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spotsandsocks · 1 year

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A Boy Like That

The retirement home fic is finally finished. Hope you enjoy it.

A Boy Like That 9k Teen

The thing is, he can’t say no to Buck. He tries, he really does (ok so it’s a token effort most of the time) but it always ends the same way. Buck grinning in delight as Eddie capitulates. It can be something small, like getting two flavours of ice cream in the store instead of just one or something bigger like, Eddie looks around at his surroundings, volunteering on your day off at a retirement home.

He doesn’t have a clue how Buck got started helping out here but he does know how he got roped in.

Yesterday he’d asked Buck if he was going to be free today, hoping he’d get to spend some time with him and Buck had said he was busy with such a genuinely disappointed expression that it made Eddie’s heart skip.

The reason he was unavailable had been a bit of a surprise; apparently Buck is now a regular volunteer at the Leafy Glades retirement home.

Buck had waxed lyrical about how much fun he had there, he talked about helping out with cooking classes and that he’d leant to knit. Eddie had actually seen the idea take form in Buck’s eyes the moment before he said “hey you should come too.”

So now he’s standing in a room watching Buck being greeted like the prodigal son while he lurks, wondering why he’d agreed to come. He looks across the room at Buck’s beaming face and knows the answer.

“Hey there.” He turns to the voice, “You’re looking a bit lost there soldier.”

The man addressing him is anywhere from his late seventies to mid eighties, he’s sitting alone at a table in front of a puzzle that he’s barely started. The man’s white hair contrasts with his dark skin, and age hasn’t reduced his stature , he remains a big man, still in shape even now, he might not be smiling but his eyes are kind and he looks slightly amused by Eddie’s obvious floundering. “You wanna help me out?” he gestures at the puzzle.

And Eddie shrugs and thinks, why not and takes a step forward. Later when he looks back at everything that happened next he realises he had no idea how big a step it actual was.

The man is called Ray and Ray is - well, Ray is not what he expected. He visits with him the following week and again until it’s become a regular thing and Eddie learns more and more about him each time.

Ray’s ex army, that much was obvious the second he clocked Eddie’s own history so easily, saw it weighing on his shoulders, although that weight has lessened recently.

So he holds himself and talks like a man who's seen service but there’s more to Ray than that; Ray likes to talk, he reminds him of Buck like that. Eddie doesn’t mind because he likes to listen and before he knows it he has a new friend.

Ray shares all kinds of things about himself, the music he likes and his obsession with motorcycles. How he learnt to cook late in life but had wanted to learn so much earlier. He promises Eddie his favourite recipes.

Ray is an old black and white movie buff, but also has a soft spot for 80s classics, and while he loves baseball he hates technology. Eddie feels a kinship with the man and finds that he shares more and more about himself as they talk and Ray listens, and sees more than Eddie ever meant him to.

Ray has a dry wit and keen eye, he knows everything that’s going on and is happy to share the gossip; before he knows it Eddie’s in deep with various in house dramas. He gets over invested in a love triangle Ray points out and Ray’s prediction as to who will choose who is proved correct when Alyssa and Carlos are finally seen hand in hand. Eddie hands over his ten dollars as gracefully as he can.

They’ve both been speculating on who the culprit is in ‘the conundrum of the completed crosswords ™’ (Ray’s description; he’d been particularly pleased with himself about it too) and both of them are delighted to be in the right place at the right time to bear witness to the epic showdown as the person who's been finishing Jim’s crosswords behind his back is revealed.

When Jim finally catches Lionel red handed the explanation that he was ‘ just being helpful’ does not go down well. Jim definitely does not consider this type of behaviour “helpful” and lets Lionel know in no uncertain terms with words unlikely to be used in any crossword anywhere. Eddie and Ray sip their coffee and appreciate the entertainment until the two are separated.

He also finds himself involved in a heated debate about pecan pie of all things. Ray started it, boasting about his family recipe and then at least three other people were claiming to have the best recipe. Eventually the only way to settle the increasingly volatile arguments was to bake five pies (he had to put his mom's recipe into the mix) and have a bake off.

Of course Buck got involved with that, rounding up the residents to do the tasting and ensuring fair play all round. Eddie wasn’t even mad when Ray’s pie won because it was by far the best he’d ever tasted. When Ray gave him a handwritten copy of the recipe Eddie felt honoured.

The weeks go past and Eddie feels a real bond with the old man, they have a lot in common; apart from sushi, Ray loves sushi and Eddie can’t get on board with that. Buck turns up for that debate too and is firmly on Ray’s side, the traitor.

One conversation they have in particular stays with him, it’s the only time Ray’s mentioned someone called Jesse. Judging by the tone and the look on his face Jesse is or rather was Ray's wife, the love of his life, that’s what he said.

Eddie thinks she must have been gone for a while, it obviously still hurts Ray to think about her, but the look on his face when he remembers takes years off him.

Eddie finds he envies what he had, that the love they shared has been etched into him. He aches for a love like that, but he knows it’s not meant for him. He knows that what he wants is out of reach but then one day when he’s least expecting it everything he thinks he knows about that starts to shift on its axis and it’s all Ray's fault.

Eddie visits Ray on his own sometimes now, if Buck’s days off don’t match his own but today they’re both here and he can hear the other man’s laugh bouncing around the room. He keeps looking over at him. He can’t help himself, he never can.

Ray slides a tricky piece into their most recent puzzle with a satisfied sigh, he nudges Eddie to get his attention, then with a sly smile says something, in the most nonchalant voice Eddie’s ever heard, and it slices right through his defences.

“You know, he’s very handsome, that boy of yours, nice eyes, kind smile.” There’s a minuscule pause “ you can tell he’d do anything for you.”

And instead of pretending he didn’t know who Ray was talking about Eddie looked straight at Buck. Like an idiot. Like a damn fool in love.

Ray continues, relentless, “hope you know you only find a boy like that once in a lifetime. You should do something about it before it’s too late.”

Eddie flushes guiltily but tries to evade anyway “I don’t know what…” he stops, Ray’s looking right at him a silvery eyebrow lifted and the old man chuckles “don’t even try it son.”

Eddie swallows, Ray’s right he’s blushing so hard there’s no point pretending he doesn’t understand.

The terrible man next to him smirks, there’s no other word for it, “ he’s a sweetheart, you’ve got good taste, reminds me of my husband.”

Eddie’s cheeks are flaming and of course that’s when Buck chooses to bounce up to their table.

continue on AO3

#buddie #911 fox #eddie diaz #evan buckley #911 on fox #911 fic #911fic #Buddie fic #buddie fanfiction #911 fanfiction #retirement fic #spotty scribbles #eddie x Buck #buck x eddie

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evco-productions · 2 years

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What Most Biopics Do WRONG

Fun fact: at one point there was apparently plans to have Rami Malek cameo as Freddie Mercury in Rocketman, thus creating a rock-musician-biopic cinematic universe (the RMBCU, if you will). With all the biopics getting announced and released in the last several years, I just think that would have been cool.

But we’re not here to talk about cinematic universes that could have been, we’re here to talk about biopics in general. Specifically, biopics focusing on musicians, since I feel like those are the most prevalent—whenever a biopic about a musician gets made, audiences tend to go see it. I imagine they think to themselves, “If nothing else, I know who the artist being portrayed is, and they know they’re gonna hear some good music.”

Am I counted among those people? Yeah, I guess so. I saw Bohemian Rhapsody and Elvis in theaters, and (if I remember correctly) rented Rocketman.

I paid money to see all these movies because I’m a cinephile and I try to see most movies that I feel are going to be big topics of conversation within the film community, at least for the few months that they’re in theaters.

But, I don’t really like biopics by and large. And while I wanted Elvis to be a better movie than it was, at the same time I’m glad it has the flaws it does, because I think it contains sort of the best and worst traits of your typical biopic (and thus makes for a perfect focus for this entry).

First things first… Austin Butler is fantastic as Elvis Presley. This isn’t a unique thing to say; of course the people casting a biopic are going to make sure the lead actor is a great fit, otherwise the movie won’t work at all and it won’t be considered during awards season (which, let’s be honest, is half the reason most of these biopics get made). But Austin Butler is a particularly fun choice for me because I still think of him as Jake from Aliens in the Attic, which is a movie I loved as a kid (okay, I still love it) and maybe one other person reading this remembers.

I also liked Tom Hanks in Elvis more than I expected to. Excessive voiceover narration often irks me, but in this case, I liked that the movie had the guts to give us an unreliable narrator. Col. Tom Parker is mostly if not entirely to blame for a lot of what went wrong in Elvis’s life and career, but throughout the movie he is constantly trying to convince himself and us that he’s innocent.

The point is, your typical biopic kind of always comes down to the star of the show, doesn’t it? Obviously, you know deep down that Austin Butler isn’t Elvis Presley (they look kinda similar, but only kinda), but it’s the actor’s job to be so good in the movie, to deliver his lines with sincerity, to hit all the right beats of comedy and drama, that you’re willing to let the physical differences slide and just enjoy the show.

If there’s anything else that measures up to the importance of a good leading man when it comes to biopics, I would say that it's probably set design. Biopics are, by nature, period pieces, so obviously if you don’t buy that the movie is taking place in the Fifties, Sixties, Seventies, or whenever, then it won’t work. Elvis also hits the mark here.

But we need to move beyond this surface-level talk of biopics, because my problem with most of them is that I just don’t think they do a good job of convincing me they deserve to exist. Let’s be honest, whatever you think you might learn about Elvis Presley by watching the movie Elvis could be learned a lot faster by googling him.

Besides, the movie is going to have historical inaccuracies anyway—that’s not a complaint, mind you, I accept and sometimes even welcome historical inaccuracies—but like it or not, that’s a feature of any biopic. The key word in the phrase “based on a true story” is “based.” This is a dramatization of real life and creative liberties have been taken. You’re not here to get the exact truth.

But it’s not really about getting accurate information so much as it’s about how long it takes to get said information. If I wanted to learn about Elvis Presley, it takes seconds to google him and find tons of reliable firsthand and secondhand accounts of who he was and what he was like. Meanwhile, this movie is two hours and thirty-nine minutes long, and any movie that passes the two-hour mark needs to do a better job than Elvis does to convince me it’s worth investing that much time.

The first thirty minutes of Elvis are atrocious. There is not a single scene that lasts more than five minutes. The editing is way too busy—and while that might be Baz Luhrmann’s “style” or whatever, that doesn’t make it invincible to critique. The movie jumps all over the place trying to rush through Elvis’s childhood and early years.

During this first half-hour, the movie also commits what a major sin for a period piece in that it uses contemporary music in a few scenes. As far as I’m concerned, this betrays that the filmmakers were worried young audiences wouldn’t be interested in this movie if they didn’t hear a rap song. This movie is about Elvis-fucking-Presley! If you can’t be confident in the music of Elvis Presley, who’s music can you be confident in?

Now, once the movie actually slows down, takes a minute to breathe, starts exploring Elvis’s life at a more personal level, and lets Austin Butler do what he needs to do, it’s pretty good. But to me that reveals the movie they really wanted to make was about the second half of Elvis’s life. So…why didn’t they just make that movie? Biopics seem desperate to cram as much of their lead character’s lives into two and a half hours as possible, especially when it’s a musician-focused biopic, because it’s just so necessary that we see the first time the young boy heard an inspiring song and equally necessary to see the last time the old man performs on stage for his legion of fans.

It is impossible to tell someone’s life story in two and a half hours. Why are we still trying? Filmmakers who find themselves in the unique position of getting to construct a biopic should pick out what they find interesting about the person in question, and focus only on that. I think this would do wonders for making biopics seem less cookie cutter in the way that Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story was so right to make fun of.

In the end, I did give Elvis a ‘W,’ because like I said, the second half of the movie is really good—in fact, I think it’s better than both the aforementioned Bohemian Rhapsody and Rocketman. I just wish the average biopic felt like there was more care put into it and had a goal beyond selling old music inside a new album and getting people talking about who’s gonna be nominated for Best Actor next awards season.

So, if you haven’t yet seen Elvis, and you’d like my honest opinion…watch it, but consider trying to watch it at an early bird ticket price, or maybe even waiting for it to come on streaming. I predict there are more exciting, must-see titles awaiting us as the summer rolls on.

#evco #evco productions #just admit it #elvis biopic #elvis presley #bohemian rhapsody #rocketman #film discussion

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burnedbyshoto · 4 years

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hawks_littledove.mp3

— You’re an avid listener to NSFW ASMR artist Hawks. It’s just your luck that he’s offered to have phone sex with you.

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pairing: takami keigo (hawks) x fem!reader

warnings: smut, 18+, slight abuse of power/influence, phone sex, masturbation, degradation, praise, nsfw asmr artist!hawks

word count: 5,018

a/n: my keyboard is broken and i could actually cry. but hey, hawks do be sexy even tho I would never trust him with my life. also LOL this might be a call out to a lot of us, do not be offended or I will cry.

kinktober day 14 main kink: phone sex | kinktober masterlist

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Fantasizing about being in relationships with fictional characters was entirely healthy and normal.

That was something you believed to the core. It was fictional; thus, no one but you were to be hurt at the end of the day. The character, being fake, could never have an opinion because you must be real in order to have an opinion. So when you were between boyfriends, you discovered a new anime, and before you could stop yourself, you fell hard for a character.

It started as a mild obsession.

You had looked up fanart via google images, your heart warming when you saw the plethora of different fanart. The anime itself had been in circulation for a few years now, the manga for much longer, so the content was endless. Then google images wasn’t enough, and you began crossing into Twitter and Tumblr.

The fanart became better, more engrossing, and definitely much more NSFW. And then, one night during your endless rabbit hole down Tumblr after your daily search on Twitter, you stilled when seeing a new type of content.

⇒ grey fullbuster x reader

The obsession grew worse.

So much so that you had followed nearly five hundred self insert writers and artists on Tumblr, and maybe seven hundred artists, meta writers, and thread makers on twitter. But three months into consuming all the content you could find, you came across a new name that made you tilt your head.

Hawks Fierce Wings

It was a name that was being repeated and heavily talked about on both sites. It was an ASMR artist, apparently, and you frowned at the thought. You didn’t have anything against ASMR videos, but you weren’t exactly sure how to handle an anime ASMR artist. Were they cosplaying while making all those weird ASMR sounds? You really didn’t have any idea, but due to the immense boredom of your lazy day in, you decided to hell with it and tried out his most popular video.

It was simply entitled: Hawks is Jealous.

Did you have any idea as to who Hawks was? God, no, you didn’t. But if it was just some random cosplay he was going to do, you didn’t think it was going to matter. So as the only slightly educated ASMR listener, you never truly became invested when it was a thing; you slipped on your earbuds and pressed play.

The introduction screen faded into an illustrated picture of a slightly handsome man, and some calming yet tense music played in the background. You shifted, eyebrows drew as you waited for the ASMR session to begin, and when it did, you were not ready.

“I saw you walking around with that asshole today,” a voice practically growled in your ear, and you froze.

Oh, no.

Oh, no!

For almost an entire hour, you sat glued to your sofa, your fingers digging into your lap as the jealous, spiteful words of this man named Hawks poured bitterly in your ear. His words were a near aggravated assault on you and definitely something you were beyond uncomfortable hearing from a stranger, but there was something about his voice that kept you there. Maybe it was the tenor of his tone or the way there was this sly, cunning scent to his words that he seemed to hide deep within his throat, but there was something that kept you there.

The second the passionate, heated kissing noises and heavy moans began to spill from his lips, you screeched, slamming your laptop closed as your cheeks pounded heavily.

Oh my god?!

It took a bit, but eventually, you were able to finish the audio and quickly figured out why he was an NSFW artist. You had never, ever heard a man eat a pussy fake or real as eagerly or vigorously as he did. Your hands were gripping the pants of your leggings, and your chest heaved.

Oh, motherfucking shit.

Finding out there were almost seventy other videos for you to still experience sent you scrambling for more, and eventually, you had to confess you were obsessed. Despite the anime fandoms you had discovered him for, Hawks seemed to be more famous for the content he created as himself. His real name was unknown by the looks of it, and he was only addressed as Hawks by his audience, something you caught on to quickly. So only after creating a new profile for his Youtube account, you made quick work of liking and commenting on every single of his already published seventy-eight nearly one hour and thirty-minute videos.

Each one was different.

Each one filled with various roadmaps on how Hawks' scenarios would play out for you — the listener. When he used his own persona, he called the listener his little dove or his chicken nugget, sometimes his KFC thigh, or his shish kabob.

You were glad at the very least he didn’t call you by any of those nicknames when pretending to fuck you at a speed only a “porn-is-my-only-education-on-porn” virgin teenage boy. You knew it wasn’t ideal, usually, but for some reason, it just worked. You commented on everything, read his summaries and thoughts on each video. Eventually, when you found yourself on his final, most recent video, you were ready to go a step further.

The Patreon app on your phone seemed jarringly out of place as you opened the app and subscribed yourself to Hawks' highest tiered option for the price of twenty USD.

And when you got your access to his page, you were immersed in more heavier, better content.

It was a goldmine in a sea of fools gold, and you absolutely went insane.

You weren’t sure if you were insane, needy, or just straight-up idiotic for scrolling to the very first Patreon post and indulging in the content Hawks created.

There was a stark difference between the warnings alone between the Youtube videos and the Patreon posts. While the porn was readily accessible on Youtube, the kinkiest thing that ever happened in a video was a slight implication that Hawks had left the listener on a vibrator and fuckmachine as he went to go talk to the visiting neighbors.

It was a slight, tiny zone out and miss a detail, but one you had clung onto like an obsessed psycho and even commented on in your comment on the post. Of course, Hawks hadn’t responded, not that you had ever expected him to because all things considered, a video that was eight months old and hadn’t done that well, to begin with, didn’t seem like anything he would remember: notifications and all.

But Patreon? Oh good, sweet, ravishing Patreon.

The very first video was of the following:

Stepbrother!Hawks fucks Stepsister!Listener in the stairwell during Christmas Dinner.

After praying and swearing to all the deities of the world that you were merely a person with a voice kink for this man and not, in fact, a perverted pseudo-incest worshiper, you clicked on it and began. It was downright sinful.

There were active voices whispered in the background as Hawks laughed about how fucking slutty you were for letting your brother fuck you like this. In the hallway, like a dog, where anyone in your joint family could walk out into. He laughed that you probably wanted it, how your wet ass pussy was greedily sucking him in, so how could you even begin to deny your lust for your brother.

You had to take a break five times during that audio.

Eventually, you do end up catching up.

Each video he had ever posted to your disposal, and most likely due to the different tier levels, you always commented on the videos. Even if it made you feel awkward for lusting over things months old, even if there were no other comments on the videos, which was much more common than you thought, you always commented and liked. It wasn’t anything ever crazy, you had seen the rarest comments bring a whole essay of analysis on why they loved it or the hating words, but you kept it simple.

Just something to keep Hawks spirits high without draining you even further of energy.

A simple: holy shit, that was hot as fucking hell!!!! you never disappoint me!!!

You never expected anything out of it; as a matter of fact, you had merely thought that you were doing the least by merely appreciating his creations when, one night, a few hours after you had gotten home. Your phone chimed with an alert.

Your mouth formed an ‘o’ in surprise; you hadn’t realized there was going to be a new release after he had just updated four days ago. Still, you popped in your earbuds and began the audio with a simple title.

i fuk ur stupid lil pus until u cri

He wasn’t precisely putting much effort into his titles these days, but his tags were definitely accurate and entirely explicit in what was to come. And in this newest video, the prominent tag was degradation.

You weren’t entirely into degradation, but still, you did what you had to do because you weren’t turned off by it. With the beginning sounds of the music playing in the background, you warped into the situation Hawks carefully carved.

But, oh?

Your face simmered with heat as Hawks dirty words dripped from the earbuds, the wet, squelching noise of your cunt and throat being fucked like some inanimate object made you soak through your panties as his disparaging words burned against your spine like a hot brand. After the thirty-minute audio was finished. Your body trembling with the aftershocks of an orgasm that had come despite the lack of actual stimulation of your clit, and you panted on your bed.

