#i hope the measurements make sense to the americans seeing this i have no idea what i was doing
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what are their crimes?
#nie huaisang#nie mingjue#cql fanart#mdzs fanart#barbie meme#i hope the measurements make sense to the americans seeing this i have no idea what i was doing#no i didn't draw nmj's belt that's too much work#niecest#kinda? nothing shippy about this drawing but it's a pairing meme and all
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(Repost from my abandoned account) these are just my personal head canons for dogday. this is a survivor au
(All characters are over 18 btw)
-dogday sometimes has dog like tendencies, like growling, barking etc.
-he doesn't remember a lot about his life as a worker but will share stories he remembers of his human life once you two become close.
-man is like a love sick puppy. First you save him? Give him legs? AND a home?! And his friends are here too?! You really are his angel.
-he's very protective of his angel. He can't have anyone take them away or even hurt them. Plus all those years locked away, he can't loose you, you're his hope.
-this man will most certainly plan his confession, script and all. Maybe you're away at work and this is something he's been working on for a while. He's always bringing you little gifts on his hunting trips (depending on if you like to collect rocks and such) but this dude went out of his way to find the best of the best. Even somehow found flowers beautiful enough to almost rival your beauty, keyword: almost.
-he enjoys spending time with you, poppy and kissy, he enjoys playing outside with you three, even if you guys have been out of the factory for years already. They still enjoy the outside world.
-I know bro is huge, like dude is taller than an American door way (according to some measurements fans have made, hes 9'5) if you're a shorty (like me 5 feet even😭) he will most definitely pick you up and carry you like a dogtoy. He likes the feeling of carrying his angel, it gives him a sense of pride doing so. Even if you accidentally hit the ceiling or he needs to really get down so you don't hit the top of the doorframe, he will always apologize or joke about it.
-he's a cuddler, he LOVES cuddling! He has his own giant dog bed in your shared room, but he prefers to sleep on your shared bed. If you're away from work and he's eepy, he'll pass out on your bed because it smells like you. Your scent keeps him at bay until you come home. Poor guy will shoot up and push anyone out of his way to be the first to get to you! He sits there on the floor waiting for his mandatory headpats and kisses as soon as he hears your keys.
-it takes his brain a few minutes to properly turn on. After all those years he finally gets proper sleep, I can imagine you waking up first and getting ready for the day to prepare breakfast for the group and you poke him, trying to wake him. He'll mumble some random stuff about not letting rats do taxes then fall back asleep only to be woken again by your pokes still talking nonsense. I can also see him sometimes waking up confused, you know like when you wake up your parents and they're mad for no reason asking what's wrong while gasping for air? (Just me?) I can see him being THAT dead asleep bhahsha
-my take on the survivor au is more of a modern take (as in yes the factory closed years also but reader is possibly in early to late 20s sometime in 20xx / non specified year) so they weren't an employee but probably knew someone like a family member who worked there or was dared to enter the factory (we'll see if I ever post my fanfic haha as these hcs kinda tie into that story) so dogday being alive in the 80s or 90s he probably has like the old school idea of love and attempts to swoon you as such. The flowers, cheesy pick up lines.
-I can imagine because he's not up to date with the newer terms and he might be confused while trying to seem cool haha. "Angel what does rizzler mean?" (Poor peepaw)
- Personally I love the theory that DogDay is an ex worker aka Rich. Which is probably why he was the leader of the smiling critters. Because he was mature enough to make sure everyone was in line/well behaved, I also think some other workers were turned into the mascots too (obviously) but maybe they trusted Rich more so they just threw him into the dance circle and hope that he'd be a good leader.
- this one ties into the first one btw! I like the think that maybe he was one of the mascots when he worked there. Like a guy in the costume who worked with the kids (hence the zipper, how else would the workers get into the bigger body suits?)
- I like to think DogDay likes when Angel calls him by his old human name. Maybe once he opens up more about his human life (or at least bringing up some of the memories he still has) he just randomly brings up his name when talking about a memory and hearing Angel repeat his name back, he'd probably like hearing it. It might make him feel like less of a monster in a sense. Granted I think he wouldn't care about what Angel calls him but he would most definitely prefer for them to alternate. Like you know when someone makes you mad and you use their real name instead of their nickname? He'd hate for his Angel to get mad, especially at him. But when living with 3 other people it can get a bit hectic.
"DogDay! Did you bring mud into the house?!"
"N-No!... "
*silence*
"RICH, WHERE ARE YOU?!"
*footsteps are heard and DogDay bolts out the door*
- Now this head canon I have can go either one of two ways, right? Hear me out. Listen up, listen carefully, and listen closely. (Lmk if you got that reference) ok so back to the zipper! I think the zipper just opens to his organs tbh like the zipper was just left functional in case he needed to be "repaired internally". BUT another thought, I also can see there being some sort of barrier! You know those stuff animals who have their stuffing blocked by a barrier so it doesn't fall out but the zipper opens to a compartment where you can store items? I kinda think that's whats there tbh, I mean it makes sense. What if one of the kids opened the zipper by mistake? Surely there would be a barrier just in case.
- as I mentioned in the last hc post, I can see him trying to swoon Angel in the old romantic type of way. I can see him pinning after Angel hard, at first they wouldn't get the hint, they'd probably think he's thinks he's indebted to them for rescuing them and giving the 3 of them a better and new life. But quickly they realize bro is in love. Of course poppy teases him about it too at some point lol. He doesn't really try to hide it either. I can see poppy and kissy thinking it's sweet and first then they get annoyed once you're the only thing he talk about lol.
- You're married. That's all! No but I can see in his mind you two are basically married. He'd probably want to have new custom star collars made for both of you or maybe even a ring for you and a matching collar or something for him to wear and propose. Of course it will bother him a bit because he can't go out with you, take you on dates or show you off but he trusts you (even though he gets jealous when you smell like someone else) he basically tries his best with what you guys have (If only there was a holiday that came once a year where you guys could go out dressed in customs without looking like freaks).
- He looks like the type of guy who would love pasta. I'm not sure why or how this even came into mind but I just feel like that's what he often wants for dinner. Poppy would probably eat fruit for dinner, kissy isn't really picky, but Dogday would probably be asking for either pasta or meat. Also I think Angel would be hesitant to feed certain foods to Dogday because you know, he's a dog (not really but hear me out) but because he acts like one at times I could see Angel being like haha nope you can't eat this!
*Angel eating chocolate cookies*
"May I have some?" *cutely pouts*
"I don't want you dying, love."
"You know I'm not actually a dog...right?"
ok ok you got me there" (they just really didn't wanna share lol)
- tbh this is more of a general head canon for the toys but I seeing as they had to resort to c*nnibalism. They clearly need food and water to survive. I think catcap was probably keep Dogday alive as a "lol now look at you now, look at me" (yes that's a BP reference) moment but only feeds him when he felt like it, since food is basically scarce in that place. I think that their human organs were transferred over but little things like veins, teeth, tongue, blood vessels basically anything that's not a major organ was made artificially and connected in a sense to those major organs making them function as such.
Yeah that's kinda it lol, there might be some more parts to this if I can think of anything else! But yeahhh that's kinda my hc and rambles lol (I tend to ramble a lot especially when I have to give context, I apologize!)
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I’m Not Political
People these days make everything about politics, and I’m tired of it! I’m just here to have a good time and focus on me. That’s the only thing you have control over in this life, yourself. As I was telling that woman that had the gall to ask me for change at the bus stop, you need to focus on being more positive, and everything will fall into place!
People try to pull you into politics, you know? But politics are what happens in offices, there are whole groups of people who receive higher education in this, they are qualified to deal with it. I am not a politician, are you? So why are you trying to drag that ugliness into the conversation? I told as much to Julia at our last PTA meeting. Those poor women were so disorganized until I came along, it’s a wonder they got anything done, but that’s beside the point. The point is, I had just overturned the votes of the unfortunate moms who thought it would be a good idea to have a fund raiser for school supplies -- personally, I don’t have the time right now for another bake sale, so I don’t see how they could, either, unless they’re slacking on something. Hours of work, just for, I don’t know, some crayons and colored paper, like those kids can’t make do with plain paper and pencil, like the rest of us! Well, I put a stop to that. And Julia, I mean, that poor thing, with two kids like that? But anyway, she said something about how it figures this is how the political climate ends up when a society doesn’t value the arts. And I told her, well, when you value the arts a little too much, Julia, you get your Anne. She asked me what that’s supposed to mean, and I politely explained that maybe her teen should keep her whole “lesbian” thing to herself a little more, for the sake of polite society. And then Leslie took that all personally, and started talking a bunch of bunk about me discriminating against the lgbt-whatever, and said that as someone married to a woman, she’s not okay with this attitude in the PTA.
Well, that was it. I’m kind of the head of the PTA here -- pretty much unanimously picked! -- and I said I thought we had agreed we would not pull political issues into our meetings, as we need to maintain a sense of harmony. We hold the fates of the future leaders of our community, for god’s sake! And that’s when Leslie started spouting claptrap about her identity. Okay, Leslie! I told her, nobody asked you what you’re doing behind closed doors! We’re all aware of your little eccentricity, I said to her, but I was hoping you’d be a little more respectful towards the school rules. For an example, there’s a clearly stated school rule about there being no political statements expressed on clothing or jewelry. Yet every time I’ve seen Leslie, she’s wearing her wedding ring -- picked out by her WIFE, a woman! I explained that I've had enough of this, and that she is free to leave -- I have unanimously voted her out.
That’s when things got ugly. Honestly, some of these women, I don’t know why I accepted them into the PTA. One of them is from Iraq, for God’s sake! I mean, what could be more political? She could have worked a little harder to hide it. I’ve told the PTA members many, many times that I don’t see color, yet she’s continued to speak with that accent; you can tell she’s not from Indiana from a million miles away. It’s like she’s not even trying to integrate with the community -- and we’ve been so kind to her! Just remember the American flag cake we got to welcome her family to the school. That was a special order from Kmart!
Anyway, in the end, I did go to the principle and lodge a formal complaint against a few members of the PTA. I laid out a very convincing case, and he told me that he will definitely think carefully on what measures to take. As I said to him, I care about this generation. I have worked very hard on being part of this community, and all these crap-stirrers that keep sowing division and discord by pulling politics into everything have to be stopped! Leave the politics to the politicians, I say. Once we stop affording the opportunity for these people to make trouble, we can finally have a nice, quiet, agreeable space for our children to grow up in. After all, I don’t want my Andrew to deal with any unpleasantness when he becomes class president.
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Colbert/Cooper’s Spe Salvi Moment
I recently saw this video where Stephen Cobert was interviewed by Anderson Cooper and the question of faith in the midst of suffering came up. It is a beautiful and heartfelt conversation where they both shared from the depths of their own sense of loss. For many of us who have and are going through various forms of suffering I suggest you consider the wisdom that is flowing here.
I want to highlight Colbert’s response when he asked to clarify if he truly believes a statement he made with a different interview that he had “learned to love the thing that I most wish had not happened” and his belief that punishments of God are gifts. This is a powerful question and you can see that Cooper chokes as he considers the question himself. This is a very deep theological consideration. For us Christians suffering is a gift that allows us to experience all aspect of life including the intimacy of sharing in the suffering of others. His responce is “yes, it is a gift to exist” and “with existence comes suffering, there is no escaping that.” This interview is a cathardic experience for me. There is a great wisdom here for me to consider as I consider the suffering that I go through in my life. I want to share and promote this pearl of Catholic wisdom to all those who do suffer.
The theological point that is succently made here is: Are we grateful for life? That is the foundation of Christian hope that allows us to find meaning in all the joys and sufferings we endure. If we can accept a general gratuitousness towards the gift of life than this theology of suffering will make sense to us. But this is the prerequisite condition. Do we recognise life as a gift from God? and are we grateful for that gift?
This theology of gratuitousness and suffering forms our overall theology of hope. Christianity is based on the idea that God suffers with us and in doing so redeems our suffering humanity. At the level of social justice we are also taught that Christ not only suffers but suffers a great social injustice. He is arrested, tried, punishes and ultimately executed through an unjust social system. In this sense Jesus not ony redeems our suffering humanity but vindicates the message of justice and peace that is at the heart of his own teaching.
One of my favorite doctrinal teachings from Pope Benedict XVI was his encyclical teaching on hope titled Spe Salvi. What Colbert and Cooper reflect on are deep theological truths that are at the center of this Papal teaching. Pope Benedict XVI instructs us on the redeeming quality that suffering has. Not only in allowing us to find meaning and hope for the pain we go through, but also by placing it in the context of our deeper social commitment to the unjust sufferings of others.
The true measure of humanity is essentially determined in relationship to suffering and to the sufferer. This holds true both for the individual and for society. A society unable to accept its suffering members and incapable of helping to share their suffering and to bear it inwardly through “com-passion” is a cruel and inhuman society.
To suffer with the other and for others; to suffer for the sake of truth and justice; to suffer out of love and in order to become a person who truly loves—these are fundamental elements of humanity, and to abandon them would destroy man himself.
I shared a post some years ago about an American politican who also preached on this Catholic wisdom after the assasination of Martin Luther King Jr. Like Colbert he shared on his own experience of suffering and loss and raised the wisdom of a Greek philospher who also found hope and meaning in suffering. In that post I have RFK’s famous recorded speech that he made in Indianapolis. If you listen to his speech please consider the social message he offers the African-American community as he shares this wisdom.
As I mentioned above, Both Colbert and Pope Benedict XVI also reminds us that for us Catholics/Christians God suffers with us. The teachings of Jurgen Moltmann (who deeply influenced Liberation Theology), came out of the experience of World War II. He reminds us that a Crucified Christ is a Christ that both experiences unjust suffering, and empowers us to respond to the personal and social suffering that we see in our society. Pope Benedict XVI is very much promoting this teaching in his encyclical.
The Christian faith has shown us that truth, justice and love are not simply ideals, but enormously weighty realities. It has shown us that God —Truth and Love in person—desired to suffer for us and with us. Bernard of Clairvaux coined the marvellous expression: ‘Impassibilis est Deus, sed non incompassibilis’—God cannot suffer, but he can suffer with. Man is worth so much to God that he himself became man in order to suffer with man in an utterly real way—in flesh and blood—as is revealed to us in the account of Jesus's Passion. Hence in all human suffering we are joined by one who experiences and carries that suffering with us; hence con-solatio is present in all suffering, the consolation of God's compassionate love—and so the star of hope rises.
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Finding Purpose in a World on Fire
by Don Hall
For an awful lot of people, the two years of COVID caused them to question their existence, the framework within they worked and survived. Not so much for me. I remained gainfully employed throughout; I even made a job change in the midst.
No, I had no existential crisis until I was unceremoniously punched in the throat with the knowledge of what my wife was doing during that dark period. While I was working in a casino for the first half and researching data privacy and writing marketing collateral for the second half in order to do that most American thing—make the cash, pay the bills, keep the credit score from plummeting—she had created an entire life apart from our marriage.
So, we divorced in record (Vegas) time and now I get to have my existential crisis. Mind you, I genuinely hold nothing against her. That's how life unfolds sometimes and choices we don't think through come to bite us in the ass or wound those whom we love.
It does, sometimes, oftentimes, leave one of those involved at a place where starting over from scratch presents itself. At my age, starting over is daunting to say the least. I recognize that hundreds of thousands of people over the course of the past three years or so have had a similar What the fuck happened to my life and now what am I going to do? scenario. Small restaurateurs, bar owners, local retail shop keepers—the pandemic destroyed far more in its wake than merely those who contracted the virus.
“Then it was that the thought of death burst into my daily life. I would measure the years separating me from my end. I would look for examples of men of my age who were already dead. And I was tormented by the thought that I might not have time to accomplish my task. What task? I had no idea. Frankly, was what I was doing worth continuing?” ― Albert Camus, The Fall
Existence after leaving Chicago went from the feeling of creating some sort of legacy to the day-to-day grind of survival. Work the gig, make the money, pay the bills. Las Vegas doesn't seem to need anyone like me with my specific set of skills. That certainly isn't the fault of the city. Like so many things, I leapt before I looked and came to Sin City without having an accurate concept of the place.
At the time I wrote that Las Vegas Stinks... of Possibility:
That’s the thing about this move. It could be Alpine — deceptive promise with hopes dashed to the ground. It could be Treasure — all possibility and anticipation. We’ll certainly see in the new year which one it is but for right now, Las Vegas stinks… of opportunity, potential, possibilities undreamt of, and a genuine sense of something different for which to look forward.
These days, it's difficult to see it through that patina of potential. As soon as I left the casino gig, I recognized that I had zero interest in working for a casino or a hotel in Las Vegas. Hospitality designed exclusively to cater to our worst instincts combined with the manipulative goal of separating tourists from their life savings left a stink I couldn't abide. Outside of that industry, there just aren't enough interesting jobs left in the area. Strip away the Strip and this is a tiny place.
Aside from the lack of opportunities for myself, I find that the atmosphere, the encouraged debauchery, has taken something from me I can't get back. Vegas was for she and I, together. We aren’t together anymore. My ability to find any sense of joy in this city has vanished.
Step one of my existential crisis solved. Leave Las Vegas (but not in a Nick Cage, die by alcoholism way, because he did it better than I would).
Step two: now what?
I had entertained the idea of taking a year to couch-surf, checking out, and traveling the country. Then I was watching Pulp Fiction the other night:
Jules: Well, that's what I've been sitting here contemplating. First, I'm going to deliver this case to Marsellus, then, basically, I'm just going to walk the Earth.
Vincent: What'cha mean, "walk the Earth"?
Jules: You know, like Caine in Kung Fu: walk from place to place, meet people, get into adventures.
Vincent: And how long do you intend to walk the Earth?
Jules: Until God puts me where He wants me to be.
Vincent: And what if He don't do that?
Jules: If it takes forever, then I'll walk forever.
Vincent: So you decided to be a bum?
Jules: I'll just be Jules, Vincent; no more, no less.
Vincent: No, Jules. You've decided to be a bum. Just like those pieces of shit out there who beg for change, sleep in garbage bins and eat what I throw away. They got a name for that, Jules: it's called "a bum". And without a job, a residence or legal tender, that's exactly what you're going to be: a fucking bum.
