saturday night fever is on right now

Everyone who likes that Regional Gothic meme should just go read Steven Millhauser’s entire body of short fiction, because he does this thing where he takes an ordinary concept we’re all sort of familiar with, like fashion or art or children’s games or museums or miniatures or Saturday morning cartoons, starts us out in comfortable territory and pushes it into a fever pitch of surreality so slowly and gradually that we don’t even know the temperature has risen until we’re boiling to death. 

He’s got a number of books, but the one I’m talking about right now is Dangerous Laughter and I just spent actual money on an actual copy of it because I knew it was either that or take it out of my school library repeatedly for the rest of my life. 

He’s also about to release another collection, Voices in the Night, in just a few days! (In fact, I thought it was out already. That’s why I couldn’t find you at the bookstore, sneaky book.)

Also, his short story “The Sisterhood of Night” was the inspiration for the new movie of the same name (that one, I believe, is collected in The Knife Thrower). 

Okay so here’s my first voltron fanfic, based on this post i made a little while back!!! College AU bc why not (also i apologize in advance if this is ooc bc I’m still v new to voltron and am also literally the worst dialogue writer to exist on planet earth. in addition to that i apologize that this has essentially zero context whatsoever sorry idk her) 

i know it isn’t Shiro whump but this is dedicated you @fluffyllamas22 because you’re the best and your fics are the reason i started watching voltron again in the first place, please never stop being so awesome <3 


Keith has learned a lot about Lance in the four short months since they became roommates.

He’s learned that Lance cannot and will not sleep without the ceiling fan on; he’s learned that Lance hates anything but sugar in his coffee and absolutely despises milk in his tea. He’s learned that Lance is terrible at making anything from a box, but he can whip up any of his mother’s family recipes from scratch with perfect ease; he’s learned that Lance sweeps the entire apartment every three days because he cannot stand walking barefoot on a dirty floor. Lance has many quirks. And really, Keith finds (almost) all of these quirks endearing.

What Keith doesn’t find endearing (more like what Keith didn’t find endearing at first), is the “quirk” Lance has that wakes him up every morning at seven o’clock sharp. No matter the day, rain or shine, sick or well, Lance is up at six thirty, heading for his morning run. And every morning, when he returns, he is in the shower, singing at the top of his lungs.

It’s a good thing that Keith is a morning person, because if he wasn’t, Lance would’ve been found face-down in a ditch somewhere approximately four months ago. Anyone that had to wake up to Lance’s singing seven days a week would completely understand. Lance is a truly horrendous singer, and Keith has told him so many, many times. But the conversation is always a short one, and usually ends with Lance singing even louder than usual the next morning, the volume of his speaker turned up as high as it could go.

It bothers Keith at first. Like, really bothers him. Like, makes him want to scream and rip his ears off, bothers him. But as he spends more time with Lance, it’s something that quickly becomes as integral a part of Keith’s daily routine as brushing his teeth. One day, he wakes up and realizes he likes listening to Lance sing obnoxiously and curse when he drops shampoo bottles and yell when he falls trying to pick up the soap.

( The first time Keith hears this happen, by the way, Lance tries to play it off like the walls suddenly aren’t paper-thin, and feigns shock when Keith points out the welt on his forehead.

“You think there’s somethin’ wrong with my face, Keith? Really, I’m hurt.”

A laugh Keith has been struggling to hold in slips out and Lance huffs and pouts, bringing a hand up to cover the bump.

“Okay. I fell. You heard it, we both know you heard it, so just go ahead and let it out. Laugh.”

Keith laughs.

But after he laughs, he reaches into the freezer, pulls out an ice pack and hands it to Lance. He’ll be okay.

They both laugh this time. )

Every morning for four months now, Keith has religiously listened to Lance’s caterwauling while drinking a cup of coffee, or working on homework he didn’t do the night before for the classes he’s got that day, or mentally preparing himself for another agonizing shift at his shit job.

