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creepypastaxmales · 4 years

Text

Hidden (Ticci Toby/Reader)

Warnings: NSFW

Words: 2,757

You felt anxiety fill you as you trekked through the woods, the sound of fauna crunching underneath your shoes just put you more on edge. You chewed on your already chapped lips, wondering why you were even out here in the first place.

"Come on, you scared, princess?" You flushed at the memory, that had pissed you off. You were no princess, not even a prince, yet you found yourself accepting the challenge. You were sure he was nuts, he hadn't spoken to you in a few weeks then he suddenly turns up and asks you to go to the area where everyone disappears?

Not to mention ditching you the moment you turned your back, you could see the sun beginning to set in the distance. A cold feeling filled your body, you rubbed your hands up your arms to try and sooth yourself however it hadn’t helped much.

You wanted to call out his name yet you feared he wouldn’t be the only one to hear you, there were countless stories piling up about people disappearing in here, hell some where even snatched right out of their bed. You shivered at the thought, screw him if he wanted to die out here he had that right but you wouldn’t.

The idea of some psychopath standing over you with a knife was enough to turn you sheet white and get your heart pumping. You turned tail and started walking back the way you came, at least you thought you were. Somehow it all looked different, you shook your head. That was impossible it was just your mind freaking out at the different angle.

You froze, the blood running through your veins suddenly felt ice cold. You looked around, doing a complete 360 on yourself yet spotting no one. You took a few breaths, it must’ve been your imagination. You continued on the way you thought would get you out of the creepy forest.

The feeling of impending doom slowly filled you, despite your best efforts to shake it off it felt like someone was watching you. Pretty closely too. You hugged yourself, hoping to bring some comfort to yourself.

You stopped upon hearing another set of steps, it sounded like they were right behind you. You quickly spun around only to see no one in sight. Your breathing was coming out ragged, anxiety squeezing at your heart. “I swear to fucking god. This isn’t fucking funny, Mark.” You shouted out your friends name, feeling your anxiety turn into anger.

Turning back around you stomped off, wishing more than anything you had told the arrogant asshole to fuck off. You wished you were at home, sat on the couch surrounded by junk food and playing some games. The thought of getting back and curling up with a controller kept your speed up.

Too lost in your thoughts to hear the footsteps running up behind you until the owner had slammed into you, immediately pinning you down to the forest floor. You let out a cry, the impact took your breath away. You felt twigs and rocks scrape against your exposed flesh, hands more than likely cut up.

You struggled under whoever was on top of you, unfortunately they seemed to have a height and weight advantage. More like they felt pretty strong, he held you down with one hand between your shoulder blades. His legs caging your hips in, you felt like the canary the cat had just finally caught.

“At least let me see who kills me.” You growled out, you wanted to see who it was so you could get some revenge in the afterlife, if there was one. A deep chuckle was heard above you. “Fi-ne, I’d prefer se-seeing the fear take over-er your face.” He seemed to stutter every now and then, you jumped feeling his hand tighten on your back and push you down. His hips suddenly jolting forward and grinding harshly against your ass, he also produced a loud noise that sounded like a twig snapping in half.

You couldn’t stop the gasp that left you, your face flushed and he flipped you onto your back. You looked up to see the wildest chestnut brown hair you had ever seen, he pulled his goggles back. They revealed the coldest brown eyes you’d ever seen, it was like they were completely devoid of light. He had deep purple bags under his eyes, almost as if he hadn’t slept in months. But that was impossible, he must barley sleep.

His skin was almost translucent, the moon that now had started raising above the skyline reflecting almost off his skin. You found yourself shaking underneath him, you didn’t really want to die. He tugged his mask down, his lips were tugged slightly downwards. You could see a slight stubble graving his chin from the angle you were at.

Your eyes ran down from his face to his body, he was covered by a khaki green jumper with striped arms and a blue hood. You noticed two blood stained hatchets at his hips, you gulped feeling your Adams apple bob.

His legs were covered by ripped up bloody grey jeans, threading sticking everywhere out of holes that almost looked like knife slashes. The only word that came to your mind after taking in the guy was that he was definitely a killer.

A sudden crack and his head being thrown to the side had you wide eye’d and staring at him. He smirked at you. “I have toure-ettes.” You just nodded then gulped, remembering the hatchets and blood. “Please, don’t kill me.” You couldn’t help the shaky way the words poured out, your heart felt like it was about to explode any moment.

He titled his head, his dead eyes appeared to take you in for a moment. You suddenly felt shyness fill you, turning your head away and attempting to curl in on yourself with little to no luck.

You curiously took another glance at his face only to catch his eyes, his face covered by a smirk. “How muh-much is your life wor-rth? What ar-re you wil-willing to do?” Despite the stuttering his smirk was still full of confidence, even something in his eye’s seemed to have changed.

You bit your lip, tugging on a peace of ragged skin. “Anything.” You spoke, if he wanted money you would give him every last penny you had. “How ab-bout you let me fuck y-you?” Your face flushed red, Toby letting out a chuckle, seemingly pleased with your reaction.

You looked at his eyes, not managing to hold the contact for long before your pupils quickly darted away. He wasn’t bad looking, rather he was pretty cute. “Okay.” He grinned, quickly leaning down to press his lips to yours. His lips were pretty chapped, you would even say extremely bitten.

You began moving against his lips, trying to follow his lead. Being gay wasn’t exactly new to you, but human contact sure was. He pulled away, his hands grabbing you up and pulling you into his chest. You flushed, he stood almost a head taller than you.

He pressed your lips back together, hands coming to land on your hips while yours grasped desperately to his jumper, hoping to ground yourself a little. His hands suddenly pulled away from you before returning and leaving a sting behind. The sound of a sudden smack had your lips opening, letting out a whine at the burn, giving Toby the opportunity to stick his tongue in your mouth, quickly exploring around.

You didn’t bother fighting him, instead submitting yourself to him by relaxing against him. He suddenly broke away. “I kne-ew you’d li-ike it.” His grin was almost wolfish. You felt heat build up in your abdomen, it felt like there were small pangs going off in your stomach.

Every time Toby’s fingers began to dip under your shirt and apply pressure to your hips your stomach would leap. Despite it being night and being outside you felt extremely warm, Toby’s body heat drew you in. He was unnaturally warm.

You couldn’t help but let out a moan every so often, it seemed like you had been kissing forever before he pulled back. Your mouth dropped a little to allow you to huff and pant, your hand coming to wipe the drool off your chin before Toby’s hand knocked it away.

Your eyebrows furrowed in question as you looked up at him, your hair a mess and cheeks covered in pink. Toby bit his lip, he never had a victim he had wanted to fuck before. He had the occasionally hook up with some random from a nightclub whenever Masky would drag him out, but he had never really found those people that attractive.

The sight currently in front of him had him harder then he had ever been in his life, his thoughts filling up with ways to take you, make you his. He felt almost feral, a part of him wanting to lock you away and keep you all to himself.

He ignored those thoughts, hands sliding up along with the smaller boys shirt and jumper until the boys chest was exposed. Toby grinned, licking his lips before attaching them to one of your nipples. You tried to jolt back but Toby’s hands stopped you, they wrapped around your biceps and he used his thumbs to keep your shirt and hoodie up.

You couldn’t stop the little gasps and moans that poured from your lips, jumping every time Toby would pull back only to swirl his tongue around the sensitive bud. After a few moments it began to feel like too much, letting out a small cry of overstimulation.

Toby laughed against your chest, keeping latched on for another few seconds before switching. You jumped and let out a gasp as the wind blew against your nipple, your eyes widening. You shook in Toby’s grasp while he gave the other nipple the same treatment, you nearly cried when he pulled away, the wind blowing against your already overstimulated nipples was almost too much.

He caught you off guard by pushing his fingers into your mouth, you let out a questioning moan around his fingers. You could feel the pads of his fingers rub gently against the back of your tongue, triggering your gag reflex. You would jolt and make a choking noise every time his fingers went too far down the back of your throat.

You tried your best to stay still and let him do whatever it was he was planning. His fingers suddenly left your lips, Toby took a second to take in the expression you wore. It was easy to see what he was doing to you, the drool that had dribbled down your chin while Toby had been finger fucking your mouth was definitely a pretty sight.

You’d look even prettier with Toby’s come all over that pretty face. Toby didn’t bother concealing the dark look that crossed his features. The boy had probably already seen his little friends blood covering him, he had no reason to hide anything now.

Toby’s hands ran back down (Names) hips, instead of stopping their they kept going until they disappeared under the band of (Names) jeans and underwear. Toby let out a groan, taking two handfuls of ass and squeezing which caused you to let out a small gasp, getting pushed closer against the taller boys chest.

You let out a squeak, the feeling of your shirt rubbing against your nipples was almost sore. Toby let out an airy sounding laugh, it chilled you. For some reason you felt as if you weren’t going to die, but you weren’t going to be seeing anyone anytime soon.

You couldn’t find it in you to care once you felt his finger start to rub circles around your hole, you dove further into his chest letting out wreaked sounding moans.

No one had ever touched you there before, it felt nothing like when you had tried it. Back then it had just felt awkward and you had wound up giving up. What had changed now? You turned to face the brunet, looking into those almost manic eyes that seemed to be completely different from the cold, closed off ones you had witnessed earlier.

Was it because this man could kill you? You bit your lip, the thought did excite you. The idea that he could easily snap your neck or something while balls deep in you had you letting out another moan, Toby took it as a signal that he could burry his finger into your hole.

Your face scrunched up and you let out a yelp, slight pain and discomfort filled you. He began circling his finger inside you, your body tensed as a foreign feeling began filling you. You wanted more, groaning you pushed back onto his digit.

Toby complied, almost too easily sliding in a second digit. Due to your saliva the fingers had little problem plunging into you, beginning to pick up speed. “A-ah!” You gasped out, seeing white as Toby’s finger grazed something deep inside of you. “Bi-ingo.” His voice seemed to deepen, his fingers speeding up and attacking your spot.

You threw your head back, back arching and stomach pressing flat against Toby’s. You suddenly didn’t mind, if he wanted you he could have you. If he took you back with him you didn’t think you’d put up a fight, not if he gave you this feeling.

It felt like something was beginning to build inside of your stomach, the familiar feeling of needing to come filled you. Yet you knew this was going to be the best one you had ever had, your hand not comparing in the slightest to what Toby was doing to your body.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your skull, mouth dropping open in a silent moan. Toby suddenly pulled his fingers out of you causing you to whine at the loss of contact. “Can-n’t get enou-ough huh?” He turned you around and pressed his cock between your cheeks, using his hands to spread your cheeks, the tip of his cock gliding over your hole.

The feeling of his tip catching against you had you moaning, you tried to grind your hips back but Toby’s hands prevented your movement. His finger’s were going to leave bruises, you couldn’t find it in you to care.

“God, please. I need more.” You begged, trying to push him inside. Toby grinned before tightening his grip on you, stopping you moving. You let out a broken sob, before getting cut off with the feeling of Toby’s cock stretching you. You threw your head back against his shoulder, your eyes drooping.

His cock was bigger than you had expected, it seemed to stuff you full. You swore you felt him hit your stomach once he was fully buried into you. All you could do was finish the moan that you had started.

You found your body relaxing back against him, his arms coming up to wrap around you. Holding you close to him, you gripped onto his arms for leverage as he started an almost brutal pace. The feeling of his cock almost disappearing out of you only to slam back deep into you was mind blowing.

You felt like you could go crazy from the feeling of him filling you up alone, never mind the feelings that swarmed you once his lips attached to your neck. He sucked big dark bruises into your flesh, he wanted everyone to see them.

His cock brushed against your g-spot and you shouted, probably alerting everyone in a ten mile radius but you couldn’t care. Toby easily manoeuvred you how he wanted, you felt like a ragdoll in his arms. Your brain couldn’t keep up, your thoughts melted away and all you could do was call out Toby’s name and moan.

You could feel yourself getting close, it felt like a tsunami was approaching and all you could do was hang limp against Toby. “I-I’m gonna.” You cut yourself off with a loud moan, your loading shooting out. You fell back, boneless against Toby, thankful for his strength because you didn’t think you could stand.

The feeling of you tightening around Toby’s cock had him coming deep inside of you, you let out a weak groan at the feeling of his come coating your insides. “Mine.” He muttered, his words serious and laced with possessiveness. You nodded against him, feeling your eyelids start to close.

#ticci toby #ticci toby x reader #creepypasta #creepypasta x reader #ticci toby x male!reader #creepypasta x male!reader

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theseshipsshallsail · 3 years

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There’s a new club in the Village - Infinity emblazoned in bright, neon letters - and naturally, the building is jam-packed with society’s outcasts on its opening weekend. Oliver grimaces, pressing his third beer to the side of his face, yet the condensation does nothing to soothe his overheated skin. It’s like a furnace of writhing bodies, and with every bead of sweat that bisects his neck to soak into his collar, he can’t help but wonder why he ever agreed to come in the first place.

“Drink up,” Vanessa says, brandishing a bright amber concoction as she slides into the booth opposite him. “You look like you need something a little stronger.”

Oliver raises an eyebrow as he returns the bottle to the table, then plucks the wedge of orange peel from the rim of the proffered glass. It’s been three years since he tasted a negroni, and the potent combination of gin, Campari, and vermouth sends his mind reeling in directions he usually fights tooth and nail to avoid.

“Remind me again why you brought me here?” he asks, trying not to wince at the bitter aftertaste. “This isn’t exactly my scene.”

Vanessa scoffs. “Well, if you ever left your study...”

“I’m up for promotion!”

“You’ll be up for an ulcer if you don’t slow down. Besides, you deserve to let loose after... you know.”

You know, meaning his divorce, and the eighteen month shit-storm that preceded it.

Vanessa has the office next to his, and in between general grousing about University politics they’ve become close friends. It helps, of course, that she understands his situation all too well, and even though her parents never tried to strong-arm her to the altar, she and her girlfriend still have to hide their relationship from the rest of their colleagues.

Oliver sighs as he takes a second sip of his drink. “It’ll take more than a one night stand to loosen me up,” he tells her, and the filthy smirk that curls Vanessa’s lips has him tempted to bang his forehead against the table.

“Whatever tickles your pickle, Professor.”

“Why do I put up with you?”

“Hell if I know.” Slurring somewhat, she taps their cocktails together, and Oliver laughs as she leans forward, poking him in the chest. “Listen, Ollie, you and Micol did a spectacular job of making yourselves miserable, but at least you stayed faithful ‘til the end. Why not enjoy yourself, yeah?”

“Why not indeed?”

He’s aiming for sarcastic, yet his tone falls somewhere short of exhausted. She’s right, he realises, but Oliver hasn’t had much interest in men or women for a while. He’s not so deep in denial to admit his heart still belongs to another, and being hopelessly in love with someone he can’t have has done a real number on his libido.

“Damn! This place is heaving!” Simone says, slumping in her seat when she returns from the bathroom. Slinging an arm around Vanessa’s shoulder she drops a quick kiss to her cheek, and Oliver averts his eyes, the casual intimacy leaving him yearning for the impossible. “A few too many student-types for my liking, though. Makes me feel like I’m back in the theatre department.”

“Makes me feel like I’m pushing thirty,” Oliver mutters, painfully aware of the significantly younger crowd as he tugs at the cheap material of his shirt. Too many curries and not enough exercise has made him self-conscious of the few extra pounds at his waistline, and depressingly, twenty-eight feels ancient in comparison.

“You wanna call it a night?” Vanessa asks, and Oliver nods absently as his gaze catches on a couple in the middle of the dancefloor.

Caught in a world of their own, they make a striking picture. The taller of the pair is bleached-blond and athletic, his arms wrapped tightly around the slim waist of the man in front of him in a surprisingly protective gesture. Oliver can’t see his partner clearly from this angle, but his skin is pale and shimmering as they move to the beat, dark curls falling in a tousled mess. Whether it’s by artful design or sweat-damp from dancing, he can’t quite tell, yet Oliver is hypnotized by the way they bounce as he loses himself to the music, obscuring his vision until the other man reaches forward, gently brushing them away.

The bass pounds in his rib cage, and Oliver’s throat feels constricted as he watches the brunette link his hands behind his lover's neck. Profile half in shadows, he raises up on tiptoes to whisper in the shell of his ear, and Oliver experiences a crisis of tenderness when he butts their temples together. Something squirms in his stomach. Something raw and envious. Memories flare, unfair and brutal, and he immediately blames the burning of his retinas on the relentless assault of the strobe lights surrounding them.

“Oliver? You okay?”

No.

Definitely not.

The jostling crowd causes the blond to alter their position, and Oliver’s head spins from more than just the alcohol as his blood runs cold in his veins.

“Elio…” he murmurs, vaguely aware of Vanessa’s stifled gasp when she tries to get a better look.

“Your Elio?”

He wants it not to be - wants his eyes to be deceiving him - yet there’s no denying the truth. All that he’s forgotten - all that he’s clung to - coalesces in a rush of unslaked longing, and between one blink and the next, Oliver remembers everything.

“Not anymore,” he whispers, but then, why would he be?

Elio was seventeen when they first met, and Oliver isn’t naive enough to think he hasn’t fallen in and out of love many times since then. He’s beautiful, intelligent, talented beyond measure. Was he really so arrogant to imagine he would still be single? Pining for him, maybe? Saving himself? And for what? A six week romance one too-hot Italian summer? Something his cowardice cut short with a long-distance phone call?

He was, wasn’t he?

Arrogant.

And so very stupid.

“Of all the gay bars in all the world…” Vanessa takes a swig of her piña colada as he continues to spiral. “I thought you said he lived in Italy?”

“He did,” Oliver replies, picking at his thumbnail. “He moved here for school.”

“And you didn't contact him?”

“To say what?” His ears ring from the shrillness of her tone. “Hey, Elio. Remember that time I broke both our hearts ‘cause I’m a gutless schmuck? How about I buy you a coffee to make up for it?”

“It would’ve been a start.”

“It would’ve been selfish,” he says, tearing his eyes away. “He has enough on his plate with Juilliard. I’d only get in the -”

“Juilliard?” Simone’s low whistle interrupts his self-reproach. “Impressive.”

“Son of a professor,” Oliver explains. “I always knew he was a genius.” He gathers himself with a quiet huff. “Though he’ll probably say he knows nothing.” The spark of nostalgia is crippling, and it takes everything he has not to break down on the spot. “I should go,” he says, draining the remains of his drink as he rises to his feet.

“Oliver -”

“Why don’t you come back to ours?” Vanessa offers, making to follow, but whatever expression is on his face causes Simone to catch her by the wrist.

“We’re here if you need us, alright?”

“I know,” he says, eternally grateful for their support as he pushes some cab money into her hand. “Get home safe. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

“You’d better,” Vanessa tells him, obstinate in her concern, yet all he can focus on right now is leaving.

The swirling thoughts inside his head are all-consuming, but Oliver is determined to reign in his emotions for a little while longer. Ignoring the way his shoes stick to the tacky vinyl flooring, he grits his teeth as he snakes his way through the crush of humanity. He needs space. Fresh air. Hell, a damn time machine wouldn’t go amiss. He has nobody to blame but himself, and he’s halfway to the exit sign when his pace grinds to a halt, his masochistic streak unable to resist one last glimpse.

A flash of irrational panic makes him breathe in deep - hold it for a count of three - and when he turns to scan the roiling bodies that fill up the dance floor, he finds them immediately. The shock doesn’t lessen, and if Oliver thought his heart had broken when they’d clung to one another on a train station platform, it’s naught compared to when Elio tips the other man’s chin up with the same fingers that used to play his body like a finely tuned instrument. White noise fills his ears as he ghosts a kiss to his lips - two chaste pecks at first - and then harder. Hungry. Mouths open. Tongues swirling. Deep and dirty.

Just the way he likes it.

Fool that he is, Oliver doesn’t turn away. But he’s not the only one. Their bawdy display has garnered a small audience of the jealous and horny, and when the cat-calls eventually die down he notices a clearly disappointed red-head stalk past them on route to her table of friends.

Time has not domesticated him, it seems, and Oliver feels like crying as the world returns frame by frame - the oscillating pulse of the dance track. The lightning burst of colour from the laser system above. An innate sense of powerlessness floods through him - the depths of which he hasn’t experienced since Elio sobbed against his chest in an attic bedroom - and a heavy weight settles in his belly as he recognises the cues and rituals that were once directed at him alone.

Elio has obviously flourished in his absence. His body language is looser, more relaxed, assured in a way his younger self could only dream of, and Oliver allows an almost-smile as the couple laugh for a moment before turning to walk away.

His fingers itch for a cigarette - a habit he’s struggling to waive - and the next thing he knows he’s taking a seat at the bar, a double shot of bourbon in his hand he doesn’t remember ordering, and a screaming admonishment from his better judgement to not do anything stupid.

All I had to do was find the courage to reach out and touch, Elio said once, rife with self-mockery, and Oliver’s advice was to try again later. Was this it? Their later? And if not now, when? Because whatever his feelings of bitterness - whatever his misguided envy - if he lets this opportunity pass him by, he will always wonder. Always look.

In truth, he already does.

Ever since Samuel mentioned Elio was moving to the States, he’s carried the idle fantasy of crossing paths in some random book store, eyes locking across a busy street, a name - his, theirs, both - shouted across a bustling coffee shop. Of all eventualities, though, he hasn’t prepared for an Elio who might not be happy to see him. Who might dismiss him. Cast him aside like some ill-fitting chapter in the editing process. The context is all wrong, and for it to happen like this is akin to being plunged into the icy waters of the berm.

“Accidenti!” an achingly familiar voice says from somewhere behind him. “Are all Americans incapable of taking a hint? Or is it just an East Coast thing?”