I don't do well with aimlessness. In this case, Vincent Vega is 100% correct. The idea sounds romantic and all-Kerouac, shuffling around the country, town to town. The reality is some nights sleeping in a Prius, bad choices of food, fewer showers, and no place to receive mail.
And still... Now what?
Finding the where is a bit of a preoccupation. I suppose I need a place to focus on in order to get moving. After hours and hours of research, I've decided on Denver. All the things I miss about Chicago—bookstores, small arts venues, jazz, a robust arts community, nonprofit industry designed to improve the world—are there. I've lived on the East Coast, the South, the Midwest, and the Desert. Never lived in the Mountains, so that works for me.
I also need to keep in mind that my father is in ill health and my mother needs some help. They've offered to put me up in Kansas for a time so I can be of assistance. My ego alerts me that this is moving home with my parents (which at twenty-five seems somewhat reasonable but at fifty-six feels like giving up) but my ego is a problem. I need some time to rebuild my existence; they need some help. Win-win.
On the ApeCast a few weeks ago, Joe and I talked. Himmel was out of the country and Joe stepped up for co-hosting duties. We talked about fun stuff and then we dove into a touchier topic. I called it Old White Guy Problems. We talked around the idea of being a man of a certain age and feeling like starting over. After decades of experiences and achievements finding yourself with nothing material to show for it.
Joe confessed that at sixty-one, he didn't anticipate working three part-time jobs to simply pay rent on a Bronzeville apartment by himself. As we talked, I recognized that while my specific reasons for my life blowing up in my face were unique, this state of being—older, with a serious amount of life experience and an impressive resume, completely adrift, and still struggling with basic survival—is not unusual.
"All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make the better." — Ralph Waldo Emerson
That's the reframe. Perspective is everything.
The specifics of where I live and what I do to pay the bills is ultimately less crucial than why I do what I do. What purpose do I serve? Am I merely a creature of consumption and survival or is there something more than drives me? These are questions I'd guess an awful lot of people are asking right now. COVID shocked the world into a dark gaze into the void of routine and comfort, of complacency in the face of chaos just at bey.
The bizarrely beautiful aspect of these moments of self doubt and wonder at the point of it all is that those things that consumed me during that time of daily grind, living check-to-check, accomplishing more in terms of paying those unceasing bills than embracing the awful complexity of life mean almost nothing.
The cultural debates over CRT, trans rights, the environment, Trump, Amber Heard, Netflix, Elon Musk, abortion, guns, and crime suddenly seem mostly silly. Writing think-pieces about these cursory issues immediately feels like a waste of time.
Finding purpose when the world is on fire is the challenge. Some find a cause. Some find a god. Some lose their minds. A few—really, a tiny few—do all three and become hateful partisans spending their days looking to shame one another for not embracing their cause, their god, their insanity.
My purpose seems to be creation. I used to create theater, then events, then stories. Now, I want to create books. But for whom to read them? And does that actually matter? Who are the books for?
In Stephen King's twenty rules for writing, the number one rule is:
First write for yourself, and then worry about the audience. “When you write a story, you’re telling yourself the story. When you rewrite, your main job is taking out all the things that are not the story."
Joe tells me on the ApeCast that during one of his three part-time jobs, the one that often requires him to stand on a boat for hours with nothing to do but be present, he engages in a mindful meditation. He thinks in a loop "Compassion, honesty, and humor." It keeps him grounded and gives him a picture of how he wants to be seen in the world. Knowing Joe the way I know him, I'd say his meditation is doing the trick because he is one of the most compassionate, honest, and funny humans I know.
It reminds me of a Steven Covey exercise I used to do with my eighth grade students. "Begin with an End in Mind." The exercise was to write three eulogies for your own funeral from the perspective of a family member, a friend, and a co-worker. The idea is that by writing what others will say about you once you're gone, you define how you want to be seen in the world while alive.
Today, that exercise places an awful lot of priority on the opinions of others so it doesn't quite work for me. That being said, there is benefit from some iteration of it, I believe.
Perspective. Reframing.
"Take it moment by moment, and you will find that we are all, as I’ve said before, bugs in amber."―Kurt Vonnegut
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Cover 2
Here’s the next part of my @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange present (for @lady-adventuress), a season-two-ish story in which Myka and the recently reinstated Helena have been sent on a retrieval, during which they’ll be required to clown. Literally. Neither is notably happy about that latter thing. (About the former... well, Myka certainly has some feelings.) For details on their less-than-thrilled responses to the idea of clownery, see part 1. For details on how they manage to work within and around the idea, see this part and the subsequent parts that will be on their way as quickly as I can type them out. P.S. I feel compelled to mention that Pete would chuckle at way this second part seems to be titled, because the Cover 2 defense is one of the major zone defenses in American football.
Cover 2
Sitting next to Helena on an airplane: that’s new. Having flown with Pete so often, Myka in this novel circumstance has to consciously swallow her reflexive pre-apology to the flight attendant for whatever violations of FAA regulations, or common decency, her seatmate will commit... Helena’s unpredictable, yes, but Myka lets herself relax into the idea that she’ll be easier than Pete. Also, she’s significantly (even exquisitely) smaller than Pete, and that’s easier too, allowing Myka to unfold just a bit, to occupy more of her real body space.
Although Helena is obviously comfortable on the plane, at ease with the technology that powers it, Myka is near-to-bursting curious as to how she really feels about flying, how this experience measures up to any versions of such travel she might have imagined. It would be something to talk about... but asking direct questions about that past-present difference, Myka has observed, tends to generate a less than enthusiastic response. Letting Helena herself bring up what she finds startling or conceptually intriguing—that’s a far more productive course of action.
Fortunately, Myka does have another ready topic of conversation: the Grimaldi biography. It could also, she thinks—hopes?—provide a way of probing Helena’s aversion, or whatever it is, to clowns. If “fear” is a baggy word, what does that bag contain?
“So Artie gave me this last night.” Myka pulls the book from her carryon, taking care to give it a little shake, like it’s insignificant. “Probably just because I read really fast.”
“Do you,” Helena says, looking first at the book, then directly into Myka’s eyes. An assessment. “That’s useful.”
Myka shouldn’t find the idea that Helena thinks she’s useful to be thrilling, but she has to admit, if only to herself, that she does. She can’t help the attendant fillip of concern, though: does Helena want her to be thrilled? For some purpose? And if there’s a purpose, under what category does it fall? Is it that she still feels a need for a professional champion? Or is it—and Myka is trying not to put too fine a point on this—personal?
Stop it. The mission is what matters, not... anything else. “Anyway I thought some of it was salient?” And immediately, again, the mission recedes, for she hears up-talk in her voice and hates it, hates how it reveals uncertainty about her own judgment. About how Helena will judge her judgment. Clearing her throat of question, she quotes, “Grimaldi is the most assiduous of all imaginable buffoons.” Then she says, because it might be a way in, and she should put a wedge under the door, “Honestly, that sounded to me like something somebody might say about Pete. The idea of him going to clown college makes an awful lot of sense.” She pushes a little further. “Then again, the book also says ‘comedy demands sacrifice.’ So maybe not.”
“That depends,” Helena says. “Can one choose the genre of sacrifice?”
Getting into a discussion of sacrifice genres is likely to be unproductive. A bit chastened, Myka flips mentally to a different part of the book. “So this is closer to what we need. Probably. About the slapstick—like Artie said, they used it for clowning tricks, to turn one thing into another: ‘sedan chairs into prison cells, postboxes into lions’ mouths, piles of vegetables into belligerent monsters.’ Belligerent monsters made of vegetables. In the early 1800s? That sounds pretty impressive, I have to say.”
Helena scoffs out a tiny “hmf.” It makes her nostrils flare, but any actual sound is lost in the engine-drone. “The illusions I saw, even in my somewhat later day, were no doubt less persuasive than you might wish.” She puts a little push on “you.”
“What do you think I might wish?” Myka asks, trying to be gentle, trying to give Helena space to speak then into now. “I’m not nearly as devoted to CGI as Pete and Claudia are.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Helena says.
So much for space. “Things in movies that... you know what? Never mind. Why didn’t you find the illusions persuasive?” she asks, with a little you-push of her own.
“I was always suspicious of tricks. Even as a child.”
Of course she was. Myka can’t help but imagine child-Helena, that small skeptic. She charms herself with the thinking. But is that what Helena meant her to do?
She really needs to stop this second-guessing.
“Funny that you ended up at the Warehouse then,” she ventures.
An uncharming eyebrow. “Funny?”
Myka flinches, more in response to the eyebrow than to the question. “Sorry. Not like comedy. Given your suspicions, I mean.”
“No, I know what you meant,” Helena says. She exhales heavily. “I will confess it was a strange relief to discover that certain seemingly impossible things weren’t tricks after all.”
That feels like a real opening. “Here’s another quote that struck me: ‘the stage was the only place in which he was spared his anxieties.’ I sometimes feel like I can say that about the Warehouse?” That uptalk again... but here, uncertainty might be her friend?
“I once could,” Helena says, but it’s arid, empty, and she turns her head away. The gap between then and now, which had narrowed for a nanosecond, has cratered open once more.
Myka gives up. For the remainder of the plane ride, at least.
****
They’ve flown to Indianapolis, the current location of the circus—or more accurately, the location of its train, which extends into a veritable city of its own, comprising what seems to be an infinite number of cars. Myka and Helena wend through it, eventually locating the office-car, or car-office, of Thomas Lawrence, the clown manager, whom Artie has identified as their contact.
Settled solid behind what looks like an Army-salvage desk from no later than World War II, he might be made of circus sawdust: old and crumbly-edged, he has the air of someone who’s been doing his job so long he’s immune to surprise. And yet he says, “Imagine my surprise, hearing from Artie Weisfelt—wayward cousin of the clown Weisfelts.”
Myka files that away immediately for future reference and/or research. Or at the very least, for shocking Pete and Claudia.
“He doesn’t seem to have a very high opinion of same,” Helena says.
Lawrence’s voice, too, is sawdust, dry and withering. And accurate, as he responds to Helena: “You don’t either.”
Helena shrugs.
He shrugs back. “Not surprised. You’re not one of us.”
Us. “So you were a clown?” Myka asks, but then she amends, “are a clown?” Because clown status, once attained, surely persists.
“Started off as one. Couldn’t come up with the...” He raises his hands and twiddles surprisingly long, elegant fingers in the air. “Call it the underneath. Stuff that makes the clowning work.”
Myka thinks she understands what he means. She glances at Helena. Helena is aggressively not understanding what he means.
“Any advice?” Myka asks. “For our investigation.”
“Made a couple new hires, not too long ago, first time in a long time. They’ll think you’re more of the same, so blend in,” Lawrence instructs. “You won’t, but try. With everybody but the new kids, you could drop the Weisfelt name.”
“I would rather not,” Helena says, prim, but backed by something very like malice.
Artie wasn’t helping, before; clearly, Helena isn’t willing to let him help. In any way.
Lawrence sits back and crosses his arms. “You’re a tough one.”
“I try to be.”
“Good luck,” he says. “You want to show you’re tough out there, with them, call me Boss Tommy. I let ’em think I can’t stand it.”
“Risk-takers,” Helena says.
He nods. “Moment of thrill in their sad lives. Outside the ring, even.”
“But consequences?”
“Getting on my bad side.” He turns to Myka. “You, on the other hand.”
“Me?” Myka’s not sure what conversation she’s in. Or if she’s in it at all.
Saying “Let’s take a little walk,” Lawrence leads them out, and it’s a dramatic understatement: they walk—walk and walk, past cars with doors that open onto stoops, practically verandas, on which people are working, playing, lounging—to a small, dingy car. He pulls a capacious key ring from his trouser pocket and unlocks the narrow metal door. It squeals as it opens. There’s no veranda.
“What we’ve got right now,” he says, not exactly apologetically, as they step in. “Accommodations.” Two bunks flank the space, and upon seeing them Myka cannot keep her mind from leaping to, then dwelling on, sleep in proximity. No doors, halls, or other separation machines. It had escaped her consciousness until this moment that some situation like this would obtain.
Lawrence seems to take her stutter-stop as criticism: “Not fancy enough? Usually for a sibling team—we just lost one of those. Lucky part is, obviously it’s more private than the eight-bunkers. Anyway, take a minute, then let me see your stuff.”
“Our ‘stuff’?” Helena inquires, as if it’s a personal insult that he expects her to know what he means.
“I better see how you think you’ll fake your way through whatever it is you’re investigating. How you’ll look. I’m the boss, right? And I’m vouching. Show me something good.” He steps back toward the train car’s door and takes his leave.
Helena says to Myka, “Lucky part is?”
“I guess,” Myka says back.
The truly lucky part, Myka discovers, is that Helena has decided she can apply her own makeup.
That is the lucky part. It is.
****
When they show Lawrence their costumes and makeup, he regards them with about as much enthusiasm as Claudia had. “If you’re doing standard slapstick, Ms. Elegant Harlequin here won’t sell.” He opens a drawer, pulls out a red foam nose, reaches across his desk, and plops it onto Helena’s actual nose. He shrugs. “Helps a little.”
“Does it,” Helena says, and Myka wishes there were a way to reward her for sounding only mostly, rather than completely, murderous.
Lawrence then tells Myka, “You need a wig. That hair of yours isn’t near crazy enough.”
“That’s the first time anyone’s ever said that to me,” Myka says, and she considers yet again (or is it a constant background consideration?) how deficient her hair seems, compared to Helena’s.
“And one of you needs the sad face,” Lawrence goes on.
Myka says, skeptically, “Sad clowns... isn’t that a little on the nose?”
Helena gestures to her beclowned nose and grimaces.
With a wince, Myka says, “Sorry.”
“Gotta tell you,” Lawrence says, “standard slapstick we got lots of.” He sits back and taps those incongruous fingers on his desktop. After a thoughtful time, he says, “Know what we don’t have?”
“I have no idea,” Helena says.
Myka registers that she’s heard Helena say that before. Registers that Helena has a way of saying that. Registers that she knows this. Registers that she finds this knowledge special and hers... then stops, stops all the registering, because that will lead her nowhere professionally productive—or rather, it will lead only to the production of a falling-down clown.
“Love,” Lawrence then says.
“Love?” Myka echoes, then says, because she genuinely does not understand, “You don’t have love?”
“We don’t. How about an unrequited love bit?” He gestures at Myka, says, “You chase Ms. Elegant. Heart in your hand. Literally.”
Myka doesn’t dare look at Helena. “Sure,” she says, because what choice does she have? “How about it.”
She is sincerely regretting her “on the nose” comment.
“Got an old pranky heart hiding here somewhere.” He rummages through a trunk that echoes Artie’s suitcase... and just as she had with the suitcase, she wonders about the provenance of its contents. “Here you go,” he says, handing her a red plastic heart, wider and thicker than a dinner plate. Inflated? She squeezes it, experimentally. It honks at her. Lawrence looks pleased. “Glad it still works. So: your heart. You want to give it to Ms. Elegant.”
“Do I?” Myka says.
“You don’t?” Helena asks—incredulous. Comically?
Myka clears her throat. “I,” she manages, “do.” She will laugh about this someday, she’s sure: sitting here with her honking heart in her hands. Today, however, is not someday.
“Tripping and falling,” Lawrence says, “but for a reason.”
Myka sees quite clearly that before this moment, she had not grasped the full horror of the phrase “on the nose.”
TBC
#bering and wells#Warehouse 13#fanfic#Cover#B&W holiday gift exchange#part 2#lady-adventuress#the reasons why we trip and fall#are probably not as clear to us as we would like them to be#but does going over them with a highlighter help or hurt?#maybe hurt in the short term#and help in the long term#or vice versa#or something else entirely#accidents do happen
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Truth so Cold
Continuation of The Night of the Consequences
Well if this didn’t give him flashbacks… blitzed to high heaven on some drug and unable to stop the undeniable truths from coming out in the bluntest way possible. No softening these truths, they were just out there. Except this time it was Marinette instead of him and the only thing Jason could think was thank God she is such an honestly, amazingly, sweet person because otherwise this could get ugly.
“And I just think you and Adrien would be so happy together, because, like, you’re a dork and he’s a dork and you’re both so sweet and supportive and you both need that,” Marinette slurred as she leaned into Duke’s space.
His cheeks had a slight red to them when he pushed her back onto her chair. “Thanks, Mari.”
“And!” She bounced in her seat as she continued. “And you guys make each other laugh so much and neither can stop smiling and you’re both so adorable and blushy around each other.” She poked his cheek. “Just like that.”
“Okay, yeah, I got it. I’m a hot mess around him,” Duke rolled his eyes, his cheeks getting darker.
“It’s okay,” Marinette mumbled, collapsing onto the kitchen island. “He is around you too. You two are going to be so sickeningly cutesy even Dick is going to get sick of it.”
After a few minutes, Marinette still hadn’t moved. “You okay there, Cupcake,” Dick asked gently.
Marinette didn’t bother lifting her head off the cool surface of the kitchen island to respond to him. She just let out an affirmative hum and continued to bask in the cooling sensation the marble from the island had on her chest and face as she pressed both into it. Suddenly she jumped up with so much force she almost fell off her chair, and would have if Duke hadn’t caught her. “Cupcakes! Oh my God, Dick, you’re brilliant! We need to make cupcakes!”
She jumped off the chair, only not falling due to Duke’s lunged catch, and stumbled to the kitchen, her eyes wide and wild. She started pulling ingredients out before Dick could stop her. “Maybe now isn’t the best time for cupcakes, Cupcake.”
“Cupcakes and movies, Dick! It goes together like… peanut butter and… pickles.” Marinette waved her hand at Dick, which wouldn’t have been that concerning, except she had already started measuring out the flour and had the overflowing measuring cup in her hand as she motioned to him, leading to flour all over Dick and the floor.
Tim stared at her aghast. He turned to Duke and mouthed, “peanut butter and pickles?”
Duke shrugged and grabbed the measuring cup out of her hand. “Peanut butter and pickles go together well?”
