prepare what to say a long while before having to say it, often repeating it many times in my head and then blurt it all out the moment I actually have to say the words, so they are an emotionless mush of words that I just tried to get out as fast as possible - this could be the reason why Emmet seems so monotone when talking, maybe?

Because I also seem somewhat emotionless when I blurt out the script, which is usually as short as I can make it so I don't strain myself, but then again - when I'm with my brother and at home and feel safe, I'm full of emotions and expressing a lot. I would like to think that Emmet also expresses way more emotions through his words when he feels safe and the reason we don't see it much in games etc is because you mainly hear his Subway Boss script and not his "feeling safe" self, although everyone is free to interpret that however they wish.

Some people also say that he is monotone because of being autistic, and I can accept that idea too, this is just how I see him from the perspective of someone selectively mute.

If someone destroys my script, for example when I order food and have everything prepared but the person working asks "bacon or cheese?" out of nowhere, I will most likely just panic and repeat a part of the question - in this situation (because it did happen) I said cheese and ended up with additional cheese I didn't want because I got surprised and just repeated what I heard. I do that often when I'm caught off guard but I'm already in the "speaking" mode, and it can often be portrayed just as well as repeating a piece of a question as my brain tries and fails to come up with something to say in blind panic.

I can kinda imagine that translating to Emmet, in a way, when caught off guard, he could be portrayed as simply repeating a piece of what was already said/what he heard - or something he said many times in the past (like the "I am Emmet" sentence he often repeats) - simply because his brain is used to using it and feels safe using it, because its easy and fast and brain doesn't always catch up with new stuff that fast.

I personally am mute most of the time in public, and rarely have "good days" when I can speak more, more often I have "bad days" and I won't be able to utter a word in public all day. I can imagine Emmet, however, having more "good days" than me, which is why he still talks to people etc.

My mutism is situational - it depends on the situation I'm in and people I'm dealing with more than the day, despite the fact that I do have those good and bad days. It's just that more often than that, its simply the situation itself being overwhelming making me unable to speak up rather than internal feelings.

I can talk freely in places/situations I'm familiar with and comfortable in, which could translate for Emmet to being home and possibly Gear station, as for me my comfortable place is my home and I can talk freely when in my room even if I couldn't say anything just an hour earlier when outside. So, there's a possibility Emmet sees Gear Station as a safe enough space to speak in despite not talking as much outside.

It can be up to a debate though, and while I feel like he must see it as somewhat safe, home is still most likely the more safe and comfortable space than his workplace. Especially considering that I went to school for many years and yet still saw school as unsafe and was not able to talk there no matter how much time I spent there, so who knows, depends on how you imagine him treat his workplace.

Some people also affect my mutism, - mainly my brother. He can somehow break through it and make me speak freely, even when I'm in public which would normally make me go silent (as long as we are not stuck in a crowd or in an especially uncomfortable place ofc), so I imagine Emmet being with Ingo could also help him feel more comfortable actually speaking freely.

I could say Elesa could also maybe help him too, although I'm not sure, because to me, as much as I care about my friends, they are usually not enough to get me to talk. It's just my brother who's the exception. It depends on how close people write Emmet and Elesa, if they are simply just casual friends or like, really close almost-siblings kind of friendship.

How people react to me talking also affects how well can I speak, and people I interact can very easily make my good day become a bad day. For example: if I feel good enough to speak up and someone seems happy with the conversation going on, I will probably feel happy and accomplished, and more willing to continue talking. If they react negatively in any way, it can make me take a step back mentally and not say a word for the rest of the day out of shame.

When it comes to gestures, I don't really know sign language because no one ever cared to teach me - as most people where I live apparently don't believe in selective mutism. Besides, most people don't know sign language, so I wouldn't be able to use it much anyway.

For the most part, I use gestures to get my point across, usually using my hands, shoulders, head and body language trying to show my thoughts in a way that people may understand. It doesn't always work, but hey, I'm trying my best!

People are free to show Emmet as using sign language, however, but to me personally I feel like I would still default to random gestures even if I knew sign language because sign language is still talking in some way.

And I sometimes don't feel like using words of any kind, even if the kind is using hands - a lot of the time I just wanna show some vague ideas of how I feel and not elaborate further because it brings me stress to explain things. Because I usually can't understand myself and what I feel and trying to put it into words, even if not spoken, is hard.

I rely more on instincts and feelings rather than rational thoughs and words - so yeah, I would love to see him use vague hand motions to show his feelings more often too!

I simply feel like it would be really nice to see. Refreshing, in a way, when people don't just default to sign language = talking but with hands for mute people and leave it at that.

All in all, this is how I see things from my experience as a selectively mute person

Everyone can experience things differently, though! I just thought maybe some people who are not selectively mute would like to hear an opinion on it from someone who's always silent when outside.

Thanks for reading <3

#submas #subway boss emmet #pokemon #pokemon submas #subway master emmet

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fuckyeahgoodomens · 3 years

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Ineffable Con 2020 Fun Facts

Fun facts from the Ineffable Con 2 (2020) guest panels :):

Neil Gaiman, Douglas Mackinnon and Rob Wilkins

David G. Arnold (the music composer)

Claire Anderson (the costume designer)

Peter Anderson (Peter Anderson Studio created the opening title animation and in-show graphics)

Paul Adeyefa (Disposable Demon)

Jeremy Marshall-Roberts (the owner of Mary the Bentley)

1. Neil Gaiman, Douglas Mackinnon and Rob Wilkins

What do they have from Good Omens:

Rob has the statue from St. Beryls, all four motorbikes from the four horsemen, Crowley’s Devon watch, box signed by David Tennant with Crowley’s sunglasses and Aziraphale’s cocoa mug with Michael Sheen’s DNA :).

Douglas has the playing cards from Episode 1 and heavily annotated Good Omens book they used for filming with inscription by Neil: ‘For Douglas, make us love, make us cry, 3rd August 2017’.

Neil has Aziraphale’s chair from the bookshop that he bought from the BBC and he uses it for Zoom meetings.

What is their favourite thing that was not in the book and was added to the TV show:

Neil: all of the first half of Episode 3 - an absolute joy.

Rob: also the beginning of Episode 3.

Douglas: David Arnold’s music and Peter Anderson’s front titles.

Could Aziraphale get out of the Bastille easily if he wanted to?

Neil: if he could: absolutely. Did he have any conception of the mess he was in: probably not. It’s one of Neil’s favourite pieces of acting - the absolute delight on Aziraphale’s face when he realizes that Crowley’s there and then he turns around and rather petulantly, grumpily goes oh it’s you - that moment of joy on Aziraphale’s face when he realizes that he’s been rescued is one of Neil’s favourite things.

Neil and yoghurt starter: I had this slightly mad thing where I would explain to everybody that fans were yoghurt starter. And I said, ‘Basically you start out with yoghurt starter and you put it into your warm milk and you leave it, and the yoghurt starter goes off and turns the entire thing into yoghurt.

Neil realized that there was a cat in his house (Neil doesn’t have a cat :)). After the panel Neil said that he was going to look for the cat with a can of sardines and Douglas joked that he would find Michael Sheen in a cat costume.

What was the best and worst about making the series:

Douglas: the best - the camaraderie, getting to know the people, the cast and crew.

Rob: the best - realizing that the book could be translated to the screen and watching it happen. The worst - coming to the end of the shoot and saying goodbye to everybody.

Neil: the best - the amount of love from everybody, the worst - fighting budget battles (producers wanted gone all of the cold opening and the death of Agnes Nutter).

Did they expect that Good Omens would attract so many LBGTQ+ people and how they feel about that:

Neil: Yes, absolutely. There are definitely people out there who seem to think that I accidentally wrote a love story with all of the beats of a love story including a break-up halfway through, without somehow noticing that I’d written a love story. And I may not be the brightest candle on the candelabra, but as an author who’s been doing it for a long time, I’m very well aware of when I’m writing a love story, thank you very much. And so from my perspective I knew that the love story would be one of the driving things that would get us from the beginning to the end. And I also made a bunch of decisions about our angels and our demons in terms of casting, in terms of gender that everybody backed me up on, which I loved. You know, the idea that the archangel Michael is played by Doon [Mackichan] is something that is... or Beelzebub is Anna Maxwell Martin, whatever, there’s... it’s not like we are going: these are women, there are men, we are going: these are demons, these are angels. They... this is not a thing. And also doing something like Pollution, where you go in and go: okay well if we were doing this in... if 1989 was now, if there were they pronouns, we probably would have done that. We didn’t think of it at the time but that’s no reason why we can’t do it now. And we did and I remember having a... not exactly a battle, but a... my very tiny skirmish with one of our execs who was very nice and very bright and was like: ‘Why are you saying they?’, and I’m like... and I... explaining, and he’s like: ‘Well I’ve never heard of that before.’, and I’m like: ‘Oh, okay, but trust me, just trust me, it’s all fine, just trust me.’

Douglas: And you know I have to say, just following on what Neil’s saying, I’ve been directing for quite a while, and I tend to notice if characters are falling in love, I tend to notice a love story happening in front of me, and I think it’s there, and everything is meant, guys, everything is meant.

Neil added: I would just say, there are some things that you do while you’re writing a script intentionally. The fact that... I wanted to do this, well, it was a thing I did that I really enjoyed doing... where whenever people accuse them of being a couple: they don’t deny it, they don’t argue, there’s no flustering on their part. They absolutely… you know, everybody… what I’m trying to say is: yes, other people in the story are perceiving them as a couple too. And here is Uriel perceiving them as a couple, here is wonderful Dan [Starkey, playing the passerby] …and you know, you do scenes like that because that’s... you are trying to make a point here and you’re trying to make a point on how people are perceived.

Season 2, yes or no [fiends, all three of them!]:

Douglas: What’s that?

Neil: Of what?

Rob: Is it muted for me as is for everyone else?

Neil confirmed that they are going to be Funko Pops. [yay!]

2. David G. Arnold (the music composer)

He didn’t read the book before he was approached to do the music. He was asked to do it by Douglas Mackinnon he knew from the Victorian episode of Sherlock and he said yes before even knowing what it was about because he wanted to work with Douglas again.

The first piece of music he wrote for the show was the brass band doing the Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon [Episode 6, in the park before the kidnapping].

The second piece of music he wrote was the lullaby that Crowley sings to Warlock. He always liked the lullabies like in Mary Poppins so he said to Neil: Why don’t we do it like Walt Disney, but if Walt Disney was possessed by Satan? That was about 7 months before he needed to write anything again while they were shooting and it kept going round his head the whole time - the melody stuck with him and when it came to the Opening Title of the show, this became the middle bit.

The original opening title was Everyday by Buddy Holly and each episode was supposed to be closed with a different version of it: a death metal version, an angelic choir version, a carmina burana version... and he actually made all those. But he likes to find the musical identity of the show and put it in the opening titles because it’s important and it tells you: ‘This is the word you’re going to experience’, so he wrote his own opening title with the lullaby in the middle and played it to them [probably Neil and Douglas] with Buddy Holly as the backup and: Neil just turned around in his chair and said, ‘That’s Good Omens.’. From that point the instructions were with no rules, just to create whatever he wanted: the further you can go the better, the weirder and the stranger you can think the better. It’s a rare thing to be shown a world like Good Omens and be let free to run around in it.

His favourite ending title is the Queen one in Episode 1.

One of the reasons he didn’t do a theme for Crowley and a theme for Aziraphale is that the theme of the show is theirs - it’s theirs and they share it and it’s both of theirs and there is no separating in that regard.

About Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship reflected in the music score: It’s interesting isn’t it, because the relationship changed in a way slightly frequently and majorly infrequently. It seemed right from the start that their relationship was somehow seeded and planted and had begun by the time we saw them even though they may not have realised it themselves, you know, with the pair of them on the wall, considering one is a demon in the Garden of Eden and one is an angel. They act very charitably towards each other and they act with a lot of things you might not expect. And underneath that there is a sort of sense of togetherness and support even though they both know that their paths are going to diverge and they have different responsibilities. So I always felt like, right from that moment, when the wing came up on the wall, that there was something special about their relationship. Three moments that stuck with him: in Episode 3 saving the books in the church when they completely rely on the other for survival in the way that they were very open about, one in the car outside the nightclub in 60s Soho - the Holy Water, you go too fast for me, that genuinely tearing, that there was reluctance in those words that he spoke and that sort of things as a composer is gold, it’s about making those moments more, and in the last episode in a scene they’re not event in when we see Adam and Dog in the fields and Anathema that music there which celebrates Crowley and Aziraphale’s music which is the theme of the show - their shadow has passed over everyone’s emotional journey, and everyone’s emotional journey is theirs as well. The argument in the bandstand was important as well.

His favourite leitmotif from the series is the lullaby.

About the scene in the car in episode 2 when Thomas Tallis changes into Queen: Terry’s favourite piece of classical music was the Thomas Tallis piece [Spem in Alium] so Neil asked if they can go from Thomas Tallis - a choral piece from 16th century - to We Will Rock You, and: ‘You never say no. You don’t say that you can’t do it. What you have to do is to be the first person who solves the problem.’ In the end it was a two-days work just for this little bit and he mentioned that he never had these sorts of challenges anywhere else before.

His favourite non-musical detail in the show - the crucifixion, how the scene was shot, how it was upsetting, and how it was made more effective by Aziraphale and Crowley’s inability to stop it, that they had to observe and watch it, that it had to happen. I remember seeing that at the time and thinking, I wasn’t expecting that level of brutal honesty, in terms of the pictures that I was looking at and what they chose to show. And I think all the more effective for it.

3. Claire Anderson (the costume designer)

When creating the costumes for the characters she started with mood boards.

Aziraphale - she knew that he needed to have something winglike in his collar so that’s why there are sweeping lapels very often. Using velvet [for the waistcoat] because that was nice and soft and had all the appropriate qualities. His watch and fob that has little gold wings hanging from it and other tiny bits of symbolism. Tartan bow tie. Beautiful cashmere checkered trousers - not quite tartan but a nod to it. A mid to late Victorian coat, Michael only made his decision on the coat a couple of days before the filming. Aziraphale in the present settled on a ring with angelic symbol and harp cufflinks, earlier his ring in ancient times has got a much more roughly hewn set of wings on it, so before jewellery making became sophisticated he modernised slightly - he magicked it up to be a bit more modern, more gentleman signet type of ring, but he never modernises entirely. His heart is much more in the past.

After they began to define Aziraphale they started to look at how the Heaven army of angels might look - the element of tartan came sort of from Aziraphale and the angels have a not-tartan kilt with a semi military type jacket and a military band across that might hold arms or not, because they are not really violent. She used spats to make them look quite neutral and genderless so hiding fastenings and concealing little details like that seemed a way to do that.

Gabriel doesn’t wear spats because he’s on Earth such a lot. His shoe has a cover with two buckles on the side giving the same neutral element. He wears a cashmere light-as-air suit.

The other angels are all in bastardized versions of what era they may have died in, so they could have died in the 1930s or the 1800s and the costume would have an element of that era about it - though of course as an angel you can change things.

The Quartermaster Angel - the costume is a combination of slightly Indian type military, maharaja pants, longer spats from another era, all combined pieces of military tailored to be magical and slightly nonsensical, as Heaven might be.

Crowley - she felt that he wrapped around like a snake sheds its skin so she wanted something double breasted because that seemed to envelope his snakey charm. David wanted to be more casual than wearing a suit. Under his collar he always has a flash of red like the snake that he comes from - the red belly. They put a red seam into the sole of his boots so always there is a hint of where he came from. The red tie in the blitz. He was more rock and roll than Aziraphale and modernised more to a snakehipped rock and roll star really. His present jacket - the fabric there is quilted, they found an 80s jacket that had elements of things they enjoyed - part of that was that it had a slightly quilted quality to the fabric which was like a textured snakeskin. It took quite a long time to create the fabric and then to make the jacket from that - they quilted some fabric and washed and whooshed it repeatedly to create a bit of puckering in it. He has a snakey scarf around his neck like a chain mail linked scales of skin scarf that he wore that complemented his neck chain. The trousers he wore in Victorian times are the same he wore in the 60s when he meets young Shadwell. His present trousers - slightly waxy denim - we just were looking for a slithery finish. Crowley’s neck chain - there is only one in the world - her tailor has a Gothic church full of interesting stuff like busts and drapes with old things, this chain mail scarf was there and David was looking for something to complete his costume and liked it.

