可爱心旷神怡

我看的他俩的第一个采访!Too special

熟龄少女:

#补发#
tiff上超甜的一段,主要是Timmy表情很甜,内容被他俩尤其是Armie念叨过很多遍了,听力不好的也烂熟于心23333
之前俩人用脑袋互让就是答这个问题吧,看sweet tea一脸得逞的小表情(˶‾᷄ ⁻̫ ‾᷅˵)

CMBYN_shine:

第一章~第二部分音频 Later 2


But it might have started way later than I think without my noticing anything at all. You see someone, but you don't really see him, he's in the wings. Or you notice him, but nothing clicks, nothing "catches," and before you're even aware of a presence, or of something troubling you, the six weeks that were offered you have almost passed and he's either already gone or just about to leave, and you're basically scrambling to come to terms with something, which, unbeknownst to you, has been brewing for weeks under your very nose and bears all the symptoms of what you're forced to call I want. How couldn't I have known, you ask? I know desire when I see it—and yet, this time, it slipped by completely. I was going for the devious smile that would suddenly light up his face each time he'd read my mind, when all I really wanted was skin, just skin.

At dinner on his third evening, I sensed that he was staring at me as I was explaining Haydn's Seven Last Words of Christ, which I'd been transcribing. I was seventeen that year and, being the youngest at the table and the least likely to be listened to, I had developed the habit of smuggling as much information into the fewest possible words. I spoke fast, which gave people the impression that I was always flustered and muffling my words. Af?ter I had finished explaining my transcription, I became aware of the keenest glance coming from my left. It thrilled and flattered me; he was obviously interested—he liked me. It hadn't been as difficult as all that, then. But when, after taking my time, I finally turned to face him and take in his glance, I met a cold and icy glare—something at once hostile and vitrified that bordered on cruelty.

It undid me completely. What had I done to deserve this? I wanted him to be kind to me again, to laugh with me as he had done just a few days earlier on the abandoned train tracks, or when I'd explained to him that same afternoon that B. was the only town in Italy where the corriera, the regional bus line, carrying Christ, whisked by without ever stopping. He had immediately laughed and recognized the veiled allusion to Carlo Levi's book. I liked how our minds seemed to travel in parallel, how we instantly inferred what words the other was toying with but at the last moment held back.

He was going to be a difficult neighbor. Better stay away from him, I thought. To think that I had almost fallen for the skin of his hands, his chest, his feet that had never touched a rough surface in their existence—and his eyes, which, when their other, kinder gaze fell on you, came like the miracle of the Resurrection. You could never stare long enough but needed to keep staring to find out why you couldn't.

I must have shot him a similarly wicked glance.

For two days our conversations came to a sudden halt.

On the long balcony that both our bedrooms shared, total avoidance: just a makeshift hello, good morning, nice weather, shallow chitchat.

Then, without explanation, things resumed.

Did I want to go jogging this morning? No, not really. Well, let's swim, then.

Today, the pain, the stoking, the thrill of someone new, the promise of so much bliss hovering a fingertip away, the fumbling around people I might misread and don't want to lose and must second-guess at every turn, the desperate cunning I bring to everyone I want and crave to be wanted by, the screens I put up as though between me and the world there were not just one but layers of rice-paper sliding doors, the urge to scramble and un-scramble what was never really coded in the first place—all these started the summer Oliver came into our house. They are em-bossed on every song that was a hit that summer, in every novel I read during and after his stay, on anything from the smell of rosemary on hot days to the frantic rattle of the cicadas in the afternoon—smells and sounds I'd grown up with and known every year of my life until then but that had suddenly turned on me and acquired an inflection forever colored by the events of that summer.

Or perhaps it started after his first week, when I was thrilled to see he still remembered who I was, that he didn't ignore me, and that, therefore, I could allow myself the luxury of passing him on my way to the garden and not having to pretend I was unaware of him. We jogged early on the first morning—all the way up to B. and back. Early the next morning we swam. Then, the day after, we jogged again. I liked racing by the milk delivery van When it was far from done with its rounds, or by the grocer and the baker as they were just getting ready for business, liked to run along the shore and the promenade when there wasn't a soul about yet and our house seemed a distant mirage. I liked it when our feet were aligned, left with left, and struck the ground at the same time, leaving footprints on the shore that I wished to return to and, in secret, place my foot where his had left its mark.