“It’s the accent, mio amico. Fries their brains.”

“Never mind their brains,” Elio replies in the same lazy drawl. “I think you’ve sprained my tonsils.”

There’s a snicker to his left, and like a moth to a flame, Oliver peers up into the mirror behind the bar, only to find his living nightmare mere meters away, sharing a cigarette. Elio’s still wearing the same bracelets he did that summer, and three years of sleepwalking collapses around him as Oliver hunches over, palms sweating.

“Seriously though,” the blond continues. “Look at this place! Wall-to-wall entreés, and you won’t so much as skim the menu. You’re spoiled for choice, compagno.”

Elio scoffs as he brings the filter to his lips. “Didn’t I tell you choice is an illusion?”

“As is time, according to Adams.” The man slings an arm over his shoulders. “And here you are, free as a bird, wasting the perfect opportunity.”

Elio flips him the middle finger. “Stronzo,” he says, leaving Oliver more confused than ever as he studies him over the rim of his glass. “It’s a curse.”

“Self-inflicted, maybe.”

“So what’s the answer? And don’t say forty-two.”

The guy chuckles. “Variety,” he says, signalling the harried bartender. “Things didn’t work out with the violinist - I get it. È la vita! You’re not in the mood for pushy red-heads? Fine. But don’t sell yourself short. Trust Fund Tina’s not the only one checking you out.”

“Perhaps.”

“What perhaps?” A knowing smirk shoots in Oliver’s direction. “See for yourself.”

It’s like experiencing the first tremor of an earthquake. Elio was always a force of nature, and bracing for disaster, Oliver feels the fault lines buckle beneath him. He thought he was done letting fear and shame dictate his life, yet even now, at peace with his true self, he can’t bear to witness the seismic shift between past and present. Instead, he falls back on avoidance, tearing strips off a frayed beer mat until the hair prickles at his nape.

He can feel it - the instant his fate is sealed - and taking a deep breath Oliver returns his eyes to the mirror, meeting Elio’s stunned features. Dark brows climb towards his hairline as the happiness on his face shifts into something else. Something measured. Unrecognisable. A blank slate, almost. For a moment, Oliver fears he’s going to ignore him completely, but then Elio straightens his spine, offers the half-smoked cigarette to his friend, and with a few whispered words strides forward with purpose.

His daring is a law unto himself, but the look he’s giving him now exudes superiority - omniscience, almost - as if he can read every thought that’s going on inside Oliver’s mind, and has already deemed them wanting. It shouldn’t be such a turn on, yet his heart skips a beat regardless. Then another. Every instinct in his body tells him to reach out, to hold Elio’s hand, tuck those wild curls behind his ear, but it’s no longer his place - if it ever really was to begin with - so Oliver takes a deliberate sip of his whiskey, scared and aroused simultaneously, before swivelling towards him.

“Oliver.” His name on Elio’s lips - three smooth syllables - and he feels reborn. “Long time no see.” Hesitating, he offers up a pack of Luckies. “Fumo?”

“I shouldn’t,” he says, dragging trembling fingers through his hair. “I told myself I’d quit. God knows it won't take much to -”

“Tempt you?”

Heat rises to Oliver’s cheeks. “Yes,” he admits, and Elio’s smile is a shallow, brittle thing.

“Well, you know yourself,” he says, returning the cigarette carton to his pocket. “Don’t let me ruin your good intentions.”

His flippancy is like a red rag to a bull, and Oliver’s hackles rise as he sets his drink on the counter, irritated enough by Elio’s calm exterior to try and provoke a reaction. “Is your boyfriend not the jealous type?”

All he receives is an eye roll. “Bruno’s not my boyfriend.”

“Could’ve fooled me. From what I saw earlier.”

“You saw nothing,” Elio replies, defensive. “We’re friends. Roommates.”

“Roommates?” Rising from his stool, Oliver takes a step towards him. “That kiss -”

“Is none of your business. Not anymore.”

It hits him like a punch to the gut. Oliver’s lips part, but no sound passes between them. He’s being irrational, he’ll accept, but old habits die hard, and through sheer force of will he quashes down his guilt, knowing better than to use it as a weapon.

“Of course,” he says, chastened. “You’re right.”

“I usually am.”

“Elio…” This isn’t how he wants the conversation to go. “I know it’s too much to expect your forgiveness, but please don’t be angry with me. We were friends, once. Before anything else.”

“I’m not angry.” A beat. “Not anymore.” Tipping his chin, Elio folds his arms in front of him. One more barrier despite the brush-off. “I’m processing.“

“Processing?”

“Yes, processing. Originates from the Old French proces. Related to the Latin processus, and from the verb procedere in Middle English.”

“Wise ass.”

“Sempre.” Elio shrugs, watching him openly. “What are you doing here, Oliver?”

“My friends saw the flyers,” he says, bypassing the here, specifically, when Elio’s attention drops a few inches lower, and he realises he’s staring at his ring finger.

At the white line that’s all but vanished since he signed his way to freedom.

“You’re…”

Oliver clears his throat. “Divorced,” he manages, shuffling his feet. “Almost three months now.”

“Divorced?” Elio’s mask slams back into place, the distress in his voice palpable. “Why?”

And there are so many things he could say to that - the stress of his job, money, differing expectations - but this is Elio. His first love. His forever love. He, above anyone, deserves the truth.

“I think you know why.”

“Do I?” That same phony indifference. “What the eyes see, and the ears hear, the mind believes.”

“The truth is never that simple.”

“Not for us, it seems. Not in this world.” Elio gives his head a small but firm shake, blowing out a frustrated breath. “You know, tonight was supposed to lower my stress levels, not raise them,” he says, granting them a temporary reprieve. “But then, you always were hazardous to my blood pressure.”

“Trust me. The feeling’s mutual,” Oliver tells him wryly. “Might I recommend some deep breaths?”

“Deep breaths?” Elio rocks back on his heels. “If I had any peaches I’d be using my right hand.”

It catches him unawares, and Oliver can't help it. He snorts. Overcome by relief. Then he laughs - a weak sound, and damn near helpless - but a laugh, nonetheless. Cupping a palm to his mouth. Moving it to his eyes. Feeling the tears he’s been fighting since this whole debacle began.

“My God you’re incorrigible,” he mutters, the sharp stab of regret cutting him to the core as he glances over his shoulder, and the blond - Bruno - shoots him a wink. “When you said I saw nothing...”

The hesitant curve of Elio’s smile lights a fire in his chest. “There was a girl on the dance floor who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Lucky for me, Bruno’s never been shy about putting on a convincing performance.”

Oliver winces. “Well, I bought it.”

“Mission accomplished, then.” Elio edges closer. “I could’ve said the same for you, once upon a time.” The air between them grows charged. “Do you ever miss it?” he asks. “Italy, I mean?”

“Every single day.” Oliver finds himself captivated by the smattering of stubble along Elio’s jawline. The touch of smudged kohl beneath his lashes that turns his gaze smouldering. “Do you?”

“In a way.”

“Just a way?” He’s not entirely certain they’re talking about the same thing, and Vanessa’s advice seems all the more pertinent. “Let me buy you a coffee?” Oliver asks, and Elio frowns.

“What? Now?”

“If you like.”

“It’s gone midnight!”

“Tomorrow, then. Whenever you’re available.” Suddenly desperate, he closes the gap between them. “I can’t excuse my actions, Elio - I know I can’t - but at the very least I owe you an explanation.”

“Oliver...” This time it’s Elio who reaches out, his usually steady hands uncertain as they entwine with his. “I was young, not stupid. What’s there to forgive? You left because you had to. You married because -”

“I was weak.”

“Cazatte!” The tension in Elio’s body snaps back like a coil. “My father would have carted me off to a correctional facility,” he murmurs, squeezing his fingers tightly. “I’ll never forget those words.”

“I’m sorry...”

“Don’t be!” Elio sounds furious on his behalf. “Weak, you say? No. Control over others is the true weakness. Coercion. Conformity. All it does is breed hatred. And that’s not you. Not my Oliver.”

“Am I still?” he asks, laying his cards out on the table. “Your Oliver?”

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Oliver swallows thickly. “I guess we will,” he says, dropping his forehead to Elio’s crown.

He’s braver at twenty-one than Oliver could have dared imagine, and for the first time in years the dull ache beneath his ribs is replaced by a different sort of craving. The way they fit together so easily, like no time has passed, fans the banked passions within him - the desire to press his lips against Elio’s neck, to nip his way along countless freckles until he can fist those unruly curls and guide his mouth back to where it belongs.

Flush against his.

Devouring.

But not yet.

This isn’t leading to sex. Not tonight. This is about reconciliation. Reassurance. Redemption.

“There’s a late-night diner on the corner…”

It’s a whisper against his cheek - so quiet he barely hears it - and Oliver leans down, pressing his face to Elio’s collarbone, breathing him in. He knows this won’t be easy - knows there will be dark clouds before the dawn - yet here they are, older and wiser, and three years might as well be yesterday as the parting crowds provide a temporary island in which to weather the storm.

#cmbyn roll the dice challenge #fanfic #oliver pov #elio and oliver #cmbynrollthedicechallenge

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monotonous-minutia · 3 years

Text

Benvenuto Cellini in 300 lines or fewer

for the lovely and incredibly patient @notyouraveragejulie, as requested! Happy Cellini-versary! took me long enough, but decided to get it done today to honor the occasion :)

Act I Scene I

Balducci’s house

Balducci: Teresa what are you doing looking out the window I told you never to look out the window. Besides I need you to listen to my rant. Can you BELIEVE what the Pope has just told me? He’s hired that delinquent Cellini to make his new statue instead of Fieramosca. I just can’t wrap my head around it.

Teresa: Maybe you could if it wasn’t so big.

Balducci: What?

Teresa: Nothing.

(Balducci exits)

Teresa: Ugh FINALLY I hate listening to his rants. )goes back to look out the window)

Masqueraders outside: LALALALA IT’S CARNIVAL THE BEST TIME OF THE YEAR

(Balducci comes back and sees Teresa at the window)

Balducci: TERESA WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT STAYING AWAY FROM THE WINDOW what is even going on down there? I bet it’s that Cellini whipping everyone into a frenzy. Ugh, Carnival. (exits again)

Teresa: (goes to the window and is immediately showered with flowers) I don’t care what my dad says, hanging out by the window is fun. I love flowers. Oh hey, a note from Cellini! What? He’s coming here? Oh, that’ll be risky. But hey, dad’s out of the house, what could go wrong? Y’know, it’s kinda hard, dealing with all this—feeling like I have to listen to my dad, but wanting to indulge in the affections of my beloved. When I’m older, old like my parents, maybe I’ll be responsible, but right now I’m young, and I deserve to have some fun! Girls just wanna have fun!

Cellini: (appearing at the window) TERESA MY BELOVED

Teresa: Cellini, I love you, but it’s too dangerous for you to be here. What if my dad catches us?

Cellini: But look, it’s carnival, and it’s so gay! And I mean that like happy, but y’know, it’s pretty gay too. Besides, I love you. Why do you turn me away?

Teresa: Well, I just got done singing this empowering feminist aria, but unfortunately reality hits and I remember that it’s 1532 and I basically have no rights, so it’s best for you to forget me and move on.

Fieramosca: (sneaking in carrying a huge bouquet) The best way to a woman’s heart is with a cool sneak-in plan and a bunch of flowers. Hang on, is that Cellini talking to my Teresa?

Cellini: How am I supposed to just leave you behind? Let you be forced into the arms of that Fieramosca?

Teresa: I’d rather die than marry Fieramosca!

Fieramosca: …I just came here to have a good time and I’m honestly feeling so attacked right now.

Cellini: Okay, so, how about this: Come to the new opera Cassandro is presenting tomorrow night. While your dad is distracted, my apprentice and I will sneak over disguised as friars and spirit you away! We’ll go to Florence and live happily ever after! Nothing could possibly go wrong!

Fieramosca: Hmm, interesting plan. It would be a shame if someone were to...interfere.

Teresa: Sounds foolproof. But hang on, my dad is coming back. You have to hide!

(Cellini hides behind the door. Fieramosca hides in Teresa’s bedroom. Balducci somes back.)

Balducci: Teresa, what are you up to? Are you talking to people? How many times do I have to remind you that you’re not allowed to have a life?

Teresa: (distracting him so Cellini can sneak out) DAD THERE’S A MAN IN MY BEDROOM

Balducci: What??? Let me see!

(Balducci goes into Teresa's bedroom and comes out dragging Fieramosca) I can’t believe this! This is so inappropriate, Fieramosca, how dare you?

Fieramosca: No, wait, let me explain! I just came to visit! Cellini is the real rascal!

Teresa: Oh the poor man is raving mad.

Balducci: I will not stand for this! Servants, come here! Let’s teach this seducer a lesson!

Servants: OH YEAAAHHHHH LET’S STICK HIM IN THE FOUNTAIN

Fieramosca: NO WAIT

Teresa: This is the best thing ever.

Act I Scene II

Piazza Colonna

Cellini: I can’t wait to elope with Teresa!

(A bunch of Cellini’s friends and students come in)

Chorus: LALALALALA LET’S GET SLOSHED

Cellini: Yes, but for god’s sake none of those ridiculous drinking songs. Let’s sing about the glory of metal-workers!

Everyone: YEAH GLORY TO THE METAL-WORKERS!! WE’RE THE BEST WE WORK WITH METAL THAT SPARKLES LIKE JEWELS AND RIPPLES LIKE FLOWERS AND IS MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN BOTH OF THOSE PUT TOGETHER

Bernardino: Alright folks, let’s drink up!

Innkeeper: Sorry lads, not until you pay your tab.

Cellini: Okay who’s got the cash? …nobody? Well this is a nice little pickle we’ve gotten ourselves into.

Ascanio: (enters carrying a bag of money) ASCANIO TO THE RESCUE

Everybody: YEAHHH VIVA ASCANIO

Ascanio: Okay hold your horses folks, before you spend this money, you have to realize where it’s coming from. It’s a down payment on that statue you’re supposed to build. Cellini, remember you promised the Pope you’d make that statue?

Cellini: Ugh, don’t remind me.

Ascanio: It’s literally my job to remind you.

Cellini: Fiiiiine I promise I’ll finish the statue.

Ascanio: Okay, cool. Here’s the money.

Cellini: Here you go, you troublesome little man, now give us our drinks.

(He gives the Innkeeper the money.)

Cellini: Okay, now that we all have had our libations, let’s talk revenge. You know that guy Balducci who’s always disrespecting me and trying to keep me away from my girlfriend? Well, I have a plan for Carnival where we can humiliate him in front of everyone as payback!

Everyone else: Sounds like a great time! We’re in.

Everyone: Yeah!! A curse on that guy! And while you’re at it, honor to the metal-workers again!!

Ascanio: That’s such a bop where’d it come from?

Cellini: We made it up while you were gone.

Ascanio: I always miss the fun stuff.

(they all leave to get ready; Fieramosca, who was eavesdropping, comes out into the open)

Fieramosca: Ugh, look at them all, plotting against my future!

Pompeo: (entering) Hey boo! What's with the long face?

Fieramosca: Alas, Pompeo, my only friend! What a week it's been! First off, I got an impromptu and very much unwanted bath at Balducci’s yesterday. And as if that weren’t enough, now Cellini and his apprentice are going to abduct my girl!

Pompeo: That’s actually not a bad idea.

Fieramosca: What do you mean?? You want him to steal Teresa from me?

Pompeo: No, the getting in disguise and abducting her part! Why don’t WE just don those same disguises and get her ourselves?

Fieramosca: Ohhh, I get it! What a great idea! Although I must admit, I am a little scared of what Cellini might do if he catches me in the act.

Pompeo: What you think he’s actually going to stab somebody? Here, let’s practice sword fighting so you’re prepared if he does try to pull anything funny.

Fieramosca: Good idea! (they practice sword fighting) HA LOOK AT ME, WHO WOULD EVER DARE CHALLENGE ME, ALL Y’ALL PEASANTS GET OUT OF MY WAY, I’M THE ROUGHEST TOUGHEST GUY YOU EVER DID SEE. Oh, Teresa, I wish you could know just how much my heart burns for you! I’ll be damned if I let that rascal Cellini come between us.

(They leave to get ready. Balducci enters with Teresa as the Piazza begins to fill with people)

Balducci: Well, Teresa, I hope you’re happy. I’ve decided to suffer through this vulgar comedy so you can stop nagging me about not letting you go to Carnival.

Teresa: I’ll never forget your sacrifice, dad. (Come to think, it DOES make me feel a little guilty to be running away from home...is it fair to leave him all by himself?)

Cellini and Ascanio: (dressed as monks) Quickly and quietly, let’s get down to business! The plot is about to start!

Chorus or Troupers: COME, GOOD PEOPLE OF ROME!! COME AND SEE OUR SHOW!!

People: THIS IS SO MUCH FUN CARNIVAL IS AWESOME

Troupers: Let the show begin! (They start a pantomime featuring a parody of Balducci and the Pope)

Balducci: What fresh nonsense is this?

Teresa: Uhhh maybe we should go?

People: SHUT UP AND WATCH THE SHOW

Balducci: You know what? I’m going to suffer through this whole thing and then go tell the Pope how you’re all mocking him! Because he and I talk all the time I guess.

People: WE SAID SHUT UP JUST WATCH THE SHOW

Cellini: Ascanio, can you see Teresa?

Ascanio: Nope but I see someone else trying to interfere with our plans!

People: HAHAHA WATCH THE SHOW THIS IS SO FUNNY LOOK AT HARLEQUIN LOOK AT THE OLD MAN HAHAHA

Balducci: I’M GOING TO TELL ON ALL OF YOU

Teresa: Dad, stop, you’re just riling them up!

Balducci: THAT’S IT I’VE HAD ENOUGH COME GET A TASTE OF MY WRATH (he runs onstage wielding his cane)

People: HAHAHA THIS JUST KEEPS GETTING BETTER

Fieramosca: Come on, Pompeo, let’s sneak over and grab Teresa!

Cellini: Come on, Ascanio, let’s sneak over and grab Teresa!

Fieramosca: Teresa, it’s me! Come with me!

Cellini: Teresa, it’s me! Come with me!

Teresa: ??? I don’t know who is who!

Cellini: Come with me!

Fieramosca: Come with me!

Teresa: You know, when I imagined myself falling in love, I never thought I’d have two fake monks vying for my attention.

Ascanio: WE’VE BEEN HAD YOU WON’T GET AWAY WITH THIS (starts chasing Fieramosca)

Cellini: Get out of my way! Cut it out! (He and Pompeo fight; Cellini stabs Pompeo.)

Pompeo: Oh, I’m dead! (He dies.)

People: OMG SOMEBODY DIED CALL 911 I CAN’T BELIEVE A MONK JUST KILLED A GUY WHAT KIND OF WORLD DO WE LIVE IN

Fieramosca: OMG I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU JUST KILLED MY BOYFRIEND

Teresa: OMG CELLINI

Balducci: OMG A DEAD MAN TERESA WHERE ARE YOU

Cellini: OMG I’M REALLY IN TROUBLE NOW

Ascanio: Well, that happened.

(General chaos ensues; Cellini’s students help him escape. Amidst the mayhem Balducci bumps into Fieramosca, and, thanks to his white monk costume, mistakes him for the murderer)

Balducci: I FOUND HIM I FOUND THE MURDERER

Fieramosca: ...are you telling me this is the second time in as many days I’m being accused of something that Cellini did?

Ascanio: Come on, Teresa, let’s get out of here!

Teresa: You don’t have to tell me twice! (They both run off.)

Act II Scene I

Cellini’s workshop

Teresa: Oh my gosh what a catastrophe! I hope Cellini is okay!

Ascanio: Have faith! My master is not one to let a silly little murder accusation get him down. I mean, he did actually kill the guy, but I’m sure it will all work itself out. Have faith!

Teresa: Let’s pray for his safe return! (She and Ascanio sing a very pretty prayer; Cellini busts into the workshop)

Cellini: HONEY I’M HOME

Teresa and Ascanio: OMG YAYY YOU’RE ALIVE

Cellini: It was a close call! Everyone was running after me with daggers and calling out for my blood! I thought for sure I was done for, but I managed to evade the crowd and find a place to hide, but passed clean out in the process. It was just my fortune that as I came to my senses, as group of white monks were walking past! I joined their procession and no one was the wiser. God led them right to you!

Teresa: OMG that’s such a harrowing adventure! I’ve got goosebumps.

Ascanio: And you’re sure this is 100% accurate, with no embellishments?

Cellini: What do you take me for? Now, come on, we’ve got to get out of here before they come after us again.

Ascanio: Whoops, they’re already here.

Balducci: Cellini, you scoundrel, abductor, murderer, and general all-around-annoying person! Relinquish my daughter. It’s time for her to unite with her husband, Fieramosca.

Cellini: OVER MY DEAD BODY

Ascanio: Don’t give them any ideas!

Balducci: Come on, Fieramosca, claim your bride!

Teresa: DAD NOOOOO

Fieramosca: Uh...I don’t want to cause a scene…

(The Pope enters with his retinue)

Everybody: OH SHI--OH DEAR IT’S THE POPE

Pope: Rise, rise, my children! Relish in my holiness, but don’t hurt yourselves.

Balducci and Fieramosca: Oh your Holiness, please grant us your assistance! That rascal Cellini has tarnished Teresa’s honor.

Cellini: Come on, I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration.

Pope: Well well, well, Cellini, this isn’t the first time you’ve gotten in trouble with me, is it? For example, where’s my statue? The one I commissioned you to make?

Cellini: Well...it’s not quite done yet.

Pope: Are you saying I should find someone else to cast the statue instead?