Opening your phone once again, you quickly liked the new audio and typed out your comment.

listen, i know i always comment about how fucking hot this shit is, but i have /never/ fucking soaked through my panties… you just did that and i expect a full refund for these panties 💦

You pressed send and, without so much of a second thought, continued your night. You had dinner, talked with friends, and ended the night curled back on the couch with a wine glass in your hand and a simple sit-com playing on the TV. The familiar sound of the Patreon alert rang in your ear, and you frowned, confused.

Grabbing your phone, you opened up the device and nearly shrieked at the sight of the information the notification that said:

Hawks F.W.: lets see those panties before i refund anything

A chill ran down your spine as you quickly put together the indications of this message, and you smirked, despite your quivering hands.

Me: I have a seven inch dick requirement before seeing any of the goods — yes, that includes my panties

And from that very moment, you began a strange arrangement between you and the NSFW ASMR artist Hawks.

Working was the worst part of your life, you would say.

At work, you would sit in your small 4x4 cubicle, your shelves stacked with plenty of papers and items you needed, not to mention the computer that took up the majority of your desk. You weren’t quite sure what your job here was, you sort of sat at your desk and did meaningless assignments when assigned, but you did nothing for the most part.

Before becoming an active Hawks stan, you would spend your time doing nothing playing video games. You had somehow managed to install a VPN onto your hard drive so that your employers wouldn’t be able to see what was on your screen outside of the home screen. They couldn’t trace what you did all day, but they could care less, given you got all your work completed on time and done in an over exceptional way.

But lately, since you had dropped into this… engrossed whore like relationship with Hawks, things changed.

To be honest, it still shocks you to no end when he tells you that he had always been aware of you. Well, with your consistent, ever appearing comments on his posts and overall enthusiasm for everything he posted, it was hard to not be aware. The mental image of your soaked through panties after a long day at his own work had sent him over the edge, and he finally messaged you.

Through the DM’s in Patreon, the two of you grew to become quite the friends with benefits. He would send you countless personalized audio files because you had quickly confessed to your voice kink and how his voice sent your stomach into hormonal knots. In return, you’d send the picture of an occasional soaked panty, and if he was lucky, an audio clip of your pathetic whines back to his audios.

You couldn’t complain about this arrangement.

But as the number of his patrons doubled, and he wanted to entice his subscribers with paying him even more money, Hawks began to offer a bimonthly personalized five minute audios for his $20 tier. The fans poured into that spot, and Hawks and proudly sent you the new number of adoring fans he was getting. On account of growing platforms such as Tiktok, the number of new listeners he got was nearly exponential, as he currently passed one million followers last week.

The cheeky bastard was also making enough money to stop working his regular work hours anymore. Choosing to transition slowly into his Patreon career while recording.

Hawks, however, seemed to have other ideas for your eventual personalized voice audio.

Hawks had simply asked if, by any chance, you were going to be working tomorrow the night before. Groaning loudly in recognition of your work schedule, you had texted him back that you were going to be working. Snidely including the fact that you weren’t rich like him, you needed the tedious old nine to five job.

Hawks: how utterly boring anyway u can b free around 2?

Me: Eh… probably not. Busy girl w busy schedule, ill be back from lunch so no break Why?

Hawks: well, u knw tht uve been amzing & th bst follower so i wanted 2 give u smthing better then the personalized audio

Me: Oh? Well, what is it?’

Hawks: pick up tmrw n find out

He had changed the subject immediately afterward by dodging all of your questions with ease. So you dropped it, and the two of you resumed a night of flirting. But now, sitting in your small cubicle, your eyes flashing to the clock that read 1:57 p.m., sweat began to build on your palm.

You peered down to your phone as you waited for something, anything from Hawks to show up. The fucker was too cheeky, evasive, and quick for his own good. You felt like pouting as you glared at the phone, waiting for the screen to light up.

And you stilled when finally, at precisely 1:59 p.m., your phone gleamed with light. You couldn’t abandon your computer mouse quicker than you did as you grabbed your phone, unlocking it, and reading the message from Hawks.

Hawks: do u have earbuds?

Me: Yes?

Hawks: good put them on n pick up

The moment you had read the first message, you were already pulling out your earbuds, synching them up to your phone, and placing them into your ear. But your jaw dropped when, for the first time, the call feature highlighted onto the screen, the time immediately changing to that of 2:00 p.m. The decline or accept button had never looked as daunting as it did right now.

Despite the call trying to go through, you still saw his follow up.

Hawks: if u dont pick up u wont get shit

[Accept]

You felt your heart hammering in your chest as both fear, apprehension, and excitement boiled through your veins, the hammering blood pounding in your ears as you waited for some sort of noise on the opposite side of the line.

“Little dove?” Hawks' voices filled your ears, and despite yourself, you smiled softly. The naturalness of his voice sends warm thumps down your spine.

“Hi, Hawks,” you whisper breathlessly, your head already checking to make sure your neighboring cubicle mates didn’t try to look over the divisions to stare at you. For the most part, the office building was quiet except for the phone calls, the clanking of computer keys, and the monotonous music playing softly on the speaker's head.

“Whatcha doing?” he drawled, and you felt your skin heat up when you heard the all too familiar sound of his shoes hitting the top of his desk, the soft whine of his chair as he leaned back onto it. “Are you really at work?”

“What do you mean, am I really at work?” you squeaked, half horrified at the way the lazy, warm heat of lust was infiltrating your body at the sound of his voice, and the annoyance that he thought you had been lying? “Of course I am; it’s two p.m. on a Wednesday!”

“Ah, so little dove-chan is a raging pervert who engages in phone sex to bypass her long hours at work?” Hawks sighed his tone that of understanding and dismissal. You splutter. “You never fail to surprise me.”

“I do not do… that!” you stammer, your face feeling like hot cinders, your fingers and eyes double-checking to make sure that the audio was going to your earbuds and your earbuds only. You also couldn’t help the way your eyes swept around you, trying to make sure you hadn’t accidentally invited unwanted attention. “I said I was busy!”

“But, you picked up my call?”

“You said, or else!”

“Mmm, okay, I think I see,” Hawks tutted, and although you had never seen what you supposed to be his handsome face, you could imagine a lazy, toothy smirk on his face. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind using your little cubicle to talk you into fucking yourself good for me.”

Your jaw drops.

It hits the desk, and the muffled shriek of utter humiliation is only silenced because you bit onto your tongue like a rabid animal.

“Aw, you sound so excited for me already, little dove. I bet you want to know what I’m going to do to you, don’t you? I just know that I’m going to make you feel so... good…”

“Hawks!” you plea in a hushed whisper, your heart hammering where you sat frozen like a deer in headlights. Sure, you had definitely played his audios before to pass the time, but never before in your existence had you had actual phone sex. This was riskier than just listening to his audios; his audios always had a pattern, a way to escape from the madness of his voice when people were closer than you’d like. But this? No, there was no escape. “I’m at work! I c-can’t!”

“But, fuck, I want you so bad,” Hawks' voice dipped into a gravely tone, his voice just perfectly scratchy enough that your shoulders trembled in unspoken, untouched want. “I want to feel your cunt around my cock, baby, your pussy is so hot and I want to be the fucking lucky bastard that gets to fuck you through your bed.”

“O-Oh my god…”

“I’ve been thinking of what your tits look like,” Hawks continues on, his voice continuing in the style you liked the most. It was raw, heavy, and deep. No character impersonations, just him, pure Hawks. “I hope they bounce the way they do when I imagine you riding me. I want to see you moan when I kiss the underside of your tit, I want to see your face when you realize that you’re my girl, nobody's else's, but mine.”

Heat floods your panties at his words, your shallow breaths making him chuckle on the other end.

“You’d be so lucky to be just mine, wouldn’t you, little dove?” Hawks snaps, his voice demanding a response, and you heave.

You look around, no one is near, and you croak out: “I’d be so lucky.”

“Louder.”

“I’d be so lucky.”

“Mm, there we go,” Hawks laughs, and your ears prickle for any noise that may indicate that someone was listening in. “What? Are you getting nervous that your needy ass will be heard by your coworkers right now? Answer me.”

“Mhmm,” you hum loudly, your cunt pulsing with more incredible heat and your hands shaking with a slight fear of being caught.

“Aww, don’t worry, little dove. I’m sure your boss will understand that you’re my newest fucktoy and will let me continue. Maybe they’ll want to join in?”

You whimper softly, shifting in your seat at that thought. You didn’t really want your boss coming anywhere near you, he was old and gross for one, and nothing could take the place of this beautiful man's voice in your ear right now.

“Oh, was that a no? You don’t want other people fucking you, do you, y/n? I bet you only want to have my cock in your tight little pussy, bet you want to watch the way that greedy little thing sucks me in, begging for my seed. Would you want me to cum deep inside you? You would like that little dove; you’d like to be full of my cum.”

“H-Hawks,” you keen as quietly as you can, your hips shifting uncomfortably in your seat, your heart hammering in your throat. The pressing heat in your cunt is growing, your panties growing with wet slick as Hawks' voice whispers down your ear, filling every empty and void space in your brain until you were having trouble focusing on the very much public spot you were in.

Hawks let out a soft, guttural moan, and you froze, face entirely combusting into an inferno as the familiar slick slapping of his fapping cock filled your ear. Immediately, you forgot everything.

“A-Are you—?!” you splutter, unable to find the words or the energy to come up with a way to ask if he was masturbating right now. Your eyes spun, your mind in a complete haze as soft, raunchy moans spilled from his lips, striking against your nerves and soul with each successive sound.

“I’m only trying to help you out here, dove,” Hawks growled, undoubtedly in effect to a rather loud smack of his fist colliding with his thrusting hip. “You’re the little office slut who picked up a phone call to entice in phone sex. I bet you knew exactly what I was going to do, and your pathetic, needy whore self caved to my instructions.”

Your fingers curled into the armrest of your chair.

“I bet this makes your boring ass job tolerable, the perfect distraction to a shit job, then imagining a few minutes of fucking yourself against my hard cock.”

“That’s not true!”

“No?” Hawks laughed, not believing you any more than you did. “So you wouldn’t hate it if I showed up and fucked you into the wall of your cubicle? You wouldn’t mind if I claimed your sweet-smelling pussy against your desk for everyone to hear? I know you can scream like a bitch in heat. I know that pretty little cunt of yours would milk my cock dry. Oh, I just know you would look so fucking sexy with your back arched, eyes closed, and you begging for hours just to cum. You wouldn’t cum without my permission, right?”

You gasped, heart fluttering, hammering in your chest as you shook your head, not trusting yourself to speak.

“I need a verbal answer, little dove.”

The heat in your core was blistering, your thighs shaking with your unadulterated lust and need as you ground into the cushion of your chair. All logic and moral long gone as he snarled and moaned your name in your ear, the slick of his fapping cock echoing like a great bell in your ear. You wanted to hear him cum, wanted to listen to the pithering sound of his echoing moans as he spilled the contents of his balls onto his hand — and how you wished it was your womb.

“I won’t cum w-without your permission!” you whispered, your skin shivering with your fear of being caught.

“God, you sound like such a dirty fucking bitch. I bet your pussy is fucking soaked already. Bet you really want to run that slutty embarrassed finger against your clit but don’t want to be caught by your perverted coworkers,” Hawks hissed, his breaths turning into steady, heavy hot pants. You mewl softly, confirming his spoken thoughts, and he huffs out a laugh. “How many fingers do you normally shove up that pretty cunt of yours, little dove?”

“T-Three!” you gasp, your forehead pressing to the cool of your desk, your eyes glazed over and looking at the entrance of your cubicle, fervently wishing that no one tries to check on you as you grind against your stable chair. “O-Only three fit.”

“Fuck, you really do have a tight cunt, don’t you,” Hawks snaps, the wet sounds of his fisting hand around his cock a beautiful melody in your ear that makes you whine at the back of your throat. “Bet you can’t even fit cocks up your cunt without lube, huh. You gotta stay on top, or else you’ll get hurt with how thick and long my cock will be up that baby pussy of yours.”

“H-Hawks!” you grit out, the friction of grinding on the seat no longer working.

“Go to the bathroom, now,” Hawks commands, the small gasps on his voice from his approaching orgasm more than enough ammo for you to do as told.

You sprint to the bathroom, the slick of your cunt hot, and evident to you as you sped to the bathroom. Your phone clenched in your hand as you locked the door behind you, glad the room was empty. Barely managing to get yourself into the stall, the toilet paper placed on the seat as you raised your legs up, already prepared. The skirt you wore was bunched above your ass, and the panties you wore, stretching out around your knees.

“Sounds like you’re ready to start fucking that pussy for me,” Hawks laughs, but there's no humor, just bite. “Put in three fingers, now.”

Without even arguing or caring, three fingers slip into your cunt, and you cry at the feeling of your fingers completely stretching you out. The smell of sex and slick filling your nose as your fingers slick up, fucking your tight cunt as you moan louder and louder for Hawks.

“God, your fucking pussy is so fucking wet, I can hear it from here!” Hawks moans, the frantic sound of his drilling hips gaining speed and momentum.

“I want it to be you!” you moan, your face burning in your humiliation. “I want it to be you fucking my pussy, claiming me in this bathroom. I need you, Hawks, I want your cock so badly!”

“Fuck,” Hawks gasps, something tumbling in the background. “Such sweet words for a fucking dirty ass cumslut,” he growls, and your legs shake, your clit and cunt thrumming with your increasing arousal and pit of tightness in your core.

“HAWKS, FUCK!” you sob as your hips try to start a merciless speed against your fingers, your body trying to match the speed in which Hawks was fucking his own hand.

“Keep screaming my name, whore.” Hawks gasps, his noises of pleasure beginning to grow louder and louder, your eyes crossing in satisfaction. “Screaming my name like the fucking slutty mess you are. All this shit just to get me to fuck you? God, you’re so fucking pathetic y/n. Begging for me, begging for more? I think you’re my favorite little dove ever, gonna make you mine whenever I get to fuck that pussy.”

“Hawks!” you wail his name again, your arms and pussy throbbing with the energy it takes to keep up with his inhumane speeds. Your vision seeing stars as you tremble more and more, your legs slipping from the toilet seat, yet. “I am your whore, your little dove. Please let me come, please! You fuck me so well, fucking hell, please, I needa cum, I needa cum!”

“Cum with me,” he snaps, his voice so deep, so dangerously smooth. It was precisely what you needed, the voice kink you had for his tenor exactly fulfilled entirely with that simple, last command. And just like that, your jaw slackens, head slamming backward, and pleasurable waves crash through you.

Your fingers still rock at your clit, and your vice gripped walls, your toes curling within your shoes as you soundlessly scream. Hawks, on the other end, is practically snarling, voice deep and altogether dangerous as grunt after grunt leaves him, and you can imagine the milk-white cum splattered all over his chest and hand. A beautiful, perfect sight that you wish you could see for yourself.

Exhaustion settles in your bones as you sit on the toilet, still entirely exhausted as you heave for air.

“I think that was the best fucking orgasm I ever had,” you mumble, your eyes closed, not ready to stand up and move. “Thank you.”

“I’m good at what I… at what I do,” Hawks stumbles, husky exhaustion ringing in his own voice. “Now, little dove, finish up work, and I promise there’ll be a surprise waiting for you when you’re done.”

Not entirely agreeing, but not disagreeing with his command to go finish you last… two and a half hours at work, you begrudgingly said goodbye to Hawks before washing your hands and exiting the bathroom.

When five o’clock came, you watched as your phone screen lit up, and your face flushed as you read the DM from Hawks.

Hawks: this is my fav audio now ↳ hawks_littledove.mp3 but you surprised me today, so in case u ever want to have more fun sometime call me 03-9183-2495 ;)

#hawks smut #hawks x reader #bnha #bnha x reader #mha #bbs kinktober 2020

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gothhisoka · 3 years

Text

𝑨 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒀𝒐𝒓𝒌𝑵𝒆𝒘

100 follower special!! Thank you everyone <3

Pairing: Chrollo x fem!reader

Tags: College AU, rich Chrollo, Gossip Girl vibes, this is my first draft so sorry about the errors

Word count: 4.8k

Summary: The infamous October party is all the talk at YorkNew University. It takes place at a huge penthouse in the heart of the city, owned by a mysterious man that few know the true identity of.

You attend the party just having entered your freshman year. There, you meet all sorts of people. But one, in particular, intrigues you the most. His name is Chrollo Lucilfer. He is an expensive suit-wearing, whisky-smelling, suspiciously rich graduate student.

And you are going to try to get him to dance.

Warnings: MINORS DNI, 18+, Do not drink underage. You should not use any of the actions displayed in the following story as examples for your own life.

Playlist: click here to listen while reading

Ao3: click here to read on ao3

Chapter 1/?

As you walked through the streets of YorkNew City you felt gusts of wind push past you so strongly that they nearly knocked you over. It was already miserable to be outside, and it was only October. The sky was growing dark, the city growing brighter. Fall decorations adorned the buildings you passed. The Southernpiece Auction House looked the most magnificent of them all– with bright colored lights trailing the pathway and walls.

No time to wonder at your surroundings, you thought. You would have four more years to gawk at the city. You pulled your scarf tighter around you as you walked faster. Although you looked cute in your tights, it was definitely not the appropriate clothing choice for this weather.

Your decision to go to YNU seemed perfect in every way. It was one of the top schools in YorkNew and was in the heart of the city. Unfortunately, you failed to realize that the wind would be whipping for three-quarters of the year.

While it wasn’t the biggest “party school,” there was a single big party in October held by one of the fraternities. That party was the one you happened to be heading to right now. Everyone knew of it and talked about it non-stop. You were reluctant to attend. You hadn’t had many real party experiences at high school. For the most part, they consisted of sitting around drinking cheap beer while your classmates humiliated themselves. Your friends had high hopes for this one, though.

For one, it appeared to be in the penthouse of a high-rise building. You checked your phone to see if the location matched the one on your map. This wasn’t the frat house you had been expecting. Although your and the system’s arrows matched, you really couldn’t trust your directional skills, anyway.

Your hands were near frozen, but you managed to press the call button on your friends’ contact.

“Hey Canary?” you don’t hear her reply as music floods through your phone speaker. Seconds later, it becomes quieter, signaling she moved into another room.

“Hey, it’s absolutely crazy up here, sorry.”

You ask her about the address, and she confirms it. She tells you her location at the party so you can find her later. She hangs up before you can say bye or express more of your listless anxieties. Why were you so worried? You had Canary and Amane and… well, you didn’t know many others. And of course Canary and Amane would be all over each other so really you had no one. That was a valid source of anxiety, was it not?

Either way, you needed to step into the building to escape the cold. Perhaps after you warmed up you could make your escape. I knew this was a bad idea.

The entryway was already magnificent, with tall arches and marble floors. A fire blazed near a seating area on the opposite wall. You rushed over to find it unoccupied, thank goodness. You sat as close as safely possible and felt the warmth creep back into your body.

Your head cleared a bit, thoughts straightening out into coherency. You were at your first party. Your friends were all up there already, so you wouldn’t need to wait for them awkwardly. Everything would go smoothly as long as–

Just then, a group of around six people entered the hall. You couldn’t help but stare. One was over six feet tall, another shorter than five. And some were unbelievably gorgeous. One of them particularly caught your eye. He was wearing all black, styled in an expensive coat and dress shirt. His hair was black as well, hanging loose around his pale face. Dark eyes looked towards a man at his right. He walked with such an intimidating stride that you nearly hid behind the sofa. Luckily, they didn’t appear to be heading in your direction.

They probably were all college students, why else would they be dressed up at a random apartment on this specific day? The thought sent butterflies to your stomach. If the group really was full of college students, maybe you should be going to that party.