Hastur and Ligur are her favourite characters - they were so enjoyable to create. She had an amazing book of 1920s and 30s criminals and they used that as a starting point, because they were all quite worn out and bedraggled and poverty stricken and like hell might be ideally. They burnt and decayed the bottom of them as if they were rotting from the Earth and rotting back into the ground - all demons have sort of gators as if they were rotting from the ground up.

One of the most difficult things was the demons - when they realized they had a few days to create hundreds of demons in South Africa (4-5 days for almost 200 demons). It was as if I had been dissolved in holy water when they asked me for another 150 costumes.

The sleeves of Anathema’s coat have been inspired by a Victorian cycling coat.

The historical costume that Newt’s ancestor wore influenced his and Shadwell’s costumes - they used elements of the historical costume to put a little cape on Newt and Shadwell and their wax coats to give them the quality of that look. Newt's costume has a lot of mustard to make him feel a bit awkward and uncomfortable - it's not the most flattering colour on a northern European complexion.

The nuns’ headdress needed to look a little bit demonic - she bought a whole book on nuns’ headdresses for research. They also used the V in the nurse's apron because that was nicely demonic. The nurses' watch has got this Satanic symbol at the top - a little take on the medical since old nurses’ uniforms used to have watches.

For Madame Tracy she went back into the 70s, slightly Biba-esque makeup and a cape. They had only one pair of her goggles so it was always a nightmare to find them.

Which part of the cold opening is her favourite: I love ancient Rome because there is at least 6 to 12 metre of fabric in a toga and that was quite fun wrapping that around the boys and creating those., and her favourite was the Globe.

The lapels represent wings in every way and every shape and every form. Wings are very important.

4. Peter Anderson (Peter Anderson Studio created the opening title animation and in-show graphics)

The first thing that the director Douglas Mackinnon (with whom he worked on Doctor Who and Sherlock) said to him was: for all the graphics, for all the title sequence, for everything, I want you to promise me one thing, and that is very, very simple, promise that you send me emails that say: ‘this might be absolutely nuts, but my idea is...’.

The opening title it’s full of easter eggs - it’s a type of sequence that’s been designed to watch a thousand times, for example: on the escalator down to Hell there is one character running up deciding that he doesn’t want to go to Hell or the sea is full of plastic bags because we don’t look after the planet.

Every single face in the title sequence is either Crowley’s or Azriphale’s, they are repeated all the way through - inspired by Neil saying that there’s good and evil in all of us, so there is a grand procession of people of all the characters from the story - marching towards Armageddon - but all the characters have been taken over by good or evil. And along the way our two heroes are kind of playing tricks on each other, doing good, doing evil

The opening title combines multiple elements - two dimensional animation elements, three dimensional animation elements, CGI and live action (the people in the procession were created by live action on a travelator). So the result is a kind of strangeness - such as 3D figures with 2D animated tracked heads - which makes it unique.

Their first idea and version of the opening title was based on tapestries of old, subverting them, but then they wanted something more new and fresh.

Both Douglas and Neil were an important part of the opening title creation process.

The opening title sequence took about a year to make from the creative start with four intensive months towards the end.

One of things that inspired him was a Bauhaus theatre image from 1930s.

Question if the hand-drawn font for the graphics will be a purchasable font: no, because it was original and it’s unique and it was created just for this - it was for the love of the show and the story and it will be kept there.

In the scene where there are three photos of witchfinders - Neil and Douglas revealed in the DVD commentaries that two of them are their grandfathers - the third one is Peter’s great uncle.

Originally the signs telling us things like ‘Thursday’ or ‘Mesopotamia’ - were done as if somebody (who was living inside the television screen) ran up close to the screen and showed us the sign. In the end they simplified it, only showing the signs. The one time that it was sort of left in the show was when in Episode 5 a little demon in the video game shows a sign ‘GAME OVER’.

Outside of his work on it, what was his favourite thing on Good Omens: spending time with Douglas and Neil, and also working with Milk VFX - I think I can honestly say it's the best job I've ever worked on with the nicest people.

5. Paul Adeyefa (Disposable Demon)

He first read the book when preparing for the audition - the character wasn’t in the book but he got into it, loved it and couldn’t put it down.

He didn’t know about the name Eric until the script was published and people started calling the demon that, he really likes the name and thinks it fits.

There was a version of the script where the demon was going to be dressed in different costumes each time he was discorporated (for example one in long hair wearing a dress) - they would be all the same but different incarnations, in one version they had different accents.

The first scene he shot was the one where the demon goes to Heaven to deliver the Hellfire (and also wants to hit ‘Aziraphale’ which was cut). That first day was also his favourite moment of shooting because there was an immediate welcoming atmosphere and everyone was lovely and in love with the production.

Disposable Demon is like a permanent intern, running errands for the higher ups in Hell.

His favourite part of the costume were the eyelashes (though he loved the whole costume).

If he could change anything about the costume he would also want cool contact lenses - some brightly coloured ones.

Question what animal (like other demons have on their heads) comes to mind when we see the Disposable Demon: he didn’t think about it at the time, but later he saw people talking about his horns as bunny ears and found it interesting, and also the facts that there are so many of him and that he is quite happy and friendly for a demon so the bunny makes sense, so he might be a sort of a rabbit. Or perhaps something goat type because of the horns.

Question if there is another role in Good Omens he would have liked to have played: he always thought that the four horsemen were very cool and Pollution was his favourite so probably Pollution (also was the most jealous of Pollution’s contact lenses).

If there were a season 2, he would be there in a heartbeat.

Question about Eric’s feelings on Crowley, if he’s a bit of a Crowley fan: I think he might be. There is something about Crowley and how he is somehow a little bit different from the rest of the demons. - and the Disposable Demon has, much like Crowley, interest in the human world. He could well be 6,000 how many years old, the same as everyone else, but he seems to have this younger vibe and I think he thinks that Crowley is quite cool.

Good Omens fandom is his first experience with a fandom of this scale. It speaks a lot, the fact that this kind of very, this minor character, a character who is only on screen for a very short amount of time gets any kind of attention at all, it's quite amazing really, it goes to show how big and enthusiastic the fans are. I never experienced anything like that.

6. Jeremy Marshall-Roberts (the owner of Mary the Bentley)

When Crowley used a miracle to switch off the Bentley lights in Episode 1 at nuns manor it was done by: there was actually a very small guy called Louis turning on and off the switches quickly.

David Tennant was allowed to wear the snake eye contacts for only 3 hours a day otherwise they could damage his eyesight.

For Mary, the Bentley, it was the second time she was ‘blown up’ on film - first being in the Endeavour with Inspector Morse about three years earlier.

He was a bit nervous during filming the bookshop fire scene because the Bentley was so close to a real fire - not wanting the paint to blister. The car was moved off after a few minutes of filming but still.

About the damage to Mary: Unfortunately, we overran, and Rob my stunt driver had already booked a holiday and off he went and so when he returned in January, on the 10th of January, I had this new driver who really had no clue how to drive old cars, so I showed him around, I showed him to go around corners. He came around the corner, the door was not closed properly for some reason and the door flew open as he went around. And instead of slamming on the brakes which is extremely efficient and would stop him straight away he kept on going, hit another car and really smashed the door quite badly. It did take the car off the roads for 10 months. The door was completely remade because of this accident and it cost the total of £24 000 to rebuild the car to get it back to running as it is today.

The Bentley’s part most difficult to maintain and service is the engine.

Would Mary be available for a potential season 2: definitely!

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raindownforme · 3 years

Note

omg omg ok ok so maybe for a request charlie and the reader and how they interact as streamers?? like a friends to lovers au but you can tell how they fall in love through all their interactions online & in games (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)

like for example whenever they play on the smp charlie only reaaallly wants to help the reader and when anyone else asks he’s like hm? what? IT JUST SEEMED CUTE IN MY HEAD ☹️💌

Lore

Charlie slimecicle x reader [they/them used]

“Hello twitchers.” y/n smiled into the face cam, watching the chat fly by a mile a minute. They knew they’d draw in a larger audience today, it being their first official stream on the Dream SMP. They loaded up the game, spawning in a wooded area surrounded by cobblestone. “Alright where do we- hello?”

y/n leaned closer to the screen. They could see someone standing behind a tree. Someone in glasses and green blotchy skin. They typed into the in-game chat, trying to get who ever it was to come closer. Thankfully they did, revealing a character named Slimecicle. y/n looked over to the discord server, pulling themselves into a voice channel with the mystery person.

“Hi there!” Slimecicle’s voice rang through y/n’s headphones and they smiled. They liked the sound of his voice. “Im Charlie. Welcome.”

“Thanks. Do you know how to get anywhere?”

“Yeah!” Charlie’s character jumped as y/n followed after him. Charlie led them to a snowy mountainside that had been covered with sand. Someone had built a white mansion and several other buildings, including a fountain and a tall tower. “This is where I live.”

“This mansion?” y/n panned to look around the mountainside. They glanced over to watch their chat fly by.

“No I just live in the country in general. Las Nevadas!” Charlie jumped up and down, punching y/n in a friendly manner. “Oh are you hungry? I have food!”

Charlie’s character threw a stack of lamb chops at y/n. They smiled at him, then quickly realized he couldn’t see them. “Thanks! Where is this by the way.”

“Only the best country ever. It’s Las Nevadas! Do you want to live here?”

“Sure!” y/n followed as Charlie ran around. He showed them all around the country; the casino, the strip club, the restaurant, and even the garden. “Charlie this is so cool!”

“I know!” Charlie jumped up and down in a circle. “I’m not the guy who owns it but I’m sure he’d like to meet you.”

“Oh.” y/n paused, biting their cheek. “Will he be okay with me being here?”

“Of course he will. It’s Quackity! Let’s find you somewhere to live.” y/n followed Charlie to the tall white tower. He led them behind it to a flat plot of sand. “Here! We’ll be neighbors.”

“Awesome. I don’t have anything to build with yet but-“

“Oh here!” Charlie ran into the base of the tower, coming back 30 seconds later. He threw two stacks of oak logs to y/n. “Is this what you needed?”

“I- yeah. That’s a lot of wood.”

“I want you to have it!”

y/n smiled bashfully, trying to swallow the heat rising to their cheeks. They could see their twitch chat running by with messages asking if it was lore or cannon. “Here. Take this then.”

Charlie marveled at the flower y/n had tossed him, a blue cornflower. He smiled, holding a hand over his mouth to hide from the prying eyes of his own twitch chat. “Thank you.”

y/n began running around the plot, randomly placing oak planks to make a frame for their house. They tossed Charlie some planks, allowing him to help build up the home. They continued beholding for another half an hour, allowing y/n to have a gorgeous one story home with room for storage and supplies.

“Thanks for all your help today.”

“Of course! Do I get to see you again?”

y/n smiled, glancing over at discord to make sure they’d requested to be friends with Charlie. “Of course! I’ll see you around the server?”

y/n and Charlie saw each other quite often around the server. y/n logged on, Charlie was there. They’d spend hours in the game mining together, building structures, hunting. It went on months of them interacting in streams and lore exclusively.

“You can’t do this Quackity.” y/n spoke slowly. They’d been practicing the recording for this lore for weeks now, and thank god it wasn’t live. “I trust you, and I’m glad we’re friends, but this? Burning it all? What will that do for you. What will any of this do for you?”

“I know you haven’t been here as long, but this is my fucking country. It’s my fucking war. Who the hell are you to think you have any understanding of this? And ideas?”

“Because this isn’t how it works. This isn’t going to work. How many times have you tried this and it just hasn’t happened or you? I don’t know, maybe think about Schlatt? Or Technoblade?”

Quackity froze, being eerily silent. y/n glanced over at the script, making sure nothing was missed. “How do you know about that? Who told you about that?” Quackity’s character ran forward with a diamond sword in hand. “That is none of your business.”

“It’s none of your business how I know.” y/n backed away from Quackity as he walked closer. “I may not have been here long but I have friends.”

“What friends you have-“ he paused, realization setting in. “You have Slime. My friend.”

Quackity came at y/n swinging, they tried to fight back, blocking with a shield and iron sword. “Quackity enough! This isn’t what you want! Quackity please-“

y/n stopped, holding a breath and muting their mic. Quackity had landed the final blow, taking their first cannon life. They moved slightly away from their set up, making sure to not touch any keys. They knew Quackity was still recording, and Charlie’s part was coming soon.

Quackity panted. Taking a shaky breath. “Fuck. Okay. God I can’t believe-“ y/n waited expectantly. Quackity’s pause meant that he saw Charlie. “Oh. Hey bud.”

“Quackity from Las Nevadas.” Charlie almost sounded like he was crying. “What did you do?”

“Slime, you don’t understand, they knew more than they should-“

“So you killed them?” Quackity was quiet. y/n silently cheered to themselves, proud of both Charlie and Quackity’s acting. “You- you took my friend. You took my friend away and- are they coming back? Is y/n coming back?”

“Slime, I took one life. It doesn’t matter. They don’t matter. They didn’t care about Las Nevadas, not like we do.” y/n could hear Quackity’s character moving from his audio in the discord call. “It’s you and me Slime, my best friend.”

“No.”

“No?” y/n looked over the shared script, searching for what part was happening. They hadn’t read this far ahead. “What do you mean no?”

“I cared about y/n. They were my friend. This is not how you treat a friend.”

“And how would you know?”

“Because I know Quackity. I know.”

Charlie and Quackity came to a halt, waiting a moment before speaking again. “That was great!” y/n exited the Minecraft world, turning their full attention to the discord call. Quackity had his camera on, smiling, but Charlie still kept his camera off. “Was there anything else to record today?”

“No that’s it.” There was some clicking from Quackity’s end. “Thanks again. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Yeah, later.”

Quackity exited the discord call, leaving Charlie and y/n in silence. Charlie cleared his throat, turning on his camera. His room was lit by just the lights behind his set up, casting his shadow over the shelves of stuffed toys and collectibles behind him. “Hey.”

“Hey!” y/n felt their face grow warm slightly. “I didn’t realize there was that much more to the script.”

“Yeah.”

y/n chewed the inside of their cheek. It almost sounded like Charlie was disappointed. “Are you okay? You sound upset.”

“I just-“ Charlie paused, resting his chin on his propped-up hands. “What do we do now? I don’t want to stop playing minecraft with you.”

“Charlie we don’t have to stop. Just because the lore goes one way doesn’t mean that we can’t interact.”

“But continuity-“

“You’re thinking like DnD.” y/n smiled gently at him. “If you still want to play together we can, it’ll just be like a secret. Or we can do our own lore. I’m sure if we talk to everyone about it me and you can write something.” Charlie didn’t say anything, and they frowned. “Is there something else?”

“I kind wish they didn’t kill you so early. I’ve still got my lives.”

“Maybe Quackity will kill you next.”

“That’s not-“ Charlie huffed, running a hand through his hair. “I like the character dynamic. I like us interacting. I like us.”

y/n paused, their face burning. They’d be lying if they said they hadn’t thought about the dynamic between themself and Charlie. The clips of them talking on late night streams. The fan-art all over Twitter. The edits recommended to them on Instagram. Hell, they thought about it even without seeing any prompted content. Charlie was on their mind most of the day. They’d constantly find themselves checking twitch to see if he was live or discord to see if he was active. Charlie had become a constant in y/n’s life and they indulged themself in it. “I like the dynamic too.”

“Well we don’t have that dynamic if you stop being part of Las Nevadas. There isn’t us.”

“Charlie, what are you talking about?”

“I’ve been— fucking— I’ve been using this stupid server to get closer to you. I thought that maybe you liked us the way that I liked us and I- I don’t know what I’m doing now.” Charlie rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I just didn’t want you to go.”

“Charlie I’m not going anywhere. I like us too.”

“You do?” Charlie perked up a bit, seeming more enthusiastic.

“Just cause we write lore doesn’t mean it affects us. Here, watch this.” y/n went onto the shared script, hoping Charlie still had it open, and began to type. They wrote about how y/n would possibly live alone in the woods on the outskirts of Las Nevadas, staying close to Charlie.