Cellini: WHAT?? HOW DARE YOU!! SOMEONE ELSE CAST M STATUE?? I’D RATHER DIE THAN SEE SOME AMETURE DARE TO PUT THEIR GRUBBY LITTLE FINGERS ON MY MASTERWORK

Everyone else: Are you seriously yelling at the Pope????

Pope: Arrest this man!

Cellini: YOU ARREST ME AND I WILL DESTROY THIS MODEL RIGHT HERE THEN NO ONE WILL BE ABLE TO FINISH THE STATUE! NOBODY!! NOBODY!!

Pope: How dare you threaten me? What’s it going to take to calm you down?

Cellini: I want full forgiveness for all my crimes up till this point. Wipe my record clean.

Pope: Fine, fine.

Cellini: ALSO I want Teresa.

Balducci and Fieramosca: WHAT??? Your Holiness can’t possibly be considering this.

Cellini: I ALSO want more time to finish the statue.

Pope: …you know my weakness for art; fine, fine, I can’t really say no.

Balducci and Fieramosca: What audacity! But we’ll see who has the last laugh.

Teresa: Oh, what a fateful day!

Ascanio: Look at my master, he’s so clever and devious!

Pope: Okay, Cellini, here’s the deal. Finish the statue by tomorrow, and you’ll get all that you asked for. If you can’t finish it in time, you’ll be hanged.

Cellini: Fine!

Balducci and Fieramosca: He’s on the brink of ruin! We’ll see who wins this one!

Teresa: He’s doomed, alas! There’s nothing left for me in this world! Luckily I'm not going to end my life based on this notion like most operatic heroines, but I still feel dread in my heart!

Cellini: I’ve got to win this!

Ascanio: Come one boss you’re the best you got this!!!!

Act II Scene II

Cellini’s Foundry

Ascanio: TRALALALALALA….idk what I’m feeling...I’m happy, then I’m sad, then I’m crying, then I’m laughing, then I’m singing! Must be the hormones. Or the stress...our little bronze boy is finally getting finished today! But there’s a lot on the line. On one hand, I’m all scared that we’ll fail and my poor master will be hanged; on the other hand I can’t help laughing over how ridiculous the whole situation is...I mean, did you SEE the way my master stood up to the Pope?? Anyway, I better start getting ready. Tralalala! (He exits)

Cellini: What have I gotten myself into? How did I expect to finish this statue on time? All of Rome has its eyes on me

Ascanio: *Hamilton chorus voice* history has its eyes on youuuu

Cellini: What?

Ascanio: Nothing. I’m not here.

Cellini: Ah, why can’t I be a simple shepherd, whiling my life peacefully away in the mountains?

Chorus outside: Oooh!! here’s a grim old sea shanty

Cellini: I wish they’d stop! Nothing good ever happens when they sing that song!

Ascanio: (coming back) Not that song again!

Cellini: Take heart! We’re like sailors ourselves, but our sea is made of metal! Let’s get to work!

Fieramosca: NOT SO FAST!! I demand justice! Cellini, I challenge you to a duel! No need for all those sword-fighting lessons to go to waste.

Cellini: Someone finally grew a pair, eh? Fine, let’s duel right here.

Fieramosca: Not here! If I kill you in your own place, I’m a murderer. Meet me behind St. Anthony’s cloister.

Cellini: I’ll see you there!

(Fieramosca leaves; Teresa enters)

Ascanio: Here’s your sword, boss!

Teresa: Omg Cellini are you going to a duel??

Cellini: Relax, it’s just Fieramosca. (exit with Ascanio.)

Teresa: What if it’s an ambush????

Cellini’s workers (storming in) THAT’S IT WE’RE GOING ON STRIKE THESE WORKING CONDITIONS SUCK

Teresa: Oh heavens! What’s this ruckus? Come on, folks, just wait for Cellini to come back and talk about it!

Workers: NOPE WE’RE OUTTA HERE

(Fieramosca walks in)

Teresa: OMG FIERAMOSCA IS BACK WITHOUT CELLINI THAT MEANS CELLINI IS DEAD HE KILLED CELLINI (faints)

Workers: YOU KILLED OUR BOSS???

Fieramosca: What? No! Geez, this really is not my week. I’m just here to offer you the raise Cellini won’t give you.

Workers: NOPE WE’RE LOYAL TO CELLINI FORGET WHAT WE JUST SAID GET OUTTA HERE YOU RASCAL

Cellini: (coming back) What’s going on?

Teresa: (awake) OMG YOU’RE ALIVE

Cellini: ...was that ever in question? Oh, hey, Fieramosca, you’re just in time to help build the statue! Here’s an apron, get to work.

Fieramosca: What? I--

Everyone else: Get to work, or you’ll be taking another impromptu bath, but this time it’ll be in a sea of molten metal!

Fieramosca: YIKES! Okay, lead the way.

Everyone: COME ON LADS LET’S GET TO WORK

(the workers and Fieramosca head to the forge. Balducci enters with the Pope.)

Balducci: Teresa! What are you doing here?

Teresa: Uh, funny story.

Pope: So, Cellini, is my statue done yet?

Cellini: Nope, but it will be very soon.

Balducci: We’ll see about that.

Pope: You better be right.

Fieramosca: (running in) We need more metal for the statue!

Cellini: What, are you messing up my statue?? Let me go see (he runs to the forge)

Balducci: Fieramosca? What are you doing wearing an apron?

Fieramosca: Would you believe me if I said I got a new job?

Cellini: (coming back) Haha nothing to see here! Everything is going according to plan! We just need a bit more metal, that’s all, no biggie.

Workers: Just one problem: There is no more metal. And the fire’s going out. If we don’t get more metal in there quick, the whole thing will be ruined!

Balducci: Well, well, well, looks like I’m winning!

Cellini: NO THIS IS NOT THE END I REFUSE TO GIVE UP! Everyone, just grab anything metal and throw it in there!

Workers: What?? Even all your old work?

Cellini: I SAID EVERYTHING DIDN’T I

(Cellini, the workers, and Ascanio all start grabbing metal things and throwing them into the furnace)

Teresa: I can’t handle this stress!!

Pope: I can’t believe the nerve of this guy! Is it possible he could actually succeed?

(An explosion comes from the forge)

Cellini: OMG THIS IS IT I’M DONE FOR

Workers: WOOHOO WE DID IT LONG LIVE CELLINI

Cellini: We did it??

Workers: VICTORY! VICTORY!! LOOK AT THE STATUE ISN'T IT AMAZING

Fieramosca: CELLINI WE DID IT HOW ABOUT A HUG

Cellini: ...how about no

Pope: Well, Cellini, I didn't think I was going to be able to say this, but you made good on your word. I officially pardon your sins, and bless your marriage to Teresa. (He leaves.)

Cellini: YAYY TERESA

Teresa: YAYY CELLINI

Everyone: VICTORY!! LONG LIVE CELLINI!! IMMORTAL GLORY! GLORY TO THE METAL-WORKERS!!!!

The End

#Benvenuto Cellini #abbreviated operas #Hector Berlioz #Léon de Wailly #Henri Auguste Barbier #opera #opera tag

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comeonpeters · 3 years

Text

i never forgot

bobby/trevor wilson-centric; mild angst fic / a conversation he’d never thought he would get to have.

Rose wouldn’t want him to come and accost her daughter with his presence, but he has to know. Rose was his friend, Rose saved his goddamn life, but the three of them, they were his- he knows the look of his- of the- of those boys. He knows what he saw. He knows. There’s a glowing light outside in the studio and he goes to it, knocks on the studio door, doesn’t let himself hesitate. Julie looks at him with tears in her eyes. He doesn’t know why. There’s no one else in the studio with her. He wishes there were.

“Mister Wilson?”

“Julie, you know you can call me- Trevor. Even if you and Carrie haven’t spoken lately, you can still call me Trevor,” he says, tripping over a name that he hasn’t been called since he was seventeen. She invites him into the studio with trepidation as if he hasn’t been there a thousand times, as if he didn’t used to own the place, as if he didn’t used to- as if it wasn’t his once. As if it wasn't theirs once. Even walking in here feels like twenty five years of grief is pressing down around him, but he walks in anyway. He doesn’t let his jaw shake, no matter how much it would like to. He does not let himself get angry, or sad, or small, no matter how much he would like to. Even thinking of- it makes him feel young. Seventeen. He misses Rose. He misses-. He can’t think.

“I saw you at the show. Thank you for coming. It was really nice of you to be there,” Julie says, trying to break the tension that has settled now between them. He doesn’t know how to broach the topic he needs to. How does he- there’s no way to accuse your dead friend’s daughter of playing in a band made up of your dead family is there?

“Of course I did. How could I not come and see you and the boys play?” is what he says, nonsensical and not what he meant, and he has been so collected since he picked himself up out of the gutter he threw himself into twenty five years ago, and he’s not handling this well. He needs to meditate. Or call his therapist. Or do any one of the thousand coping mechanisms that he’s learned over decades of therapy, but none of them come to mind, of course, because he’s looking his friend’s daughter in the eye as she flounders like a fish.

“The boys? Yeah, everyone is super impressed by the hologram band thing, right?! It’s, uh, it was really nice of you to come all this way, but it’s getting late, isn’t it?” Julie tries, and he should let her, he really should.

“Julie... are they ghosts?” he asks, again not exactly what he meant, and yet what he needs to know. She looks at him, alarmed. Then, a notebook, Luke’s fucking notebook, falls off of the piano, and the question might as well be answered for her.

“Oh, come on, guys, you couldn’t have kept it together until I got him out of here?” Julie says to someone he can’t see, and his heart shatters, just a little bit. Why can she see them? Why can’t he? Why couldn’t he ever see them? He had always- he had tried- why couldn’t he ever- his chest hurts. He wants to be sitting down, so he moves over to Luke’s couch (he remembers helping Luke carry it into the studio, they stole it off of the curb when some guy was just gonna throw it out, what a mensch) and he slumps down. They’re here. He just can’t see them.

“They’re here?” he asks, just to confirm. Julie nods. “I know they have things to say. They’ve never been the quietest bunch. What have they got?” He hasn’t done anything perfectly (save Carrie), and if anyone is gonna fight him tooth and nail on everything, it’s Luke Patterson.

“Well, a lot. Reggie’s first question, when they first found out who you were, was why you didn’t share anything with their families, and Luke wanted to know why you didn’t share the credit,” Julie says, looking at specific areas of air where he can guess the boys are. He wishes he could see them. He puts away the notion to sob, and laughs instead. He laughs because he can’t fucking imagine wanting to share anything with Luke and Reggie and Alex’s fucking families, can’t imagine wanting them to be able to look at the songs Luke wrote and think- wanting them to- fuck.

“Share with your families?” he says, speaking directly to the boys for the first time in twenty years, because he had done it a lot right after they died, and yet stopped when his therapist told him that it probably wasn’t helping. “Was I supposed to give money to Alex’s parents, who fucking kicked him out for being gay? Or Luke’s, who never believed in him, in us, in Sunset Curve, or the dream, or music? Or Reggie’s? How was I supposed to share with Reggie’s family when I knew how little he slept in that house? I was the last person left who loved every single part of all three of you, and I wasn’t going to give anything to anybody who ever made you feel- who ever- it’s been twenty five years, you’d think I would be ready for this conversation.”

“And what about the credit?” Julie asks, looking as if she wants to linger on previous parts of what he said, but Luke is definitely getting her to get him to move on. He appreciates that, snorting.

“I was 21 and my three best friends had been dead for four years. Rose... Rose convinced me to start making music again. She told me that I should pick out some of your unfinished songs, finish them up if I could, and see if I could make it big myself. I decided on Crooked Teeth because it was about Reggie, and My Name is Luke because it was about you, and Long Weekend because it was about Alex, I know it was, and Get Lost because it was about all of us. I figured... recording My Name is Luke, it was pretty obvious who it was by. Anybody could figure out who I was, that I used to be a member of Sunset Curve, that band that- yeah. You were dead, Lu. I didn’t. I didn’t expect to get you back.” He still doesn’t get to get him back, but this conversation, it’s more than he expected to have.

Julie clears her throat. He has to shake his head to return himself fully to the present. He hadn’t realized he had left it.

“Alex wants to know how you just... left them behind. It seems like after a certain point you just... moved on. You just forgot them,” Julie says, her tone reluctant. He knows her, and he knows that Alex must have insisted if she’s taking that tone; it’s the one she used to get when Carrie would convince her to do something not so straight laced and goodie two shoes. He shakes his head again.

“My daughter. Carrie. They’ve seen her, right?” he asks, wanting to get a confirmation from Julie. Julie snorts.

“They’re familiar, yes.”

“I was... spiraling. Before she was born. I wasn’t meant to be famous without the three of you. Everything was too much and not enough and there were so many people and none of them were the three of you, and you were dead. My family. All three of you stayed in my garage, and I don’t think you ever questioned why nobody ever asked questions about that. No one was around to. My parents were always gone, one business trip or another, one affair or another, and after I got on the road, it just got worse. Nothing real, nothing tangible. When I found out Carrie’s mom was pregnant, I had to beg her to keep the baby, and pay her through the nose besides. Carrie and Rose, after Carrie was born and I didn’t know how to take care of a baby, saved my life. And Julie. Do you know what Carrie’s full name is?” he asks, because he knows that she knows, and he nudges her with his shoulder just a bit like he used to do when she was younger. She gives him a ghost of the smile she used to have when she was younger too.

“Carrie Sunset Wilson,” she says, barely above a whisper. He nods.

“It was the only way to name her after all three of them. Named my little girl after all three of my brothers. And she saved my life,” he says again, because she did. She’s the best thing that ever happened to him, his little girl. He stopped making music entirely when she was born, road the money and went to gender inclusive Mommy and Mes and bought a big house where she could make friends (she already had a built in best friend, because Julie is three months older than her, they all lost Rose together, they’ll come back together), he does everything for her, still. He’s lost in his head again.

“What about-”

“He’s had enough,” a new voice says, a terrifyingly familiar voice says, and there’s a hand on his shoulder that wasn’t there before and he looks up and Reggie Peters is there. He’s just standing there, like he’s allowed to just stand there, like he’s not dead, like he hasn’t been dead for longer than he was alive, and a sob breaks out of Robert Trevor Wilson’s chest before he can contain it. He stands up and he wraps himself around a seventeen year old boy that he hasn’t seen since he himself was seventeen, and he feels like he’s going to crack apart. Reggie. His brother. His best friend. His family. His family. His family. Another body wraps around his back and he knows Luke’s stupid sleeveless fucking shirts even against his back and twenty five years late and he sobs some more. Alex hugs him too and he breaks into full fledged tears. Everything is okay. Nothing is okay.

“I never forgot. I never ever forgot. I would never forget you,” he says it like a mantra, and everyone knows it’s true.

#bobby wilson #trevor wilson #bobby jatp #jatp #julie and the phantoms #i sobbed while writing this #julie molina #reggie peters #luke patterson #alex mercer #carrie wilson #mine

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revolutionary-demosthenes · 4 years

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John Laurens’s ideal Republic has yet to be realized... in 2020

So I was reading through John Laurens’s June 16th 1776 letter to Francis Kinloch. This letter is mostly known for its particularly vengeful and aggressive passages, such as Laurens’s closing of “as Sincerely as a Republican can be to a Royalist” and “I hate the Name of King.”

But as I read through it, something else kept popping out at me... how much Laurens expresses ideas still considered “radical” now. And how much his ideas of what the American Republic would look like still have yet to be realized. In the post I’ll go through the relevant passages in the letter, and talk about them a bit. (And note that whenever I quote the letter, I’m quoting it from the transcription on @john-laurens‘s blog here, and there’s also a microfilm version online if you’d like to see the actual letter.)

The context for the letter: Kinloch sent Laurens a letter, which based on the points Laurens seems to be refuting in this letter, was essentially pro-monarchy arguments and refutation of Republics. (I can’t find the full letter, only the closing and opening.) The letter from Kinloch was also the one where he “ended things” with Laurens, probably leading to the abnormally aggressive and much less affectionate tone in Laurens’s return letter.

Anyway! The first part in the letter I want to talk about is as follows:

“If you mean by Mediocrity, the Government of a Man’s Passions, the continual Sacrifice of private Interest to public Good from which kind of Conduct, a Happiness which Riches cannot give, results to the Individual, and Strength and Grandeur are ensur’d to the State, I agree with you that it is required in the Government to which I give the preference_”

“Sacrifice of private interest to public good” why did this man fucking die why why why again ties into Laurens’s detestation of wealth inequality, but also tells us that he was thinking about this in a broader sense as well. He, or at least the form of government he preferred, valued the “public Good” over “private interests.”

“...a Happiness which Riches cannot give...” is not quite like Laurens’s other wealth equality statements. He is not saying that wealth should be equalized-- he is pointing out that it takes more than money to be happy. But again, the context of this means Laurens is also saying that a republic would bring happiness from things other than money-- and Laurens does seem to be implying that it is a greater happiness than that derived from “Riches.”

This, in particular, is very interesting to look at, because of course Laurens was very rich. And especially at the time, money was believed to be where happiness, or at least ease of life, came from. But here’s John Laurens, son of Henry Laurens, declaring that there is a “Happiness which Riches cannot give.”

This is total and complete speculation, but I also wonder if this hints a bit at Laurens’s mental state at the time, which, judging by this letter even, was probably not great. Even if he did not mean this in a conscious way, perhaps this was partly Laurens expressing frustration over people assuming his life was perfect because he was rich. Laurens was incredibly privileged in his lifetime, but at this time his younger brother had died recently, his boyfriend had just broken up with him, and of course having had a gay relationship must have been incredibly stressful and I would guess Laurens had many very conflicting feelings over it. This is probably reading way too much into this. Main point: Laurens did not, unlike many others, believe that money was the key to happiness. This passage actually seems to imply Laurens thought happiness was greater when not derived from wealth.

“...under a Republican Government there is the fullest Scope for Ambition directed in it’s proper Channel, in the only Channel in which it ought to be allowed, I mean for the Advancement of Public Good_ need I desire you for proof to turn to the Histories of Ancient Republics_ no_ your Memory will present to you Instances enough of Men vying with each other in the glorious Service of their Country and receiving distinguished Marks of Approbation from her_ Does this noble Emulation, or it’s consequent pure Rewards, shock the Spirit of Democracy_ no_ but the Ambition of acquiring greater Riches than the rest of ones fellow Citizens, the establishing that odious Inequality of Fortunes, Source of Luxury and Wretchedness in Society_ or that of usurping more power than the Laws allow_ such pernicious Ambition shocks the equitable Spirit of a Republic and the Selfish Enemy to his Country, in whose Conduct it appears, must fall under the wholsome Rigour of the Law_”

Well, firstly and most clearly, this is yet another example of Laurens expressing wishes for the equalization of wealth. I take especial pleasure in his labeling the inequality of wealth “odious,” a word which is defined as “extremely unpleasant; repulsive.” This is probably the most vehement criticism of the inequality of wealth Laurens ever expressed.

And then there’s the bit that hits the hardest. (For me, anyhow.) “[The ambition] of usurping more power than the Laws allow_ such pernicious Ambition shocks the equitable Spirit of a Republic and the Selfish Enemy to his Country, in whose Conduct it appears, must fall under the wholsome Rigour of the Law_” And this is quite plain, and pretty simple. John Laurens did not believe anyone in the new American government should seek or obtain more power than the laws explicitly dictated. This could even imply that Laurens did not believe anyone should even want to have more power than was lawful. And that makes me think he’s been turning in his grave for about the past... four years.

“To be confounded with Tradesmen, and mean Mechanics, you add, would give pain to Men of Education and feeling_ I know not how a Man of Education and Talents would be lost undistinguished in an ignorant Herd, unless by his own Neglect_ for he has it in his power to do his Country more eminent and essential Service, and thereby entitles himself to more signal Rewards_ these Rewards I grant you are not calculated to enrich the Individual and introduce all the odious and destructive Consequences of Riches_ but they are fully satisfactory to a Virtuous Mind_ surely no virtuous philosophic Mind will take Offence that the useful industrious part of the Community, should have their persons and properties equally protected with those of the most enlighten’d Men...”

So this does have some not-so-great things in it, like the usage of “ignorant Herd” to describe tradesmen, and, for that matter, that woman are not mentioned at all. And I would guess that Laurens was not including enslaved people here.

But again, Laurens is expressing an idea that still has yet to really be in place in modern America-- that the working class and the richer and/or more educated people “should have their persons and properties equally protected” under law, I would guess. Of course, Laurens does not go as far as to suggest that perhaps they should educate poorer people, but I feel it is still pretty significant he still is essentially implying that the rich and the poor should have equal protections in the new government. I mean, that’s applicable in the modern healthcare debate, in college and student debt debates, in the wealth tax debate, and in the crusade for criminal justice reform. (And I am 100% sure that Laurens would have approved of a wealth tax.)

And tying into that, in the above paragraph there is again a truly vicious attack on being rich. “these Rewards I grant you are not calculated to enrich the Individual and introduce all the odious and destructive Consequences of Riches...” This brings up two points but I’ll talk about the riches one first. So again, Laurens uses the word “odious...” but this time it is not to describe the inequality of wealth, but “riches” themselves! Like, Laurens really was against himself! He implies here that money will only lead to trouble! I’m really wondering if something specific happened to spark this, because many times in this letter Laurens has just completely rejected lots of money as being any sort of good... and he was... really rich. Like, this totally seems to be Laurens implying he’d be happier without so much money, so I wonder what was making him feel that way? Was it a guilt thing? Did he feel that it was causing him to be excessive? Was he upset that he was rich via his father? Or that the slave trade was where nearly all the money came from?

