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#after all the bad things bones studio did this season
bicheetopuff · 1 year
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Random thought but
If Hori makes bkdk canon, do you think the anime will follow the manga? Or change some stuff to keep it open to interpretation/not include it completely?
Hi anon!
To be honest with you I think it’s difficult to be sure how things would play out if Hori does make bkdk canon. The studios reaction to it really depends on a lot of things.
It depends on how clear the canonization is (like how much hori will leave to interpretation. Basically a love confession scene -which I think is unlikely- vs an open ended scene where they’re just holding hands or something) and how the Japanese manga readers react to it.
Considering how aware the studio already is when it comes to fans (especially Japanese fans) love for the pairing, I think it’s unlikely that they’ll actually censor a scene that implies their relationship to be something more than just rivalry. In fact, I think they’d probably milk the shit out of it. As much as Bones irritates me, I don’t think they’re stupid.
They’re very money grabbing when it comes to bkdk with them constantly marketing them together for the sake of selling more merchandise so if they actually became canon, the studio would probably have a field day and make a bunch of merch involving the scene immediately after it’s aired.
However, I wouldn’t put it past the animation studio to continue to add bad scenes of Bakugo for the sake of comedy like they did with the second episode of this season. I think his character will continue to be back peddled because that’s how it’s been for the entire anime and at this point my expectations are kinda low when it comes to how Bones handles Bakugous character. The way the anime present Bakugous character development has been very shallow up until these past two recent episodes.
Am I glad that they nailed chapter 285? Yeah, I am. But, that doesn’t change the fact that they completely overlooked his character development in the 150 chapter before 285 and in fact made it seem like his character wasn’t getting better at all with the filler they add and the lines that they change for no reason.
I also think the way bones portrays Urarakas character will also come into play. Bones loves to shove the fact that Uraraka is a love interest in your face and depending on how they handle her character and her relationship with Izuku in canon and in filler in the future will determine whether endgame bkdk makes sense in the end of the anime or not. (Once my semester ends I plan on expanding on this take about Uraraka and her injustice in the anime)
TL;DR
So in conclusion, do I think Bones will censor a bkdk ending? No. They would be stupid to censor it. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Bones were to continue to portray Katsuki as a brash comedic relief character in filler and back peddle his character development… and also probably be hellbent on portraying Uraraka as Izukus endgame love interest (especially around the ‘a woman’s declaration’ and the ‘quiet before the storm’ chapters) and that those actions will result in endgame bkdk not making sense in the anime.
This may be me just being a debby downer about the anime cuz of my bias for the manga but, my expectations aren’t very high and I think if bkdk becomes canon, the anime will focus more on milking money out of it instead of attempting to make the development in their relationship make sense. In my opinion it’s already kind of too late to fix the damage that’s already been done in season 5 when it came to their loose grip on Katsukis development and either way bkdk becoming canon in the anime will be far less satisfying than them becoming canon in the manga.
I hope the studio does Katsukis character justice for the rest of this season so that him and Dekus relationship development makes more sense but like I said before, my expectations aren’t very high.
Hope this helps anon, I’m sorry for being so negative😭
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silvertsundere · 4 days
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Silver Talks AniManga (24/03/24)
like I said last week lotsa stuff ending this one so lots of yappin this time around, also a new series but summertime render's author which was p nice
also tons of s2 announcements right away which is wild to see
green - new series/new to me blue - finale/completed
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Anime
Chained Soldier Ep12 (Finale)
well that certainly was something huh like I said in ep 1 I've known about the manga for years and years and have wanted to read it but just never got around to it, I would've been a lot better off if I did tho the anime did just the bare minimum. the animation wasn't ever anywhere near impressive and the art always looked weird like there was some weird filter over it for some reason. the voice cast slapped tho and the music wasn't half bad either but there's no reason to watch the anime when the manga exists, not just cause the art is way better but especially because they didn't announce or even tease a s2 so it's a safe bet that only with the bare bones animation this was just a quick way to promote the manga and not an attempt to make an adaptation. it's a shame but oh well, I've seen much worse and the great seiyuu line up made it pretty enjoyable despite the lack of any good action will certainly be reading the manga in the future so they succeeded in their goal, tho I was already gonna do it before the anime even existed so did they really 🤔
EDIT: the day after I wrote this they released a little teaser announcing s2 will be coming eventually™ so fuck me I guess
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Sasaki and Peeps Ep12 (Finale)
the finale just ends like any regular episode would end??? HUH I guess that means s2 confirmed? but it's still very very weird but anyway, I liked it, it was a fresh take on isekai and it reminded me a lot of maoyuu with all it's economical and political talk (this is a good thing). otherwise it wasn't that impressive, animation and art were alright, tho a lot better than some stuff I saw this season (like chained or rings) and the music despite not that memorable was pretty enjoyable. one of the best parts was the sugita yuuki duo for the main characters for sure. I first watched this on a whim cause of a clip I saw of the voice yuuki uses in this and that one hilarious post about the credits of the first episode but it was worth it
EDIT: today (sunday) the s2 got announced which wasn't that surprising considering the first thing I said here but still
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Undead Unluck Ep24 (Finale)
a great adaptation through and through, it certainly got the love it deserves. the shaft staff coming in and sprinkling that recognizable style through the show was very unexpected, but it fit UU surprisingly well and it also served to give it a different vibe from the manga. the only weird choice was cutting out the mob characters from a billion scenes. also some scenes just didn't hit as hard as in the manga like the fist bump from this episode, that I've been looking forward to since ep 1 but it was still pretty good looking forward to future seasons (LOVE spring arc so please) so I just hope they keep the same studio/staff and don't pull a OPM and ruin future seasons
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Frieren Ep28 (Finale)
you think this is the one I'd talk about the most but funnily enough it won't be. don't really got much to say about it because just one word is enough to describe it: perfect easily AOTY for last year and also one of the best of all time and that's not even exaggeration or recency bias it really is THAT good it's crazy that this is just the director's second time directing, with the first being bocchi. really bright future ahead of him and someone to keep an eye on in the future I only hope that we get a proper S2 and not a movie like studios seem so keen on doing recently
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Tales of Wedding Rings Ep12 (Finale)
honestly not much to say about this, cause all I said about chained soldier is directly appliable for this as well so just read that again and pretend I'm talking about this lol TL;DR: you're better off reading the manga really shocked it got a s2 announced right away like the other but I guess that's what you can do when you keep production values this low
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Blue Exorcist: Izumo Arc Ep12 (Finale)
it's a shame how the adaptation is, s1 was really good, s2 dipped a bit but was still good but this one was p weak. it just coasted along and didn't take any risks. not a crumb of sakuga in all 12 of these episodes, but at least it looked a lot better than some of those shows I talked about above at a baseline also they already announced another season is coming, without waiting 6 years this time, with more news coming out for it tomorrow so we'll see how that goes. tho considering it'll prob be the same level of quality as this one, there's really no reason to get your hopes up. I'm looking forward to catching up with the manga in the near future tho, last time I read I was in vol 18 so got a decent bit to go through
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Dungeon Meshi Ep12
yknow considering the amount of times I've seen that one panel of barefoot marcille starting the ressurection spell and how people talk about it, I thought the scene would be a lot darker and intense but it wasn't. good episode tho, lots of cute moments not just of farcille but also with the siblings. the cliffhanger was really good too, would've been a great end cour one tho the show isn't even taking a break but anyway, looking forward to hearing hayamin be a part of the main cast 🙏
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Manga
Ghost Fixers Ch1
this is a new series by the summertime render, which I haven't either read nor watched but have heard many things about, so I was thought I should give it a shot and hey that was p good, went in completely blind without knowing anything about it and I enjoyed it quite a bit. the art is not as good as the colour page but it wasn't bad by any means and there was a lot of shots with cool composition and neat panel ideas it also did a good job of setting up the universe and teasing how things work without explaining too much yet. the characters and their banter were pretty fun too. I'll be looking forward to this 👍 tho I do gotta go back to summertime some day for sure
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Blue Box Ch142
GREAT chapter, but it was also great cause of the whole build up of the match in the last few chaps. I already knew this was gonna be the outcome since chinatsu lost and haryu is a third year and the third year losing to their protegee and "passing on the torch" is the trope still miura did a great job keeping it tense and making you want to root for both players, she's a great author
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norahsrants · 3 months
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Cheer/Self-Esteem Rant
What's up buckaroos, this rant is a bit more personal than yesterdays, even though yesterdays was about my literal boyfriend. It doesn't make sense, but whatever.
So for a couple of cheer practices my stunt group has been working on a full-up. That's basically where she has to spin around in the air and we have to help her do so. We've been really struggling with it and we started off on a bad foot because we were arguing when we were warming up. Then, after a couple tries they switched me out for another girl and they got to the point we'd gotten in a couple of tries after it had taken us days, which honestly made me feel like shit at first because I don't wanna be the one dragging my group down.
However, I thought about it for a second and realized she was a literal gymnast & dancer and they worked her to the freaking bone last season with stunting. She has SO much more experience and knows how to pick up a stunt quicker, whereas I've never done gymnastics and this is my second cheerleading season. Last season, they pretty much had me only doing preps (the most basic thing you could do in stunting).
Which brings me to my point of: when you see someone doing "better," it's okay to feel envious, but what matters is that you learn. This is a HUGE thing in sports. There's always gonna be someone with more experience than you somewhere, and that's okay. It can be so harmful to compare yourself to other people specifically in sports when you're starting out. This can count for singing, art, etc.
However, there can absolutely be a positive counterpart to comparing yourself to people - or, to phrase it better, a second step. If you're comparing yourself to people without DOING something about what you want to change, there's no point in comparing yourself to them in the first place.
It can be complicated to motivate yourself to take action, but it's absolutely possible. Small actions can lead to bigger ones, and eventually you can 100% reach your goal. There's a negative side to this of course, because it's never good to become someone you aren't, which can happen when you push it too far. So make sure you're doing something inspired by them or in their image instead of trying to literally be them.
Here's an example. You're comparing yourself to a professional dancer and how good they are? Okay, figure out what studio they went to, their diet, their stretching routine, their technique - anything that might help you achieve your goal.
Today was definitely a good learning experience for me because when I step back at look at it from a better perspective, I can use it to help me. What did she (the girl they put in for me) do differently? Is there something specific that helped? Is there something I can do that will help me?
Sometimes - I don't mean to end on a 'dark' note - things can, however, be out of our control. You can't change certain things and that's okay. It's okay to 'accept defeat' and move on from something. This can apply to a lot of things; for example, it's not your job to fix somebody. It's okay to 'give up.' This can help you learn even more than pushing yourself past your breaking point to achieve an unrealistic goal.
That's pretty much all I wanted to say & reflect on for today. If you made it all the way through, thanks for reading!
-Norah.
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twenty-qs · 1 year
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Why are people so stupid about adaptations. There are good, bad, and mediocre adaptations. Bad adaptations do not mean “but this isn’t how I imagined it!” Bad adaptations mean you missed the point of the original, AND ALSO it’s a boring story. The ending of the Soul Eater anime was total garbage. The point of the original Soul Eater is that Maka conquers the isolating fear of ‘madness’ by confiding in others and uniting together (in the form of super cool shounen battle powers). That’s the whole concept of weapon-meister teams and soul resonance! The whole show is built around the idea that we are better together!!! But in the TV version, Maka conquers the supernatural embodiment of fear by…being…afraid? And secretly being a weapon all along? So she never needed anyone else’s help, as it turns out, and she wins the day by screaming a lot and then?? throwing a punch????
This ending commits the cardinal sin. Not by diverging from the manga, no. By being A BAD FUCKING STORY.
It’s totally fine in my opinion to change things. I find it interesting. Plus, maybe you’ll get a different demographic hooked onto the series, and now you have a whole new generation of fans of the original. It’ll be a sad day when the American TV industry turns into the anime industry equivalent of copying every popular manga panel by panel. Animators don’t want to spend their lives making someone else’s manga panels look pretty in motion. They want to tell their own stories too—why else did Soul Eater and the first anime version of Fullmetal Alchemist happen, after all? It certainly wasn’t to make money. It’s because the animation team wanted to HAVE FUN. Same with creatives in TV and film—that’s why they call them CREATIVES, not adaptives.
I don’t fault Studio Bones for going buck wild. I’d want to do the same thing, too, if I had the resources they did. They just happened to be bad at turning existing IP into original content, that’s all.
Adaptations that are also original are HARD. It’s a different beast from either creating totally original stories, or sticking to the script. Studio Bones has actually created several really good original anime, and is famously excellent at faithful adaptations, so it’s food for thought that they flopped so hard when they tried doing the middle path.
But despite the risks, I do want to promote people who try to take existing stories and make something new out of them. Because sometimes, even when you change things, you get a GOOD STORY. And a good story that’s a fresh spin on something is infinitely more interesting than just a good VERSION of the same old story. For instance, I have zero interest in watching the first season of the Last of Us. Absolutely nill. I’ve gone through that emotional wringer once via the game, I’m not doing it again. Same with the Jujutsu Kaisen movie. I was really hoping they’d add some original content in the adaptation, but no. Nothing. Just the same dialogue, plot points, fight scenes. Maybe a few cameos from upcoming manga arcs. I watched it in theaters with a friend, and couldn’t help but wonder why I bothered spending money on the thing. In contrast, I LOVED the 2022 Batman movie. Never seen a Batman so pathetic, and yet still telling a brilliant story about breaking cycles of revenge and violence. I eat that shit up with a spoon. And of course just look at the Umbrella Academy.
You know what a soulless cash grab really is? It’s sticking to the script.