They could see Charlie smile on the other end of the call, then emit the sound of keys tapping. y/n watched as the words appeared on the page: Charlie tells y/n how he feels.

y/n gasped and turned back to the discord call. “I wanted to tell you soon. I guess I didn’t realize how upset the recording would make me.”

“Charlie, how long have you had a crush on me?”

“Uh, remember your first day?” y/n nodded eagerly. “Yeah. Probably about there.”

y/n turned back to the shared document, typing furiously. “It’s a good thing I like you too.”

Charlie smiled widely at the words; y/n returns his affection. He smiled at the discord call, resting his face in his hands. “Well then, what’s next for our lore darling?”

y/n chuckled, going back to open minecraft. “Help me make a new house.”

“Only if my bed can be next to yours.”

“Deal.”

They could hear Charlie tapping on his keyboard as he loaded in the game. “I know we haven’t met in person, but I’m serious. I like you.”

“And I’m serious. I like you too.” y/n looked at Charlie’s character on their screen. “It does kind of suck we’ve never met but that doesn’t mean-“

“I bought a ticket.”

“W-what? What kind of ticket?”

“A plane ticket. For next week. I mean if that’s okay. I can still cancel it.”

“No! I mean yes. I’d be delighted to have you come over Charlie.” y/n felt their smile soften.

“Can I still have a bed then?”

“Yes!” y/n laughed, going back to the game. They placed two beds side-by-side in the open air. “How’s this?”

“Better.” Charlie’s character went to stand on one of the beds. “Maybe we can write something different- oh.”

y/n looked at the document. Quackity had left them a comment on their new writing, telling them to flirt elsewhere. “Well, I guess he had a point.”

“Back to the game then darling?”

y/n smiled bashfully at the nickname. “Back to the game.”

#charlie slimecicle my beloved #charlie slimecicle #charlie slimecicle x reader #slimecicle #slimecicle x reader #dsmp fanfic #dsmp x reader #dsmp #lunch club #lunch club x reader #chuckle sandwich #chuckle sammy

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garbagevanfleet · 3 years

Text

Brightest Blue (series)

PART TWELVE

Pairing: Josh x reader Warnings: THIS CHAPTER IS 18+! Explicit sexual content Summary: Things are changing. New state. New school. New roommate. You just pray things are going to click into place.

Notes: ahh, sweet resolution. Writing this chapter made me euphorically happy. Thank you for reading! Extra thank you for liking, reblogging, or replying to this fic. I’m so happy people like it as much as I do.

taglist: @valleyd0ll @satingrass-maidensfair @guitarfingers @thebohemianpenguin @peaceisouranthem @oblvions @hansonobsessed @myownparadise96 @anditsmywholeheart @kill-fear-the-power-of-lies @bigblack-catattack

MASTERPOST

The final week before the play was an oddly enjoyable hell. Every second felt like it flew by and dragged on for eternity simultaneously.

You had skipped class on Thursday, just to make sure you had every costume just the way you wanted it. Your very favorite one to work on had been Alice’s dress - you put more work into it than most of your classes for the past couple of weeks, but by the time it was done, it could have been in a storybook.

As it hung from your closet door, you took a moment to be proud of yourself, admiring the lace and the neat trimmings.

Kate showed up around 5, and somehow you knew she would, even though she never mentioned a thing when you told her you were staying home.

“Hi, you,” she greeted, letting herself in as she slipped past you. “Did you get it all done?”

“Well, if I had another week, I’m sure I could find more that I could work on with them, but they’re pretty great,” you agreed. “You want a glass of wine?”

She shook her head at you. “Actually, I’m taking you shopping tonight.”

“Shopping?”

“Yeah, have you thought about what you’re going to wear to the play?” she inquired, sounding smug like she knew you really hadn’t.

You frowned at her, unsure. “I was thinking probably something simple.”

She rolled her eyes. “No, it should be something classy, pretty,” she said.

“And warm,” you reminded, thinking of the snow outside.

“Sure, sure, yeah. So, are you coming?”

You gave her a sweet smile. “Let me get my coat.”

+++

“I don’t think I can wear this,” you said through a grimace as you turned this way and then that in the mirror. Kate had let herself right into the dressing room with you, her long legs taking up more space than you could afford in such a small room. “My whole vagina would freeze.”

“It’s not that short,” she giggled.

“Yeah, but it’s just an open dress. My legs are exposed!”

“True, maybe you could wear leggings under it,” she suggested.

“If I were going to wear leggings, I’d want a longer dress I think. Maybe something mid-calf. Then I could wear booties.”

She looked like she was considering it for a moment before nodding. “Yes, that seems like it would be super cute. What about your hair?”

“How about we find the dress first and go from there,” you teased.

Once you were dressed again and had everything hung back on the “reject” rack, you ventured out into the store again, weaving through mannequins and lines of garments. You went to grab a hanger when you snapped your hand back in pain.

“Damn,” you hissed. She turned to give you a concerned look. “My fingers are so sore from sewing. I’m kind of thinking they might never recover.”

You were joking, but she gave you a sympathetic look anyway. “You know this play is just as much yours as it is his, right?”

You huffed a laugh. “Oh my god, that’s so dramatic.”

“Well, pretty damn close,” she objected, pulling a dress from the rack in front of her and laying it over her forearm. “His ass would have been grass without you.”

“We can thank Rachel for that,” you quipped, chronically annoyed by the thought of her.

She paused what she was doing and met your eyes. “Did you figure out why she quit?”

You gave her a confused frown. Now that you were thinking about it, Josh never did tell you why. You shook your head. “Why?”

“Well, it sounds like she kinda had a thing for Josh. Like a big thing. And that’s why she signed up to work with him in the first place.”

You nodded for her to continue, your stomach feeling tight.

“And I guess it went okay for a little while - he seemed receptive to it apparently, but she found out he had a female roommate and saw you guys eating lunch together all of the time, you know?” Kate continued carefully.

You hummed, trying to seem casual, but you felt a little like you’d just been sucker-punched.

“How did you hear about this?”

“Grapevine,” she replied with a smile. “What do you think of this one?”

She was stroking her fingers down a long dress, black with flowers in muted colors. “That would go really well with my coat actually. We have to accept the reality that I’m going to have to wear a coat the whole time.”

She smiled at you in an oddly genuine way for her. “I know you didn’t ask for my advice, but you should go for it.”

You gave her a confused look. “I have to try it on first.”

She put a hand flat on your chest. “Not the dress, you goober. Josh.”

You stared blankly at the ground until you were sure of what you wanted to say. “I don’t want to fuck this up. I can’t lose him as a friend - I’d be devastated.”

“Why would you think you’d fuck it up? I don’t know that you could, to be honest.” You watched as she grabbed a pair of earrings, dangling off of their cardboard hanger. She started back off toward the dressing room, and you followed close behind.

“We’ll have to wait and see what happens.”

+++

You helped Josh get all of the costumes to the school on Friday, hanging them up on racks backstage. You took the time to make them all tags, writing the kid’s names in fancy, flowing script.

Josh was working on getting the first set perfectly into place, so everything was ready to go for showtime the next day. Despite how clearly nervous he was, you could hear him handing out compliments and words of encouragement to the stagehands - even his constructive advice was said in a way that felt like every person in that room was his best friend.

He had left you mostly alone to get the wardrobe ready, but when he popped back into your area, he crouched down next to where you were sat on the floor.

“I probably won’t be home until late again tonight,” he informed with a half-frown. “There’s a lot I still have to get into place.”

You gave him an understanding smile. “Don’t worry about me, worry about you. You need a good night’s sleep for tomorrow.”

“I know,” he replied, looking thankful. “Show me some of these costumes.”

You had been oddly flattered that he had trusted you enough to have them done - and done well - by the time of the play; he hadn’t asked to see them even once until right then.

“You can look through them, but they won’t look right until they’re on a child.”

His face lit up like that was the best news of the day. “That’s perfect because the kids should be here for dress rehearsal in about ten minutes.”

You smiled at him as he stood and helped you up with two outstretched hands.

He ran his hands over the rack, pausing on the one you knew he would. With a perplexed look, he pulled the door mouse costume and held it up.

“This is-” he started, but you cut him off.

“I know, I really hope it’s okay, but I found a sheet in your room with some rough designs on it, and I really liked a lot of them,” you admitted sheepishly.

“You were going through my stuff?” he asked with a grin.

You shook your head. “Just that. And it was when I went in to get Penny.”

His fingers slid down the tail of the costume, made from a string of peach-hued rope - just like his draft had called for. His brown eyes flicked up at you, looking like melted chocolate under the warm-colored lights. “I literally don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you for this.”

You could feel a blush rising on your cheeks, the sensation of flower petals brushing your stomach lining. “Let’s make it through the show without them falling to pieces first.” Your tone had been a teasing one, but he looked completely unaffected.

The intensity of the moment was slowly creeping up on you - you weren’t sure if he was going to kiss you or cry. In the end, he did neither.

“Do you want to stick around to see the kids in their outfits?” he offered, but you shook your head.

“I’m actually really excited to see it all for the first time tomorrow,” you replied with a smile that was immediately matched by his.

“Alright, I like that idea.” He paused a moment before speaking again. “Don’t wait up for me, okay?”

You chuckled at him, pulling your jacket on to leave. “No promises.”

+++

That evening you spent a long time in the bathtub with a bottle of wine. You had homework to do - and you tried for a couple of hours, but you just couldn’t be fucked with it, so you turned the water up as hot as it would go and rested your head on a rolled-up towel.

You felt silly about it now, but you were scared that once this was over, you would feel lost without the costumes to worry about. That moment never came for you - at least not with the costumes.

You definitely couldn’t stop thinking about Josh.

There was this terrible feeling in the pit of your gut - a guilt, heavy like you swallowed a pile of gravel.

When you got out, you haphazardly dried off and left the wet towel on the bathroom floor. You got changed into a long-sleeved shirt and your pajama shorts and then grabbed what was left of your wine and made your way to Josh’s room. After you laid out on his bed, you rolled over onto your side and stared into the fish tank, pressing your fingers against the glass.

Penny had been snoozing in her log decoration, but when she spotted you, she hurried out to greet your hand.

“I fucked up, Penny,” you whispered. You imagined she was making an angry face at you, but in reality, she was just floating there, probably wondering where her dinner was.

You glanced at the time on your phone.

8:32 pm

You grabbed the little jar of flakes off of his bedside table and strained to drop a couple into the water. She gobbled them up excitedly, her safety-orange colored fins waving in the water.

You had no idea when it happened, but you woke up to the dresser drawer by your head opening. You sat up, irregular heartbeat making you feel jittery.

Josh turned to look at you, a warm smile on his lips, the sun illuminating his tan face. “Hey,” he greeted.

“Oh my god, it’s light outside. What time is it?” you asked groggily.

“About 8:30. I got home at midnight and you were passed out in here, so I covered you up,” he informed, making your face run warm.

You pushed your messy hair away from your face. “I’m sorry, I was laying in here with Penny and I must have fallen asleep.” You glanced around in confusion. “I didn’t even feel you get out of bed.”

“Oh, I slept on the couch,” he replied, picking a pair of pants from his top drawer.

You frowned, casting your eyes down to the bedsheets. He thought you didn’t want to sleep next to him, and instead of waking you up to move you, he slept out on the couch. The idea made you want to cry.

“Will you sit with me a moment?” you asked, patting the spot next to you.

He gave you an apologetic smile. “I really want to, but I need to be over to the school in twenty minutes. I am planning on being back here around 4 to eat something quick and then get ready.”

“Okay.” You clambered out of bed as he pulled his shirt off and changed into a new one. “I think I’ll probably already be at Kate’s, but if you want to take my car you can.”

He shot you a smirk. “Really? You’re going to let me drive?”

You crossed your arms over your chest, putting on your best mom voice. “Yes, but only if you promise to be very safe.”

He put his hand over his heart. “I promise.”

“I’ll see you after the show,” you said, maybe a little too sweetly, and brushed a curl out of his eyes. It was well worth it to see the tops of his cheeks turn pink.

+++

As Kate took you both to the theater, you couldn’t kick the nervous butterflies. She looked beautiful - you’d never seen her in anything but mom jeans, but she was dressed in a plaid skirt, tights, and a black turtleneck sweater. She had insisted on doing your makeup - sitting you down at her vanity and pulling a barstool close enough she could reach you. You had known better than to complain about the amount of time she took - besides, you had gotten over to her house so early, you had nothing but time. When she was done, you barely recognized yourself. Somehow she had made your eyes look bigger, your lashes longer and darker, and your face sharper. You were used to wearing foundation and concealer, but your face felt almost a little heavy under all she’d put on you.

She had laid out a few extra things for you - a pair of boots and a set of green gem earrings and you gave her a thankful smile as you donned them. The truly hard part was resisting hugging her very affectionate polar bear - which was actually a dog, she informed you. You had tried once, but she scolded you, reminding you that white fur didn’t look good on black fabric.

You had whispered a promise to him that you would be back soon to give him all the love he could handle.

When she pulled up to the school, she had you get out at the doors and grab the tickets while she went to park, and to your pleasant surprise, Jake was waiting for you. He helped you out of the car with an outstretched hand. You weren’t sure what you were expecting him to wear, but it definitely wasn’t a button-up shirt with the top few buttons undone and nothing underneath.

“You’re literally making me cold just looking at you,” you teased, wrapping your arms comfortingly around your frame. You had earned a grin from him.

“I’m wearing a coat,” he reasoned, holding up the hem of a light peacoat to prove his point.

You rolled your eyes at him. “C’mon, let’s get our tickets.”

He pulled two tickets out of said coat’s pocket and handed them to you. “You mean these?”

“Did you buy these?” you asked through a frown.

“One of them. I bought mine and Kate’s, and I think you can guess who got yours,” he responded with a genuine smile.

You took one of the tickets wordlessly, but you couldn’t suppress a smile.

As soon as Kate had joined you in the foyer, you took your seats. Despite it being only a college production, you were shocked at how many people had come to the opening night. There were only a handful of open spots left when they flashed the lights, and you could just imagine Josh giving the kids a pep talk backstage.

The show started with a fun, bouncy opening music number and you leaned against Kate as you looked on at all the set pieces you’d both worked so hard on. You had thought your job was hard, but Kate had to round up a bunch of art students to help her work on the hundreds of different props.

Leave it to Josh to treat a children’s musical like a broadway show.

The first half of the show went pretty much perfectly - everyone seemed to remember their lines, and if they didn’t, you didn’t notice. You couldn’t help but smile in pride as you watched all of your costumes appear on stage, one by one.

During intermission, your head snapped over when you heard a soda tab opening and you shot Kate a disapproving look - you’re pretty sure you’d read a “no outside food and drink” sign at the front entrance. She gave you an unapologetic smile as she took a long sip and then handed the can over to Jake. He laughed under his breath.

The time went by too fast, and the closer it got to the closing act, the more anxious you got. The final scene was a triumphant number, exciting and big. You could tell that a lot of the audience was family members because when the curtain fell, they all began to stand. Hooting and hollering filled the huge room, and you almost cried when the curtain rose again to reveal some of the kids wearing smiles that spread all the way to their ears. It started with the minor characters - the cards, the flowers, and then the Cheshire Cat, the Hatter, the Caterpillar, the White Rabbit. Then finally, The Queen of Hearts, followed by a grinning Alice.

They waved excitedly at the crowd, eating up the standing ovation like it was candy. You saw Kate with her hand pressed over her mouth and the biggest eyes you’d ever seen her wear - she was absolutely in love with them, as was the entire rest of the room.

A moment or two later, Josh stepped out onto the stage. You recalled back when you had first met him and had told him you couldn’t imagine him in business casual because he was wearing a dark blue suit, a pair of black dress shoes, and a proud grin. As the kids made a spot for him in the line, he crouched down in between them and gave a couple of them a pat on the back. You saw him speak something at the girl playing Alice, and it must have been praise because she gave him a toothy smile in return.

When the cast members had returned backstage, you had told Kate and Jake to leave when they were ready - you were going to wait for Josh. Both of them had given you knowing smiles that you brushed off easily enough, but they left all the same with a parting word of “text me” from Kate.

You gave it enough time that most of the audience had left - all the kids joining their parents with promises of ice cream and treats - before you made your way backstage.