And then the second point Laurens brings up here is that the “Rewards” (which is pretty vague... I’m not sure precisely what he’s referring to here.) “are not calculated to enrich the Individual...” So again, being more broad and implying that most things should benefit the entire community rather than a single person. As you can see from the full sentence above, Laurens connects the “wealth inequality” and “private interest” points here. Based on context, Laurens could be talking about serving in the army here, which would definitely fit. And if that is the case, it brings up another question: if Laurens believed that serving in the army was tied into wealth equality and was a way to favor the public over the private, could that have been part of Laurens’s motivation to join the army? But perhaps he also believed it would compensate for his privledge.

This letter is the most complete picture I know of of what Laurens really did dream of for the New Republic. It makes the tragedy of his death even more profound. If Laurens could have convinced other people to go for some of these ideas, they could literally be written into the constitution. Imagine if even just one of the values Laurens expresses here had simply been the norm of the American Republic from the start. Even if these conversations were happening this early in our history.

I truly believe that in some ways Laurens could have been the Founding Father we desperately needed in the earliest days of our country-- the one who was not in it for the power, who believed in the strict rule of law, abhorred the abuse of power, who believed in economic equality, and was a fierce advocate of the then-radical idea of abolition.

#John Laurens #Francis Kinloch #essay #quote #quote analysis #and this is not to say Laurens was a saint by any means #I don't want this to come across as glorifying or idolizing #but on these particular issues #Laurens seems pretty remarkably enlightened #anyway hope this resonates especially with the election coming up in the US #and the debate tonight #essay 13

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winifredsandersonsbitch · 4 years

Text

“Den Mom”

Warnings: season 7 spoilers, drinking, implied sex.

Description: If you’re going to have a bunch of teenage girls over at your house who are basically just biding their time until a battle that will determine the fate of the world, then you might as well make sure they have a little fun.

You’ve always wanted to be a camp counselor. This isn’t exactly it, but hey. You’re not complaining. You’ll participate in the good fight anyway you can, and if that means setting up movie nights and taking the potentials to the mall, then so be it. It’s Buffy’s job to train them, but you remember exactly how difficult it was for her to accept that she was the Slayer. It’s best, you think, to ease the girls into it.

That’s how you and Spike get into your first real fight since he came back with a soul.

You’ve been tender with each other recently, both of you trying to prove that you do in fact know how to have a semi-normal functional relationship. He’s been through so much for you, given up everything, so you’ve been as gentle as possible. The perfect doting partner.

Except in your haste to be a good den mom, you might’ve let a few things slip about your relationship.

“I can’t believe you told them that,” Spike repeats when you apologize. He’s stalking down the sidewalk with his stupid vampire speed, which means he’s about twice as fast as you and you’re forced to run after him like an idiot.

“I’m sorry! I thought you’d be proud! You used to terrorize Xander with the details, I didn’t think that you’d mind if I shared just a little—”

“A little?” he scoffs without turning around. “You gave them the whole bloody story! No one’s going to take me seriously in there! Especially not your sisters.”

“They already knew most of it!”

“That’s not the point!”

You have no doubt that the girls are leaning out the windows of the house, gathering on the front porch in an effort to hear the rest of this argument. The two of you are certainly being loud enough, although you’re almost all the way down the street now.

“Spike, I was only trying to have some fun with them. Teenage girls love gossip, especially about boys, and they’re so interested in you—”

The flattery gets you nowhere. He whirls around the corner and you let out a frustrated sigh. You’re almost certain he’s going to the graveyard, which has become your least favorite place over the years. You tolerated it when he had his own crypt—it even became kind of cozy—but now, there’s nothing there for you.

In your hesitation, you lose him. You fully consider going home. But after having all that girl talk about your relationship and the potentials telling you how lucky you are, you don’t especially want to face them after a fight that woke the whole block.

Still, it’s not safe for you to be out on your own. You always keep a stake and holy water in your jacket, but that won’t be enough if the First decides to send something after you. With this in mind, you hurry to Xander’s to ask if you can crash there for the night. Normally, you’d consider it rude to come over uninvited, but God knows he’s stayed over at the Summer’s residence enough times to rack up a bill.

It’s a weekend, and even in a town with as many dangers as Sunnydale, there are people out and about. Not many, but enough to make you feel a little safer. Whole crowds wouldn’t stop the First from trying something, but you’re comforted by the living. The Bronze is open and although it’s not as full as it once would’ve been, the music is good and people are dancing. It reminds you of better, easier days when the world ending could be solved by Buffy and Co. instead of an entire army that might not win anyway.

One drink, you tell yourself. You’ll hit the bar, grab something light-ish, and then be on your way.

“You here by yourself tonight?” the bartender asks when you sit down.

“Not for long,” you say, pulling out an emergency twenty. When he smiles, you backtrack, realizing how you must sound. “I mean–– Not like that. I’m not looking for anyone. I just wanted a quick drink.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really.”

“It’s like the Hotel California in here. No one comes in for one anything.”

When he sets down your drink and moves on, you down it quickly. Determined to prove him wrong, you head for the door. Only–– the music tonight is so inviting and you’ve been so focused on the girls lately. You join the crowd on the floor before you’ve even made a conscious decision. Two, three, four songs later you’re sweaty and laughing as you finally exit back out into the cool night.

It’s late now. Xander might not even be awake. You’re willing to bet money that the girls will be, though, and you take the risk. Sunnydale is a small town. You know you can make it to the apartment in maybe ten minutes.

You’re feeling good about this decision and don’t even snap at the man who bumps you on the sidewalk, until he opens his mouth to reveal a nasty set of fangs.

“Excuse you.”

“You know what? Just for that, I’m going to bite you.”

He lunges at you, but you’ve already got the stake out of your jacket pocket and you slam it into his heart. It takes more muscle to do this than Buffy ever lets on, makes your wrist ache a little with the effort, but he’s dust soon enough. The vamp doesn’t concern you so much as your boyfriend, who stepped out of the shadows when things got rough.

Spike tries to retreat, but it’s too late. You wrinkle your nose at him.

“You followed me?” You put the stake back in your pocket and shake the cremation off yourself. “I thought you wanted your space.”

“That doesn’t mean I wanted you dead. You should’ve gone home.”

“I was going to stay at Xander’s.”

“It wasn’t enough to tell the girls all of our problems? You have to tell him, too?”

He’s poking the bear, but there’s no heat in his words, so you turn right around and resume your walk. You’re not taking the bait. If he wants to talk about this, then you can talk. Tomorrow.

“Stop following me. I can take care of myself. Obviously.”

There’s no response. If you spun around now, you wouldn’t see him. You wouldn’t hear his footsteps either. But you know he’s there. Spike’s never given up that easily.

“I wasn’t telling anyone our problems,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him, though you know he can hear you. “I wanted them to like me.”

The girls worship Buffy, even if they do think of her as a kind of demanding drill sergeant, and they hang out with Dawn. They all giggle over Spike and ask Willow all sorts of questions about witchcraft. But you worry that they think of you as the same stiff older sibling you’ve always been, the one who reminds them about lights out and takes requests for the grocery list and agonizes over money. You want them to have fun while they still can and you want to be part of that fun.

“You were bragging.” Spike appears next to you, light-footed as a cat, and you flinch. You’ve never gotten used to that and he knows it. “You wanted them to be impressed with you, so you used me.”

He’s actually preening, spiking up his hair with his hands and subtly flexing underneath all that jacket. You roll your eyes.

“That is not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant. You knew that they all had little crushes on me and you wanted to make them jealous, show them that you were at least cool enough to land me.”

“First of all, Kennedy is gay. Second, I was not trying to make them jealous! And if I was, then I would use my savings account, or my job, or my many skills and hobbies!”

You’ve quickened your pace and Spike matches it casually. When you get stuck at a stoplight, briefly considering jaywalking just to cut this torture short, he wraps his palm around your upper arm.

“No need to be embarrassed, love.”

He’s trying to get you to look at him, passing his thumb gently over the cloth of your jacket, allowing you to imagine what it would feel like on skin. You keep yourself focused on the destination, but you don’t pull away.

“I’m not.”

“I think you are, a little, but it’s all right.”

“I said I’m not.” You pivot to glare at him, but he catches you off guard with his eyes. He’s so clearly laughing at this, at you. You guess he has a right to. This time was your fault.

“Why don’t you come back to the house with me?” he asks after a minute or two have passed. “I guarantee I can make you more comfortable than Xander. And it’ll give the girls something to talk about, too.”

“You’re awful.”

“All you had to say was no.”

He heads back toward the cemetery in a dark flash and he’s halfway down the block before you call out, “Wait!”

#spike x reader #btvs #buffy season 7 #buffy the vampire slayer

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1899-newsboy-strike · 4 years

Text

Keeping You A Secret - Sprace Imagine

Warnings: homophobia, internalized homophobia, implied smut

Summary: Spot never understood why the universe hated him, and he made sure to keep his soulmate a secret.

———————————–

Babies were always born with their soulmate's name on their wrist, staying faint until they hit puberty when it finally started to get darker. Spot was lucky to have the name so faint for many years, but the second it had become eligible his father didn’t want to have anything to do with it. His parents became hostile toward him, putting him down for something that he didn’t have any control over. He’d learned to despise the name, Anthony Higgins. He couldn’t help but feel hatred toward his soulmate because of the problems it had caused him ever since it’d appeared.

Months after Anthony’s name appeared on Spot’s wrist his father would throw slurs at him, telling him that it was wrong. Sometimes he’d forget, almost acting civil toward Spot until he caught the name in the corner of his eye. Spot couldn’t remember the amount of times he got lectured about the name from his father. His mother had been different, showing her support whenever his father wasn’t around, but that was no use. Spot had always looked up to his father ever since he could remember, and to not have his support put Spot in a bad pace with the situation that he was now in.

Years after the mark appeared Spot started to admire it in secret, feeling ashamed of himself for even wondering who Anthony may be. Everyday Spot found different ways to hide the name on his wrist, whether it was wearing long sleeves, bracelets, or even make up. Spot was adamant about telling all of his friends that he didn’t have a soulmate, always ignoring and avoiding the topic anytime it came up. It hadn’t been until Spot had started to fall for his best friend that he was a bit more okay with the name on his wrist. He thought if he could have a crush on someone, surely there could be mistakes with the name that would appear on someone’s wrist.

“Spot, are you listening?” Race asked from across the lunch table making Spot snap out of his thoughts. He looked over at Race with a questioning look, and Race scooted closer. “Can I come over today? My parents are going at it again. Maybe we can play games like we used to?” Race asked, a small smile forming on his face at the thought.

Spot tried to ignore the butterflies he got in his stomach when he’d seen Race’s smile, only giving him a shy nod and a small yes. He’d stopped inviting Race over as soon as he realized he’d had a crush on him, only having him come over when he suggested it himself and it had felt like years since he’d gone over. Spot could feel the blush forming once he’d remembered the amount of nights he spent secretly masturbating in his room and Race’s name slipped from his lips.

Race followed Spot after school to his car, climbing into the passenger side, and the rest of the ride was quiet, the only noise that filled the car was the radio. Spot couldn’t get the thoughts out of his head no matter how hard he tried to push them away. It didn’t help when Race would start quietly humming along and reaching over to playfully punch him and make his heart flutter. It was like a breath of fresh air once he parked the car and got out, putting some distance between him and Race

“Race! You haven’t been over in a while how have you been?” Spot’s mom asked as soon as they both walked in, stopping them dead in their tracks.

“Mrs. Conlon, I’ve been good, I hope you’ve been the same.” Race gave her a polite smile before getting dragged away by Spot. They threw their backpacks to the side, plopping down on Spot’s bed, grabbing controllers to play. They did quietly for about an hour before Spot’s mom knocked on the door and they had to pause it.

“Sean I’m going to work, I left money on the counter if you boys wanted to buy pizza for dinner.” Spot’s mom peeked her head around the corner of the door smiling at both of them. “Stay as long as you’d like Race, I’m sure Sean wouldn’t mind giving you a ride to school tomorrow if you stay over.” She explained and Race nodded slowly, trying to process the name he’d just heard.

Race knew Spot’s last name was Conlon, and he knew that so many other people were out there with the same last name. He also knew Spot didn’t have a soulmate, or that’s what he’d told everybody. Race also knew the name on his wrist, said Sean Conlon, and that he’d had the biggest crush on his best friend ever since they’d met. He knew Spot wouldn’t have ever lied to him about having a soulmate… but there was something in him that was telling him otherwise. He did recall just how horrible Spot’s father was toward him, and he just never knew why, figuring it must’ve just been the way he’d decided to raise Spot.

It all seemed to click for Race in that moment. Why Spot never let anyone see his wrist. Why Spot always denied having a soulmate. Or the fact that anytime anyone mentioned him getting a girlfriend he’d get uncomfortable and defensive about not needing anybody. It made even more sense once Race wrapped his head around just how Spot had been acting around him. Spending less time with each other. Only talking during lunch when their friends were around. Race couldn’t help but hope he was right, but he wouldn’t know until he asked.

“Your name’s Sean?” Race asked, making Spot shrug.

“Yeah why?” He looked at Race, his eyebrows knit together.

“And… you don’t have a soulmate?” Race asked again, making Spot sigh in frustration.

“No, I don’t.” Spot replied defensively.

“So you wouldn’t mind showing me your wrist then?” Race asked, reaching for Spot’s arm that had always stayed covered.

“It’s none of your business what’s on my wrist Higgins.” Spot clenched his jaw, pulling his arm away.

“It’s not a big deal, everyone has it. What? They have a funny name or something?” Race asked, getting closer.

“I don’t have one!” Spot exclaimed and Race finally blurted it out.

“Anthony! My name’s Anthony.” Race explained quickly, watching as Spot froze and looked at him in shock. “Now, can I see your wrist. Please.” Race almost begged, but Spot wasn’t going to break that easily. Not now, not when all the years of lectures and dirty remarks and looks from his father were taking over any other thought he had.

“I’m not gay.” Spot managed to get out once he realized he hadn’t said anything.

“Then just show me. Really, it’s not a big deal.” Race explained scooting even closer.

“Race really, I’m not.” Spot almost begged. Begging for it to be a dream, begging for it to all somehow be a mistake, almost begging as though he was trying to convince no one but himself.

“That’s it.” Race muttered, lunging forward and pinning Spot to his bed. Spot was shocked for a second, but recovered and started fighting back against Race, both boys rolling around and trying to be the one on top. It was no use once Race tangled his legs with Spot’s. Being taller than him finally had his advantages and Spot laid there helplessly while Race rolled up his long sleeve and saw his name across Spot’s wrist. “You’ve been hiding from me Conlon.” Race whispered with a smirk, looking back at the boy, both of them staying quiet once they’d realized the position they were in.

Race leaned down, Spot’s eyes fluttering closed almost instantly, both of their lips meeting in the middle. Race smiled into the kiss, his fingers interlacing with Spot’s, his legs untangling and stradling Spot’s waist instead. As much as Spot tried to stop himself, he kissed back and his entire body felt warm and tingly. Part of him wanted to pull Race closer, run his fingers through his hair and pull at it to hear anything he could get from the boy above him, but that was when he’d finally realized just what they were doing.

“No.” Spot breathed out, pushing Race away from him, sitting up. “We shouldn’t, it’s wrong.” Spot explained, but his eyes said otherwise, looking down at Race’s lips before looking back up at his eyes.

“If it’s wrong then I don’t want to be right.” Race whispered, holding Spot’s face in his hands pulling him in for a passionate kiss. A small moan left Spot, his hands holding onto Race’s shirt tightly, his mind racing with emotions. He wasn’t sure if he should allow himself to feel this way, the years of denial and shame hitting him all at once, but the whole feeling he got when Race’s lips were against his made the feelings get pushed to the back of his mind.

Spot finally gave in, letting the feeling consume him. He wrapped his arms around Race’s neck, pulling him closer. All too soon they pulled apart, both of them panting trying to catch their breaths. Before Spot could process the kiss, Race’s lips were already kissing his jaw and making their way down his neck.

“Race.” Spot let out a small moan when Race started nipping at his neck. “Y-you can’t leave a mark. My dad will kill me.” Spot whimpered out when Race kissed his sweet spot.

“Then I’ll just have to do it somewhere that you can hide.” Race explained, grabbing Spot’s arm and started to leave soft kisses and sucked at the skin around his name on Spot’s wrist making a deep blush form on Spot’s face while he watched Race’s every move. “It’ll be our little secret.” Race whispered with a wink, pulling Spot in for another kiss.

———————————–

Tag List: @mathletemadison @hats-or-badges @theatrequeer @snakeyboimusical @mariah-vg @briefexpertgladiator @the-moon-looks-old-and-gray @neko-kaiyo

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hillbillyoracle · 4 years

Text

Dealing with Stress When You Live in a Rough Place

This isn't necessarily tarot or shadow work, but I wanted to write a little bit about strategies I've found useful for dealing with my neighborhood in it's current state. All of this can apply to managing stress generally but I'm focusing on folks in my boat. I'm incredibly sleep deprived so it's going to be rambly - I'm warning you now. But hopefully this helps someone.

I've shared a little bit about what's been going on in other posts; we hear shootings at least weekly, people will play loud music so loud the window rattle really late at night, all out brawls have broken out in the parking lot, our neighbors bang against the walls even in the middle of the night, most our neighbors have made it clear they don't like us because we're gay, we've had our car broken into at least 2 in the last month, kids have taken to beating our cars with sticks, climbing on and under them, screaming in front of our house, beating on our door and running off - like y'all it's a lot!

I talk about this so folks can know where I'm coming from. Some folks read this and they're horrified, some folks are going to read that and be like fuck that's tame. How hard a situation looks really does depend on what your normal is and how you were raised. For me, it's pretty intense. I was raised in out in the country so I didn't grow up living really close to people like I have to here in the city. And country neighborhoods have their own brand of rough, do not underestimate it, but most of what I've compiled here is going to be about living in close proximity with other people in areas with high crime rates.

Mindset Shifts

The Sooner You Accept Your Lack of Control - The Better

And I mean really accept it. Not just intellectually understanding that there's not anything you can do, but getting as okay with that as you can manage. For folks who are already traumatized that's a whole lot harder to do. Living in a space that traumatizes you daily will also make that harder as time goes on. But it's been some of the most important work I've done while living in a place that this. Sometimes I cope by being very public about what I'm going through, sometime I cope by

Sensory Management is Not a Luxury, It is a Necessity

This has become overwhelmingly clear to me that sensory overload in rough neighborhoods is a wildly underdiscussed health issue. There's measurable health differences in people who are exposed to a lot of noise versus those who aren't. I'm autistic so this is something I have to do just to function but I've seen a huge shift in my girlfriend's mental health since living here too. Take it seriously and try to attend to it just like you would any other health concern, making it a part of your routine. This is where adapting Polyvagal strategies has come in handy.

Good is Still Good Even If There's a Ton of Bad

There are very few moments of pure joy in a neighborhood like this. One of the reasons that a gratitude practice has been genuinely helpful is that it's shown me how much good can get swept away in the tidal wave of crap in a place like this. So that I don't feel helpless or internalize how worthless places like this are designed to make you feel, I try to resist by reflecting on the good. IT helps me feel like my life still has meaning while I'm living here and it's not a waste to be right where I am right now.

I Am Not Failing Myself For Not Getting Sleep, Food, Safe, Etc

I'm lucky that we've been good on food but sleep and safety have been in short supply. I realized I often felt like I was a bad person for being in this situation where I couldn't sleep, I criticized myself for not being able to sleep through all the noise and getting worked up. I have to remind myself daily that I'm not failing myself for what I can't really control. I'm not a bad person because of what people around me choose to do.

Polyvagal Strategies Adapted

Nature

Ideally, when you're trying to regulate your nervous system, you'd want to get out into nature more. It's just flat out not accessible or safe to do so here. I'm lucky that my room faces a nice tree and when I'm getting stressed, I take some time to just sit and really look at it. I try to notice the details. I also really enjoy feeding birds on my window sill. I invested in a big bag of bird seed with some Christmas money that's lasted me at least a year now but I used to get bags for about 5 dollars at Kroger. If you can't get close to nature, lure it to you.

Need something totally free? You can also pull up livefeeds of bird feeders on YouTube. I used to watch them when I couldn't walk to put out birdseed. Still very helpful. Nature cams in general are great. Put on a nature doc like Planet Earth. Change your computer and phone backgrounds to have natural landscapes. Even just sketching landscapes and having landscape are around your space can help.

If you can buy some soil, dig some up, or swipe some from a public garden bed, you can grow some small plants on your window sill. You can grow a lot of seeds from vegetables and some fruits you get at the store. You can also collect seeds from trees and try to grow them (it's difficult, plant several at a time). Take cuttings of plants you can identify as safe. Extension services will also sometimes send seeds for free. Taking care of a plant really helps us spend more time in the restorative part of our nervous system.

Sound

At the intersection of sound and nature is nature noises. If you're trying to block out your neighbors anyways, nature noises are the best option. I've had the best luck rain and storm sounds. Water noises in particular have a calming effect on our nervous system. If I really need to block something out I'll layer a rain generator over some music I like (rain sounds + Elliot Smith = a vibe).

Music in general can have different activating and calming effects on our nervous system. Pay attention to what music activates you and makes you more likely to be in conflict with people when you listen to it and what music makes you more social. Physically relaxation is harder for me personally to gauge. As a person with trauma I can't always tell when my body is relaxing or not. So paying attention to how I treat others helps me check myself.

Temperature + Touch

When we're warmer, we tend to feel more socially connected than when we're cold. Put on some extra clothes, pile on the blankets, take a bath, or grab a space heater if you have one. It's worth increasing the temp a little if you're stressed. Too hot and we can begin to feel crowded out. So if you're feeling the need to flee, it's worth trying to cool off a little. I usually do this by splashing some cool water on my face.