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fi-nn · 3 years
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katsuki: *is a gremlin*
shouto: holy shit i think i'm in love
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t00turnttrauma · 2 years
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I fell- jmk
I wrote this during my break at work so I’m sorry if it’s bad. 
“Stay out of stressful situations,” she said. “As long as you do that, take your vitamins, and stay safe, you’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, Doctor Castello,” you said, taking the pamphlet and the prescription for vitamins.
You called Josh, filling him in on the details from the appointment on your way out of the clinic. He listened intently, eating his lunch on the other side of the phone. He’d been working himself to the bone, trying to create the perfect song.
Staying stress-free was easier said than done. With four man-children running around, you noticed keeping yourself away from them when they were getting crazy. They found it weird, but they understood after Josh explained it to them. While his brothers took a step back and kept themselves in line, they were still young at heart. Especially with Josh, his antics alone were enough to raise your blood pressure. On top of this was the stress of moving. The apartment you’d been living in was not big enough for you, Josh, and a baby. The place had two rooms, one of which was Josh’s studio from home when he needed it. He wasn’t willing to give up his office, at least not permanently. While you could have made it work for a while, Josh took point in finding a new abode.
To keep yourself busy, you’d been packing up unnecessary things like the small decorations and seasonal items. Despite the bump weighing you down, you dragged box after box of donations to the hallway. You paid the teenagers who lived in the building to take the boxes to the donation center down the street. Once Josh noticed what you were doing, he enlisted his brothers to help you. Again, you could have done it alone if you weren’t pregnant, but it was also nice to see everyone. They carried furniture all the way down to the moving van and unloaded it, all for the price of dinner.
Waking up in the newest house was a shock that took a moment to get used to. The only things set up at this moment were the big pieces of furniture. You dug through a box for clothes. Josh had obviously done the same, his suitcase looking like it threw up on the floor in the corner of the room. He left a breakfast sandwich on the nightstand with a decaf coffee. You did some work, sending some e-mails while simultaneously trying to plan the day.
About two hours ago, you decided to get some of the unpacking done. All the pots and pans were still in boxes, wrapped in layer after layer of bubble wrap. Despite begging Jake to label the boxes, he forgot. You couldn’t blame him. After living in your own apartment for years, you’d accumulated so much stuff and now you were still trying to do a final purge before. About forty minutes ago, you dropped a picture frame between the boxes. You bent down, squeezing yourself between the boxes while trying to retrieve it. Instead, the baby in your belly shifted, causing you to wince. Over the last eight months, your center of gravity has shifted, making you clumsier than usual. You lost your balance, getting lodged between the boxes. You were able to flip yourself over, your back on the floor. Knowing Josh would freak, you tried to push the box on your right. Instead, the box on top of it fell, the corner of it a few inches from falling on your face. With a sigh, you yelled out to your phone that was on top of the box on your left. “Hey Siri… call Josh.”
“Hey, what’s up?” He greeted. “Did you miss me?”
“Um, Josh?” Your voice was distant, echoing in the empty house. “I fell.”
Jake had never seen a smile leave his brother’s face so fast. They were all waiting for their producer to come back. Jake was inside the recording booth, surrounded by amps and wires that took far too long to walk around. He watched through the glass as Josh almost slammed into Sam coming back from the vending machine. Danny raised his hands in confusion, looking at Jake for an answer.
Josh raced home, blowing past yellow lights and even a red light that he swore changed too fast. His commute was only a third of the usual time it took him to get home. Hearing your voice from far away scared the daylights out of him. He left his car door open, the engine running. He didn’t care, just happy that he was home. He entered through the garage, practically jumping over the boxes that were yet to be unpacked. Once in the kitchen, he took in the scene. Ingredients were taken out of the fridge and pantry, but you were nowhere to be seen.
“Y/N?” he shouted, “where are you?”
“Over here.”
He followed your voice, seeing your feet on the floor between two boxes in the living room.
He moved the box from above your head, setting it on the floor. He scooted the box on your right, revealing him to you. Josh grabbed your arm, helping you up. “Y/N, what were you thinking?”
“I got hungry,” you huffed, the weight of the baby pulling at your lower back again. “Then I got stuck.”
“Why didn’t you call me to get the box?” He scanned your face for injuries. Finding none, he hugged you anyway. “You’re so hardheaded,” he sighed. “But I am so glad you’re safe.”
“Josh, I was on that floor for an hour. You know I love your hugs, but if you don’t let me go, this baby is going to make a mess.”
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silv3rswirls · 3 years
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S/o makes them cry with their nice actions
Anon asks: s/o doing something thoughtful or really touching that moves the members to tears/get them emotional
I wrote this on my lunch break at work in my phone, so it’s unedited for now!
Seokjin
Jin would be coming home late today, and despite already agreeing to order take out for dinner you decided to surprise your boyfriend. Bangtan was currently getting ready for their comeback and you knew Jin was feeling more stressed than usual. Wanting to do something nice for him you bought all the ingredients to make his favorite dinner. You cleaned up, leaving no mess behind for Jin and decorated the table nicely, even set out the flowers you had gotten him. He came home to two of his favorite things waiting for him; an amazing meal and you. He had been especially stressed and overworked that day, feeling a bit emotional he teared up and thanked you for going out of your way to do this for him.
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Yoongi
Poor Yoongi had been hauled up in his studio for days trying to make sure everything was perfect for Bangtan’s newest comeback. He hadn’t really been home either, leaving both you and Holly missing him. You hadn’t gone to visit due to a little fight you had gotten into with him, he wanted to be alone to work for now. However; as mad as you were at him you cooled off after a few days and decided take Holly to go see him. Yoongi had mentioned feeling sad about not coming to see Holly for so long too, so you took Holly for an extra long walk, groomed the little baby, and even picked up a few new toys for him. You took Holly to the studio to surprise Yoongi for lunch, unfortunately he looked ready to tear up when you came in. He was tired but so happy to see you and Holly, and grateful you took the day to care for Holly. He went him that night to relax and cuddle the both of you.
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Hoseok
Hobi had expressed many times how difficult the new choreography was and even with his help some of the members just weren’t taking to it. It wasn’t often Hoseok got like this, but you could tell he was worried and stressed. While you couldn’t help fix the causes for his stress you decided to help him relax, maybe if he took some downtime his worries would stop him from working himself to the bone. It wasn’t anything too grand, you just made him dinner and gave him massage, talking and comforting him the whole time. You didn’t actually see him cry, but he had wiped away a few little tears as he enjoyed your company.
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Namjoon
You missed having lunch with Namjoon, it was usually something you did a few times a week, but his schedule had been insane lately. You decided to write him a little collection of love letters, leaving them with the food you dropped off or having one of the other members give it to him. He didn’t tell you, but he might have cried just a little bit. He loved every word you wrote him and saved them. He started writing you love notes back, and even when his schedule freed up the two of you kept giving notes to the other.
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Jimin
Jimin had been complaining about how messy and horrible his closet had gotten over the past few weeks. This comeback was beating him down and he just didn’t have the energy to clean it up. You knew it was bothering him and adding to the stress everyday he got home and looked at it. Normally you didn’t like to mess with his clothes, but you wanted to anything you could to ease his mind even just a little. You cleaned up, got his laundry done and organized everything. You vaguely knew how he liked to organize things so you did you best. He was so happy to come home and see it, he teared up and hugged you, grateful you could take just one worry away from him.
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Taehyung
Taehyung was in a similar position as Jimin, not only was his bedroom and closet a mess, but his whole apartment needed some love and care. He was just too tired to do it once he got home from a long day. Things tended to get like this around comeback season, he would just wait until he had some more down time. Thankfully he had such a thoughtful girlfriend. You went over one day and let yourself in to clean up. It wasn’t too bad, just cluttered and disorganized. You did it all, with the help of Yeontan of course. You even made him dinner. He was so overjoyed that you had come over let alone did all that for him. He tired to hold his tears in, but shed a few as you reunited after a month of sparse communication.
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Jungkook
Jungkook and the rest of Bangtan were out of the country, so like every time you parted you both missed each other quite a bit. You didn’t have to time to fly out for a visit, so you decided to make him a playlist. Maybe it was a little cheesy, but you friend had done it for her boyfriend and he loved it, so why not do it for Kookie? You took a few days to make it perfect and sent it to him. Jungkook spent his down time listening to it. You had picked so many meaningful songs and Jungkook couldn’t help but tear up while he was all alone. You thought so hard about making it, he loved it.
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pleasantanathema · 3 years
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Graves into Gardens | Reiner Braun x Reader | Chapter Six
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Chapter Six: Revelations 
Pairing: Reiner Braun x Fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+ Only)
Warnings: Modern AU, spoilers up to season four, slight manga spoilers (only by including characters met later), captivity, mentions of death, violence enemies to lovers, angst, and eventual smut (ohohoho we’re so hot on it now, just wait until the end of this one)
Word Count: 5k
A/N: Thank you so, so much to everyone who has left comments, screamed in reblog tags, and just encouraged me to create this story. I have never felt so much love for a fic in the time I’ve been writing.
This chapter reveals a lot, and it’s a little longer than the rest, but it’s for good reason- the end of this is one of my favorite things I’ve written.
Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter
        Reiner’s apartment truly wasn’t much. You thought he’d been joking, perhaps was even being humble, but the small studio apartment was quite dismal. The walls were stark white, a few faded posters peeling off the wall from neglect, a couple of medals and trophies lining a small bookshelf that was bursting with paperbacks and notebooks. A simple bed with a royal blue comforter and overstuffed pillows, the most compact L-shaped couch in front of a tv, and a corner dominated by a desk with two monitors and stacks of documents, manila envelopes, and crates of papers crammed below.
        A kitchenet that looked hardly used was tucked away in another corner, the entryway to a small bathroom right near it.
        There was truly nothing worth looking twice at, save a handful of framed photos scattered around. 
        You’d taken it all in rather hurriedly, still out of breath from practically running through snowy alleyways, the developing snowstorm covering the land like fresh linen. There was a window near his bed, which you gravitated toward after kicking off your damp boots by the door. Not much a view, either. Just more desolate, brick buildings and a sorry looking street below.
        He told you once that he didn’t grow up with much, and it unfortunately seemed like despite joining the ranks of the military, he was still left with close to nothing.
        “What are we here for?”
        He was busy toiling with the thermostat, thick fingers mashing against the heat button to try to warm the small box of an apartment.
        “You won’t like it,” he grumbled, golden eyes glancing over to you with a tinge of regret painting his brow.
        “Then why bring me?”
        “Because you need to see it.”
        You tucked your hands under your arms, the chill of the winter’s day finally settling into your bones.
        You watched keenly as he shrugged off his snow laden jacket, hanging it by the door before promptly locking it. He seemed as out of breath as you were, nose red from the cold, hands shaking as he fumbled with his phone. You bit the inside of your cheek with impatience, a small flame of ire licking its way into your chest.
        Bringing you out here could get you killed. He knew that, right? Of course he did, but he did it anyways. Surely this matter of seemingly great importance could’ve been fetched by one of his comrades. You hadn’t quite considered the danger leaving the headquarters could bring upon you until you were dashing through the streets, the heavy paw of Reiner’s hand squeezing around your wrist. At one point in time, he’d shoved you back down another corridor, shielding you with the size of his body as particular caravan of cars turned down the roadway. He seemed to fear any pair of government eyes spying you.
        He always was so careless.
        He was busy texting someone, still standing idle, lip worried between his teeth.
        Must be the girl you ran into that’s giving him a headache. He probably thought he could slip out and back again without a soul noticing, without anyone giving him grievance, but that bright eyed little cousin of his had ruined that. She’d been so excited to see him; he probably hadn’t been to see his family quite a while, seeing that he was on guard duty after his last mission. 
        How many days had it been since you’d been here? You’d honestly lost track of time, your world feeling like it had been caught in a slow turn of molasses. A few seconds could feel like hours, days felt like minutes, every heartbeat felt like it could be your last. You tried to add it all up in your head, eyes closing as you replayed all the events that led to you standing in Reiner Braun’s home in Marley.
        A week and a half, you surmised. But it could be a little more, a little less. You think you would have kept your eyes on the sun a little more acutely, seeing that you’d missed it rise and fall for at least two days when you were bound in that cell.
        “Are you alright?”
        For a moment, you thought you had spoken the words. You were thinking them, but he asked you instead.
        “That’s a loaded question,” you looked back down to the street, catching the sight of a line of what appeared to be school children marching in tandem down the sidewalk, snow in their hair and happiness on their faces, “but for the moment, I’m okay.”
        Reiner pulled his lips to the side, considering your words. Maybe it hadn’t dawned on him that you couldn’t have been in any state of ease since you’d been promptly abducted and plopped down in this new world to navigate.
        “Are you alright?” You encored, observing how his worried thumbs were still fast against the screen.
        “Have I ever been?”
        You made at face at that reply, corners of your mouth turning down while your shoulders shrugged. Fair enough. 
        Though, for the first time, a bit of pity crept into your mind. Reiner didn’t really ask for this life, did he? He was doing whatever he could to get by, fallen rather inelegantly into the position of being sent to Paradis, and was now being handed you to watch over, presumably without his full consent. You were both pawns in this world, kings and rooks dominating the board and playing you both for fools.
        Being a Scout hadn’t been your intention, either. You’d once had other dreams: college, a career, a family, but you’d been grandfathered into the role by your government working parents, and cemented into it when they’d died. You had nothing else to do, so you served. You served your country, your friends, but you also served yourself, using the role to keep your life afloat, even if it sometimes meant spilling the lifeblood of others, even if it meant sacrificing aspirations and settling. Though, you would admit that some rather beautiful things managed to bloom from the barren soil. Regrettably, those had all been left behind, washed away by tides you couldn’t control.