So it’s only natural that when the door of their apartment swings open and shut at 6:57 A.M. on a Saturday morning and Keith hears the shower begin to run, but hears no music, no obnoxiously and impressively high-pitched screams after a minute and thirty-seven seconds (he checks), he is confused.

He was sitting at the small kitchen table with his feet propped up and a mug of coffee in his hand, and he’d heard Lance come in, but hadn’t see him. Lance didn’t offer a greeting like he normally did; he just went straight to the bathroom, which only doubled all of Keith’s confusion.

Said confusion only lasts for another twenty-two seconds (he checks).

“hhh…hHH’YISHhhew! *snff*” A light groan and a wet sniffle is heard over the spray of the shower. All of Keith’s questions are answered.

So Lance is sick. Keith smirks a little; not for the fact that his roommate is sick, but moreso for the fact that he has listened to his roommate brag about his perfect immune system ever since he moved in. He recalls the events of the previous week, and wonders why he was even confused in the first place; Keith has seen this coming from a mile away.

“Lance, it’s pouring rain outside right now, if you aren’t gonna let me drive you to your class, at least take an umbrella and a raincoat, you idiot.” But why would he? Getting a little wet doesn’t actually make anyone sick (especially not someone with an immune system of steel!).

“Lance, you really need to give yourself a break. When was the last time you even got any sleep?” Why would he take a break? He is fine; he doesn’t need more sleep, he really functions best on two or three hours of sleep anyways.

“Lance, seriously. I was JUST sick. We both know you don’t want what I had. Can you seriously not walk ten feet to the kitchen to make your own tea?” But Keith’s is right there and Keith hardly even drank any and he’s tired and the kitchen is really far away. Besides, he never gets sick; it’ll be fine.

Karma is a real bitch, Lance.

Keith hears another raspy breath, followed by a deep bout of coughs that quickly begin rattling in Lance’s chest. That cough sounds bad, and suddenly, all the mirth Keith felt minutes prior twists into guilt.

“hhH… hH-HH’EISShh! nNH’NGSHhh! heh… heEH’TSCHuuuh!”

The coughs break off into a string of sneezes that sound congested and wet, and they leave Lance sounding drained. There is another heavy sigh, one that catches in his throat and sends him into a chesty coughing fit once again. Every cough sounds rough, like someone rubbed his throat raw with a sheet of sandpaper.

This goes on for several more minutes, the sniffling and sneezing growing all the more frequent from the prolonged exposure to steam.

The water stops running, and Keith can hear Lance fumbling around blindly for his towel, sniffing the whole time. He hears a series of steps, the open and close of a cabinet door, the rip of the cardboard being removed from the opening of a tissue box and the plucking of several, followed by a heavy blow.

It doesn’t seem to do him much good; it must have irritated his nose more than anything, and Keith listens as Lance sneezes into the wad of tissues, the sound desperate and unsatisfying.

“hh..heH’SCHUuh!”

It doesn’t quell the itch. Instead, it causes Lance’s nose to run like a leaky faucet, and he tries in vain to blow again. His nose is streaming, but a solid wall of congestion is blocking anything from moving, rendering blowing his nose useless. So he clamps the tissues over his nose, trying to keep the dripping to a minimum. A shiver creeps up his spine as he makes his way to his drawers to look for clothes warmer than a towel.

So that’s where he is when Keith walks into his room: a towel haphazardly tied around his waist and tissues pressed up against his nose, digging around in a drawer for his warmest sweatshirt.

He sheepishly looks up when Keith clears his throat, sniffling like mad and looking for a pocket to quickly stuff his tissues into, but disappointedly relaxes when he realizes he’s only got on a towel.

“I told you so.” Keith’s voice is concerned, but tastefully spiteful, making sure to convey to Lance that he is more than willing to take care of him, but also rubbing it in that he is right.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Lance’s voice is scratchy and muffled from the tissues clamped over his mouth and nose.