While we crave touch from others, touch from ourselves also helps calm our nervous systems! Jin Shin Jyutsu has been super helpful for me. There are a few videos online. I recommend searching Facebook for a woman local to me - Jennifer Bradley. I took one of her in person classes before the pandemic and it's been very helpful especially around sleep. I think the only place she's got her recent videos up is on her Facebook page but they're worth tracking down. She's a very good teacher and just a very soothing presence in general.

There's some evidence that just imagining being hugged or held is calming on the nervous system. Some goes for imagining ourselves out walking in nature. Don't be afraid to spend time daydreaming!

Breath + Movement

A lot of unsafe neighborhoods make common advice like going for a walk completely out of the question. However, even just moving more around your space can help. Yoga has been very helpful to me. My partner finds bodyweight exercises really help her. Any movement you feel good doing counts. Including movement you imagine yourself doing as well.

Breathing is movement, or seems to have a similar effect at least. I really recommend checking out a few breath work strategies to use. You've always got your lungs on you so it's easy to use. I like the in for 4 counts, hold for 7, release for 8 pattern. Breath is a direct line to the nervous system and I try to do a breathing pattern several times a day just to regroup.

Cognitive Strategies

Journal Like Your Life Depends on It

I'm not joking. TMS journaling - journaling stream of consciousness very intensely for about 20-30 minutes and then destroying what you've written - has been key not only to me surviving this place but having fewer Fibro flares than when I was living in much calmer places. But honestly all journaling is helpful. I've been keeping a daily journal in Notion and that alone has been helpful. Making sure I've gotten as much as possible off of my mind throughout the day has helped so much. Find a journaling strategy that allows you to take the cognitive load of (or a few) and practice them as often as you can. Not into journaling? I used to take videos of myself talking into the camera and save or delete them depending on whether I wanted to come back to them. Are words rough? Draw your feelings or scenes as you saw them.

Find the Story That Works

There are a bunch of conflicting ideas about what the right view of trauma and the story of it is. I personally really hate any narrative that places me as a victim. For better or worse, I like to look at what I've learned in any giving situation. So in my current situation, when I'm overwhelmed, I remind myself that I'm only getting a glimpse of what some people in places like this go through. It's increasing my empathy and expanding my awareness which allows me to better serve others. It's made me more committed to keeping my materials accessible over profiting. There's been a lot of benefit when I frame it that way. And that works for me. If that story isn't helpful for you - work to find a frame to narrate your experiences - as they're happening - that help you feel more whole.

Conclusion

I'm not sure if these strategies will work for other people but I wanted to at least have something out there than people could hopefully find if they're struggling with the same thing. Basically, if you can't fix it - manage it. Find ways to make the experience less traumatic if you're able to. Manage your sensory input. Do what you can with what you have where you are. Too many folks will tell you that you absolutely have to change your material circumstances before you can address mental health but for many of us that's just not possible. Or in the words of one of my favorite Buddhist teachers, Robina Courtin, "If you can do something, do something, but if you can't, what are you going to do?"

#polyvagal theory #trauma #urban poverty #coping methods #coping mechanism

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probskay · 4 years

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I hadn’t seem him in 10 years. His name was Tyler, and he was my first love.

The two of us met when we were maybe 12, and we were friends up until we were 15. We were more than friends for a while during that time.

I walked along the small country road that I knew I would see him again at. One of the last few times I saw him was here.

We laughed as we walked along. Mr. Smith wouldn’t even realise we had taken two stalks of grapes. He already had so many, that 2 wouldn’t be enough to slow him down.

“That was such a dumb idea,” I said to Tyler.

He laughed in response. “Caleb, if I ever lead you astray, I give you full permission to put me in a headlock and give me a noogie for 5 minutes.”

My uncle worked on a farm out in this rural land, and I would visit the farm every summer. I would normally only stay for a couple of weeks, but Tyler changed that.

Tyler moved in a year or two before I met him, but we hit it off right away. We would send letters to each other during the school year, and I begged my parents to let me stay at the farm for the whole summer after meeting him. Eventually, they let me.

“Caleb,” he said to me, covering my eyes, “you’re gonna love what you see next.”

He pulled his hands away from my eyes and I saw what he was so excited to show me. There was a blanket on the ground, surrounded by glow sticks. The field was dotted with old fence posts, some of which still held together pieces of fencing.

I tossed another grape in my mouth. “I don’t see what’s so impres-”

He interrupted me. “That’s because you set your sights too low.”

From behind, he lifted my chin and made me look up at the stars. There was the milky way. My jaw dropped, and a grape fell out.

Our letters were love letters, but we knew that there was a stigma against being gay. We’d both been called fags by the older boys enough times- despite both of us being rough and tumble country boys ourselves.

We kept our love hidden. Only kissing behind closed doors, in empty alleys, and at night. We’d only hold hands out in these empty fields, running through them to feel the wind in our hair and between our legs. I remember the warmth of his hand in mine.

“This is incredible!” I say to him. “I’ve never seen so many stars at once.”

Tyler chuckled. “You’ve never stayed long enough to really get out of the house this late.”

I turned around, tugged on his shirt collar to pull him close to me, and kissed him. He kissed me back. “Tyler, I don’t know how-”

He put a finger to my lips. “Shhh. You don’t have to. Let’s lay down.”

We were normally avoided getting into trouble, but that day was different. Neither of us had any money, but Tyler insisted on getting some of Mr. Smith’s grapes, anyway. He claimed they were the best grapes in the county, and that we needed them for the night to be perfect. I had never stolen before, but the rush I felt as we hauled ass away from the scene of the crime was just incredible. Mr. Smith really did have so many grapes that there was no way he’d notice the small basket’s worth of grapes that we took.

We laid on the blanket and sat in silence, staring at the stars, hand in hand, eating grapes.There was so much majesty in the sight. There was a beauty to be seen in that night sky that I had never known before.

“Caleb?” Tyler asked.

I spit out a grape seed.“Yeah?”

“I wish every night could be like this.” He paused. “For us.”

There was a pain in his voice when he said ‘for us.’ I knew exactly what he meant. I didn’t say anything.

I stopped visiting after that summer. I wasn’t allowed to. The official reason was because we had stolen Mr. Smith’s grapes. I always wanted to believe that was the real reason, the only reason. Stealing was a crime, I knew that. Loving wasn’t, though.

“Caleb,” Tyler said. “I have an idea.”

“What’s that?” I asked him.

“Let’s come back to this field in 10 years time. The seeds we’ve been spitting out? those will grow, and we’ll be able to make wine with them and drink ourselves happy.”

I laughed. “That is such a dumb idea.”

He smiled. “I didn’t hear a no.” We kissed. It got more intense. Neither of us was a virgin before the next morning.

There it was, a patch of wild grapes, growing on an old and probably rusty fence. I had to give Tyler credit, his idea wasn’t well thought out, but it did work. There were probably only enough grapes here for a glass and a half of wine. I imagine Tyler would say something like “That’s more than enough for us.”

We got separated after that night. Mr. Smith knew some of his grapes had been stolen, and followed our footprints the next morning. He found two boys as naked as the day they were born, sleeping in each other’s arms. My uncle was furious. He had a lot of choices words, and I won’t recount them here. We’ve all heard them more than enough.

I remembered the date, though. I resolved to come back in 10 years. I would be 25, graduated from college, and completely financially independent. Enough time would pass, nothing could stop me from being gay and loving myself. I was single at the time, but didn’t know if Tyler would be. I wasn’t going to push for anything, but I knew I wanted to see him again.

I waited for hours out by those wild grapes. I picked more than my fair share, to make a wine with them, and just sat out there and waited for Tyler. The battery on my phone kept dropping lower and lower, until it died at 10:43 PM. I lost track of time after that, but it didn’t matter, because I fell asleep around that time, too.

“Caleb?” A voice spoke out. I was slow to to get up, and didn’t quite remember where I was. Seeing Tyler’s face reminded me instantly. I could see every way in which that face I fell in love with had changed.

“I didn’t think you’d actually show up,” Tyler said. “I thought I was joking myself. I’ve been coming out here every year since you were taken away. I never expected to see you, but today was 10 years and I let my heart get the better of me, even thought I knew it’d end in heartbreak. I was preparing myself for the worst, but here you are in the flesh, real, and- You’re not a ghost are you? I swear, if you’re a ghost I will-”

I put a finger to his lips. “Shhh. Hey. I’m not a ghost. I’m real. I didn’t expect to see you either.”

Tyler grabs my wrist, gently. It’s familiar. He smiles and begins to laugh. “You told me you didn’t believe that these grapes would grow in 10 years!”

I smile too. “I didn’t say a no.”

#gay romance #gay #gay fiction #queer fiction #short story #short fiction #flash fiction #country #milky way #romance #mlm #stars #stargazing #love

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overheardatthecontinental · 4 years

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Part of the Endlessly collection that describes the endless possible meetings of Helen and John Wick. Can be read as a standalone.

When Helen realizes she'll have to drop out of med school after spending all her life's savings on her sick mother, she reaches a new level of desperate. With the help of her roommate, Helen creates an online account to get set up with a sugar daddy. Enter John Wick.

AKA the sugar baby! Helen / sugar daddy! John au that absolutely nobody asked for

Helen Kingston stared into the mirror. She was wearing enough makeup to hide the fact she hadn’t slept the night before and a little black dress she hadn’t touched since college. She had to admit, she didn’t look terrible. Even fifteen years later, the dress still clung to her curves and made her feel attractive.

But there were laugh lines around her eyes when she smiled and her skin didn’t look as tight as it had once been.

“Don’t men want younger women? Clear-skinned undergraduates or twenty-somethings with huge tits?”

“You’d be surprised .” Mac, her best friend had said after suggesting it. “It’s not about sex.”

Helen had snorted at that. It was always about sex.

“I’m serious! Some of these guys are just lonely. Some of them are gay and looking for a beard. And some just want to make it look like they have their lives together without actually having to have a relationship. ”

Helen wondered, not for the first time if this was not still a form of prostitution. Selling herself, her time and, for appearances' sake, her body.

But she was going to lose her apartment if she couldn’t pay rent. She would have to drop out of med school and go back to working full-time in a pharmacy. It had taken her years to save enough money to go to graduate school and all of it had been lost in the space of six months.

MacKenzie had interfered, as she so often did, insisting that she couldn’t handle three more years of med school without her friend.

Then Mac had said, “I know about this service. It pairs women with rich men and it pays ridiculously well. It’s how I managed to pay for undergrad.”

“I’m not going to fuck someone to stay in school. It isn’t worth it to me.”

Mac had rolled her eyes, “The fucking is optional. Most of the time, it’s not even on the table.”

She had continued to insist that she wasn’t interested until Mac pulled up the site and showed Helen the listings. “You get a grand for a single date, Hel.”

“Fuck me.” Helen had sat down at the computer, “ You’re kidding me?”

“Nope. And that’s just the initial meeting. Technically, you only get $900. The site gets a 10% commission off of whatever you make. And there’s no contract at the first meeting. If you don’t like the guy, you still get 9-hundos for two hours of your time.”

And for a woman who hadn’t had a full meal in weeks… that was ridiculously appealing.

So she let Mac set her up a profile and was shocked at the requests for meetings that came in.

“If I just took five initial meetings, I could make $4,500.”

“Possibly more, depending on the guy. I’m telling you, I had this regular guy in college who paid me extra for exclusive rights. I got two grand a week on top of money for individual dates.”

Helen exhales in the mirror. She looks as good as she is going to, she thinks, before grabbing her purse and slipping on her high heels shoes. Grabbing the keys to her POS car, she heads out.

It’s an hour drive into the city and to the restaurant he had picked.

His name was John.

There was no picture posted but his age was listed as early-forties.

If his description were honest, which she doubted, he had black medium length hair, brown eyes, and a beard. He selected ‘average’ for build and his height was listed at 6’1. His employment is listed as ‘contractor’, whatever the hell that meant.

He had sent her a polite request for a meeting.

Unlike so many of the other requests she had received, he did not wax poetic about her looks nor did he include any torrid ideas about what he wanted to do to her.

It was simple, respectful, and to the point. He proposed a time and a place and offered to send a car, which she declined. She still wasn’t sure that she trusted the service and, despite the cost of gas, she had just enough to get her there. And, once at the restaurant, $900 would be wired to her account.

She arrived early enough to park in a lot that stopped charging after six pm and Helen walked the rest of the way to the restaurant.

Maybe, she thinks as her anxiety builds with every step, that this was a bad idea.

Mac knew where she was so, hopefully, she wouldn't be murdered but...

Oh god… she could get murdered.

Well, at least that would take care of her debt.

She took her phone as she walked and shot off a text to Mac. "If I die, I'm haunting you."

She started to slip it back in her purse but it began ringing.

It's Mac.

"What?"

"You're not going to die."

"It's a possibility." The restaurant was in sight. "I'm strangely not that concerned. Either I die or I don't."

"That's the spirit."

"That said, if I end the night in someone's trunk, I blame you for getting me into this."

"Are you alive when you're put in this dude's trunk?"

"That's an interesting game you pose. Schroedinger's' Helen. Dead and alive in the trunk."

She heard a snort and glanced up. A man stood by the front of the restaurant with a smirk on his face.

He was tall and handsome and that smirk should be illegal. In a three-piece black suit, he looked like he just stepped off the cover of GQ.

"I don't get it."

"Well, I'm sorry it went over your head, but I assure you, I'm very funny."

The man's smirk transformed into a full grin and… fuck.

Helen looked away so as not to flush under his gaze. She reminded herself that she is there to meet someone who is paying very well for her time.

"You're really not." Mac told her but she barely listening.

Mister Tall-dark-and-handsome was making his way over.

"Helen Kingston?" He asked.

And...fuck.

"John?" She replied, hoping she was wrong. Hoping that the attractive man she just talked about being murdered and thrown into someone's trunk in front of is not the man she is going on a date with.

But he nodded and Helen decided she is, indeed, fucked.

"Ohmigod is that him?"

"If it would bring you and your friend comfort, I can assure you that you won't end up in my trunk."

Her goal to not flush in front of the attractive man was lost. Her face was red as she murmured a quick goodbye to Mac and stuffed her phone away.

"Hi," She said, lost and unsure of how to proceed.

He looked younger than his forties but it appeared as though he was mostly honest.

He had shoulder-length black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were brown and soft. In fact, the only argument she could think of was that he was anything but average. Even under layers, she could make out a trim and toned body.

This wasn't an ugly rich man who struggled to meet women.

Her first thought goes to beard. Is he hiding the fact he's gay and looking to keep his secret covered?

She can't think of another reason that he couldn't get a date. Unless he was a tremendous ass but her gut said that wasn't the case.

"Hello." He greeted back.

“Any chance you’d be willing to start over?” Helen asked hopefully.

“We could, but I think it would be a shame to not speak about Shrodinger’s Helen.”

Helen ran a hand through her hair. It was a fair blow but she still finds herself turning pink yet again.

John offered his arm, “Let me get you a drink.”

Helen takes it, “Yes. Please.”

They walk inside and John gives his name. Immediately, they are brought to a private corner of the dining room, far away from prying ears.

John held out the chair for her and Helen wondered if she wasn't in over her head with the kind of lifestyle that includes candlelit dinners and wine lists.

The waiter recited the specials and John ordered a bottle of wine which could not come fast enough.

Helen could still feel the burn in her cheeks as she glanced through the menu. She had never been to a restaurant before that didn’t include their prices next to the item in question. That, along with thorough descriptions of each item, made her think that the restaurant was far bougie-r than she had initially thought.

It was a good thing John was paying.

The waiter came back and poured them each a glass and she itched to down in a single gulp. But she didn’t, allowing the waiter to take their orders and leave before reaching for the glass.

Helen took a large sip and was aware that she was under the scrutiny of her date. He gazed at her with something akin to wonder or curiosity. It was far more intimidating than she had imagined, sitting at her computer.

“Relax.” John said, picking up his own wine glass, “You have the control here.”

Helen exhaled. Damn right.

“I think it’s obvious I haven’t done this before.”

“It’s okay. Neither have I.”

That surprised her. “Really?”

He nodded his head, once. “This is a first for me.”

“Can I ask… why now?”

“You can ask whatever you like. And to be honest, I don’t date. It’s never been a priority for me, but my work often requires attending social and formal events. I usually don’t mind attending alone but I’m getting tired of colleagues trying to set me up.”

And… it’s excessive to be sure, but practical. Helen knew she wasn’t in any place to judge but she had still been expecting someone… older, unattractive, and unpleasant.

“So you’re looking for someone to attend events with?”

“More or less. Were you interested, I would want to spend some time and get to know you beforehand.”

Again, practical.

What she did not understand was why he had reached out to her . There were plenty of other women on the site, Mac for instance, who had experience in that world. Mac knew how to waltz and curtsy and be proper. A practiced set of niceties that came from growing up with money.

Helen did not have those skills. Or any skills that seemed applicable to the world of wealthy men.

“I admit that I don’t have much experience with formalities.”

“I saw on your profile.” He said, appearing largely unaffected.

“Then why me? There are plenty of other women who specialize in that kind of world.”

“Anyone can figure out which fork to use. But not everyone has read Camus and Kierkegaard and Sartre. Not everyone can make jokes about being locked in a trunk and compare it to Shrodinger.”

Helen blinked, her lips twitching in a small grin, “You picked me because I like existentialism?”

“Because I thought that anyone who lists Camus as their favorite author would be able to hold a decent conversation.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s a guarantee.” Helen fired back. “Perhaps I’m just a narcissist. I am in med school, after all.”

John grinned widely, “Well, then, at least this will be interesting. What year are you in?”

“My second. Two and a half more to go before residency.”

“And what did you do before?”

“I was, and am, a pharmacy tech. It paid well and it gave me some medical experience while I saved for med school. Unfortunately, I ran into some financial issues and I really don’t have another ten years to save before I start over.”

John nodded, “May I ask about what happened?”

There was no reason, she decided, to not put everything out on the table. “My mother got sick just after I started med school. Cancer. I supported her the best I could but after paying for treatments out of pocket, I had blown through my savings within a couple months. Between that and school payments, I quickly ended up in over my head.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. It must have been very frightening to have your life altered so drastically, so quickly.”

“It was.” Helen agreed, “I’ve always known that anything can happen at any time but it was the first time I really felt my entire life slip from my control.”

“Is that how you ended up here?”

On the site. At the restaurant. Not a judgment, just an assessment.

“Yes. I’m a bit short on school payments and Mac, my roommate, suggested this as a solution.”

He nodded and Helen reached for her wine again.

Thankfully, John turned the subject to simpler things and she exhaled in relief. “Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Yes. Ever since I was a kid, I knew I wanted to be a doctor.”

“Area of specialty?”

“Honestly, I’d like to work in a trauma ward or an emergency room.”

And for whatever reason, that made him smile. “Fast-paced.”

“I’ve waited a long time to make it to med school. I don’t want to waste any more time.” She offered a small smile in return, “What do you do?”

“I’m an independent contractor,” John told her.

“Doing what?”

“Whatever needs to be done.”

Helen inclined her head, “Are you always so elusive or is this just a first meeting kind of thing?”

“My work is… complicated,” John said, thoughtfully.

“Is that a polite way of saying illegal?”

His lips twitched and his eyes seemed to shine.

Helen flushed, "I'm sorry. That was inappropriate. Sometimes, when I'm sleep deprived, I don't think before I speak."

"That was delightful," John argued, "please don't feel like you need to hold back, however, you said you're sleep deprived?"

She shrugged her shoulders, "usually. Work, school, and homework tend to take more hours than there is time in the day. But don't think I haven't noticed that you still have not answered my question."

John continued to stare at her, assessing. And then, just when she thought he would elude her again, he answered with a simple, "Yes."

Helen gave him a nod but remained silent as the waiter returned with their salads.

"How do you feel about that?" John asked as the waiter left them in their private corner again.

"It requires less effort to condemn than to think.

And John grinned a full, true smile that made her heart skip a beat.

"Emma Goldman."

"I think I butchered her words, but I believe it just the same."

"Tell me, sweet Helen, are you an anarchist?"

It was unfair, she decided, the way he could make her cheeks burn.

"I am not sure I fully align with any political thought. I'll admit that anarchy has its merits, but laws have their place."

"Laws can be confining."

"They can but, since we have yet to find a system that works, majority rule is the best we have."

"Unless you take into account the collective stupidity of mankind, in which case, majority rule can be just as harmful as anything."

"But what would you have to replace it? Rules are necessary, a contract is required."

"Rules or consequences?" He seemed genuinely interested in her opinion and it completely threw her from the small talk she had anticipated.

By the time their dinner had arrived, Helen had forgotten that it wasn't a real date. That their meeting was not chance but an arrangement.

She was more than full after her meal, feeling as though she would burst. She ordered dessert only for the sake of lengthening their conversation, which stemmed from politics to philosophy to art.

John was… brilliant. Utterly brilliant and completely captivating and… not what she had planned for.

He walked her to her car, even though she warned him it was blocks away. He carried her leftovers in one hand while the other rested at her lower back.

Anyone who saw them might think they were an actual couple.

It made her heartstrings ache because… they weren't a couple. This wasn't a real date.

As if she had time for such luxuries.

All too soon, they reached her car and Helen put the leftovers in the front seat before turning back to John.

"I had a wonderful time with you tonight."

Helen swallowed, noting his proximity. "I had a great time too."

"And I would like to see you again. My only concern," John said after a moment, "is timing. You already have work, school, and obligations that come from your studies. I worry that time spent with me would be subtracted from your sleep."

Helen flushed and tried to not let the disappointment show on her face.