After looking for him for a moment, you spotted Josh chatting with an older man excitedly by the back exit. When the older man (his professor, you assumed) laid eyes on you, he gestured toward you with a, “Please head home, we’ll see you tomorrow. You’ve done a great job.”

Josh turned to look at you and the smile melted from his lips as he nodded a haphazard acknowledgment to his professor.

“Hey,” you greeted, only needing to speak above a whisper in the quiet area. Viewing him on stage was fine - it felt impersonal, but up close it felt like looking into the sun. “You look so handsome.”

His cheeks turned red under the tan skin as he rubbed at the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said through a weak laugh, and a moment later said, “The costumes were incredible.”

“Not bad for someone who didn’t know how to sew a month ago, right?” you teased. You stared into his eyes for a long moment before crossing the room and taking his hand. “Are you ready to go?” you asked, then teasingly added, “Provided my car is still intact.”

He chuckled at you before taking a long breath. “Yeah, let’s go home.”

The car ride home was tense, but not uncomfortable. You could sense the electricity running through him as you chatted about the production - the pride radiating from him was palpable.

When you pulled into the apartment parking lot, it had just begun snowing, and neither of you made any moves to exit the car once it was turned off.

After a long moment of silence, you spoke again. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He gave you a nervous look, one eyebrow quirked. “We do?”

You breathed a laugh, half-turning towards him in your seat. After a moment of collecting your thoughts, you said, “I want you to lay it all out for me. I know we haven’t been talking about it because it’s scary but I need to know exactly how you feel about me.”

He stared into your eyes for a long time, seemingly trying to predict whether this was a good idea or not. Just for assurance, you laid your hand on top of his where it rested on his knee - his fidgeting fingers pausing under your touch.

“You know, I think I felt it for you the moment I first met you,” he admitted, casting his eyes anywhere but on yours. “I was nervous up until semi-recently that I just felt that way because I was lonely, you know? When my ex and I parted ways last spring and my roommate dropped out and moved away, I felt like I lost everyone all at once.

“I stopped going to parties and seeing my friends until I had none left. And I didn’t want to see my family - I think I had become accustomed to being alone, but you moved in and you were so kind. I’m not sure exactly when it happened - probably kind of a little bit at a time - with every interaction, you know? But I feel it for you. For real.”

He met your eyes again with a surprised frown. You watched his other hand come up, his thumb swiping under your eye, leaving a cool spot behind. “I’m sorry, don’t cry.”

You laughed weakly. “I didn’t know I was. I’m going to ruin all the makeup Kate spent an hour working on.” Before he could speak again, you took the moment. You leaned in and tugged him closer to you by the lapels of his suit jacket, pressing your lips to his. He melted into it for only a moment before pulling away with a sad smile.

“I don’t want you to do this just because you feel bad for me,” he explained, voice uncharacteristically flat.

You gave him a frown, taking his chin between your fingers and forcing him to look at you. “I’m not,” you promised, but he looked unconvinced. So you tried again.

“Josh, I’m so sorry about the way I’ve treated you. I fucked up. You have got to be the absolute sweetest person I’ve ever met - definitely the sweetest man - and it was fucked of me to sleep with you and then make you feel like you were wrong for wanting affection.”

He gave you a questioning look.

“It’s never going to happen again. Because - if you’ll have me - I want to give you all the affection you can handle. No weed-induced hook up’s this time.”

He was silent for a long moment, and you huffed a laugh as you visualized his brain working.

“Oh,” he breathed as a smile started to tilt his lips up at the corners. “Well. That’s not how I expected this to go. Are we gonna fuck here - in the car?”

An abrupt laugh ripped through your chest. “I would prefer if we didn’t, this is cloth upholstery. But we could go inside?”

He nodded at you, and opening the door and stepping out, he came around to your side and gave you his hand to make sure you didn’t fall in the new snowfall.

Inside, he toed off his dress shoes, and you bent to undo the buckles on your boots, your fingers shaking slightly in anticipation. The second you were stood again, he had you pressed back against the door with just enough force to knock the breath from your lungs.

When he leaned in and connected your mouths, you wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers lacing into his hair.

He kissed a trail down your jaw and to the base of your throat, the feeling of teeth dragging across your skin giving you goosebumps. He hummed into your neck as his hands snaked around your body, his fingers tugging up the hem of your dress.

You slipped your coat off with his help once he realized what you were trying to do. As soon as it fell to the floor, you were walking him back blindly through the apartment, neither of you caring when you bumped into this or that. He turned you around when you reached his bedroom, laying you out over the covers.

You watched as he unbuttoned his suit jacket, then the cuffs of his dress shirt.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he mumbled, making you blush lightly as he gestured to your form. “Did you do this for me?”

Through a smile, you replied, “Of course.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he stated confidently as he worked to open his button-down shirt. You decided that you weren’t going to let him do that alone, so you sat up, replacing his fingers with yours.

You huffed. “Don’t say that.” The second the fabric was undone, you pressed your lips to his warm stomach, feeling the skin twitch under the touch. “You’re the sweetest person I’ve ever met - candy sweet.” It was his turn to flush pink across his face, but you weren’t done yet. “I find myself thinking about you constantly.” You nipped into the trail of hair below his navel as you tugged his shirt from his dress pants. He hummed low at the slight pain. “I actually got some condoms in case you wanted to use them. Probably not all of them tonight - it’s a big pack, but you know. Over the next couple of weeks.” Your tone was teasing, forcing a breathy laugh from him.

“Where are they?” he asked, voice a little gravelly.

“My bedside stand.”

As he exited the room to retrieve them, you pushed yourself up onto the bed until your head hit his pillows. You could hear him rummaging in the next room until the noise stalled for a beat as you worked off your leggings. You listened to him pad back across the hall, wearing just a smile and his dress pants when he returned.

He crawled up the bed over you, pressing his face into your cheek as his hand lifted the hem of your dress.

“What’s this?” he asked into your ear, pressing something cold against your thigh. You knew what it was instantly, making you suck in a surprised breath.

You laughed, but even to your ears, it sounded nervous. He held it up so you could see.

“That would be a vibrator.”

It wasn’t anything special - just a slim, blue plastic piece, but it was the only one you’d ever had, and it had been a very good friend to you. He hovered his lips over yours as he ran the toy up your leg until the tip of it brushed your panties.

“Is this okay?” he asked, but he sounded smug like he already knew the answer. You squirmed in anticipation and nodded.

When he brushed it across your mound, you jolted, your fingers pressing tightly into his shoulder. He applied a little pressure to it, pressing it into the folds over the fabric. The feeling made you whine in the back of your throat.

He sat up, slipping his legs under yours, pulling your ass into his lap. Your face felt hot, so you covered your eyes with your fingers, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth. This was a lot different than hooking up with him while high.

He played the toy over your panties until you were wet enough to have left a damp spot in the fabric. Then he hooked his fingers under them and tugged them down enough to give him full access, though the position restricted him from removing them completely.

When the plastic pressed against your bare skin, you had to suppress a moan. You couldn’t see, so you didn’t expect it when the toy flicked to life against you, and he ran it across you lightly, just teasing.

You stared up at the ceiling through your fingers, your mouth agape as he brushed it over your clit in circles, making your hips buck into the touch.

“Fuck,” you breathed, taking one of your hands from your eyes and running your fingers through your hair. If you tugged on the locks lightly, no one had to know but you.

A little rougher, he deliberately pressed just the tip of it into your clit, forcing a shocked whine from the back of your throat. You made the mistake of sitting up on your elbows to watch, but instead, all you could look at was the form of his hard cock straining against his tight pants.

You couldn’t have stopped yourself if you tried - you reached out and ran your fingers down the length of it. It twitched under your touch, but he didn’t stop what he was doing. You made a mental note to congratulate him on his dedication. Instead, he grabbed your wrist with a firm grip and laid you back down, all without taking his eyes off of his task.

You could feel it starting to build in you as you rocked your hips into the feeling of the toy against your most sensitive part. You were positive that you looked absolutely pathetic, but when you met his eyes, he looked so entranced that it made you blush deeper - if that was even possible.

Your fingers were flexing into his sheets as you came, a high whine ripping through your chest. When he pulled the toy away, a thread of your come was still connected to it, shimmering in the dim light of his lamp. He brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss against it, leaving his lips shiny.

It took you a moment to collect yourself - your breathing was ragged and not at all appealing, if you had to guess.

He gently placed your vibrator on his side table, and you watched as his fingers worked open the button on his pants, and then the zipper. When he pulled down the elastic band of his underwear, his cock popped out - rock hard. He pushed all the fabric down to his thighs and then tugged you further into his lap until your parts were flush together.

“Did you want the condom?” you asked with a fucked-out smile.

“Fuck it,” he replied with a grin as he rubbed his cock through your slit, making your over-sensitive skin pulse.

You breathed a little “ah” sound as your whole lower half felt like it was hooked up to a live wire. “Are you telling me that you went all the way over there and forgot the condom?”

“First of all,” he started with a sinister laugh. “It’s just across the hall. Second of all, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

You had opened your mouth to respond but before you could, he pushed into you, his thumb holding his cock into place.

“Fuck,” you rasped, throwing your head back into the pillow. You could feel how wet you were just by his movements. Your hands reached out until you could dig your fingernails into his forearms, his hands tight on your hips as he bottomed out in you.

You looked up just in time to catch his tongue swipe out over his lips, his eyes half-lidded.

He started rocking in and out of you like a tide drawn to the beach, sending little shockwaves through your core and up into your tight stomach.

To give your fingers something to do, they worked at the buttons on your dress. They only went down to the bottom of your ribcage, but it was far enough to expose your chest. He didn’t waste even a second before he moved one of his hands to your tit, squeezing it until it spilled out through his fingers.

You were focused on that until he brushed something inside of you that made your jaw drop open. You went to moan but no sound would come out, so you sat up on your hands and pushed back against him, forcing him in deeper. His teeth were clenched as his hands found your hips again, holding you in the position you needed to be in to work yourself on him. He hummed, eyes fluttering as he met you halfway, thumbs pushed into the thin skin across your hip bones. You briefly wondered if he’d leave you little oval-shaped bruises.

He was staring into your eyes as best he could while his eyelids fluttered, so you knew when he was getting close to the edge. He pulled you up to him so you were riding his lap, his forehead against yours, the new angle putting his cock perfectly against your sweet spot as the length of him slid into you.

You kissed him deeply as you worked yourself onto him, his breath hitching and his fingers lacing into your hair as he came. You were shockingly close behind, so when he drove you down on him harder to ride out his orgasm, you lost it too.

You gasped into his mouth as it washed over you, leaving your senses as if you were swallowed by a wave.

Neither of you moved for a few moments until you pulled back just far enough to look into his eyes.

“You’re going to have come on your dress pants,” you whispered teasingly. He smirked back at you as he laid you out onto the bed.

“Yeah, I’ll have to wash them before tomorrow night’s show,” he agreed, and the idea made your cheeks go pink.

You were both silent as you cleaned up, and when you returned to him from the bathroom, he was already tucked under the covers in his bed. He smiled at you and held the comforter up for you as you crawled in next to him. You knew you were going to fall asleep almost instantly once you got completely situated, so it was lucky that he spoke before that happened.

“I want you to come home with me for Christmas,” he stated, voice just above a whisper.

You blinked over at him, a little stunned.

“I don’t want you to be here alone - you deserve to be with a loving family,” he explained further when he saw the look on your face.

You gave him a smile, feeling oddly sentimental post-orgasm. You could feel tears pricking at your eyes, so you buried your face in his neck.

“I’d like that.”

#brightest blue fic #josh kiszka #joshxreader #josh gvf #josh kiszka smut #Greta Van Fleet #greta van fleet fan fiction #greta van fleet fic

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shewhowillnotbenamed1 · 3 years

Text

I wanted to get this ‘Valentine’s Day’ piece out, even though it’s massively, supremely late. 😭It’s part of a longer piece (because I couldn’t stop writing it😶) and I’m still not sure whether or not it’s not terrible.😖

prompt list

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This couldn't be right.

Damian almost did a double take, his cool smirk withering when he glanced up, transfixed by the sleek storefront at the cross streets where he stood. Why on earth would Raven be in a place like this?

The building towered above the tottering sea of gray, black and blue below. And the mannequins in the display lorded over their dominion, propped loftily on their perches, arms and legs of impractical proportions, stilted at absurd angles.

And why would she summon him here?

His trousers began to buzz audibly and the shifting crowd of passersby jostled him closer to the glass. Damian delivered the faceless caricatures of the female form a final foreboding glare, before he reached down to free the device vibrating in his pocket. New Message. Raven. Apparently, it was urgent. He tapped the speech bubble icon with a fingertip and his jaw went slack.

I Need You.

The three words seemed etched into the surface of the screen. And they were more than enough to get him to take a deep breath and grasp the curved door handle, his jaw set, and wingtips marching determinedly onward.

The atmosphere inside the store was even more unexpected than the outside. When translated, the pounding music and low lighting read as more nightclub than boutique. It was completely impractical in Damian's view—how could anyone locate a price tag, let alone see the item they were intending to purchase? Although, after a few minutes of skulking around in the dark, he could see how the implementation of such a design was advantageous. With stealthiness like his, he wasn't in danger of being accosted by overly helpful employees hungry for commissions, before he located the heading of a dramatic script that read Dressing Rooms, and turned underneath it.

Down the row each stall had a flood light stationed above it, but only one appeared to be presently occupied: the corner room at the farthest end of the hall. And as he got closer he noticed it also appeared to be the largest. Damian glanced behind him and rapped on the door with a knuckle. And just as he began to wonder if he'd needed some sort of special knock or password prepared, the lock glowed black and unlatched itself.

"I'm here." The door creaked open and the floor groaned under his solid weight. Damian turned swiftly to shut it, growing steadily concerned.

"So what is it? What's the—big emergency..." He started, but his tongue began to feel heavy and leaden inside his rapidly drying mouth. And his eardrums began to beat violently until they matched the thumping of his maddened heart.

Red.

Blood red.

Burning. Blinding. Blazing.

In the carpet, the walls, the curtains, the chandelier.

It was everywhere—even in the deafening pounding hammering away at his head.

Thundering images suspended before him, going in and out of focus. They were searing his eyes, blearing his vision. In sinful shapes marred over pale flesh, it was red repeating over and over. Criss-crossing crimson. Damian had to dig his fingernails into his palms to ground himself with the tangibility of a familiar sensation.

And suddenly he realized that all the times before were incomparable, this was what it meant to be blindsided by a breath-taking blow. This was what it meant to receive a rush of blood to the head…

…or a rush of blood to the—

"I'm glad you came so quickly."

And the silhouette of Raven turned where she sat on a velvet ottoman, leaning forward in a way that was guaranteed to diffuse away the rest of his brain's processing ability. It was all he could do not to goggle at her like some cartoon character. Tawdry and tactless. Damian inwardly cursed the merciless Goddess above as he took in the cleavage created by cups, a series of straps and bows and elastic and he didn't know what. Only that he shouldn't have been so disarmed by it—by Raven's breasts pushed up to high-heaven. Like they weren't perky enough or distracting enough in their usual sheath of simple black cotton.

His wide emerald eyes strayed downward in spite of themselves and onto shapely, stocking clad legs folded one over the other, with a lace-up heel tapping out the bass of the synth pop bleeding into the background. Raven slid to her feet seamlessly, swaying slightly to the song. She took a single step, allowing the shadows to part for her as she did so.

There was a muted click, clack, click of her heels on the carpet as she drew near. He'd never seen her in stilettos, and he stared at them through slits.

Gods, they had to be four inches at least. Their impressive height only seemed to serve to make her look even more powerful. Just about as powerful as the force rooting him to the spot.

The deep panging in Damian's chest carried on, a racehorse charging from the starting gate, galloping faster and faster, as she grew closer and closer.

Suddenly he'd become aware of the fact that it was far too warm in here for the dead of winter. Or was it simply that Raven radiated such an intense heat?

Most definitely the latter.