Not to gawk at them or anything. Based on their looks, you could tell that they were the rich YorkNew city elite-type students, not the federal loan international-type student as you were. In other words, they had power and you did not. It was best to avoid these types of people. You knew that much just from living in the city for a couple of months.

The group was still waiting outside of the elevators. You made possibly the stupidest decision that you could’ve at that moment. You rose from your seat and flattened your hair. You then proceeded to trot right over to the elevator, behind the group. You had to go upstairs somehow, and reaching the top floor through the stairs didn’t seem like the ideal choice.

Clearly still distracted by the image of that man’s face that was now tattoed onto your brain, you didn’t even notice when the elevator doors opened. A voice sounded from inside that snapped you out of your daydream.

“There’s enough room if you want to come in…” it was the same man that you noticed from before.

An amused expression shone on his face– it was as if he was trying to hide a smirk. He placed his hand on the elevator door so it wouldn’t close. You noticed thick silver rings on a couple of his fingers. It was clear from his appearance that he was wealthy. Not to mention, his mannerisms had an undertone of superiority. Despite yourself, this only enticed you more. Who was this man?

Apparently, you were about to find out.

A blush rose on your face as you quickly gave him your thanks and scrambled inside the elevator. He stood directly next to you, with his friends on the sides. The sudden closeness made your stomach flip.

“What floor?” he asked, hand hovering above the numbers on the elevator wall.

You checked the keypad although you already knew that you would all be headed to the same place.

You tried not to look at him as you responded. “Same as you.”

“Oh,” he replied simply.

The rest of the ride was accompanied by a rising tension. The girls behind you made the only conversation, talking in low voices to one another. You were grateful when the elevator finally stopped on the top floor. You quickly walked out and made your way to anywhere but where that group was. On a second glance, you could see that the rest of them also had that air of wealth and superiority that the man had. That was definitely not the crowd you wanted to get acquainted with tonight.

Besides the music thumping through the walls and people waiting around the entrance, the hall outside of the elevator looked like it could be in any other apartment building. There was a large rack full of coats and hangers to your right. As you walked through the long hall you took off your coat and scarf, happy to get rid of the bulky clothes.

Going into the party was still nerve-wracking, but your outfit gave you a bit of courage. You chose a black silk minidress that accentuated your curves perfectly. You wore fishnet tights and combat boots to complete the look. You did your makeup to near perfection, with a bold red lip and your signature eyeliner. Needless to say, you were feeling good.

You almost forgot that the group that was still in the hall until you felt their eyes bearing into you. In your peripheral vision, you saw them take off their coats just as you finished hanging yours. Without another moment of hesitation, you walked quickly to the door.

The music grew louder and you grew slightly nauseous. This night has already been far too much. Is it really the best idea to continue on? It was too late to turn back, as you would be turning to face those who you wished to avoid.

So, you opened the door. You were immediately flooded with lights and sounds and people. The interior was huge. You guessed that this single apartment took up the majority of the floor, and apparently the one above it too. A staircase on the right side led to a balcony overlooking the main room. Couches and furniture lined the walls, pushed away to form a space in the middle. From what you could see, the entire back wall consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city below. If you hadn’t felt so dizzy, you would’ve noticed that the room stunning and grand, unlike any you have seen before.

Students were everywhere, crowding on the couches and the dance floor. You couldn’t make out many faces as the neon lights were dim. You guessed that there were at least seventy people in this room alone.

The music thumped in your bones. You tried to focus on the lines of the song playing instead of your rising panic. “Oh god can you make my heart stop… killshot baby.”

After assessing your surroundings, you made a quick beeline to the kitchen, where Canary said she would be when you called her earlier. The walk was only quick in theory. It took you around five minutes to make your way across the room. It wasn’t the most pleasant experience, weaving through drunk bodies dancing with fervor. You smelt the sweet smell of vape smoke mixed in with the sweat. Heads turned to look at you but you did not look back. Nothing interested you more than finding your friends. Meeting other people could come after you were settled.

You bitterly realized that it had been a bad idea not to come with Canary and Amane an hour earlier. You thought as little time as possible spent there would be ideal, as it was your first time at a college party. Little did you know that arriving late would mean a frantic search for your friends amidst the chaos.

At last, you came upon an opening in the wall that seemed to lead to the kitchen. There were neon lights in there as well, lining the counters and cabinets. White marble countertops glinted underneath bottles of alcohol.

There were significantly fewer people crowded into this tiny space. About fifteen people stood around, drinking and talking with one another over the music. Without thinking, you grab a bottle of beer as you pass by the counter on your way to the other side of the room. There was an empty corner that was calling your name. From there you could observe the faces of the people around you. And possibly get a bit drunk while you were at it. You figured it was the only way you could survive the rest of the night.

As you scanned the faces your heart sank. You didn’t see your friends anywhere. Maybe they already moved to the dancefloor. You take another swig of the beer and pull out your phone.

The dial tone for Canary sounded just as you spotted a familiar face. He was leaning against the wall on the other side of the room with his arms crossed, talking to an attractive red-haired man standing next to him. Your mind was slowly growing hazier, but that didn’t mean you forgot about the man from before.

You quickly averted your eyes. Canary didn’t pick up your call so you decided to text her. All the while you felt your heart begin to thrum. Did that man intimidate you? Or was it just because you thought he was incredibly hot?

You couldn’t say for sure, as you have never felt this way about a person before. He looked older than you, a graduate student perhaps. Anyway, he was far out of your reach in terms of people you could talk to. So, you decided right there and then to stop thinking about him.

You wait a few more minutes for Canary’s response. She doesn’t reply to your text. You grit your teeth and pick up another bottle of beer from the counter. Unfortunately, the bottle opener was nowhere to be seen. Just my luck, you thought. Rather than going without the beer, you pulled out your keys and tried to pry the lid off with your sheer force. But your hand kept slipping and you were beginning to feel a bit embarrassed. You cursed yourself under your breath and looked around to see if anyone noticed your clumsiness.

Accidentally peering towards the wall where the man was before, you notice that he was no longer there. You didn’t know why you cared so much about the opinion of a stranger.

You were about to put the bottle down when you sensed someone next to you. A voice that smelt of whisky and cigarettes spoke, “Need some help there?”

You retracted at the sound and sensation until you noticed who spoke. It was him. You froze, unsure of what to do next. Slowly, your eyes trailed up to his face.

You tried not to stare as you took him in full, now that you were finally face to face. The low neon lights highlighted his strong nose and sharp jawline. His black hair was messily swept from his face, displaying a cross tattoo on his forehead that you hadn’t noticed before. He wore small silver hoops in both ears. Shadows formed across his deep-set eyes as he regarded you, emotionless and still.

He asked you again, pointing to the unopened bottle, “The beer?”

You gave him a nervous laugh, “Oh, yes. I don’t know where the bottle opener went…”

He still stood unusually close to you. Obviously, it was only so that you could hear him better over the loud music. Still, it made your heart flutter. You averted your eyes from his only to see the sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled up, displaying strong arms and hands.

You tried to tell yourself that he was just being nice. And you were making a fool of yourself, just as you were before at the elevator. You knew you had no chance with him, even though a party was a more relaxed environment than most. He would want nothing to do with you after he helped you again. These intimidating upperclassmen were the same.

The man said nothing as he placed the edge of the bottle on the counter, with the cap at the edge. Those beautiful, white marble countertops. Surely he isn’t going to…

With a slam of his palm, the cap came clear off.

“Here,” he said simply.

Why, you wondered, was that so attractive. You couldn’t possibly be getting turned on by the opening of a bottle. Maybe it was only due to the way he did it, displaying his strength so boldly.

He noticed your expression and laughed lightly. “It’s fine, I own the place.”

You couldn’t hide your surprise at his statement. If he was a graduate student, how could he possibly be making enough for this entire place? And you were told it was a frat house, not a single apartment?

A little bit of talking wouldn’t hurt, no matter his status. So you decide to allow the questions to flow. Perhaps the beer was finally loosening your lips and easing your anxiety. You really should’ve been searching for your friends, but it seemed that your body thought differently. Something about the man drew you in. Whether it was his flawless appearance or genuine kindness towards you, you weren’t sure.

“You own this place?” you questioned, leaning a hip on the counter with your beer in hand.

He gave you a small smile, clearly trying to appear humble. “Yes.”

All you managed to say was, “How?”

Was it genuine interest in his face that you saw? Or was he simply happy to boast about his tremendous earnings?

“My company. The dealings bring in solid money, so I decided to purchase this place.” He waved a hand, gesturing towards the general direction of his massive living area.

“Your company? Do you go to YNU?”

He couldn’t be that old to have established his own company. And if he was, surely you would’ve heard about it, as he would be famous. Perhaps he was like many of the other kids at this school, enjoying a trust fund to their name and claiming it all to be their sheer success.

He grabbed a beer from the table and opened it the same way as he did before. He seemed to almost be growing bored of the conversation, needing to drink to distract himself. He became more distant as the small talk continued.

“Yes. I’m in the first year of my graduate program. And you?”

God, those eyes. It was hard to maintain eye contact with him for too long. It felt as if he was simultaneously calculating you as if you were a complex math problem while trying to appear as emotionless as possible.

He was the one who needed calculating. His appearance was already bizarre, with the cross tattoo displayed so boldly on his forehead. But the fact that he was only in his first year of graduate school and already running his own company was too much to comprehend. All you wished for was to know more about this strangely alluring man.

You were about to reply when you heard your name being called from the crowd in the large room. Giggles followed the shout.

Canary and Amane were thrust out of the mass of bodies in the living area. Canary wore a minidress and Amane wore a dress shirt and pants, now significantly disheveled. They were smiling like mad.

Your heart jumped at the sight of them. Finally, you were safe. That was your immediate thought until you saw the stumble in their walks. They were drunk.

Canary slurred your name again. “We’ve missed you! Where were you?”

“I was here in the kitchen, where you told me to wait. Remember?”

Canary and Amane simply gave each other a knowing look and giggled. You had almost forgotten the man who still stood behind you.

“We’ll leave you to it then,” Amane said, making it obvious that she was referencing him.

They were about to leave when you called out. “Wait!”

It wasn’t that you weren’t absolutely entranced by the man and wouldn’t give everything to talk to him for even one more minute, it was just that your friends needed you.

You turned to see the man now farther down the counter, talking to the red-haired man again. He noticed your apologetic look and walked towards you.

“Sorry I have to–”

Your sentence trails off as he looks down on you with a slight smile, arms crossed. You almost want to take a step back, his look too penetrating and revealing.

“What is your name?”

You widened your eyes. He wants to know your name. What were you supposed to make of that?

You give him your name.

“I’m Chrollo,” he replies, sticking his hand out for you to shake as if you were making a business deal. You try to hide your laugh.

He simply smirks back at you as you take his hand. The cold metal of his rings contrasted with the warmth the both of you were emitting. The front of his hand was smooth, with light veins running towards his knuckles. A sign of strength. Moreover, his palm rough. His grip was firm and confident as if he had something he wanted to convey with this handshake. What that was, though, you couldn’t be sure.

You felt a tap on your soldier and knew it was time to go with your friends. You just couldn’t manage to turn away. You already began to think, what if I never see him again? What if he doesn’t want to see me again anyway?

“Nice to meet you, Chrollo,” you said before finally turning your back. You felt his eyes bearing into your back as you left. At least, you hoped it was your back. You weren’t used to the tightness of your dresses’ material and the looks that coupled it.

You silently praise yourself for your unusual boldness toward Chrollo. Maybe you were bold enough to make an impression. An impression was really all you could hope for, at this point. That man was impossible to read.

Before you left the kitchen, Amane held out a small cup for you containing a clear liquid. You hardly hear what she says it is before you knock it back. The taste burns your throat. You figured you would need whatever it was before heading out to the dance floor. Amane and Canary do the same as you (as if they needed it, as drunk as they were).

As Canary grabbed your hand, Chrollo’s name echoed in your mind. Where have you heard it before? You probably could remember if you hadn’t drunk that last shot.

“Who the fuck was that?!” Amane nearly screamed into your ear. You were nearing the main dance floor. The sound was deafening and you felt the thump of music in your bones.

“Chrollo. He owns this place, apparently,” your voice gets lost in the noise.

“WHAT?” Canary yells. You were deep into the mass of people so talking was virtually impossible. There was space to move once you reached the center. It was far enough from the speakers that you could hear fragments of speech from the other people beside you. The sound still bounced off of the tall ceilings, echoing through the large room.

A new song started to play and you began to dance. You, Canary, and Amane danced stupidly, movements sluggish yet wild from the alcohol. It was the most fun you had in a long while. Maybe going to the party wasn’t such a bad idea after all. At that point, the anxiety all but left your body.

After a couple more songs, you decided to try to find your way out of the crowd to take a break. Your body ached with all the movement and sensation. Amane and Canary remained on the floor, although they insisted on following you. It was a slower song, anyway. You couldn’t be caught on the floor with no partner.

At last, after much shoving, you found a wall you could rest against. It just happened to be the wall with the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was far less crowded here. The cold glass felt incredible after the mass of sweat that was the dance floor.

The city lights reflected in the glass

You were close enough to the kitchen to peer through the entrance. When you did so, you couldn’t see Chrollo or his friend. Rather, they were talking to one another next to the kitchen, along the plane of windows.

Suddenly, the glass didn’t feel so cold anymore. You began to heat up just at the sight of him. It was too late by the time you looked away, they had noticed your gaze. Chrollo caught your eyes and your heart skipped a beat. But it wasn’t Chrollo who came over to you. It was his friend. You looked towards the red-haired man with apprehension. This wasn’t middle school, was it? Was Chrollo getting his friend to act as their in-between? No , you told yourself. This sly-looking man is clearly here for something else.

“Hello there,” he said in a sultry tone. He leaned against the window just as you did the same.

His red hair hung loosely around his yellow eyes. He wore a loose dark purple dress shirt and black pants.

Your patience was running out. “Who are you?” And why are you not Chrollo?

“Hisoka. And you must be y/n, right?”

Your eyebrows rose as you nodded. Had Chrollo already mentioned you to Hisoka? What made you worth mentioning? Well, apparently you were about to find out.

“I was wondering, dear, would you dance with me?”

That was unexpected. You turned to face him to observe his expression and the one of the man behind him. Chrollo’s face was bank but his eyes looked stormy as if to issue a warning to Hisoka. Something in Chrollo’s look made you want to accept Hisoka’s offer, just to see his reaction. The slight changes in his expression were endlessly entertaining. If doing something as reckless as dancing with a man you had just met would warrant a change, you would happily oblige.

Hisoka’s smirk vanished as you replied, “Sure.”

Now it was your turn to look smug. Chrollo’s eyes widened slightly but he still remained silent, several feet away with his back against the window. If Hisoka was anyone else, say a person who didn’t radiate his dangerously sexual appetite, perhaps Chrollo would’ve been less surprised.

Although you assuredly gave him your answer, you knew you couldn’t trust this man. His sly expression persisted as he snaked a slender hand across your waist. You didn’t turn to see Chrollo’s expression but you could feel a pair of eyes on your back as you walked away. How unfair it was, that Chrollo always got the last look.

Hisoka led you to an opening on the dance floor that was situated near the staircase. He immediately pulled you to his chest. You gasped at the sudden closeness. You felt his torso with your own, his hardened with muscle. He moved his hands tighter against your waist and you nearly melted into the touch.

You were drunk. He wasn’t who you wanted. But you could easily pretend he was.

You tried to peer back to the spot where Chrollo was standing. It was far too dense and dark to make out any faces besides the one of the man before you.

He wasn’t Chrollo, but he was unquestionably attractive. His sharp features were riddled with confidence. He carried himself as a king would, so self-assured that he was borderline unaware.

The slow song had since ended and a faster one began to sound. You began to feel the rhythm and danced along, Hisoka pulling you closer all the while. Although you were significantly intimidated by Hisoka, it was still fun. You couldn’t tell if either of you was dancing well or making a fool of yourselves. All you knew was sound, movement, and the touch of his body to yours.

After another song or two suddenly Hisoka pulled apart. He wore a malicious expression.

“I have to go,” he said, simply.

He didn’t give you a chance to reply. He waltzed up the stairs to the balcony that you were dancing near. You trailed your eyes to where he stood, hands on the railing talking to the person beside him. It was the blond woman you saw earlier, the one who was with Chrollo’s group…

And next to her was Chrollo. He was holding onto the railing for dear life as if he would fall to his death if he let go. A fear of heights? No, you didn’t think so. Based on his facial expression, he looked almost bitter. You didn’t deem that possible based on his mild mannerism so far. And what reason would he have to be angry?

An idea sparked in your mind. A stupid one, undoubtedly. But Chrollo and his group were far too interesting to ignore for the rest of the night.

It was probably too dark for them to see you amongst the crowd, but you crouched as you moved away anyway. You sensed the tension in their conversation all the way from the floor below. You would wait until Chrollo cooled off a bit and then make your move.

You head back to the kitchen to have another drink. You go for something stronger, a shot of a pale liquid that you didn’t know the name of. Or rather, you were too distracted to care.

You made the perilous journey back to the balcony, dodging limbs and drunken stupors. It was nearing midnight at this point and the crowd was sufficiently rowdy. You think you spot Canary dancing near the back wall, but you couldn’t be sure. You will let her have her own fun tonight since you already found yours.

From below, you could see that Chrollo, Hisoka, and the woman were still leaning against the balcony railing. As you dizzily mounted the steps, you realized that Chrollo looked as perfect and intact as when you first saw him, all those hours ago. He must’ve not danced the whole night, even though it was his own party. How strange. Well, you were about to try and change that.

“Hey,” you said as you waltzed up to Chrollo. There was a bit of a stumble in your step so you quickly made use of the railing.

Chrollo no longer had a death-grip on the bar. He looked at you with a blank face.

“Hello,” he replied.

His friends glared at you so hard that you nearly turned back around. You seem to have interrupted an important conversation.

You lazily move closer to Chrollo and speak under your breath, so that his friends don’t hear, “Want to dance?”

#chrollo fanfic #chrollo x you #chrollo x y/n #chrollo x reader #chrollo smut #chrollo #chrollo lucilfer #chrollo headcanons #hxh chrollo #hunter x hunter fanfiction #hunter x hunter #hxh x reader #hxh scenarios #chrollo angst #phantom troupe #hxh college au

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quirkysubject · 2 years

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I recently finished Ian Hunter's Diary of a Rock'n'Roll Star. It details his life on a US tour with Mott the Hoople in the early seventies - not the one with Queen, unfortunately, but an earlier one in December 1972.

I'd recommend it to anyone interested in the time and the music business, since you learn a lot about the logistics of touring, the trouble bands could run into, and how they would spend their down days (mostly raiding pawn shops for guitars apparently).

It also gives you a glimpse into the world-view of a somewhat successful English rock musician at the time. Born in 1939, Ian Hunter is a bit older than the members of Queen, but Mott's heydey was around the same time as early Queen. I can't find the quote now, but I'm pretty sure that both Roger and Brian talked about how formative those two early tours as Mott's support were.

(Continued under the cut because this gets kind of long, and because of examples of misogyny, violence against women, racism and homophobia).

Let me preface this by saying that this is not an exhaustive discussion of the book. There’s a lot more in there, and I only used the most telling examples.

Let’s start with the way he talks about women, and groupies in particular.

This is shortly after they arrive in the US:

"We get back to the hotel and saunter into Pete and Buffy’s room. Some chick called Rachel is ringing Pete once an hour and Phal’s having trouble getting rid of a bird he said hello to three years ago. Excuses are made and the Word's going round already that we're not going to bother this time around. It's all fucking boring anyway. They're lousy lays as a rule and you can never get rid of them once you let them in. They don’t even listen to the music anymore and as I’ve said, you run a big risk in the dose stakes if you decide to dabble. The best thing to do, young and inexperienced musicians (if there is such a thing), is to whip their spotty little arses and lay back and enjoy a professional blow job; then tell them you got crabs and they'll be gone before you know it. Anyway, they don’t make groupies like they used to."