He was wonderful. Smart and funny and a perfect gentleman. Perhaps the most handsome man she had ever gone out with.

But she understood.

She came with too much baggage.

He needed someone with fewer commitments, someone better suited to his needs.

"I understand." She said, looking down. "Thank you for a lovely evening."

"I think you misunderstand," and John stepped closer and caught her chin in his hand and angled her face upward, his dark eyes staring into hers. "I have a proposal for you and I hope, in offering such, that I do not come across as if I'm trying to manipulate you or your life. You still hold all the cards and still have the opportunity to walk away if you desire."

It was hard to breathe with him so close. He smelled like whiskey and cologne and it made her salivate.

"What's your proposal?"

God, he stood so close to her now.

“I know that my situation is less than ideal. What I do,” which he still had not told her, “is highly illegal. Many of my associates are criminals, even if they are widely respected. Between the time constraints and the subpar company, I know I ask a lot. In return, I would like you to consider allowing me to play for the rest of your schooling.”

Her lips parted in shock.

“And expenses. So you don’t have to work instead of sleep.”

Her head felt light because… this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

She feels his cool hand touch jaw before cupping her cheek.

“I know it’s a lot to consider.” John says softly, “And I don’t want you to answer now. I want you to think about it. If possible, sleep on it.”

Her lips twitch in a smile.

“I would like to kiss you.”

Fuck. Me. She thinks and then nods, “Then you should kiss me.”

John bends down, obliging her, and presses his lips to hers.

And she can’t describe it. It’s not fireworks because that would be too distracting. Music doesn’t start playing somewhere in the background but it doesn’t need to.

His mouth is warm and soft and… claiming. God, it feels like she is being branded by his lips.

And her heart is racing as if it suddenly understands why kissing other people had never felt right. Because this was right. Kissing John was right.

All too soon, it’s over. And when her eyes open, they are staring into his.

She thinks although she isn’t sure, that he doesn’t want to leave it at this either. But he moves back slightly.

“You know how to reach me,” John says, pressing a final kiss to her forehead. “Drive safe, sweet Helen.”

And he walks away, heading back down the street towards the restaurant.

Her hand rises and she brushes her lips with her fingers.

She is in far over her head.

#john wick #helen wick #john wick fanfiction #john wick fanfic #fanfic #helen x john wick #john x helen wick #endlessly yours #endlessly series #overheard at the continental #incorrect john wick #helen wick fanclub #helen wick deserved better #sugar daddy! John Wick

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d-criss-news · 4 years

Link

With the film industry as we know it—A-list stars swanning around studio lots amid the swirling winds of an entire city bellowing buzzwords about makin’ pictures—essentially nonexistent at the moment, here’s an especially provocative idea as we contemplate its eventual return: What if Hollywood was... better?

Not in terms of quality of output, though if we’ve learned anything through the industry’s glacial inching toward progress, that will follow suit. But what if the industry was more inclusive? What if it was less afraid of change? What if it allowed gay people, people of color, women, and minorities to tell their own stories, to be in charge—and what if the people accepted it?

Better yet, what if it was always that way?

Like the loud, harsh clack of a clapboard coming down on 70 years of motion picture history, Ryan Murphy’s revisionist manifesto Hollywood arrives Friday on Netflix with blinding, blaring, technicolor confidence. Hardly subtle, deliciously ostentatious, and admirably mischievous, the lavish seven-episode series is a love letter to Hollywood by way of 2020 think piece.

It is messy and thrilling, upsetting yet profound; as uneven and as enthralling as any of Murphy’s big-swing, genre-contorting efforts: Glee, American Horror Story, or The Politician. But as with his soapy historical study Feud: Bette and Joan, it is a fastidious celebration of a glamorized time in Hollywood that mines nostalgia for modern meaning—a fragile undertaking swaddled in the dazzle of unmatched production design and talent pedigree.

Hollywood flops as often as it soars, but never rests in its grandiosity and ambition. The result is something escapist and frothy at a time when a retreat to a Hollywood happy ending is as alluring a fantasy as they come.

There is brilliant acting and there is bad acting. There are ovation-worthy ideas and there are off-putting ones. But, above all, there is reason to watch: It is gay, it is sexy, it is Patti LuPone.

Hollywood is a revisionist history of cinema’s golden age. It’s the 1940s in all their glamour and art: Casablanca! Citizen Kane! Alfred Hitchcock! Jimmy Stewart! Rita Hayworth! Cary Grant! It’s an era that’s been romanticized for so long that we’ve internalized it, morphing our own lifestyle aspirations to conform to its very heteronormative, very patriarchal, very (very) white ideas about sex and gender roles. These were ideas, however, that the industry was telegraphing, but not living in real life. Not at all.

Murphy and his team’s rewriting of history pulls the curtain back, exposing the sexually fluid proclivities of the stars—leading men sleeping with male escorts; Oscar-winning actresses in bisexual affairs—and the damning, racist barriers to inclusion fortified by studio heads thwarting any opportunity for progress.

Then, and here’s the crux of the whole thing: Hollywood changes that narrative. We glimpse the power dynamics inside Tinseltown’s gilded cage, and watch them being dismantled.

Some of the players’ narratives are real, and some are fiction. That makes for an amusing parlor game for viewers, attempting to separate the true history from the imagined one, and should birth a cottage industry of “The Real Story Behind…” stories in the weeks to come. But these are actual people who never had the opportunity to live authentically or see true, equal opportunity in the industry. Expect there to be a split among those who find happier, reimagined fates for them a sweet gesture, and those who find it in bad taste.

The story trains in on Jack (David Corenswet), a World War II veteran arriving wide-eyed in Hollywood, hoping some gumption and a jawline God shed a tear after creating will be enough to get him into the pictures. But he’s got a pregnant wife (Maude Apatow) to think about. Until he catches the eye of a casting director, he has to find some way to pay the bills. That cash flow comes surreptitiously from a gas station owner (Dylan McDermott), whose dashed Hollywood ambitions leave a soft spot for attractive dreamers like Jack—particularly ones who prove lucrative in his under-the-table prostitution business. A customer comes in for a fill-up, so to speak, and whispers the code, “I want to go to Dreamland,” and, well, you know the rest—and hopefully get the hardly nuanced metaphor about sex, power, sacrifices, and Hollywood.

This gas station business is without a doubt inspired by Scotty Bowers, the notorious L.A. hustler who died last year at 96, following a scandalizing, dishy documentary and memoir revealing the brothel he ran out of a petrol stand, sleeping with (allegedly) Cary Grant, Spencer Tracy, Bette Davis, Vivien Leigh, Gary Cooper, J. Edgar Hoover, and Rock Hudson.

McDermott’s character, however, is not actually Scotty Bowers, a distinction that’s necessary because Rock Hudson actually is a character, played by Jake Picking. So is Henry Wilson, the monstrous, closeted Hollywood agent played by Jim Parsons, who trades blowjobs for representation. Elsewhere, real-life trailblazers like Hattie MacDaniel, Vivien Leigh, and George Cukor show up. Their presence, on the one hand, lends credibility and grounds the fantasia of diversity and acceptance that Hollywood builds to. It’s also morally amorphous.

Hudson was closeted until the day he died of HIV/AIDS. He didn’t get the happy ending imagined here, publicly coming out of the closet by attending the Academy Awards with his fictional black, gay screenwriting boyfriend, holding hands on the red carpet, and staying on track on his ascension to Hollywood hunk. There’s also no evidence that Wilson, as caustic and self-loathing as the devil himself when we meet him in the show, had a change of heart and becomes a LGBT crusader seeking amends and atonement.

The wishful thinking is nice. But the bleakness of the reality shouldn’t be forgotten. There’s no clean place to land there, other than to consider both.

But these are just a handful of Hollywood’s players, and not even the true engine of the plot. In typical Murphyland fashion, there is a dizzying constellation of characters and their errant business to keep tabs on.

At the forefront is Patti LuPone’s Avis, the bored wife of a studio head (a scene-stealing Rob Reiner) who is first introduced as a client of Jack’s—hence all the press about the Tony winner’s explicit sex scenes that you’ve likely been reading—and eventually put in charge of the studio itself when her husband is incapacitated by a heart attack.

If it’s novel now to think of a female in charge of greenlighting projects and making commercial creative decisions, imagine it seven decades ago. And Avis shakes things up. With a casting director (Holland Taylor, perfect) and producer (Joe Mantello, heartbreaking) as her conspirators, she greenlights and positions as the studio’s next blockbuster a film called Meg, with its historically diverse creative team intact.

That means half-Filipino director Raymond (Darren Criss), black screenwriter Archie (Jeremy Pope), black leading lady Camille (Laura Harrier), and Jack and Rock in supporting roles. It takes willfulness to bulldoze the fortresses that bar progress. That is invigorating and moving to watch, especially as Hollywood dances between comedy, camp, earnestness, and tragedy with all the glee, if you will, that you’d expect from a Ryan Murphy production.

There’s sex—hot sex, gay sex, interracial sex, intergenerational sex—and there’s farce and there’s a wardrobe and set budget to sweep you away like a riptide.

There are scenes from Parsons and LuPone that will win them Emmys. Mantello and Taylor have a two-hander together that shattered me into so many pieces I am billing Ryan Murphy the cleaning fee. I worry that even with his Netflix money it won’t be enough—that’s how good it is.

Mira Sorvino and Queen Latifah give so much in their scenes as guest stars that you wish they were in more but are grateful for the flawless blips of bliss, while Michelle Krusiec as Anna May Wong, the first Chinese American movie star, is the epitome of an actor making a monumental moment out of limited material.

Criss solidifies his leading-man status—he’s captivating in every scene, even without much to do—and Corenswet brings glimmers of gravitas to eye candy. But the rest of the kids nearly torpedo the whole damn thing, they’re so miscast. The scenes with the older generation are so rich and such an utter joy to watch, it only makes the woodenness of performers like Picking and Harrier all the more egregious. Thankfully, there’s a larger message to it all that acts as absolution.

If Hollywood were a treatise on how society interacts with movies and TV both then and now, then the thesis could likely be boiled down to an early conversation between Raymond, Criss’ director character, and Dick, Mantello’s studio exec. It’s Raymond’s dream to direct a movie starring Anna May Wong. Dick kills the pitch, saying no one will pay to see a movie with an Asian lead, or any lead of color.

Raymond doesn’t stand for that. How does he know? No one’s tried. “Sometimes I think folks in this town don’t really understand the power they have. Movies don’t just show us how the world is, they show how the world can be. If we change the way that movies are made, you take a chance and you make a different kind of story, I think you can change the world.”

It’s not a stretch to argue that as the mission statement of Murphy’s entire career. He’s proved it time and again, from Glee to Pose: Bring the marginalized out of the margins and watch how things change. Someone just has to be the one to do it.

In essence, Hollywood sees Murphy dramatizing the progress that he played a part in catalyzing today, but imagining if it had come at a different turning point in cinema history—70 years ago. More tantalizingly, he raises the question of what society today might be like had it actually happened then.

Is it a little self-congratulatory? Sure. But, hey, that’s showbiz, kid.

#darren criss #the daily beast #hollywood #press #hollywood spoilers #just in case #april 2020 #hollywood review

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makeitquietly · 4 years

Photo

A quick recap of what criticism I remember reading about this Blu-ray set: nobody agrees about the picture quality, or on which films it’s best/worst, but it’s on the waxy/soft side mostly because of too much digital cleaning or whatever, the sound is said to be good, some hissing, out of sync in the 1936 version of Berth Marks, extras are good too, no Blu-ray logo on the case, no booklet, awkward menu always reverts back to beginning, no play-all possibility, the films are not in the order of making/release.

But a lot of people worked very hard for a long time to make this set available. Which is why nothing negative should be said about it? Eh. Next time go for quality instead. Or don’t sell your product. Make it a fanwork.

Anyhow, if I was all powerful and had commissioned someone to restore these films, I’d make them go back and do it again if this set was presented to my ruling eyes.

OTOH, I paid 99 euros for this package and have had lots of fun with it and if there’d been Stan’s scrapbook (pages) amongst the galleries, I’d happily paid double. It’s not about the money spent except when people imply that negative reviews aren’t allowed. I’d paid 99 euros for the galleries alone.

It’s about the fact that the films aren’t as well restored as they should/could be. Beyond me, why it’s so difficult to admit. And it’s clearly not only an issue of getting waxified during some final cleanup or somehow being ruined when transferred to Blu-ray disks.

Any idiot (me) knowing nothing about the processes involved can easily confirm this by watching how different films on the same disk have different quality, likewise first reel can be almost okay, the second much worse, scenes and cuts have often annoyingly varying quality, even single frames look like they came from different prints and nothing was done to make them fit more seamlessly in their surroundings. And I’m not talking about that one wandering frame in Scram!, which must be some person’s idea of a joke, how else could it be so out of place?

Or didn’t anyone watch these that one last important time since it wasn’t removed, nor were the countless spots still there in most of the films? I know, when things get cleaned up that one remaining crumb is much easier to spot... er... see my point?

There are also jumpy frames, which I imagine would’ve been easy to adjust, and to prevent those ubiquitous flashy cuts, you’d only needed to adjust the brightness of that single frame causing the flashing. Even I have done that on GIMP when making gifs. I’m guessing too much contrast on, say, Me and My Pal isn’t a problem created by the wax people either.

The ridiculously softly glowing Brats might be, there’s an awful lot of glowing in One Good Turn too, and in parts of Sons of the Desert, for example, where faces are dangerously close to have that overly scrubbed look, which is a big problem in The Chimp and Come Clean.

When it comes to wax, Helpmates and County Hospital are the most hideous, the latter must be the worst looking of all the films in this set, being also awfully spotty as well as too dark. It’s got other faults too, like wonky frames. The Music Box has a pretty decent first reel (except for the opening scene), and despite not being able to see the stripes on Stan’s and Ollie’s pants because of too much contrast, Me and My Pal is also clearly better wax-wise in the first reel.

It’s interesting to watch some of these films for the first time, thinking that this is crap quality picture, but then the second reel is even worse and suddenly there’s a whole new level of crappiness.

I think the sound is ever so slightly out of sync for a bit in Way Out West and One Good Turn. At least it is compared to those same films on my 21 DVD set. In addition to being very clearly out of sync in that Berth Marks reissue like others have noticed. Berth Marks also has a weird stripey “cover” over the actual film. I suppose it was impossible to remove.

Even with some sync problems, if I had to choose the best restorations from this new collection, Way Out West would be on my list, together with Busy Bodies, Hog Wild and Towed in a Hole. Some parts of Sons of the Desert look gorgeous. With grain and all. Pretty much like Atoll K but unfortunately not as consistently. (Atoll K was restored by different people, I gather.)

The much anticipated but already online for free since 2019 The Battle of the Century then? Well, the first reel is quite good, or would be if it wasn’t a weird blend of an ugly greenish yellow or yellowish green. Sepia isn’t what it used to be. And I would’ve thought they’d made sure to get all those black spots removed at least from this one what with it being one of the “new” things on this set. The second reel is worse except colour-wise. But at least it’s there complete with Charlie Hall and the “what pie fight” ending.

Haven’t mentioned The Midnight Patrol, Their First Mistake or Twice Two yet. The last two are pretty evenly waxy, and comparing The Midnight Patrol to Come Clean and The Chimp makes it not that bad. There’s no actual need to bleach faces or an excuse for Billy Gilbert’s patternless shirt, is there?

For me the treasures from this set can be found on each disk under galleries. Even for those not interested in scripts, press material, posters and assorted documents, there are circa 1,400 photos, many of which really are rare, or at least I’d never seen them before. One of the gems are the about 140 photos from Babe’s Vim days. Awesome! Nothing as gemmy from Stan’s past before Laurel and Hardy, and someone put wrong names on the photos where he appears with the Hurleys, not the Cookes. Yes, there’s a short, handy description for most of the photos.

So many of them and I must peruse more, of course, but I’m going give a special mention to Stan with both Loises on the set of Brats for adorableness and likewise to Thelma Todd for previously unseen (by me) variations from her photoshoot on that bathroom set. Love the six new-to-me photos of Stan and Babe together on the 1932 British tour especially. Great stuff. Oh, and Mae Busch, Dorothy Christy and Charley Chase in their Sons of the Desert portraits look fabulous.

Another treasure are the interviews with only a couple of slightly dubious moments. Joe Rock made me grin. George Marshall made me cry. Walter Woolf King made me laugh. Most wonderful. Short introduction by Randy Skretvedt for each interview. He’s the one who did the interviewing too. There’s 15 of them altogether. Plus a chance to hear composer Marvin Hatley perform Honolulu Baby and Will You Be My Lovey-Dovey. The audio only interviews come with some more great photos.

I kind of adore how Richard W. Bann casually debunks Anita Garvin’s The Battle of the Century story with one dry line during his commentary of the film. Hurts so good. Let’s have more debunking!

Speaking of the commentaries, and maybe more about them on some other occasion, Bann only comments The Battle and The Music Box, all the rest, including That’s That and The Tree in a Test Tube have commentaries by Randy Skretvedt.

I was expecting Bann to tell the whole story of why it took so long to get The Battle on video but he didn’t; fair enough, I thought, but then in his other commentary he goes on about his grudge with a dead guy, so I guess it was not his, um, politeness that stopped him from dishing on the much more recent and therefore interesting stuff. What then?

Perhaps a third person sharing the commentary duties would’ve been a good idea. That was my thought when Skretvedt obsessed over Stan’s smoking for the third time. By obsessed I mean he listed all the films where, according to him, Stan smokes. What for, you may wonder. I did. No answer. I remember reading somewhere that Stan not smoking in the movies means he’s a child. (Yes, some Laurel and Hardy fans are somewhat weird sometimes. Aren’t we all?) Maybe Skretvedt was trying to debunk that theory? Hehe, okay, I know he wasn’t, because he did the “they’re children, Hal Roach said so” routine in his Their First Mistake commentary, complete with Charles Barr quotes to prove there’s nothing gay about Ollie liking Stan more than his own wife. Made me fume. I don’t know why. Nothing new.

I don’t know why it doesn’t occur to him that if Ollie didn’t spend so much time with Stan, Mae wouldn’t be the lonely, disappointed wife who ends up wanting a divorce after one too many lies from Ollie and accuses Stan of alienation of Ollie’s affections. But no, apparently it’s no wonder that Ollie likes Stan more than his wife because she hits him with the broom. So the hitting came first and then too much time spent with Stan? I don’t think so.

Anyhow, third person, more variety, something newer, or at least an explanation for Stan’s smoking being of particular importance. Ollie’s smoking isn’t mentioned. Also, to digress even more, I always found the claim that Stan doesn’t smoke because he is a child odd, not only because he does, but also because he drinks alcohol too and manages to be married in several films. But the Laurel & Hardy child squad of course thinks the wives are actually their mothers. (Yes & again, weird.)

I did and do also wonder if there would’ve been anyone available and even if there had been, if these old school fans had accepted someone with different views. Probably not.

Still waiting for Skretvedt to notice Stan’s camera looks. Maybe he just hasn’t been a fan for long enough yet... 😛

I’m out of steam now. Need to rehydrate.

One more thing: No booklet, so maybe nobody involved wanted to spread about their name more than absolutely necessary knowing the restoration work was, shall we say, uneven?

Tl;dr: Uneven restoration work. Great extras. Mostly interesting commentaries.

#Stan Laurel #Oliver Hardy #Laurel and Hardy #the definitive restorations #2020 #2020s

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danidoesathing · 4 years

Text

ok! i’ve got the beginning and end written, it’s the middle that i need to write still, and it’s disgustingly sweet (i’ll post it to ao3 when i’ve got it finished bc i refuse to upload an unfinished work). also lemme know if you wanna read the ending as well, i wasn’t sure (it, too, is fluffy to hell and back)

Chapter 1:

Tim hated this. He hated it all. He’d rather be anywhere else in the world if he could, he could’ve been at home in his room with his laptop and Jay to talk to, but instead he was here with his mom who thought that she had any right to his life after leaving it for good (when he was twelve years old in a mental hospital too, who did that to their child?) and apparently forgot why she did, since she wouldn’t shut up. He’d had enough by the third hour of the “vacation” she took him to, and maybe if he hadn’t hated pity as much as he did, especially from the one that caused him to be pitied, he would have enjoyed the five-star hotel stay more, rather than feel like he was stuck in one long panic attack. He had managed to get away, though. He excused himself to the bathroom and felt grateful she had allowed him that much. He didn’t pay too much attention to the walk to the bathroom - he was trying to breathe in and out regularly and count to ten and pay attention to what he felt and all the other coping methods they taught him in the ten years he spent in the psych ward. He only realized there was someone else in the bathroom when the person (Tim assumed they were male, this was the men’s bathroom) sighed and firmly said, “I need more time, you can’t just ruin my entire life to gain a few weeks.”

Brian had really been looking forward to the week he’d spend on his own - privacy and being alone weren’t really concepts that his family understood, and it had only gotten worse when the marriage proposal came. He’d tried to explain countless times that he was gay and that he would rather marry a frog than the fake, manipulative, entitled, rude, homophobic, racist, bitchy, but most importantly rich girl his parents had chosen for him to marry. As if he’d spend more than a minute within a five-mile radius of the piece of shit who wanted his money and his name, nothing else. When the call from his mother (Brian had stopped calling Carol Thomas his mom years ago, when she first started denying his issues and instead punished him for things he couldn’t control) came, he escaped to the bathroom since it was closer than his room, even though it was a lot less private. He didn’t think anything would go wrong, it wasn’t busy at the restaurant and even if someone entered, they would probably leave him alone to suffer in his misery.