Marinette looked up at him with a furrowed brow. “That sounds absolutely disgusting, Duke. You Americans and your bizarre combinations.”
Duke opened his mouth to respond but snapped it shut. It wasn’t worth the effort. Jason chuckled at him from his spot leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah, maybe no baking when there’s Americans in the kitchen, just to be safe.”
Marinette nodded in understanding. “Good idea,” she agreed, sending Duke another glare.
Jason swooped in and kissed her temple. “You go sit down. I’ll make popcorn. From a bag so I can’t mess it up with my American taste,” Jason promised.
Marinette looked up at him with a lopsided, lovesick smile. “Okay. I love you.”
“I love you too, Pix. Go ahead and sit down.” Marinette nodded and skipped to the couch.
Jason slapped Tim’s shoulder and nodded toward her pointedly. Tim nodded in understanding and followed after her. He hadn’t even made it to the couch when he started making choking noises. “Uhhhh, Jason?”
Jason groaned and turned to Tim. It had been a whole two seconds and he couldn’t handle it? What the hell could be so bad? He let out a surprised grunt and leapt toward her to pull the shirt back down. She had managed to get it over her bra before Jason reached her. “Let’s keep that on, huh?”
“But it’s hot in here.” She pouted. Suddenly, she looked up at him, her pout morphing into a sultry smile. “And you’re hot in here.” She started to pull his shirt up.
“Thank you. So are you,” Jason offered her a strained smile as he pulled his shirt back down and held it down so she couldn’t pull it up.
“Yeah, I know.” Jason couldn’t stop the bark of laughter he let out at her response. “That’s why I wanted to take my shirt off.”
Dick leaned over to Duke with a concerned grimace. “Wow I did not expect the pain killers to hit this hard. This must be why she didn’t want to take any. Now I kind of feel bad I got her to take them.”
Tim’s eyes widened and his head whipped over to Dick. “What do you mean you got her to take them? We agreed I would get her to take them.”
“Yeah, but you weren’t making progress so I put them in that hot chocolate she just drank,” he shrugged. Getting Marinette to take any kind of pain killer was almost as difficult as getting Bruce to take one. No, actually, Bruce was much better about it than Marinette was. Which made absolutely no sense. Bruce had a huge secret to protect and lots of other people’s secrets to protect as well. And Marinette was an open book. She had nothing to hide. There was no reason to be so stubborn.
Tim’s mouth dropped and he punched Dick in the shoulder. “Idiot! I put them in her last cup of hot chocolate.”
Dick’s head whipped back to Marinette with a wince. “Oh shit.”
“Yeah, ‘oh shit,’” Jason growled at him. “I’m going to kick your ass later. But for right now, you need to leave, because if you see something you’re not supposed to, I’ll do more than just kick your ass.”
“Right. Right. Got it.” Dick smacked Tim in the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Let us know if you need anything,” Tim gave him a strained smile before disappearing through the door.
Marinette pouted. “You made them go away. They’re fun. I like your brothers.” She leaned in to whisper to Jason conspiratorially. “I’m trying to set Adrien up with Duke.”
“Yeah, Pix. I know. Everyone knows. They know. They’re going on a date next week.”
“Yay!” she cheered. “They’re going to fall in love and get married and have babies. Adrien’s always wanted to be a dad.” She turned to Jason with wide excited eyes and started bouncing, or rather tried to start bouncing. She fell over onto the couch after the first bounce. “Jason! I’m going to be an aunt! Isn’t that so exciting! Oh my God. I need to get ready. I should start designing baby clothes.”
“That’s… I think you can wait on that for a bit, Pixie.” Marinette looked up at him with an exaggerated pout. “Until tomorrow. Today is for cuddling, right?” He dropped onto the couch next to her and opened up his arms in invitation.
Marinette giggled and dove into his arms, knocking him back against the arm of the couch with her momentum. She gave a contented sigh and snuggled further into his arms. “Okay. Snuggles today, designing tomorrow.” After a few minutes, during which time Jason had hoped she’d fallen asleep, she spoke up again. “But I’m still sad they left. We were going to have a movie night.”
“We can still have a movie night just the two of us,” Jason offered instead.
Marinette smiled and cuddled close to his chest, craning her neck up to look at him. “I love our movie nights. I love everything about you.”
“I love you too, Pixie.” He cradled her cheeks and brought her closer to him. He stroked her cheeks gently and laid a gentle kiss on her lips.
Marinette hummed happily. “But I wanted to hang out with your family tonight too.”
Jason sighed in defeat. He wasn’t going to be able to distract her. Once she got something in her head, it was nearly impossible to get her to move on until she’d seen it through to completion. “Well, you aren’t exactly watching what you say right now and I don’t know how good your secret keeping skills are right now.”
Marinette’s eyes widened in realization. “Oh”
“Yeah,” he nodded, “oh.”
“Oh yeah. They don’t know about me.” She looked up at Jason with wide, frightened eyes. “They can’t know I’m Ladybug.”
“I know, babe,” Jason assured her gently. He rubbed light circles on her back to try to get her to relax. “That’s why I sent them away.”
“If they figure out I’m Ladybug they might figure out I’m the Guardian and nobody can know that. I’m still trying to figure out the best time to tell you. But, I don’t want to tell you because you might get mad at me for not telling you sooner or you might think I didn’t tell you because I don’t trust you or love you. Then you’re going to break up with me and we’ll never get married and have two kids and adopt one or two more and get a dog and a house.”
“You’re the Guardian?” Jason exclaimed loudly.
“Shhh.” She waved her arms wildly at him to get him to quiet down. “You’re not supposed to know that.”
“Oh okay. I don’t,” he snarked, rolling his eyes.
“Oh good.” She let out a relieved sigh and slumped back onto the couch.
He narrowed his eyes at her and pointed a finger in her face. “But, we’re going to talk about it later,” he warned her.
“Okay… talk about what?” She looked up at him with innocent eyes.
Jason stared at her for a few seconds waiting for her to crack and start laughing, but she was serious. “About how much I love you.” He offered instead
Marinette smiled at him. “I love you too, Jason. So much. You’re so smart and sweet and funny and loving and brave and handsome. You're so sexy.” Her face scrunched up as she examined his face critically. “You’re too hot to be real.” She poked his cheek a few times. “Your face is so beautiful.” She grabbed his face rougher than she meant to and smooshed his cheeks together.
“Very real,” Jason mumbled through his smooshed cheeks. He gently pulled her hands off his face and kissed the inside wrist of each. He moved her hands down to rest on his chest. “And very yours, Pixie.”
She beamed at him and leaned in to give him a kiss, but before she reached him she looked down, her eyes widening in realization. “And your abs!” She pulled his shirt up to admire his abs. She ran her hands over them in awe. “You have more muscles in your abs than I have in my entire body!”
Jason barked out a laugh. “That’s definitely not true, but thank you.”
Marinette didn’t look up to acknowledge his statement. She was instead staring at his thighs. “And your thighs! They should be illegal.” She reached out tentatively to touch one as if she was afraid of how strong they were, despite the fact that she was currently sitting on his thighs. He flexed his thigh just before her fingers made contact. Marinette squeaked and jumped back, almost falling off the couch, which she would have done if Jason hadn’t reached out and pulled her back into his chest before she fell too far.
She could feel his chest rumbling with laughter and pouted at him for a few seconds before joining him in laughter. She snuggled into his chest again and his arms naturally found their way around her waist. After a few minutes, Marinette spoke up again. “Sometimes when I look at you I feel like crying.”
“Mari...”
“But why cry when I can kiss you,” she grinned at him. He grinned back and pulled her in for another kiss.
Marinette sighed happily and settled back onto his chest. “No. What makes me cry is knowing that you sometimes feel like you aren't enough. And that eventually you're going to leave me because of it.”
Jason pulled away to look at her, his eyes wide with horror. “Mari... I would never,” he promised.
“And it's going to break me when you do, because I love you so much,” she continued, not noticing his objection. Her eyes were shimmering with unshed tears as she stared at a random point in the apartment. “But I won't let you see that when it happens, because I don't want to hurt you more. Because you don’t deserve that. You’re such an amazing man but you don’t let yourself see it. And as much as I talk about how handsome you are, how pretty you are to look at, and you are, who you are is so much more beautiful. When you talk about something you love, it’s incredible. When you love me, it’s breathtaking.” She paused for a moment. “I meant like reading sonnets to me and cooking with me and the way you look at me, not sex,” she clarified quickly. “Although the sex is mind-blowing too.”
Jason chuckled despite the pit growing in his stomach. He pulled her into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around her as if his arms alone could ward off any dark thoughts. “I love you, Marinette,” he whispered into her hair. “I love you so much. I’ll do anything I can to protect you, the way you try to protect me. I promise you that. You are the best part of me. You make me better and want to be better. You make me want a future and think I deserve a happy one. But I can’t imagine that without you. I can’t imagine happy without you. You are my happy. You are my peace. I love you.”
He pulled away to look her in the eyes, to make sure she heard him, that his words permeated the drug induced fog that had settled in her eyes and brain. But as soon as he stopped supporting her weight, she started to fall to the ground. He scooped her up before she could fall more than a few inches. Her head lolled to the side and she let out a disgruntled huff before shifting in his arms and snuggling into his chest.
“What are you doing to me, Pix? That was the most romantic monologue I’ve ever given and you fell asleep on me. You completely missed it.” He sighed and settled onto the couch with her still held tightly in his arms. As soon as her weight was fully on the couch, she squirmed until her head was lying on his chest, her legs tangling with his, and her arm thrown over his waist.
He could feel her breath fanning out over his chest, warming any skin it touched. He gently brushed her hair out of her face, letting his fingers linger on her face as he gazed lovingly at her. God he loved her. But he was hurting her. Somewhere in the recesses of her brain was the belief he was going to leave her. And honestly, the part that hurt the most was that she was probably right. He might have done exactly that, because she knew him better than he knew himself and she understood him better than anyone else on the planet.
But he couldn’t let her be right. He couldn’t be responsible for breaking her. He would do anything to protect her. Yesterday that might have meant leaving her, but what if it meant staying with her instead? What if it meant letting himself believe he deserved to be happy, that he could be? What if it meant making that happy future happen? He hugged her a little closer and smiled into her hair. He pulled out his phone and started looking for rings. He had a proposal to plan and a happy ending to ensure for her.
Continued in Truth is Gold
Tags:
@jasonette-july-event @maribatserver @ashbrea381writings @weirdo-with-no-beardo @cutechip @emistar0 @kking13 @princessanimeangel11 @corporeal-terrestrial
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Here comes “The Old Guard”. Marinelli goes to Hollywood, alongside Charlize Theron.
“Alone, fragile and immortal.”
A story of love, friendship and compassion with an ancient warrior and a young African American, who has just discovered she is immortal, as protagonists. Because the world needs women and courage knows no gender differences. 20 years after “Love & Basketball” and after “The Secret Life of Bees” and “Beyond the Lights - Find Your Voice”, Gina Prince-Bythewood comes to the action movie with very clear ideas on how to reinvent the rules. We talked to her over the phone while she was in Los Angeles during the lockdown.
A superhero movie that doesn't look like a superhero movie. Is that why you decided to make it?
Absolutely yes, when I read the script I realized that despite the fantastic genre there was a very realistic background. These characters are real and it's easy for the audience to relate to them despite being immortal. They fight for goals and reasons that people understand. The more realistic the film, the more viewers can reflect themselves in the protagonists.
In fact, the most fascinating aspect of the characters is their vulnerability: they are immortal, but up to a certain point, which is a paradox. They too have to deal with the sense of the end.
There is a possibility that they may die, that their immortality is interrupted, that they still suffer from their wounds, and this brings them closer to us. The public still feels sorry for them when they see them in danger.
Immortals suffer, and not just physically.
Many think that being able to live forever would be extraordinary, but no one asks what this really means. Immortality has consequences: it can be a gift, but it can also be a curse.
And we don’t know why immortality fell to them.
The thing I loved about the graphic novel and the script is the fact that there is no explanation. Not only do we not know it, but neither do the protagonists. But it is a trilogy and therefore there is still a lot to tell.
Could you offer your contribution to the script?
It was a great script, with great roles based on the graphic novel so I stayed very true to the text. With the author, Greg Rucka, we wanted to reflect on the fear of taking someone's life, the one that sometimes overwhelms soldiers in war, whose psychology is often neglected. Hollywood films have never been very concerned with this aspect, as if killing had no consequences. The protagonists are forced to kill, but if someone has been doing it for centuries, for others it’s the first time.
What struck you about Luca Marinelli?
I could talk about him for days, I love him, he's the actor that all directors dream of having on set. He loved the character and gave him life in a very credible way. Between him and Marwan Kenzari is born a great complicity, necessary between two people who have been together for centuries. Luca's eyes are full of soul, his Nicky is the heart of the group, he’s the most sensitive character of all of them.
Charlize Theron, who is also one of the producers, has an increasingly and more torn body.
Charlize has already played roles like this one, she is very credible in the genre of action and has been helpful to who had never faced it before. From her, who really worked hard, others learned to do the same. She is very credible in the role of a woman who lived for thousands of years.
Matthias Schoenaerts, on the other hand, has an insidious role.
He embodies the tragedy of immortality, loneliness, betrayal. He is the actor who most resembles his character in the graphic novel. He wanted to make the film at all costs because he had never measured himself with the action genre and felt he had things to express.
The film underlines how today it’s no longer possible to hide, images can capture you at any time.
In a scene near the end, when the immortals look at photos and articles about them, they truly become aware for the first time of everything they have done to protect humanity. They understand the power of images from which they continually try to escape in order to hide their identity.
And then we talk about science and profit.
In the film, people from different places join forces to protect the world, a need even more relevant today. Yet it is increasingly evident that profit matters more than human lives.
Do you think the film industry is becoming more inclusive with women?
Things are finally changing and I am grateful that, despite having no other action films on my resume, I have been entrusted with The Old Guard. I am grateful for the trust they have placed in me. It should be taken for granted by now that women are capable of coping with any film genre and I think how much pressure from the industry Patty Jenkins, who directed Wonder Woman to success and opening the door for many of us, went through. But the door must be wide open because there are still few who have such opportunities.
In your opinion, have opportunities grown with the arrival of platforms like Netflix?
Netflix wasn't afraid to trust a series of directors. Which studio would have produced Roma or Irishman? He has the courage to make films that Hollywood deems too risky.
The Golden boy
“Luca Marinelli, as we have never seen him before: in his Hollywood debut, he becomes an immortal and fights with Charlize Theron to save the world.”
Just before the lockdown he was one of the jury members of the 70th Berlinale in the city where he has lived for years - and he swears he had so much fun watching three films a day. The audience awaits him in theatre in the role of Diabolik, in the film directed by Manetti Bros., but on July 10th he arrives on Netflix with The Old Guard, the action movie that sees him alongside Charlize Theron. And where he plays the Italian Nicolo, Nicky for the group of immortals he belongs to. Directed by Gina Prince-Bythewood and based on the graphic novel by Greg Rucka and Leandro Fernández, the film offers Luca Marinelli an insidious superpower, an endless love and a new opportunity to demonstrate his talent as a true champion. We reached him on the phone and he, less shy than usual, told us how he became a secular "superhero".
How did you get to the project?
I auditioned in London, where I later returned and met the director. Lastly, there was a final meeting between me and Marwan Kenzari. We made a scene together and then they announced to me, "We'd love for you to be Nicky."
What struck you about this character?
The story fascinated me because it tells of immortals as if they were the damned. Nicky and Joe live this condition as a gift because they are linked by a wonderful love story and they are not alone. They met in an absurd and paradoxical situation, during the Crusades, ready to kill themselves. They did it a hundred times and then they looked at each other and fell in love. But others suffer from it, like Andy and Booker. In a beautiful scene, Booker, played by Matthias Schoenaerts, explains what happens to them: they see the people they love die and blame them because they cannot prevent it. And they are tired of watching the world repeat itself following the same dynamics. They fight to save people, but everything seems to go on the same way. Only in the end will they discover what they have done and what they are doing.
How did it go with Charlize Theron?
Well, it was wonderful! As I read the script I said to myself: am I really going to make a film with Charlize Theron? And hug as well! I was very excited and intimidated already while reading. She is an extraordinary actress. In the scene where we are at the table and everyone tells Nile something about us, Andy tells her what we are and it was nice to see her running and venturing into the midst of emotions and thoughts. Sometimes I got distracted and didn't say my line. But Charlyze is also a crazy athlete. You have to be really athletes, otherwise you don't survive at the end of the day. And Charlize is an athlete of the body and the heart.
What about her athletic training?
We got together a month before shooting to start working with the stunts. I had to get some athleticism back: when I arrived and they looked at me I think they were a little worried. We had to become familiar with martial arts and then we switched from the sword to other weapons and to hand-to-hand combat. We prepared scene by scene, including the choreographies, different for each fight, and each of us had his own rubber reproduction of the sword. It was an unforgettable training.
The immortals come from different places in the world. How much of Italy is there in Nicky?
Apart from the pronunciation? They still laugh at some of the things I said. Marwan and Matthias, but also Charlize, speak Italian at different levels and every now and then I enjoyed shooting a few sentences to which they could answer me.
Did you offer your character something that wasn't in the script?
Well, being in such a group, shy as I am ... I tried. I have always focused on the bond between Nicky, Joe and the other members of the group, because I am interested in discovering what is inside a character, his feelings, how he looks at the world, what excites him. Nicky has lived for centuries, but still greets the people he meets in the desert with a smile, inside him there is the flame of an infinite good. Each character has a different sensitivity and their own armor. Nicky is perhaps the least armored one.
The challenge was also to make people believe in a love story that has lasted for centuries.
Marwan recites a beautiful monologue in which he talks about their love story. I hope that each of us, in their short life, can say the same thing about the person they love.
You’ve already had superpowers in “They Call Me Jeeg”. What is your relationship with this genre?