There are a couple more instances where he describes how those annoying girls trying to make contact with the band are, and how much of a chore it all is:

"Pete dutifully talks to the slags (not too much, just enough for them to dig him and want to see the band again). Where chicks go guys are bound to follow-we've always understood this and gone out of our way to be nice."

Now a huge Amazon chick with fleshy thighs comes up and I quietly pray she won’t sit down. ‘Where were you last night? You missed the party in Penthouse 37. There were 15 broads there and it was busted. You should have come, you would’ve got screwed.’ ‘Well, er . . . nobody told us, what a pity, eh . . . Stan, what a pity.’ [Please . . . please go away . . . or I'll die, I know I will, I never feel good in the morning as it is.] Then there’s a silence and she finally takes the hint.

Here's another charming assessment:

"Two groupies to my left looked quite reasonable while three hideous ones ogle from my right. One has on hot pants, velvet clogs and green tights; another wears a denim bib and brace with the arse sticking out of it and weighs about 13 stone and yet a third has on glitter lavender shoes, other assorted gaily coloured rags and this horrendous sight is completed by the application of bright red eye make-up, liberally daubed on with what must have been a trowel. Her only redeeming feature was the size of her tits, but even they hardly compensate for her overall appearance. Two Mexican birds walk by chatting excitedly, and a very tall bloke sits with an attractive bird at the top end."

Now, those bits are merely tasteless, but then we get to the aftermath of a show near Philadelphia, where he actually gets violent:

"An hour later we leave to almost total satisfaction, having done an atrocious version of Dudes and a great version of Honky Tonk as encores. A load of groupies looking like Tussaud’s Waxworks wait for us and I tease them. Not too successfully though because they suss me and say they've had nothing to laugh at all night. This calls for a throating and the chick amends her statement to ‘someone to talk to’; then I release my grip."

I'm not sure how to read this other than that he choked a woman because she got sassy with him. During this episode, his wife Trudy was present, who he says "watches in amusement". (As I recall, he mostly talks respectfully about his wife, who is along for part of the tour.)

Now, there is another episode where Ian picks a fight with another band, so he might have had some problems managing his anger in general. The difference is that this time, he feels bad for it and reflects afterwards:

"I knew I had been what the guy said I'd been. A jackass. I knew the group had been bad, but I also knew that the pathetic apology for a promotion by complete idiots was the reason."

Whereas after assaulting the groupie, he concludes that he was a bit drunk and it was all her fault:

"Well, I was pissed and they were stupid."

His revulsion for women who aren't his wife doesn't stop at groupies. At Pittsburgh airport, they become

"increasingly aware of a group of women at a table across the empty bar opposite who are talking in exceedingly loud voices" and "start to make rude observations about Pete’s hair and eventually one of them, a peroxide blonde who no doubt has left her long-suffering spouse at home, staggers across."

She has an exchange with Pete that boils down to "Your hair is weird" - "You're ugly", and then heads back to her table. Ian observes:

"We find American women from 35-45 exceedingly loud - mouthed, stupid and coarse. No Englishman would stand for them."

When it's time to pay the bill, he and his bandmate get into an argument with the waiter about the "slags" and "whores" at the other table, culminating with Ian screaming as he leaves:

"[T]o the contrary. You'll never know how much these loud housewives are whores. They're unbelievable, absolutely sickeners and a good laugh was had by all."

Here is how Ian himself summarises his attitudes to women:

There's not much family fun in this type of life. It takes a special kind of woman to put up with it. There are very few of them around, and even when you’ve got a good one - the very nature of the job, and the time you are away, last-minute alterations, the obvious temptations, the odd hours and the ups and downs, can cause endless arguments which are usually pointless and end up in stalemates. The very things that attracted the girl to you in the first place become threatening to her when she’s your old lady. They used to call them skiffle widows - I don't know what they call them in this trade, and I take each day as it comes. I find women a necessary evil. I've had more trouble in my short life because of women than anything else and I'm sure they suffered even more; but I’m a ladies’ man, I have to have a good woman and even though Trudy can be a huge pain in the arse at times - I'm fucked if she’s not there. She fills my gaps in and I like to think I do the same for her. I’ll probably get into a row for writing this.

Notice how this is the bit he thinks might get into trouble for!

Let's look at the bits that deals with LGBTQ folks and People of Colour. There's not as much material in the book, but still some insightful bits.

I said in the beginning that Ian is keen to be seen as the good guy with regards to people of colour, someone who sympathises with their plight.

I give a N***o a cigarette in the doorway. He’s frozen stiff and trying to keep warm, but they won’t let him in. Even when I offer the cigarette though, he smiles gently and asks me if I need matches. I'm not rich, but I feel fuckin’ rotten - really rotten.

I'll always remember the cold, misery and squalor that is the street called Dr Martin Luther King Drive. Perhaps the next street over might have been nicer, perhaps upper-class blacks have good lives here and perhaps the I****** are worse off. All I can say is nobody should have to live here. It is 12 noon and a really drunk black man sullenly avoids his chick’s outstretched arms. When you hate help, hope’s been knocked out of you. It’s the end.

But that only goes as long as they don't get in his way. So when a couple of black cabbies refuse to take him and his band into town late at night, he concludes it must be because he's white and they hate him.

You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife - the same in the cab - you could just feel the hate in the air. These fuckers don't care what you do - you are white and that’s it.

To my knowledge I have never been disrespectful, rude or uncivil in any way to a man of any colour unless he's had a go at me first. I’m English - a visitor in America, and too young to be in any way to blame for any grudges these guys might have. Even if their grudges are justified, and I know many of them are, that is no excuse for a cab driver not giving a traveller a ride who is a visitor to his country. If he's a cabby, that’s his job, and I state here and now these guys were ignorant bastards who practised what they've always been against, every chance they got. Fuck ‘em, I’d rather walk next time around. I play fucking music, that's universal, it doesn't know barriers and if all the world were musicians, there would be less trouble. These twats aggravate the problem just as much as their equally ignorant white opposites, and I want no part of it!

Note how he takes pains to acknowledge that some of grievances that black people have might be justified, and that he's against white bigots too - but how dare those uppity black cabbies have something against him? He's an Englishman, how could he possibly be racist?

(I also find it funny how Ian claims that if everyone were more like him, the world would be a more peaceful place).

He doesn't really discuss gay people as such, but mentions them a couple of times and with casual derision:

The fans are great. They're polite and realize you’ve only got so much time on hand but these fuckers who continually harass you are a real pain in the arse. They'll follow you from city to city, they'll ring you hourly. Sometimes they plead with you to see them, sometimes they're nasty because you won’t and threaten you and the daft thing is they're mainly blokes. Not only f****** either. There’s a breed of guy who just loves being with musicians.

"Not only”... So that seems to imply that gay men trying to chat up rock bands wouldn’t have been that unusual (remember Brian’s story about being propositioned by a gay may in the US?)

Here’s an idea of the kind of stories that were told about gay clubs at the time:

I feel pleasant and Lee, who's proving to be really together, gathers Mick, me and a friend of his and gets us back to the hotel. Lee tells us gory tales of L.A. gay bars. The Blue Angel is a club where this two-ton drag artist stabs 14-year-old boys. It takes all kinds.

Ian also mentions that glam/hard rock musicians, they are sometimes associated with gay people themselves:

One of the packages included Mott's Apple Juice and gay lib leaflets. These were sent by the Petit Bon-Bons - a group of lads who seem to have gotten us mixed up in the fag rock craze now sweeping America.

Through the terminal and sailors call us gay as usual. I hesitate to do one of our repertoire of standard answers to idiots because there are about 40 of them and we're in the South now.

I immediately get echoes of Roger’s “the camp thing lost its style and became homosexual”, which was published just around the same time.

~~~

So much from Ian.

Now, I’m not saying that everyone at the time thought and acted just like him. He’s just one voice, and he’s clearly had issues with anger, loneliness, and he also swallows pills and alcohol in big quantities. I don’t know much about his background, but class and education probably play into this as well (he certainly never went to university.) But his was a voice that was around, loudly and openly (the book was first published in 1974), and that didn’t seem to be regarded as unusual or worthy of reproach. To this day, the book is marketed and lauded as an honest and realistic look behind the facade of rock’n’roll life in the seventies.

I can’t say I was surprised at his attitudes, but I was taken aback by how in-your-face some of it was, especially with regards to women.

It also provides a stark contrast to the way that Pamela des Barres, one of the famous groupies at the time, describes her world. She is so enthusiastic and filled with romance, and though you can sense some exploitation and abuse between the lines (and sometimes in them), she keeps describing a world full of love. It kind of breaks my heart to see how Ian has barely a kind word for the women who adore him.

Of course, my interest is not condemning or cancelling Ian Hunter, but in getting a sense for the world that was the rock business at the time. What sorts of things were thinkable, sayable, doable. To get a bit of a reality check after spending a lot of time in the rosy-coloured world of fandom.

~~~

All quotes from: Ian Hunter - Diary of a Rock ‘n’ Roll Star. Fourth Reprint, 2002. I added some bold type for emphasis and censored a couple of slurs.

#ian hunter #the rock music business in the seventies

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ghostinthelibrarywrites · 3 years

Text

Lil Bleater’s Life of Crime

For @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Meet cute

Pairing: Eskel/Jaskier

Rating: T

Tags: Modern AU; First meeting; Fluff; Goat dad Eskel; Lil Bleater being a certified menace

Summary: Eskel starts bringing Lil Bleater, his most sociable goat, to the farmer’s market to attract people to his stand. It works great, up until she gets loose and wreaks havoc at the middle school music department’s bake sale. Luckily, Jaskier, the pretty music teacher, is sympathetic.

This was inspired by a fic idea @kueble sent me a while back. Thank you for the lovely idea!

By the time Eskel realizes that Lil Bleater is missing, it’s already too late.

As most disasters in Eskel’s life have been, bringing Lil Bleater to the Ard Carraigh Farmer’s Market was Lambert’s idea. Eskel’s little stand, where he sells milk, cheese, and goat’s milk soap, has been getting overlooked every week, so Lambert suggested that Eskel bring Lil Bleater with him to draw people to his stand. After all, she’s one of Eskel’s friendlier goats, adorable and charming with her brown and white dappled fur and big, innocent eyes. She loves attention, especially if the people giving her attention have tasty-looking clothes.

She’s also a fucking menace.

Eskel has just finished an endless transaction with a woman who spent far too much time asking questions about the benefits of goat’s milk soap for the one measly bar she bought, when he looks around and sees that the lead he just had Lil Bleater tied to is missing one tiny terror of a goat.

“Fuck,” Eskel mutters, at the same time he hears a man’s voice yell, “Oh, shit!”

Eskel doesn’t need to consult with the fortune teller three stands down to know the cause of the ruckus. Abandoning his wares and his cash register, he books it through the enormous crowd of people, trying his best not to trip over strollers and dog leashes. He finds the source of the yelling, a young man wearing a violently flowered shirt standing outside one of the stands, holding a wriggling Lil Bleater in his arms.

“Is this yours?” the man asks Eskel cheerfully.

Eskel’s mouth goes dry. The man in front of him may be the most attractive person he’s ever seen, with thick brown hair, big blue eyes, and a good amount of chest hair peeking out from underneath his button up shirt. He’s tall and lean, but he must be stronger than he looks if he’s holding a seventy pound goat with such apparent ease. And then Eskel looks past the man to his stand, which bears the sign, “Bake sale! Support the Ard Carraigh Middle School Music Department!”

Oh, fuck. Lil Bleater has a notorious sweet tooth, another thing Eskel blames on Lambert. His little brother is the one who started feeding her human food. But this is the first time she’s literally stolen sweets from children.

If there’s a goat hell, Lil Bleater is going to it. And she’ll probably take Eskel down with her.

“What did she eat?” he asks.

“Oh, not much.” The man looks over his shoulder. “Just Mrs. Piotrski’s famous blackberry pie, the Novaks’ brownies, which weren’t much of a loss, to be honest, and the sugar cookies I made.”

“Ah, fuck.” Eskel reaches in his back pocket for his wallet. “I can replace it all. I’m so sorry. She’s… a handful.”

“And an armful.” The man smiles prettily. “What’s this pint-sized terror’s name?”

“Lil Bleater.”

“A pleasure, my lady,” the man says as Lil Bleater begins to chew on his shirt.

“Here.” Eskel hands him two twenty crown bills, then scoops the goat from his arms before she can destroy what looks like a very expensive shirt. “Does that cover the damage?”

“And then some.” The man’s eyes glimmer with good humor. “I’m Jaskier.”

“I’m, uh, Eskel.” Being the focus of that blue gaze leaves Eskel tongue-tied and flustered. “Sorry again.”

“No need to apologize. You’ve more than made up for it.” Jaskier scratches Lil Bleater under the chin. “In fact, it looks like you’ve given me too much money. I can’t let you leave without a baked good. Pick your poison.”

“Uh.” Eskel’s eyes roam over the impressive assortment of baked goods, until his eyes fall on a tray of sugar cookies decorated with multicolored icing. “Those look good.”

“Oh, my sugar cookies! You have excellent taste.” Jaskier picks up one of the sugar cookies, then seems to notice that Eskel’s arms are full of goat. “Ah. May I?”

Bewildered, Eskel opens his mouth and lets Jaskier pop a piece of sugar cookie into it. He can feel his face turn a brilliant red and hopes that Jaskier will think it’s from the warm day and the exertion of keeping a struggling goat under control. “It’s, um, good.”

“Want to know a secret?” Jaskier lowers his voice to a stage whisper. “They’re slice and bake. And my roommate did the icing. I can’t bake to save my life”

Eskel smirks. “What will the children think?”

“I’m not afraid of the children, more of their terrifying, judgmental parents.” Jaskier shudders dramatically.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Eskel tells him with mock gravitas.

“I knew it would be. You have a trustworthy face.”

Eskel’s never heard his mangled face described as “trustworthy” before, but he’ll take it.

Jaskier feeds him the rest of the cookie and asks, “Come here often, Eskel?”

“Uh, every week,” Eskel says. “I sell goats’ milk, cheese, and soap. You?”

“Not often, no.” Jaskier’s gaze flickers up and down. “But I think I might need to change that.”

Somehow, Eskel’s face grows warmer. “You work at the school?”

“I teach music,” Jaskier says. “We’re in desperate need of new equipment. Some of the instruments the kids are playing are older than I am.”

Since he looks no older than twenty-five, that’s not saying much, but Eskel nods. “Well, sorry my goat took money from your students.”

“Oh, don’t you worry,” Jaskier says. “You two are my favorite customers I’ve had all day.”

Eskel is trying to think of something to say to that when he abruptly remembers that he left all his wares and his cash register unattended. “I, uh, should get back.”

“Of course,” Jaskier says. “I hope I’ll see you around, Eskel.”

Eskel just nods awkwardly, face flaming, and flees.

***

He doesn’t see Jaskier the next week. He tries not to be too disappointed by that.

***

Two weeks after Lil Bleater’s ignominious escape attempt, Eskel is walking into the farmer’s market when he hears guitar music and hears a warm, rich voice singing an upbeat love song. He follows the sound and finds Jaskier standing by the entrance, strumming his guitar with a sign next to him urging people to donate to support the middle school’s music department. Most people walk by without stopping, but a few linger to drop a couple of crowns into his guitar case and listen to him sing. Eskel is already running late to set up his stand, but he finds himself pausing to watch.

When Jaskier sees Eskel, a wide smile splits his face. As soon as the song draws to a close, he puts down his guitar and calls out, “Eskel!”

Eskel moves closer, feeling himself flush. “You’re good.”

“Why, thank you,” Jaskier says. “No Lil Bleater today?”

“No.” Eskel shakes his head. “I decided to make her stay at home and think about what she did.”

“But I don’t have any baked goods for her to steal. I’m sure it would have been fine.”

“She’s not picky. Without baked goods, she probably would have eaten your guitar.”

Jaskier gasps and clutches at the instrument. “Don’t say things like that where she can hear you. She’s a sensitive soul.”

“Sorry.” Eskel chuckles.

“We’re holding another bake sale next weekend,” Jaskier says. “Maybe I’ll see you and Lil Bleater there? Hopefully without her getting loose to cause havoc again.”

Eskel should say no. After all, bringing Lil Bleater back to the farmer’s market sounds like a recipe for disaster, but he finds it very hard to say no to Jaskier’s big blue eyes when the music teacher is looking at him like that. “Maybe you will,” he says.

***

The next weekend, Eskel brings his twelve year old niece, Ciri, to the farmer’s market with him and Lil Bleater in order to babysit the goat.

“Just keep an eye on her,” Eskel tells Ciri while he sets up his stand. “She’s wily.”

Ciri gives him an exasperated look. “I’m not going to be outsmarted by a goat, Uncle Eskel.”

“That goat has outsmarted me multiple times.”

She arches an eyebrow in an expression that’s pure Yennefer. At least she comes by it honestly. “I think I can handle her.”

“Don’t get too cocky.” Eskel shakes his head with mock gravity. “That’s how she gets you. She takes advantage of your hubris.”

Ciri giggles and rolls her eyes.

For the first couple of hours, everything goes fine. Lil Bleater is her charming self, driving people in droves to Eskel’s stand to say hi. Eskel’s products are flying off the shelves. He’s dealing with a line of people waiting to make their purchases when he looks around to find Ciri chatting animatedly with a pair of redheaded children around her age. Lil Bleater is nowhere to be seen.

“Ciri!” Eskel calls. “Where is Lil Bleater?”

Ciri’s eyes go huge. “Oh no.”

“Excuse me,” Eskel says to the woman who was in the middle of making a purchase and runs. “Ciri, watch the stand!”

He rushes through the farmer’s market, listening for the sounds of chaos. And then he hears a familiar bleat and turns around to see Jaskier walking towards him, a very irritated looking Lil Bleater in his arms.

“You know, at first I thought she was just stopping by to see me,” Jaskier says. “And then she stole a brownie right out of my hand. I feel used.”

Eskel’s lips tug into a smile. “She’s mercenary like that.”

“I’ll say.” Jaskier gives the goat a mournful look. “I thought we were friends.”

Lil Bleater begins chewing on his hair.

Eskel scoops her out of Jaskier’s arms. “I’m sorry. My niece was supposed to be watching her, but she got distracted.”

“No need to apologize. The only casualties were my brownie and my trust in the power of friendship.”

Eskel chuckles.

“And now you’re laughing at my pain.” Jaskier presses a hand over his heart. “Today is full of devastation.”

“Uncle Eskel, you found her!” Ciri comes hurrying up to them.

Eskel groans. “Ciri, you were supposed to be watching the stand.”

“It’s fine, Hjalmar and Cerys are watching it.”

“Who are Hjalmar and Cerys?”

“Those kids I was talking to. Don’t worry, they know what they’re doing. Their dad runs a woodworking stand here. Hi, Mr. Pankratz.”

“Hi, Ciri!” Jaskier grins. “So Eskel is your famous uncle, then? Not the foulmouthed one, I’ve met him.”

“I don’t know about famous.” Eskel feels his face flushing again.

“Ciri talks about you all the time,” Jaskier says with a twinkle in his eye.

Eskel looks between Jaskier and Ciri. “You two know each other?”

“Ciri’s in my class,” Jaskier says. “One of my best students.”

Eskel says nothing, since he knows for a fact that Ciri takes after the rest of their family and can’t carry a tune to save her life.

“She has one of the best attitudes in the class,” Jaskier says, which sounds more like the Ciri Eskel knows and loves.

“I was supposed to be watching Lil Bleater.” Ciri looks sheepish. “But she outsmarted me.”

“I told you not to let your hubris get in the way,” Eskel tells her.

“She’s a really smart goat!”

“That she is.” Eskel hands Lil Bleater over to Ciri. “Take her back to the stand, please, and make sure she doesn’t commit any more crimes today.”

“I’ll my best. Nice seeing you, Mr. Pankratz!”