Brian hadn’t noticed the tired man who slunk into the bathroom at first, but when he saw the defeated slump of his shoulders and how utterly exhausted his eyes looked, his mother demanded that he come home the next day. He was pretty sure that everyone within the state could hear his sigh, and he thought about how he had gotten so sick of his own family that this was the case with every conversation he had with them. After his final compromise, he hung up without saying goodbye or waiting for Carol to respond. He knew what she would have said anyway, was far too familiar with the same conversation.

Tim hesitated, trying to figure out what to do - he couldn’t just leave and pretend he’d heard nothing, but he didn’t know this man, like, at all, so he also couldn’t try to comfort him or ask him what was wrong, because something clearly was.

“Family problems,” Brian said into the silence, which was probably just a few seconds long but to Tim’s anxiety-ridden mind it was a lifetime of waiting.

Tim smiled slightly. “I’m familiar.”

Brian made an interested noise. “You tell me about your life, and I tell you ‘bout mine, alright?”

He understood what sort of deal this was, he was used to therapists and doctors and psychiatrists trying to take his brain apart and figure out what was wrong with him, to try to fix him (or that’s what they said, but he wasn’t sure there weren’t any other reasons behind their words). He despised being treated like a wild animal who could lose his mind and attack at any moment, with a single wrong move. They had treated him like he was dangerous and they pitied him for it, but Brian, he hadn’t looked scared of Tim. He hadn’t acted like he was trying to play it safe - rather, he had tried to make Tim feel comfortable by making himself as vulnerable as Tim was. He realized that he didn’t want to strangle Brian. I’ve spent so much time with psychologists that I’ve started acting like one, analyzing everything and everyone’s actions. Tim laughed internally at the thought.

“Sure. I don’t have anything else to do anyway,” He responded, and told Brian about his current predicament with his mother, leaving out the parts in which he was at the hospital - he just said that he had a chronic illness and his mom had left him at 12 when he had been in the hospital for four years.

“Shit, dude, that really sucks. She doesn’t have any right to your life now, you know that right?” Brian said at the end of Tim’s story, after a short pause to take it all in. “I’m going to sound like a whiny white asshole with my story now,” he added. Tim shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. After all, my life doesn’t invalidate yours,” he said, and the corners of Brian’s mouth twitched up. “I guess you’re right,” he said, and started explaining how his parents wanted him to marry a rich woman high up the ladder of status in the elite community he was born into, and Tim could feel himself tensing up and his mind starting to buzz.

Brian noticed that the man in front of him was looking a little off, and stopped midway through describing that he only had the next week or so to find his soulmate, otherwise he’d be stuck with someone he hated for the rest of his life. “Hey, are you okay?” He asked softly, and the other man (Brian only just realized that he knew this man’s life story but not his name, and mentally reprimanded himself for not introducing himself and asking his name) took a shuddering breath.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, and Brian didn’t call him out on his bullshit. “Please continue, I’m way too invested in your life now.” He smiled, and Brian laughed.

“Alright, but first, you have to tell me your name because I’ve realized we haven’t introduced ourselves and it’s killing me,” Brian said.

“My name’s Tim Wright.”

“Brian Thomas. Nice to meet you, I guess,” Tim rolled his eyes at Brian’s antics, but Brian knew he was amused, as evidenced by Tim’s light snort. Tim told him to get on with the story, (a bit like a whining child, but in a good way, Brian thought) and he responded with, “Okay, okay, I’ll get to it then.”

“There isn’t much left,” Brian warned. When Tim nodded his understanding, he continued from where he had stopped, and when he had finished talking about his current fucked-up situation, the other man had been shocked into silence.

“You have to be kidding me,” he finally said. “There’s no way that that shit’s real and actually happening to you.”

Brian shook his head and sighed. “I wish I was, but nope! My parents are just assholes who are outta their minds.”

Tim thought for a second - he had to do something, but he didn’t know what he could to be able to help. He chewed on his lip, and after a minute or so, had an idea that he thought could possibly work.

“How about we pretend that we’re soulmates?” he asked Brian, who looked taken aback but also as if he was considering Tim’s proposition. Tim was about to backtrack and apologize, maybe say something along the lines of or we can just not do that if you don’t want to I’m sorry for bringing it up you must think I’m so creepy and weird and can we just ignore this ever happened?

But then Brian nodded thoughtfully, and said, “Actually, I can imagine how that would work. I’d call my parents and tell them that I’ve already found my soulmate and that I want to spend more time with you, and you’d talk to them in order to convince them further if they don’t believe me. I already know I’m gay, so my soulmate is definitely a man, so your voice being a guy’s wouldn’t be a problem and when I find my actual soulmate, if they sound different to you, we could just blame it on the phone being weird through the call. We could say that we wanna spend a few weeks getting to know each other before I leave, and during that time I could find my real soulmate. If I can’t, then we can come up with scenarios in which I’d need to stay longer until I do. Yeah, actually, this is a really good idea, Tim.”

“Uh, really? I mean, thanks,” Tim said, still reeling from Brian’s rambling. “How are we going to do this? Do you like, I don’t know, wanna call your parents and I can talk to them?”

“Yeah, sure, give me a sec,” Brian fished in his pocket for his phone and Tim internally panicked while Brian called his mother. He would have had a panic attack, but before he could truly get worked up, Brian was already talking.

“Hey mother, guess what happened - no, you’ll never guess - I found my soulmate! And he’s a guy like I said he would be! Oh, you don’t want my soulmate to be a man? Well, unfortunately, apparently the universe doesn’t share your homophobic views - oh come on, would I lie about this? You don’t believe me? Fine, I guess I’ll have to prove it. Mother, meet Tim.”

“Hello Mrs. Thomas, it’s nice to meet you,” Tim said, and Brian couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen, and he didn’t want Tim to be there for it. He hated his parents, and the thought of them hurting Tim in any way was unbearable. Wait, what? I met him like 15 minutes ago, why do I care so much about him? He was going to figure out his feelings regarding Tim, but then he saw how he was getting anxious, so he decided to intervene now and unpack his shit later.

Grabbing the phone from Tim, he told his parents that he and Tim wanted to get to know each other by staying at the hotel for longer, and when they objected, he simply reminded them that he was his own person and as an adult, he could do whatever the fuck he wanted to do, slowly getting more pissed off with every word that his parents said. Knowing that he would snap if he listened to more of their bullshit, he hung up after letting them know he would stay for a few more weeks in Ohio, though probably in a motel (he wasn’t rich enough to spend weeks at a five-star hotel). He looked at Tim. “Are you okay? You looked pretty freaked out there, and I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have put that much pressure on-”

“No, no, you’re fine. I guess I just felt overwhelmed, sort of? I don’t really know why I felt so anxious, but I’ve been dealing with anxiety for, like, 16 years. I should be used to it by now,“ Tim assured Brian. "Plus, it worked, didn’t it? they weren’t happy, but they seem to have believed us, so you can stay for a few more weeks and try to find your soulmate. Actually, why are you searching in Ohio and not Alabama anyway? Aside from the obvious reason, of course.” he added.

Brian frowned. “I don’t really know, I guess this just felt closer to my soulmate. You know how your mark is supposed to like, tingle and shit?” Tim nodded, and Brian continued. “Yeah, I guess that’s why - Ohio feels like I’m closer to finding them than in Alabama."

"Yeah, I think I get it. It feels the same for me too, if I think about it - my mark feels weird and that’s never happened before, so I must be doing something right,” Tim said after thinking for a while, and Brian laughed.

“Hey, who knows, maybe we’ll find our soulmates in here, and maybe we’ll find them at around the same time - that would be so cool! You know, I think I rather like you, Tim. I’d like to be friends - if you wanna, of course,” Brian said, and Tim answered with an affirmative.

“Well, you’re pretty cool yourself Brian Thomas, and I would indeed like to be friends, but I really gotta go. Emily’s probably going out of her mind, wondering where her son she found after 12 years went to,” Tim joked, and they exchanged numbers.

“ So, I still have a week or so left, which means I’ll probably see you around the hotel and shit. Bye Tim,” Brian called as he left the bathroom, and Tim waved back before following.

Chapter 2:

Brian walked back to his room, since he had already finished his dinner, and contemplated the last hour. He had gone from having to fight his parents for less than a week to find his soulmate to being given permission (well, sort of. Brian thought it counted if they had always encouraged him to do something until it actually got to the point in which said thing would be applicable - they couldn’t just change their minds because they were homophobic assholes) for almost a month doing whatever he wanted wherever he wanted to.

Of course, there was also Tim. He didn’t quite understand why he liked Tim already, or why Tim had helped him, but he knew that he didn’t regret it at all. Plus, they were friends now, and he felt that they would only get closer with time. He’d arrived at his room by this point, and after entering, he decided that he wouldn’t get anything else done today. Within minutes he was in bed - no point pretending to be functional when there was nobody around to see it, and plus, he was very sleep-deprived and he should probably go to sleep to fix that.

Since he’d been lying still with his eyes closed for over an hour, Brian believed that he was justified in going on his phone. However, once he opened his phone, he realized that he didn’t really have anything to do, and in a moment of boredom and apathy for his future, he decided to text Tim.

savingprivatebrian [23:42]: Hey tim

savingprivatebrian [23:42]: it’s me brian

savingprivatebrian [23:42]: if you couldn’t tell

He was surprised to see that Tim was online, and soon enough, he saw Tim’s typing bubble pop up.

Tim [23:44]: yeah

Tim [23:44]: i saved your number

Tim [23:44]: anyway whats up

Brian smiled because of course Tim was awake, he totally seemed like the type of person who’s constantly tired and sleep-deprived.

savingprivatebrian [23:44]: nothing

savingprivatebrian [23:45]: i just couldnt sleep

Tim [23:45]: i get that

Tim [23:46]: insomnias a bitch

savingprivatebrian [23:46]: yep

savingprivatebrian [23:47]: so do you wanna just talk until we can sleep

Tim [23:47]: please

He laughed at Tim’s response, and settled comfortably into his nest of pillows (perks of five-star hotels) to talk to Tim.

In the end, they both agreed to go to sleep at around 3:30 in the morning, after having texted for almost four hours. If he wasn’t so sleepy, he might’ve wondered why conversation was so easy when he was talking to Tim when he normally wouldn’t be able to even form sentences with people he knew as little as he knew Tim. Instead, though, he placed his phone on the bedside drawer, rolled over, and fell asleep within minutes, still with a little smile playing on his lips.

Chapter 3:

A week later, Tim’s mother left to go back to work, and Tim promised her that he’d come to visit every now and then. He was surprised to find that he was planning to keep that promise - after his mom explained her reasons, he learned that she hadn’t left because she wanted to, only because she had to. Her life had been easier without him, and that realization hurt. He had held her back her entire life, and he really couldn’t blame her for having done whatever she could to get rid of the reason she couldn’t be happy. He was over it, though. He had had more than a decade to come to terms with the fact that everyone he cared about would leave him eventually, when they realized that he would always be problematic, that he would never get better, and that he would always drag them down. Why would anyone stay with that?

Then came was Brian. Tim knew that he was falling, falling hard, but he also knew that Brian didn’t feel the same - they both wanted to find their soulmates, and even if Brian did like someone as fucked up as Tim, when he found his soulmate, he’d just leave.

He had told Brian about his mom and how he felt, as well as why he was in a hospital for 10 years, and Brian’s only reaction was to hug him (they didn’t notice that no parts of their skin had made contact, Tim would later realize) and telling him that he’d never leave. That was a bigger deal than Brian realized, and he had broken down crying, which caused Brian to start crying too. They had spent about 2 hours talking about their problems, and Tim left Brian’s room feeling better than he had for over a month. They had only been friends for a few days at that point, but there was no denying that they had a connection - they were already so, so close (and if Tim wanted them to be even closer, well, no-one had to know).

Jay had called, on the second day. He had asked what was going on and why the hell Tim hadn’t texted or called him - rightfully so, since they usually talked daily and it had been more than 2 days with nothing. Tim had ranted about Brian and his mom, but it had taken Jay about ten minutes into Tim’s monologue to point out that he was totally crushing on Brian, and Tim had found himself unable to argue. After talking for over an hour, Jay had hung up with a threat to Tim if he didn’t text him everything that happened.

Tim thought back to that conversation many times over the following days - he could trust Jay to call him out on his bullshit and help him work through it, and he knew Jay could do the same. Whenever his anxiety convinced him that they simply tolerated his presence and actually hated him, Tim would text Jay (and now Brian) and Jay would not stop texting him until Tim had no doubt left about their friendship.

On his last day in the hotel, a week after he arrived and met Brian, he had breakfast with Brian to talk about what they were going to do, since this was Brian’s last day too.

“Over here,” Brian called out as Tim walked into the restaurant in the hotel, from which they got free breakfast.

“Hey,” Tim said when he sat down. “You wanna go get some food? I’m starving.”

“Yeah, sure. Just a second,” Brian put his stuff on the extra chair, and connected his phone to a charger. “My battery’s at 12 percent,” he explained at Tim’s questioning look.

“Alright, let’s go. What do you wanna get?” Brian asked when they entered the self-service area.

“Eggs and bacon first, so they cook, but I’ll look around anyway to see what’s there,” Tim answered while grabbing a plate.

“Why didn’t you get a fork and knife too?”

“Because I’ll drop them, Brian.”

“Ha, weak.”

“Do you really want to try me?”

“Geez, you’re just so scary.”

“I know.”

They had reached the omelette station, and they waited for their orders to be cooked in comfortable silence, which was new to both of them. Shaking his head, Tim decided to ignore his lack of friends while he was so happy and had the chance to spend time with someone who not only could tolerate him, but also wanted to befriend him.

He was brought back to reality by Brian nudging him, and snapped his eyes onto Brian in alarm, quickly realizing there was no threat, there was just his food (paranoia had become a reflex at this point, and he wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to laugh or cry because of it).

Throughout breakfast, Tim found his eyes lingering more and more on Brian’s lips when all social and conversational norms stated that his gaze should be on his eyes or overall figure to watch his body language and hand gestures, so like everyone else who’s ever been in this situation, he decided, okay, we’re going to put these feelings of attraction in a box, now close it, and yep! Push it as far away from coherent thought as you can, right up against the childhood trauma, self-hatred, insecurity, and look! It’s the box of fear of abandonment. Now, we don’t think about these, so surely this’ll be safe here. After cataloging everything into the dark basement of his mind, buried deep under everything else and covered in the mental equivalent of cobwebs and a layer of dust over everything, he simply looked away from Brian’s mouth and focused on literally any other part of his body, like, like- his eyes! That would surely work, wouldn’t it? You can’t possibly mess eye contact up, even though you’re, well, you, Tim. Don’t fuck this up with your social incompetence.

Yeah, no. After only a few minutes of trying to draw his attention away from what Brian would taste like, he found out that eyes are just as dangerous as lips, since he found that it was easier than it should be to get lost in Brian’s warm hazel eyes. He never realized that there were rings of different colours, and with the light framing his face, he looked otherworldly, like he didn’t belong to planet Earth or at least had some kind of magic coursing through his veins, just like warmth was coursing through Tim’s as he drowned in the ocean of brown and green filling Brian’s eye sockets. Because he was drowning, drowning, drowning as he forgot to breathe, move, do anything at all in the haze that came over him.

-------------------------------

#OH????#PLEASE GO ON #you should this on ao3 or something #effie #fanfic #Slenderverse #marble hornets #mh #mh brim #dani speaks #submission

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capefearless · 4 years

Text

Makes Perfect

~1400 words of Rabbit Lightning being 17 and gay in a barn. This is the first fic i’ve written in... a While. But here you go. It’s pg-13, no warnings.

(read on the AO3 here if you’d rather)

----

In Redd’s uncle’s stable at around half past seven in the evening, as the light’s going all slanted and golden through the gaps in the wooden walls and the horses snuffle in their stalls, Lohn watches Redd bite his lip.

All week, Redd’s been biting his lip. Worrying at it, fiddling with his sleeves and pulling them down over his hands even though they ain’t really long enough for that. His shirts have been getting smaller quicker lately, and he’s been holding Lohn’s eyes even less than he usually does. No-one ever called Lohn observant, but he pays attention to Redd. He knows something’s up.

The issue is that they don't, like. Talk. About their feelings. But Lohn manages to get it out of Redd anyway, through a careful combination of waiting until they’re on their own in their usual hideout and acting like it ain’t no big deal, and he’s pretty proud of that, thanks. He’s sure his charming wit played a part in it too.

Redd’s worried about prom. Specifically about embarrassing Barbie, his foot-shorter date, at prom, what with the dancing. And all.

“I’ll step on her feet. ‘r somethin’. Put my hands in the wrong places and that.”

Lohn narrowly doesn’t say the first thing that comes to mind, which is yeah, probably, because Redd is kinda clumsy. It’s not his fault – anyone’d be unsure where their limbs were if they were growing an inch each a week. Instead, he says the next thing that comes to mind, which is:

“Practice. You just gotta practice, is all. ‘s like anything. Guitar, rodeo, handwritin’...”

He’s sure he’s right. Dancing’s practically a sport, and everyone’s always talking about the vital nature of practicing that.

Redd’s eyebrows crease and he opens his mouth to respond, but Lohn’s gotten to his feet. He’s watching himself, as often happens, as if from afar. Wondering what the hell he’s thinking, but unable to stop himself.

He holds out his hand, and it – doesn’t feel like he’s offering a dance to Redd, not in Lohn’s head. Feels like he’s offering a whole lot more. His heart thunders in his throat as he waits for Redd to take it.

Redd’s got a dusting of pink over his nose. But he blushes pretty often – it’s probably just his embarrassment still, his pale skin showing that so easily, always.

He takes Lohn’s hand, and Lohn has an entirely unwarranted and over-the-top reaction to the size difference between their palms, how Redd’s fingers overshoot his own by half an inch. It’s not like Lohn’s got small hands (he ain’t small anywhere, thanks), it’s just that Redd’s, well. Very big.

Lohn’s suddenly quite warm in this here stable.

The little portable radio Lohn’s granddaddy had given him a few years ago is playing some scratchy country western song where it’s sitting on a crossbeam, and Lohn reaches over to turn the volume up a bit. He’s sure the horses in their stalls enjoy a little Merle every now and then.

“Now, uh. I ain’t an expert, exactly, in this…” he starts. If this were anyone else he’d insert a brag here about the ladies not having complained before, at all, if you know what he means. But this is Redd. So.

“But as I understand it, it’s pretty simple. Gotta take it a step at a time.”

Redd nods, the little furrow between his eyebrows meaning, Lohn knows, that he’s listening. He’s concentrating. Lohn swallows and puts Redd’s hand on his hip, and congratulates himself, inside, for being so cool about it.

“I’ll be the, uh, Barb, in this scenario.”

That gets him a little twitch of a smile from his twitchy friend, and, gosh, a half-smile shouldn’t mean this much to him. Be cool, Lohn, be cool.

Lohn starts by stepping back slowly.

“Look at my feet. Try to, uh, mirror them. Like if I put my foot back like-”

He slides his heel back over the gravelly dirt floor of the stable and imagines the town hall their prom’s gonna be in, squeaky floorboards and tinny speakers, everyone watching. What would they think if they saw them dancing like this, there?

“You follow. Slow, like.”

Redd nods and tries it. The way he stops dead after moving his foot once makes Lohn crack up a little, and Redd’s worried look turns into a smile, too. He knows Lohn ain’t laughing at him. It’s always with him, with Lohn.

Lohn guides them into the next step, Redd’s heel sliding back this time, Lohn following, unable to take his mind off the warm pressure of his friend’s hand on his waist for a second.

“And that’s it!” Lohn declares. “You just do that over and over again, alternatin’ feet. There’s a twirl sometimes, but no-one knows what they’re doing with those. Like… one, two. One, two, one- yeah, that’s it, mind my feet, one, two, one, two, you’re a natural Redd, I dunno what you were worried about –”

Redd’s foot lands straight down onto Lohn’s and makes him yelp and stagger, clutching tight onto Redd for balance.

When Redd’s foot slides off of his (“Sorry,” Redd mumbles) they’re very off-balance, but Lohn is kind of. Okay here, Redd’s upper arm clutched in his own and the breath of Redd’s concentration washing over him. He laughs, almost winded.

Despite this hiccup, they continue.

They’re still swaying with a decent rhythm together when the song ends, and there’s silence above the cicadas.

Lohn’s – gay. He’s just freaking gay, never mind that he likes girls too, he’s Gay right now and if Redd asked him to run away with him, elope to San Francisco or France or wherever, he’d agree in a heartbeat.

(Not that this feeling on Lohn’s behalf is a very unusual occurrence, but it’s stronger in this moment than it has been for a while, knocking him off his figurative feet. Redd’s breathing a little hard, he’s holding Lohn close and delicate, like he holds his rabbits. It’s a lot to deal with.)

There’s a beat, two beats, and a new song starts on the radio. Redd says “Reckon I got it.”

“Yeah,” Lohn says, throat dry. This, he knows, is when Redd pushes him away, realising that Lohn is too much in all the wrong ways.

“D’you think she’ll want to – to kiss, after?”

Redd’s biting his lip again.

“Uh, well, maybe.” Lohn’s heart is in his throat, and his throat is dry. “I mean, Barb’s kissed guys before, I know that, I’d say it depends –”

“I ain’t never done that, either.”

And, well, Lohn could have guessed that. Would have put money on it, even., But all he can think of right now is that this can’t be happening. He can’t truly be able to open his mouth and say (or croak):

“That’s just practice, too.”

“Yeah?”

Redd’s voice is real quiet, real breathy. His lips look soft as hell, not that Lohn’s staring.

“Uh-huh.”

Lohn feels his hand come up to cup the back of Redd’s head. He should stop this. This can’t happen, this isn’t allowed.