“Why did you even run this morning in the first place? It’s raining, and you’re obviously sick.”

Lance immediately bristles at Keith’s words, but his body interrupts him before he can fully voice his denial.

“‘M not siiihh…s- heH’ETsCHUiuu!*snf* -sick.” Lance bends forward with the force of the sudden sneeze, thankful for the tissues still pressed firmly to his face. He internally cringes at how whiny he sounds and how congested his voice is, cursing the fact that he most definitely is sick.

“Seriously Lance? You’re gonna be like that right now?” Keith deadpans. “You didn’t even sing in the shower this morning! You were coughing and sneezing the whole time, yet you’re gonna try to deny that you’re sick?” Keith’s voice climbs a pitch, and he wonders why he’s getting so angry.

Lance involuntarily flinches as Keith raises his voice, but rolls his eyes and laughs nervously in an attempt to brush it off.

“Calm down, Keith. It’s probably just a cold or something, it’s n-no big deal.” He tries to keep his voice nonchalant, but he is so tired and he feels kinda hazy and he wishes Keith would just leave him alone because he’s gotta be at work in approximately seventeen minutes and he doesn’t have time to deal with Keith harping on him about his health.

“I just-I gotta go to work right now, Keith. Can you lecture me later?” Lance is shivering; his cheeks are flushed, eyes glazed, and his words sound shaky.

Of course, Keith thinks. He has a fever.

“Lance, it’s Saturday. Today’s your day off, right?” Keith’s voice is gentle now; he feels bad for yelling at Lance, because it is increasingly obvious that the past week is taking its toll on Lance.

He looks so worn down, and it’s no surprise to Keith. Lance has worked several night shifts in the past week, because apparently, the whole entire town is coming down with something, his co-workers, classmates, and roommate included. He’s covered for several of his friends at work in addition to working his own shifts, he’s struggled through morning and afternoon classes on top of that, and as the icing on top of the shitty-week cake, he’s had come home to take care of a sick and very bitchy Keith.

When Lance answers, his voice is wrecked, and Keith thinks it’s no wonder he didn’t sing in the shower this morning.

“No, man. H-Hunk is still sick and needs me to cover for him again today.” He is quiet and the words grate his throat, clearing his throat as his voice breaks weakly over his words, and he very poorly tries to conceal a wince at the discomfort. 

“Lance, you’re not going to work today.”

“Keith, you don’t underst-!” But Keith cuts him off, because it’s Lance who doesn’t understand.

“I think they can make it one day without you Lance. You’re sick too, and you’ll only get worse if you try to push yourself too hard.” Keith presses a palm to Lance’s forehead, pushing back his damp bangs, not surprised at the heat he feels radiating from his skin. “And you have a fever.”

Lance wants to fight Keith on this, he really does, but he knows Keith is right. After all, Keith didn’t run himself into the ground last week when he was sick; he (very reluctantly, though) took it easy and was back on his feet in two days. A part of him wants to argue and tell Keith he can handle it, that he isn’t sick and that he’s survived worse and that he’ll be okay, because it’s just one day. But an even bigger part of him really wants to just stay home, curl up on the couch, and let Keith take care of him. Something in his chests tightens, and he replies without even thinking.

“Okay.”

Keith does a double-take; he already had another speech rehearsed in his head, ready to bring out the big guns because he knew Lance would fight him on this. But, funnily enough, here Keith is, learning something new once again.

“Put some on clothes and call your boss. I’ll go make you some tea.” As Keith leaves the room, he hears another defeated sigh and several liquid sniffles as Lance continues to rummage through his drawers.

Keith smiles a little as he begins fixing tea for them both, adding extra honey and lemon to Lance’s for his throat (and making sure to stay far away from the milk). It’s not that he’s happy Lance is sick or anything, but everything is always a fight with Lance. He’s grateful that this is maybe, just maybe, starting to change. 