This alternation of running and swimming was simply his "routine" in graduate school. Did he run on the Sabbath? I joked. He always exercised, even when he was sick; he'd exercise in bed if he had to. Even when he'd slept with someone new the night before, he said, he'd still head out for a jog early in the morning. The only time he didn't exercise was when they operated on him. When I asked him what for, the answer I had promised never to incite in him came at me like the thwack of a jack-in-the-box wearing a baleful smirk. "Later."

Perhaps he was out of breath and didn't want to talk too much or just wanted to concentrate on his swimming or his running. Or perhaps it was his way of spurring me to do the same— totally harmless.

But there was something at once chilling and off-putting in the sudden distance that crept between us in the most unexpected moments. It was almost as though he were doing it on purpose; feeding me slack, and more slack, and then yanking away any semblance of fellowship.

The steely gaze always returned. One day, while I was practicing my guitar at what had become "my table" in the back garden by the pool and he was lying nearby on the grass, I recognized the gaze right away. He had been staring at me while I was focusing on the fingerboard, and when I suddenly raised my face to see if he liked what I was playing, there it was: cutting, cruel, like a glistening blade instantly retracted the moment its victim caught sight of it. He gave me a bland smile, as though to say, No point biding it now. 

Stay away from him.

He must have noticed I was shaken and in an effort to make it up to me began asking me questions about the guitar. I was too much on my guard to answer him with candor. Meanwhile, hearing me scramble for answers made him suspect that perhaps more was amiss than I was showing. "Don't bother explaining. Just play it again." But I thought you hated it. Hated it? "What?ever gave you that idea? We argued back and forth. "Just play it, will you?" "The same one?" "The same one."

I stood up and walked into the living room, leaving the large French windows open so that he might hear me play it on the piano. He followed me halfway and, leaning on the windows' wooden frame, listened for a while.

"You changed it. It's not the same. What did you do to it?"

"I just played it the way Liszt would have played it had he jimmied around with it."

"Just play it again, please!"

I liked the way he feigned exasperation. So I started playing the piece again.

After a while: "I can't believe you changed it again."

"Well, not by much. This is just how Busoni would have played it if he had altered Liszt's version."

"Can't you just play the Bach the way Bach wrote it?"

"But Bach never wrote it for guitar. He may not even have written it for the harpsichord. In fact, we're not even sure it's by Bach at all."

"Forget I asked."

"Okay, okay. No need to get so worked up," I said. It was my turn to feign grudging acquiescence. "This is the Bach as transcribed by me without Busoni and Liszt. It's a very young Bach and it's dedicated to his brother."

I knew exactly what phrase in the piece must have stirred him the first time, and each time I played it, I was sending it to him as a little gift, because it was really dedicated to him, as a to?ken of something very beautiful in me that would take no genius to figure out and that urged me to throw in an extended cadenza. Just for him.

We were—and he must have recognized the signs long before I did—flirting.


他太美了

オトナ少女:

每天都想对着Timmy唱赞歌。
他对面是艾伦老爷子……Timmy你有时需要把眼睛电量调低,周围人更安全一些。

说正经的,Timmy的脸上都是对老爷子的恭敬和对老爷子讲解的了然。真是期待这个角色啊~

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

オトナ少女:

哈哈哈又来!

话说那边问问题的话音一落,Armie是眼珠子一转赶紧扭头,Timmy则仰着脖子就等着他回头对他抬下巴。这俩人真是可爱死了~

现场回答问题确实不是件特别容易的事儿,一些问题是被问了八百六十遍的,一些问题是需要急中生智的,还有一些问题要回答得有深度也需要智商和反应力……他俩目前为止表现得都挺好的,好多回答我都听不懂呢(抹泪)。

👨‍❤️‍👨👨‍❤️‍👨👨‍❤️‍👨👨‍❤️‍👨👨‍❤️‍👨👨‍❤️‍👨

オトナ少女:

哈哈哈哈干得漂亮!

Source:armietimmy



另外,他俩很可能是在互相推让回答问题的机会……XD

オトナ少女:

转自Vanity的官方油管https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwYkESu-vXY&feature=youtu.be&t=22s最爱的牛仔装LOOK采访又推出5分钟版本,甜茶的大特写超美丽……

昨晚传B站的那段5分钟新视频,在电脑上看大尺寸的最好了,Timmy和Armie的眼睛都好美。

链接在这边

爱君笔底有烟霞:


我一朋友,在我激烈推荐下看了cmbyn小说,但可能因为她没有暗恋经历,她没get到。

今天我在微博上转了一组电影截图,她立马跟我说,她要去重看一遍了。
“当时觉得没怎么理解,为什么迷恋会这么深。”
“看到真人,正常人都会吃吧!”