        “I’m sorry,” Reiner grunted, sinking into the cushions of the couch, “she—she already opened her mouth. I’ve gotten Annie to settle things at HQ, but I imagine Chief is still furious.”
        “Is it such a bad thing to take me out here? I mean, you could easily stop me if I tried to run away.” 
        “Could I?”
        You debated his question. While you were quite nimble, you’d be like a rat in a maze trying to find a way out of this god forsaken place.
        “If I let you,” you reasoned, a tinge of humor behind your words.
        He smiled, all warm and soft, full lips parting. The realization that you hadn’t seen him smile in years pummeled into your chest like a heavy hand stealing from your lungs. It made the sorrow that much more palpable.
        “For the record, Zeke is more upset I didn’t ask permission. He’s hellbent on his authority.”
        “So I’ve noticed.”
        You also pinpointed something else of note, a picture glinting on his nightstand catching your attention.
        It resembled the same one you’d seen on Zeke’s desk, only now you could make out the faces. Reiner didn’t pay you any mind as you reached for the framed memory, plucking it from its home, dust from the back of it staining your fingers. 
        A red booth housed five familiar faces, all grinning over half-drank pints of beer. Their arms were interlocked around each other’s shoulders, all the men young and handsome, Reiner and Bertholdt even more youthful than when they’d first walked through the doors of the Scout Office. Then there was Zeke seated next to Porco, the latter in that green jacket you’d seen him in earlier. But your eyes were set on a face you’d never thought you’d see again, a face that possessed the very recesses of your mind, only appearing late at night when you’d see it in corners, catch it lingering behind your eyelids. He was attractive, appeared personable, messy dark hair and distinct brow that matched the boy next to him.
        “Reiner…” you whispered, still unmoving from your spot between the bed and the window pane, “who is this?”
        He peered over his shoulder, any hint of a smile now vanished like etchings being erased from a page.
        “You don’t recognize him?”
        Him, a photo full of faces, and he knew who you were asking about. He’d probably stared too long at the ghost himself. You wondered if he ever placed the frame down at night to sleep better; you would have, if you’d killed someone you cared about.
        “You know I do.”
        Reiner held his hand out, long arm stretched across the back of the couch. You finally talked your feet into moving, shuffling across the hardwood as you placed the offending item into his upturned palm. 
        Then, you sat next to him, your knees bumping together as you tried to analyze the emotions stirring within. You couldn’t quite place any of them—Regret? Fear? Curiosity? Sadness? But they were quelled when Reiner placed his hand on your twitching thigh, pressing that anxiousness away for a moment.
        “Marcel Galliard, Porco’s older brother.”
        Your lips parted, both of your attentions centered on the souvenir held between you.
        “It was his birthday, and we hadn’t had the chance to celebrate mine and Zeke’s yet either, so we all went out for drinks. I unfortunately don’t remember much from that night, but I remember being…happy, content.”
        “Why’d you do it?” you asked it a little quickly, “why would you…save me, not him?”
        “I told you, some things I don’t have a choice about.”
        “But you—you could’ve said he killed me and got away, right? You did have a choice.”
        You saw how his jaw clenched, muscles in his cheek flexing.
        “I don’t know.” Agony lined his voice, the words soft, hushed.
        That situation was something you both thought about far too often than you’d like to admit, a late-night mulling that never led to conversation.
        “I’m sorry.” You took the photo away, placed it face down on the coffee table.
        “Don’t be. We can’t change the past,” he said solemnly. 
        You could, however, lament it. Which is something you did perhaps too often.
━━━─── • ───━━━
         Reiner wasn’t ready for what was to come. He knew he never would be, which is why he threw precaution to the wind and decided to lay his cards on the table now. 
         He had to pick a side. Even if these wars didn’t truly concern him, even if the fate of countries ultimately didn’t matter to his conscious, you did—you mattered, he mattered, and he had to start thinking about things on a smaller scale. 
         He wanted to go back to Paradis. He practically yearned to go back in time, to return to a place where being Eldian didn’t matter, where his status didn’t matter, where he could remake himself into something new. If it hadn’t been for his binds connecting him to Marley, he could’ve actually seen hope instead of sorrow on the horizon. He could never seem to cut the vines, could never actually get away from the people controlling his life. 
         But now, now he saw an out, and it was with you. When this cataclysm first happened, all he wanted was for you to be dead, for you to go away and leave him and his miseries alone to rot and wither. Being with you, however, reminded him of a life he could have. He just had to make it happen, he had to start molding his own clay, had to keep bearing the weight of the world like the weary Atlas until he could find a way to make it turn in his favor.
         He was tired of wishing for death.
         Which is why he had to bring you here and why he would handle the consequences that were waiting in the distance. 
         You might not be very helpful to Marley, but he could be of use to Paradis.
         “I believe you,” he hadn’t noticed he was still touching you, fingers gripping onto your leg like a lifeline, “about Zeke. I believe you because I—we, Pieck, Annie, Bertie—we know he’s up to something beyond what he tells us and the generals. He is working with someone in Paradis. We don’t know who, but we do think we know what for.”
         “Oh my god…oh my god. Why didn’t you—”
         “You think I can just fucking say that when anyone could be outside my door listening?” 
         “I thought you said I wouldn’t like what you have to show me.” 
         He noticed how your shoulders relaxed, like you’d been holding in tension for far too long.
         “That’s not…I have something else for you.”
         He didn’t move just yet, not quite ready to actually set this all in motion.
         This all hinged on you. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew you quite well; of course, that was the you of four years ago. The you he had next to him now was older, scarred, burdened, but he still felt that same magnetic pull to you that he could never explain. He was just a moon consigned to orbit you, to be connected to you even when neither of you desired the attachment.
         He knew you were going to be upset, livid; his skin was already prickled at the thought of how you would possibly punch him if when you read what he had to give.
         At least you always looked pretty when you were angry.
         He could still remember how Jean had cowered undeath his desk when you’d stomped into the office after discovering he’d used the branch’s own money to play in a high-stakes poker game while undercover. He’d been fishing for information on the elites, found himself tipsy, and then found himself on the receiving end of your fury. The only thing that stopped your yelling was Erwin, who, for personal reasons, didn’t want any fuss made over government money being gambled away.
         Erwin. He’d never cared for how close you were to him.
         Reiner finally stood, expecting you to sit and wait, but you were following him like a shadow, small hand wrapped around his forearm as he moved to his computer. When he sat down, that hand moved up to his shoulder, your fingers squeezing into his muscle with encouragement. It didn’t really put him at ease.
         He turned the desktop on, the monitor flashing to life. He typed in his password quickly, then went searching for that folder he’d kept hidden away so he’d never bother to look at it again. 
         “Hand me one of those,” he nodded his head in the direction of a small container of flash drives on the other side of his desk. You plucked one out of its resting spot and went ahead and placed it into the port on the computer. He knew you wouldn’t question why had so many on hand—you both knew how it all worked, you both kept important documents that had to be shuffled around digitally.
         Familiar names lined the inside of the folder, ones he’d once tried to forget. He heard you suck in a quick breath and took a moment to look up at you. Your brow was set, tongue obviously caught between your teeth to keep yourself from saying anything. 
         This was his job. He was in charge of keeping tabs on The Scouts, he was the one who fed Marley all the information they could. Well, almost all of it. 
         “These are files I never gave over. They’re yours now. I never gave Marley everything they wanted I…I thought I was protecting you. There’s also a few files on Zeke that Pieck created in here, too.” 
         You both watched as he copied the folder over to the flash drive, one by one the names and dates slowly dropping into a new safe place for them.
         He touched your waist, signaling you to step back. He rolled his chair out, ducking under the desk for a split moment to gather a box of the printed documents he had actually handed over; the action was a mistake. 
         You were leaned over him in an instant, hand clutching and moving the mouse so quickly it scraped against the desk. He attempted to reach up and stop you, but he paused—there were still bruises on your wrist, on your fingers, faded watercolors of surviving pain. He’d gripped your hand, your wrists, all day, why hadn’t you stopped him?
         He already knew which file you opened; he didn’t need to look. But he did anyways, moving the crate to the side and sitting back in his chair, arms crossed across his chest. His poor heart felt like it was going to burst.
         Marco Bott’s face filled part of the screen, all sweet and freckled like he remembered. Those kind eyes were looking straight at him, judging him. Reiner was just waiting, he knew what was said in there, he wrote it all, still recalled how puffy his eyes were when he did it, how much he regretted it.
         There was a pregnant pause, one so heavy he felt like he was being crushed.
         This all hinged on you. He needed you to help him, needed you to help you.
         “I fucking knew it.”
         He was already flinching, shrinking. He watched the screen scroll, the black letters and white spaces all a blur.
         “Threat eliminated by gunfire, killed by organized crime members after…” you hesitated, eyes dancing as you reread the words, “after his gear was removed to ensure death.”
         He was on his feet before you could hit him, backing away from your clenched fists, chair rolling to be forgotten in the corner.
         “What. Did. You. Do?” 
         Each word came with a step toward him. He was running out of space, nearly tripping over the edge of the couch as you encroached upon him.
         “What did you do?” Your voice was getting louder, pain written across your face like he’d just stabbed you. “You told me there was no fucking truth about Marco!”
         “There isn’t! Marco’s dead, there’s no changing—”
         “There’s no changing the past,” you mocked his words, venom dripping from your tongue.
━━━─── • ───━━━
         Your blood was boiling, wrath itching between your fingers. 
         You were going to kill him. You were going to wind your fists around his neck and watch the life drain slowly from his eyes like he fucking deserved.
         You couldn’t believe you’d let you guard down, that you’d started to trust him. You always knew something had gone awry the night Marco died. He’d been slaughtered, ransacked with bullet holes across his body. It was like he had been dropped into the line of fire, dangled out like a piece of meat to be eaten alive.
         And he didn’t have his gear, that’s what stumped everyone looking into the mess of it all. It was like he had walked in unprepared, like a boy on a suicide mission walking straight to his death. Thirty-six bullets and even more empty, splattered holes littered had riddled his corpse. Jean had fallen to his knees. Connie didn’t speak for a week. Sasha didn’t eat for days.
         Because of Reiner’s decision, that man suffered, you all mourned, and you felt like you most of all had let him down. Marco had been your protégé, you’d taught him everything he knew, and that was the first mission he was allowed to go on after his training. You’d been tailing a rather violent gang, found their hideout, and were infiltrating for arrests and to see what was inside. Marco had been paired with Reiner and Bertholdt to lead the first wave of infiltration, while you and the rest waited for the signal to rush the back doors to the run-down ranch not far out of the city of Trost. They’d been up ahead by the barn that was sandwiched between stables.
         But your signal turned to sounds of gunfire. You could still hear it echoing in your ears as you approached Reiner. The sounds of metal clicking, of repeated blasts from automatic weapons ringing across the hillsides like single note windchimes in a raging storm.
         “Tell me why.”
         Your fingers were digging into his shirt before you could stop yourself, the threads of the worn Henley threatening to rip from your nails sinking into it. You could actually feel his heart beat against his chest, a frightened bird trying to flee his ribcage.
         When he didn’t speak right away, your anger flared, made you shove him back against the wall with all your might. It made your arms hurt, like you’d just slammed your hands against brick, a sharp pain that made you hiss.
         “He overheard us—”
         “Overheard what?”
         You could tell he was getting a little infuriated as well, nostrils flaring as he looked down his nose at you. It must look funny, you pressing him against the wall of his own apartment. Reiner was nearly twice your size—he was bigger than most people, and he towered over you like a looming threat.
         “Let me fucking finish,” he took a deep breath, eyes nearly glazing over, “He overheard Bertie and I talking about how we should relay the details of that gang, of organized crime in general, to Marley. We—we hadn’t had time to talk alone since we’d been prepping that shit for days. We didn’t know Marco followed us around to that side of the rooftop.”
         “That’s it? He heard you whispering little secrets and you killed him for it?”
         One of the buttons near the neckline of his shirt popped as your knuckles dug deeper into the fabric.
         “He literally heard us say that we needed to find a time to call General Magath of Marley. If he lived and told someone that—,” his breath caught for a moment when one of your nails started to pierce his skin, “it would have compromised our entire mission. We’d been there for three years, and he could’ve ruined it all.”
         You were at your breaking point. You could feel that terrible heat that comes with sadness creeping up your neck, snaking around to your cheeks. If you weren’t careful, you were going to cry. All this time, all this time spent wondering why, and this was why he had to die?
         Killing wasn’t unusual in your life. It was part of the job, something you’d unfortunately had to do on a few occasions. You knew those strangers who ate your bullets or your knife had families, that they were people too, but most of them were monsters, thieves, rapists, threats to the corrupted balance of the governmental structure. But Marco…he was like family, and finding his limp, almost unrecognizable body had sent even the most hardened veterans into despair. Levi took off from work the next day; the only time he had ever missed a day on the job.
         “Tell me how!” You truly didn’t mean to scream it, but the emotions raging in your stomach, your chest, it all ached too much. 
         “Be quiet, I have neighbors—”
         “I don’t give a fuck about your god damn neighbors, Reiner!”
         He finally moved then, his once idle hand now jerking up to your face to fiercely hold your cheeks beneath his fingers. You tried to smack his hand away, your own fingers digging and tugging at his wrist.
         “Letme-go!” Your words were jumbled, your open mouth allowing his fingers to press your cheeks in between your teeth.
         “You have to be fucking quiet,” he hissed, a whole new light shining in his eyes, a familiar rage you had seen when you’d fought against him the day Paradis was invaded. The reality of how large he was sunk in again; he looked like a vengeful god peering down at you, all hot-blooded and incensed.