“You too, Ciri.” Jaskier’s smile widens as he turns back to Eskel. “We need to stop meeting like this.”

Eskel scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Jaskier says. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name, after a whole year of hearing about Ciri’s awesome uncle and his goats. I should have put two and two together.”

“She’s a good kid,” Eskel says. “She spent a lot of time at my farm growing up.”

“So I’ve heard.” Jaskier tilts his head to the side, looking a bit uncertain. “You know, I did have my brownie cruelly snatched out of my hand. I’m quite hungry. Do you think Ciri has your stand covered?”

“Probably,” Eskel says. “So long as she doesn’t let Lil Bleater go again.”

“Excellent. And my colleague surely has the bake sale under control. There’s a stand selling sandwiches nearby. Why don’t you let me buy you lunch?”

“Shouldn’t I buy you lunch? Since it was my goat who stole your brownie?”

“You can buy next time,” Jaskier says and warmth spreads through Eskel’s chest. “So, what do you say, Eskel? I’ve heard so many stories about you and I want to hear more.”

“Not much to tell,” Eskel murmurs, feeling unaccountably sheepish.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true,” Jaskier says. “So, lunch?”

“I’d like that.” And as Eskel walks with Jaskier through the crowd of people, he decides that Lil Bleater is going to get all the treats she could ever want later. She deserves them.

***

@buttercupsanddandelions (If anyone else would like to be added to my taglist, for jaskel or otherwise, just let me know!)

#the witcher #jaskel #jeskel #eskel x jaskier #eskel #jaskier #my fic #my writing

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theyreonlynoodlesmike · 3 years

Text

It’s Just a Movie: Part 3 (Poly!Lost Boys x Fem!Reader)

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

Warnings: cursing

Word count: 2034

Now, while you were technically in a life or death situation with four vampires, you couldn't lie to yourself and say that you hadn't wanted to explore Santa Carla at least once in your life. Not Santa Cruz. Santa Carla. Time had changed the boardwalk, the styles, the people. But, now, you were right in it. The actual 1980's Santa Carla. You climbed off of Dwayne's bike, and you couldn't hide your awe as you looked down the length of the coast.

The boardwalk was littered with teenagers with wild hair, piercings, and people of all sorts. There were games, rides, and bonfires already lighting up the beach. And not a cellphone in sight. It was weird, and suddenly the piece of technology felt heavy in your pocket. You had almost forgotten that you had it, and your hand went to smooth over the rectangle in your back pocket. Suddenly, all didn't seem lost. Though, you quickly reminded yourself that this was the eighties. No wifi. No data. Hell, you'd be lucky if you still had battery. The only thing you'd have access to were the pictures and downloads you had saved on your phone. Then, it hit you. Your contact list. While you couldn't call them through your smart phone, you assumed, maybe you could call your friends if you managed to find a phone-booth or something...Or, god, a landline. Even if it was only a semblance of a plan, it felt better than nothing. Now, you just had to figure out a way to ditch the four of them so you could get your hands on a phone and avoid becoming their next meal.

"I'm guessing you haven't lived here long." David said, and you nearly jumped out of your skin. You looked over, and watched as he walked past you. The other three followed, with Marko grabbing one of your hands and pulling you to follow them. You supposed you hadn't been keeping your amazement subtle, and you already knew that he, and perhaps Marko, were the most observant of the four boys. Your voice was small as you supplied a simple,

"Yeah, just got here." You made a mental edit of your plan. You had to find a phone and ditch them before they found out you weren't exactly from here in more ways than one. You had a feeling that lying to him would be futile, and it was technically true. You really had just got there. He hummed, and then looked back at you. It was apparently Markos turn to pull you close, though the boy was closer to your height and chose to wrap an arm around your waist instead. He sent you a friendly smile, and you repeatedly reminded yourself over and over again that these four were not to be trusted. Horror movie. Killers. David sent you a smile, and, while it was as charming as his voice, it did nothing to calm your nerves.

"Explains your friends. Not everyone in Santa Carla is as nice as we are." David said, and you nearly wanted to laugh. Yeah, you were sure they were the nicest gang of killer vampires in the whole town. Maybe even the whole state. Instead, you hummed and said,

"Yeah, thanks for the ride. You guys...well, I don't know where I'd be if I hadn't met you." Now, that was the truth. You weren't just being sentimental with that statement. If you had been stuck here with not a familiar face in sight, in a strange town, and no way to call your friends? Well, you'd bet that you'd currently be having a panic attack in front of the movie theater. Not that you weren't just a few wrong moves away from having one right now. Paul practically jumped right next to you, squishing himself into your side and chirping a quick,

"You're welcome," before he added, "Y'know, your friends are kinda lame. Why don't you just hang out with us tonight?" He offered. Really, you swore that if you didn't know that these boys were vampires that you'd think they really might be some of the nicer people in Santa Carla. It wasn't like they knew you. But here they were, giving you rides, taking you to meet your friends, offering to hang out with you- Crap. You did a mental head shake. You had always made fun of Michael for falling so easily under their spell but here you were. You knew that they could be dangerous and, still, you were starting to think that you could trust them. You looked around for a moment, seeing four expectant set of eyes on you. Marko even tried to win you over by saying,

"C'mon, we're loads more fun." And, David, the charming bastard he was, gave you the most expectant look of all.

"Yeah, c'mon, y/n." The way he said your name, it reminded you of exactly the way he'd said Michael's. You could practically guess what was going to come out of his mouth next. "How far are you willing to go?" It didn't seem nearly as menacing as it had when he'd said it to Michael, but it effected you all the same. He'd used a similar tone. Gauging. Taunting. Like he was playing a game of chicken and seeing if he could egg you on. You instinctively looked away from his face, and to the most neutral of the four vampires. But the look Dwayne was giving you didn't help, and you watched as he looked over your face. Just his stare could make you on edge. You said the best excuse you could think of, but even it sounded terrible to your own ears.

"I really shouldn't...they're expecting me." You said, and you internally cringed. It was a lie, and, like you expected, you watched as David seemed to be able to immediately tell. Or perhaps he was frowning from your refusal. Apparently, you weren't willing to go very far. You couldn't really tell, but the blondes besides you seemed hardly convinced. Though, you couldn't get the way David frowned out of your mind. Sure, Michael had been stupid to follow the boys and let himself get egged on, but he had lived. They had kept him around. That was what lead you to adding, "But- but, maybe... we could check out some stuff on the way?"

You hadn't known what to expect, but bouncing from store to store definitely wasn't it. They took you to a music store, which was filled to the brim with old, technically new, cassettes and vinyl. You managed to surprise them a little bit with your taste in music, as the twenty-first century had made it far too easy to listen to stuff from decades before. You were even tempted to buy some stuff, as you were sure you wouldn't find them for nearly as cheap back home. But, you had to be careful not to slip up when they asked you about your favorite bands. You still didn't technically know what year it was, so you stuck to bands from the seventies just to be safe. Paul ended up showing you a few records, and you tried not to blush as he dragged you into one of the listening booths. He popped a couple of records on, before putting the headphones snuggly over your ears. You tried not to be embarrassed by the close proximity, and were grateful when Marko called that they were leaving. Even if it cut into the conversation you and Paul were having about the record. Afterwards, you stopped at a little booth selling various jackets, trinkets, jewelry, and even a few patches. You looked through them with Marko, taking the time to really get a close look at his jacket. He noticed you staring, and propped his elbows up on the clear counter. He sent you a grin, and you were flustered and looking away before he could even tease you. You saw that the other three seemed to be more interested in the bracelets, and that's when you noticed the ones decorating Dwayne's wrists. You had missed it in all your previous viewings, but you weren't surprised that you had. The costume designers had done so many little details for their wardrobe, and Dwayne noticed you looking. But, instead of teasing you, he passed you a similar looking bracelet as the five of you walked down the boardwalk. You gave him a confused look, and his lips quirked up just the slightest bit.

"Doesn't fit my wrist." He explained nonchalantly, and you watched as he strode closer to the platinum blonde leading the pack. You smiled to yourself, and tried your best to tie it onto your wrist yourself. Paul ended up helping you, his nimble fingers working quickly. He didn't ask where you got the bracelet, and instead dragged you towards the arcade David had been leading you to.

You didn't realize it until you asked one of them what time it was, making sure not to reach for your phone in your back pocket no matter how much of a habit it was, but it seemed that the boys also had a plan. You had relaxed, no matter how much you had tried not to, after spending what you realized was hours with them. It was getting late, and, when you finally made it to the carousel, none of them seem surprised when you said you didn't see your friends. Not that they'd actually be there waiting for you. But, still, the realization that they'd been stalling, making sure you would end up with no one else to hang out with that night, made you remember. Horror movie. Killers. You bet that any second David would be suggesting to take you to-

"You know where Hudson's Bluff is? Overlooking the point?" And you looked over at him. This was it. Your panic suddenly spiked at the idea of going back to the cave with them. No matter how cool it would be. No matter how much you wanted to see it for yourself. This was where everything went to shit. If you went back to the cave with them, there'd be no crowd to prevent you from getting murdered. You'd be alone. With them. Before any of them could jibe you into coming with, you quickly said,

"I should call them- my friends. Y'know, to- to make sure they're not worried about me. I don't want them telling my parents I got kidnapped or something." You quickly suggested, and the boys swayed for a moment. The three others looked between you and David, and you knew that they were waiting for his word. After a moment, he gave you a nod. You supposed that calling off any potential alarms would be something he'd be all for. And, hopefully, you could actually reach your friends.

"There's a phone booth at the end of the boardwalk. You can call your parents too. Tell them not to wait up." He said with a small grin, and it surprised you. If you didn't know any better, you'd almost think David was flirting with you. The walk back to the bikes, and to the phone booth, was surreal. David had pulled you closer to the front, but he wasn't nearly as affectionate as the others. Still, just standing next to him made you feel like you were doing more than you should.

You had meant to ditch them, but, now, they were only a few feet away. Sitting on their bikes. You felt stupid for having missed it when you first arrived, but the place had been swarmed with people. And the phonebooth seemed to purposely be stuck in a small, dark corner. You gulped as you closed the glass door behind you, and you rustled around in your pockets for loose change. The only thing you had was a nickel and a couple of pennies, and you cursed yourself for not keeping more change in your purse. Not that you knew how much it would cost anyways. You looked back out at where the boys were waiting on their bikes, having noticed that the crowds had thinned out considerably compared to when you first arrived. You gulped and cracked open the door.

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #the lost boys imagines #the lost boys x reader #the lost boys marko #marko the lost boys #paul the lost boys #the lost boys paul #david the lost boys #the lost boys david #dwayne the lost boys #the lost boys dwayne

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chiseler · 3 years

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Larger Than Life

In 1927, Albert Bertanzetti and his three-year-old son, William, were taking a stroll when they stopped to join a small crowd watching a film being shot on the streets of Los Angeles. During a break in the shoot, Albert suggested his son go show the director, Jules White, his little trick. So William toddled over to White and tugged on his pant leg. When he had White’s attention, William flipped over, went into a headstand and began spinning in circles. White was so taken with the trick he gave the young Bertanzetti a small uncredited role in the two-reel short, Wedded Blisters. Afterward, William earned a regular role in the popular Mickey McGuire series of shorts, where he played Mickey Rooney’s younger brother Billy. Taking prevailing anti-Italian sentiments into consideration, in the credits he was cited as “Billy Barty.”

Barty had been born in Millsboro, Pennsylvania in 1924, but when it was determined he had hay fever, Albert decided to move the family West, to the dry, clean air of Hollywood. Depending on how you look at it, hay fever was the least of Barty’s problems. Or maybe not, given how things worked out.

Apart from hay fever, Barty had also been born with cartilage–hair hypoplasia, a form of dwarfism. Being extremely small for his age at three (as an adult he stood three-foot-nine), when it came to early film roles he was almost exclusively relegated to playing diaper clad infants. It was a director’s dream—having an infant on set who could not only take direction, but could walk, run, talk and do tricks as well. As a result, along with the Mickey McGuire shorts, he played infants in everything from the all-star live action adaptation of Alice in Wonderland (1933) to Golddiggers of 1933 (1933) to Bride of Frankenstein (1935). In fact Barty, tiny as he was, would play diaper-clad infants until he hit puberty.

Over a career that would span seven decades, along with infants, Barty would play his share of elves, leprechauns, imps, Hobbits, trolls, assorted other fairy tale and fantasy characters, clowns, court jesters, pygmies, sideshow performers and mad scientist assistants. Ironically, for having appeared in over two hundred films and television shows, Barty did not appear in the three touchstones of American Dwarf-centric cinema: Tod Browning’s Freaks (1932), Sam Newfield’s The Terror of Tiny Town (1938), or Mervin LeRoy’s The Wizard of Oz (1939). No, although he would appear in the behind-the-scenes comedy Under the Rainbow (1981), contrary to the general assumption, Billy Barty was never an original Munchkin. There are reasons for this.

In 1932 when Browning was working on Freaks, Barty was only eight, he was not a professional carnival freak, and he was too busy with the Mickey McGuire shorts. And after the shorts’ seven-year run ended in 1934—two years before casting began on Tiny Town or The Wizard of Oz—Albert Bertanzetti, recognizing talent in all of his children, pulled Billy out of the movies and sent the whole family on the vaudeville circuit.

Now, 1935 was hardly the most opportune time to try and break into vaudeville. As an entertainment form it had been on life support for a decade already, with theaters either closing down or becoming movie palaces with performances, almost as a sad afterthought, taking place after that evening’s double feature had ended. Those performers who could were trying to break into pictures, and those who couldn’t were vanishing without a trace. Now here was Barty, who’d been working regularly in films for nearly ten years, trying to break into vaudeville. Nevertheless, Billy and Sisters, as they were touted, marched on, with a musical act featuring Barty’s sister Evelyn on piano and accordion, his other sister Dede playing violin, and Barty himself on drums. They all sang and danced a little, and the adolescent Barty told jokes and did impressions. In his later years he remembered the time fondly, mostly because it gave him a chance at that early age to see much of North America.

In 1942 Barty enrolled in college in Los Angeles and majored in journalism, hoping to become a sportswriter. While there, he joined the football and basketball teams, where he was both a novelty and a ringer. He also played second base on a semi-professional baseball team for a spell, where by his own account he was walked forty-five times.

Instead of pursuing work as a sports columnist after graduation, he returned to show business. Later he was quoted as saying, “You don’t see any little people doing newscasts, you don’t see any doing sports writing, you don’t see any sports announcing, you don’t see any coaches, but there are little people who are capable of doing these things, who have proven themselves.” You get the sense there was a little personal bitterness there, hinting he may have been forced back to Hollywood because that was the only place he could find work.

By 1947, now an adult with a gravelly but high-pitched voice, Barty sported a boxer’s face on a disproportionately large head. In many ways he resembled a diminutive William Demarest, and in many roles would adopt Demarest’s gruff but lovable demeanor. Shedding the diaper at last, he nevertheless picked up where he left off, playing assorted pygmies and leprechauns and elves, usually for cheap laughs.

In the early Fifties he became a regular member of Spike Jones musical comedy ensemble, The City Slickers, and was a big hit on Jones TV shows, where he became especially known for his slapstick, spot-on Liberace impression, and his ability to roll off his piano bench into a head spin, a trick which continued to serve him well.

Growing up, Barty said, he had no idea he was different, that his parents never told him there were things he couldn’t do because he was too short. By the time he was thirty, however, he’d come to learn the rest of the world was not quite as accepting as his parents. In 1957, Barty put out a call for little people from around the country to join him for a get together in Reno. Only twenty people showed up to that first convention, but it became the foundation for Little People of America, a support and advocacy group pushing for equitable treatment and civil rights for dwarfs, midgets and other people of unusually small stature. His aim was to ensure little people across the country would be treated fairly, would be able to get jobs, and would be granted the same accessibility rights afforded the normally-sized. It always struck me as a little odd that, for all his tireless efforts lobbying to normalize perceptions and treatment of little people throughout American culture, Barty, without much apparent gumption, would continue to take roles some might call demeaning, or at the very least helped cement those stereotypes he was fighting so hard to break. Perhaps to him it was simply paying work, it was showbiz, and he knew full well what his role was within that world. But the apparent ironic contrast between his activism and his work would lead to a public tiff in the Seventies with fellow small actor Hervé Villechaize of Fantasy Island. Barty, who’d appeared on the show, felt Villechaize was undercutting all his work when he said bluntly that people like him and Barty “were midgets, not actors.”

After the second annual Little People of America convention, Barty began courting Shirley Bolingbroke, a little person who had attended the meeting. When he proposed, however, she declined, telling him she was a devout Mormon, and so would never consider marrying anyone outside the faith. In 1962 Barty relented and converted to the church of Latter-day Saints, and the two were married. Although Mormon insiders and publicists have made a big deal of Barty’s enthusiastic True Believer status within LDS, it would be many years before he agreed to get baptized and receive full member status, and then only to participate in his son’s baptism.

Around the time of the marriage, as Barty was making regular TV appearances on various comedy and variety shows (including a recurring role on Peter Gunn), he also began hosting a weekday afternoon local kid’s show in Los Angeles which was called either Billy Barty’s Big Top or Billy Barty’s Big Show, depending on who’s doing the remembering. That stint may well have brought him to the attention of the sinister Sid and Marty Krofft, who in the late Sixties conscripted Barty to become a regular on several Krofft shows including H.R. Pufnstuf, The Bugaloos, and later Sigmund The Sea Monster, where he played the titular sea monster opposite Rip Taylor and aging child star Johnny Whittaker.

For all the low-brow antics and his uncredited roles in Elvis movies, it must be said Barty was always a compelling and charismatic screen presence, a, yes, larger than life character. In those few rare instances when he played roles that made no references at all to his height—like Abe Kusich, the shady drunken cockfighter in Day of the Locust or Ludwig, Rod Steiger’s sidekick in W.C. Fields and Me, he proved himself an electric onscreen presence who could dominate any scene.

(Just a quick aside, in 1980 Ralph Bakshi rotoscoped Barty to portray both Bilbo and Samwise Baggins in his animated version of Lord of the Rings. I wasn’t aware of that at the time, but thinking back on it now, the way both characters moved, it seems so obvious I was watching another Billy Barty performance.)

In 1975, around the same time he opened a Southern California roller rink he called “Billy Barty’s Roller Fantasy, Barty established The Billy Barty Foundation. As an adjunct to Little People of America, the Foundation aimed to provide practical assistance—money, adaptive equipment, etc.—to little people in need, particularly children. And after campaigning for George H.W. Bush during the 1988 presidential campaign, he sat on a panel of advisors working to hammer out the details of the Americans with Disabilities Act, which President Bush signed into law in 1990.

At the same time he was sitting on that panel, Barty was also producing, directing and starring in Short Ribs, a syndicated sketch comedy series featuring an all-dwarf cast including Patty Maloney, Jimmy Briscoe and Joe Gieb. The show, which was modeled after SCTV and SNL, only aired in the Los Angeles area and ran thirteen weeks. After the show went off the air, Barty was slapped with two lawsuits, one from the show’s co-producer William Winckler and one from the show’s co-writer Warren Taylor, both of whom claimed Barty owed them money. The suits ended up, inevitably, in small claims court. Barty lost both suits, and even though few people had ever heard of, let alone seen the show, news of Barty in small claims court was too much for reporters to resist, and the case received smirking national attention.

After the suits were settled, Barty continued to work, but a bit more sporadically. He had one-off roles on Frasier, Jack’s Place, and a few low-budget quickies, and seemed to be edging more into voice roles, providing characterizations for a Batman cartoon and The Rescuers Down Under, to name a couple. But he was still working until the end, when he ended up in the hospital with cardiopulmonary issues in late 2000. He died on December 23rd of that year at age 73.