I like it very much and I think that both films, very different from each other, have a very interesting soul. In Jeeg Robot, Enzo Ceccotti uses his superpowers to help others, taking on a social responsibility. In The Old Guard the protagonists put themselves at the service of others, even if no one has asked them to. “This is what we do,” they repeat over and over to each other. What they do is save people, participate in what they think is right.
How do you think they would react to protests on American streets and around the world?
I don't feel like playing games, mixing reality and fiction on a terribly real subject like this. I think that in reality, outside of any cinematic fiction, it’s fundamental to fight for equality, within society, but also within ourselves. To go back to our film, if in a microscopic way we manage to carry a message in that direction, I would be very happy.
What director was Gina Prince-Bythewood?
She is always ready to listen, and I am someone who asks a lot of questions even at inappropriate times. She always had great patience and was very attentive to the emotional side of the film, to the interiority and beauty of the characters.
CIAK Magazine - Luglio 2020
Just wanted to translate this old interview for the non-italian’s fans ^^ (sorry for my English)
#Luca Marinelli#marwan kenzari#Charlize Theron#gina prince bythewood#Matthias Schoenaerts#the old guard#TOG#TOG Cast#Film#netflix#magazine#movie#interview#english#english translation#mine#joenicky#joe x nicky#Immortal husbands
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A Nate Jacobs Blurb part 2
A/N: Here it is! The long awaited part 2 I’ve had so many of you ask for lol. I want to mention before reading that the opening scene takes place after an hour or two into the party scene and kinda just opens up on a random scene. I didn’t feel like there was any real need to make this super long as I only wrote the most definitive moment for these characters to carry the storyline along.
I hope to continue this story as I do have many ideas but anything I post will probably just continue to be written as installments such as this and the one previous to it, as I don’t want it to be my main line of work. I’m always coming up with new ideas and I don’t like simply having one on the forefront as it places to much pressure on writing.
Regardless I hope you enjoy!
a disclaimer: If you have seen the show Euphoria you know what the character Nate Jacobs is like and what he’s done. This is not me condoning the actions of this character--in fact, I urge you to view him as the bad guy he is when reading this. That’s how I wrote it, that’s what I wanted to portray because I’ve yet to write a character as such. Though his actions may not come off as terrible when reading this remember who he is written as and try and read it in that way.
WARNINGS: alluded sexual assault, foul language
The crystalize haze taking over her entire perception of reality right now was almost near blinding to what was happening. The alcohol and whatever that asshole had slipped into her drink had truly and officially taken its toll on her physical being, her vision and balance being hit the worst. Her body laid skewed across the pile of blankets and sheets, having little to no strength to even shuffle through them and find her way up.
She couldn’t determine though if that was solely for the obvious roofie or also from the shock of watching Nate barge into the room—practically snapping the door off it’s hinges, and ripping Chris from atop of her before (with a speed she had never witnessed in her life) wrestling him out the door and down the hallway.
Through it all though and the now busted open door she was able to make out the figures of everyone still filling the living room from her placement on the guest bed, the energy to move no longer permitted in her body but simply her eyes which watched with as much intent as they could muster up.
There was yelling, screaming, and a series of other loud noises, all echoing back to her a million times louder than they probably actually were. Figures moved in flashes and the lights burned into her skull as they danced across the catastrophe spilling all over Elias’ parents’ living room wood. Her hands were on her temples before she could even feel them, body making the intent of covering her ears to attempt to silence all the overstimulation.
Bleary eyed she breathed a deep sigh and tried to find herself, but that moment being ripped away as another set of yelling broke out, the shrills emitted from Nate himself.
He was in the dead center of it all, hands (from what she could tell) wrapped around the throat of Chris Daniel’s as he looked to be throwing him to the floor. Followed by more commotion, a body hitting the floor—it looked to give the tall brunette new access to whomever’s torso, as he barreled his foot into it repeatedly.
If only she wasn’t swimming her own vision, her own thoughts, maybe then she could truly make it all out. But the way that pill made her skin ripple over her bones and her own brain pound its way out of her skull was too much, focus was lost on her.
Before she even had a choice to say or do otherwise her eyes slipped closed and she sunk into the abyss of her body again.
Though she was nearing unconsciousness her ears pricked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. They were distinctively heavy and almost mismatched—like the person was stumbling over their own two feet.
Crossing the carpet until they were near her own body she could hear mumbling above her.
“God dammit.”
Even in her current state she could recognize that voice, the one that belonged to the person who was just moments ago beating the life out of someone. Nate.
“Look at you.” He whispered.
The feelings of hands along the sides of her hips heightened her senses for a split second, a whine rolling from the back of her lips as to protest.
“Shh shh shh, it’s okay it’s okay.” The fingertips grasped at the length of her dress and slowly they pulled it back down-- the whole movement now familiar to a piece of her memory somewhere in the back of her mind, “You’re okay I promise.”
There was a brush of her hair out of her face, the touch cascading down her face to her shoulders where she could make little notice of her sleeves being pulled back up.
Within seconds the same arms were now wrapped around her form and she was being lifted from the bed. The rocking of her motionless figure was the only distinctive thing she was able to recognize before sleep finally took her under in one vast swoop of both of her eyes shutting close.
—————————
(POV SWITCH)
Swaying gently back and forth on his feet Nate turned the hall into her bedroom, careful to watch her head as he shuffled through the door.
The memories of their infamous night flooded back to him instantly, but now as he carried her unconscious body to her bed, he was able to take in the details surrounding them. Her room was a light shade of blue, decorated with huge posters starring various artists and movie stars.
It triggered a memory from a month or so ago. Sat around a lunch table only one over from her own he could vividly remember overhearing her and April Denavive discussing that Timothée Chalamet kid and how Y/N had such an affinity for him.
”He was so incredible in Little Women, I swear I’d give anything to just hold his hand or something.” Nate from his seat could see that her rambles caused April to snort into her fruit cup, the red head shaking her head at her friend.
”God Y/N you’re such a virgin.”
She made sure to swat at April’s arm, poking her finger into her side for sure measure, ”Oh fuck off.”
April laughed aloud once more as she pushed back before managing to maneuver her arms around her friend, squeezing her in a tight embrace before pressing kisses to her cheeks.
”No no no, it’s cute!” She gushed, “It’s cute how much you want to fuck that French boy but can’t work up the nerve to say it.”
”April! God--He’s American his dad is just French--oh you know what never mind I hate you.”
“N-Nate?”
Returning back to reality Nate was almost startled at the sound of another voice, completely forgetting where he was for a moment. Drawing his eyes downward he found himself back in Y/N’s room, still hovering over her side.
“Shh,” he cooed, fingers tangling in the ends of her hair as he brushed them off of her forehead, admiring the array of glitter from her eyeshadow decorating her skin. It made her shine even brighter than how he always saw her. “You’re safe now..sleep.”
She rustled amongst her blankets, nose curling and eyebrows furrowing as she struggled, a huff following.
“What’s wrong?” He questioned, instantly taking notice of her discomfort. She whined innocently, sitting herself up with her eyes still wired shut and began to tug at the sleeves of her dress.
“Itchy,” She breathed another huff as she tore at the seems, “Need it...off.”
Nate’s entire demeanor shifted. He watched her meticulously as she pulled at the material until it was up and over her chest—but the poor drunk girl seemed to lose all momentum as her arms suddenly dropped, the dress now a mess sagging off of her neck.
Another shrill moan echoed from Y/N, not having the energy to pull the rest of the dress off and expressing her frustrations. Nate waved her off.
“Shush, I’ve got it.” Reaching forward he pulled the rest of the dress up and off of her figure, careful to not get her earrings or hair caught, before tossing it to the side just shy of her hamper he noticed upon entrance into her room.
A deep, noticeable breath expelled from her lungs before she fell back amongst the pillows, body now severely bare to Nate—the only thing keeping her covered being her bra with a pair of matching panties around her hips.
It was pink, the bra, lace yet exuded softness with its subtle tone of color and petite bow in the middle to add a touch of innocence. Her underwear resonated in the same way; they were different than Nate had pictured when his fingers grasped at them earlier that night. He was expecting something more revealing as was common with most girls at parties like that, or in high school in general. But they weren’t—they were form fitting, far from raunchy and bore a soft pink hue like her bra, which was different than the deep red he once imagined.
And it all looked so right on her.
Y/N had seemed to finally settle in her sheets, sleep overtaking her whole figure as she noticeably sank deeper into the mattress. Nate took that as his moment to breathe in, truly, the sight before him.
His eyes nearly followed her every move with adamancy, in an effort to note every singular detail possibly manufactured by her sleeping frame that he could then later remember at his pleasing.
“You are so,” his fingers traced down the length of her arm, watching as the touch triggered a wave of goosebumps even as she was unconscious; He smiled, “Perfect.”
Drawing back he grasped at the blanket before tugging it up and over her body, covering her up to her chest. Tucking in the sides of the cover to her skin he rustled them until he deemed her absolutely comfortable and then took his place at the flank of her bed once more.
“And you are all mine.”
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A/N: Hope you enjoyed, send requests for more if you liked!
#nate jacobs#nate jacobs x reader#euphoria#nate jacobs imagine#I literally didn’t proof read this at all so I apologize in advance lmao
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(Not) Getting Married Today (French Fryes)
This was a fic request for my amazing pal @etzee-ohs that was a long time coming, but finals kept getting in the way. Sorry about the wait and I really hope you enjoy it!!
Read on Ao3
Jacob could hear Evie’s heels clacking on the tile as she came into the bathroom, and quickly slid the lock shut on the stall door.
“This is the men’s room!” He tried to protest, but it came off as more a whine.
“Why’d you run off?”
“I had to piss.” Jacob scooted back on the toilet, almost willing his body to become more compact to avoid being seen.
“Are you a racehorse? You did it twice before we left the house as well.” Evie must have found where he was, since he could see through the gap in the bottom that her short heels and bottom of her pantsuit stopped in front of his stall door.
“Maybe I had a lot of water.”
“Are you even dressed? The ceremony is in an hour.”
Yes, Jacob was somewhat dressed. And no, Jacob didn’t need to be reminded of the time crunch. Arno’s family had gone full out with renting a hall for the ceremony and reception, a lovely villa in the countryside that was way too clean for the rustic look it was going for.
They said they want to take care of it all, Arno had smiled, obviously happy his family had such a blessing and wanted to help, and Jacob tried to get away with a joke that he still wanted a say in the catering and cake -- which he did get the choice of, and thoroughly enjoyed so much that he had hard times with every cake. It wasn’t going to be a big wedding, just the people closest to them. For the past thirty minutes even Jacob where he was had been able to hear the sound of tires crunching on gravel as expectant guests rolled up, and all made excited and general conversation. Jacob was a simple man and would’ve been happy to have a courthouse ceremony in their pajamas, so to get married in a hall was more than he ever dreamed of getting. But in the year and a half it took, neither of them backed out. Jacob didn’t say anything, never questioned Arno and why he wanted this, and he was regretting it.
It wasn’t to say he didn’t want to spend forever attached to Arno, because he did. He knew that even if they ended up splitting, which killed Jacob to think of, he’d never marry again because Arno would’ve been it. But he didn’t want Arno to spend forever attached to him.
“It’s not too late to run, right? I mean. We’re not gonna get the deposit back. I can send something to compensate Arno’s stepdad. You think they’ll accept American money?”
“I’ll drag you back if you think of leaving.”
“Can you just stop, Evie? You’re not helping.” Jacob got off the toilet and opened the door, taking in the concern of his sister’s face. “Why the fuck would Arno wanna marry me?”
“Because he obviously loves you. Can’t you see that? He asked you, right?”
“He asked ‘cause he doesn’t know anything.”
“You’re calling him stupid now?”
“No! Or- yes. Stupidly romantic. It sounds like a good idea but it’s just gonna be a pain in the ass for him eventually.”
Evie fixed him with a look that just seemed to scream that he was an idiot, and he hated it with all his heart because he knew he wasn’t. She spoke, slow and measured, and even if Jacob didn’t want to listen he did.
“You’re not a pain in the ass.” At Jacob’s snort, she rolled her eyes. “Not most of the time. Right now you’re pushing it a bit. But I think Arno really did know what he was doing when he proposed. Have you ever known Arno to back down on anything?”
And Jacob hadn’t -- it was why he was the best at pulling Arno away from fights or at the very least supervising to make sure it didn’t go too far. And why their rare arguments lasted for days sometimes. But he refused to answer and went to wash his hands all the same to avoid her.
“Okay, just- Just don’t cancel anything. Please. We can figure things out.” Evie put a hand on his shoulder and led him out the restroom to go to his actual room, getting no fight in the action. He felt like a livewire and she had to sense it by the way he was silent for once. “I need to step out for a minute to talk to someone and you’re going to relax. Okay?”
Jacob glared but did as asked, looking all the picture of a petulant and scared child as he sat down on the cream sofa.
--------------
Evie stepped out of the room, closing the door, before walking to the end of the hallway and dialing the first number in her contacts. Élise picked up within a few seconds.
“How is he?”
“I finally got him to settle down. He’s curled up on one of the couches. How about your brother?”
“This close to hyperventilating into a paper bag.” Élise sighed, and Evie heard her moving quickly to likely go somewhere more private. “He’s deadset on thinking Jacob doesn’t want this.”
“Obviously we can tell they’re made for each other if they’re going to be like this,” Evie mumbled, pacing a step back and forth at a time before something hit her. “I might have an idea.”
“I do love those.”
Evie grinned.
---------------
Evie waited a few minutes, unwilling to go back to verbal abuse, and came back into where Jacob was likely wanting to drown his sorrows, glancing up at her. At least he had moved on from the whining and shivering aspect and now just seemed to sulk in his seat.
“It’s fucking raining now.” Jacob bemoaned loudly, looking out at the dark sky that had just recently been light and sunny.
“I’m sure they’re moving anything they need to inside. And they say it’s good luck, you know.”
“They made that shit up to comfort the piss poor bride who lost her expensive summer wedding.” Jacob sniffed, and Evie tried not to notice the red puff under his eyes from rubbing them until it became too much.
“Do you want me to put some makeup on that? Get you all dapper?”
“There’s no point,” Jacob said, “there’s not going to be a wedding.”
“I promise you there will be. Everyone’s showed up, besides.”
Jacob sat back, obviously displeased with what she said. But at this point, she couldn’t mince words. It was all or nothing. Both of them were silent for a while before Evie’s phone buzzed, and she checked the notification.
“Here. A video to cheer you up, maybe.”
“Is it a virtual cat poster thing?”
Evie rolled her eyes and pulled up the video Élise had sent her, handing the phone over to Jacob. Jacob pressed the small triangle for play almost absently. The video had some motion in it of the phone being set up, and lean subtly against something small while two people were right in the middle of a conversation. He recognized the visible figure standing in front of one of the small mirrors, undoing and redoing his hair in an anxious manner.
Despite what Jacob thought, his heart did that standard skip it always did upon seeing him. He hadn’t gotten to see him since they arrived and separated, but Arno was half-dressed in his blue shirt and crisp dress pants, bowtie undone haphazardly.
“-don’t get why do you think Jacob is going to regret this? He said yes, didn’t he?”
Faintly he realized it was Élise speaking to Arno, and Arno sounded… panicked.
“He said yes because he didn’t know what he was getting into! I didn’t want that.”
Jacob’s heart sunk, but Arno continued, giving up on his hair with a frustrated groan.
“I’m grateful we did- Were going to do it here. And it’s beautiful. But… I’m not exactly marriage material, Élise. Don’t give me that look, it’s true. I’m an idiot most of the time. What happens when the honeymoon phase is over? And he realizes after a year or two that he doesn’t want to deal with me? It’s his right, but… I’d be heartbroken. And if I hurt him? I love him too much to put him through this.” Arno mumbled something else, sitting in one of the chairs with a dramatic huff and burying his face in his hands. There was one final line Jacob caught. “I’m nothing without him and he’s everything without me.”
Jacob was vaguely aware of Evie shouting about how he could’ve broken her phone, but he didn’t even realize he had dropped it as he hurried off. There could have been more but he didn’t need or care to hear it. He ran off through the hallway, almost knocking over poor waiters and workers alike as he looked for his fucking perfect fiance, who was somewhere thinking that Jacob couldn’t want him more than anything in any sense of the word.
Élise was waiting outside a door, and she barely looked up as Jacob stormed into the room she was near. Arno saw him in the mirror, jumped, and spun around, a tremulous smile playing on his face before it fell.
“What’s wrong, Ja-”
“I love you too, Arno. I said yes because I love you. Yeah, even with your fucking wardrobe and ego and attitude and smarts and good fucking heart.” He blurted out, not letting Arno get in a word edgewise before continuing. “Don’t you ever think you’re anything less than it for me, please.”
“Jacob, darling, mon amour , just breathe.” He held Jacob loosely but tried to get the man to look him straight in the eyes as he spoke. “Where- where is this coming from?”
“I saw the video. Evie had it. Where you said that shit all about you.”
“I- Élise filmed that?” He sent a half-hearted glare as if his sister could see him through the wall, but Jacob held his face and turned him back to look at him.
“I get it if you don’t wanna get married to me. But don’t be a dick to yourself in the process.”
“Of course I want to get married to you. I proposed. And I meant it.” Arno said, serious before turning shy. “I suppose… I just got worried. That I was being selfish by asking somehow.”
Jacob looked down, shyly grabbing Arno’s hand and playing with it. It was a distraction so he didn’t have to watch Arno’s no-doubt judgy gaze. “I was worried. I thought you were making a mistake with all this. With me.”
“I could never. If anything I was worried you’d be making a mistake with me. Compared to you, I’m-”
“You’re not nothing.” Jacob’s head snapped up. “Don’t say that again. ‘Sides,” Jacob ended up giving a half-smile, “I need someone around to keep me in line. That’s worth something, isn’t it?”
Arno smiled and ended up giving a somewhat surprised huff of laughter. He glanced down again. “Looks like we’re both a few idiots.”
“It’s us. I wasn’t expecting things to go perfectly.” Jacob’s smile grew at Arno’s second bit of laughter and it turned a bit sheepish. “So… After all that… Do we want to get married still?”