Keith is walking to the couch, steam curling out of the two mugs in his hands, at the same Lance is walking out of his bedroom. Keith thinks Lance looks too damn good to be a sick person, because he knows he did not look anywhere near as adorable wiping snot onto his sweatshirt sleeve as Lance looks now. 

“hH’PSChiuuu! *snf* heh…hH’EPSCHIuu!” 

He watches Lance pitch forward into the crook of his elbow with two very wet sneezes, swiping his sleeve under his runny nose and sniffling hard in a fruitless attempt the clear the lingering congestion. 

Keith wishes he’d use a tissue, but is in no place to judge, considering his poor keeping-germs-to-himself skills were probably the reason Lance was even sick in the first place. (Because yeah, Lance was a hoverer, but when he was sick, Keith rarely made any effort whatsoever to cover his sneezes, and had more than likely sprayed Lance right in the face upwards of four times.) 

They make it to the couch at the same time, Keith sitting on one end and Lance on the other. Keith hands Lance his mug and a cold medicine tablet, taking a sip of his own tea as Lance downs the pill with his. He makes a grab for the remote on the coffee table, but Lance beats him to it, and pulls up the Netflix home screen. 

“Okay,” Keith sighs dramatically. “You can pick what we watch, but only cause you’re sick.”

Lance settles on the first 2000s rom-com he can find (what can he say, he’s a sap) and brings his knees up to his chest, huddling over the mug in his hands for warmth. This doesn’t escape Keith’s notice.

“You cold?” he asks.

Lance gives him a knowing look and a pitiful sniffle. Keith is up immediately, sitting his tea down on the coffee table to go in search of blankets. 

He is back in a flash with a pile of them in his arms, and Lance sighs in content as Keith dumps them on him, careful not to spill his tea as he adjusts them around his body. But ten minutes into the movie, Lance is shaking like a leaf once again. Keith looks over at him, waiting for him to ask what he doesn’t know if he can ask Lance himself. 

Lance gives him the look again, and Keith’s heart thrashes in his chest. He uncrosses an arm form across his chest, gesturing for Lance to move closer. Lance does. He snuggles up under Keith’s arm, sniffling into a blanket that is now draped over both of them. 

As the main-characer of the movie is coming closer to falling in love, Lance is coming closer to falling asleep. He stopped watching the movie long ago, focusing instead on not sneezing on Keith. 

(“Lance, please stop stifling.” 

“N-nhhho, Keith, I don’t want y-yhhH’INGxt-chh! nghh… you to get sick again.”

“If you stifle one more time, I’m getting up right now and leaving you to drown in your bodily fluids alone.” 

Lance looks horrified, and does not stifle for the rest of the night. Instead, he curls even closer to Keith, putting his head on Keith’s chest. 

The next time he has to sneeze, he buries his head into Keith’s shirt and sneezes freely. Keith doesn’t know if he has the right to be angry when Lance smirks at him, his bleary blue eyes teasing. 

Keith should know better than to think he could ever actually win when it comes to Lance.)

Lance feels warm, but Keith doesn’t think his fever is high enough to worry about. He resolves to check it when the movie ends. Keith wraps his arm around Lance tighter, and absentmindedly brings a hand to Lance’s hair, carding his fingers through it. 

When Lance cuddles closer into him and sighs at the gentle touch, a small smile curving his lips upward, Keith learns that all of Lance’s endearing quirks pale in comparison to this one. He smiles a little, and turns his attention back to the movie, his hands still moving through Lance’s hair. 

Sick fic

Summary: john is sick, and Alex is a good (read: not so shitty but still okay) boyfriend.


Warnings: light language? I guess. Nothing really explicit cause it’s literally tooth rotting fluff.


Authors note: this is literally garbage IM SORRY YOURE EVEN READING IT. But yeah I suck at summaries and literally everyone has made a sick fic. But here I am with another one. This is also based on a writing prompt “Don’t leave. Please”. Well enjoy my shitty writing, feedback is always appreciated :).