In the late Eighties he told an interviewer, “I’ve never looked at acting as ‘Ahhh!’ and ‘Gee!’ I started in vaudeville when I was five and for me it was just walking on a stage and I’m gonna perform. Later on I was impressed by many things, like when I worked with Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas in Tough Guys. That was an ‘Ahhh!’ for me. When I look back, even today, I guess I can go ‘Ahhh!’ because I worked with Ruby Keeler and Dick Powell in Gold Diggers of 1933 when I was nine. Then they were just grown-ups on the stage. As I look back, I’m more awed now than I was when I was actually doing it.”

Those who knew and worked with Barty always recall what a joy it was, how kind and enthusiastic and funny he was, a real spark who could enliven even the most questionable production. I would never deny that. I’ve always loved and admired Barty, and have sat through countless godawful films and TV shows simply because he had a role, no matter how small.

That said, I do have to wonder if at the end, after all his decades of work fighting for the dignity of little people everywhere, he felt like a bit of a hypocrite for spending those same years and more cementing the stereotype in the American consciousness. I also wonder if he died still wishing he’d become a sportswriter for a Des Moines daily instead.

by Jim Knipfel

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hana-bean · 3 years

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Close to you (1/7)

Hi everyone! Happy SeiUsa Week 2021! Please enjoy this seven-chapter installment in celebration of the ultimate OTP!

~~~

Everyone walks on To meet just one person someday

---

“Boo! You suck!”

Seiya ducked to the side to avoid an oncoming empty beer bottle flying his way, shattering as it hit the stage floor. He scowled as he grabbed the microphone with the other hand still on his guitar neck.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Get off the stage!” Another bottle started flying, this time in between him and the second guitar player, Yaten.

The bar owner soon sprinted toward the musicians and on the stage, trying to avoid various other objects projecting through the air in the meantime.

“Guys, you got any other songs to play?”

Taiki, who was standing in the back at a keyboard, walked up to join the conversation. “What other songs? This is all we know.” He explained while kicking off a half-eaten chicken wing that landed on his shoe.

“You play the same set every night. They want something fresh.”

“Well, maybe you need to get more patrons instead of the same ones every night,” Yaten growled with a lime green twitchy eye. “It’s not our fault your regulars live here.”

“Listen,” the owner paused to grimace in figurative pain as he felt something wet hit his back. “You need to mix it up.”

“We can’t,” Seiya replied firmly. “We need to play these songs.”

“Then pack it up. The show’s over.”

Yaten released his guitar in order to gesture to drive his point across, letting it hang on his neck. “No! You need to let us play!”

“Not a chance, Napoleon. You’ll drive away my tenants!” The owner glared.

That was it—and not that it usually took very much anyway—Yaten was over the edge. He lifted the strap over his head and tossed his instrument to Taiki before tackling the owner to the stage floor with his standard flying squirrel technique.

“Yaten, what the fuck?!” Seiya removed his guitar and went to work trying to pry his bandmate from atop the owner, or at least he tried; Yaten had the grip strength of a coconut crab despite being the smallest of the three of them.

But that was all the patrons needed as a reason to get in on the action. They stormed the stage with their rage and beer bottles ready, even turning on one another and the instruments. Some who didn’t choose violence for a Tuesday night contacted authorities on their crystal cell phones as they made their exit; the other portion used them to record the melee from their tables.

Seiya soon felt the weight of three men come at him at all sides; his only instinct to protect his head before the four-person clump of testosterone toppled two feet down and off the stage. Immediately, he felt a pain shoot from his knee all the way up to his hip as something heavy and drunk landed on his leg. Seiya wriggled and scooted as much as possible to free himself, but since his body was the one that absorbed most of the impact, the attacking men had the advantage to quickly begin their beatdown.

He managed to curl up in the fetal position as feet and fists made contact with every part of his exposed body. But then, allowing himself to only feel like a failure for a few seconds, he made a quick decision and reached within his jacket for his headset.

“Fighter Star Power, Make Up!”

As the transformation alone knocked the three men on their backs, their world was forever rocked when they looked upon a leather-clad woman standing in place of the male musician once the music and sparkles had faded.

“He’s a guardian?!” One yelled, completely stupefied.

Sailor Star Fighter cocked an eyebrow as she smirked, her Star Yell ready in hand.

“Remind me again: what do you think of my songs?”

By then, three police officers had come through the entrance. Their hands floated above their holstered guns on their hips as they were visibly surprised and uneasy.

“Guardian! Put your weapon down!”

“It’s the cops! Run!” A voice shouted. The chaos simply transformed from scuffle to stampede as people began to book it for any exit they could find.

The authorities were soon knocked down from the rush, however one was able to take out her radio and plead into it, “Ten-seventy-five! We need guardians! Get us guardians!” until it was kicked out of her hand from an escaping patron.

Taiki and Yaten came up behind Star Fighter—donning a few scratches, cuts, and tousled hair—all the while still moving pretty well.

“Seiya, you dumbfuck, why’d you transform?” Yaten chastised.

“I’m the dumbfuck?” Fighter gave her crazy eyes. “They were going to kill me!” For a split second, she forgot about her leg and put weight on it while yelling back. However, the appendage was quick to remind her that something was wrong. She winced and seethed in a breath as she fell on Taiki for support.

“Let’s get out of here,” Taiki suggested calmly as he wrapped Fighter’s arm around his neck. Yaten followed suit on the other side.

They only had to contend with navigating through a few scattered stragglers before the three made their way toward the emergency exit by the stage. Taiki kicked the door open only to be met with two obstacles standing in their way, both clad in Milky Way guardian uniforms. One was in a dark blue and yellow color combination with short blonde hair, the other in dark blue and teal with medium-length teal hair.

“Not so fast.”

---

Seiya sighed as he dropped his head on the headrest in the backseat of the police car. The authorities were escorting him from a hospital where his wounds were attended to, and he was now alone. Or rather, separated from Taiki and Yaten. His only company was the two guardians from the bar—whom he was squished in between—and a uniformed officer at the wheel.

He cleared his throat to get attention from anyone. “What did you do with my friends?”

“They’re at a detention center.” The blonde guardian answered, void of emotion, keeping her focus out the window.

“A detention center? Why?”

“Because they’re here illegally. You all are. You should be there, too.”

Fuck, that’s not good. That’s not good at all… But it still didn’t explain… “So where are you taking me then?”

“The queen would like an audience with you.” The teal-headed one answered while busy on her crystal smartphone, having removed a glove for her screen to sense the natural heat of her thumb. A half-filled plastic grocery bag also sat on her lap.

“The queen?” Seiya tried to use his hands to emphasize his confusion, however, his handcuffs clanked in protest. “What does she want with me?”

“It doesn’t matter what she wants—she calls, you come.” The blonde turned her head to look at him with stern blue eyes.

He knew there was no use prying anymore. The blonde had already knocked him around a few times before getting to the hospital, so he knew he risked further physical punishment if he did so. Any other day he would find the pain worth it if it meant annoying her, but his body was already unbearably sore in places he didn’t realize he had.

Meeting with the queen also had him a bit concerned for his well-being. He figured it had something to do with being a guardian, but what exactly does she plan to do with him and that information? He had heard she was a kind and just ruler, albeit young, but from his years of intergalactic travel before ending up in Crystal Tokyo, it could very well be propaganda.

He guessed he was about to find out.

Once the car made it to the bridge that led to the palace, one needed two hands to count all the checkpoints. The palace seemed to be built specifically to reflect the moonlight, producing a daytime-like glow once they were on royal grounds. However, the car parked in front of an inconspicuous building behind a row of trees a couple of minutes shy of the actual palace, and then the blonde dragged Seiya out of the vehicle by his handcuff chains, causing his shiny black cane to drop on the ground. Diagnosed with a temporary disability from his hurt leg, the doctors issued the walking aid to help with his mobility for the next couple of weeks, but the blonde didn't care.

“Haruka, be gentle.” The teal-headed guardian chided.

“Why?”

“You know how handcuffs can hurt if you’re too rough.”

“And you will know, too… once we’re done tonight.”

Seiya raised an eyebrow, wondering if they knew their whispering wasn’t really whispering; he even caught the driver looking back with a nosy eye. Feeling a sense of dread of being transported to a second location, he limped along slowly, following the driver inside the building while trailed by the guardians.

He was led to a room that was comfortably simple and aesthetically feminine—its motif included ribbons, swirls, and florals in a combination of white and pink colors. And a small white round table sat in the middle of the space with four plush boudoir chairs surrounding it. Seiya even picked up on the scent of stargazer lilies before he noticed them sitting on a side table by the door.

But apparently, there was no time to take in his surroundings as he felt a shove on his back, forcing him to keep his balance with his bad leg. He turned around to glare at the blonde guardian.

“Hurry up!” She pointed inside the room with irritation emanating from her whole body. “The queen is on her way!”

Seiya grumbled and hobbled over to take his place in a chair, releasing a tired sigh. All he wanted was to get this over with and back to his mission. He hated how his only hope rested within the hands of the queen; it made him feel helpless and idle.

It wasn’t much later when he heard the front door of the building open, followed by both guardians bowing on the other side of the threshold at an unseen presence. Assuming the queen herself had arrived, Seiya pulled himself to his feet with the aid of his cane and the table.

"Uranus! Neptune!"

“Neo-Queen Serenity.”

---

If you would like to follow this story, I will be updating the rest of the chapters under the tag: hana-bean close to you and other iterations of the spacing. I love you all!

#seiusaweek2021 #hana-bean close to you #hana bean close to you #hanabean close to you #hanabeanclosetoyou #seiya x usagi fanfiction #seiya usagi fanfiction #seiya kou fanfiction #seiya x usagi #seiya kou

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ljblueteak · 3 years

Note

The Lisa Robinson reference to Paul was a pretty obvious joke. A lot of that interview was trolly.

Anon is referring to the Hit Parader ‘75 John Lennon interview with Lisa Robinson, where we get the following exchange:

JOHN: "Yes, all your best friends let you know what's going on. I was trying to put it 'round that I was gay, you know-- I thought that would throw them off... dancing at all the gay clubs in Los Angeles, flirting with the boys... but it never got off the ground."

Q: "I think I've only heard that lately about Paul."

JOHN: "Oh, I've had him, he's no good."

(laughter)

You know, this is one where I really wish I could find audio (if anyone has it, I’d love a link!). It does seem somewhat incredible that Robinson is discussing this rumor in a serious way in a major magazine. However, if she’s joking here, it looks like this is the only joking question in the interview (not that it’s impossible to have a mostly serious interview with one joke question). John jokes a few times (like in his response to this question), but the interview read as pretty serious on the whole, and, imo, nothing other than wondering “would they seriously print a non-joke about this?” marks it as possibly being a joke.

John’s discussion of his immigration status, relationship with George and Paul and Ringo, the price of fame, etc. seems pretty earnest for the most part with a few jokes sprinkled in. I hadn’t read the whole thing until recently, but it’s here and really interesting (I had no idea John had ever said this, for example: “I'm not really interested if I get knighted when I'm seventy. I'll deal with it when it comes. I want it now-- not the knighthood-- I'll take the green card, and a passport, and the cash I earn in the band in my own name. And I'll let my music, or my art, speak for me. If they give me knighthood at age 70 I'll deal with it then. Sir John...")

But! Back to the “rumors about Paul” material. @monkberries suggests 3 compelling possibilities here: “1) there were actual rumors about men [Paul] had had sex with, 2) there were rumors but only because of his looks/mannerisms (standard homophobia) or 3) the interviewer made it up to have something for john to bounce off of”

There’s evidence for option 2 around (i.e. Tony Sheridan’s assumptions about Paul based on stuff like his eyebrows).

And then there’s also Francie Schwartz’s (unreliable) Body Count, which came out in ‘72. In it, she says this about Paul’s marriage to Linda: “This was the third time. He had to make it work, or else he’d go raving queer and kill himself” (92). I think it’s possible some readers would have read “queer” there as referring to sexual orientation (whether Francie intended for it to be read that way in addition to the main intended meaning here idk), and there may have been rumors that sprung up based on that--especially since Francie also apparently suggested she’d found a love letter to Paul from Brian on rec.music.beatles when the internet became a thing. She may have shared this story before the internet age too (I’m not suggesting that Francie is a reliable source--her credibility is seriously questionable--but what she wrote and may have said back then could have served as a basis for rumors. I’d like to find out more about it, as well as the post she wrote--I’ll add it if I find it in the archives). And in terms of “Brian being in love with Paul,” we also have the ‘80 Sheff interview where he asks John about Brian’s having been in love with Paul. Apparently this was a claim that was circulating in “biographies” according to the clip (I’d really love to know where Sheff was getting this from since I didn’t see this in Body Count--though please let me know if I missed it!). It doesn’t look like anyone suggested that Paul had also been in love with or had had a sexual relationship with Brian, but it’s possible, especially given monkberries’ option 2, that people speculated about it.

Then there’s option 3, where Robinson may not have been aware of any rumors about Paul or Paul and Brian and just wanted to jokingly pit Paul against John to see what he’d say about Paul and/or himself. This is a very real possibility, though it’s also possible that Robinson had heard some rumors and used the cover of a joke to see what kind of response she’d get from John. If she was aware of it (and I don’t think there’s evidence she was--I’m very much speculating), she may also have been thinking it would be an interesting question to ask given John’s very jokey ‘74 self-interview where he asks himself about rumors about the nature of his relationship with Paul.

Just in terms of other rumors that were possibly out there that might have made *readers,* especially in the industry or who knew people at Apple, take the “I think I’ve only heard that about Paul” remark seriously (and this would have been something that involved John as well, so Robinson wouldn’t have been seriously saying she’d only heard it about Paul), McCabe and Schonfeld’s ‘72 Apple to the Core appears to include a reference to the “John’s Princess” nickname that Philip Norman (and Yoko Ono) claim had been used to refer to Paul. McCabe and Schonfeld write: “With Yoko present, Paul McCartney’s reign as Lennon’s princess was doomed” (thanks for finding it, @james-winston ) While they don’t explicitly say that this is a nickname or that it’s linked to the desire for a sexual relationship, it sounds, as monkberries says in this post, “like a specific enough turn of phrase that mccabe/schonfeld might have heard someone say it.” And Norman, in his John bio, does explicitly say “John’s Princess” was a nickname for Paul that was linked to what people saw as John’s sexual desire for Paul (though he and Yoko suggest that the desire was only on John’s part). So, if it is the case that people around Apple were characterizing Paul in relation to John as being his “princess” and linking it, at least in part, to the idea that John desired Paul sexually, then it’s possible that, even if McCabe and Schonfeld didn’t say so in print and those around Apple didn’t either, there were rumors/speculation based on their relationship in the industry and some might have taken what could have been a joke question in the Robinson question seriously.

That...got seriously long and there’s a lot we just don’t have answers to (and may never have answers to), but that question in Hit Parader is fascinating to think about in terms of not only what rumors Robinson may or may not have heard but how different readers might have taken it as well.

#anon #john and paul #paul and brian #omg this is an essay but it's a lot of material in one place?#which is good?#maybe?

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snlhostharry · 3 years

Text

to be determined / one

harry styles x reader friends with benefits au

soon after moving to new york, you meet harry styles at a party. you convince yourself that there’s nothing between the two of you until it becomes too intense to ignore. if you keep telling yourself that he doesn’t mean anything to you, does that make it true?

a/n: hi everyone! welcome to my first harry styles series. This originally started as a challenge for myself to try and write a harry fic inspired by taylor swift songs so that’s where the chapter titles come from, it’s kind of become something bigger than that but I figured I would keep the theme anyway

chapter 1: welcome to new york

The story starts in New York City.

A place written about in countless stories, about love, about heartbreak, about giving up, about standing tall, and about putting broken hearts into drawers and slamming them shut. It’s easy to say that writing another story about New York is beating a dead horse, throwing characters into the same tired old setting and letting them live out the writer's wildest daydream. But it’s never been about the city itself, it’s always been about the people. Something about the city always manages to be the perfect stomping ground for people, for characters to find each other in a whirlwind of A list parties and harsh billboard lights.

Speaking of which you are suddenly very sick of said harsh billboard lights in the middle of times square. As someone who has read (and written) countless articles describing times square as a flurry of activity but also with some kind of inherent magical appeal, the center of everything it’s own small utopia, you know that everyone who wrote that had to be aware of their own bullshit. It’s a nuanced way of tourist trapping, smart, albeit annoying on a variety of levels. A gimmick to get wide eyed little girls to stand in the middle of chaos and think that maybe they could carve out a place for themselves here.

You’re not trying to carve out a place for yourself, you’re trying to get to a stupid party. That and manage to not get any mud or other stains on this very nice dress you’re wearing. After what seems like forever of looking around and then suddenly looking back down at your phone just in case anyone wanted to even try to make eye contact with you, familiar faces appear out of the sea of people.

You greet them with a look of disappointment, “Two questions: why did you want to meet here-” a tourist elbows there way past you mid sentence, inadvertently proving your point, “-and why aren’t we just taking an uber?”

Molly, a tall black woman with objectively perfect hair (which is somehow gorgeous at all times), smiles and pats your shoulder like a kindergarten teacher, “I thought you would want to see Times Square.”

“I’ve seen it,” You shoot back, squinting again at the bright light coming from directly behind her head, and adjusting your jacket over your shoulders.

She squeezes your shoulder quickly, “And also to teach you that any time someone asks you to meet them in Times Square they’re fucking with you.”

“I figured you were fucking with me,” You tell her, “But thank you, god forbid the midwestern girl gets lost in Times Square waiting for someone to meet her who is obviously not coming.”

Molly laughs, and so do you. She looks down at her phone briefly, and then back at you, “To answer your question, why would anyone ever try to get an uber in the city at seven?”

You shrug, “What kind of self respecting party starts at eight?”

Fletcher, who’s name admittedly sounds like it should belong to anyone but him, finally stops staring at the large elmo mascot a few feet away and jumps into the conversation. “The kind with an age range, twenty somethings to late thirty somethings, who no longer have the energy to go from nine to six am.”

You sigh, “So boring then or-?”

“It’s about networking,” Molly says, “And also drinking, but mostly networking.”

“One of those unique business opportunities where you get free food, and possibly run into celebrities, singers mostly.”

You roll your eyes, “Wow you had me at various singers.”

“Says the woman who did an interview series with Tik Tok kids who all live in the same house,” Molly snips, half joking.

You shiver, half from the memories of that objectively terrible experience and half from a sudden breeze. Needless to say a significant portion of the reason why you’d left LA, was because their entertainment section was suddenly drifting away from profiles on actors and towards compilations of one minute videos made by sun tanned twenty somethings that somehow made them millions a year. That and after you’d spent two weeks semi living with ten of said twenty somethings for a story that had gotten a lot of buzz you never wanted to see anyone connected to the app ever again.

You give Molly your best ‘I’ll kill you’ smile, “You have to decide what you’re going to make fun of me for, is it the midwestern thing or is it the Tik Tok thing because one of those involves you admitting that I lived in Los Angeles for a year which means I’m perfectly capable of handling Times Square in all of it’s elmo public urinating glory.”

Fletcher looks again at the mascot who is not in fact publicly urinating, but honestly if it did suddenly start none of you would be surprised.

Molly looks at you for a second and says, “Both,” She looks at Fletcher.

He looks at you then back and Molly and nods, “Yeah. Both.”

You roll your eyes, “So can we get going now or-?”

The ride to the location Molly had all but refused to tell you was filled with talks of the impending deadlines on Monday for pieces that were anywhere from fifty to seventy percent finished. (your’s is at the lower end of the spectrum because there is only so much one person can write about an art installation that you found less insightful and more literal in the sense that the sculpture was literally just large amounts of clay pressed together in something that shouldn’t even be considered a shape with no metaphor or meaning behind it).