“If it means I get to have you for good, then of course. If you’re sure you want it as much as I do.” Arno looked up and gave a small smile, but it was brilliant and blinding. “But you’ll need to leave so I can finish getting ready.”
“I dunno. I quite like the idea of undoing your work so far.”
Arno chuckled and gently stopped Jacob’s hands from teasingly going too far up his chest.
“We’ll have the honeymoon for that. I promise.”
“Making me wait so long. Glad I know it’s gonna be worth it.” Jacob grumbled good-naturedly, and leaned in for a tender, chaste kiss. He was only barely pulled away when he spoke again, unable to help it. “I love you.”
“And I love you too.” Arno smiled. “Now. If we want to ‘do the damn thing’, as everyone says, we both have to finish getting ready.”
“Already nagging and we haven’t even exchanged rings.” Jacob grinned and gave him one final kiss before walking out of the room. Élise looked up as he left, and she grinned.
“Glad to see you’re finally acting like adults.”
“I’m definitely doing something at you and my sister’s wedding in return.” Jacob sent her a look, but he was smiling all the same before he hurried back to his room.
The wedding ended up starting just ten minutes behind schedule in one of the halls, hastily set up to work against the rain. But neither of them wanted to rush it.
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Evie wanted to hit them for how much they ended up making everyone cry. There wasn’t a dry eye at the vows, or the kiss, or the reception, and Jacob and Arno held onto each other in a first dance that didn’t consist of anything more than just swaying in place. Evie and Élise sat back at the head table, red hair brushing Evie’s shoulders as Élise leaned on her.
“You think our wedding will be as hectic as theirs?” Evie asked, and Élise rested her chin on Evie’s shoulder as she looked up at her.
“Knowing us? Absolutely.”
Title and work inspired by Getting Married Today from the musical Company!
I hope you enjoy! If you do I have a Masterpost here and more ideas for writings and prompts here, so feel free to request! Thank you so much for reading and have a wonderful day!
#french fryes#my writing#jacob frye#arno dorian#assassin's creed#elise x evie#evie frye#elise de la serre
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Came back from my little break for that new article ! Here is the translation of Adèle and Aïssa’s interview for Libération. It’s a very long, but very interesting one. So i recommend to read it. There may be a lot of incoherencies so please tell me if something doesn’t make sense !
Aïssa Maïga and Adèle Haenel : «Finally there’s something political happening»
They stood up together at the César and have since been striving to invent a common front against all forms of discrimination. For "Libération", actresses Adèle Haenel and Aïssa Maïga retrace the journey of generational awareness.
Some kind of symbol. A large mural, in tribute to George Floyd, a 46-year-old black American who died on 25 May when he was arrested by a white policeman, and to Adama Traoré, who died at the age of 24 on the floor of the "caserne de Persan" (Val-d'Oise) following an arrest in 2016, was painted at the beginning of the week on the façade of a building in the 10th arrondissement of Paris. Close by, the Adama Committee organized a press conference on Tuesday. Words, demands and the announcement of a new march to fight against police violence. It takes place this Saturday in the capital, from the Place de la République to the Place de l'Opéra. The organizers dream of seeing a huge crowd come together. This demonstration comes at the heart of a tense period. Young people are demanding answers and action, while many police officers feel that the Minister of the Interior is letting his troops down in the face of the scolding.
In the street, we will find associations, politicians and many people. Adèle Haenel and Aïssa Maïga will be there. Not a first. They were already present on June 2nd at the rally in front of the Paris high court. The actresses didn't really know each other before the last César ceremony, marked by the speech of one and the shattering departure of the other. Since then, they have never left each other. Both describe the moment as a "turning point". The fights converge.
When the idea of a cross-exchange came on the table to put words to their commitments, they did not hesitate. On Thursday, in a roadstead near Belleville, Adèle Haenel arrived first, followed by Aïssa Maïga. They are not of the same generation, the journeys and paths are different. The styles too. The one who got up at the announcement of the prize awarded to Polanski goes up and down, talks with her body. The one who, at the same ceremony, invited to count the black people in the room appears calmer, stays seated on her chair, speaks in a low voice. Adèle Haenel and Aïssa Maïga complement each other.
From where are you speaking?
Adèle Haenel: I speak from my personal political background, rooted in feminism, a background that is shaken by the worldwide movement around police violence and by the French movement around the Adama Committee. I would say that taking charge of my own history has given me the ability to deal with other broader issues that do not immediately affect me. I'm talking about a kind of political awakening. This desire to show my support for the families of the victims, for the political movement against racism and police violence in France, and for the actors who take a stand. I'm thinking of Omar Sy, Camélia Jordana and you, Aïssa.
Aïssa Maïga: This intersectional awakening evoked by Adèle is a place where I have been for a long time without necessarily being able to name it. For a long time, the racial question in cinema was so pervasive in my life that it cannibalized everything else. I felt that it was less difficult to be a woman, in a world that discriminates women, than it was to be a black woman. The work done by Afrofeminists in France and abroad put the words in my mouth that I didn't have because I didn't have that heritage. I am speaking from a place that is on the move and that is not made up of certainties, that is made of interrogations, especially about the fact that I can implement changes on my own scale. And I'm also speaking from a place that is purely civic and is tinged with various influences. I didn't grow up in a poor suburb, I didn't live in financial precariousness, I come from a rather intellectual middle class, it gave me certain tools, and yet I haven't escaped this very French thing, a soft racism, rarely seen but which is haunting... because it's omnipresent.
Why did you get involved with the Adama Committee?
A.M.: Because this is a fight for justice. It was Assa Traoré who came to meet me during the release of the collective book Noire n'est pas mon métier ("Black is not my job"). I knew her from afar, I knew her struggle, and she appeared. The support became obvious and it has really taken shape in the last few months. I was immediately impressed by this woman, her quiet strength, and this ability to forge a bond, to think of her family drama in political terms. Her voice matters. She's not just an icon: she allows a movement to emerge.
A.H.: For me, it's even more recent, I had to go through a problem that was going through me, that involved my body in discrimination in order to mingle with other injustices. I was listening to what Assa Traoré was saying and I was struck by her determination and intelligence. But it is only very recently that I also became physically aware that I could not fail to support this woman and the whole fight against police violence and racism, in the same way that I am taking up the fight for feminism and against sexual violence. I can't have it two-tiered.
On June 2nd, more than 20,000 people gathered in front of the High Court of Paris, at the request of the Adama Committee. An unprecedented turnout, with many young people, why?
A.M.: The Adama Committee saw very well the link between George Floyd's drama and their own. The death of Adama Traoré, choked under three gendarmes, was materialized before our eyes with the unbearable images of Floyd's death. The French youth who look at these images cannot fail to make the connection, it is obvious. There is also a form of accessible activism that is developing via social networks. Activists will involve others through simple, accessible sentences: if you are not a POC, you are still involved, it is your responsibility to listen and take an active part, at your level, in the fight for equality. There is also the idea that we need to establish a link between police violence, the racism that can be found in other social spaces, the issue of gender equality, the environment, and the urgency of dealing with these problems now. There is also a form of anxiety among young people: they are told that in fifty years' time there will be no more water. And finally the feeling of injustice, which is omnipresent and linked to the circulation of images on social networks. Police violence follows one after the other, and this creates an accumulation effect. It is not just a dogmatic political vision, but a reality that is lived or perceived as real.
A.H.: There is a turning point in the effectiveness of the movement as well. This feeling carried by Assa Traoré that we are powerful. It's not just ideas that go around the world, it's ideas that make the world happen. It gives hope and responsibility to a whole generation.
During Aïssa's speech at the Césars, in which she confronts the profession with the near-invisibility of actors, filmmakers and producers from French overseas territories and African and Asian immigrants in French cinema, you are in the room, Adèle. You don't know each other yet. Do you understand her speech immediately?
A.H.: It's obvious, but it's not immediate, it takes a little time to understand the extent of the racist mechanism when you, yourself, haven't been forced to see how it works. I was brought back to particular assignments, but not to this one. So it takes a long time before it becomes unbearable evidence. When Aïssa takes the floor, it's courageous because the room is very cold and it's making it even colder. I thought it was funny and I thought "finally, something political is happening".
Did you both understand that people find it violent to count black people in the room, and even that they might find it paradoxical to split the audience?
A.M.: Counting isn't splitting, it's measuring the gap between us and equality. When it comes to inequality, to be blind to color is to be blind to the social burdens that come from our history and the imagination that flows from it. I am fighting for art and culture to deconstruct racial fictions. In our field, cinema, there is a tendency to believe that when a few exceptions appear, the problem of racial discrimination is solved. I do not think that my presence, that of Omar Sy, Ladj Ly or Frédéric Chau, Leïla Bekhti, for example, however gifted they may be, exonerates French cinema from an examination of conscience. There is always an over-representation of people perceived as non-white in roles with negative connotations - and it's not me saying this, it's the CSA, through its diversity barometer. There are still too few opportunities for younger people, who today in 2020 deplore what I deplored when I was starting out. Still too few non-whites behind the camera and almost no one in decision-making positions. I started this job when I was 20 years old. I am 45. A generation, not a few exceptions, should have risen. It hasn't. And it's unbearable as a citizen, a mother and an artist.
At the César ceremony, I deliberately used a inflammable symbol. If we refuse to measure differences in access to opportunities in terms of racial discrimination, perhaps we are accepting the status quo. Today, we need concrete action by decision-makers and numerical targets in order to measure progress. A few personal successes, however brilliant they may be, cannot justify the violence of large-scale unequal treatment.
A.H.: The substance of what Aïssa said to the César is relevant, it speaks to the moment, and being shocking has the virtue of awakening. The criticisms that followed were "I agree but"... In fact, it means that even when the substance is right, the form is never the right one. It's a form of censorship, there are people who have the right to speak and others who don't.
A.M.: Allowing oneself to express anger head-on is taboo because we are actresses and we are supposed to preserve the desire that others project on us. And also because it highlights the precarious nature of this profession: are you able to overcome your fear, to express your opinion, with the risk of losing something?
A.H.: From my point of view, that of a white woman - forgive me for putting myself in this position, but it's still unfortunately an assignment - I see that when I spoke about what happened to me personally, I received a lot of support, especially from people who are not especially on our side. However, as soon as I spoke up, politically, to say that giving the prize to a rapist fleeing from justice was an insult, all of a sudden I was really overstepping what I was entitled to do, what I could interfere in...
Do you think there's a "white privilege"?
A.M.: Words are so tricky...
A.H.: When Virginie Despentes uses the term "white privilege", it's a bit related to Aïssa's gesture when she counts the black people in the room. It's a question of pointing out, by calling up words that should be those of the past, the gap between the evolution of universalist ideals and the facts of manifest exclusion at work. Provocation points out this flaw and invites us to close it.
Is there state racism?
A.M.: I don't know about "state" racism, it would have to be written into the laws to say that. The right word is systemic: it means that there is something that does not allow for real equality, something in the established rules that allows a small number of people to discriminate without being worried. What also raises the question is the inertia of the state in the face of the continuation of systemic inequalities.
From what you say, we are at a turning point in the struggle against racial, gender, social and other forms of discrimination...
A.M.: I felt the turning point in 2018 with #MeToo, Time's Up, and when I saw all these women from such diverse backgrounds (in the streets) after Trump's election. It was an image I had never seen before in my generation. It was in the United States, and yet something happened to me in France, because I had been dreaming of this convergence for a long time. I'm not here to defend my chapel. I'm not going to be satisfied with a breakthrough if blacks have more roles while Arabs and Asians are still in a degraded situation in French cinema. The convergence I'm talking about didn't quite take place at the time of #MeToo, which quickly became a white women's movement in my eyes. In French cinema, there is also the "50-50 for 2020" movement [collective for parity and inclusion founded in 2018, editor's note] that I saw coming like the guerrilla movement we had been waiting for for a long time, pragmatic, quick, positively impatient, very constructive. The work done in favor of parity is colossal. On the other hand, I regret that diversity is the next program. But it cannot be the next program for me, that is the mistake. I've talked about it very openly, and frankly in a fairly relaxed way with some of them.
A.H.: Much more relaxed than I was, by the way!
A.M.: And then I said to myself that the battles are progressing on different levels and that we're going to have to find some kind of alignment. The fight for women's rights is not just a women's issue, it's a men's issue, just as the fight against racism is not just about POC. And it wasn't until 2020 and the murder of George Floyd that there were those voices, especially white voices, that said, "This is my problem too." Including in France, where this awakening of consciousness is made possible by the work done by the families of victims of police violence.
A.H.: In my political journey so far, I had forgotten to understand the places where I am not just in a situation of domination. I am also, as a white woman who is not in a precarious position, in a dominant position in certain aspects. Understanding that, feeling that, is essential. My political agenda was focused on feminism, and I didn't realize that it was implicitly white feminism, unintentionally excluding. What Aïssa says seems fundamental to me: the agenda that would order one cause after another is not conceivable and leads to inertia. It leagues us against each other in identity issues that are sterile, since they reiterate the terms of oppression. This is a major issue in the effectiveness of political struggles: how can we mobilize without reiterating the categorization we are fighting against? This implies understanding that there is a deep articulation between all systems of domination and that there is a need to defend these causes in a cross-cutting manner.
Aïssa's speech on June 2nd, during the demonstration initiated by the Adama Committee, called for a fair, dignified and positive representation of minorities in the media. But who can judge what is dignified and fair? Only the ones who are affected ?
A.H.: Today, in France, female characters in films are implicitly white women: I have a much wider range of possible jobs than that offered to a black actress. But in my field of so-called universal women, very often, women are offered satellite roles around male characters. These roles take up what is considered to be the normal white female nature, of restraint and reification. What appears natural here is a cultural construction of identity that is done precisely through stories. This is one of the reasons why the political stakes of representations in the cinema are so important.
Is this a criterion for assessing or rejecting a work? What should be done with existing works that have been reassessed as problematic?
A.H.: Works must be recontextualized. They are not created out of nowhere, out of time. Let's question them! That doesn't mean that we stop watching them, but that we ask ourselves what their political substratum is and what they convey. Questioning representations is a sign of vitality. And that does not mean that we would no longer have the right to see these works.
A.M.: With this waltz of statues of slavery figures in the United States or in the French overseas departments at the moment, the citizens gives their answer. Either the work must be contextualized, in a museum or in a place with a historical explanatory note, or it must stand out.
Is it women, more willingly than men, who carry this convergence of fights ?
A.M.: I feel a change in the scale of our lives, a major turning point in the way we perceive each other and allow ourselves to hybridize in these battles. Regarding the massive presence of women from cinema in front of the High Court on June 2, I wonder. In particular about my own capacity to build bridges... while guaranteeing the visibility of the fights against discrimination against women or POC. How do we ensure that the fight against discrimination, for equality and equity, is as visible as the rest? I am not at all sure how to do this. But it has to be done. When, the day after the César, I received a text message from Adèle, even though we don't know each other, and she writes to me to say "I heard you. I'm here. Let's meet", it can be as simple as that.
Why did you send that text?
A.H.: Because of the solitude in this room. And the brave gesture of saying what she said on stage. We'd met the same evening and maybe I hadn't caught the moment, I was captivated by our own event... That is, what had happened after we'd, let's say..., gone to get our coats a bit earlier in the dressing room... (Aïssa Maïga laughs) And I thought, let's not forget the constructed gesture, the political intentionality of Aïssa in there. I wanted to get closer to her courage. So I think that we shouldn't talk about masculinity by saying "men", that we should consider masculinity as a field of organization of power with its own complexities, and its intersectional repercussions. I refer to Angela Davis' book, Women, Race & Class, on the issue of the difficult articulation between the civil rights movement in the United States and the emerging white feminist movements where there was a lot of racism. Why don't we think of ourselves as spontaneous and necessary allies between categories of discrimination, racial, social and gendered? We need to take the history of this division seriously in order to work on it and overcome it. As Assa Traoré does in an ultra-intelligent way when she says "Whatever your religion, your sexual orientation, wherever you come from, whatever your skin color". It is an invitation to self-criticism of our own movement. This is my discovery at the beginning of this year: the self-criticism of my history as a white feminist.
When you get up during the César, is it thoughtful or impulsive?
A.H.: This award was a claim to the right to do whatever you want as long as you are at the top. That is to say: rich white men who don't feel concerned when we talk about violence. What it means beyond sexual violence is that there are people to whom repressive laws do not apply. It's as if the police and the laws shouldn't act against them, but around them... And that's what you feel in that moment in the room. What happened on César night was a dissolution of the status quo. Now it's either you stay in the room or you don't stay in the room.
A.M.: And it was important to be there at the César, because I read a lot about boycotting that evening, but for me there was no question of backing out. A boycott is not just staying at home behind your television, not being there without anyone really noticing. It was important to say that the home of cinema is also our home, our space, our place of expression. We are in a position to speak out and for that to have the virtue of provoking discussion. When that person wins that award, it's the time of the turkey, where someone praises the rapist grandfather, when everyone knows. And you're breathless, you can't move, time becomes elastic, everything is extremely heavy, it's unreal. You enter another dimension. And the fact that a person manages to regain possession of time, to become master of their time and master of their body by standing up and saying no, it put oxygen back in, it woke us up. Adèle and I looked at each other two or three times during the evening, we knew we were together. There was something like a physical experience. We boarded the ship together.
We're spotting the allies.
A.M.: That's right. And time returned to normal when Adèle, Céline Sciamma and others, including me, got up. It was a coherent political gesture in which many people recognized themselves.
Do you think that your political positions, formalized at the César, can have an impact on your career?
A.M.: The question is how do you break a family secret? Festen is one of my favorite films. (Laughs) I wasn't born at the time of the 2020 César, it's the result of a personal journey and a legacy. Others before me have spoken, for example Luc Saint-Eloy and Calixthe Beyala on the same issues at the Césars in 2000. When Canal + and the César invited me to come and give an award, I said "yes, but I want complete freedom". Blowing up a family secret is a movement for self-liberation, it's an essential meeting with yourself. Choosing to be on the side of silence, of the status quo and therefore of injustices with full knowledge of the facts is something I was quite incapable of doing. The consequences for one's profession are not that one doesn't care, but spitting out what one has to say is a top priority. The question of what it is going to cost behind it is resolved by the feeling of freeing the word, provoking debate, making a generational contribution to the fight for equality, which in essence concerns us all. I have an appointment with myself around 60, 65, the age when my children will be about the same age as I am today. There is something about transmission. I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror. I don't want to tell myself that I haven't taken advantage of my little privilege of being a POC exception in French cinema to the detriment of all those young people I meet on the street, who aren't white and who say to me with fear in their stomachs, "Do you think I can still do this job?"