The clock reads 3:42am. I feel like shit. Think about the time you’ve felt like complete shit and then multiply that by 100. That is how bad I currently feel. It all started with a sneeze and a scratchy throat yesterday. I thought nothing of it. Well here I am now, at 3:43am. coughing, sneezing, and burning up. I haven’t slept at all, and I’m dying. This is it, I’m dying, goodbye cruel world, goodbye art, goodbye turtles, goodbye Alexander.

Alexander. I’m sure he’s still up, he’s always up. Always writing, always busy doing something. He’s not in bed though. he’s probably sitting on the couch writing an essay, Like always. Or he’s writing “hate mail” (as he likes to call it) to Thomas Jefferson and Aaron burr. Maybe he fell asleep on the couch, I should bring him to bed.

I slowly pull myself up, and it hurts to move but I wince through it. Once I’m fully sitting up, I carefully swing my legs over the bed with a hiss and pull myself up to my feet. And once I’m up, I slowly start walking towards the couch and lo and behold, Alexander Hamilton is sitting down, laptop in hand, and headphones on, furiously typing. It’s definitely the “hate mail”. He finally notices me when I stand directly in front of him.


“Jack what’s wrong? you look terrible my love” he says concerned as he takes his headphones off. He moves his laptop to the side and pats his lap suggesting I sit. I carefully sit on lap and throw my hands around his neck. “I haven’t slept all night, I have a fever, I feel like shit.” He looks up at me with sad eyes. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better jacky?” He whispers while slowly running his hands up and down my back.


I tangle my fingers through his hair and whisper back “come to bed, I don’t wanna sleep alone” and I know he’ll refuse, but I still try. “I’m busy right now jack.” He says sternly. “Please come to bed, it’s late, we don’t even have classes, it’s Saturday.” I plead, he sighs. I drop my face to his neck, and lay my head on his shoulder. “You know I like to write messages to Aaron and Thomas at this hour” he says as he moves a curl from my eye. And I huff out a breath. “Please lex, for me.” I whisper against his neck.


That sure does it for him because he nods his head and whispers “alright, alright, I’ll go.” I slowly untangle myself from him, and stand up. Alex quickly shuts off his laptop and gets up. He looks me over really quick and sighs “Johnny, my love you look horrible. Come on, let’s get you to bed, you’re not going anywhere in the morning.” I make a small noise in the back of my throat. We start walking to bed, and Alex carefully gets me to lay down and joins me.I turn to face him, I put my arms around his neck, he puts his arms around my middle.


“Alex” I whisper.

“Jack” he whispers back.

“I love you” I declare.

“I love you more” he challenges

“I love you most” I say with a smile.

Alex laughs, a genuine laugh, I can listen to his laugh all day. His laugh can make my day go from horrible to great. His laugh is what happiness sounds like. His laugh is brighter than a thousand suns. He looks at me, his eyes, I get lost in them. His eyes are perfect. He’s perfect. I kiss his nose, and he smiles. “You need to stay in bed for the whole day, but first you must sleep Johnny.” He says. “You gotta rest also lex” i say as I start stroking his hair. Alex’s hair is so soft, and it smells wonderful. I can touch it all day. I remember when i touched it for the first time, it was like heaven. “Sleep for me, please.” I beg, and for once, Alexander nods.

“Can, you promise me something before we sleep?” I ask while Alex slides his hands up from my torso to my neck. “Of course” he says sleepily. I take a breath “don’t leave in the morning, stay with me. Please.” I say slowly. And kisses my forehead. And that’s enough. I know he’ll keep his promise. I yawn and he mimics me, we should sleep. His hands fall to my sides and he holds me close, I wrap my arms around his torso, and put my head in the crook of his neck. “Goodnight my hamilton.” I say into his neck. “Goodnight my laurens.” He says into my hair. I quickly kiss his neck and doze off into a soft sleep.