The garnet colored lace gracing Raven's skin was a perfect match to her chakra stone. The semi-sheer fabric of her bra offered up a playful glimpse of the darker skin of her nipples beneath. When his gaze wound down her tapering waist, it appeared that the lack of opaqueness carried over to the front of her panties. He could just make out a little shadow—a promise laying underneath a tempting, well-kept diamond shape in plum wine. And last, but certainly not least were the thigh highs trimmed by garnet lacings and affixed to a red and black garter.

Damian's throat had somehow gone even drier. He tried to swallow with great difficulty, then tugged at his turtleneck for a reprieve.

However, there would be no such alleviation for his trousers.

"There's no emergency, Damian..." Raven assured him with a tilt of her head, lilac tendrils skating across a valley between pale peaks. "You'll have to forgive me, but I had to get you here. I had to know..." She paused, folding her arms as she prepared to pose a question to him. "Tell me... what do you think...of my outfit?"

Damian froze, fingers mid-tug and blinked several times as if he'd been struck dumb.

What?

That wasn't...

There was no way...

Was that a serious request?

She was being facetious—she had to be. It was the only explanation, unless Raven was somehow messing with his mind and Damian sincerely doubted that. But how could she ask him this with such bold-faced sincerity? Even if the wooden arch behind her housed a funhouse mirror and had been reflecting distorted proportions back at her. Or was there actually some warped reality in which they weren't looking at the same picture?

Although...

If he could muster up a voice to speak he would have asked, what outfit?

Lackadaisically, she trailed a hand down her body, tugging at the cups spilled over with supple skin. "The bra—do you like the pattern?" Raven traced the gorge between the swell of her breasts. "It's tulle and...French lace," she confirmed, squeezing the scant, semi-sheer embroidery molded to her chest. And Damian grimaced as though in physical pain.

"No?" she assessed, seemingly marking off boxes on a mental checklist. Raven smoothed her hands over her hips for a moment, appearing to be lost in thought. She paced slowly, revolving a full three-hundred and sixty degrees to pause with her back to him.

"And what about..." She swept a purple curtain over the nape of her neck to glance over her shoulder and he saw—of all things—a bow below the dimples on her back, nestled into the heart-shaped curve of her ass. "My panties...?"

Damian gritted his teeth, though not before letting a sound escape, like a hiss coupled with a wince.

"Are these okay?" The soft profile of her lips pressed.

Gods, it was almost as if she were seeking to offer all of this up to him. And who needed to clarify anything when she was all wrapped up and presented? Covered in the finest cardstock wrappings in gold-flecked marble, then laced up with champagne silk ribbon to await her unravelling.

Though his own would be more likely.

Right now, he'd forsake all his names, both Wayne and Al Ghul to get her to stop. Stop slinking closer, stop speaking in that sweet, scratchy undertone, and stop directing his focus to her various attributes, more than it already was.

It would only make his growing pain more pronounced.

A pale hand dangled down and spread across a smooth, silken thigh. "My stockings, then?" Raven hummed.

Though, Damian didn't speak. He wasn't entirely certain he was still breathing. Somehow, he'd managed to remain motionless and drag his unwilling eyes toward the floor. All his carefully constructed control was necessary to keep himself calm and centered in this moment. He could do this—he had to do this. Otherwise, what was the point of all those long years of training he'd endured?

Shiny purple strands bobbed; she'd started to shake her head slowly at the stony silence from the stoic cashmere wall standing before her, as if she expected as much.

"I bet you're still wondering why I called you here." Damian heard her voice go up in the middle, which it did whenever she was apprehensive or unsure. "I wanted you here to find out what you like—exactly what you like." When he arrived, Raven was blushing a delicious pink, so by now it had to be a violent red. "I wanted to get it right because...you're the first person, or only person I've ever been intimate with in any world, dimension, or universe..." She lingered.

And once again, Damian said nothing, and she resumed speaking.

"I do know that this is something that one does traditionally." Raven paused to worry her already cherry-red bottom lip. "That couples do... Buying underwear for your significant other is supposed to be something special, particularly for this holiday."

He was a mountain, immobile, unwavering...

"Oh, I see..." Her mouth set into a line. "Perhaps, it's the fit—or is it the color...?" Raven's large amethyst eyes swept over the room and landed on her reflection. "I thought dark red was classic. I knew I shouldn't have listened to Donna. I should have gotten something in black." She dragged a distraught hand through dark purple. "It's too much...or maybe it's not enough..."

"Don't," Damian growled low. His inflection was level and gave nothing away. If Raven was surprised by the outburst, she didn't let on, instead she continued.

"I bet the old string of socialites shuffling in and out of the manor were never caught dead in skivvies that weren't Kiki de Montparnasse or at least Agent Provocateur. But this..." Raven lifted her chin toward the mirror. "It's not your taste though, is it?"

That was far more than enough.

Far more than he could stand to hear and far more than he could stand to bear.

When his eyes flew back to hers at last, they weren't steely anymore, they burned—whittling her retinas down like they were wicks on candlesticks. As if he were all but telling her he dared her to do that again, to say that again.

"It's okay. I'm glad I found out before I bought—"

"I said...don't." Damian placed his hands on her wrists and whisked her right up to his chest. And he closed his eyes. He skimmed his lips along the length of hers like it was something sacred, his mouth trembling as Raven muffled out a note denoting her surprise.

He murmured to her, "you're brilliant, deadly beautiful—an empath...and for some reason unbeknownst to me, I'm your blindspot." Damian sighed resolutely. "But Raven, can't you take pity on me? I'm still a man." One that had been barely keeping it together since he arrived, but... "And you're you, so..."

There was no way in any world, dimension, or universe that he could ever resist.

Purple eyes grew wider as he told her and lifted a finger to her chin. Then it was Damian turning the tables and tipping her mouth towards his own. And though he hungered for her, he took slow and sweet and gentle grazes. It was tortuous, but he should only have a little at a time. This was an excess of an impossibly decadent dessert, an indulgence he was undeserving of. It was like the power in his sub zero freezer had short-circuited and he had no choice but to guzzle down that buried pint of vanilla caramel gelato.

Though who could blame him for being greedy when he had all of this spread out before him? And when her ass in those panties even resembled two round, creamy spoonfuls.

To hell with it then.

Damian lunged, face forward, longing for more of her. In an instant, he was inhaling her pulse, intaking the scent of leather-bound books with aged pages and the nectar from plums she'd probably narrowly avoided dripping on them. He dipped his tongue along the hollow of her collarbone as if he sought to test this.

"Mmm, that's nice."

"Nice?" Damian scoffed, his eyes on hers. "That's not what I was going for. Surely you didn't wear this because you wanted me to be nice." At the present, he wanted nothing more than to rip the tiny pieces of lace into twos, but Raven had selected them specifically for him. So he would continue to be patient and continue to savor this.

Let the pieces of fabric hold up for as long as he could hold out.

"Wait a moment," Raven gasped, quickly clutching his arm. "So your present...?"

"Present? Tch..." Damian's lip curled under his front teeth and he let out a piercing click. "If you're seriously considering getting me a present..." His palms glided down her chest and he gathered a scoop of softness in either hand. "Then these are perfect," he whispered in her ear.

And then Damian's mouth pushed back into hers and he was kissing her in ways that would make it impossible to return this lingerie after trying it on. He nipped urgently to gain entrance to her castle, then trapped her lip between his teeth like it was a drawbridge, at last releasing her tongue to collide with his own. All the while, his thumbs were sliding over her nipples, which puckered and pointed at his touch. He pushed up the cups of her bra for better access, head inclined towards his goal, soon to be met by a full mouth.

Each brush of his lips on Raven's chest made her fingers clench further and further into his shirt like it was a life preserver, and she was in danger of losing herself to the depths.

And after all, wasn't this the answer that she'd wanted from this—that she needed from him?

A chance to lose herself.

To stand in a dressing room in his arms, moaning his name like a breathy spell, her body bending until her back was arched under the avid swipes of tongue. He tugged her nipples between his teeth and they reddened, their response a glowing rave.

Yes.

Raven's eyelids squeezed, her pink face contorting in pleasure while Damian enjoyed the full weight of her breasts in his hands. He continued polishing the plush, pink rings. Left then right—until they were glistening.

"Gods, Damian..." Raven groaned. "Just—"

Just as sudden, there was a wet noise, a slip of suction. Damian had released a rosy nipple, taking note of Raven's expression. Hungry and dazed, and all his doing. Whether unconsciously or not, she pressed her legs together, clenching them as she watched Damian slip off the left sleeve of his coat and let it crumple to the ground in a heap.

The glaze of her gaze, her diaphragm's continuous rise and fall, her fingers digging into his arm, she needed this.

So why deny her?

"Yes, these are beautiful..." He whispered as he admired his handiwork under the chandelier light. The way the red nips and bites were like Damian Wayne watermarks upon the pale flesh. "But perhaps..." Damian's hands glided freely down the small of her back, just over the hill of her ass and stroked the burgundy bow, like an X marking the spot. "This."

When Damian glanced down at Raven, she was barely biting back another mewl, and moving restlessly in his arms. "I wonder what would happen if I were to pull this bow... Raven what do you think?"

"Damian... We shouldn't..." Raven murmured, sounding somewhat apprehensive and holding the fabric at his back tightly.

"Yes, we should Raven," he rasped darkly. "Right now, I can't seem to think of a reason why not..."

"Well, there's the fact that we're in public—"

"Public," Damian repeated flatly. "What of it? The outside world ceased to exist the second I entered the door of my own little version of Narnia."

Raven's jaw had unhinged in unmasked shock and Damian supposed this was an instance to take her remaining breath away by kissing her. Yes, he'd walked through a door and suddenly he was laying eyes on his half-naked demoness dangerous in dark red. So clearly nothing else in creation mattered.

When he pulled away her lips opened and closed, while her eyes remained shut, like a thirsty traveler prematurely cut off from a longer drink. And even though it seemed her body knew the truth, a darker part of him wanted her to beg for it.

"But, that's not what I asked," he said with a hard smile that wasn't. Damian drummed a divot on her lower back. "I fear I've gotten ahead of myself again. Tell me about the bow, Raven. What happens if I pull it?" His hand jutted out, he made a motion with his fingers, in mimicry of it.

"Why ask when you know the answer?" Raven asked him, her brow rising shakily.

"I could have asked you the same earlier. But..."

"But?"

Raven bit her lip but made no motion to stop his hands from climbing onto the curve of her ass. He taunted her twice, by tugging lightly on the tulle, until at last... The bow in the back came loose, and her panties slid down her legs with ease. She secured one pale thigh tightly over the other to hide herself.

No bottoms and bra half-undone, she was nothing short of delicious.

Though that scrap of fabric had barely covered much of anything, so why bother to tease? Or hadn't that been the sole purpose of this outfit?

A devious smirk sidled onto Damian's face as he realized something: these were the exact kind of underwear that one put on simply to take off.

"I pulled the bow, Raven," he murmured almost mockingly. "Don't I at least get to see the rest of my present?"

She stared up at him through her soot colored lashes and slowly opened her thighs.

183 notes · View notes

13atoms · 3 years

Text

Deep Focus: Chapter 1 [Tom Hiddleston x Reader]

Summary: Tom’s a successful porn director with a romantic streak which proves very popular with his female audience. His resident porn actress and business partner has been with him through thick and thin, the two of them growing completely inseparable, even as her own career starts taking off.

But working in such close proximity is intense, and burgeoning feelings threaten to complicate their professional relationship.

Mature, smut, porn director!AU, ethical porn production discussion, porn-star-and-coworker!reader. Friends to lovers, slow-ish burn. [7.7k]

________________________________________________________

There was such a style to everything Tom wrote, everything he directed. A sincere passion that you suspected was always meant to be used elsewhere. You wondered if his craftsmanship was ever appreciated, on the other side of the screen, as strangers got hot and bothered watching each meticulously designed frame of his vision come to life.

Sure, it was porn. But Tom directed it like he could win an Oscar for ‘hot lifeguard pounded poolside’. This was his livelihood, his passion, and it was a damn shame he wasn’t award-season eligible.

The names would make you wince, as you saw them uploaded to the site, thumbnails and previews drawing in viewers by the million with their shots of heaving bodies and glistening sweat. Tom never called the videos such crass things. Not in his scripts. You would get copies titled ‘Romantic Night In’ or ‘Office Love Affair.’ He was a fan of sugar-coating what would be inside those innocuous white pages, a veneer of respectability which Tom insisted upon, regardless of how obvious the true nature of the videos was. But once the videos were sold, it was out of his hands. Your face contorted mid-faux-orgasm would be plastered across the site, and everyone involved would try and forget what happened.

Ignore the comments.

Keep moving.

You often wondered how Tom wound up in this place, with his sharply tailored suits and polished shoes, eloquent and educated, his words almost poetic as he directed mid-budget porn in hotel rooms and his studio day-in, day-out.

Then again, he never seemed particularly bothered by it. He gave each shoot his full attention, his full boundless enthusiasm and all the professionalism he could muster. You wondered how he balanced it, sometimes, the creative drive to press on with trying to be creative and shoehorn romance into films knowing that, ultimately, it was porn.

He had interviewed you like a real director might, talking about your life and experience and ambitions, almost apologetic when he had finally choked out ‘could you undress’, barely glancing at your naked form before he hired you as his first employee.

You asked him early on, while watching him try and assemble a fake restaurant-date set in the studio, complete with faux windows and an extra playing a waiter, why he bothered when three-minutes of good quality fucking footage would make him the same amount of money. He’d given you a strange smile, the wrinkles beginning to appear at the corners of his eyes, and shrugged.

“I make what I’d like to see.”

The words haunted you later, as your rather attractive co-star bent you over the white-cloth covered dining table and you allowed mewls and groans to escape your mouth without a second thought. Trying to avoid the muted blue of Tom’s eyes behind the cameraman.

Despite your reservations when you first started to work for him, Tom had won you over. His gentler, more romantic approach to pornography had a loyal following. Both of your pseudonyms garnered huge numbers of views across various platforms, and Tom was keen to cultivate a collection of female-friendly porn. Against all the odds, it was working.

And you loved working with him. He was a great director, and inspired writer, and a genuinely brilliant boss. He made sure you saw royalties, good pay, that everyone you worked with was screened and tested, always keeping you safe. Always.

Each time he called a wrap, passing you a robe and offering a meek congratulations on your performance, you found yourself more and more pleased you had wound up working with him.

“You really do have a talent,” he’d told you one day, distracting you as you discussed a new script in his office.

You were sat opposite him, Tom’s glasses perched on his head as he watched you read, your feet resting against the leg of his desk. You’d come in to your shared workspace to try some costumes out, to discuss new scenes, still recovering from a thoroughly exhausting shoot the day before. There were still light bruises around your wrists, and you caught Tom glancing at them worriedly each time your long-sleeved shirt slipped.

“I love that you’re such an actor,” he continued, hands tapping the desk as he spoke, “like, a real actor.”

Your eyes drifted across the script, scanning it with your bottom lip between your teeth. He always appreciated your input, wanting the ‘female fantasy’ in a lot of his work, and he’d timidly shown you some ‘student-professor’ script he’d been working on. He was like that, embarrassed in a way which you wouldn’t expect from a man with his considerable experience in adult entertainment. He was assertive, certain, even stern where it counted. But with just the two of you together, dancing around what was sexy and what wasn’t, he seemed desperate to avoid saying anything you might perceive as too ‘crude’.

“What do you mean?” you’d chuckled, still flicking through the first draft.

He only entrusted you with such early versions of his work – but that made sense. Your careers were symbiotic, tied to one another with an unspoken pact. He directed everything you were in, and you were in everything he directed.

It made sense.

“You don’t just… I don’t know. You never make my scripts seem silly. Or cheesy. You… you really try and make them feel real. I could write anything, and you’ll deliver the lines well. I was overseeing auditions earlier and... I just kept thinking none of them were you. I think you might be the best in the business.”

You rolled your eyes, offering him a disbelieving smirk, and he scoffed.

“I’m serious! I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The weight of his words settled heavy in your chest, and you turned back to the script, frowning as you flicked through the loose-leaf pages. Tom fidgeted behind his desk, unhappy with losing your attention, but you ignored him.

“Here. If you want the fantasy to be believable, I think he needs to lock the office door. Make a show of it, you know. Cover my mouth,” you comment dismissively. Tom already has as pen in his hand, making notes. “It could be hot, maybe ‘Don’t make a sound or you can’t cum’, something like that. As if there’s other students in the corridor outside.”