What about you, Adèle?
A.H.: The message that was sent to me very clearly by a casting director is that I will never work again. Obviously, this person was very sure of himself, since he wrote it in print capital letters about a dozen times. What do you say when you ask for respect and silence? They say, "Don't speak out politically because it's not your role". But also: "Don't take the lead artistically either because you're an actress, you have to follow the genius of your director". This whole structure is part of this culture where you shouldn't listen to yourself but to submit. I don't know what the consequences will be for my job. What is certain is that I will never regret it. We did something that night that freed the voices of a lot of people. That is worth much more than all the threats to my career, which in any case is always fragile, because it is a precarious environment. If I totally respected the rules and said, "Yes, yes, you have to separate the man from the artist", that wouldn't stop me from being able to get out of the game. It's as much about inventing one's life as trying to open up the future.
Written by Cécile Daumas , Rachid Laïreche and Sandra Onana. Photo by Lucile Boiron
#adèle haenel#aïssa maïga#adele haenel#aissa maiga#portrait of a lady on fire#that was a very great read#can i just say i gasped when aïssa mentioned Festen#it's an incredible movie !!!#portrait de la jeune fille en feu#libération#sometimes i translate things#long text#black lives matter#blm
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A Life of Stories - Soulbonding and My Story
It’s the late 90’s. A tiny child sits in the grip of wonder on the carpet two feet from the old, analog television screen. The volume is turned way down on a Saturday morning, so as not to wake the parents. And Digimon: Adventure is playing.
That kid was me.
I spent the next several days telling anyone and everyone I knew about the trials and bravery of my favorite new friends on the TV. Taichi and his Digi-pals.
Every Saturday morning I tuned in with wrapped attention to check in on my friends. Because that is what they were. I could not explain it at the time, and looking back I see that I did not understand just how powerful my love for them was, but over the years I began to notice the disparity between my experience and that of others. The glazed looks I received when I tried to communicate just how much the “stories” around me meant to my heart and spirit.
As I grew, so too did my well of worlds. When it was not Digimon, it turned to Batman and the DC Animated Universe. Over the years, as things became harder and harder for me in an unsafe household, I would reach out to those stories for safety and comfort. In the dead of night, listening to shouts, I would silently pray for Batman to come in and save me. I would think about Static, from Static Shock, and his bravery. I would long for the Justice League to show me hope.
I grew up in a conservative Protestant Christian household, and I was quickly taught from the moment I could understand stories that they were not real. It seemed a strange double-standard to me, as we read of Jesus and his amazing feats, recorded centuries ago by the hands of men but somehow “different” than the other stories I consumed, which also taught me and affected me just as emotionally.
It would not be until adulthood that I could finally articulate this incongruity I felt, much less possess the bravery and personal freedom to think about it on my own terms. To set aside the pre-packaged “truth” I had been fed growing up in order to find my own fresh fruits of wisdom and meaning.
Stories. Stories are what sustain humanity. All we have are stories. Even the perceptions we store in our brains are only that. Perceptions. Stories. We can never truly know what an orange is, or who a person is. We only can know our perception of them, and the story of them that lives on within us.
And, sometimes, those stories speak to us in the most fantastic and magical of ways.
Fast forward to 2021.
I am an adult. A practicing witch and pagan. An artist and writer. I am functional and thriving. And I have an unusual family.
Some of the most important people in my life do not exist on the physical plane of this Earth quite the same as other friends of mine. They exist in the subtle realms of Dream and thought and wonder. Over time I have come to find many names for them. Spirits, guides, and “soulbonds”.
I began my foray into the community of “soulbonding” when I began to sense, or rather, acknowledge the living quality of some of the “characters” I was writing about. One character in particular, a being who introduced himself to me in a dream, had me particularly flummoxed. I called him Asura, and from the moment he entered my life through that dream, my entire world changed. It was akin to stepping onto a roller coaster car while it was still moving—except this roller coaster had no track and no limits. His entire presence permeated my life, my thoughts, my daydreams. I wrote about him, and it was my writing about him that led me to thoughts, questions, and explorations I would have never dared otherwise. By finding him, he led me to find myself, and for that I shall be forever grateful.
At some point, I, and even my closest friends, became aware of a “spookiness” about my dogged pursuit of this mysterious character. I started to know things about him and his world, and make connections in his story, that seemed to come out of nowhere but which all cohered together perfectly. Without a fault, I would learn tidbits about him that would suddenly fit with another thing I learned later, though I never had to strain to achieve such things. It was not so much that I was “creating” the story so much as “recording” it. There were elements of his story that overlapped with our world’s history and it was spooky as all get out when I learned about historical facts through his story and later found them to also be reflected in my own world, which has a similar timeline to his. A sort of “sibling world” to his.
We also noticed the tremendous power of my emotional connection to him and his friends. My boyfriend at the time even became jealous of Asura, though I assured him that was absurd. “Asura is just a story,” I would say. And my boyfriend thought the same yet he, and others, seemed unable to ignore the fact that there seemed to be something weird going on.
And, one day, with horror, I realized I was in love with Asura—fortunately, by that time I had since broken up with my boyfriend—but the idea terrified me. Unsurprisingly, this sent a conservative Christian “good kid” such as myself down into a spiral of questions and disbelief.
I felt the imposter syndrome. I thought, “I must be insane.” Yet, no one, myself included, could deny the reality of this connection I felt.
Over time, Asura and his friends began to speak to me. They guided me and provided loving support to me. I, at the time, figured I was either crazy or eccentric.
“Maybe this is a writer thing,” I thought.
And it was that thought that led me to soulbonding. I learned of other writers who also had their “characters” come alive to them. Alice Walker, author of the famed American work, The Color Purple, allegedly purported that she had received her story straight from the characters’ mouths one afternoon, during which she sat down to tea with them and learned their tale. And that is when I found a forum site called “The Living Library” (now defunct), and learned the term “soulbonding”.
In that community I found others who echoed my story in various ways. Deep personal connections to entities from other worlds, many of whom they found depicted in the flourishing ecosystem of thought and imagination, stories, that surrounds the human race. Others, discovered their unconventional friends via dreams, visions, or odd circumstances just like myself. One person I met had actually found one such friend first, in this instance a version of Edward Elric from “Full Metal Alchemist”, before learning years later—with a start I imagine—that Edward actually had an entire manga and anime about him.
I say “version” because another amazing phenomenon I discovered was the occurrence of many instantiations of people, characters, from infinite worlds, all with slight variances from one another. That is when I was introduced to the idea of Multiverse Theory and Many Worlds Theory.
As my personal investigations led me down various spiritual rabbit holes, and eventually led me to spirit-working and witchcraft, I found more and more ideas that seemed to jive with my experience.
I discovered what are colloquially called “pop pantheons” in occult circles. Pantheons of spirits and deities who connect to pop culture figures in human society—and even figures from “fiction”. And there is a whole, thriving community of people who lead successful, fulfilled, and meaningful spiritual lives working with these entities. I learned that reality and “truth” are not objective like I had been taught so long ago. And I finally understood MY truth—all we have are myths and stories. Experience is subjective and the only measure of meaning and truth we have is in the effects we see in our own lives.
With tremendous wonder and happiness, and even love, I have seen the effects my unconventional friends and family have wrought in my life. Asura is my familiar spirit now, and I have a whole host of other beings whom I love. Some come from “personal gnosis”, or unique experience, such as Asura. Others are beings who have come to me from the vast world of collective Dreaming that permeates our world, evident in media sources, in the form of stories.
I still have moments of doubt. I sometimes wonder, “Gee-golly-whiz, am I NUTS?” But then I remember that my truth exists only in my own experience. My ethereal family brings me happiness, growth, and meaning. And there really is no difference between my relationship with them and the relationship I had with Jesus so long ago. Every experience is real to me, and brings with it change and good. And that is what matters.
In this blog I intend to share my experience, in hopes that it can offer a beacon to others in similar situations. Every person’s experience is unique, though I hope mine can at least offer some hope, understanding, and love to another.
Cheers.
And happy story-telling.
- Cosmic
#soulbond#soulbonding#spirituality#spirits#spirit-work#spirit#stories#writer#writing#poppantheon#pop pantheons#occult spirituality#witch#spiritworker#spirit work#my story#my post#SILVERfamily
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The Language of Your Soul
An enemies to lovers Ballet AU in 5 Acts
Masterlist
Act I
A/N:
First of all, thank you so much to @booksncoffee for the absolutely gorgeous banner!
I am so excited to share this story with you all! Inspired in part by a night rewatching Center Stage on Netflix and from years of ballet classes, I hope this AU brings a new twist on Harry fics (and maybe even helps you gain a new appreciation for the world of ballet). Please note, while I have used my own 10+ years of classical ballet training in addition to research on this topic to hopefully make this as realistic as possible, this is still a work of fiction- and some details may have been changed to better fit the constraints of the story. The companies mentioned in this fic are real, however this story and its characters are entirely works of fiction. On a more personal note, while I have chosen to publish this story now and believe I will be able to maintain weekly updates to its entirety, I am preparing to take my boards in less than four weeks. Should I not update as scheduled- please be patient and know that an update is only a few weeks away! :) Thank you so much for reading!
Warnings: This story will contain language, mentions of emotional abuse from a parent and eating disorders. Please read at your own discretion.
Ten Weeks to Opening Night
Albert Einstein once said, "dancers are the athletes of God." Giselle Mason certainly doesn't feel like pne of God's athletes at the moment. Not with the way her muscles are screaming with every movement that she makes as she stretches before class, not with the way her right hip cracks as she lifts her leg onto the bar, and certainly not with the way her feet sting as she tapes up yet another blister on her toe before shoving her foot into her pointe shoes for another day full of torture.
Giselle stands, sticking one last bobby pin into the bun of her nearly ebony hair and finding her spot at the front of the barre in the center of the studio. She grasps the wooden cylinder with her left hand before releasing her body in a forward bend, taking a deep breath in and then a deep breath out. There is a familiar ache in her hamstrings as she begins to stretch, which loosens ever so slightly with every breath.
And so begins her daily morning routine in the studio. Fifteen minutes of stretching before company class begins. Relaxing each hamstring, hip flexor and spinal muscle until a sense of calm washes over her body. Letting her mind drift into a thoughtless focus, preparing itself for the waves of choreography that would be coming in minutes. Typically, this time is quiet; the only melody present the rhythmic breathing of company members preparing for class. But today, the studio seems to be filled with an underlying buzz. And Giselle doesn't have the slightest idea why.
"I heard he slept with the artistic director's wife, so they kicked him out of the Royal," she hears one of the new corps de ballet members murmur.
"I mean have you seen him, I don't blame her for getting her hands on a piece of him," another girl giggles.
"Did you hear, G?" Caleb, Giselle's friend, whispers as he slides into a spot on the barre behind her, adjusting the black bandana keeping his signature black curls in place across his forehead.
"Hear what?" Giselle asks, removing her leg from the bar before reaching down to adjust the black leg warmer that had fallen down her calf.
"They've hired Harry Styles- you know from the Royal," Caleb adds as if Giselle hasn't heard of Harry Styles. Everyone who was anyone in the ballet world had heard of Harry Styles. A good chunk of the non-ballet world might even be able to point him out as that 'sexy male ballet dancer' from the Sports Illustrated nude edition.
Harry Styles was a rare kind of natural talent. The type of person that was put on this earth to dance ballet. His talent had landed him the honor of being the youngest person to be named a principal in the history of the Royal Ballet. And if the rumors were true, that talent had also landed him the reputation of one of the ballet world's most arrogant. Giselle had heard several stories about how the male dancer had been a terror to work with- demanding, rude, uncooperative. Giselle didn't doubt it- people of that skill and fame rarely developed without some sense of entitlement.
"Why would we hire Harry Styles, we've already got Viktor?" Giselle questions. This isn't the first time a rumor has circulated through the American Ballet Theatre company, and it certainly won't be the last time.
"Rumor is they want Viktor to retire," Caleb shrugged before stepping back to his place behind Giselle as Mistress Ivanova claps to gain the class's attention.
Giselle couldn't believe the rumors. Viktor Dmitri retiring from ABT? He was practically the face of the company. The man had been dancing for the American Ballet Theatre for over a decade. He'd been the principal ever since Giselle had joined the company as a corps de ballet member five years ago.
Giselle knew that retirement came early for a ballet dancer. Her own mother, the famous Natalia Korsakova, had retired at the age of 33 after a knee injury. Viktor had just turned 35, but he'd shown no signs of slowing down. She refused to believe that he was calling it quits. Or to believe that the board would be stupid enough to bring in someone with Harry Styles's toxic reputation into the company.
She shoves the thought aside. Viktor is in his usual place at the back of the studio and Harry Styles is nowhere to be seen. This was simply another piece of gossip threatening to distract everyone from the Swan Lake auditions tomorrow afternoon, and Giselle won't lose her focus. The auditions are too important.
Giselle Mason has dreamed of playing the role of Odette/Odile ever since she first watched her mother on stage at the age of four. It was one of her earliest memories of the theater- her mother twirling about in a bright white tutu that at that time Giselle could only dream of wearing. In fact, Giselle wasn't sure there had ever been a moment where her dream hadn't been to be a principal dancer at ABT, like her mother. She'd been in ballet shoes from the second she could walk, wore a leotard and tights more often than she'd worn pajamas, and didn't recognize herself in the mirror if her hair wasn't pulled back into a bun. She'd ate, slept and breathed the art form. But she supposed that all came with having a prima ballerina as a mother.
Natalia Korsakova was a ballet sensation. "One of the greatest to have ever danced," according to the New York Times at the time of her retirement. The world had come to watch her dance and she'd traveled it performing: Russia, Australia, London, Paris. You name the location and Natalia Korsakova had danced there.
When Giselle was growing up, she was constantly told how lucky she was to have Natalia as a mother. To have seen the shows she's seen, to have met ballet royalty, to have traveled the world. But Giselle never felt lucky. Not when she was the accident that put her mother's career on hold for almost a year. Not when her mother was gone for months at a time performing, missing recitals, parent days and school concerts. And certainly not when an injury forced her mother into retirement, shifting her focus from her own artistic talents to turning her daughter into her next protegee.
Much to her mother's dismay, Giselle was not the younger version of her mother. She was good, great even, but she was no sensation. Giselle made soloist in her fourth year at ABT, which was a feat all on its own, unless you compared it to her mother's two. Giselle lacked the raw, natural talent that her mother possessed. Instead of her mother's high arches, she had her father's averagely flat feet. Instead of her mother's uncanny ability to match the music, Giselle had spent hours counting eights in her head to get down a rhythm. Instead of looking effortless the first time she ran through a routine, Giselle spent hours in the studio after rehearsal, running through the choreography until it wasn't possible for her to get it wrong. Giselle had gotten to where she was because of her hard work, not her natural talent- something her mother would never let her forget. To Natalia Korsakova, Giselle would never measure up.
The Swan Lake auditions are Giselle's first real shot at landing a lead, especially with principal dancer Anna Elliot out with a back injury for the foreseeable future. Giselle wants this role more than anything. To prove to herself that she is capable of following in her mother's footsteps. And to prove to her mother that she is just as capable a dancer as she. For once in her life, she wants to hear her mother say not that she'd lost her spot or forgot to point her toes, but that she was proud of Giselle. Four words- that's all Giselle really wants.
"And will start first position, demi, demi, grand, demi and port de bra. Repeat in 2nd, 4th and 5th and then balance in fifth position arms in fifth," Mistress Ivanova barks, before gesturing to the pianist to begin.
Giselle focuses on her movements as the music begins. She tightens her core, elongates her neck and reaches her fingertips to the edges of her silhouette. Her legs quiver slightly as she bends her knees into the first grand plié, her mind focusing on maintaining her turnout.
"Relax that face Giselle," Mistress Ivanova corrects, as she makes her way around the room. "I don't want to see that this is work."
Giselle takes another deep breath, this time releasing her lips from their concentrated place and focusing on her breath. She lets the downtown Manhattan studio disappear from the background. Gone is the distant honking of impatient taxi drivers maneuvering their way through the New York City traffic. Gone is the light shining in from the full-length windows looking out at the city skyline- well what you could see of the skyline behind the crumbly brick building neighboring the school. There was nothing but the dancer, the barre and the music flowing gently through her veins.
"Beautiful lines Teagan, thank you," Giselle hears Mistress Ivanova say from across the room and she fights the urge to roll her eyes. Giselle has known Teagan Davidson since she was fourteen years old, when Teagan had moved from California to New York to join the ABT school. Over the course of a decade of competing for roles, partners and teacher's praises, the two had developed quite a rivalry. To Giselle, there was almost no better feeling than snagging a role that she knew Teagan also had her eyes on.
Giselle uses Teagan's praise as motivation to work harder, feeling the burn in her inner thighs as she pushes further into her grand plié in second. The role of Odette/Odile was hers, Teagan would have to settle for understudy.
The class is in the middle of their balance, Giselle's focus locked in on a spot just at the edge of the window at the rear of the studio when a loud bang reverberates through the room. Dancers drop their balance and turn their heads, looking to see who has caused such a commotion with their entrance.
"Mr. Styles, you're late," Mistress Ivanova snaps.
He is taller than Giselle imagined, and even from this distance she can see the definition in his arms through the black tank top that clings to his body. His hair is slightly disheveled, curling at the top. His face plastered into some cheeky grin, dimples present on both cheeks, like he knows exactly what he's doing, interrupting class like this. Almost like he's enjoying the attention. He throws his black messenger bag to the side before grabbing his ballet shoes and scurrying over to an open spot at the barre near the front of the studio.