所以我决定发一条带图的lof,完成我未竟的安利事业。

这张图名为“他妈的这是要把Oliver吃了


      (图源微博,侵删)  

【狼队】Daddy asked and Papa said yes

太暖了

佛罗伦萨的椰子树:

cp:狼队


警告:ooc!!!!下午看到那张图开的脑洞!!!不要问我文里的技术性操作【。】!!!!我都是瞎写的!!!!


这个算是弥补一下狼三对我的伤害……反正我就刷了一遍,剪视频也直接跳到自己要的地方从不看……我不管我不信我不听【的状态】我脑子里他们就是这样↓↓↓,就这样,不接受反驳!!!


————————————————————————


Laura是个快乐的小女孩。


她一直都是这么认为的,虽然她从小过得日子不怎么样,对这个世界也没有能太理解,杀过的人比见过的人还多(这一点可不能让爸爸知道,他会皱起眉头问Daddy是怎么教孩子的。)但是,她确实觉得自己是个快乐的小女孩。


她是说,非常快乐那种。


哦,对,这也得除去她曾经亲眼看着Daddy死亡的那部分。


他死的时候实在是太糟糕了,看上去又老又疲惫,像是一块巨大的,Laura无法搬动的破布,瘫倒在地,满身是血。和她曾经在漫画里看到过的不管被打成什么样都能恢复过来的样子一点都不一样,要不是她之前一直过得不怎么样,心理素质锻炼的好得不得了,看到那个场景可能会崩溃。


她还亲手埋葬了他,碎土洒在他被戳了好几十个洞的白背心和身体上,看上去和旁边随便丢着的石头没有任何区别。


她当时皱着鼻子红着眼,固执的还像一头小兽一样,倔强的不允许自己太伤心,因为她和同伴还有好长好长的路要走。


可是她才刚转过身没多久,面前的林子里就一阵响动,接着那个人出现了,他像是也不懂自己怎么会出现在这里,和林子里瞪着他的孩子目目相觑。孩子们都警觉却又不敢置信,毕竟他们才刚刚逃出死神的爪牙没多久,可眼前这个人看上去实在是太熟悉了。


Laura看着他,只觉得鼻子莫名的又酸了起来,眼泪在她眼眶里打着转。


“呃……让我猜猜”那个男人转向她,她看到红色眼镜里自己的脸“你是Laura对吗?”


 


Laura不知道Papa是怎么样出现在那的,因为虽然她一直装傻,但是一路上听爷爷和Daddy的说法,Papa应该早就死了才对。他应该已经被世界上最强的大脑摧毁,然后留下无尽的悔恨给他们。


当然后来Papa也有解释说以后的Laura会通过某种力量穿越到曾经的未来,然后告诉了他一切,他又从曾经的未来到达现在来改变这一切——Balabala的,夹着一大堆她听不懂的术语,她当时就咬着冰淇淋放弃听懂了,时间这东西太奇妙了,而她不应该浪费冰淇淋。


总之,他们挖出了Daddy,当时Laura一边挖一边在心里问自己当时怎么要埋这么紧,当然,这是不能让Papa听到的小抱怨。最后他们终于把Daddy从那堆黄土里挖了出来。


她还记得那个时候Papa的表情看上去沉重又迷茫,像是看到了最深最恐怖的梦魇在自己面前实现。


然后的事情就是Laura更不能理解的部分了。他们被带到了林子里那个漂浮在空气中的洞前面,然后等到她再睁眼,她又看到了爷爷,他的身后一座巨大的庄园。有很多人在他身后,他们一出现就有人把Daddy的身体从Papa身上接过去,大人们焦急而又小心,剩下孩子们目瞪口呆而又不敢置信。


噢,然后,Laura一直试图搞清楚这部分,可是爷爷说她更应该做的是多和小朋友们一起上课,好好吃饭,好好睡觉。所以她照做了,等到她意识到的那天——其实她偷偷记得那天的日子,那是个星期三,早上的阳光穿过学院的玻璃窗,她正在楼梯上数黄色的有多少块,漫画里Daddy穿的那件蠢爆了的作战服就是黄色的,所以她喜欢黄色。然后她看到了Papa从走廊转角走出来,脸上带着微笑,然后——就在Laura数到36块的时候,她看到了Daddy。