         You thought for a moment he wouldn’t hurt you, but then you remembered he already had. He had the inclination to be just as cruel as you could be.
         His fingers stayed firm against your cheeks, holding you like he was daring you to speak again. 
         “Tellmehow,” you managed to spit out, wincing when he took the leverage he had on your face and used it to shove you back. You stumbled, banging into the side of the couch as you rubbed at the sore flesh of your mouth.
         But he was unmoving, back straight against the wall, a statue built on the foundation of wrath and agony, waiting to crack and fall onto you if you made the wrong move.
         “We knew their guards were patrolling. Bertholdt covered his mouth while I stripped him of his equipment, of his guns, and I pushed him off the roof and into their sight.”
         He said it so calmly that it made you sick. But that was a reality he had to live with every day, wasn’t it? He had to replay in his mind over and over again that he had done such a vile thing, he had to justify it else it would eat him alive.
         Your tears were hot, but contained, your lashes blinking them aside as you just stared at him. You opened your mouth to scream at him, you were so ready to spew hatred and let it burn him, but he was quicker than you. 
         With one step, he was on you, your hair wrapped in his fast as he wrenched your head to the side, smarting your scalp to silence you.
         “Marco’s dead, and I’m sorry for it. You fucking screaming will do nothing but have the assholes who live below me calling the authorities and you’ll find yourself in a much worse prison than before.”
         You didn’t like how he was right. Still, you glared up at him, brows pinched together in pain.
         It felt like you’d merged into him, those rapid hearts within your chests suddenly beating as one with the same suffering, the same torment. You both had to live with the poor reality of your lives; you were killers, you were monsters too. 
         You were too close to him, could smell the heat of his skin, could feel his breath against your sore cheeks. Your hands were flat against his chest, trapped between you, his arm an anchor as it tugged at the roots of your hair, keeping your face turned towards his.
         You couldn’t help but look at him, there was nowhere else to focus, only on him. It was like you could see the pages of a book open across his face, wretchedness and anguish painted in broad strokes in the fair wrinkles around his eyes, in the curve of his brow. It was beauty and pain bleeding together, the amber color of his eyes swirling as he searched your own face like he was looking for something. What would he find hidden behind your own grief?
         “I hate you,” you whispered, breath long gone.
         “I know.”
         “And I’ll never forgive you.”
         It was like he was moving closer, the time you were losing now completely stopped, frozen between your bodies.
         “Don’t want forgiveness,” he caught your whisper and gave it back, “just judgement.”
         His lips met yours with a bruising fervor. 
         The hand in your hair flexed, pulled you closer, made you gasp as your hands slid up his chest. Your fingers found his rumbling throat, and in the back of your mind, you recalled how just moments ago you were waiting to snatch the life from his neck. You felt his pulse beating beneath your thumb, a war drum beating hot and fast in his veins. Your mouth was moving against his, eyes closed, suddenly greedy and hungry; for what, you didn’t know. All you did know was that this felt so wrong, like you’d taken a misstep and landed right into the lion’s lap, but that it also felt like absolution, like he was devouring your sins and taking them for his own.
         Your mouth slanted for him, a hum resounding from both your throats as you fell into this new, strange rhythm. You’d thought about it before, kissing him like this, feeling those plush lips against yours, angry and hot and needy. You cherished the taste of him, like a dark, rich wine filling up your mouth, spilling over and enveloping your senses. Your tongue tempted him to open his lips, to let you in. There was no hesitation. 
         His other hand found your hip, fingers mean and pulling you impossibly closer. Your palms drifted up from his neck, found his face, thumbs smoothing over cheekbones. You could feel the soft hairs of his cheeks, his chin, sweeping against your skin. It all felt too good, like you were getting lost, delirium taking over. Nothing else mattered anymore, just the gratification of tasting his emotions, of taking his groans into your mouth and echoing them back. You pressed harder into him, kept your tongue tangled with his, noses brushing as you found new beats to your rhythm. 
         It was wicked, sinful, something your heart was pleading for and your mind screaming out against. But you couldn’t stop. You didn’t stop. It was as if you kissed for as long as you’d known each other. Every year passed by, every regret, every sharp turn of your tongues against one another, all the hurt and longing, placed into one moment of your bodies finding one another.
         When the heat began to die, you were both still stroking the flames, deep, languid kisses turned into smaller presses of your lips against one another. It was intoxicating and you felt so drunk, so, so drunk off of him.
         There was a stillness between you, like the gentle sigh and breaths of the world as it awoke to the morning sun when you finally stopped. A lulling peacefulness lingered in the wake of what you’d done.
         His hands were still on your body, in your hair, looser now. Yours were still on his face when your eyes fluttered open.
         “I’m sorry,” he murmured, lips plump, wet.
          “I know.”
Next Chapter
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justformyself2 · 3 years
Text
what is up with us and boats?
Happy Easter yall!!! This one goes out to the beautiful soul that gave the idea @alievans007​ thank you do much, i really hope you enjoy ♥
I don’t know if you guys ever watched “My Best friend’s Wedding.” but there is this scene were they are on the boat ride in Chicago, and i love that scene, this is sort of based on that. 
VIDEO FOR WHO WANTS TO SEE.  (CLICK)
KrasinskixReader/Fluff.
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(don’t remember where i got this gif from.)
"We need to talk." The worst type of message anyone could ever receive. 
Holding up a smirk, you start typing.
"Yes, we do."
"Could you focus? You know, for the love of God and everything. We still have to drive to Olivia's after this." Mariah interrupts whatever dance with the danger you were having with John over text.  
"Why is everybody so weird all of the sudden? First John and now you too, I mean, we are settling details here. The trip to Positano is all sorted."
She gets radio silent, making you look away from your phone. 
"Mariah." You call.
"What?" She answers, badly covering the stress in her voice.
"Everything is fine, right?"
She breaths out through the nose, clicking on the mouse rapidly. 
"Mariah." You call again as if an answer different than you were expecting would come out. 
The Positano trip was a huge deal, a huge, cryptic deal that Mariah arranged by herself through an old friend you never heard or saw. The client, by the name of Vince, was paying double to hire your company, and an undeniable request came, almost sweeping away all of your doubts. You would get to shoot a perfume commercial during the holidays at the place you always dreamed of visiting. It was embarrassing how fast the yes came out, almost in a scream towards Mariah's face, even though there was something off. 
It was true that in the past you worked for the big names, but since the decision to open your own company with Mariah happened, it was all new, too new to be receiving this type of offer. You decided to brush it off by 
trusting your business partner, Mariah had been in the game longer than you have, and if she claimed, more than once, that it was a safe offer and that she had under control then you should believe since her reputation was on the game too, but now get to watch her sitting in front of you, looking worried.
"Well, I'm going to make some phone calls, but don't worry, it is a quick fix situation. I will be right back."
She gets up from the desk, grabbing her phone, and leaving the space before you could say something back. 
Your mind wonders over the fact that your intuition should be listened to more often. It was a "too good to be true" offer, so if that would end up being right, and Mariah came back with the bad news, would it mean that you were probably right about John too.
You look at your phone, facing down on the desk, and decide to check the messages again. There must be something missing between the lines.
Inserting the pin you open up the new messages you received from your boyfriend.
"What do you mean with ‘yes we do’?"
"Tell me when I can call you."
"Damn. I think I'm not getting the week off. They are talking about reshooting some parts." 
"I will call you in 10 minutes."
And just as you read the last one, your phone vibrates. It was his call. Taking a deep breath, you accept it.
"Hey, babe, did you get my texts?"
You hear the many voices in the background mixing with his.
"Yes, I did... Are you on set right now?"
"Yes. I'm on a little break...I'm sorry, baby. I'm not going to make it to Positano."
The frustration makes your heart skip a beat even though you saw the message, hearing it in his voice had a different effect. You stopped counting the weeks without him because of the impact they had on your day, instead, in a very unhealthy way, that habit was replaced with you picturing him waiting for you at home, laying in the bed you shared or in the kitchen, trying to replicate whatever recipe out of Youtube just to prove that he could cook, just to try to impress you. He still wanted to impress you after all this time, he just didn't figure out how to be in two places at once. 
"Well, don't be. If I'm right I don't think this trip is happening." 
As time passes by without Mariah coming back, your guess was becoming a reality. It wasn't a quick fix thing.
"What are you talking about?"
His voice went urgent, and he quickly added: "I mean, it was a great offer."
"Yes, but it is a holiday season. It gets difficult with hotel reservations and flights, but Mariah ran away before I could get a word out of her. It happens."
"Wow, you sound so indifferent. I thought you loved Positano." 
You had to agree with him. You felt the apathy in your bones.
"I do love Positano, but the offer was out of touch like something was off like everything is off."
You hear him chuckle and frown to yourself, walking towards Mariah's laptop on her desk.
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. You were so weird when I dropped you at the airport as if you wanted to say something to me or pass out."
You reminisce his pale face and the way his hands were clammy on yours before the goodbye on the car. 
"Those are two very different things." You wanted to picture the face he could be doing right now.
"Well, I still feel like there is something you are not tell-."
"Baby, I need to go right now, sorry, I will call you later okay."
The interruption of a female voice in speakers was the last thing you heard before he hanged up.
"What the hell was going on?" You say to yourself. 
Forgetting about the phone you decided to check on Mariah's laptop for confirmations, but before anything was done she busted through the door.
"Did you fixed it?"
You ask, seeing her avid eyes shift between you and the laptop.
"What are you doing?" She asks and snaps out of the suspicion stare.
"What do you mean what am I doing? I want to help. Do you care to tell me what is happening, Mariah?"
Her phone calls her attention, and she rushes towards the laptop, answering quickly, leaving you only to watch again.
"Did you get my text? Yes, apparently a bug happened on the site, and our plane tickets got canceled." She discoursed to the person on the other site.
"I don't know if we are getting new ones on the same date, there is a lot of demand... Well, then we have to cancel for no-... Are you sure? Okay, no. I can do that, is way off plan, way less dreamy, really, way less, but I guess we can do it if you do this right now."
She pauses, focused on what was being passed down. "Okay, then it's the new plan. Okay, okay, bye."
Hanging up, she now seemed to be willing to share.
"Change of plans. I informed Vince's team about what happened, and a girl named J-Jannete said that we should meet to settle some details. They want to go for a studio since the deadline would get messed up because of the plane ticket debacle."
"Shit, why didn't you put on speakerphone? I know someone that could help us wit-."
"NO!..." She screams, making you back away involuntary.  "I mean, I already checked that, and we can't keep tapping on something that isn't working. They are already upset and we could lose even more time. Jenna set up a meeting with Vince himself...Jannete, at four, so you get to meet him, as you wanted."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . .. . . . . . .. . . . . . .. . . . 
"Why are we on a boat ride again?"
You ask Mariah, who fanned herself with a flier they were distributing about the ride.
"Because we got bailed on and it has been a long time since I don't go on one of those."
She adjusts the sunglasses in an annoyed way. 
The day-star was starting to set, still, the weather was hot and humid as if it was peaking. You try to catch delicate hints of purple and pink on the mostly light orange painted sky.
"I haven't been on one of these since John asked me to be his girlfriend. It was our third date. He insisted on the boat ride and I didn't like it, but then the sun was setting so beautifully, in not time the only thing i could care about was the way he looked at me."
There is no interruption other than the sting in your chest, making you stop on the tracks of something you loved to remember.
"I think John is lying to me. I don't think he was on set." Voicing the thoughts made them too real, and suddenly you wanted to forget about them.
"Yeah."
Mariah twists her torso once or twice, looking back to the people who were still taking seats. You doubted she was listening to anything you said all the way here. She started inspecting the place, restless since the taxi dropped you two.
"Okay, are you waiting for someone?"
By impulse, you look back to pursue whatever her eyes were trying to find even without knowing, and that is when you spotted him, a vision that walked towards you, seeming to be out of breath. His mouth partially open turns into the smile you wanted to kiss.
"Son of a bitch."
The words flew from your lips and you hear Mariah's laugh.
Your eyes follow his movements with thirst, so much thirst that everything else is a mere blur in the background.
John comes closer, saying something to Mariah when she gets up and hugs him. She never hugged him. 
You swallow dry, seeing for a second Mariah give you a thumbs up before walking away.
"Hey." He almost whispers towards your face, taking the seat, and when his lips come closer to yours, you back away. He frowns.
"You were in LA."
"Yes, I was."
"Please, don't short answer me."
He gets up from the chair and grabs extends his hand towards you.
"Come with me, and I will explain."
Not thinking twice you accept his hand, being guided to the stern of the boat, walking in the middle of strangers and loud conversations. John drops your hand and reaches for your waist with smoothness as if he could be taking you to dance. Intuitively your arms laces around his neck.
His eyes trace a path away from you and straight to your mouth before he started moving.
"You are so difficult to lie to." He starts, smirking. 
A gust of wind blows the locks of your hair away, and his fingers are quick to adjust them behind your ear, sending goosebumps on your back. You missed his touch on your skin.
"But you did lie to me." You can't help to say, trying to focus.
"It was only because I wanted to this right, but I know I would blow it at some point. It almost happened when you dropped me at the airport."
"Do what right?"
His breath came out uneasy through his nose, and he licks his lips.
"Ask you to...marry...me."
Instantly you feel your eyes starting to water. There was no control or rational thought that could calm down the wave of feeling like the soles of your shoes weren't touching the wooden floor of that boat, and his arms were the only thing keeping you down.