Alex’s alarm clock go’s off. It’s 7am. Goddamnit. He carefully untangles from my arms, but I hold him close. “Don’t leave. Please.” I whisper in his ear and hold him closer. He stays, and kisses my neck. He unwraps his arm and I’m about to protest until I see him pull up the blanket better. “Hey” he says with a smile, I smile back at him. “I love you” he whispers in my ear. I laugh softly. “I love you most” I say with a smirk. And now he smiles.

We lay together for what felt like forever. Until i realize I’m hungry and start complaining. “You should eat something light and drink hot tea” Alex mumbles. “I’ll make you soup and tea, can I do that for you my love?.” He asks in a light tone. And I nod. I kiss his forehead and he untangles himself from me and stands up. I move the blanket and attempt to stand up to go with him. “Hey what do you think you’re doing, you need to stay in bed.” He protests. I sigh, “I’m going with you, I’ll keep you company while you make soup and tea.” I say while brushing my fingers through my hair “You need to rest, you can’t get out of bed Johnny.” He says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. I huff out a breath and pull the Blanket back over myself. “Fine, I’ll stay here. But be careful.” I reply.

He comes back fifteen minutes later with a bowl of hot soup and a cup of hot tea with lemon and honey on a tray. I thank him and he sits back on the bed watching me. I stare back at him. His hair is a mess, it’s sticking out in every direction, he’s wearing grey boxers and a blue t shirt (my blue t shirt), and he hasn’t shaven in days. He looks good. I on the other hand look like a wreck, my hair is everywhere, I’m wearing black boxers and a yellow t shirt (Alex’s yellow t shirt), and I look like I’ve seen hell.


“You look good in my clothes.” Alex says in a casual tone, and I scoff. “You look better” I protest. And he laughs a little. I drink the rest of my tea and eat my soup. Alex sure knows how to make canned soup. I eat in silence, and once I’m done I thank Alex again for the soup and tea. He takes the bowl and cup to the kitchen area and comes back quickly. “Can you lay with me for the day Alex?” I ask. And he nods and mutters an “of course jacky.” He climbs into bed again and pulls the blanket up, throws his arm around me and pecks the side of my neck. we lay in peace.

“I love you” I say as I drift off to sleep again.

“I love you most” Alex whispers.

Thanks to religious restrictions, I haven’t been able to use electronics since Wednesday night (it’s Saturday night now) and right before the holiday started I biked to the library and got out Philip Reeve’s Fever Crumb trilogy and then read a book per day and 1) I feel so alive right now, I have not read this voraciously in far too much time, but more importantly for y’all is 2) go read the Mortal Engines quartet and the Fever Crumb trilogy (the latter is a prequel) immediately if not sooner it’s amazing.

Come Hear the Music Play

Advent Prompt #10: You’re my patient and I’m trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with you but it’s hard to do that when you’re flirting with me. Seriously dude, I’m not gonna be able to diagnose you as easily when you’re telling me how my lab coat complements my eyes. Doctor!Blaine AU. 2.4K [AO3]  Read Previous Advent fics on: AO3 | Tumblr

“Your next patient is all ready to go in treatment room five,” Kitty announces, passing a clipboard with the patient triage info to Doctor Anderson.

“Great, thanks,” Blaine murmurs as he quickly scans the symptoms checklist.

“He’s really cute, too, but I didn’t put that on the paperwork,” Kitty adds with a knowing wink.

Blaine looks up from the clipboard, shooting her a loaded glare. “Kitty, we’ve been through this. I’m not interested in being set up and even if I was, I can’t date patients. It’s against the rules,” he whispers.

“It wouldn’t kill you to get out there. It’s been what, six months since your last blind date?”

It’s actually been nine months, but Blaine doesn’t correct her. The last thing Kitty needs is more ammunition to use against him in her search to find him a husband. “Yeah, something like that,” he says instead, shrugging.

“Thought so,” she trills. “Look, I’m just saying – you’re Blaine Anderson, Vocal Specialist to the Stars. You’re basically one step away from being Doctor McDreamy on Grey’s Anatomy. You should totally take advantage of the status. Otherwise what was the point of toiling away in medical school and residencies for all those years?”