Nodding, Tom dutifully wrote down your words, mouth slightly open in realisation as he listened.

“Don’t make a sound…” Tom repeated, and you felt yourself blush.

“Not… not that exactly,” you backtracked, “you’re the real writer! I just think, there needs to be some build up. A remind of the power dynamic. Him going straight to oral is a bit… fast. That could happen in any old plot, you know?”

You felt his eyes on you, looking up from the paper to spot Tom leaning back in his chair, a distant smile on his face.

“You really are the best,” he praised, “that’s great. I’ll do rewrites tonight.”

For a moment, you let his words hang heavy in the air. Then you blinked back at him, a slight frown pinching your forehead at his strange mood. He was calm, for once. Tom was usually a ball of enthusiasm, and you wondered if your dismissal of his words earlier had done something to hamper his spirit.

“It’s always easier to critique,” you dismissed, “I love the script, it’s great. I really think it’ll be good. Hot. Maybe I can wear a Britneyschool girl costume, or something?”

He frowned a little, pinching the bridge of his nose at the thought.

“No, weird. We’re going for University student, just… a nice pair of jeans or something.”

“Don’t they wear suits where you went, posh boy?” you teased, loving how it riled him up. “I’ll try and dress like a smart person.”

“You are smart, don’t give me that.”

You rolled your eyes, loving how you managed to fluster him, putting the script back on his cluttered desk as you reached for your bag. This was how your meetings always went, a few hours of notes, some teasing, and a hasty retreat once Tom told you the next shoot day you had to attend. You still had a few hours of social media to do for the last video you’d shot together, notes from Tom, and you lamented the sight of the sun setting outside of your shared office. You’d hoped for at least a bit of natural light today.

“I’m serious, you are!” Tom asserted, and you ignored him purposely as you shut down your laptop, preparing to take it home.

“Yeah, I know, whatever. Don’t work too late!”

“Rich coming from you,” he sighed, “it really doesn’t matter if we send that last edit late.”

“It matters to me! I’d quite like to get paid this week, you know?”

Tom sighed. The two of you tried to produce a couple of videos a week – one for Tom’s site and another to sell to a third party. It didn’t leave either of you with much free time, both of you left in the tiny office at all hours as you worked to keep up with demand.

“Very true. But I’d rather you got some sleep, you know I can help if you’re short on money,” he offered, shuffling papers on his own desk.

He was always quick to jump to an offer to help, and you tried to ignore the fondness spreading through your chest at his eagerness to look out for you. That gentle protectiveness which coursed through Tom was enough to make you melt.

He was one in a million, that was for sure.

“I’m fine, Tom. Thank you though, I’ll ask, if, y’know –”

“Do! Any time. Actually…”

Tom cut himself off, typing something into his phone, and your pocket buzzed with a notification.

“Get yourself a nice dinner.”

You checked your phone to see a transfer from Tom. It wasn’t a crazy amount, but too much for just dinner, and you huffed performatively as he grinned at you.

“No! Don’t be ridiculous –”

He barely made more than you, and you were certainly doing perfectly comfortably.

“Royalties are really good this month. That old break-up sex video is trending again, apparently.”

You smothered a smile. It was hate-fucking, as you’d told Tom a hundred times. That was the title. You could still remember the look on his face the day you’d filmed it, his twitchiness, the unknown male actor who had slightly scared both of you with his sheer size as he stepped into the studio. The male star had fucked you like you’d broken his heart, hands on your neck and hips bruising yours as he pounded into you, and you’d be a little alarmed at how little you had needed to act in his domineering presence. He’d been muscular and tall and assertive, almost injuring you with his enthusiasm, and the shoot had ended with you a sweaty mess, struggling to walk, eyes watery.

You had ached from the moment Tom helped you up from the bed, a protective body between you and your costar as you watched the man collect his clothes and his paycheck. The footage had been great, you’d watched Tom edit it, but it had been your first taste of Tom’s protectiveness. The actor had never returned, and Tom had bought a hot water bottle for the office, pressing it into your lap as he brought tea for the pair of you, loathing how you winced as you moved.

He’d taken you out for dinner that night to celebrate a good edit, but you knew the real reason. That neither of you wanted the other to be alone. It had been a lovely evening, a restaurant then a bar, without a break in laughing conversation the entire night. It hadn’t been a date, but if it had been a date, it would’ve been the nicest date you’d ever been on. In those moments, you wondered if Tom was really cut out for the industry. If you were.

As much as Tom hated the film, it was hot. It had propelled your studio into the spotlight, and it paid a significant chunk of your rent.

“Thank you,” you smiled to him, wracking your mind for anything else that needed discussing before you headed home.

Maybe you’d get takeaway. That would be nice.

Tom cleared his throat.

“What are we shooting tomorrow, by the way?”

You looked up at his words, frowning a little at the realisation you hadn’t been given a script yet. It was unlike him, to be so unprepared. Usually everything was organised weeks in advance. With a glance at the shadows under his eyes, you decided not to tease him about it.

“We’re shooting tomorrow?”

“This week… we’ve only got one video. I was just thinking something simple, I haven’t called a costar yet, but we don’t have to if you don’t want to –”

It was your paycheck on the line as much as Tom’s, and you wondered how the hell you’d forgotten.

“Do we have a camera crew?” you frowned.

“No, not yet. I can call though. Or I could just do it myself, if we’re not doing anything too complicated?”

You thought for a moment, leaning against the open doorframe as Tom started to pack up his own desk, nimble fingers tapping across his keyboard.

“Solo?” you suggested, stifling a laugh as Tom blinked and tilted his head to face you.

“I missed that, love?”

“Solo. Like ‘hot female solo’ or something?”

He smiled slightly, closing his laptop lid.

“That’ll do well, I’m sure. Do we need anything costume-wise? Props?”

Toys. He meant toys. You smiled at his refusal to call a spade a damn spade.

“I’m sure we can find everything here. It’ll be nice to do a simple shoot for a change,” you enthused, holding the door for Tom as he moved to turn off the lights, lingering nearby as he locked up the office.

“Yeah. Single-shot, no camera-man either.”

“Cheap,” you sighed, as though it was the sexiest thing in the world.

You did the books, and avoiding having any more costs this month sounded great.

“Yeah,” Tom smiled, falling into step beside you as the two of you left the warehouse studio.

He looked ready to say something else, but changed his mind. For a second the two you stood by the exit, words trapped beneath your closed lips as the early evening air enveloped you.

“Do you need a lift home?” Tom finally offered.

“No. No, I’m good. Thank you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, yeah. Usual time. Twelve?”

“Perfect.”

He reached an arm out, ready for you to walk into his embrace, and you froze. The moment was over as soon as it started, his arm retracted, and you could only stare. His hand found the curls at the back of his head, scratching there, a blush dusting his cheeks in the harsh fluorescent lights of the car park. You could kick yourself as you watched the bob of his Adam’s apple, the clench of his jaw. He felt awkward. You contemplated hugging him, but the moment had passed. Instead you rocked on your heels for a second, before turning to leave.

“Bye, Tom!”

“‘Night! Look after yourself, don’t forget dinner. I’ll see you – ”

He cut himself off as you walked too far away, and you could have kicked yourself for the sadness in his final syllable. You sighed as your feet fell against the pavement, your whole walk home haunted by the awkward shuffle of Tom’s hands as he went to hug you goodbye.

You were surprised by how difficult it was to brush off that awkward memory. As you ordered and ate dinner, you were reminded of Tom with every bite, that he’d snuck aside part of the company’s petty cash budget to give you dinner. That both of you had gone home, separately, to separate empty houses and empty beds.

Had he wanted to go for drinks? Wanted company? You had come to accept a long time ago that the man was your closest friend. He would be the person you called in an emergency, a shoulder to cry on. You liked to think he’d lean on you the same way.

Despite that, you spent limited time together outside of a professional context. You never met up on weekends, or casually called. Of course you didn’t. He made a career out of seeing you naked, watching you fake orgasms for other men. As you readied yourself for the day, you reminded yourself that of course, he would be nice to his only full-time, very lucrative actress. To his business partner.

As you’d queued up the company’s social media posts the night before, you could only think of Tom behind the camera, orchestrating each photo and clip you uploaded.

You couldn’t help the grin which split your face as you walked into the studio, bag flung over your shoulder, overpacked with everything you thought you could possibly need. Tom greeted you, emerging from his office with a smile.

Before you could overthink it, you walked into his arms, giving him very little choice in the matter as you greeted him with a hug. In his surprise you felt his body stiffen, his arms slowly wrapping around you, and you were momentarily gobsmacked by the muscular form he seemed to hide behind those suits.

He was a little more dressed down today, smart black jeans and a button-up white shirt, unruly hair sticking up like it did when he forgot to brush it. He looked better than yesterday, like he’d had a good night’s sleep.

“Good morning,” he chuckled, bemusement clear in his voice.

You pulled back from the hug, a little embarrassed at the affection until you saw the smile stretching across his face, reaching his eyes. Suddenly the previous night, worrying you had inadvertently rejected him, seemed to be erased.

“Morning! What have you got for me?”

The studio space was cleaned, but empty. The camera stood in the corner as Tom lead you further into the room, his office door open to the side of it, and you frowned at the emptiness of the space.

There were tape marks on the floor where sets were usually assembled, conspicuous without the usual hive of activity buzzing around some piece of furniture you would be thrown onto or fucked against. There was nothing.

“I didn’t know what you wanted to do,” Tom was saying, his gentle voice booming in the empty space, “we don’t have a script or anything so… I’ll leave it to you.”

You bit your lip.

It was more freedom than you were used to, less direction, less to build the fantasy where you could forget you were ultimately in a warehouse with just your business partner. It was… nothing. Tom said your name quietly, and you nodded, stepping back to assess the space.

“I’m just thinking,” you reassured him.

Had the studio always been this quiet? You tried to remember a shoot day where it had been this silent, this calm, without the stress of lighting people or cameramen or scripts being thrown around. You could hear every step Tom took as he walked towards the camera, the wheel-mounted tripod creaking as he moved it across the floor, checking batteries and SD cards while you stood in place, your bag still hanging from one shoulder.

Noticing your frozen stance Tom frowned across at you, nothing but gentle concern in his blue eyes and the fine lines around them.

“I was thinking something kind of minimal, maybe cosy?” he offered, “Maybe an armchair? Something like that?”

You thought about it for a moment, crossing to the corner of the room to finally set down your bag.

He was finally getting into ‘director mode’, growing more energetic by the second.

“I’m thinking we just frame it on you, no distraction. Single take, if we can.”

You nodded silently as he crossed to the storage cupboard he’s overeagerly labelled a ‘props department’. It was stacked high with fabric and furniture and lingerie, tubs of various exotic sex toys near the door. Tom stepped straight past them.

There was a mattress in the props room, materials to build a bed, and you pondered on the idea for a moment.

“We could keep it really simple, maybe?” you suggested, “Find a warm background. Or just use white. Try and get one twenty minute shot, or something.”

You reached for lube without thought, collecting the near-empty bottle of body oil beside it too, as you perused the options in front of you.

“Remind me to buy more of that,” Tom mused, sparing a glance to the bottles in your arms before standing beside you to peruse the options.

You nodded silently, your free hand rifling through bagged silicone toys, slightly in a daze as you picked out a few options. There was a slight blush dusted across Tom’s high cheekbones as he turned to see your arms full of dildos. You smiled as it took him a second to find words, and wondered how the hell he’d chosen to start a porn studio in the first place.

“Colour co-ordinated,” he commented, and you smiled, picking out yet another pink toy from the pile.

“Naturally,” you smiled, “I think that’s everything? Could we drag a mattress and pillows out?”

He nodded silently, already moving to manoeuvre the double mattress leaning against a wall in the props room. You rolled your eyes before helping, knowing he was being a gentleman, or whatever he called it. You called it putting his back out.

He rejected your help, so you grabbed as many pillows as you could, following him back into the main studio, privately smiling at the dramatic grunts he made trying to move the mattress. He tossed it to the ground with a grunt, shoving it into the corner of the room, before pausing again.

You dropped everything down on to it, toys, lube, pillows and all.

And then both of you waited.

It was so strangely intimate, just the two of you in the room, the strange nature of your relationship weighing heavy after last night’s miscommunication. Suddenly there was nothing you wanted to do less than take your clothes off.

“White sheets?”

“Hm?” you hadn’t processed what Tom said, too wrapped up in your own world, frowning down at the bare mattress.

“I was thinking white sheets.”

“Oh, uh, yeah.”

He was off, assigned another task, and you almost envied his distraction as you slowly sorted the pillows how you wanted, gathered the toys absentmindedly. Before Tom came back from the props closet you made yourself scarce, catching sight of his slim outline through the doorway. Facing away from you as he rummaged.

In the single bathroom of the studio you cleaned anything that would be going inside of you, avoiding your reflection, trying to shake off the odd nervousness coursing through your veins.

Why? It had been years since you felt this way before a shoot. Before you’d met Tom, even. Sure, shoots could be exciting, exhilarating, intimidating, but this self-consciousness, this self-doubt… it had come from nowhere.

You pressed your forehead to the mirror, closing your eyes, breathing deeply. The tap running sounded like a waterfall, the silicone under your fingers felt alien, the air almost claustrophobic as you wondered what the hell was wrong with you.

Tom was done making the bed when you got back, frowning at his phone until he heard you re-enter the studio space, quick to look up and see if you were happy with his set. You felt hyper-aware of him, of every movement he made, a clean towel and toys cradled in one arm as you took in the space. It was a simple premise, just a clean fitted sheet pillows in a corner, a clear space for you in the middle. You knew it would look good on screen. You knew this was an easy job.

You felt sick to your stomach.

“Do you want to face the camera? Or kind of, not acknowledge it?” Tom asked, speaking again as you forgot to reply, too caught up in your own mind. “Maybe if you ignore it that’s more… voyeuristic?”

“Sounds good,” you responded, kneeling to prepare your space. This was autopilot, your day job. You could do this.

“Right.”

He sounded a little put out by your response, but moved the camera anyway, switching to a knee-height tripod. You stood, stepped back to give him space, and frowning at the sudden headrush. You blinked, catching yourself staring at the flex of his arms as he moved the heavy equipment. You didn’t realise how long you had been staring into space until Tom called your name a second time, crossing into your personal space.

“Are you okay?”

Tom’s voice was so soft you wanted to cry, fingers hovering beside your bicep, his gentle eyes demanding for you to meet them, daring for you to lie while his face is so close to yours.

Somehow, the guilt of his worry made you feel worse.

“No, I’m…I’m being stupid. Sorry, just tired.”

“Did you not sleep well?”

“No, I, uh, I slept fine. I’m not sure. Just not really feeling it.”

His face fell, but you knew he wasn’t disappointed in you. He thought he’d done something wrong. Immediately you were talking, doing anything you could to soften his guilt.

“It’s my job, though. I can do it. This is great Tom, I think it’ll be a good shoot.”

“Sweetheart –”

You sighed, eyes falling to the mattress, before forcing a smile.

“Let’s get this over with!”

He looked like he wanted to argue with you, but you forced yourself to move, pulled your feet from the floor with far more effort than it ought to take. There was some comfort in rummaging through your own bag, that piece of home, something private from the studio. You found the vibrator you’d brought, a pink bullet you used almost exclusively at home, fully charged that morning. Behind you, Tom snorted in amusement.

“Nothing here is ever charged,” you shrugged off his stare, knowing damn well you didn’t have to explain yourself.

You wanted to explain anyway though. Just in case, Tom thought anything he did wasn’t enough. He seemed perfectly fine with the criticism, though you knew he was making a mental note. He always did, then you had something to say.

Trying not to make a big deal out of it, you stripped to your underwear, folding your clothes neatly and being careful not to show any self-consciousness in your posture. You’d never been ashamed or embarrassed before now, and you weren’t about to start. Even if it was just you, and a very well, fully dressed Tom. Vibrator clutched in your fingers, you finally sat on the damn mattress.

He was the other side of the camera now, somehow both distant and a few feet away. You found yourself staring at your body in the monitor, just watching. Tom’s voice broke you out of yet another daze, and you wanted to pinch yourself. Why couldn’t you do it today?