"There is no Vince. It was a bait to make a surprise for you and get you to Positano without getting too suspicious, and I lied about not going as part of the surprise. I would do the whole thing right, bring our families, have a huge dinner, enjoy a couple of days there. Then your tickets got canceled, the Vince thing got way too suspicious, and I haven't seen you in almost four weeks. Next thing I know, I was at the airport, counting the hours to do this."
He captures your lips with his before you could comprehend. There are intensity and the passion you craved, and that only he could provide, he could devour you, and you would let him.
"Do it right now."
You ask, out of breath, after parting the kiss with his moan of reproval.
"Don't you want the real thing? You know, I can figure out the tickets, maybe call Clooney and ask if we can borrow his private jet. He will probabl-."
"I don't care where you are going to propose to me. I just want you to do it, that is the real thing. It could have been on the car, at breakfast, at the airport, or even in a replica of the day you asked me to be your girlfriend."
He laughs, kissing you again. He holds your face in his hands, parting the kiss to gaze at your eyes.
"Oh, I'm glad you remembered it. That is why I wanted to make something different this time. What is up with us and boats?."
"I don't know but let's get back into the program here. You were about to ask me something." 
He frowns, looking away theatrically.
"And what was the question, again?" John asks, setting his face close to yours. His lips touching your cheeks, coming closer to your ear.
"Was it something like. Do you want to marry me?" 
You could feel your neck hair getting up with the vibration of his low and deep tone affecting you easily.
"Yes."
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bsd-elle · 3 years
Text
Thoughts on the SK8 The Infinity Episode 12
So the final episode just aired. And I’m having majoorrr mixed feelings.
This show was truly something that kept me going, with it’s story, animation and the whole found family thing. I have loved this show from the beginning and I will till the end.
But as a lot of people in the fandom I do have some strong opinions on the finale
First off, I just want to say that everyone is allowed to have their own opinion but please do not send hate or any negative energy to studio Bones and Hiroko Utsumi. They have worked incredibly hard on this series. In fact I put them on a pedestal for giving us something so poignant and wonderful during such trying times. I looked forward every Saturday to watch the new episode and that feeling, that rush while watching it, never changed throughout the show’s run!!
Now on to my thoughts on the finale.
1. Shipping
I saw many people in the fandom criticizing the studio for queerbaiting. Now I can definitely not give an accurate perspective on this, as I am not part of the LGBTQIA community, though I am a strong ally.
Let’s talk about the main ships: Renga and Matchablossom
Renga: In my opinion they’re pretty much canon. All the hints, the loving looks, Langa jumping to hug Reki, Langa basically saying Reki is his happiness, Reki wanting to skate beside Langa (Infinitely). In my eyes, they’re canon.
Of course it would’ve been amazing to have a canon queer relationship, but we have no idea what happens behind closed doors. The rules in Japan, unfortunately are totally different from other progressive countries. As someone who lives in a country where they just decriminalized gay marriage, seeing canon queer relationships is honestly rare.
I think they did whatever they could to show that Renga is canon.
I mean come on, Langa basically said he liked Reki in episode 8
I think it would be very very cool and progressive to have a them outwardly admit to it, but we know both these dumbasses never finish their sentences. lol
I’m happy with the way their relationship evolved.
Matchablossom: I honestly can’t give a clear reasoning to this, because personally I don’t ship them. But the thing is, they could be canon, who knows?
I mean everyone was talking about how Joe went out with 2 girls in the end sequence and because of that they aren’t canon. But by that logic we couldn’t ship them from the beginning, since Joe kissed girls in the first episode.
I mean I totally headcanon that Joe is a bisexual king, so that means he could be hanging out them girls while still majorly crushing on Cherry.
Who knows, maybe Joe brought the girls to Cherry’s signing on purpose to make him jealous. Lol
Let your imagination run wild, people. It’s up to your own perspective. I personally don’t ship them, but I don’t think it’s queerbaiting when you pretty much have several hints to them caring deeply (love) about each other.
2. Story
This is where the critiquing comes.
One of the main reasons why I loved and still love Sk8 was one, obviously because of Renga and two because I absolutely loved the story.
From eps 1-11 the story was so compelling and written in such a fantastic way. Every week I’d have some assumptions and every time it would completely blow my mind.
In particular ep 10. When I originally saw the title “Dap not needing words” I was so worried.
They need to talk, they have to communicate. But wow, that episode was just phenomenal, if you guys want me to make a review on each episode I would be happy to, I have so much to say.
Sure, ep 10,11 was wayyy too rushed, but I just know it’s because they had to fit a lot of story in such a little time period. If they had maybe 24 episodes, they would’ve knocked it out of the park.
Either way I had no complaints.
My issue with ep 12 is the beef: Adam Vs Snow
I thought animation wise and as a beef it was really impactful (similar to Reki Vs Adam)
But why God, why did they give Adam a redemption
I’m sorry but he doesn’t deserve it.
I knew for a fact that as much as I wanted Adam to go to jail (so badly), I knew it wouldn’t happen. That was just not possible (in my eyes). I thought they would take a page from Fugou Keiji: Balance Unlimited, where his family (those evil ass aunts) and send them to jail (for clear mental, physical abuse and who knows what else), and Adam would go in isolation somewhere.
There he could properly heal from his trauma and abuse, work through it, heal his relationship with Tadashi and just work to be better.
There was a part of me that expected the show to end with a typical “oh we’re all friends and everything is forgiven” bullshit and I prayyedd that wouldn’t happen
But boy was I wrong
Why did they try to sympathize with him?!?
I get it, he’s clearly had severe trauma and abuse, and he uses skateboarding and entering the “zone” to get away from his terrible reality.
But why did they have Langa say this to him??
“Skating is fun because you can do it with your friends!”
It’s sweet that he’s trying to teach Adam what Reki taught him, but this implies that Adam is his friend. Or atleast that’s what he wants
“hey, you’re a crazy monster and you assaulted my friends (boyfriend), but I still wanna skate with you, cause it’s fun with friends”
I’m sorry, in what universe is this.. your friend?
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Your actual friend, Langa, who taught you everything you know, who’s been with you from the start, he has been attacked and traumatized multiple times by Adam. Not to mention several other people.
I could’ve accepted it if they used the line
“Don’t ever end up on your own”
That makes more sense in this context, it’s like saying “hey you evil monster, you’re crazy but don’t end up alone, treasure the people in your life”
I think that implies more on the sense that Adam has to figure shit out on his own, by himself. Not with Langa and the people he’s assaulted.
Then it would make atleast a bit more sense to heal Tadashi and Adam’s relationship.
You just cannot build up a character like Adam, for 12 episodes and then completely forgo that for the sake of “friendship”, that just makes no sense
Not to mention, Kirako the detective, the fact that she worked so hard and got absolutely nothing, is preposterous.
That whole thing put a really bad taste in my mouth.
Also, during the beef, like I mentioned, Langa basically implies that they should have fun because they’re skating with friends.
This basically just throws out Langa’s friendship with Reki.
I mean Reki was so badly hurt and injured after their beef, both the times.
Yes, he did have a lot of fun and that was the point of ep 10, 11 to show Reki that he didn’t have to skate to be the best (like no one ever wass.. dun dun dun. If you know that reference, here’s a chocolate) he skated to have fun(even though in my eyes, he’s the best)
Ep 12 was that arc for Langa, for him to realize he also skated to have fun.
But when you’re condoning and encouraging Adam, idkk.. it just rubbed me the wrong way.
I didn’t like it at all. They made him into a gag character in the end scene, which is literally the opposite of what he’s been pictured for the past 11 episodes.
3. Side characters
Shadow did not deserve that in any way whatsover.
He was completely glossed over. I thought his injury would be a pivotal plot point for improving his relationship with the manager, but they just used it as a way to remove him from the tournament
Tadashi, babyy, that’s Stockholm syndrome
When I saw that dog comment:
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Godd... he deserves so muchhh moree..
So, overall the finale, honestly disappointed me. But my love for sk8 is everlasting and the finale will never change that
4. Future
Hopefully, and I pray for this
A season 2, movie, OVA or anything tbh.
There’s so much potential
Reki and Langa go to Canada, they visit Oliver’s grave, Langa teaches Reki snowboarding
Kirako finally arresting Adam
Tadashi becoming true friends with Langa, Reki and the gang
Shadow getting the love he deserves
Matchablossom canon
Renga canon
Miya getting the apology he deserves
But whatever it is, Sk8 the Infinity owns my heart and I don’t know what I’m going to do with my life.
Other than reading Renga fanfiction
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imnotwolverine · 3 years
Text
The Accidental Family - Chapter 5
Henry Cavill x OFC - multi-chapter
< Chap 4 | Chap 5 How to dad | Chap 6 >
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Disclaimer: fluff, sadness, memory loss, some strong language
Word count: 2.098
Author’s note: I had a home spa day and I may or may not have made WAY too many bubbles in the bathtub..which then in turn kind of floated out into our adjoining kitchen and...yea...I’m posting this to procrastinate the clean up of ..THAT. Wish me luck. 😂
(Link to my Masterlist)
--
It was not unusual for Henry to be up this early, and yet Phoebe was slightly surprised to find him in the kitchen, the smell of coffee searing into her nose as she was welcomed with the sight of a kitchen island crowded with paper folders and the family whiteboard scribbled full with an enormous, intricately filled out schedule. 
Henry was still working on it as she quietly stepped over the threshold, her arms crossing before her bathrobe as she watched him bend down, ass sticking out as he leaned in to scribble something in the far right bottom corner.
‘Morning.’ She chimed, making Henry jerk up in surprise, his eyes looking at her like she had just caught him with his hand in the cookie jar.
‘Whatcha doin’?’ She leaned into the kitchen island and looked at the papers that were strewn over the smooth light grey marble.
‘Oh, ehm, just ..trying to find some order in this mess.’ He shrugged and clicked the cap back onto the whiteboard marker, his fingers pushing it on the small whiteboard ledge before he fully turned towards his wife, her dazed eyes still blinking at him with mild confusion.
‘You see I found all these things you keep around. School schedules, doctor’s appointments, swimming classes, soccer, eh..you know. I wanted to have an overview.’ He shrugged, making Phoebe cry out laughing.
‘You did what now?!’
‘Wait, don’t tell me you have a schedule just like this laying around..’
‘No, no. Eh..’ Phoebe looked over at the coffee machine, deciding she’d need a cuppa before she’d dive into Henry’s findings.
‘Want some coffee as well?’
‘No, no, I’m good. Gotta keep fit, so I can get back in the saddle as quickly as possible.’ He jabbed into the air, as if ready to beat an invisible opponent.
‘Silly man.’ Phoebe chuckled, pouring some of the hot brew into a mug with a smiling elephant on it - yes suddenly Henry owned a whole arsenal of silly mugs. Squinting his eyes playfully he studied Phoebe:
‘Silly stupid or silly smart?’ Henry asked, but all Phoebe did was shrug, turning a pair of mischievous eyes at him while she sipped on her coffee.
‘Anyways. I think, if the doctor’s okay with it, I can start squeezing in office visits between Sam’s soccer practise and Piper’s speech therapy and..’
‘Hen..’ Phoebe sighed, walking up to him to brush a hand over his arm, his shirt fitting snugly around his large chest, attracting her gaze for a short moment. ‘..one step at a time okay?’
‘Yes-yes, I know. I..’
And then she chuckled, earning an even more confused look from him. ‘What’s so funny?’ His brow furrowed.
‘Oh..it’s just. I never thought I’d get you to..draft school appointment schedules.’
‘Why’s that?’
Phoebe hesitantly licked her lips, her stormy blues meeting his aquamarine, his face betraying that he truly didn’t understand. ‘You were at work..a lot.’
‘Oh.’
Henry slowly turned around, also looking back at the busy schedule; it was indeed quite impossible to fit all this in with the 14-hour workdays he had always been so accustomed to.
‘..fuck.’ He breathed softly, scolding his old-Henry-self for being such a workaholic idiot.
‘That’s okay. We were a pretty good team.’ Phoebe leaned into the kitchen island, her hand lowering the coffee cup to her hip as she quirked her head to the side to study the schedule he had drawn up.  
‘So which of these did I do with the kids?’ He asked hesitantly.
‘Soccer, on Saturday.’
Henry blinked at the 40-something other items that were listed on the meticulously drawn out grid. ‘Oh my.’
‘Yea..’ Phoebe grinned. ‘There’s a good reason why I quit my job as a nurse.’
‘You were a nurse?’
Phoebe turned her head to answer, but decided not to, her lips instead just twitching up in a half-smirk. ‘For a while. But at least now I know exactly what to do when one of the cubs run a fever.’
‘Did you like being a nurse?’
She shrugged and took another sip of her coffee. ‘Wiping shit of a patient’s ass or my kid? I’ll choose my kid any day of the week.’ She winked at him.
‘Sounds wonderful.’ Henry chuckled. ‘And about that; shouldn’t the children move home at some point? Or..you go to them, or..?’ He wished to scratch his head as he did whenever he was unsure, but Phoebe was quick to stop him, her hand catching his wrist before he could move it up higher.
‘Eventually.’ She swallowed harshly and released his wrist. ‘I just don’t know when.’ Her eyes moved back to the board as she continued with slight melancholy. ‘There’s only so much you can plan.’
--
‘Hi Danny.’ Relief flooded Henry’s limbs as the amazonian goddess of a woman stepped into the office he had been left in some fifteen minutes earlier.
It would be just a short visit to the office, the studio having postponed the production of the new Witcher season until things were cleared out; Henry’s doctors were not very eager to give any green lights until Henry himself showed he was able to carry the burdens that came with being a lead actor in such a heavily regarded tv show.
‘Hey there big guy! Lookin’ good!!’
‘Yea,’ Henry smiled happily. ‘Feeling pretty good as well.’