他看上去健康极了,他洗去了疲惫,看上去甚至都没有那么老了。他朝着她伸出手,然后她扑进了她怀里。


看上去非常的像Hank叔叔收藏的那些俗套的电影里的情节。


哦,对了,那个时候,Papa还不是她Papa,他还是镭射眼叔叔,或者Scott叔叔,或者Summers老师。


其实后来好长一段时间,他都只是镭射眼叔叔,他和Daddy吵架,然后把Daddy扔出作战室,Daddy会砰的一声撞上墙瞪一眼正蹲在一边偷偷笑的她,然后又气急败坏的冲进去。


Daddy看上去充满了生命力,像是她从小看的漫画里那样。


哦,其实他现在都不是她的Papa,Laura小小的叹了口气,她只是希望他会是她的Papa。


她曾经和Daddy讨论过这个,那天他又和Scott叔叔吵架了,正气呼呼的坐在楼梯上呢,那个时候的Daddy已经越来越年轻了,他的身体的自愈能力完全恢复,让他从老家伙又变回了壮年。总之,Laura从教室探出头,就看到自己的Daddy坐在楼梯上无聊的发呆。


她喜欢这里,这里没有战争,没有追杀他们的人,大家每天的生活平静又美好,你看,Daddy这样闲不下来的人都能坐在这好好的发呆。


这样实在是太好了,她忍不住心想,所以她眯着眼从教室偷偷溜出去,然后乖乖地坐到了Daddy身边。


“我希望Scott叔叔能当我的Papa”她开门见山的说道。


吓得她Daddy在旁边一个哆嗦差点没坐稳滚下去,谁能想到金刚狼居然会被吓得一哆嗦啊。


Logan的表情非常的欲盖弥彰,他皱着眉,然后不可理喻似的看着Laura“你在说什么呢?”


“你都听明白了,Daddy”Laura不解的眨了眨眼“而且你喜欢Scott叔叔,我们都知道。”


“等会——”Logan焦躁的想点根烟,看了一眼自己的小女儿最终还是放弃了“什么叫你们都知道?”


他完全忘记反驳喜欢Scott叔叔这件事了。


Laura大人似的挑了挑眉“Everybody——爷爷,Hank叔叔,Jean阿姨,睡我下铺那个Juli,还有Ororo阿姨和她养的猫,还有——”


“停下停下。”Logan难以置信的看着她“都——我是说,都?”


“拜托。”Laura学着Jean阿姨的样子翻了个白眼“你恨不得把他关起来的样子每个人都看得出来好吗——”她看了一眼Logan的表情,然后迅速的出卖了自己的阿姨们“这是Jean阿姨对Ororo阿姨说的。”


“她们都在你面前讨论些这个?”Logan皱了一张脸,无语的问道。


“可是我喜欢Scott叔叔呀!”Laura不明白Daddy在困扰什么“而且你也喜欢他~”


Daddy的表情在阴影里愣了愣,然后显得晦暗不明起来,他看上去有些心虚“这不是这么简单的事。”


“可是你在漫画里喜欢一个人都会直接去泡他的。”Laura眨了眨眼。


“噢!”Logan瞪了她一眼“你都是从哪里学到泡这种词的……”他顿了顿,似乎对自己问了这个显而易见的问题有些无语,他摆了摆手“我跟你说过了,不是什么都像漫画里画的那么简单。”


“No”Laura拒绝相信自己的Daddy“可你都像漫画里那样活过来了!”


Logan愣住了,似乎没想到她会这样说。


是啊,他都活过来了,长长的人生走了好久,目前似乎也没有结束的尽头。


Laura还在他旁边小声的念叨些什么就想要Scott当她Papa之类的话,这个孩子自从来到学院被教授宠着之后,完全开起了话痨模式,压根不像当初他见到的那个对谁都恶狠狠一言不发下手决绝的小家伙了。她变得像个普通的孩子,爱跳爱笑,会吵着想吃冰激凌,会和自己的同伴疯玩一下午。