"My apologies," he replies in a thick British accent. His tone sounds anything but apologetic.
"Damn, he's even better-looking in person than he is in magazines," Caleb mutters under his breath, eliciting an eye roll from Giselle.
"Well, I suppose after that entrance," Mistress Ivanova sighs, stepping to the front of the class. "Now is as good of time as any to announce that Mr. Styles will be joining our company as a principal dancer."
Gasps fill the room, and Giselle turns her head to look at Viktor, whose face is stoic after Harry's entrance. A low chatter fills the studio, everyone trying to figure out exactly what is going on. Would he get the lead in Swan Lake? Would he be understudying Viktor?
"Silence!" Mistress Ivanova shouts. "This chatter can wait until after class is over!" She turns to face Harry, her lips turned into a stern frown. "If you'll find a place at the barre Mr. Styles, we will continue our class."
Giselle watches as he slides into a spot at the front of the room, shooting a grin at the young company member behind him. Giselle rolls her eyes, returning her focus to the mirror in front of her. Two minutes with the company and she was sure Harry Styles was exactly who she thought he would be.
Giselle tries to forget Harry Styles is in class with them. Instead she focuses on her breathing, her turnout, the rhythm that comes from the pianist in the corner of the room. She watches the early morning New York City sunrise reflect off of the mirrors, leaving little spots of sunlight over the gray Marley floor. Everyone else in the company could focus on Harry Styles all they want, but she is only focusing on one thing- and that is landing the role of her dreams tomorrow.
But Harry Styles wasn't the type of person whose presence could be forgotten so easily.
********
Harry Styles isn't scared of a little attention. In fact, he typically thrives on it. That's why he is a performer after all. To Harry, there is no better feeling than knowing all eyes are upon you, that you are the center of attention, the focus of the room. Maybe that is a prideful and egotistical thing to say, but it is true. Everyone wants to feel important, valued, admired- and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.
But the attention Harry has been getting since he walked into the American Ballet Theatre studio a little over twelve hours ago has not been the type of attention he necessarily sought out. He knew there would be rumors, leaving the only company he had ever been a part of during his dance career was sure to draw up the best of them, but something about this felt different. It was the whispers. The stares. The way some members of the room were staring at Harry as if he was a god and a few wouldn't dare look in his direction.
Harry doesn't know what's come over him- this wavering self-confidence. Maybe it's this new place. This new country. Or maybe it's the fact that in the words of his agent, if he "doesn't get his act together" he will never dance at this level again. And if he's not dancing on the world's biggest stages, well, Harry might as well not be dancing at all.
Harry grabs his phone from the side pocket of his black messenger bag, connecting it to the Bluetooth speaker he found in the corner of the studio and presses play on his hip hop playlist. He needs something to drown out his thoughts, and classical music just doesn't cut it. As the beat begins to fill the studio, Harry lets the music take over his body and begins to dance.
Giselle tries to focus on her music, but there's the noise of a pounding bass in the background interfering with concentration. She's always the only one at the studio this late at night- that's why she comes- to be alone and without distractions.
She tries to ignore it, focusing on the one and two of the music as she fouettés. One and two, three and four, five and... a boom from somewhere in the building breaks her concentration and she falls out of her turn, letting out a groan. This could not be happening to her the night before auditions, and if she found out that Teagan was here trying to interfere with her practice...
Giselle makes her way down the hall, guided by the incessant bass that sounds like it belongs in the backseat of a teenager's car and not one of the most prestigious ballet studios in the world. When she turns the corner to enter the studio, it's not Teagan she sees but Harry Styles.
But he's not dancing. He's laying on the floor, wearing nothing but a pair of black athletic shorts that show off the god-like definition of his thighs. His signature butterfly tattoo stands out on the middle of his chest, beads of sweat dripping towards the center of his stomach, the bass vibrating the mirrors around him. He doesn't notice her at first. How could he with the music so loud?
"Excuse me," Giselle says loudly in an effort to get his attention. His body doesn't even flinch.
"Excuse me!" she yells this time.
Harry looks up. In the corner of the studio, towards the door stands a girl. Her almost black hair is pulled tightly back into a bun. Her thin arms are crossed like she's about to lecture him, and her lips are held in a tight line that looks anything but happy. The corners of Harry's mouth curve upwards in a grin, entertained by the fury that was seeming to come from her tiny body.
She taps her foot impatiently, like she's waiting for something. Harry realizes that she is- she's waiting for him to turn off his music.
He sighs, reaching over to his phone beside him and sliding one sweaty finger across the screen to bring the rhythm to a halt.
"Yes?" he asks expectantly, not bothering to move his body from his reclining position.
"Other people in this studio are trying to practice, you know. It's kinda hard to do that with this," she gestures into the air, as if trying to find an appropriate adjective to describe the torture that had been gracing her ears over the past half hour.
"Not a fan of my music?" Harry smirked.
"I'm not a fan of someone disrupting my rehearsal." Giselle spit back.
"Rehearsal? It's bloody 11pm."
"I know what time it is, and like I said, your music is interfering with my ability to practice." Giselle stares Harry right in the eyes. He doesn't intimidate her, and she's not going to back down until he agrees to turn down his music.
"Wasn't aware you were the owner of this studio," Harry taunts.
"I could say the same about you." Giselle moves her hands to her hips. Just agree to turn off the damn music, she thinks to herself, even though she knows at this point, it's not worth the time it will take to warm back up to continue practicing.
Harry sits up, grabbing a blue towel from inside his bag and wiping the sweat that remains off his forehead. "Fine, music's off. Continue your rehearsal. I'm too jet lagged for this shit," he stands, wrapping the towel around his neck.
"Thanks," Giselle says under her breath, before making her way back to her studio, where she knew she would be gathering her own belongings.
Harry groans, grabbing his bag from the floor and sliding it over his shoulder. You could travel halfway across the world and still run into the same entitled ballet brats who thought they ran the place. It's those type of people, company members and otherwise, that were precisely the reason he had left the Royal. Well, not that he had necessarily had a say in that scenario, but they had been the cause of all of his problems.
You just have to dance, Harry, he tries to tell himself. But Harry knows that as much as he tries, there's a lot more too it than that.
**********
“Gi!" Caleb exclaims, bounding down the hallway towards her without concern for anyone in his way. "Cast list is up."
Giselle gulps. She isn't sure that she is ready for this. The look of disappointment on her mother's face if she doesn't land the part. The list of corrections that her mother has come up with from watching Giselle's audition. "Now you see there, you've lost your center. You're never going to make that triple if you don't hold your center Giselle." The reminder that "you only have so many opportunities to prove your worth, before they move onto the younger, better version of you." It didn't matter to her mother if Giselle was the youngest soloist at ABT by five years. It didn't matter if nearly every other soloist had previously understudied for the role. Everything but a lead was a disappointment to Natalia Korsakova.
"C'mon," Caleb exclaims, and before Giselle has a moment to collect herself she's being pulled down the hallway by her arm.
And there it is. The thin, white piece of paper that holds the fate of her next ten weeks in its hands. When she looks at it at first, she thinks she must be dreaming. Because her name has never been on that spot on the list before. Not since she officially joined the company five years ago.
Odette/Odile- Giselle Mason
Sigfried - Harry Styles
She feels frozen. Like she's in a dream and she's paralyzed. It's what she's always wanted-this role and yet, suddenly it feels like a whole lot of pressure.
"You did it Gi," Caleb exclaims, lifting her up and spinning her around before Giselle even has a moment to look any further down the list. Giselle laughs, giddy with excitement. "New York will have never seen a more beautiful Odette."
Giselle rolls her eyes at his comment. Caleb, her friend since joining the American Ballet School at the age of six and partner for many years had always been her biggest cheerleader. In a way, he made up for what she didn't have in her mother.
"And you Caleb?" Giselle asks, realizing in her excitement that she had forgotten that her best friend also had a role in the this ballet.
"You're looking at the newest Benno," Caleb says with a grin. Giselle often wondered what it would be like to be like Caleb. To be happy with any role. To not care about his place in the company. To simply want to dance. Caleb had always been like that- relaxed, calm- the antithesis to Giselle who was always high strung and anxious. Perhaps that's why they'd always been such good friends, because they balanced each other perfectly. Giselle pushed Caleb when he needed some extra motivation and Caleb- albeit not always successful- tried his best to keep Giselle out of her own head.
Giselle watches as Teagan makes her way over to the board, her long black hair swinging from the ponytail at the crown of her head. She grins in slight satisfaction as she sees Teagan's face turn into a frown. Giselle turns and gives Caleb her best, "what did she get?" eyes. He exaggeratedly mouths, "UNDERSTUDY".
As if sensing that she is the topic of conversation, Teagan looks over at the two. "Congrats Giselle," she says, her face moving in a way that makes it seem like the words taste disgusting leaving her mouth.
"You as well," Giselle responds, to which Teagan only scoffs and storms off.
"You know she's going to make your life living hell as your understudy don't you?" Caleb said with a laugh.
"Ugh, I know," Giselle groaned.
"It will be worth it though. You are going to be dancing the role you've always dreamed of." Giselle smiled. "Plus," Caleb begins, leaning down so his mouth is next to Giselle's ear. "You get to dance with the greatest male dancer of our generation. Think of all the hours you're gonna get to spend looking at that GORGEOUS body."
Giselle groans. Her perfect moment temporarily ruined by the realization that she would have to dance with Harry Styles. Sure, he may be talented, a great dancer, and likely a great partner. But his entrance yesterday and their encounter last night told her everything she needed to know about Harry Styles. And she was sure that working with him would be anything but easy.
"That GORGEOUS body," Giselle imitates Caleb with an exaggeration of the word, "Doesn't make up for the fact that the guy's an asshole."
"Okay, okay, point taken. Now can we go get some lunch?"
Giselle nods, but she already knows she's not hungry. Instead, all she can think about is how she's going to get through the next ten weeks of rehearsals with a man she already loathes.
**********
Giselle slides into the rehearsal studio with extra joy in her step later that afternoon. She's so on Cloud 9 that she doesn't even realize Harry standing at the barre doing pliés as she hums the opening notes of Swan Lake aloud.
"Sorry didn't know anyone else was in here already," she apologizes quickly, standing and stretching out her feet.
Harry looks at her, his face hard and eyes sharp. If he recognized her as the girl who interrupted his jam session last night his face didn't show it. "And who are you?" Harry asks, his voice laced with condescendence.
"Odette," Giselle smiles, the words feeling foreign leaving her mouth.
"Obviously," Harry scoffs, and Giselle feels her confidence waver. "Who are you?"
"Giselle Mason, soloist."
"Doesn't ring a bell," the corners of Harry's mouth turn up at his comment, like he gets satisfaction out of reminding others that they aren't the household name that he is.
Giselle wants to say something back. Something sharp and witty to show him that just because he was one of the greatest dancers in the world and she was still trying to make her way into the spotlight didn't mean that he could treat her like a nobody. She was going to be his partner after all- whether he liked it or not. But then Gregory Alexander, ABT's Artistic Director, enters the room, clapping his hands and tells them they are about to begin on the Act II Pas de Deux and Giselle doesn't have a chance to say otherwise.
"As new partners you will need to put in the time to understand each other. Build trust. Anticipate the other's movement. Portray to the audience that you are a swan and a prince in love." Gregory moves his arms in the air theatrically, as if he isn't wearing a designer suit.
"Now I understand that the ten weeks we have to prepare before our season debut isn't an ideal amount of time to form a relationship with a new partner. But in this case, it simply must do." Gregory's face turned serious, the wrinkles on his forehead more defined as he furrows his eyebrows. "I expect that the two of you will put in the time outside of your scheduled rehearsals to work on this chemistry. Anna and Viktor will also be assisting with rehearsals and my hope is that they will also be able to assist the two of you with this transition."
"Gregory," Harry interrupts, then as if realizing he'd made a mistake, he corrects himself. "Sir."
Gregory nods.
"I'm not sure what the concern is. I've danced with hundreds of partners in my career, I'm not sure how the other principal's would have much more experience than me?" Giselle thinks Harry is meaning this as a question but it comes out more like a statement.
Giselle watches as Gregory's eyes narrow again. He looked irritated, and why wouldn't he be? Harry had been here all but forty-eight hours and was already questioning the artistic director's decisions.
"That may be the case, Mr. Styles," Gregory paused. "But when the two of you step onto Metropolitan Opera House stage in ten weeks, I expect the audience to believe that you two have been dancing together for years. Have I made myself clear?"
Harry nods, this time remaining quiet.
"Now then, I'd like us to start with the Act II Pas de Deux. The very beginning- with your entrance Harry."
It's an hour into rehearsals when Giselle hears the echo of heels clicking down the wooden hallways. She doesn't even have to look up when the steps stop as they reach the studio floor. She could recognize that walk anywhere.
"Aahh, Natalia!" Gregory exclaims. "So glad you could stop by," Gregory reaches over to embrace Giselle's mother, his grey hair brushing the sides of her face as he kisses each cheek.
"Mr. Styles, I'd like to introduce you to Natalia Korsakova, former ABT principal and member of our board."
Natalia Korsakova looks as put together as always. Her dark brown hair pulled tightly into a neat French twist. Her tight black dress and coordinating pumps show off every bit of the dancer's body that she still maintained. Giselle watches as her mother's mouth curves to form a polite smile.
"A ballet legend. It's an honor to meet you Madame," Harry says offering his hand.
"The pleasure is all mine. I'm so glad you are joining us here at ABT. And what a joy it will be to watch you next to my daughter," Natalia gestures towards Giselle, with a polite smile plastered on her face that was generally reserved for generous donors and patrons of the ballet. It is all a show. That's all Giselle's mother ever did was put on a production. She was a performer after all, how could anyone expect her life to be anything but a crowd-pleasing performance?
"Your daughter?" Harry turns to look at Giselle, raising an eyebrow. His eyes narrow, as if he's caught Giselle in a lie. As if she'd snuck her way into this position and was just hoping that someone wouldn't notice she wasn't the real deal. "Why that makes this even more special."
Giselle fights every urge to roll her eyes from across the room. It is clear that Harry Styles is every bit as much of a performer as her mother. Just minutes before he was looking at her as if he had been paired with an amateur and suddenly working with her is 'something special'?
"I'm going to watch rehearsal for a bit," Natalia announces, making her way over to a stool next to the pianist. "Carry on." The pit in the bottom of Giselle's stomach grows as her mother takes a seat next to Gregory in front of the mirror.
"Odette makes sense to me now," Harry whispers into Giselle's ear, as he slides behind her to resume practice. It takes everything in her to keep her face stoic as Harry's hands settle once again on her waist.
Rehearsal goes badly. Giselle can't seem to get her leg into the attitude position that Gregory wants, she losing her balance on her penchés, and Harry almost drops her on several promenades. Giselle says almost, because someone as experienced as Harry Styles would never let his partner hit the ground, but she should have, because she surely wasn't holding her weight quite right. And then there's the fact that Gregory pronounced that Giselle "looks at Harry as if he is the villain of the story instead of the prince she's fallen in love with".
Giselle wants to say that's because he is the villain. The villain of her story anyways, the person that is somehow going to turn her dream role into somewhat of a nightmare. Why couldn't she be dancing with Viktor? He was so patient and kind and he would never look at his partner as if she deserved to be in the audience instead of on stage with him.
After yet another failed run through of the first half of the pas de deux, Gregory announces that they are done for the day, but that he expects to see them in the studio bright and early tomorrow morning to work on their timing. Giselle's never been so thankful for a rehearsal to be over, and as she sits down to remove her pointe shoes, running her hands over her swollen feet, she watches Harry leave the studio without saying a word.
"I hope you realize how big of an opportunity this is Giselle. It's not one you should take lightly," her mother's voice startles her, as Giselle had almost forgotten she was there. Almost.
Natalia stands above Giselle, one hand on her hips and the other on her forehead, as if watching today's rehearsal had been exhausting for her. It probably was exhausting for her, keeping tally of all the things that Giselle had done wrong for the past two hours. Natalia's voice is shrill as she speaks again. "There are thousands of ballerinas around the world that could only dream of getting to dance with Harry Styles. And here you are dancing with him in his first show with ABT. That's an enormous responsibility, darling. This performance with him will set the stage for his entire career with our company. One that the board is hoping will last until his retirement."
Giselle nods. That's all she can do when her mother begins one of her lectures- nod. She thought maybe this would be the time that her mother told her congratulations. The time that her mother did what she'd watched countless other mother's do during her time as a dancer, wrap their arms around their daughter and express their pride to them. But instead, today is like any other day, and even with a lead role in an ABT production, Giselle still hasn't done enough to make her mother proud.
Giselle shoves her shoes into her bag, slinging it over her shoulder as she stands.
"And Giselle?" her mother adds, as she makes her way towards the door.
"Yes mom?"
"Might want to hit a few more cardio classes this week too, my dear. Got to make sure you are going to be an easy dancer to partner with."
And with that comment Natalia Korsakova clicks away, leaving Giselle standing in the middle of studio wondering if her biggest dream has suddenly become her biggest nightmare.
#it's here!#let me know your thoughts#writingby1dfangirls35#harry styles#hs#harry au#ballet harry#harry styles fanfic#harry styles au#1dff#one direction fanfiction#harry fanfiction#enemies to lovers
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Welcome to The Highlight’s Happiness Issue
What we might learn from other cultures, the explosion of positive psychology, why women are growing more unhappy, and how to spend to maximize joy.
By Vox Staff Nov 20, 2019
The news was dire.
This spring, despite our best efforts — despite all that yoga and meditation and therapy and astrological consultation and turmeric and that slightly worrisome addiction to self-affirming memes — levels of happiness in the United States dropped for the third straight year, according to the World Happiness Report, the United Nations’ annual barometer of global good times. In the country rankings, America slumped to 19. Now it is sandwiched below Canada, and safely above France.
The data on happiness is sparse, and the metrics by which we’re measured new; the World Happiness Report was introduced less than a decade ago and cobbles together survey answers to arrive at its results. But it illuminates a truth: We are failing at the thing so fundamental to Americanness that we made its pursuit a cornerstone of our founding document. If there is a happiness nadir, this seems to be it.