‘Good to hear, good to hear! Oh and sorry if I’m a little slow. Jet lagging pretty hard over here; just got back from LA and had like..the craziest delay. But, here I am! It’s good to see you, Henry.’
‘Likewise.’ Henry cleared his throat as he tried to remember the short script she had sent the day before. A script that he’d have usually learned in between scenes, taking up no more than half an hour. But now he felt a certain nerve crawling up his spine as she plucked out that very same script from her bag.
‘Alright. So. I thought we’d have a little reading first? See how that’s going? I mean, if that’s alright with you, of course.’
‘Eh..yea, sure.’ Henry hesitated as his eye flew over the bag he had brought along, the script in there begging him to be picked up in case he failed to produce the words.
No, he could do this. He had to prove he could…
‘So, starting at the top of the scene. Geralt is sleep deprived and agitated. You know the drill..’ She waved her hand like it was no big deal, only to remember moments later it might be a deal after all, her tongue clicking as she realised her mistake. ‘I mean. IF you know the drill, or don’t know the drill, either way is fine. No question is bad. We have no stupid questions in this room, mkay? I mean, I’m just so glad to see you here! And..-’
‘No, I can do it.’ Henry frowned and tried to focus on the blurry daze that was his memory, the words somehow sticking to the tip of tongue like they were about to spill..but didn’t come. ‘Okay, maybe just eh, keep the script to be sure.’ He quickly grabbed for his bag, unzipping it to retrieve the script, the many marks indicating just how much he had struggled with it the night before; at some point Phoebe had to pull the paper from his stiff fingers, so he’d at least get some sleep.  
Reading the first lines of the paper, he tried to get the voice right, the sentence right, the atmosphere right. Things that usually came like second nature. But now it all just didn’t click, his brain sluggish as he tried to read aloud the words as he tried to give his all - it wasn’t enough.
‘Okay-okay-okay.’ Danny stopped him after a short monologue. ‘Maybe let’s just..read? No crazy stuff?’
Again Henry tried. And this time it went a little better. A little. Not enough. Frustration raged through Henry’s bones as he tried to remain calm, his fists clenching around the paper as his eyes read the words and his mouth spilled them, but it just wasn’t as magical as it had once been.
By the time he said goodbye to Danny he kind of knew what had just happened; he had lost it.
--
‘Hey! How’d it go?’ Phoebe called from the couch, her eyes remaining trained on the laptop perched on her lap, a cup of steaming hot tea next to her on the side table.
Henry grumbled something indiscernible and bid her good night, heavy feet dragging up the stairs way before Phoebe had the chance to ask what happened. Closing her laptop she rushed up after him, knowing full well that he couldn’t be in much of a good mood - her Bear had always been like an open book to her.
She could already see him open Sam’s room to go to sleep in the narrow bed, but she stopped him at that, her hand clutching around his bicep, pulling him back towards the master bed room.
‘Come!’ She exclaimed, tugging at his heavy body which refused to move.
‘I can’t. Not ..now, okay?’ He lowered his head as he leaned his forehead into the door frame. It was more than a little clear that he was heartbroken.
Phoebe frowned, her arms opting to wrap around him instead, fingers accidentally brushing over his cock as she shimmied her hands around him, locking fingers in front of his belly. Did he think she wanted to have sexy time? She could hear his breath choke up. 
‘Not that, silly.’ She whispered, her hot breath fanning over his dark blue shirt.
‘Then what? I can’t even..’ His breath choked again and an ever so quiet sob erupted from his lips. It broke Phoebe’s heart. 
‘Mr. Cavill. You’re too heavy for me to carry, but could you please get to the big bed, so I can cuddle with you? Please?’ Phoebe squeezed her arms a little tighter around his chest, making him sob harder.
‘I just…’ His large paw wiped over the expanse of his cheek, angrily removing a tear that had strayed down to his jaw. ‘Fuck.’ And with that he caved, his head removing from the door frame as he slowly turned in Phoebe’s tight embrace, his head looking down at her pleading eyes. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay.’
It took a good thirty minutes of crying and half muttering what had happened before Henry had calmed a little, Phoebe sitting next to him beneath the sheets, her eyes watching in agony as her Bear totally fell apart, thick tears running down his beautiful cheeks. He was convinced that he could never act again. That this was it. His memory was failing him. He could do simple stuff, but acting? No way, José.
Phoebe scooted a little closer as Henry finally sighed, the last of his tears spent for the moment being. Without question or answer, the both of them curled into a sweet embrace, Henry’s head leaning down onto her chest as she carefully brushed her hands through his curls, finding the scar that now ran evidently over the back of his skull; it was just another piece of Henry she’d learn to love.
Sniffling softly, Henry melted into her touch, his breathing slowly calming to a soft and deep in-and-out.
And then, she sang, her body slightly swaying on a quiet tune.
You’re my Honeybunch,
Sugarplum
Pumpy-umpy-umpkin,
You’re my Sweetie Pie
Henry smiled into the fabric of her night gown, the soft satin like mother’s skin against his glowing cheek. ‘My mom used to sing that.’ He murmured.
You’re my Cuppycake,
Gumdrop
Snoogums-Boogums,
You’re the Apple of my Eye
Henry slightly lifted his head and looked at Phoebe as she gently continued to caress his hair, her lips chanting the sweet little lullaby. Finally she turned her attention to him, warm eyes melting his fragile heart.
‘I know. She actually taught me. With Sam. I mean, he was probably the fussiest baby ever to exist.’
Henry chuckled. ‘And now I am your baby.’
The both of them laughed softly. ‘No, no, no. You’re no baby! Though if you need some smothering with love, I’m glad to offer it.’ She playfully jiggled her momma-licious tits, making Henry swallow quickly.
Any other day of the week he would have jumped at the chance - nothing much had happened yet on that department, but right now, with his body all rosy and exhausted, he could only shake his head no, his cheek moving back to rest on her chest. ‘Another time.’ He sighed, melting back into her loving embrace.
‘Okay then Bear. Sleep well.’ She pressed a kiss on his crown and shimmied a little to get comfortable.
Sometimes, dads also need a little bit of mommy love. 
--
Chap 6 >
--
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@tryingtoliveonmywishes @ceilingfann @do-youseeme 
82 notes · View notes
grigori77 · 3 years
Text
2020 in Movies - My Top 30 Fave Movies (Part 3)
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10.  WOLFWALKERS – eleven years ago, Irish director Tomm Moore exploded onto the animated cinema scene with The Secret of Kells, a spellbinding feature debut which captivated audiences the world over and even garnered an Oscar nomination.  Admittedly I didn’t actually even know about it until I discovered his work through his astonishing follow-up, Song of the Sea (another Academy Award nominee), in 2015, so when I finally caught it I was already a fan of Moore’s work.  It’s been a similarly long wait for his third feature, but he’s genuinely pulled off a hat-trick, delivering a third flawless film in a row which OF COURSE means that his latest feature is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, my top animated feature of 2020.  I could even be tempted to say it’s his best work to date … this is an ASTONISHING film, a work of such breath-taking, spell-binding beauty that I spent its entire hour and three-quarters glued to the screen, simple mesmerised by the wonder and majesty of this latest iteration of the characteristically stylised “Cartoon Saloon” look.  It’s also liberally steeped in Moore’s trademark Celtic vibe and atmosphere, once again delving deep into his homeland’s rich and evocative cultural history and mythology while also bringing us something far more original and personal – this time the titular supernatural beings are magical near-human beings whose own subconscious can assume the form of very real wolves.  Set in a particularly dark time in Irish history – namely 1650, when Oliver Cromwell was Lord Protector – the story follows Robyn (Honor Kneafsey, probably best known for the Christmas Prince films), the impetuous and spirited young daughter of English hunter Bill Goodfellowe (Sean Bean), brought in by the Protectorate to rid the city of Kilkenny of the wolves plaguing the area.  One day fate intervenes and Robyn meets Mebh Og MacTire (The Girl at the End of the Garden‘s Eve Whittaker), a wild girl living in the woods, whose accidental bite gives her strange dreams in which she becomes a wolf – turns out Mebh is a wolfwalker, and now so is Robyn … every aspect of this film is an utter triumph for Moore and co, who have crafted a work of living, breathing cinematic art that’s easily the equal to (if not even better than) the best that Disney, Dreamworks or any of the other animation studios could create.  Then there’s the excellent voice cast – Bean brings fatherly warmth and compassion to the role that belies his character’s intimidating size, while Kneafsey and Whittaker make for a sweet and sassy pair as they bond in spite of powerful cultural differences, and the masterful Simon McBurney (Harry Potter, Mission: Impossible – Rogue Nation, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy) brings cool, understated menace to the role of Cromwell himself.  This is a film with plenty of emotional heft to go with its marvels, and once again displays the welcome dark side which added particular spice to Moore’s previous films, but ultimately this is still a gentle and heartfelt work of wonder that makes for equally suitable viewing for children as for those who are still kids at heart – ultimately, then, this is another triumph for one of the most singularly original filmmakers working in animation today, and if Wolfwalkers doesn’t make it third time lucky come Oscars-time then there’s no justice in the world …
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9.  WONDER WOMAN 1984 – probably the biggest change for 2020 compared to pretty much all of the past decade is how different the fortunes of superhero cinema turned out to be.  A year earlier the Marvel Cinematic Universe had dominated all, but the DC Extended Universe still got a good hit in with big surprise hit Shazam!  Fast-forward to now and things are VERY different – DC suddenly came out in the lead, but only because Marvel’s intended heavy-hitters (two MCU movies, the first Venom sequel and potential hot-shit new franchise starter Morbius: the Living Vampire) found themselves continuously pushed back thanks to (back then) unforeseen circumstances which continue to shit all over our theatre-going slate for the immediate future.  In the end DC’s only SERIOUS competition turned out to be NETFLIX … never mind, at least we got ONE big established superhero blockbuster into the cinemas before the end of the year that the whole family could enjoy, and who better to headline it than DC’s “newest” big screen megastar, Diana Prince? Back in 2017 Monster’s Ball director Patty Jenkins’ monumental DCEU standalone spectacularly realigned the trajectory of a cinematic franchise that was visibly flagging, redesigning the template for the series’ future which has since led to some (mostly) consistently impressive subsequent offerings.  Needless to say it was a damn tough act to follow, but Jenkins and co-writers Geoff Johns (Arrow and The Flash) and David Callaham (The Expendables, Zombieland: Double Tap, future MCU entry Shang-Chi & the Legend of the Ten Rings) have risen to the challenge in fine style, delivering something which pretty much equals that spectacular franchise debut … as has Gal Gadot, who’s now OFFICIALLY made the role her own thanks to yet another showstopping and definitive performance as the unstoppable Amazonian goddess living amongst us.  She’s older and wiser than in the first film, but still hasn’t lost that forthright honesty and wonderfully pure heart we’ve come to love ever since her introduction in Zack Snyder’s troublesome but ultimately underrated Batman V Superman: Dawn of Justice (yes, that’s right, I said it!), and Gadot’s clear, overwhelming commitment to the role continues to pay off magnificently as she once again proves that Diana is THE VERY BEST superhero in the DCEU cinematic pantheon.  Although it takes place several decades after its predecessor, WW84 is, obviously, still very much a period piece, Jenkins and co this time perfectly capturing the sheer opulent and over-the-top tastelessness of the 1980s in all its big-haired, bad-suited, oversized shoulder-padded glory while telling a story that encapsulates the greedy excessiveness of the Reagan era, perfectly embodied in the film’s nominal villain, Max Lord (The Mandalorian himself, Pedro Pascal), a wishy-washy wannabe oil tycoon conman who chances upon a supercharged wish-rock and unleashes a devastating supernatural “monkey’s paw” upon the world. To say any more would give away a whole raft of spectacular twists and turns that deserve to be enjoyed good and cold, although they did spoil one major surprise in the trailer when they teased the return of Diana’s first love, Steve Trevor (Chris Pine) … needless to say this is another big blockbuster bursting with big characters, big action and BIG IDEAS, just what we’ve come to expect after Wonder Woman’s first triumphant big screen adventure.  Interestingly, the film starts out feeling like it’s going to be a bubbly, light, frothy affair – after a particularly stunning all-action opening flashback to Diana’s childhood on Themyscira, the film proper kicks off with a bright and breezy atmosphere that feels a bit like the kind of Saturday morning cartoon action the consistently impressive set-pieces take such unfettered joy in parodying, but as the stakes are raised the tone grows darker and more emotionally potent, the storm clouds gathering for a spectacularly epic climax that, for once, doesn’t feel too overblown or weighed down by its visual effects, while the intelligent script has unfathomable hidden depths to it, making us think far more than these kinds of blockbusters usually do.  It’s really great to see Chris Pine return since he was one of the best things about the first movie, and his lovably childlike wide-eyed wonder at this brave new world perfectly echoes Diana’s own last time round; Kristen Wiig, meanwhile, is pretty phenomenal throughout as Dr Barbara Minerva, the initially geeky and timid nerd who discovers an impressive inner strength but ultimately turns into a superpowered apex predator as she becomes one of Wonder Woman’s most infamous foes, the Cheetah; Pascal, of course, is clearly having the time of his life hamming it up to the hilt as Lord, playing gloriously against his effortlessly cool, charismatic action hero image to deliver a compellingly troubling examination of the monstrous corrupting influence of absolute power.  Once again, though, the film truly belongs to Gadot – she looks amazing, acts her socks off magnificently, and totally rules the movie.  After this, a second sequel is a no-brainer, because Wonder Woman remains the one DC superhero who’s truly capable of bearing the weight of this particular cinematic franchise on her powerful shoulders – needless to say, it’s already been greenlit, and with both Jenkins and Gadot onboard, I’m happy to sign up for more too …
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8.  LOVE & MONSTERS – with the cinemas continuing their frustrating habit of opening for a little while and then closing while the pandemic ebbed and flowed in the months after the summer season, it was starting to look like there might not have been ANY big budget blockbusters to enjoy before year’s end as heavyweights like Black Widow, No Time To Die and Dune pulled back to potentially more certain release slots into 2021 (with only WW84 remaining stubbornly in place for Christmas).  Then Paramount decided to throw us a bone, opting to release this post-apocalyptic horror comedy on-demand in October instead, thus giving me the perfect little present to tie me over during the darkening days of autumn. The end result was a stone-cold gem that came out of nowhere to completely blow critics away, a spectacular sleeper hit that ultimately proved one of the year’s biggest and most brilliant surprises.  Director Michael Matthews may only have had South African indie thriller Five Fingers for Marseilles under his belt prior to this, but he proves he’s definitely a solid talent to watch in the future, crafting a fun and effective thrill-ride that, like all the best horror comedies, is consistently as funny as it is scary, sharing much of the same DNA as this particular mash-up genre’s classics like Tremors and Zombieland and standing up impressively well to such comparisons.  The story, penned by rising star Brian Duffield (who has TWO other entries on this list, Underwater and Spontaneous) and Matthew Robinson (The Invention of Lying, Dora & the Lost City of Gold), is also pretty ingenious and surprisingly original – a meteorite strike has unleashed weird mutagenic pathogens that warp various creepy crawly critters into gigantic monstrosities that have slaughter most of the world’s human population, leaving only a beleaguered, dwindling few to eke out a precarious living in underground colonies. Living in one such makeshift community is Joel Dawson (The Maze Runner’s Dylan O’Brien), a smart and likeable geek who really isn’t very adventurous, is extremely awkward and uncoordinated, and has a problem with freezing if threatened … which makes it all the more inexplicable when he decides, entirely against the advice of everyone he knows, to venture onto the surface so he can make the incredibly dangerous week-long trek to the neighbouring colony where his girlfriend Aimee (Iron Fist’s Jessica Henwick) has ended up.  Joel is, without a doubt, the best role that O’Brien has EVER had, a total dork who’s completely unsuited to this kind of adventure and, in the real world, sure to be eaten alive in the first five minutes, but he’s also such a fantastically believable, fallible everyman that every one of us desperate, pathetic omega-males and females can instantly put ourselves in his place, making it elementarily easy to root for him.  He’s also hilariously funny, his winningly self-deprecating sass and pitch perfect talent for physical comedy making it all the more rewarding watching each gloriously anarchic life-and-death encounter mould him into the year’s most unlikely action hero.  Henwick, meanwhile, once again impresses in a well-written role where she’s able to make a big impression despite her decidedly short screen time, as do the legendary Michael Rooker and brilliant newcomer Ariana Greenblatt as Clyde and Minnow, the adorably jaded, seen-it-all-before pair of “professional survivors” Joel meets en-route, who teach him to survive on the surface.  The action is fast, frenetic and potently visceral, the impressively realistic digital creature effects bringing a motley crew of bloodthirsty beasties to suitably blood-curdling life for the film’s consistently terrifying set-pieces, while the world-building is intricately thought-out and skilfully executed.  Altogether, this was an absolute joy from start to finish, and a film I enthusiastically endorsed to everyone I knew was looking for something fun to enjoy during the frustrating lockdown nights-in.  One of the cinematic year’s best kept secrets then, and a compelling sign of things to come for its up-and-coming director.