“You start off slow,” he says, just as quiet as Redd, and then he’s leaning up to brush his lips against Redd’s. He feels Redd’s hand tighten on his waist, as if clutching for balance like Lohn had earlier, and his head is buzzing, his lips are electric where they meet Redd’s (Redd’s!!), and he’s more alive than he’s ever been, probably.

He feels rooted to the ground and reaching up like the tallest tree to the sky all at once. He can feel the warm evening air around them, as if it’s pressing them together, cocooning them from everything, making this safe and possible. The cicadas are a part of this too, droning outside, the wood of the building around them an integral piece of this moment. Hell, even the horses, watching them.This ain’t his first kiss, but Lohn’s never felt like this before, and it might actually make him a poet. It’s that good.

He hears himself say ‘Rabbit…’ and his heart warms at the well-worn ‘Lightning’ he gets in return. And then Redd’s pulling him in, and they’re kissing again.

Prom’s in a week. In seven days Lohn will watch Redd do this dance with Barbie, who he likes, who’s fun to hang out with and pretty and gentle with Redd, who deserves it. They might even kiss. Lohn will be there too, stag unless he manages to convince some girl to accompany him, melancholy over what he can’t have.

Or maybe not.

They draw back for breath and Lohn ain’t never seen that look in Redd’s eyes before. It makes him want to sing.

#rabbit lightning #rhink #fic #rohn #mine #it's been 8 years #i'd like to thank the academy #my partner #and randl for being so Inspiring

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unpretty · 5 years

Note

In your mind, how is Wayne Industries structured?

wow this took like six months and ended up a lot longer than i intended and i’m not even sure if i answered the question you were asking

i am ignoring literally everything from canon because canon says that every single company owned by wayne enterprises is called Wayne Insert-Industry-Name-Here and that’s dumb as all hell and i hate it. also i made the company founding contemporary with famous olde rich people like the rockefellers and whatnot because Old Money. i’ll put dates on some of these but on some of them (like when we’re getting real granular) i just cannot be fucked to bother. let’s also agree that there are a bunch of things that are technically subsidiaries but which are actually the exact same goddamn thing just slightly altered because it’s in a different state or something, which i don’t need to list.

i am assuming for these purposes that wayne enterprises is a privately held conglomerate with control having been ceded to a board of directors during thomas wayne’s tenure as ceo-in-name-mostly as well as while the company was in a trust; the board was subsequently dissolved once bruce was old enough to make that decision. privately held companies aren’t obligated to disclose financials or maintain a board, which is great if you’re planning to be batman and also make a lot of theoretically financially unwise decisions like setting a minimum wage of $15 throughout the organization and implementing a cash profit sharing plan.

anti-trust and monopoly laws aren’t an issue because they’re way too diversified and none of their business units dominate their chosen industry. there are probably conspiracy theories that the reason for the immense diversity of interests is actually to keep different markets competitive and protect other businesses from anti-trust suits, which would be pretty compelling if every wayne from the start weren’t fueled by spite and pettiness.

anyone who wants to has blanket permission to use this for whatever because canon is for suckers but so is figuring out corporate structures yourself

tumblr is probably going to completely fuck the formatting so you might want to read this on my other blog instead

Wayne Enterprises (1864)

Wayne Capital (1864)

Technically speaking Wayne Capital was Wayne Enterprises before they diversified but I didn’t want to clutter up the big header so here we are. Ostensibly started as an investment firm, actually started as a ponzi scheme that went sideways and turned into a legitimate business. There was a war going on, things were confusing, people were dying or else just skipping town because it seemed like a good time for that kind of thing. Next thing you know you’ve got a lot of extra cash and you’re actually making a decent amount of interest on that small loan you made to that guy with the boat. One thing leads to another and now you’re a shipping tycoon who also owns some banks. These things happen.

Wayne Capital Bank (1865)

It’s a bank, you know what a bank is.

Coinsure (2006)

Bruce hangs out with a lot of pornstars who have a lot to say about how PayPal sucks and also isn’t regulated at all because they’re not technically a bank even though they hold your money so what the fuck.

Created as a secure payment processor originally only usable by members of their bank but it eventually expanded outward.

Coinsure: Unlike Some People We Could Name, We’re Regulated Like A Bank, Because We Are One

Eventually expanded into allowing user profiles, donations, recurring donations, and crowdfunding.

Does not yet offer a platform for posting exclusive content so in that regard it doesn’t quite suit as a Patreon or Kickstarter alternative but they’re debating adding those kinds of functionality.

Totally works as a Ko-Fi or GoFundMe alternative tho.

Arkenity Financial (1947)

Large-scale industrial loans in particular are handled under this banner.

Coine Realty (merger 1982)

They bought Cobblepot Real Estate Services for cheap when the parent company was having financial trouble and then merged it with existing real estate services that were previously part of Wayne Capital.

Previously Cobblepot Real Estate Services actually just owned a lot of property for slumlording purposes.

Guess who’s still bitter.

Wakewater Insurance Services (1885)

No one wants to insure my boats? Fuck this, I’ll insure my own goddamn boats, is what I’ll do. Does anyone else want in on this? Okay, cool.

Property and other insurances through Wakewater are some of the only policies to fully cover acts of supervillainy and/or heroism.

This division bleeds cash under Bruce but who cares.

Wakewater Life Insurance Company (1885)

Fuck this, I’ll insure my own goddamn self.

Wakewater Health (1983)

The fact that they didn’t have this until Thomas was in charge is depressing, I think we can all agree.

Thomas was in charge so all their plans are extremely generous.

Wakewater Mutual Automobile Insurance Company (1931)

Fuck this, I’ll insure my own goddamn cars.

Wakewater Home and Renters Insurance Company (1908)

Renters got added later, probably when Gotham got more apartments.

Tropos Energy (Formerly Wayne Oil and Gas, 1896)

When they were planning to change the name of this division, Thomas Wayne lobbied for Waynergy, and would have given up fairly quickly if someone had not pointed out that this sounded too much like Weinergy. Thomas insisted on referring to this branch of the company as ‘Weinergy’ for the remainder of his life, and no one could stop him, because he owned it. Imagine working your whole life to become one of the top energy researchers in the world just to have the guy who owns your whole company, a philanthropic brain surgeon, introduce you as ‘one of the Weiner Boys from over at Weinergy’.

Nor'easter Co (merger 2009)

Wind energy tech

Did they buy the company just because Bruce liked the name better than the old one? No one is sure.

Gotham Solar (1987)

Associating Gotham with the sun in any capacity is hilarious.

If It Works In Gotham It’s Gotta Be Good (unofficial motto)

Great Lakes HydroElectric (1904)

It’s two years younger than the hydroelectric plant near my house because I said so.

Galactomics (1954)

Nuclear power plants

This name seemed like a really good idea in the 50s.

Galactomics Lifestyle (2004)

Furniture and decor

There was a huge market for their secondhand custom kitschy office furniture so they rolled with it and made a furniture division.

Most people are not aware that they also run nuclear power plants.

GaleTek (Formerly Wayne Rail Company, 1871)

They were the Wayne Rail Company, and then the Gotham Rail Company, and then Gotham Land and Sea, then GLS which they pretended didn’t stand for anything or possibly stood for a variety of charming slogans, then they merged with about three different aviation companies to swallow them into their aviation division and the combined name they came up with was GaleTek. Welcome to corporate naming conventions, it’s a goddamn nightmare.

Hart Aviation (1927)

They used to have a lot of defense contracts but that all went down the tubes in the 80s because Bruce’s parents weren’t down with that. Now they just make cool shit for commercial use.

They also make zeppelins because it’s a comic book, someone has to make the fucking zeppelins and it might as well be Batman.

Gotham Rail Company (1871)

They’re actually a railroad so they got to keep the original name.

Well, sir, there’s nothing on Earth like a genuine, bona fide, electrified, six-car monorail.

Superior Freighters Inc. (1874)

I’m on a boat.

They’re classified as ships but generally lake freighters are referred to as boats, that’s a fun fact, enjoy.

Wayne Motors (1914)

Founded because one of Bruce’s ancestors really hated Henry Ford. You’d think it would be because of the unabashed antisemitism but it was actually the pacifism. In an ocean of good reasons to hate Henry Ford he found the bad one.

These were almost all notoriously-shitty also-ran semi-bootlegs until the turn of the century.

They also made racecars but those weren’t available for retail sale so the good racecars weren’t enough to offset the reputation of the horrible cars people could actually buy.

The racecars were good because Bruce’s great-grandpa had a liquor-smuggling operation.

Fox finally had the bright idea to just get weird with it so they brought back really old models of car with the exact same body but with electric engines. They’re extremely popular.

They have a contract with the city of Gotham to produce really nice city buses at a loss.

Gotham City Broadcasting Network Company (acquired 1972)

Patrick Wayne bought a broadcasting company just so they’d stop talking about Watergate. He was a big Nixon fan. The networks have gotten better since then. Thomas Wayne set a lot of strict advertising guidelines that continue to this day. It’s become an umbrella for Wayne Enterprise’s entire entertainment division, which is a bitch to map out because entertainment companies are structural nightmares. I did this to myself but I’m still mad about it.

Birch & White Publications (acquired 1953)

Acquired before the rest of the entertainment division because they didn’t originally have an entertainment division, just this one shitty book publisher.

Founded in 1866 by what was probably a secret gay couple who liked magazines about men being manly and fighting weasels, or whatever it is men did in 1866. I’m imagining the homoerotic covers on these magazines and they’re great. Do you think they were former cowboys? I’m going to say they were former cowboys.

I just looked it up and Patrick’s dad was named Kenneth. Kenneth Wayne. I can’t believe this. Anyway he was really into these books as a kid so when the publisher started going defunct he just straight-up bought it.

Birch & White owned shares of GCBN as part of their deal with the radio station to produce radio shows of their more popular characters, which was why patrick bought this one instead of NBC probably.

These days they publish all sorts of stuff but they also republish their huge backlog of old weird shit. Also they brought back the pulp magazine and the homoerotic covers. I’m going to say that was Thomas. He insisted.

GCBN (1931)

If you think I’m listing individual national network affiliates you can go straight to hell.

GCBN News

GCBN.com

TheGackbin.com

They use this one for entertainment news.

Did they name their website after what Thomas insisted on calling the main network? Yes.

“Can’t we put it in the Gackbin or something?” - Thomas Wayne, to the board of directors that actually runs his company for him, about a show that he wants to watch that doesn’t exist yet.

Sure, Tommy, we’ll get right on that.

The joke’s on them, Dog Surgeon had an enormously popular primetime run.

The dog surgeon had a dogtorate.

GCBN Sports

GCBN Radio (1931)

The original and still the champion

GothamRadio.com (2003)

They spotlight a lot of local and indie bands, it’s pretty great actually.

Gotham Television Company (1986)

This is all the cable channels. There’s a lot of them.

Clue TV (1986)

We’ve got your Columbo, your Poirot, your… other things. Also a lot of Forensic Files-esque true crime.

Martha loved true crime but hated reenactments and victim-blaming and bad science. So she didn’t actually like most true crime. Then she married a billionaire!

This was basically The Martha Wayne Background Noise Channel.

Now it’s The Bruce Wayne Background Noise Channel.

FunnyBones (1986)

It’s comedy but also shlocky b-movie science fiction and horror.

Experimented briefly with a Z instead of an S and everyone hated it.

In this universe they picked up MST3K because I said so and no one can stop me.

Civil History (2003)

A history channel that focuses on civil rights instead of wars and aliens and war with aliens.

Curiousities (1989)

Science news but also informative documentaries.

Bubbly (1986)

It’s a soap opera channel and lemme tell ya they’ve got some weird ones.

They import soaps and dramas from around the world but their original content is notorious for the depth of the lore. Why is there so much lore.

Rolling Stone (1992)

They gave Rolling Stone a channel because why the fuck not.

Really good political news coverage, actually.

Vaudevision (founded 1914, acquired 2003)

Pretty comparable to RKO except it lived. You can probably guess their schtick.

Vaudevision Animation (1941)

The weird cartoons that they only show on cartoon network at 2am probably.

VVA Classics (2001)

Old-ass Vaudevision cartoons on perpetual reruns

Vaudevision Home Network (1983)

Pretty standard movie channel.

Vodevista (1995)

Spanish language television.

Kale Studios (2017)

World of Kale from Kale Studios, brought to you by Vaudevision.

Bruce debated over whether this would be more of a tech/software company or an entertainment company and decided on entertainment. They’re not here for revolutionary gameplay. They’re here for artistically rendered kale.

Also “brought to you by Vaudevision” rendered across the bottom of a video game loading screen was too funny to pass up so here we are.

Northern Hospitality (acquired 1936)

I’m starting to lose steam, here. Figuring out GCBN was exhausting. Why did I do this to myself. Anyway Wayne Enterprises owns some hotels because reasons.

Red Oak Hotels (1936)

Pretty nice hotels, lots of conference centers.

Art Deco as a motherfucker and they will never update their aesthetic, ever.

They keep stained glass artisans across the country in business.

Lakeshore Motel (1962)

So skeevy

Can’t argue with the prices tho

Efforts have been made to get them less skeevy but they’ve still got a pretty skeevy vibe.

Amberview Hotels (acquired 2005)

Midrange hotels, extraordinarily generic.

Bruce bought these just to put another layer of separation between himself and the inns he wanted to open because the Lakeshore Motels were too skeevy.

Amberview Inn (2006)

Cheap like a motel with hourly rates but actually about as nice as the hotels.

Cops keep trying to set up stings because of the reputation as a favorite for sex workers but they have very good lawyers telling them to fuck off.

They hire a lot of women with large gaps in their employment history.

Grand Lighthouse Resort (1906, acquired 1940)

It’s on its own island. Maximum fanciness.

They replaced the golf course with a small farm in the 90s and now all the fancy food is grown on their fancy farm.

Wayne Health (1908)

So many supervillains used to work under the Wayne Health umbrella. Mostly because when people do evil shit they get fired. It’s not supervillainy if you’re gainfully employed doing it. If you’re unemployed and experimenting on animal brains, you have a problem.

Wayne Health (1908)

Originally Wayne Ray Tech. They made X-Rays. The name was meant to imply that they had other, even better rays. It was 1908. It seemed plausible.

Started making centrifuges and pH meters in the 30s, then expanded into spectrophotometers… why am I telling you specific devices? They gradually added more and more lab and medical technologies, that’s good enough.

Anyone who tries to make anything brain-related gets the side-eye these days. They’ve been burned too many times before.

“And it’s definitely not supposed to be used to read or control minds?” any engineer working on a brain-related project will be asked, repeatedly, forever.

Wayne Care Network (1966)

Patrick bought some hospitals. I don’t know why. Why does anyone do anything? Why am I doing this? The world is filled with mysteries. They probably own a lot of hospitals and clinics that I don’t feel like exploring.

Gotham Central Hospital System (1966)

Patrick probably wanted special treatment at the hospital. Maybe a doctor tried to start shit. Honestly that would explain a lot about why Thomas became a doctor.

St. Rita’s Hospital (1984)

Thomas Wayne’s baby and where he did most of his work as a surgeon. Ask him about the guy with the brain maggots! Just kidding, you don’t have to ask. He tells everyone that story. He’s great at parties.

ChemiCare (1975)

Pharmaceutical development.

Pretty standard pharma company until Thomas got his hands on it. Insulin! Insulin for everyone! They’re practically giving it away!

I’m making myself sad so let’s move on.

Asclepius Digital (2006)

Health software, digitization of file systems, etc

It’s boring but vital, okay?

Gotham Department Stores, Inc. (1898)

Owning a department store: all the cool tycoons are doing it. Right? Right. Started as Wayne Co, eventually diversified and Wayne Co became a subsidiary of a larger company.

Wayne Co. (1898)

Started specifically to get in on the whole 'mail order catalog’ craze.

Even more specifically, the ones full of snake oil. Just, pages and pages of horseshit potions and elixirs.

We wrapped this tapeworm in some cocaine for ultimate weight loss! Order today!

They also sold other things, eventually. But mostly weird bottles of nonsense.

Actually did a lot better in the Great Depression when they sold cheap shit by mail, only some of which still had tapeworms and cocaine in it.

These days it’s very Sharper Image. Lots of toys and airplane catalogs.

Gotham Department Store (1916)

What if we sold things in stores? Wacky idea, I know.

They didn’t stick with the Wayne Co. name because Wayne Co. had… a reputation. On account of all the coked-up tapeworms.

They tried to go for a high fashion demographic, which worked out for about ten years and then went all to hell for another ten years.

Spent many years as the store Grandma would take you to for back-to-school clothes shopping.

Saw a resurgence in the modern day with the advent of such exclusive product lines as the infamous “It Has Pockets” line of women’s fashion.

Green Market (1995)

Thomas to his board of directors: “What if we opened a grocery store that sold nothing but food produced ethically enough and of high enough quality that I would be willing to buy it for my family?”

“Mr. Wayne are you asking this just because you’re sick of not being able to make impulse food purchases while shopping”

Thomas Wayne fingerguns aggressively while backing out of the boardroom.

They really need to work on their marketing because everyone assumes it’s all pricey organic stuff instead of reasonably-priced locally-sourced products.

SuperModern Foods Company (1962)

This name seemed like a good idea in the 60s. I was going to list all the things here but have you ever looked at what Nestle owns? Or Unilever? You think I’m making a list like that? No. Fuck that. They probably used to own a lot more companies and then got rid of a bunch of them because they sucked.

Space Cakes (1962)

They should have changed the name but they didn’t and they get bought by a lot of confused stoners.

A fixture at Gotham gas stations.

Havermann Dairy (acquired 1967)

Space Cakes had a disagreement with a dairy supplier so they bought them. As one does.

Alberici Meats (acquired 1974)

They had to do something with all the extra cows.

Tucker’s Old-Fashioned Soda (acquired 2015)

“Why did Bruce Wayne acquire an obscure small-town Kansas soda company?”

“Who can possibly understand the whims of the idle rich,” says local reporter.

Saraniti Pickles (acquired 2017)

Walmart nearly destroyed their perfectly-acceptable business with shady practices.

Spite: A Valid Way To Run A Business Since 1864

GRC (1924)

I have put off finishing this for like two months because I was so deeply disinterested in figuring out the technology subsidiary, but now I’m putting off finishing something else so here we are. Originally the Gotham Radio Company, now it’s just GRC because video killed the radio star and also they mostly make weird shit that isn’t radios. In close competition with Wayne Health to see whose former employees are most likely to become supervillains.

GRC (1924)

Technically speaking they still make radios and turntables and whatnot, but mostly it’s, like. Cables. Circuit boards. The kind of shit that only gets used by other companies and also people who have to make a road trip to Fry’s because all the other stores just sell phones now. Have you ever tried to replace a fucked-up molex connector without having to order something online? It’s hell. They stock GRC products in a special section of the Gotham Department Store, I decided this just now while thinking about molex connectors and getting mad.

Did you know RCA’s vacuum tubes were called Radiotron?? Why are all the names for things so shitty now when we used to name things stuff like Radiotron. This has nothing to do with anything, except I guess for the fact that GRC probably still manufactures weird vacuum tubes that would otherwise be impossible to find.

GRC is a godsend for vintage radio enthusiasts.

Maelstromatic (1929)

I’m not saying they picked their name based on the fact that a maelstrom is theoretically a more powerful whirlpool but also that’s exactly what I’m saying.

These appliances will fuck you up and that’s a guarantee.

They’re safe now but for a long time they had a reputation of being extremely powerful and dangerous.

“If you forgot to empty your pockets the Maelstromatic washer would turn all your bills blank… those were the days.”

Old people complain about how the new energy-efficient Maelstromatic appliances just aren’t as good as the ones that would trip the breaker most of the time and regularly burn their clothes.

GRC Labs (1938)

Someone’s gotta make that weird shit!! This universe has superior grappling hook technology and they have GRC Labs to thank. I’m gonna say it was developed for the military to infiltrate Nazi castles? That seems plausible. They had a scientist thinking outside the box, and inside the grappling hook.

So many supervillains…

They’re on such high alert now but it’s really hard to tell a mad scientist from a regular scientist. You’d think it would be obvious but the guy who’s obsessed with jetpacks is just a regular ol’ nerd. He monologues about jetpacks on the reg but he’s never tried to rob a bank or become a jetpack cyborg. He just loves jetpacks. Meanwhile that guy with the robot cat for the elderly nearly killed like thirty people. Shit’s unpredictable.

Computronic Machines (1965)

It was the sixties and everyone was making computers.

The Computronic Program-o-Mat was deeply unpopular despite having what was clearly a better name than any other home computer ever made.

Nerds these days lust after original Program-o-Mat cases to put new computers inside them and then make them run Doom.

They make decent consumer tech now. Desktops, laptops, phones. Boring stuff.

Computronic Machine Programs (1972)

They made decent niche technical software and that kept the whole division afloat quite frankly.

Contemporarily they produce a lot of security software and apps, and have even released specialized forks of certain operating systems.

These days the most well-known software to come out of this division is CB Chat, a hyper-secure and super-encrypted chat program because Bruce wanted one. It is popularly assumed that this was because he did not trust Snapchat with his nudes. He has never disputed this.

They will never change their name. Never.

Telelectroscope (2003)

Internet and cable service provider.

Keeps getting sued by other ISPs for making their prices so low. It’s not fair!! They’re trying to put us out of business!! Wah!!!

This was pretty much the first thing Bruce did when he became CEO because his internet at the mansion was garbage and he was mad about it.

Spite: A Valid Way To Run A Business Since 1864

… i can’t think of anything else to add to this list. am i… am i done? am i free?

#atomic-black #original #ficblogging #greatest hits

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