这才是孩子本来的样子呀。


Logan忽然在那个星期三的阳光里眨了眨眼,发现自己的困扰都不应该再是困扰了。


他的人生漫长而又复杂,知天命尽人事都做过了,坦然迎接死亡也做过了,他在这新的旅途里,倒有些畏畏缩缩了。


大概是因为见证过太多的死亡,见证了太多身边给予温暖的人离去,所以此刻面对未来才会如此踌躇不前。


他不再是以前那个想怎么样就怎么样其他的东西比如生死都去你妈的Logan了,他也没有以前能冲着担忧自己的人说出“很多人想杀我,可我总能活着的”自信了。生命的离奇和珍贵在他存在于这个世界这么多年之后才真正的降临在他心里。


他的确喜欢Scott,换个稍微俗气点的词就是,他的确爱着Scott,这种爱从什么时候开始的他并不知道,大概是习惯了那个人总是在自己面前板着脸,看上去讨厌自己讨厌的要命,却又在每一次都会接纳他。大概是因为他总是高高挑起半边的眉毛说去你的Logan。大概是因为第一次见面他冲着挑衅的自己无奈的撇了撇嘴角。


总之爱情这玩意儿总是莫名其妙,但Logan把它埋在了心里,他觉得这没什么好说的,他又不是非Scott不可,他还是能和不同的辣妹上床,还是能喝着波本威士忌和不同的人调情。


他和Scott,不是一路人。


所以他从不曾言明对Scott的爱,哪怕那遥远的曾经,教授阿兹海默发病的那天,他亲眼看着他被过强的攻击击溃,血液从他的红眼镜里流出来。


那时他握紧了手里的药剂,不允许自己有一丝的晃神的走过他的尸体,艰难的走向Charles。


他第一次见他的时候,他没有说过爱。


他勾起嘴角对他的中指表示无奈后,他没有说过爱。


他和他在车库里因为摩托车到底该不该改造而吵起来的时候,他没有说过爱。


他们并肩作战,放心将背后交给对方时,他没有说过爱。


他疲倦的从寻找记忆的旅程归来,看到他方才松懈了下来的时候,他没有说过爱。


他甩开自己的手,只留下一副破碎的眼镜的时候,他没有说过爱。


他逆转了未来,看着他熟悉而陌生的脸说‘Good To See You’的时候,他没有说过爱。


他再次失去他,尸体冰冷眼镜黯淡的时候,他也没有说过爱。


他掩盖的太久太久了,都要把这样的掩盖变成了自己的本能。所以在如今这样安静平和的星期三的阳光里,却怎么也学不会开口去索要了。


可他的女儿,这个从小被当成实验品,被冰冷的器械和手术包围着长大的女孩子,如今也能在这样的阳光里冲自己像个小麻雀似的唠叨,他这个做爸爸的,好像怎么也不能太逊色。


时间和爱总是能治愈一切,这是一句老掉牙,却永远正确的名言。


所以他终于笑了起来,伸手揉了揉Laura的头发,感觉到棕色的发丝在自己的手底被阳光晒得暖烘烘的。Laura不解的抬起头看着他。


下课铃终于响了起来,孩子们从教室里蜂拥而出,兴冲冲的冲向休息室或者城堡外的草坪。Scott和每一个孩子道别,看到坐在楼梯上的他们,了然的笑了笑,他当然明白中途溜出教室Laura去了哪里。


Logan忽然站了起来,冲自己女儿问道“你真的很想要Scott做你的Papa吗?”


“Absolutely”女孩在阳光里坚定的点了点头,然后又有些不太确定的说道“你喜欢Scott叔叔对吗……”


Logan没有回答女儿的问题,他忙着穿越下课兴高采烈的孩子们,去自己一直想去的那个人身边。


 
“最后呢?”


“噢,你问我最后吗?”Laura盖上了书,看着被窝里抱着娃娃看着她的小女孩。


那女孩和她一样有着棕色的长发,却有一双蓝眼睛。她看上去着急极了,抓着Laura的手问道“对啊对啊,最后呢妈妈?”


“最后嘛……”Laura帮自己的女儿盖好被子,微笑了起来,仿佛又回到了那个温暖的星期三下午“Daddy Asked …Papa Said Yes”


————————————END——————————

Guide me home

狼队扫文小分队:

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BY annaco121


狼人L/盲人S
受伤的Logan以兽形被教授拐卖(不是)给了刚刚失去导盲犬的Scott。
别别扭扭的Logan和今人心疼的小Scott,炒鸡萌!!
坑了QAQ