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7.  PARASITE – I’ve been a fan of master Korean filmmaker Bong Joon-ho ever since I stumbled across his deeply weird but also thoroughly brilliant breakthrough feature The Host, and it’s a love that’s deepened since thanks to truly magnificent sci-fi actioner Snowpiercer, so I was looking forward to his latest feature as much as any movie geek, but even I wasn’t prepared for just what a runaway juggernaut of a hit this one turned out to be, from the insane box office to all that award-season glory (especially that undeniable clean-sweep at the Oscars). I’ll just come out and say it, this film deserves it all.  It’s EASILY Bong’s best film to date (which is really saying something), a masterful social satire and jet black comedy that raises some genuinely intriguing questions before delivering deeply troubling answers.  Straddling the ever-widening gulf between a disaffected idle rich upper class and impoverished, struggling lower class in modern-day Seoul, it tells the story of the Kim family – father Ki-taek (Bong’s good luck charm, Song Kang-ho), mother Chung-sook (Jang Hye-jin), son Ki-woo (Train to Busan’s Choi Woo-shik) and daughter Ki-jung (The Silenced’s Park So-dam) – a poor family living in a run-down basement apartment who live hand-to-mouth in minimum wage jobs and can barely rub two pennies together, until they’re presented with an intriguing opportunity.  Through happy chance, Ki-woon is hired as an English tutor for Park Da-hye (Jung Ji-so), the daughter of a wealthy family, which offers him the chance to recommend Ki-jung as an art tutor to the Parks’ troubled young son, Da-song (Jung Hyeon-jun). Soon the rest of the Kims are getting in on the act, the kids contriving opportunities for their father to replace Mr Park’s chauffeur and their mother to oust the family’s long-serving housekeeper, Gook Moon-gwang (Lee Jung-eun), and before long their situation has improved dramatically.  But as they two families become more deeply entwined, cracks begin to show in their supposed blissful harmony as the natural prejudices of their respective classes start to take hold, and as events spiral out of control a terrible confrontation looms on the horizon.  This is social commentary at its most scathing, Bong drawing on personal experiences from his youth to inform the razor-sharp script (co-written by his production assistant Han Jin-won), while he weaves a palpable atmosphere of knife-edged tension throughout to add spice to the perfectly observed dark humour of the situation, all the while throwing intriguing twists and turns at us before suddenly dropping such a massive jaw-dropper of a gear-change that the film completely turns on its head to stunning effect.  The cast are all thoroughly astounding, Song once again dominating the film with a turn at once sloppy and dishevelled but also poignant and heartfelt, while there are particularly noteworthy turns from Lee Sun-kyun as the Parks’ self-absorbed patriarch Dong-ik and Choi Yeo-jeong (The Concubine) as his flighty, easily-led wife Choi Yeon-gyo, as well as a fantastically weird appearance in the latter half from Park Myung-hoon.  This is heady stuff, dangerously seductive even as it becomes increasingly uncomfortable viewing, so that even as the screws tighten and everything goes to hell it’s simply impossible to look away.  Bong Joon-ho really has surpassed himself this time, delivering an existential mind-scrambler that lingers long after the credits have rolled and might even have you questioning your place in society once you’ve thought about it some. It deserves every single award and every ounce of praise it’s been lavished with, and looks set to go down as one of the true cinematic greats of this new decade.  Trust me, if this was a purely critical best-of list it’d be RIGHT AT THE TOP …
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6.  THE OLD GUARD – Netflix’ undisputable TOP OFFERING of the summer came damn close to bagging the whole season, and I can’t help thinking that even if some of the stiffer competition had still been present it may well have still finished this high. Gina Prince-Blythewood (Love & Basketball, the Secret Life of Bees) directs comics legend Greg Rucka’s adaptation of his own popular series with uncanny skill and laser-focused visual flair considering there’s nothing on her previous CV to suggest she’d be THIS good at mounting a stomping great ultraviolent action thriller, ushering in a thoroughly engrossing tale of four ancient, invulnerable immortal warriors – Andy AKA Andromache of Scythia (Charlize Theron), Booker AKA Sebastian de Livre (Matthias Schoenaerts), Joe AKA Yusuf Al-Kaysani (Wolf’s Marwan Kenzari) and Nicky AKA Niccolo di Ginova (Trust’s Luca Marinelli) – who’ve been around forever, hiring out their services as mercenaries for righteous causes while jealously guarding their identities for fear of horrific experimentation and exploitation should their true natures ever be discovered.  Their anonymity is threatened, however, when they’re uncovered by former CIA operative James Copley (Chiwetel Ejiofor), who’s working for the decidedly dodgy pharmaceutical conglomerate run by sociopathic billionaire Steven Merrick (Harry Melling, formerly Dudley in the Harry Potter movies), who want to capture these immortals so they can patent whatever it is that makes them keep on ticking … just as a fifth immortal, US Marine Nile Freeman (If Beale Street Could Talk’s KiKi Layne), awakens after being “killed” on deployment in Afghanistan.  The supporting players are excellent, particularly Ejiofor, smart and driven but ultimately principled and deeply conflicted about what he’s doing, even if he does have the best of intentions, and Melling, the kind of loathsome, reptilian scumbag you just love to hate, but the film REALLY DOES belong to the Old Guard themselves – Schoenaerts is a master brooder, spot-on casting as the group’s relative newcomer, only immortal since the Napoleonic Wars but clearly one seriously old soul who’s already VERY tired of the lifestyle, while Joe and Nicky (who met on opposing sides of the Crusades) are simply ADORABLE, an unapologetically matter-of-fact gay couple who are sweet, sassy and incredibly kind, the absolute emotional heart of the film; it’s the ladies, however, that are most memorable here.  Layne is exceptional, investing Nile with a steely intensity that puts her in good stead as her new existence threatens to overwhelm her and MORE THAN qualified to bust heads alongside her elders … but it’s ancient Greek warrior Andy who steals the film, Theron building on the astounding work she did in Atomic Blonde to prove, once and for all, that there’s no woman on Earth who looks better kicking arse than her (as Booker puts it, “that woman has forgotten more ways to kill than entire armies will ever learn”); in her hands, Andy truly is a goddess of death, tough as tungsten alloy and unflappable even in the face of hell itself, but underneath it all she hides a heart as big as any of her friends’.  They’re an impossibly lovable bunch and you feel you could follow them on another TEN adventures like this one, which is just as well, because Prince-Blythewood and Rucka certainly put them through their paces here – the drama is high (but frequently laced with a gentle, knowing sense of humour, particularly whenever Joe and Nicky are onscreen), as are the stakes, and the frequent action sequences are top-notch, executed with rare skill and bone-crunching zest, but also ALWAYS in service to the story.  Altogether this is an astounding film, a genuine victory for its makers and, it seems, for Netflix themselves – it’s become one of the platform’s biggest hits to date, earning well-deserved critical acclaim and great respect and genuine geek love from the fanbase at large.  After this, a sequel is not only inevitable, it’s ESSENTIAL …
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5.  MANK – it’s always nice when David Fincher, one of my TOP FIVE ALL TIME FAVOURITE DIRECTORS, drops a new movie, because it can be GUARANTEED to place good and high in my rundown for that year.  The man is a frickin’ GENIUS, a true master of the craft, genuinely one of the auteur’s auteurs.  I’ve NEVER seen him deliver a bad film – even a misfiring Fincher (see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button or Alien 3) is still capable of creating GREAT CINEMA.  How? Why?  It’s because he genuinely LOVES the art form, it’s been his obsession all his life, and he’s spent every day of it becoming the best possible filmmaker he can be.  Who better to tell the story of the creation of one of the ULTIMATE cinematic masterpieces, then?  Benjamin Ross’ acclaimed biopic RKO 281 covered similar ground, presenting a compelling look into the making Citizen Kane, the timeless masterpiece of Hollywood’s ULTIMATE auteur, Orson Welles, but Fincher’s film is more interested in the original inspiration for the story, how it was written and, most importantly, the man who wrote it – Herman J. Mankiewicz, known to his friends as Mank. One of my favourite actors of all time, Gary Oldman, delivers yet another of his career best performances in the lead role, once a man of vision and incredible storytelling skill whose talents have largely been squandered through professional difficulties and personal vices, a burned out one-time great fallen on hard times whom Welles picks up out of the trash, dusts off and offers a chance to create something truly great again.  The only catch?  The subject of their film (albeit dressed up in the guise of fictional newspaper magnate Charles Foster Kane) is to be real-life publisher, politico and tycoon William Randolph Hurst (Charles Dance), once Mank’s friend and patron before they had a very public and messy falling out which partly led to his current circumstances.  As he toils away in seclusion on what is destined to become his true masterwork, flashbacks reveal to us the fascinating, moving and ultimately tragic tale of his rise and fall from grace in the movie business, set against the backdrop of one of the most tumultuous periods in American history.  Shooting a script that his own journalist and screenwriter father, Jack, crafted and then failed to bring to the screen himself before his death in 2003, Fincher has been working for almost a quarter century to make this film, and all that passion and drive is writ large on the screen – this is a glorious film ABOUT film, the art of it, the creation of it, and all the dirty little secrets of what the industry itself has always really been like, especially in that most glamorous and illusory of times.  The fact that Fincher shot in black and white and intentionally made it look like it was made in the early 1940s (the “golden age of the Silver Screen”, if you will) may seem like a gimmick, but instead it’s a very shrewd choice that expertly captures the gloss and moodiness of the age, almost looking like a contemporary companion piece to Kane itself, and it’s the perfect way to frame all the sharp-witted observation, subtly subversive character development and murky behind-the-scenes machinations that tell the story.  Oldman is in every way the star here, holding the screen with all the consummate skill and flair we’ve come to expect from him, but there’s no denying the uniformly excellent supporting cast are equal to the task here – Dance is at his regal, charismatic best as Hearst, while Amanda Seyfried is icily classy on the surface but mischievous and lovably grounded underneath as Hearst’s mistress, Marion Davies, who formed the basis for Kane’s most controversial character, Arliss Howard (Full Metal Jacket, The Lost World: Jurassic Park, Moneyball) brings nuance and complexity to the role of MGM founder Louis B. Mayer, Tom Pelphrey (Banshee, Ozark) is understated but compelling as Mank’s younger screenwriter brother Joseph, and Lily Collins and Tuppence Middleton exude class and long-suffering stubbornness as the two main women in Mank’s life (his secretary and platonic muse, Rita Alexander, and his wife, Sara), while The Musketeers’ Tom Burke’s periodic but potent appearances as Orson Welles help to drive the story in the “present”.  Another Netflix release which I was (thankfully) able to catch on the big screen during one of the brief lulls between British lockdowns, this was a decidedly meta cinematic experience that perfectly encapsulated not only what is truly required for the creation of a screen epic, but also the latest pinnacle in the career of one of the greatest filmmakers working in the business today, powerful, stirring, intriguing and surprising in equal measure. Certainly it’s one of the most important films ABOUT so far film this century, but is it as good as Citizen Kane?  Boy, that’s a tough one …