“We don’t have to do this today, if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s okay I just… I forget it’s just us sometimes, you know? There’s such a production and so many people and at the end of the day…”

Tom smiled, a relief on his face that told you he had been feeling it too. That this was weird.

“I know what you mean. If you’re uncomfortable…”

“Just give me a second to warm up, we need to make something, after all.”

You stretched, not really sure why, moving a little around the nook Tom had created, shuffling pillows and practicing where you wanted to lie back, watching a monitor as Tom played with a soft lighting, twisting and turning to find the most flattering angles you could.

As he shuffled things around, Tom nodded to the spread of toys you’d set out. You’d added your vibrator to the pink line up, perfectly organised on the white towel.

“Do you want those in shot?”

You shrugged.

“Might be hot?”

He nodded silently. You moved the toys in to the frame, trying to blink away the cloud which had settled in your mind. The world felt foggy, your arms like they were moving through treacle, and you knew Tom had noticed.

As he prepared two directional microphones, you tried not to feel claustrophobic. The audio from the microphone he was pointing towards your pussy would be almost grotesque, and you fought not to shuffle further from it as you imagined Tom listening later, headphones in, as he balanced the levels between your moans and the wet sounds of you fucking yourself.

Fuck.

Why was this so different to a regular shoot?

You’d done solo shoots before. With Tom. And half-a-dozen other crew, you reminded yourself.

You caught sight of his curls above the monitor, face serious as he set everything up.

“Speak?”

“Testing, testing,” you spouted off nonsense until he offered you a thumbs up, happy with the audio.

Then there was nothing else to do.

He stood, looming over the equipment. And you looming over you.

“What’s the plan?” he asked, smiling at your frown. “You’re in charge here, I’m just the camera guy.”

You rolled your eyes, knowing he was trying to put you at ease.

“You’re the director,” you reminded him, knowing how he preened himself under the title.

You were impressed that his eyes had only roamed down your body once as he took in the shoot, glancing at the indulgent layout of toys, double checking the monitor, one headphone in. He had that stance he always adopted when he was directing, and you knew it was his favourite moment in any of this. The moment everything was pinned on him.

It happened so quickly you almost missed the moment he knelt down, blinking in surprise as his face remerged at your level beside the camera.

“Then my direction is: enjoy yourself. Forget I’m here. Let’s show them something real.”

He must have seen your shock, because it made him smile.

“Real?” you questioned, and he nodded firmly.

“I’m serious.”

For a beat, both of you were silent, his eyes meeting yours over the body of the camera.

“If you can,” he offered, “I understand it’s not always…”

You interrupted him with a hand, smiling your understanding of what he was saying, and dismissing it in one motion. The silence dragged on, and you decided to push this forwards. If you were done by lunch, Tom would probably insist on taking you somewhere nice.

“I don’t know if I should use – ” you ghosted a finger across the biggest toy, worrying a bottom lip between your teeth, “Simplicity might be key.”

“Do what you want, darling. What feels good.”

You nodded mutely, and for just a second you saw doubt flicker across his face. This was new territory, and even you weren’t sure if this was a step too far.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah. If I’m… actually… it might take a while. Let me know if I’m taking too long.”

��Take as long as you need, darling. I’ve got nowhere to be.”

Tilting your head at him a little, you realised abruptly just how intimate this was. Moreover, that you wanted it anyway. That you were about to make him watch you cum. Make him hear you, smell you. He couldn’t touch, but he could watch.

And that was enough for you to perform.

Tom gave you a countdown, red lights peppered your field of view, and he was recording. He had taken a seat on the floor behind the camera set up, one headphone in to monitor audio, waiting.

You stayed sat up, back arched a little as your hands began to caress you own body, keeping on eye on the monitor while your face was out of the shot. You rubbed along your thighs, across your stomach, teasing at the lace of your bra and the elastic of your underwear each time you passed them, trailing your fingertips. It didn’t really feel like anything, doing this to yourself, but you knew to tease the camera. Tom would cut out anything too slow.

Your gaze remained firmly on the screen as you began to make your touches firmer, more deliberate, dragging lines into your skin and flirting with the camera. You admired the soft skin of your breasts as you started to shift your bra, enjoying the stiffening of your nipples in the monitor until –

The screen went black, and you immediately glanced at Tom, frowning as you lost the visual of yourself. He met your questioning gaze sternly, eyebrows furrowed, and you remembered his direction.

“Enjoy yourself.”

With nothing left to look at you closed your eyes, feeling the blood rushing to the surface of your skin, the sensitivity of your breasts as your fingers idly danced across them. You shoved your bra down unthinkingly, wanting to feel more, rubbing at the heaviness of your breasts and wincing as you enjoyed the pleasure and pain of pinching at your nipples, teasing them to attention. You glanced your nails across them, feeling it in your core. You didn’t want to wait anymore. Fuck the cameras.

It was hard to let to, to stop the delicious feeling of your fingers on your own breasts, but you forced yourself to free one hand, shoving off the bra, desperate to feel yourself without it. You knew you were grimacing, it wouldn’t be sexy, but you didn’t care. That was Tom’s problem.

You needed to touch yourself.

One hand reached below the waistband of your underwear, seeking out your clit, guided by a familiar ache. It was all you could focus on, your other hand forgotten, cupping your breast, the sensation vague and lost as your fingers found your clit. The sensation overwhelmed you as you shifted the hood, your body beginning to produce wetness. The room was a little cold, the air relieving against the heat of your bare skin, making your nipples peak as you leant back into the nest of pillows behind you.

You felt your stomach tense, a bolt of electricity tensing the muscles up and down your body as you brushed across your clit a little too hard. Your middle finger probed your pussy experimentally, slipping inside of you, quickly joined by a second as you played with the wetness there.

One, two, three pumps of your fingers inside you was enough for you to gasp, your eyes still closed against the bright lights as focused on nothing but feeling. No more fucking around.

You reached for your vibrator, hand knocking against the thick silicone toy lined up beside it, writhing as you pressed it against the fabric covering your clit. You cycled through the settings as fast as you could, still desperate for more stimulation.

More. It was on the highest setting. You wanted more.

Without moving the vibrator you shoved your underwear off, huffing as you kicked them away, not caring where they landed. The tip of the toy nudged against your clit exquisitely, and you froze.

There.

You thought about Tom watching you. The hot blood coursing through your body, the line up of toys just waiting to be shoved inside of you. The sensitivity of you clit as you held it against that perfect point. The air against your dripping, aching pussy. The muscles starting to clench, the rhythm of your body. Building, building, you didn’t fight the feeling.

This was what you wanted.

That warm familiarity of the vibrator on your clit, the runaway train of your thoughts, it was enough to drive you over the edge. You hadn’t realised the keening, groaning noises you were making until you heard them, pleasure leaving your lips as an afterthought.

You felt empty.

Blindly you reached out, sticky fingers finding the shaft of a toy you wanted, a smaller one you could take right now. A dollop of lube in the palm of your hand was all it would take, a few pumps of the toy enough to coat it, the excess lubricant smeared on the sheets. You didn’t care. Not your problem.

Without conscious thought, you were still rubbing yourself, two fingers absently making circles against your clit as you fidgeted to be able to take the dildo. You didn’t bother preparing yourself anymore. You were wet enough, and you wanted the stretch.

Needed it.

Needed to feel full.

You shoved the toy into yourself, gritted teeth and your spare hand grasping at your breast, giving the nipple a sharp pinch to interrupt the overwhelming feeling of that silicone pushing inside of you. Your walls were stretched open, a gasp reaching your ears as you felt a nudge against your cervix.

It wasn’t enough. You felt wild, desperate, as you sloppily pulled the toy from yourself and shoved it back in, clenching down and still needing more.

Your fingers found a larger toy, arousal and lubricant smearing across your body as you discarded the dildo which you had just been fucking yourself with, leaving it somewhere on the mattress, forgotten in favour of the bigger option. It was thick. Maybe, in your right mind, you wouldn’t have considered it. But instead you coated it in lube, squirting the clear liquid on to the tip and rubbing it down the toy, focusing on nothing but the need pulsing through your pelvis.

On the emptiness inside you, begging, pleading to be filled. It hurt, how much you wanted to be stretched out, to feel something pounding into you. You felt animalistic, desperate for anything. The last of your conscious thought was occupied by the need in your clit, the demand for friction, and you just didn’t have enough hands. It was impossible to think. When you finally sank down on the fake cock, leaning back, legs apart, gaze focused on nothing but your own swollen pussy, it was a relief. You gasped, then sighed, pushing another inch of the toy inside you. You felt stretched already, split in half, but you kept going. With each thrust, you took the silicone further inside of you until you felt the dull ache of the toy going too far.

Finally, that emptiness felt sated, and you stayed still, too stuffed to risk moving and too blissed out to care.

But you needed more.

Each bear down made the toy threaten to shift, and you didn’t have the brain power to thrust and pay attention to your aching clit. You moved gingerly, grabbing a pillow to straddle, holding the toy inside you as you hunted for your vibrator.

You couldn’t even lean too far to reach it, you were so full it ached. And it was delicious.

With the smooth plastic finally in your hand you leant back, ready to bring yourself to another orgasm. With a blink, you realised there was a tear tracking its way down your cheek, and you smiled to yourself.

And then you accidentally looked forwards. Your eyes met Tom’s. The camera. The lights. The switched off monitor.

You wanted to cry.

He was watching you directly, with those sharp blue eyes, one finger resting along his jawline, his usual calculating, wide stance replaced with one knee hugged to his chest as he sat on the concrete floor. He was watching you.

You. Stuffed full, straddling a pillow on the bed Tom had fucking made, covered in a mix of lube and your own arousal. That strange feeling from earlier came back full force.

God. He had seen you actually come. Without acting or cheesy lines or clever angles to hide the worst of your O-face. You could pretend to come, tell your male co-stars what a good time you’d had, follow direction, anything. But this was too real. And it was just you and Tom. In the corner of a huge studio, bright lights and cameras and –

Had he called cut? You wouldn’t have heard. Did he realise you’d lost control? That you had forgotten you were supposed to be acting and been so desperate and –

“You’re doing amazing.”

You smiled at him weakly, gasping as the toy inside you nudged your cervix as you fidgeted. You didn’t realise that you were awaiting direction until he spoke.

“Another one?”

His voice was a little throatier than usual, though you supposed he’d been quiet for a while. His eyes kept drifting from your face, and you wondered if he felt as uncomfortable as you did.

You nodded silently, closing your eyes, listening to the increasing pitch of the vibrator as you turned it up to its maximum setting.

The minutes stretched on as your orgasm built, little raises and falls of your hips accompanying that insistent buzz of your favourite vibrator, the toy inside you starting to ache as it stretched you apart. It was impossible to forget that Tom was watching you now. That his piercing gaze was on you. As a matter of professionalism, you tried to avoid looking up. You ignored the camera, fucked your body in the way you knew it would respond to, only half-faking it as you came a second time.

You moaned and groaned and gave the camera an indulgent few seconds of overstimulation, the vibrator pushed against your clit to make you writhe and shake. You pulled yourself off the dildo in a mess of arousal, played with yourself, showing off how stretched out you were.

Fingers swirling in the arousal inside of you, you sighed in relief when Tom called, “cut.”

Dropping the toy, you pulled your legs together, ignoring him for a second as you took deep breaths. Taking stock of your body, the residual pleasure and pain and stickiness. A lot of stickiness.

Tom took pity on you, shifting a softbox so you had a clear path out of the corner you were hemmed into.

“Go and have a shower,” he told you, the most softly-spoken command you’d ever heard.

Nonetheless, you followed orders. On weak legs, you indulged in as long as shower as you dared, cleaning up and then just… waiting. Trying to avoid the real world. When you finally opened the door, wrapped in a robe, you found your clothes folded outside. Tom was nowhere to be seen, but you thanked the universe for him anyway.

When you re-emerged you were fully dressed and feeling a lot more like yourself again. And, actually, quite proud of yourself. Tom’s busyness told you everything had been recorded properly, equipment moved and the mattress bare, leant against the wall.

“All good?” you asked, more to announce your presence than anything. He stopped moving, offering you a gentle smile.

“Perfect! I think it’ll be great. Do you want to go get lunch somewhere? To celebrate?”

Predictable as anything. The thought made your heart swell with fondness for him, his head tilt and excitement, his strange place here.

“I think I’ll just go home,” you tried to smile apologetically, but you could still feel the ache inside you, the dull oversensitivity of your clit against your underwear.

The embarrassment and excitement fighting in the fit of your stomach.

Tom nodded, clear understanding on his face. He held the door for you on the way out.

“Are you coming in tomorrow?” he asked, quietly, like you might run off if he asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you then.”

Your bedroom fell silent as the vibrator stopped, the battery finally flat. You whined in disappointment, desperate for another orgasm. Your fingers replaced it instantly, rubbing, desperately pulling more wetness from the arousal weeping from you, but you were too oversensitive.

Panting, vision blurry, your thighs aching, you blinked away tears. You glanced at the nightstand. Tom hadn’t text you.

When you woke up the next morning your phone was dead. You’d forgotten to charge it last night, and leaving it in your room to charge offered a strangely peaceful morning. You had a few hours before you would be expected at the studio, and no work to do before then.

You indulged in spending time getting ready for the day, making a decent breakfast, doing a few chores you’d been putting off.

Processing what had happened yesterday.

In the clear light of day, you wondered if you ought to be embarrassed for the way you’d completely lost yourself at the shoot. The more you thought about it, the more you thought about it, the more you rationalised at you’d just followed Tom’s direction. Done what he’d asked. It had been intense, for sure, but you’d done what he’d asked. If anything you regretted the moment he’d had to speak, losing your nerve. You hoped he didn’t want pick-up shots today, you weren’t sure your body could take any more.

You thought about the night before, clearing up the scattered clothes and charging the vibrator you’d left strewn beside your bed, more ashamed of the images which had been conjured by your overactive imagination in the late-night privacy of your bedroom. You hated that everything you imagined was involved blue eyes. Distinctive curls. Pulling buttons from smart shirts and kissing along sharp cheekbones. Poor Tom. He didn’t need you overstepping that mark. And yet when you had closed your eyes, imagined you were under those lights again, all you could imagine was Tom. His creative gaze. Listening to the smoothness his voice leant to everything he said as he instructed you even more intimately than usual.

As you switched your phone back on, you forced the thoughts from your mind. They couldn’t follow you to the studio. The two of you had built something good. Something successful. The studio was doing well, you were both saving money away for the future, building your brands. You couldn’t screw that up now by imagining him like that. He trusted you. You trusted each other. Relied on one another.

You wondered if he ever fucked other actresses.

#lord forigve me for i have have rpf x reader #13atoms #fic #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston fic #tom hiddleston imagine #this is a weird one #i think 2 more chapters maybe #lmk what you think!

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skiyoosmi · 4 years

Text

if fate permits

⤷ chapter ten: i think i've found her

previous < masterpost > next

The whole theater was packed with people as everyone kept their selves busy with the tasks assigned to them– from your right, you can see the production head barking out her orders, the props men walking here and there as they moved their materials in one place, the actors and actresses shifting nervously as they awaited for the instructions of their director… well, except for one particular blonde head who just stood rather smugly, his chest puffed up while he crossed his arms. You only rolled your eyes at his antics, silently praying that the said production head doesn’t take his usual confidence as arrogance.

“By the way, [Y/N]-chan, the production head told me that once we’re done with looking over the script, we’ll be watching over the other crews,” one of the other playwrights, Mari, told you as you both looked up from the script you were holding. You arched your eyebrows as a sign of asking for explanation, “Since we’re done with our main work, he asked us to help others. I think he said you’ll be working with the props men? You know like, instruct them so they can visualize the costumes and props better?”

“M’kay, that would start later this afternoon, right?” you pouted when she nodded, feeling bummed with the fact that you will no longer be able to share your gossips to one another. Well, at least not that much anymore since you’ll be separating, “Ah, Mari-chan! I’ll miss our girl talks~”

“Me too. I’ve only started talking to you last week but I love you already,” she whined, rubbing your cheeks together as she engulfed you with a hug to which you gladly returned. Your other crew members chuckled at you two, mumbling about ‘you’ll still see each other in the theater and the campus.’