“Helping people?” Blaine shoots back, as if the answer should be obvious.

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Fic: The Three Amigos

A Chris Evans One-shot

Summary: Natalia loves Chris’s whole family, but out of respect, she does not discuss their sex life with them – no matter how close they are. Well, with the exception of his brother, Scott.

Warnings: Language that might be found offensive for some readers.

Dedicated to @mumbles411. Honestly, most of the dialogue is credited to her. She’s hilarious and brilliant; I couldn’t have done it without her. In her words, ‘It should be credited to conversations being had when everyone should be sleeping.’ So, here’s what happens when two very tired storytellers discuss what Chris, Natalia, and Scott would be like. Thanks, doll! xx

Thanks for reading!! xx

————————————————————

Natalia loved Chris’s family. His mother, the sweetest and most outgoing mother she’s ever known, had been nothing but a tremendous support for her and the motherly figure she’s always craved since before her relationship with Chris was even a thought. From the first day she met his sister Carly, she’s acted like the big sister Natalia’s never had, including her in all the top family secrets and always offering up valuable advice.

And his younger sister, Shanna… well, she was her very best friend. They confided in each other, shopped together, got drunk at the karaoke bars and stumbled into cabs. Hell, when they were both still single, they had even acted like they were lesbian lovers whenever some guy that was on their douche radar wouldn’t stop chatting them up. (Although, that had been moot. Natalia was still amazed by how some pricks thought that was an invitation to a three-way.)

Needless to say, they did and gossiped about everything together, as one does with their best girlfrienduntil the day her best friend also became her boyfriend’s younger sister. Talking in code had become a thing Natalia had to do when the topic was centered around sex. Shanna did not want to know about her brother’s ability to bless her best friend with multiple orgasms with just the flicks of his tongue. That was just wrong.

But then there was Chris’s brother. And with Scott… nothing was off limits.

“Oh my god, I gotta tell you,” Natalia began after a slight gasp, leaning forward from her spot on the bar stool. “Your brother was going down on me last night while Grease was on and-”

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probablynotcaptainbritain  asked:

Why do you always end up playing the asshole in your various acting roles? You're good at it, but it seems to be an unfortunate typecast.

All actors have a particular role that they’re best suited to play, and when they play those roles, they really connect with the audience.

For example: John Travolta is amazing at playing The Loveable Loser. That’s who he was in Welcome Back Kotter, Grease, and Saturday Night Fever, and audiences freaking LOVED him. When the studios tried to make him The Leading Man, in films like Urban Cowboy, Perfect, and something else I’m forgetting right now, audiences turned on him and his career started to flounder.

He didn’t do much of note for a very long time, until Tarantino cast him as a junkie hit man in Pulp Fiction. Suddenly, he’s playing the Loveable Loser again, and his career explodes with roles in Michael, and something else that I’m forgetting right now (it’s 5am and I’m on 4 hours of sleep).

So, when he’s playing that archetype, audiences connect with him on a subconscious level, because it’s the type he plays so perfectly.

The type I play so perfectly, it turns out, is that guy you love to hate, that guy who antagonizes your hero. That’s who I played in The Guild, Leverage, Eureka, and Big Bang Theory. I don’t know why I play those roles so effectively (it may be related to how much I like to sass people in real life), but it’s what I’ve been doing for a few years, and it’s no coincidence that my acting career has had a bit of a resurgence as a result.