So in this issue of The Highlight, Vox’s home for features and longform journalism, we’re looking closely at the notion of being happy.
Are we woefully limited in our definition of well-being, and could a few words from other cultures help? And how did the ideas of resilience, achievement, and “flourishing” become benchmarks for happiness in just 20 years since the field of positive psychology was born?
We also look at how experts say you can spend money to enhance your general levels of well-being (trust us: spend to save yourself time) and investigate why women’s happiness continues to lag behind men’s — in a comic.
By shining a light on the universal struggle to ease our growing dissatisfaction, maybe we can lead to a little more well-being in the world.
American happiness is plummeting. Could a few words change that? A psychologist claims that learning “untranslatable words” from other cultures may be a key to being happy. I experimented on myself to see whether it’s true. by Sigal Samuel
Happiness psychology is a booming industry. But is it science, religion, or something else? Just over 20 years old, the field of positive psychology has captivated the world with its hopeful promises — and drawn critics for its moralizing, mysticism, and commercialization. by Joseph Smith
The other gender gap After decades of women’s rights gains, why are women less happy? by Aubrey Hirsch
How to spend money to squeeze more joy out of life Simply having a lot of it won’t automatically increase your sense of well-being. “But using it well can,” says one expert. by Laura Entis
Will you support Vox’s explanatory journalism? - Millions turn to Vox to understand what’s happening in the news. Our mission has never been more vital than it is in this moment: to empower through understanding. Financial contributions from our readers are a critical part of supporting our resource-intensive work and help us keep our journalism free for all. Please consider making a contribution to Vox today to help us keep our work free for all
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you got any rare kliego fic recs? i’ve probably read the first five pages of most kudos’d results but i know there are a ton that slip thru the cracks
ok, i'm sorry for replying so late, nonny, but i guess looking at the list you'll understand why ❤
i'll be honest with you once i've gotten into kliego i read through their entire tag of ao3 [at least those fics where i was ok with the tags and summary felt intriguing] so now i literally went through it again and picked those of the fics the names of which i remembered, and there's A LOT 😀 some of those are really popular, some not at all, but i remember loving those ❤
at first i thought i would tell you a bit about every fic on the list, but it would take me forever, so i will just give you titles/links, authors and summaries, hope it's fine ❤ look out for the tags tho, to know if you’re fine with everything! and some of those are benkliego ❤
i'm sure i forgot or missed something, but i did my best, trust me ❤
so without further ado i present to you:
bee's big kliego rec list (in no particular order)
till you can breathe on your own by iwishii
Diego has never been more frightened than he is now, trying to help his brother reach the surface in time.
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practice makes perfect by iwishii
Klaus doesn't want to show up to parties totally inexperienced and virginal, so he asks Diego to help him get some practice in.
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master of my domain by achilleees
“You’re asking five 13-year-old boys not to jerk off for – it can’t be done,” Luther says. “Now that we’re older, it would be different, but back then –”
“Excuse me, I could do it,” Five says. “I could certainly outlast all of you.”
They all look at each other.
“Oh, no,” says Allison.
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the year that wasn't by achilleees
Diego turned to Five. “I’ve already, uh, lived today. This has already happened.”
Everyone went still.
“Ooh, that’s a mind-fuck,” said Klaus.
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The Weight of Himself by sarkywoman
If he could, Diego would unfurl his middle finger.
For the 'can only move the eyes' square at badthingshappenbingo. Reginald's experiments have devastating consequences on Diego, but both he and Klaus refuse to let that be the end.
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Laid Bare by MilenaDaniels
“So,” Five continued matter-of-factly, “you’re in a cramped, human sized box, in a graveyard where you can’t see light or hear sounds. What are the odds that you’re above ground?”
Diego blinked. He thought he’d been smelling the iron of his blood pooling and drying under his head but it was humid in here, and musty.
“Fuck,” Diego said.
Diego and Klaus are buried alive together.
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Flies in the Kitchen by yourfearlessleader
Klaus is sixteen and love is a rot.
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Before, During, and After by yourfearlessleader
Before the apocalypse, life was making the best of a bad situation, and Klaus found that he grew up to be very good at it.
During is, for lack of a better word, hard.
After they try to kill Vanya, after the apocalypse, after they jump through time to avoid it, after they survive and make up and a million and one other things, here they are.
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break it like you're breaking a code by findyourfortunefalling
"Are you planning to sit in a chair like a person today, or are we all eating our breakfast off of you this morning?"
"Kinky," Klaus purrs, but he rolls off the table anyway, and piles himself into a seat near the head of the table. Diego puts the plate of pancakes in front of him; he's put blueberries in them today. "Thank you, chef."
"Eat," says Diego. "Quietly."
Instead of replying, Klaus picks up a pancake with his fingers, stuffs the entire thing into his mouth at once, and chews noisily.
Diego sighs, and goes back to the stove. "Man, I remember a time when you were house trained."
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two boys emerging from shadowed hallways by spikeymarshmallows
After Ben dies, Diego drags a broken Klaus out of the Academy. They're both determined to never return, to find their own way out in the world.
Things are not as easy as they would like.
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the things i can't say by spikeymarshmallows
"Diego, wait!" Klaus shouted, clutching Diego's arm.
"You look like Antonio Banderas with long hair," he choked.
*
Five times Klaus doesn't say 'I love you'.
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Into the Night by spikeymarshmallows
"Hey," Klaus whispered, "hey, Diego, wake up."
Diego grumbled, dragging his blanket higher up his body before settling again.
"Hey." Klaus tried again, voice a little louder. "Hey, wake up." He poked at Diego's arm insistently.
*
The Hargreeves siblings go on late night adventure to get doughnuts
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all tangled close by spikeymarshmallows
They were all going to have to deal with the pheromones for however long Klaus' first heat lasted.
Diego was, in a word, screwed.
*
Five times Diego and Klaus have heat sex; and one time they don't.
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the kliego genderswap/sexswap by spikeymarshmallows
The name speaks for itself.
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The Fools' Journey by sweetstuff
After his release from prison on a manslaughter charge, Diego tries to leave behind the life he adapted to survive on the inside. He finds himself drawn to a beautiful and peculiar sex worker named Klaus in a local bar, and when danger strikes Diego makes a decision that will have them both running for their lives.
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and death i think is no parenthesis by laiqualaurelote
“You guys seem really chill about all this,” observed Ben. “By this point most people are running around screaming.”
“Occupational hazard,” said Klaus.
“I’ve lost a lot of blood,” said Diego. “I’m just accepting everything at face value right now.”
Allison is the best damn realtor in the business, and she is going to sell the Hargreeves Mansion if it kills her. Never mind that it’s packed to the rafters with the ghastly relics of grisly murders, or that there’s a vampire in the basement who looks like a 13-year-old, or that the medium she hired to exorcise its inhabitants keeps flirting with some of them, i.e. the one with the knives and the one with the tentacles. Or that if they all spend enough time together, they just might cause the apocalypse.
NotSiblings!AU that is basically The Umbrella Academy as American Horror Story: Murder House, though you need not have seen any AHS to read this.
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i got troubles (they won't let me be) by antipathy
“I don’t understand why you’re hung up on this.” Five didn’t bother to mask his scowl. “Let me spell it out for you: either you two fuck, or we all die.”
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Eye Of The Storm by shadowhive
Diego decides to surprises Klaus by taking them on a weekend trip, but it doesn’t go as planned.
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Mine, All Mine by Electra_XT
“No!” Klaus said. “Move the other way.”
“What are you trying to get a good look at, exactly?” Diego said.
Klaus blinked at him. His eyes were wide and kohl-rimmed, as fetching and alluring as the rest of him. “Why, your ass,” he said. “That thing is fine.”
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On Sight by Electra_XT
“Oh,” Klaus said, stopping in his tracks with his hand on the mouse.
Ben leaned over his shoulder. “‘Cute Latino camboy gives a show’?”
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Practice Makes Perfect Sense by punk_rock_yuppie
“Practice… kissing?” Diego asks.
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Aftershocks by punk_rock_yuppie
Saving the world is hard work, is Klaus’ last thought before succumbing to the heat of the puppy pile he and his other siblings have formed.
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Passenger by Cunninglinguist
“And you’re sure that’s okay?”
“I mean, yeah. It’s fine with me. All we have to do is ask Diego.”
“And you think he’ll be...cool with it?”
“Dunno.” Klaus shrugs and stirs his smoothie with his straw. “But I’m on board with it, and he usually gets on board with whatever I’m on board with, so. I’d say it’s at least worth an ask.”
Klaus feels Ben’s eyes burning into him as he sips his beverage. Sure, the idea of Ben possessing him had initially been about as appealing as a coffee enema, and the first few times in practice had been more than slightly traumatizing. But once they’d established ground rules and worked to get more in tune with one another, Klaus had come to find the experience to be...interesting. It could be pleasant, almost zen—there is no sensation in the world quite like being a passenger in one's own body. And to be privy to both his own sensations as well as Ben’s? Well, that’s something else entirely.
Which is why the idea of Ben possessing his body during sex both freaks him out and turns him on in equal measure.
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i am a dark and wicked thing by Cunninglinguist
Klaus is staring at Diego with hollow eyes, straw still perched between his lips. No reaction, not even a spark of joy or schadenfreude as he watches Diego disrupt breakfast. Diego shifts. He’s seen corpses before, and were Klaus not sitting close enough to touch, chest rising and falling visibly with his breath, Diego could easily mistake him for one.
Vampire!Klaus AU
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The Diamond Sinners by Cunninglinguist
Another drink and a half later, he’s finally back on the right side of numb. The house lights dim and a new dancer is announced. He’s gazing across the club, eyeing the buffet with semi-tipsy hunger, thinking that it’s probably time to call it a night, when suddenly, his heart stops dead in his chest.
There, onstage, rolling his lithe body sensuously against the pole like he was summoned out of one of Diego’s wet dreams, is Klaus.
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Broken Like Me by Starrstruck_64
“This s-s-stuff will kill you,” he says plucking the cigarette out of Klaus’ fingers, delighting slightly in the fact that he’d only partially stumbled through the sentence.
Klaus smirks and it’s such a far cry from his fun loving brother he had two weeks ago that Diego nearly flinches.
“Ever stop and think that’s the plan,” Klaus says moving to stand and reaching to snag the cigarette back.
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sing it out, hard as you can by plingo_kat
The first time it happens, Klaus doesn’t notice.
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Soft by Dirty_Corza
Sometimes, between the boxing matches and vigilante business, Diego likes to be soft.
Klaus and Ben surprise him by liking the softer side of him, too.
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Wait for it by nishiki
A mission gone wrong, a dream shattered.
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all that i have to lose by UnrememberedSkies
Diego does some good, and Klaus pays the price.
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wasp by Chelseylovesllamas
Diego is scared of bugs, Klaus saves the day.
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Friday at Four by Kliegology
Diego's life takes a nosedive when he's forced out of work and into an art therapy class. He's clinging to his last shred of normality when he meets Klaus, who takes one look at him and threatens to tear it away.
“I think you’ll find you have a lot in common with the other people there,” The Therapist said, watching him shrewdly.
Diego was vividly reminded of the jittery, barefoot man in the pink fluffy cardigan. He snorted. “I don’t think so.”
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okay so this is probably an extremely weird idea... but high school ah, right? readers a hockey player, paul's a figure skater- i'm a big fan of the beatles and hockey and thought of this so 😅 anyways, love your writings ❤️
SKSKSKALSL LMAOOO this is not a weird ask!! I'm a hockey fan too actually 😂✌🏻 In fact, this use to be a hockey/art blog before I it converted lol. And also, Paul would totally be a figure skater like... I can just see it so clearly lmao.
Oh but before I begin, ik you didn't specify reader's gender here and you guys know I do gender neutral reader when I can, but I feel like smashing some hockey related gender norms, so I hope it's cool with you all if I do a badass, hockey playing, female reader for this one 😌
---
With a heave, you push open the big, double door to your school's practice ice, and a blast of crisp, winter scented air rushes over you. You are the only girl on your school's hockey team, and it feels like the odds are against you.
You're tough, a good shot, and fast, but you still feel like you have a lot to prove. The accuracy of that sentiment is highly debatable, but nonetheless, extra practice never hurts.
Today you've just brought your skates, stick, and a weighted vest for speed drills. It's long after school hours by now, but as a member of the team, you can swipe into the rink anytime you want. That being said, the last thing you were expecting was to find the ice occupied...
The sound of shredding ice snaps your attention to the rink, and there you see a lone boy on skates, tearing it up.
He looks about your age, and if he's in here then he must go to your school... So why don't you recognize him?
You set down your equipment and lace up your skates, pretending to be occupied while you stare.
His strides are long and measured, with a grace you haven't quite seen before. He's wearing a leotard in your school's colors, and the spandex only accents his long, delicate legs as he goes around and around, somewhere between gliding and flying as he goes through a routine of tricks and moves.
He jumps once through the air with impressive form and lands squarely in the center of the ice. You're already feeling quite impressed by the show he's given so far, and you rise to give some polite applause at this last move. But then, you're cut off as he draws up to his full height and launches himself into a spin, perfectly contained to one spot.
As his arms draw in, he goes faster and faster until he's nothing more then a rotating column. Slowly, he drops down to a one legged crouch, his lifted skate held out in front of him with both hands as he arches forward to reach. By now, you feel dizzy just looking at him, but when he springs up over a foot in the air, completing two more aerial spins before landing perfectly on a single skate...
Well, you’re blown away.
To celebrate, you congratulate him like any true hockey fan would. You pound on the glass as hard and as loud as you can, being sure to accompany it with whoops and cheers of admiration. However, the sound of all your ruckus must’ve taken him by surprise, as the figure skater whips around all too fast and slips into a nasty looking fall.
“Shit”, you mutter. Without a moment to lose, you rush down the ramp and onto the ice with your skates thankfully all ready to go. Showing your best hustle, you skate over just as the young man begins to stir. You come to a full stop, trying not to spray him in ice, and drop down to see if he’s alright.
He groans, and sits up slowly, rubbing at his hip, “I’m fine, thanks...”
The British accent takes you by surprise, but you put it aside for now, “Here, let me help you to the bench”. Without giving him much of a wait, you lift him up to his feet easily with fairly impressive strength and help him off the ice while he tires to hide a blush.
Once you’re both settled down, Paul finally takes a moment to get a good look at you. The first thing he notices is your skates. “So... You’re on the, uh hockey team?”
A jolt of excitement goes through you as you assume he is knowledgeable on the topic. Finally, a guy who gets you. You launch into a hyper jabber, telling him all sorts of secular, hockey related things like your name, your jersey number, your position, and the drills you’re here to practice.
Paul has no idea what you’re talking about. In fact, he hardly knows the name of the sport to be quite honest, considering it’s not at all popular back in England... But, you seem so excited, what with your sweet smile and the gleam in your eyes, he can’t bring himself to interrupt you.
“Anyway, sorry, I’m talking too much”, you laugh.
“No no, it’s alright! It’s nice to meet such a passionate person”, he smiles. “Oh, um I’m Paul by the way! I uh, just moved here with my family a few weeks ago”
Well you figured as much, but you’re excited to get to know him more. After all, he seems quite nice, and you admit, you are rather curious about him...
Paul tells you a bit about his background in Liverpool to start off, but he quickly cuts to his passion for figure skating and how he got started in that. He tells you all about the his competitions and medals and how he’s hoping to take his dreams to the pros here in the States.
You listen intently, clinging to every word. Of course you were curious at first, but who would’ve thought he’d be so amazing to boot? You had no idea you were practically talking to a superstar.
Paul humbly denies the title, but he can’t help but feel quite proud of himself under all your attention. To be honest, he was rather worried he’d have a hard time finding his place in an American school, making friends and all that... But imagine his surprise to be here, not even one week into his school career, being fawned over by the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.
When the conversation hits a bit of a slump, Paul starts up a new topic, “So, what kind of moves have you got out there? I’d imagine there’s quite a bit of fancy footwork that goes into your game... Maybe you could teach me a few things, eh?”, he smiles encouragingly and give a little chuckle as he bumps your shoulder.
You laugh nervously, “I think it’d be quite the opposite if anything... I’m pretty fast, but that’s about all I have going for me in terms of skating”, you look away and kick as a small pile of snow in front of you.
“Aw, well that’s an easy fix! Tell you what, how about I’ll show you some moves, and you can show me a bit about hockey afterwards!”, his hazel eyes beam at you, and you must admit, that would be a rather sweet deal...
You agree, and next thing you know, you’re both off onto the rink. Paul teaches you a little bit about spins, just some basic moves for maneuvering around others, and as well as helping you fine tune your backwards skating.
“Here, like this...”, he lets go of your hands and instead tries to approach this by holding you from behind. Paul takes a firm grip on your waist, his fingers long and delicate as they curl around you, “Now, just move your feet like I do...”
The rest of his instructions are drowned out by the pounding in your ears and you hope against hope that you can pass off the redness in your cheeks as the touch of the cold. But, without even realizing, Paul is leading you through a smooth back skate... And just as you do realize, he lets you go and the surprise throws you off balance.
You tread some ice and slip backwards. Paul catches you, but it doesn’t do much good as he ends up going down as well. You land right on top of him, the two of you left with the wind knocked out of you. Thankfully you come to your senses in a jiffy and you roll over to check on Paul, to find yourself mere inches away from his pretty face.
He blinks a few times and shakes his head out a little before focusing on you with a little pout, “Now that’s the second time you’ve knocked me off my feet today”. You’re about to apologize, when his sad little face cracks into a sly smirk, “I hope this doesn’t come to be a pattern...”, he winks at you.
You gasp and bat at his chest as you push yourself up, a severe blush and an incredulous laugh escaping you. Paul shoots up to sit, “Where are you going!”, he laughs.
“I think we’ve had enough practice for one day”, you turn around, trying but failing to suppress your laughter.
“Well hold on, how about some ice cream or something at least!”
Paul chases after you like a lost puppy, begging you for a little more time together today. You shake your head, but make some plans with him anyway. After all, who knows? You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take...
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