Soon enough you’re standing in what looks like mostly a residential neighborhood, with one precariously nice building in the middle of the block. You turn to Molly, “What the-?”

“Don’t finish that, just be patient,“ She interrupts as a response. “You are very impatient, you know that?”

“I’m a journalist,” You say, “I need to know all of the facts, including what the-” You take a breath, “-heck we’re doing in the middle of a nice little neighborhood, I was expecting something more Gossip Girland Brooklyn Nine-Nine.”

“You’re definition of journalist is a lot looser than mine,” Molly says.

“Have you ever watched Gossip Girl? And isn’t Brooklyn Nine-Nine set in a precinct?” Fletcher adds.

“No, and Jake and Amy live in an apartment.”

“Beyond the fact that you’re a TV writer who has never watched Gossip Girl-” Fletcher sighs, even though you know he hasn’t watched it either beyond random snippets for a hit piece he wrote on it a few months back (not received well by the way), “The top floor of that building-” He points to the precariously nice building, “isn’t apartments its a loft, the floor is huge and only one house.”

You squint your eyes, “You’re kidding.”

“And the rest are offices?”

“How did they get zoning for that?”

They both shrug at the same time.

“Guys I want to know that if the police bust up this party, speaking of loose terms, I’m going to say that you dragged me here against my will.”

“I always knew you had good survival instincts.”

Molly turns to you, “Look when you’re getting special press access to the inside of the met gala you will be saying thank you Molly for bringing me here to catapult my career.”

“I have catapulted my own career thank you, the Tik Tok thing-” You shake your head, “Nevermind can we go in and stop loitering, then we’ll really get arrested.”

Party is a loose term but you learn that's not necessarily a bad thing. It’s not a rager with strobe lights and pumping bass but there is music playing albeit classical. People mill around at tables talking to one another, both twenty somethings and thirty somethings, you recognize a few faces from the media mostly. Fletcher was right about the food, and Molly was right about the drinks. You talk to a few people just to introduce yourself, a couple of them have heard of you, if only because your sudden cross country move to newspapers that aren’t necessarily competitors but might have a bit of a rivalry was something that people talked about. You’d made a couple thirty under thirty lists (no not the Forbes one) while in LA, which meant nothing to you if you were being completely honest but apparently meant things to other people which is fine.

When you’re finally exhausted at putting on a smile and nodding like you’re actively engaged in conversation and not thinking about something completely you hang out by the bar, not even drinking, just watching the room and all of the people there. You never wanted to get a reputation for being the quiet girl in the corner who just watched and listened because those kinds of people are always seen as weird or doormats or both but if you’re being honest this is where you’re the most comfortable. Making small talk just to get some opportunity down the road has never quite been your style.

You turn to go and find Molly when you suddenly come face to face with someone you recognise right away.

In that moment you realize that Taylor Swift was in fact onto something when she said, “Didn’t you flash your green eyes at me?” As weird as it is, the first thing you think when you meet Harry Styles is how that song is definitely about him, because those green eyes are striking and they are staring right at you.

“Hi,” He says, quick to the draw.

You take a step back just because of how close you are and say, “Hello.”

He looks at you like he’s thinking about something, and then holds out his hand, “Harry.”

“y/n,” You shake his hand. You recover from your initial shock quickly, and plaster on that fake conversation smile again, ready for whatever it is he wants to say, if anything. You came here to ‘network’ and you’re not sure what kind of advantage talking to Harry Styles could possibly give you, but for some reason you want to talk to him.

“What brings you here?” He asks you.

“My co-workers,” You shrug, “I would much rather be at home watching Succession on HBO and listening to the Beatles on my record player, like true people of culture would.”

He looks at you for a second, as you try to keep a straight face. Then he laughs, “Seriously?”

“Fuck no,” You say, “That’s my impression of the girl who meets Harry Styles at a party and has to convince him that she is not like all the other girls, she is the one for him.” You smile, “Was that good? Or should I try again?”

He thinks about it, “I think you should try again.”

“Because you think it’s wrong or because you think I’m funny?”

“What do you think?”

“Well if you think I’m funny, then I’ve already won, I’ve tricked you into thinking that I’m not like all the other girls with reverse psychology .”

“Are you screwing with me?”

“Of course I’m screwing with you,” You take a sip of your drink. “If I were home right now I would be playing Lizzo on my record player, and drinking something with a medically unsafe level of caffeine.” You pause, “What brings you here?”

“Honestly,” He looks out over the room, “I thought that this was going to be a much cooler party. Instead it’s just a bunch of reporters, and editors and media people.”

“Who are inherent mood killers?” You ask.

He narrows his eyes at you, “Am I allowed to say yes to that?”

“You can do whatever you want,” You tease him, “You’re Harry Styles, who am I to tell you what to say?”

“I feel like it was a trick question, which means that you are also a reporter.”

You laugh again, “That was funny, I’m going to write that down for my story. ‘Harry is genuinely funny which he tries to use to make up for the lack of small talk abilities’.”

“You’re screwing with me again.”

“Of course I am,” You say, “I work in the arts section of the Times, well not the actual art anymore but the movies and television.”

“TV critic?” He says, “So you’re harsh.”

“TV critics are just harsh for attention, I don’t need to be because no movie snob or well meaning director is going to go to the Times to see what we thought of any given movie. I write honestly, sometimes under the influence of caffeine and try to contain my excitement at narratively unnecessary plot twists.” You explain, “That and I get paid to watch TV, and usually private screenings of movies.”

He leans against the bar a sign that he doesn’t plan on moving anytime soon. You’re not going to say that you’re so awestruck by a celebrity that you have no idea what to say, or that he’s intimidating you but your hand shakes just a little as you clutch your fingers around the glass because he’s objectively attractive. Objectively attractive in the way that if he were on a dating app you would swipe yes and then put a lot of pressure on yourself to be funny and relatable even though you know that you don’t need him.

“What did you think of Dunkirk?”

“Oh!” You forgot that he acted, “That was before my time. I was working at the LA Times doing the music section then I think.” You know what he’s going to say next, “And before you ask yes there is a piece still posted of me reviewing your debut album. I think I reached out to get an interview with you, but I was suspiciously declined.” He looks embarrassed, “I was like under five years out of college I would’ve declined me too. They only gave me the story because it was the time where people weren’t sure that ex boyband members could make objectively good albums that meant something.”

He tilts his head to the side for a second, “And? Can they?”

“I’m in no place to make a generalization,” You say, “But I think you did. Admittedly that album was something, very intimate.”

“I don’t know if I should be taking that as a compliment.”

“I don’t want to give you a compliment because some people have a hard time with them, and this will get very awkward very fast. No shame, personally I have no mechanism to take compliments on my writing.”

He laughs, “I think I can take it.”

“Hmm.. okay,” You take another step back, “Okay are you sure you're ready?”

“Yes.”

“I think the entire album was very good, very unexpectedly good or at least I didn’t expect it to be. It was very open in that way that songs are vulnerable but still leave enough mystery that your fans don’t think you're a shitty person and I really like meet me in the hallway,” You say quickly, “In fact I listened to it just yesterday when I was working.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, and then fake sighs, “See I don’t think that counts because it was more of a backhanded compliment.”

“What?”

“You said you didn’t expect it to be good, that’s not really a compliment then-”

“I was saying it pleasantly surprised me,” You say, throwing your hands in the air in mock annoyance. “You surprise me, Harry.” He doesn’t say anything, and for a minute neither do you, but you snap back to life just in time to say, “Is that compliment enough to embarrass you?”

He shrugs, but you know he’s messing with you. “It’s something but I don’t know if it’s really doing it for me.”

“You are impossible, just another out of touch celebrity, is nothing ever good enough for you people?” It’s by now that you realize that you inadvertently closed the gap between the two of you, and you’re standing very close.

He seems to realize this at the same time as you, “I-”

“Are you going to ask me to have sex with you?” You deadpan.

“What?” He looks offended for a second, “No.”

“I had to ask,” You tell him, “It’s happened before.”

“I was going to ask you for your number.”

“See usually when a guy asks me that they’re asking so-”

“It’s not for that.”

“Then what’s it for?”

He looks at you with something in his eyes that you don’t know the meaning of, “In case you want to do an interview, so that they don’t reject you this time.”

You know that’s not it, but you give it to him anyway because he’s Harry Styles (which yes is not a valid reason but this ‘party’ is very boring and this is the most interesting thing to happen to you in at least the past week). It takes you a minute to remember which one is your real number and which one is the fake number you give off if a guy is asking because he wants a booty call, but you eventually give it to him. Then you scurry off with a quick goodbye when you realize how late it is, and how you do have work to do. There’s a new episode of Big Little Lies out tomorrow and you don’t understand why but people are very into the show, and very into your episode recaps.

You corner Molly away from some guy you think might have actually been able to get her press access to the Met Gala and remind her that she also has a deadline tomorrow. The two of you go off to look for Fletcher and find him very close to sealing the deal with an objectively pretty girl, but you politely remind him that he has work to do and is very busy. The girl looks sad but let’s him go without much whining. You would’ve understood if she tried to get him to stay with her, he’s a little bit shorter than Molly but to be fair Molly is above averagely tall, and is nice and fit and has brown curly hair which you know from personal experience is sometimes just kryptonite. (you’ve kissed Fletcher before, long story, and can also say he’s on your top list of good kissers as well right up there with a guy you hooked up with in LA only to realize later that he was Robert Pattinson).

Somehow the three of you are only able to make it back to your apartment. So the night ends with Molly and Fletcher in the living room on the couch and in a sleeping bag respectively, and you are comfortably in your bed. Your phone sits on your nightstand, suspiciously silent. You’re not waiting for Harry Styles to call you, nope, definitely not.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles series #harry styles one shot #my writing

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dweemeister · 3 years

Photo

Batman: Mask of the Phantasm (1993)

In American animation outside of Disney, no other studio inspires as much reverence as Warner Bros. The Merrie Melodies and Looney Tunes shorts precipitated into worldwide recognition for those series’ stock characters. Despite this success, Warner Bros. did not release an animated feature until the musical Gay Purr-ee (1962), in association with United Productions of America (UPA). Animators at Warner Bros. from the 1930-1960s knew they were not making high art, nor were they pretending to. Warners, since the 1930s arguably the most financially stable of the major Hollywood studios, has historically seen little need to bankroll animated features. With that in mind, it might come as less of a shock that Warner Bros.’ first in-house animated feature is Eric Radomski and Bruce Timm’s Batman: Mask of the Phantasm. Originally intended as a direct-to-home media release, Mask of the Phantasm – based on and made by the production team behind Batman: The Animated Series (1992-1995) – transcends those modest intentions. It is among of the best superhero films ever made.

In the wake of Tim Burton’s Batman (1989) and Batman Returns (1992), Batman: The Animated Series, unlike Burton’s efforts, affords time to characterize Bruce Wayne rather than surrendering ample screentime to thinly-written but scene-stealing villains. For that and many other reasons including the looming, vertical art deco-inspired production design of Gotham City; the distinctive and moodiness of its black paper backgrounds; and its balance of dark and lighter tones, BTAS remains a high-water mark among Batman fans – perhaps the best adaptation of the character there is. Mask of the Phantasm builds upon that foundation, in addition to crafting its own unique contribution within the DC Animated Universe (DCAU). As tired as origin stories are, Mask of the Phantasm is part-origin story for the Dark Knight – something largely avoided in BTAS – and somehow integrated here without distracting from the present-day scenes. Rarely is any Batman media a character study of Bruce Wayne, but Mask of the Phantasm proves itself a wonderful exception.

One evening, Batman/Bruce Wayne (Kevin Conroy) attempts to stop a gaggle of gangsters led by Chuckie Sol (Dick Miller) from laundering counterfeit money from a casino. Amid the scrum, Sol escapes from Batman, but immediately confronts a shadowy figure later known as the “Phantasm” in the parking garage – Sol dies in the confrontation. Batman receives the blame for the killing and the concurrent property destruction from Gotham City Councilman Arthur Reeves (Hart Bochner), who just so happened to be profiting from Sol’s racket. Across the film, Bruce reminisces about his courtship with Andrea Beaumont (Dana Delany), their breakup, and the lead-up to the creation of his Batman alter-ego. Juxtaposing Bruce’s past and present, we see how he channels his regrets and profound loss into being Batman. The past haunts him still, overhanging the high roofs of Wayne Manor and the ledges of Gotham’s skyscrapers. Back in the present day, the Phantasm has murdered another crime boss; a third murder involves the Joker (Mark Hamill), initiating an emotional dénouement that, because of the intricacies of motivation that the film develops, elevates the film beyond what might otherwise be sloppy storytelling.

The dramatis personae also includes crime boss Salvatore “The Wheezer” Valestra (Abe Vigoda); Andrea’s father, Carl Beaumont (Stacy Keach); the Wayne family butler, Alfred Pennyworth (Efrem Zimbalist Jr.); GCPD Commissioner James Gordon (Bob Hastings); and GCPD Det. Harvey Bullock (Robert Costanzo).

The screenplay by Alan Burnett (producer and writer on various DC Comics films and Hanna-Barbera productions), Paul Dini (head writer on BTAS and Superman: The Animated Series), Martin Pasko (a longtime DC Comics writer), and Michael Reaves (head writer on BTAS and 1994-1996’s Gargoyles) keep the film’s attention on Batman/Bruce Wayne, despite the introduction of various subplots and Joker – whose somewhat-questionable presence might seem to indicate a project going off the rails. Shadow of the Phantasm’s placement of flashbacks stems the awkwardness that Joker’s inclusion brings, assuring that the film stays grounded into Batman’s psychology. In past Bruce we see a charming young man with time, money, and looks to spare. His romantic side with Andrea is an element of his life, one that connects – inevitably, tangentially – to the trauma his parents’ murder. His most personal motivations – that which a younger Andrea could never see, and privy to only Alfred – are stuck in the past, circulating around that childhood loss.

The occasional reflections from Bruce Wayne on what his life has become make Mask of the Phantasm the most introspective piece within the BTAS continuity, freed from the constraints and expectations inherent of episodic television. No BTAS episode forces its eponymous character to confront himself to such extents. What Bruce Wayne and Batman have become in the present-day treads perilously close not to his style of vigilante corrective justice, but vengeance. The tragic paradox that lies at the heart of this tension is the soul of the Batman mythos. Anyone with the most basic understanding of who Bruce Wayne/Batman and the Joker are will at least have a glimmer of understanding of that paradox. This portrait of what Batman stands for is more maturely handled than any of the twentieth century live-action Batman films, and with less sensational filmmaking than Christopher Nolan and Zack Snyder could produce. But with the film’s screenplay and Kevin Conroy’s iconic voice acting as the Caped Crusader, it becomes an inquest into Bruce Wayne’s tortured soul.

If Mask of the Phantasm ran longer than its seventy-eight-minute runtime, Andrea Beaumont, too, might also have received similar character development as Bruce Wayne here. Even within those seventy-eight minutes, Andrea – with a great assist from Dana Delany’s voice acting (Delany so impressed Bruce Timm here that she was given the role of Lois Lane in Superman: The Animated Series) – is a nevertheless fascinating character. In a cruel irony, her ultimate role in Mask of the Phantasm is to be an incidental mirror to the violence that occurs in this film. Her decision is not an imposition, whether conscious or unconscious, from someone else, but hers and hers alone.

In this drama fit for opera, this Batman occupies a world of operatic proportions. The background and character animation are not as pristine as the best examples of BTAS due to some scattered bits of animation outsourcing. The animation of BTAS might seem stiff and janky to modern viewers expecting Flash hand-drawn animation or hand-drawn/CGI hybrids. However, Mask of the Phantasm retains the gravity-defying art deco of the animated series that somehow does not clash with the ‘90s-influenced and futuristic elements it integrates. Its primary inspirations are of film noir and the Metropolis seen in the Fleischer Studios’ Superman series of short films (1941-1943). The black paper backgrounds provide Gotham’s street corners and rooftops a nocturnal menace, immersing the viewer into the city’s seediness.

Composer Shirley Walker (orchestrator on 1979’s The Black Stallion, conductor and orchestrator on 1989’s Batman) was one of the few women composers in Hollywood at the turn of the twentieth into the twenty-first century. A pianist (she played with the San Francisco Symphony as a soloist while still in high school) who studied music composition at San Francisco State University, Walker would later become one of the first female film score composers to receive a solo credit for composing the music in John Carpenter’s Memoirs of an Invisible Man (1992). But it is her work in the DCAU that distinguishes her – of particular note is her arrangement of Danny Elfman’s theme to 1989’s Batman for BTAS and a wholly original main theme for Superman: The Animated Series. Though Walker could adjust her style to suit a more synthetic sound, she specialized in composing grand orchestral cues. That style was apparent in BTAS and is adapted here from the opening titles (the lyrics here are actually gibberish and are the names of Walker’s music department sung backwards). The foreboding brass and string unison lines seem to reverberate off the animation’s skyscraper-filled backgrounds. Numerous passages in Walker’s score, as if taking hints from Richard Wagner, elect not to resolve to the tonic – setting up scenes where tension escalates alongside the music, forestalling the dramatic and musical release.

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One stunning exception to Walker’s ominous, atmospheric score is the gentle cue “First Love”, an interplay between solo oboe and synthesizer. Bruce’s flashbacks are not only a balm to the grimness of his present situation, but a musical reprieve from the intensity of the action scoring. That Walker can navigate between such differing moods exemplifies her compositional dexterity and overall musical excellence. Walker, who cited Mask of the Phantasm as her personal favorite composition for any film or television production, was one of the DCAU’s greatest under-heralded contributors. And how I wish she was given more chances to score different sorts of films.

Warner Bros.’ last-minute reversal on Mask of the Phantasm’s release strategy – abandoning the direct-to-home media debut for a theatrical release – meant minimal marketing for a low-budget film that made barely a dent at the box office. The film’s home media release would more than make up for the film’s theatrical release failure. Upon the success of BTAS and the critical acclaim lavished on Mask of the Phantasm, Warner Bros. kept the DCAU on television for another thirteen years, with infrequent direct-to-home media movie releases as recent as 2019.

For numerous DC Comics fans, the DCAU is an aesthetic and narrative touchstone. The limited animation is sublime for this period in animation history. In addition, one will overhear fans remaking that a certain superhero’s definitive portrayal might be thanks to the DCAU. The superhero benefitting the most from the DCAU’s characterization and storytelling is unquestionably Batman. And justifiably so, as Mask of the Phantasm shows due respect for Batman and Bruce Wayne – what molded them and how each persona intertwines with the other. The mythos behind any superhero is found not in fight scenes. Instead, it resides in the psychology and rationalizations that forces a person to directly confront another’s wickedness. Mask of the Phantasm realizes that such confrontations test Batman/Bruce Wayne’s remaining vestiges of humanity, and braves to ask moral questions that too many figures of superhero media would rather not think about.

My rating: 8.5/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found in the “Ratings system” page on my blog (as of July 1, 2020, tumblr is not permitting certain posts with links to appear on tag pages, so I cannot provide the URL).

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.

#Batman #Batman: Mask of the Phantasm #Bruce Timm #Eric Radomski #DCAU #Kevin Conroy #Dana Delany #Hart Bochner #Stacy Keach #Abe Vigoda #Dick Miller #Efrem Zimbalist Jr.#Bob Hastings #Robert Costanzo #Mark Hamill #Shirley Walker #Glen Murakami #My Movie Odyssey

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quickspinner · 4 years

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Sprint Fic Challenge 1 - Puppy Eyes

So this whole challenge idea was kind of a whim that we all decided to go for, and I hope everyone is enjoying it as much as I am! I’m always fascinated to see how different people interpret prompts and what different ficlets result!

Challenge Rules:

The group picks a prompt. Members choosing to participate will write for that prompt in up to three 15 minute sprints. No writing outside the sprints until you have completed all three! After the 3 sprints are complete, you have 24 hours to edit (which can include some new writing to smooth transitions, etc). After those 24 hours, post what you’ve got, either just to the disco or publicly if you like.

Prompt:

"Has anyone ever told you just how adorable you are? Because you really are."

Dedicated to @verfound

This couldn’t be happening, Marinette thought. It just...could not be happening.

Except of course it was happening, because Luka was many things, but at his heart he was a Couffaine, and chaos ran in his blood.

Today chaos was a fluffy white puppy licking Luka’s face with a big pink tongue.

Luka turned soft, awestruck eyes at Marinette.

“No,” she said immediately.

“Marinette,” he—whined. Did he really just whine? Luka? “Please? Look at this!” He held the little puppy up against his cheek. “How can you say no to those eyes?”

“Luka, we can’t just take the first puppy we see!” Marinette sighed, though a smile was tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Let’s at least meet some of the others, okay?”

Luka pouted. “Fine, but my mind is made up. I just know it.”

But his paws, Marinette wanted to protest. He’ll be huge with paws like that! And he was so fluffy...that was a lot of fur to take care of. And his little ears flopped over, which meant a higher risk of ear infections. Not to mention the challenges of keeping white fur clean…and despite Marinette’s best efforts, seventy-five percent of Luka’s wardrobe was still black!

Luka obviously cared about none of these concerns as he turned the pup so he was nose to nose with it again. “Has anyone ever told you just how adorable you are? Because you really are. You are so adorable. And your new mommy knows it too. I have excellent taste.” He kissed the little puppy on the nose, and Marinette knew it was a done deal. This was a battle she was definitely going to lose. Why had she let him single this one out for a one-on-one when it wasn’t even remotely what they were looking for? Damn her stupid husband and his sticky heart, that got instantly attached to the most random things...and people…

And puppies, apparently.

They were supposed to get an older dog, something around four years old, out of the puppy stage. Something smallish, calm and laid back like Luka, that would sleep on Marinette’s feet while she sketched and hop up to lick Luka’s face when he got lost in his guitar, and remind them both to stop and eat and get out a little bit. Something active enough that they’d enjoy walking him around town, but that wouldn’t mind just relaxing on days when they didn’t feel like running around.

And instead, Luka fell in love with a little white fluffball only a few months old, that Marinette was certain had to be at least part Great Pyrenees, and all her careful planning was moot.

“How much is that doggy in the window,” Luka sang, wiggling the little pup back and forth. “The one with the giant blue eyes. How much is that doggy in the window? We need this sweet pup in our lives.” The puppy panted happily, neither pleased nor displeased by the serenade. He licked Luka’s nose again and Marinette couldn’t help melting a little when Luka giggled. “Aw, you’re just the cutest thing. Well.” He leaned a little closer. “Second cutest, let’s be honest.” He glanced at Marinette over the pup’s head and winked.

Marinette put her hands over her face. “This is a disaster,” she moaned.

“It’s not a disaster,” Luka protested, laughing as he set the puppy in his lap. “It’s destiny.”

“It’s you,” Marinette said accusingly, pointing at him. “You and your...your...Couffaineness.”

“Guilty,” Luka shrugged, and then grinned. “And you’re a Couffaine too now, you realize.”

Marinette sighed and threw herself down on the floor next to him. She pouted, but put her hand out for the white puppy to sniff and politely lick. He was awfully cute. She sighed.

“I suppose we can tell them we want to do a home visit. We should make sure he gets along with the...others. And that he can handle your music.”

Luka’s grin faded slightly. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

Marinette looked up at him and Luka shrugged. “I think he might be deaf,” he admitted.

Marinette drew back slightly in surprise. “The paperwork didn’t say anything about it.”

Luka shrugged again. “They have a lot of animals to look after. They might not have noticed yet. I’m not even really sure, it’s just…” He looked down, stroking the puppy’s head. “I just have a feeling.”

Marinette pressed her lips together. Luka was so intuitive, he couldn’t always explain why he reached the conclusions he did, but he was usually right. Careful to move where the puppy couldn’t see her, she snapped her fingers behind its head. The puppy didn’t move or react,only laid his chin on Luka’s knee.

Hardly conclusive evidence, but…

“Well, even if he can’t hear it, he needs a name. We have to call him something,” she muttered, and Luka’s grin returned full force. She gave him a warning look.

“I’m open to suggestions,” was all he said, but his delight was obvious as he picked the pup up and cuddled the little furball against his chest.

“Bach,” Marinette said after a moment of thought, and then groaned, putting a hand over her eyes.

“I like it, but why?” Luka laughed, reaching over to pull her hand away and twine his fingers through hers.

“I was trying to think of something musical,” she sighed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “And I thought of that movie Beethoven with all the big dogs and then Bach popped in my head and—well…” Luka waited, and she shrugged. “Dogs bark. Bark, Bach. Ugh, just kill me,” she moaned, pulling her hand back so she could cover her face again.

Luka laughed uproariously—and Bach didn’t seem to mind at all. “Oh, darning,” he chuckled when he could finally stop laughing enough to get his breath. “Chat’s rubbing off on you.”

“I know,” Marinette whined. “I’ll never hear the end of it when he finds out. It’s not like we can keep the giant fuzzball a secret.”

“Aw, Marinette,” Luka smiled, and then he leaned over and plopped Bach in Marinette’s arms. “Come on. It’s not that bad.”

“I had a plan,” Marinette insisted, but she couldn’t help nuzzling her face against the soft white puppy fur. “How are we going to take a giant like this on tour?” she grumbled.

“He’s not giant yet,” Luka pointed out. “And if Jagged can manage with Fang, I think we can handle Bach, even if he does turn out a little bigger than we planned.”

“A little bigger,” Marinette snorted...but she really couldn’t argue with that. And he really was cute. And pretty laid back, for a puppy. He’d had a burst of energy when they first let him into the room and then had settled right into Luka’s lap to be petted.

Marinette glanced behind herself at the closed door. “Tikki? Sass? You want to come meet him?” The pup perked up at the emergence of the brightly colored little beings, and turned his head to follow as they zipped around him. He wiggled out of Marinette’s arms and pranced, wagging, and running alongside Sass as the snake kwami zipped across the room and back. But he didn’t react as if they were some kind of fascinating flying chew toy, which was a good sign.

She couldn’t help one more whine, one more tug at her hair, at the destruction of all her plans, but Luka reached out and gently caught her wrist, tugging her over into his lap. He put his arms around her and nuzzled her jaw. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I promise, we’ll make it work. Even if it wasn’t the plan.”

Marinette sighed, but also smiled. “I know. We always do.” She giggled as the kwamis zipped back into her purse, and then laughed when Bach barreled into her, snuffling around for his new friends. “All right, all right, furball,” she muttered, cupping his muzzle and lifting his nose away from her purse. “I guess we’re gonna have to learn doggy sign language, huh?” she said, leaning down nose to nose with Bach. He stuck his big pink tongue out and licked her enthusiastically. Marinette yelped and pulled away, wiping at her face.

“Watch it, buddy,” Luka laughed, reaching around her to ruffle Bach’s ears. “Those are my kisses. That is non-negotiable.” As if to prove it, he tipped Marinette’s chin up and kissed her softly. “Come on,” he said, nudging her to prompt her off his lap so he could stand. “Let’s go tell the nice lady that, provided the home visit works out, we’re taking this one off her hands.”

Marinette pouted. “The collar I made is never going to fit him,” she grumbled as she got to her feet.

#quickspins #sprint fic challenge #lukanette #established relationship #luka couffaine #marinette dupain-cheng #endgame lukanette #lukanette endgame #miraculousladybug #miraculous ladybug #quickfic #promptfic #lbsc shenanigans #quicksprints #bach the deaf dog

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rainydaydream-gal18 · 3 years

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Bucky Barnes x Reader: Shall We Dance?

(Author’s Note: Hey all, I’m back but this time with a Bucky fic! I just thought this was an adorable idea, and I even found a soundtrack for it. You could play some 1940′s instrumental jazz in the background while reading this fic to enhance the experience, or not. Up to you!

Also, this is sort of an AU that takes place after Civil War, but where the Avengers don’t separate yet. So yeah I’m jumping on the bandwagon of Avengers still living in the tower with Bucky joining them XD)

“Are you sure about this?” you asked, poking your head around the corner. Taking note of what the guests were wearing, you immediately felt out of place. Despite the party having a 1940’s theme, most of the ladies were wearing rather modern dresses that were long and elegant and touched the floor. Some did go as far as pinning their hair in updos that were fitting for the time period, but even so, you glanced down at your old-fashioned evening gown and perfectly matched shoes with doubt. It was a beautiful deep blue dress that went almost to your ankles. The sleeves were a tad puffy at the shoulders before tightening into long sleeves the rest of the way to your wrists. The outfit was very lovely, but it was most definitely out-dated compared to what the guests were wearing.

It was a birthday celebration for Steve Rogers- a surprise one at that. Stark had volunteered a floor of the Avengers tower for the venue, and Natasha and you had the neat idea of making it an old-fashioned party complete with music from the 1940’s to make things feel more like home. You and Nat had fun researching the sort of clothes worn back then, but apparently not everyone had taken the theme so literally.

“You kidding me?” Natasha responded in a low voice, brows furrowing slightly. “You look great. Now, let’s get out there and own it.” A smile crept on your face, and you were glad to have a friend go into the party with, especially someone as confident as Romanoff. She was dressed in a 1940’s gown too, though hers was a pretty dark green which complemented the red lipstick she wore. “We were pretty specific about the theme of the party,” she continued. “Technically, most of these people are the ones out of place, not us.”

“Good point.”

“This is for Steve anyway. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the gesture.”

It wasn’t necessarily the guests that concerned you. Or Steve. A certain someone would be in attendance, and you strived to be cool as a cucumber.

“Alright, here goes nothing.” You stepped out from the hallway and couldn’t help but smile. The music was jazzy, and the lights made the scene even more charming as couples danced on the floor while others conversed at little tables or the bar. Natasha walked beside you, eyes scanning the room. They rested on Bruce, who was talking to Tony with a drink in his hand.

“You going to say ‘hi’?” you asked, giving her a playful nudge. She played it off as if she couldn’t care less, but you knew there was something going on between her and the scientist.

“Maybe later.”

A waiter approached with a tray, and Natasha gratefully accepted a shrimp cocktail while you decided to take a chance on a pastry. As you bit into your snack, you looked to your friend.

“You look beautiful,” you complimented.

She flashed a warm smile, a rare but lovely sight from the secret agent. “You look beautiful too,” she said. Then, her eyes seemed to dart to something behind you. “It looks like someone else thinks so.”

Your mouth fell open. “What?” You snuck a glance over your shoulder in the most subtle way you could before quickly turning away when a pair of dark blue eyes gazed in your direction. Your heartbeat quickened as Natasha raised a brow. “It’s Bucky.”

“Yes, it is,” she nodded, though her probing gaze didn’t leave your face as she took in your expression. “Something wrong?”

“No,” you said quickly. A little too quickly.

Her eyes traveled to the former Winter Soldier before a hint of a smirk appeared on her lips. “Oh, so you still have a thing for him?”

“What? I never told you that.”

“Didn’t need to.” Her smirk grew. “I sort of read people for a living, and it’s written all over your face whenever he walks in the room.”

“Well, glad I was being subtle,” you remarked with an eye roll. “I just get so nervous. He’s a good friend, and…”

“And he’s coming over here.”

“He’s- what?”

“He’s walking this way,” she mumbled under her breath.

You followed her eyes to see those eyes fixed on you as he approached. Though his dark hair was still somewhat long and unkempt, he wore a nice suit and shoes. His lips pressed together in an awkward smile as he entered the space where you and Natasha stood.

“Hey,” he greeted with a small wave.

“Hi,” you said, smiling. Natasha didn’t speak. She only observed the interaction as your eyes wandered the room in desperate search for something else to talk about. “This turned out to be a nice party,” you commented. “You think Steve is having a good time?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, looking over to see the Captain having a dance with Sharon. “It is nice. I think he’s having fun. Sure looked happy to see everyone when he walked in.”

You laughed as you remembered his reaction- your friend and teammate’s look of pleasant surprise and then a big smile as everyone shouted “surprise!” You even asked that Tony get a picture from the security footage.

“Definitely loved the look on his face,” you said. The conversation between the two of you quieted for a minute as both of you looked at your surroundings until Bucky spoke up again.

“You like the music?” he asked, gesturing with a metal hand to your feet. You hadn’t even noticed yourself swaying in place to the tune. The realization caused you to give a sheepish smile and shrug.

��I think I do.”

Bucky’s little awkward smile widened, and his eyes held warmth as he asked, “do you wanna’ dance with me?” Your eyes travelled to that inviting gaze of his, and it was like your heart was doing flips. You nodded, and he extended his other hand to take yours. Then, he looked to Natasha. “Mind if I steal her for a dance or two?”

Natasha smirked again. “Not at all. Have fun, you two.”

Bucky glanced your way again before leading you toward the dance floor. You shot a look at Natasha over your shoulder, mouth falling open in shock that this was happening. She gave a nod of approval.

Bucky stopped before going too far into the crowded space, turning to put the metal hand at your waist while you put your arm around the back of his neck. He exhaled sharply in a silent chuckle, glancing down at his feet. “Sorry,” he said, eyes darting back up to yours. “It’s been a while. I haven’t danced with a woman in….well, about seventy years.”

“Oh,” you said quietly. An ache grew in your heart at the thought. He’d spent a lot of time brainwashed and forced to do awful things for Hydra. Before you could dwell on it much further, you remembered where you were and tried to keep the conversation light-hearted. “Well I hope I don’t disappoint you. I haven’t had much experience dancing to this kind of music.”

“_________,” he said, starting to sway to the music. You let him lead you in the beginnings of the dance. “You are far from disappointing me.” He stepped back to give you a twirl, and you followed through with a smile on your face. “And since I’m out of practice, we won’t do anything fancy.”

“Sounds good to me.”

A warm feeling gathered in your chest, and you were absolutely elated as you and Bucky let the tune carry you both. The grin never left your expression. He seemed to be smiling even wider as he got more comfortable. Hearing this kind of music on the radio used to feel so strange to you. You’d breeze past it to the next station in search of something more to your taste, something more modern. But being there in that moment, dancing with Bucky, it felt so real. So alive. You could see why people enjoyed it. From then on, you’d never think of it the same way.

“You look gorgeous, doll,” Bucky said over the music, drawing your attention from the live band and back to his gaze. The lights reflected as a splash of glowing color amongst the beautiful blue of his eyes. “Where’d you find a dress like that?”

You ducked your head slightly from the compliment. “Oh, I got it online. It was Natasha’s idea. We were hoping everyone would dress up, but turns out it was just us.”

“Well, I like it. Love it, actually.”

“Thank you.” He gave you another twirl just as the song ended, and both of you pulled away to applaud the band along with the other couples. Then, the band took a short pause to turn pages and take a breather before playing a slower song. As the other couples drew closer to dance slowly, you stole a glance at your dance partner, wondering if he’d want to dance this song with you or take a break. Before you could ask, he offered his hand. You smiled, uncertainty vanishing, as he gently pulled you forward and put an arm around you. Your face was inches from his shoulder, and you decided to just go along with it by wrapping your arms around him. You took your first few steps of the dance carefully, adjusting to the slower tune. Despite the hair raised on the back of your neck and the way your breath caught in your throat at the sweet moment you had dreamed of many times, it felt so safe there. So secure. You didn’t want to leave anytime soon.

“So I’m impressed,” you said. “No feet have been stepped on yet.”

He pulled away ever so slightly to give you a humorous look. “It’s been some time, but I have danced before, _________.”

You laughed. “Actually I was talking more about myself.”

“Ah. See, that makes more sense.”

“Oh, please,” you joked. “I’m not that bad.”

He chuckled softly and rested his cheek against yours, like you’d seen in old-timey movies, as he swayed with you. “No, no that bad indeed.”

You were stunned into silence again at the contact. Your steps weren’t a concern anymore because it felt like you were floating across the dancefloor.

“Is this okay?” he asked. The question was so quiet considering how close his voice was.

It felt wrong to nod and break the contact, so you just uttered a hushed, “yeah. It’s more than okay actually.”

How long had you been dancing? You weren’t sure. All you knew was eventually the band announced that they’d be taking a break, a well-earned one in your mind. Everyone at the party applauded, and you and Bucky hesitantly pulled away.

“Hey, Buck,” a new voice greeted. “Hey there, _________.”

“Happy birthday, Steve,” Bucky said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You’re in pretty good shape for being, what, ninety-eight? What’s your secret?”

Steve gave a chuckle. “I already heard that one a few times today. But thanks, my secret is that I go for a run every day.”

“Happy birthday,” you chimed in with a grin, giving him a hug. “Do you like the party?”

“Yeah, I really do. I heard you had something to do with the theme?”

“Me and Nat both did.”

That Steve Rogers smile appeared on his face, softening his features even more. It was the kind of smile that made anyone feel like a million bucks because it was always so genuine. “Well, thank you. It was very sweet of you both.”

“There he is!” Thor called, and the three of you looked over to see him holding up a glass. “The birthday boy! Come hither and tell us one of your tales of victory!”

Steve hesitated, looking at you and Bucky. “Ah, guess I’ll be right back, then?”

“Go see your other guests,” Bucky told him, giving him a nudge. “We’ll catch up with you later.” Steve gave one last wave and approached the group, causing them to erupt in cheers. You and Bucky exchanged looks, laughing.

“How long do you think they’ll keep him?” Bucky asked.

“A while, for sure.” Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Natasha and Bruce conversing casually. Wanda and Vision walked past, both glancing your way and waving. They looked so cute together. With the music gone, all you could hear was quiet chatter and the clinking of glasses and silverware. It was such a peaceful atmosphere.

“Want something to eat?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I do.” He stopped a waiter so that the two of you could grab a few appetizers and go find a seat. You found a few lounge chairs near the window where you could look out at the city lights in the dark. There was some playful banter, as usual, and some brief talk of superhero work before you settled on a game of truth or dare. So far, Bucky had dared you to try a new food that you weren’t so sure about, and you had dared him to throw a straw wrapper at Sam just to get his attention. It was your turn to pick again, and you chose “dare.”

“I dare you,” Bucky began, narrowing his eyes as he leaned back in the chair in thought. “I dare you to save me the next dance, and the one after that.”

Your smile faded at his words while you played with the hem of your dress. “Hm, okay.” You paused. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” he said.

“Alright, here’s my question: Is there a reason you want all these dances with me?”

His gaze was fixed on you sincerely as he opened his mouth to reply. Unfortunately, this happened to be the moment that Steve returned.

“I’m back,” he announced. “Sorry about that.” He halted to observe the way you and Bucky looked at each other so intently. “Oh, am I interrupting?”

“Um, no, we were just…”

“Playing a game.” Bucky said quickly. “Truth or dare.”

Steve nodded. “Gotcha’. Hey, was that why you threw straw wrappers at Sam?”

“It was only one straw wrapper,” Bucky corrected. “And yes, it was the reason. If you talk to him again, you should tell him that it was ___________ who put me up to it. I was just following the rules of the game.” He feigned innocence with the casual shrug of his shoulders.

“I bet,” Steve chuckled.

Just then, you noticed the band heading back to their instruments. It appeared that their break was over and they were beginning to play again. Immediately, Bucky looked at you and then his friend.

“Speaking of rules of the game,” he said. “__________ here owes me a dance. Are you up for it?”

You smiled, rising from the lounge chair. “Sure. It was a dare, after all.” In reality, you both knew that it was a joke and you didn’t have to comply with the dare if you didn’t want to, but the thing was, you did want to. You wanted to save all your dances for him. As he led you to the dance floor again, you didn’t see Natasha walk over to Steve with her arms folded.

“You think they’re going to get together?” she asked.

“It’s their business,” Steve pointed out. “Not our place to get involved”. Natasha glanced his way with a raised brow, and he sighed in defeat. “Okay yeah, I think it’s going to happen soon. Back home, Bucky was never this hesitant when it came to dates. He’s really taking his time with her. I think it’s because he really cares about her.”

“That’s sweet, but how do you know he feels that way?”

“He told me. We’re best buds, remember?”

“I thought you and I were best friends,” she deadpanned. They shared a humorous look as they watched the two of you moving to the rhythm of the jazzy music, big smiles across your faces. “I just hope it happens soon.”

“I hear that.”

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