I don’t consider it typecasting, I consider it smart casting, and I wish that more casting people would understand what type I play, and give me a chance to work in those roles. Oh, and remember: the villain is the hero of his own story, so even though I’m playing an asshole you love to hate, from that character’s point of view, he isn’t doing anything wrong. For example, Doctor Parrish on Eureka was an antagonist to Fargo and Carter, but from Parrish’s point of view, he was the smartest guy in the room, and he was just baffled that he was the only one who could see it. As a result, he resented having to answer to Fargo, who he viewed as someone who didn’t deserve to go to Titan, be the Director of GD, or get the girl. He resented having to deal with Carter, who wasn’t even a scientist, but was always telling him what to do. At the end of the day, though, Parrish loved GD, loved the town, and would tolerate working with people he thought weren’t as smart as him, because he believed in doing the right thing for science. Thanks for your question.

anonymous asked:

Prompt: SNL

“Damn,” Carol murmured, eyelids heavy but stubbornly open. “You’re good at this.”

Daryl snorted, and the force of the motion might have cracked him in half, considering how stiff he’d been since he sat down beside her. He didn’t offer an immediate response, keeping his focus on the task at hand, which was running the cool, damp towel over her skin to draw out the fever.

It was just a minor case of flu. Abe and Sasha had already endured the same bout of it. It was just a 24 hour bug. It wasn’t the same as the prison…It wasn’t that. She hadn’t even coughed since it started. It was all sinus pressure, body aches, and fever. No trouble breathing or swallowing or anything like that. Okay, she’d thrown up twice…but that had been hours ago.

Daryl hadn’t left her side since the word ‘flu’ had entered the situation, and for all his fretting and fussing, he sure had been ignoring his own self preservation, being this close to her. Lord, though, that wet towel felt good, and his hands were magic: some wonderfully strange blend of callous skin and painstakingly gentleness. He moved the towel down her arm a few times and moved to dampen it again in the bowl on the side table. Carol watched him, feeling a little less inclined to keep her thoughts to herself at the moment. She could claim delirium later.

“You’re pretty, Daryl.”

That got a chuckle out of him, and he returned the towel, freshly damp and cool, to the side of her neck. Carol playfully tilted her head, pinning his hand there.

“I mean it,” she reinforced. “It’s distracting sometimes.”

He smirked, but he was clearly not picking up what she was throwing down. That was just rude. He gently slipped his hand free from her neck and touched his fingers to her forehead. She closed her eyes briefly, then looked at him again.

“You thirsty?” he asked.

“I’ve got a thirst,” she teased. “No, wait, that’s not how it goes…I’ve got a fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell!”

“Jesus,” he snickered.

“It’s from Saturday Night Live—“

“I know what it’s from,” he grinned at her. “Are you feeling better or are you just dickin’ around?”

“I’m feeling…unreserved, like I don’t care what comes out of my mouth right now,” she admitted. “Sorry if that makes you uncomfortable.”

“It don’t,” he shrugged. “I just want you healthy.”

“…I kinda want to touch your butt,” she blurted.

Daryl slowly bobbed his head. “Now we’re uncomfortable.”

Carol smiled, felt a tickle in her nose, and abruptly sneezed. The pressure in her sinuses sent pain like a hammer through her face, and she groaned, lifting a hand to rub her cheek.

“Easy.” He ran a hand tenderly over her hair.

She sniffed and got comfortable again in the bed. “Ow.”

“You need a tissue or somethin’?” he asked, looking around for a box of Kleenex.

“No, it—whoa, yes, I do,” Carol winced, feeling the snot starting to run.

Daryl immediately had a box of tissues in her lap, and she mopped at the mess of her face.

“God, I bet this looks sexy,” she said.

Daryl smiled gently and started tossing her used tissues in a trash can. As he leaned over, she brazenly reached out and got a handful of his backside.

He sat up with a squawk and looked at her indignantly. “Carol, that—what’s wrong?”

Carol looked at him, horrified. “Daryl, someone stole your ass. There’s nothing back there.” She reached out again. “Did you lose it somewhere?”

“You’re a comedian.” Daryl rolled his eyes and folded the towel a few times, setting it on her forehead.

“Live from New York, it’s Saturday night!” she chuckled “Seriously, though, I’m a qualified tooshie inspector. Gimme another feel…for science.”