“You’ll never understand our bond; crying because of the mental block we had for the script last week and so on. If I wasn’t seeing my thread, I would probably think [Y/N] was my soulmate,” Mari huffed, placing her hands on both sides of her waist, pouting even more when the rest of you giggled more. Writing for a play was definitely not your forte nor was it part of your plans but you might just thank Atsumu for letting you meet these people;

I’ll definitely do that later.

You shifted from your left foot to your right, fidgeting with the ends of your shirt as you stood in the middle of the busy area of the props men. You opened your mouth to try and say something but no one paid you attention, making you cower in shyness even more. God, socializing is hard.

“When they said they’ll be sending a new person to help and lead us, I didn’t know they’ll be sending a mute,” a monotonous voice spoke up behind you. It kind of came off as rude, making your eyes twitch as you turned around, “excuse me?!” You stopped, however, when you saw who it was. Oh, what a gorgeous man you are.

“Oh, you can talk. You just spent more than five minutes looking pitiful while standing, by the way,” he took a few steps forward so he was finally near you and extended one of his hands towards you, “Iwaizumi Hajime.”

“Oh…uhh… Sakusa… Sakusa [Y/N],” you dumbly replied, shaking his hand back and internally screaming because you were sure as hell that you looked red and ready to burst any moment now. Wow, this must be heaven… if it doesn’t work with Atsumu, can I just marry this guy? The pang in your heart replied to your question though as guilt spread through you. Wait, I shouldn’t be drooling over some other guy.

You slapped yourself, taking Iwaizumi aback as he watch you mentally fight yourself, “Your twin is quite known for being weird but I didn’t know you’ll be… weirder.”

“Wait… you know me, Iwaizumi-san?” He nodded, telling you about how the “Twin Squad (which involved you and Kiyoomi plus the Miya twins),” as he called it, were pretty much popular all around the university since you all apparently had the ‘looks that are to die for.’ Your mouth formed an ‘o’ at his statement, unaware of his gaze that was lingering on your pinky finger, right where your thread was. His eyes followed where it lead to, wonder swimming in them as he was brought to the view of the actors, right exactly where he can see your blonde haired best friend who was practicing with Yui… his very own soulmate. Oh? he thought, what a small world.

“Hey Iwaizumi-kun, is it alright if I just call you by your first name? You know since–”

“You’re lucky.” You turned to him, your heart picking up its pace upon noticing that he was still staring at Atsumu and this time, you noticed his thread and where it ends, “you get to be best friends with your soulmate at the same time. You two must be having fun living life together, yeah?”

“That stupid boy doesn’t even realize it,” you bitterly chuckled, “he doesn’t even have a single clue as to how painful it is to long for him when he’s so close to me.”

Your words must have shocked him because he didn’t reply; there was only a rather heart-wrenching silence between the two of you; the silence of hearts longing for the one that’s supposed to be destined for them – it felt ironically funny and pathetic, if you will be honest.

“Let’s be friends, [Y/N],” he suddenly said after a few minutes, “let’s cry over those two together and our own stupidity.”

It was supposed to be sad but for some reason, you both found yourselves laughing at his statement. And yet for another reason, you felt that Hajime would be someone who would stay in your life for a very long time, beginning today.

“[Y/N]!!” a different yet oh-so-familiar voice yelled and it was as if your little bubble of happiness was popped as Atsumu spoke his next words – the same words you had dreaded for the past ten years or more, “I think I’ve found her.”

“W-what?”

“I think I’ve found my soulmate.”

⤷ notes. dun dUN DUNNN... let the arc of angst commence! (i can't believe i actually intended to start the new 'arc' on ch10) enjoy the next chapters / train of y/n's heartbreaks!! <33

#haikyuu smau #haikyuu x reader #atsumu x reader #iwaizumi x reader #atsumu smau #iwaizumi smau #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu imagines #atsumu headcanons #iwaizumi headcanons #if fate permits

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calboniferous · 3 years

Text

In Theory

Work 1 in The Pen and the Sword aka. my jedi and academics AU

A stressed post-graduate anthropology researcher from Coruscant University enters the Jedi Archives for the first time and is promptly taken under the wing of one Master Archivist Jocasta Nu.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32355310

—

Master Jocasta Nu felt the visitor before she saw them. Stress and a frenetic energy radiated through the force tangled with the unique threads of emotion and colour that made up their signature.

Closing the book in front of her with a soft thud, mindful of its frayed edges, she appraised the blue nautolan hurrying towards her. Their worn brown coat was unbuttoned and struggling to stay onto their shoulders, saved by the strap of the bag hanging off one side which the nautolan had one arm wrapped around. Apparently, the bag’s tie had lost the battle against the tide of flimsy and datapads making the simple bag bulge obscenely.

Ah.

A scholar.

Like the many before them, they had come to Master Nu’s beloved archives in hope of finding salvation in its hallowed stacks. With her guidance, they always did and more often than not, they would return again. And again.

However, this scholar was not one that Master Nu had seen before and as they glanced wide-eyed at the towering shelves, shying away from passing Jedi, she surmised that the Jedi archives were unfamiliar to them also.

They reached her desk out of breath.

“I need books on Kante martial arts and history. Do you have books on Kante? If it has historical martial arts then that would be incredible but I’m setting the bar low. Really, the bar is non-existent. Should I even be setting a bar I don’t know- do you know what the Kante are? Were? They’re extinct”

“Young one, breathe.” Master Nu said, lifting her hand to interrupt the rush of words. Her brow softened in sympathy, “How about you start from the beginning and tell me what your thesis is and then we’ll go about finding resources.”

She signalled to one of the Padawans stacking holopads nearby for them to take over monitoring the main desk and led Tema to one of the many sunlit alcoves tucked between the buttresses.

Settling on a cushion across the low table from the sleep deprived nautolan, Master Nu pulled out her well-worn datapad, ready to formulate a list of texts to recommend for this student’s project. She had gathered quite the collection of such lists over the years and took great pride in curating them. Often, she would continue to add to them in her spare time so that when the person they had been made for returned, it was waiting and ready. And, if Master Nu happened to enjoy the thrill of a hunt for obscure references through her own archives every now and again, that was her own business.

Stylus in hand, she was ready to begin.

“You mentioned martial arts?”

“Right. Yes. I’m studying the fighting style of the Kante people which they used to reclaim their lands 7000 years ago after it was conquered in the Chandrillan Divide. The politics of the reclamation itself have been documented to death but there’s kriff all discussing how they actually fought,”

Master Nu hummed sympathetically, listening as a classic university post-graduate research tragedy poured out in all its glory. The purple shadows smeared under Tema’s dark eyes suggested that more than one night had been lost to this.

It was a credit to her Jedi training and skill as an archivist that Master Nu could write notes, elegant script flitting smoothly across the datapad without misspelling a single title or name, while offering comforting hums and interjecting words of encouragement where Tema faltered.

“So now I need to piece it together myself in order to build a theory on how the Kante people approached battlefield strategy,” Tema finished, fidgeting with their bag strap.

Setting her stylus down, Master Nu surveyed the drafted list with a critical eye. It was a daunting selection. She weighed the situation in her mind and carefully turned the datapad off, placing it down with a muted click of metal on the polished stone table.

“That’s quite the task you’ve got” Master Nu said, “more than an Honours project scope covers.”

She loathed to discourage any scholar but there were limits to the workload that could be shouldered and she had a strict honesty policy. With all her Jedi compassion and experience ad Head Archivist, Master Nu knew how to recognise when a student needed guidance in whittling down their research focus to a reasonable magnitude.

“I know,” Tema sighed, shoulders sagging, “I know but my project topic has already been approved by my supervisor.”

“Dear, your project as it stands is enough to satisfy a PhD and beyond. I can tell you are passionate about it but it’d be a tragedy for you to fail because you tried to complete years’ worth of work in the 10 months you have.”

The blue nautolan wilted a little, head tails curling.

“I don’t see what choice I have. I can’t form a thesis on the merits of Kante strategy without knowing how it worked at the individual level,” they said, resignation colouring their force signature grey with worry.

Master Nu paused, and after a moment spoke.

“Have you considered centring your project on the martial arts itself? At the individual level, as you say. Leaving the rest aside to focus on that should technically be within your project topic.”

Tema blinked, “That’s…that would work. Yes.”

Master Nu watched as they turned the idea over, considering how to approach it.

“Yes. That would make it more of a research-and-reconstruction project. A literature review with practical application.”

They gave a wry smile, “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

Some of the frazzled emotion of their presence eased and a few threads of humour sparked in its wake.

“I could have saved myself from being sick from worry in the University ‘freshers yesterday.”

They flushed a little darker at that admission and Master Nu suppressed what would have been a rather unprofessional snort of amusement as she clicked the datapad back on. Ah, younglings. They never changed.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, dear. That amount of stress isn’t conducive to clarity of mind, I’d wager,” Master Nu soothed, deleting a few items from the list with a satisfied air, “You’re hardly the first person’s I’ve known to have an adverse reaction to academic stress. Now, I do believe this list is ready.”

Rising with more grace than her age suggested she was capable of, she smoothed the creases in her cream and straw-gold robes and led the way into the maze of columns and shelves. Tema followed a step behind in a manner that to any observers bore remarkable resemblance to a duckling following its mother – if ducklings were six-and-a-half feet tall, that is.

“Somehow I find it hard to imagine a Jedi getting sick from assignments,” they mused absentmindedly, tipping their head to catch some of the book titles they passed, “all this information – it’d be hard to fail.”

Master Nu chuckled at that, passing through an archway into a side corridor.

“I’m afraid it can happen to anyone. One of my agemates routinely emptied his stomach at the prospect of examinations – that one, in fact,” she said, gesturing to one of the bronze busts lining the hall. The metallic features gave the human man depicted a severe expression. In Master Nu’s opinion, it was rather true to life even if the beard was far to neatly sculpted.

“The poor man. Perfection was as much his vice as his virtue.”

She smiled fondly, crows’ feet crinkling with nostalgia at sharing this particular story – at sharing the humanity of someone so proud and distant both in life and artistic rendition.

Tema faltered and the markings on their head tails blanched light blue.

“Oh, uh, my condolences.”

“Hmm?” Master Nu turned to them, “Oh no, he’s not dead. He’s retired.”

“Oh,”

They blinked, nonplussed.

“This way, dear”

The pair continued on their winding path. Master Nu, frequently gesturing to some architectural feature or other with her datapad, began to explain how the Jedi Archival system worked, pausing every now and then to pull a tome from the shelves.

“It is what many have described as ‘archaic’,” she said, stepping deftly onto the fourth rung of a sliding ladder attached to one of the shelves to reach her next target, “but no one—and I mean no one—has said it is an ineffective system.

“At least not in my earshot,” she said with a laugh, pulling the volume from its place and passing it down to Tema. The rumours the initiates (and fully-grown Knights) liked to spread about Master Nu’s draconian defence of the archives may not be entirely accurate but were taken by most as a warning to avoid slandering the archive in her presence. She knew Tholme liked to stir the pot and recount tales of her lightsabre prowess to the initiates, no matter that the stories were thirty years out-of-date.

“That being said, it can take some getting used to. The Padawans and Knight Archivists are always around and willing to retrieve sources for our visitors.”

Master Nu dismounted from the ladder, blew dust from her sleeve, and turned a critical eye on to the stack of books and datapads in Tema’s arms that had been steadily growing in size. The scholar looked strong enough to take a couple more, taking into account that their bulging bag would not fit anything more inside.

“That’s the last one from this aisle.”

She clicked her tongue and marked a check on her list next to the sources they were borrowing. They were all copies, of course, or volumes easily enough to source a replacement that their loss wouldn’t be abhorrent. Nonetheless, clean records made maintaining the collection less stressful on her soul.

On that note, Master Nu was pleased to feel that Tema was no longer pouring stress into the force like an anxious firehose. And—

She stilled, tilting her head as a familiar presence tickled the edges of her senses.

“Master Nu?” Tema asked, noticing her change in manner.

“Nothing to worry about,”

She once again took the lead. Down the aisle, then one aisle to the left and as they rounded the corner Master Nu smiled at the sight before her.

A little blue and beige figure was hunched over a book resting on the floor, absentmindedly gnawing on her Padawan silka beads and completely oblivious to the world around her.

“Padawan Secura! Why am I not surprised?” Master Nu called lightly and the twi’lek girl jerked, breaking from her literature-induced reverie to scramble to her feet.

“I’m not skipping sabre class again. I swear!”

Had it been any other Padawan of Aayla’s age group, Master Nu would think that emphatic declaration of innocence meant the Padawan in question was skipping class. Skywalker came to mind as a repeat offender of that variety.

Only question was that Junior Padawan sabre classes were always on Taungsday afternoons—this afternoon—and had been since before Master Nu was a crecheling. She hummed, unconvinced.

“Knight Kenobi is doing catch-up lessons this week and he said my forms were good enough to skip.”

That explained it. It seemed only yesterday that he’d been roaming the archives as a padawan himself, tearing through histories of the planets he’d visited at Qui-Gon’s side with single-minded focus. Shame that his lineage had picked him up before her own could. He would have made a fantastic archivist despite his record of being convinced to scale the bookshelves whenever Vos got temple fever.

Well, at least Aayla’s fencing education was in good hands.

Master Nu beamed at Aayla, “Then good work padawan and, as you are free, would you like to join us in gathering sources for Scholar Induri here?”

Aayla brightened, “Absolutely!”

And then, remembering her diplomacy training, bowed to Tema, setting her Padawan beads swinging. “Nice you meet you, Scholar.”

She scooped up the book she had been reading and as she put it back in its slot, Master Nu glimpsed the title.

“Reading Bastilla Shan again are we Padawan?”

The padawan blushed, fiddled with her tunic and handily dodged the teasing with a question of her own, “What are we looking for, Master?”

“See for yourself, young one,” Master Nu passed over the datapad, pointing to the highlighted entries.

Aayla squinted at the handwriting for a second before passing the pad back and running away down the aisle, one hand skimming the shelf labels. Padawans were lovely to have around and, watching Aayla slide 4 meters down a ladder and return to them with a grin plastered across her face, Master Nu wondered if she should take another student. Or, better yet, invite her former Padawans around for tea to see if more Grandpadawans would be joining the lineage soon.

“Thank you, dear,” she gave Aayla a pat on the head, “I’ll leave you to your reading. Just don’t forget to remind your Master that he needs to renew the materials he borrowed last month.”

Then, she turned to Tema who hadn’t made so much as a peep the past five minutes, seemingly satisfied to observe the interaction.

“Let’s get these checked out so you can get to reading them.”

Back to the main desk, the archivist and scholar wandered, and a minute later there was a new name entered into the borrowing database.

“Again, thank you for everything, Master Nu” Tema said, gathering the stack back into their arms. They were a little overwhelmed but they were smiling.

“Dear, it’s no trouble. One last thing, are you planning on enlisting someone practised in martial forms in your project? Or were you aiming for a more theoretical illustration of your findings?”

Tema cast their eyes to one side and shifted their weight.

“Ideally, yes, but I have no idea where to find someone like that so…theoretical?”

They trailed off.

“Good. I’m free to ask around here, then,” Master Nu said, tugging Tema’s bag strap so it was in less immediate danger of falling of their shoulder.

“If you need any help at all, don’t hesitate to send me a message or drop by. My archive is always open,”

At that, she tucked a slip of flimsy with her com code underneath the top datapad in the stack and gave Tema a parting pat on the cheek. With hope in their step, the scholar passed back out the archive doors, into the sunlight of the hall beyond.

Content, Master Nu smiled and watched them go.

“Now,” she mused to herself, opening the roster of temple-bound jedi and beginning to peruse the list, “who to ask…”

Her thoughts turned to the bronze bust of a man whose devotion to esoteric research was only outmatched by his skill with a blade.

His legacy…

Her eyes caught on a name. Yes, that would do very nicely indeed.

In the interest of vetting the source she intended to recommend, Master Nu made a mental note to attend next week’s exhibition tournament.

#jedi #jedi culture #fic #my writing #jedi and academics #the pen and the sword #jocasta nu #repost #star wars

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