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4.  ENOLA HOLMES – ultimately, my top film for the autumn/winter movie season was also the film which finally topped my Netflix Original features list, as well as beating all other streaming offerings for the entire year (which is saying something, as you should know by now).  Had things been different, this would have been one of Warner Bros’ BIGGEST releases for the year in the cinema, of that I have no doubt, a surprise sleeper hit which would have taken the world by storm – as it is it’s STILL become a sensation, albeit in a much more mid-pandemic, lockdown home-viewing kind of way.  Before you start crying oh God no, not another Sherlock Holmes adaptation, this is a very different beast from either the Guy Ritchie take or the modernized BBC show, instead side-lining the great literary sleuth in favour of a delicious new AU version, based on The Case of the Missing Marquess, the first novel in the Enola Holmes Mysteries literary series from American YA author Nancy Springer.  Positing that Sherlock Holmes (Henry Cavill) and his elder brother Mycroft (Sam Claflin) had an equally ingenious and precocious baby sister, the film introduces us to Enola (Stranger Things’ Millie Bobby Brown), who’s been raised at home by their strong-willed mother Eudoria (Helena Bonham Carter) to be just as intelligent, well-read and intellectually skilled as her far more advantageously masculine elder siblings.  Then, on the morning of her sixteenth birthday, Enola awakens to find her mother has vanished, putting her in a pretty pickle since this leaves her a ward of Mycroft, a self-absorbed social peacock who finds her to be wilfully free-spirited and completely ill equipped to face the world, concluding that the only solution is sending her to boarding school where she’ll learn to become a proper lady.  Needless to say she’s horrified by the prospect, deciding to run away and search for her mother instead … this is about as perfect a family adventure film as you could wish for, following a vital, capable and compelling teen detective-in-the-making as she embarks on her very first investigation, as well as winding up tangled in a second to boot involving a young runaway noble, Viscount Tewkesbury, the Marquess of Basilwether (Medici’s Louis Partridge), and the film is a breezy, swift-paced and rewardingly entertaining romp that feels like a welcome breath of fresh air for a literary property which, beloved as it may be, has been adapted to death over the years.  Enola Holmes a brilliant young hero who’s perfectly crafted to carry the franchise forward in fresh new directions, and Brown brings her to life with effervescent charm, boisterous energy and mischievous irreverence that are entirely irresistible; Cavill and Claflin, meanwhile, are perfectly cast as the two very different brothers – this Sherlock is much less louche and world-weary than most previous versions, still razor sharp and intellectually restless but with a comfortable ease and a youthful spring in his step that perfectly suits the actor, while Mycroft is as superior and arrogant as ever, a preening arse we derive huge enjoyment watching Enola consistently get the best of; Bonham Carter doesn’t get a lot of screen-time but as we’d expect she does a lot with what she has to make the practical, eccentric and unapologetically modern Eudoria thoroughly memorable, while Partridge is carefree and likeable as the naïve but irresistible Tewkesbury, and there are strong supporting turns from Frances de la Tour as his stately grandmother, the Dowager, Susie Wokoma (Crazyhead, Truth Seekers) as Emily, a feisty suffragette who runs a jujitsu studio, Burn Gorman as dastardly thug-for-hire Linthorn, and Four Lions’ Adeel Akhtar as a particularly scuzzy Inspector Lestrade.  Seasoned TV director Harry Bradbeer (Fleabag, Killing Eve) makes his feature debut with an impressive splash, unfolding the action at a brisk pace while keeping the narrative firmly focused on an intricate mystery plot that throws in plenty of ingenious twists and turns before a suitably atmospheric climax and pleasing denouement which nonetheless artfully sets up more to come in the future, while screenwriter Jack Thorne (His Dark Materials, The Scouting Book for Boys, Wonder) delivers strong character work and liberally peppers the dialogue with a veritable cavalcade of witty zingers.  Boisterous, compelling, amusing, affecting and exciting in equal measure, this is a spirited and appealing slice of cinematic escapism that flatters its viewers and never talks down to them, a perfect little period adventure for a cosy Sunday afternoon.  Obviously there’s plenty of potential for more, and with further books to adapt there’s more than enough material for a pile of sequels – Neflix would be barmy indeed to turn their nose up at this opportunity …
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3.  1917 – it’s a rare thing for a film to leave me truly shell-shocked by its sheer awesomeness, for me to walk out of a cinema in a genuine daze, unable to talk or even really think about much of anything for a few hours because I’m simply marvelling at what I’ve just witnessed.  Needless to say, when I do find a film like that (Fight Club, Inception, Mad Max: Fury Road) it usually earns a place very close to my heart indeed.  The latest tour-de-force from Sam Mendes is one of those films – an epic World War I thriller that plays out ENTIRELY in one shot, which doesn’t simply feel like a glorified gimmick or stunt but instead is a genuine MASTERPIECE of film, a mesmerising journey of emotion and imagination in a shockingly real environment that’s impossible to tear your eyes away from.  Sure, Mendes has impressed us before – his first film, American Beauty, is a GREAT movie, one of the most impressive feature debuts of the 2000s, while Skyfall is, in my opinion, quite simply THE BEST BOND FILM EVER MADE – but this is in a whole other league.  It’s an astounding achievement, made all the more impressive when you realise that there’s very little trickery at play here, no clever digital magic (just some augmentation here and there), it’s all real locations and sets, filmed in long, elaborately choreographed takes blended together with clever edits to make it as seamless as possible – it’s not the first film to try to do this (remember Birdman? Bushwick?), but I’ve never seen it done better, or with greater skill. But it’s not just a clever cinematic exercise, there’s a genuine story here, told with guts and urgency, and populated by real flesh and blood characters – the heart of the film is True History of the Kelly Gang’s George MacKay and Dean Chapman (probably best known as Tommen Baratheon in Game of Thrones) as Lance Corporals Will Schofield and Tom Blake, the two young tommies sent out across enemy territory on a desperate mission to stop a British regiment from rushing headlong into a German trap (Tom himself has a personal stake in this because his brother is an officer in the attack).  They’re a likeable pair, very human and relatable throughout, brave and true but never so overtly heroic that they stretch credibility, so when tragedy strikes along the way it’s particularly devastating; both deliver exceptional performances that effortlessly carry us through the film, and they’re given sterling support from a selection of top-drawer British talent, from Sherlock stars Andrew Scott and Benedict Cumberbatch to Mark Strong and Colin Firth, each delivering magnificently in small but potent cameos.  That said, the cinematography and art department are the BIGGEST stars here, masterful veteran DOP Roger Deakins (The Shawshank Redemption, Blade Runner 2049 and pretty much the Coen Brothers’ entire back catalogue among MANY others) making every frame sing with beauty, horror, tension or tragedy as the need arises, and the environments are SO REAL it feels less like production design than that someone simply sent the cast and crew back in time to film in the real Northern France circa 1917 – from a nightmarish trek across No Man’s Land to a desperate chase through a ruined French village lit only by dancing flare-light in the darkness before dawn, every scene is utterly immersive and simply STUNNING.  I don’t think it’s possible for Mendes to make a film better than this, but I sure hope he gives it a go all the same.  Either way, this was the most incredible, exhausting, truly AWESOME experience I had at the cinema all year – it’s a film that DESERVES to be seen on the big screen, and I feel truly sorry for those who missed the chance …
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2.  BIRDS OF PREY & THE FANTABULOUS EMANCIPATION OF ONE HARLEY QUINN – the only reason 1917 isn’t at number two is because Warner Bros.’ cinematic DC Extended Universe project FINALLY got round to bringing my favourite DC Comics title to the big screen.  It was been the biggest pleasure of my cinematic year getting to see my top DC superheroines brought to life on the big screen, and it was done in high style, in my opinion THE BEST of the DCEU films to date (yup, I loved it EVEN MORE than the Wonder Woman movies).  It was also great seeing Harley Quinn return after her show-stealing turn in David Ayer’s clunky but ultimately still hugely enjoyable Suicide Squad, better still that they got her SPOT ON this time – this is the Harley I’ve always loved in the comics, unpredictable, irreverent and entirely without regard for what anyone else thinks of her, as well as one talented psychiatrist.  Margot Robbie once more excels in the role she was basically BORN to play, clearly relishing the chance to finally do Harley TRUE justice, and she’s a total riot from start to finish, infectiously lovable no matter what crazy, sometimes downright REPRIHENSIBLE antics she gets up to.  Needless to say she’s the nominal star here, her latest ill-advised adventure driving the story – finally done with the Joker and itching to make her emancipation official, Harley publicly announces their breakup by blowing up Ace Chemicals (their love spot, basically), inadvertently painting a target on her back in the process since she’s no longer under the assumed protection of Gotham’s feared Clown Prince of Crime – but that doesn’t mean she eclipses the other main players the movie’s REALLY supposed to be about.  Each member of the Birds of Prey is beautifully written and brought to vivid, arse-kicking life by what had to be 2020’s most exciting cast – Helena Bertinelli, the Huntress, is the perfect character for Mary Elizabeth Winstead to finally pay off on that action hero potential she showed in Scott Pilgrim Vs. the World, but this is a MUCH more enjoyable role outside of the fight choreography because while Helena may be a world-class dark avenger, socially she’s a total dork, which just makes her thoroughly adorable; Rosie Perez is similarly perfect casting as Renee Montoya, the uncompromising pint-sized Gotham PD detective who kicks against the corrupt system no matter what kind of trouble it gets her into, and just gets angrier all the time, paradoxically making us like her even more; and then there’s the film’s major controversy, at least as far as the fans are concerned, namely one Cassandra Cain.  Sure, this take is VERY different from the comics’ version (a nearly mute master assassin who went on to become the second woman to wear the mask of Batgirl before assuming her own crime-fighting mantle as Black Bat and now Orphan), but personally I like to think this is simply Cass at THE VERY START of her origin story, leaving plenty of time for her to discover her warrior origins when the DCEU finally gets around to introducing her mum, Lady Shiva (personally I want Michelle Yeoh to play her, but that’s just me) – anyways, here she’s a skilled child pickpocket whose latest theft inadvertently sets off the larger central plot, and newcomer Ella Jay Basco brings a fantastic pre-teen irreverence and spiky charm to the role, beautifully playing against Robbie’s mercurial energy.  My favourite here BY FAR, however, is Dinah Lance, aka the Black Canary (not only my favourite Bird of Prey but my very favourite DC superheroine PERIOD), the choice of up-and-comer Jurnee Smollet-Bell (Friday Night Lights, Underground) proving to be the film’s most inspired casting – a club singer with the metahuman ability to emit piercing supersonic screams, she’s also a ferocious martial artist (in the comics she’s one of the very best fighters IN THE WORLD), as well as a wonderfully pure soul you just can’t help loving, and it made me SO UNBELIEVABLY HAPPY that they got my Canary EXACTLY RIGHT.  Altogether they’re a fantastic bunch of badass ladies, basically my perfect superhero team, and the way they’re all brought together (along with Harley, of course) is beautifully thought out and perfectly executed … they’ve also got one hell of a threat to overcome, namely Gotham crime boss Roman Sionis, the Black Mask, one of the Joker’s chief rivals – Ewan McGregor brings his A-game in a frustratingly rare villainous turn (my number one bad guy for the movie year), a monstrously narcissistic, woman-hating control freak with a penchant for peeling off the faces of those who displease him, sharing some exquisitely creepy chemistry with Chris Messina (The Mindy Project) as Sionis’ nihilistic lieutenant Victor Zsasz.  This is about as good as superhero cinema gets, a perfect example of the sheer brilliance you get when you switch up the formula to create something new, an ultra-violent, unapologetically R-rated middle finger to the classic tropes, a fantastic black comedy thrill ride that’s got to be the most full-on feminist blockbuster ever made – it’s helmed by a woman (Dead Pigs director Cathy Yan), written by a woman (Bumblebee’s Christina Hodson), produced by more women and ABOUT a bunch of badass women magnificently triumphing over toxic masculinity in all its forms.  It’s also simply BRILLIANT – the cast are all clearly having a blast, the action sequences are first rate (the spectacular GCPD evidence room fight in which Harley gets to REALLY cut loose is the undisputable highlight), it has a gleefully anarchic sense of humour and is simply BURSTING with phenomenal homages, references and in-jokes for the fans (Bruce the hyena! Stuffed beaver! Roller derby!).  It’s also got a killer soundtrack, populated almost exclusively by numbers from female artists.  Altogether, then, this is the VERY BEST the DCEU has to offer to date, and VERY NEARLY my absolute FAVOURITE film of 2020.  Give it all the love you can, it sure as hell deserves it.
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1.  TENET – granted, the streaming platforms (particularly Netflix and Amazon) certainly saved our cinematic summer, but I’m still IMMEASURABLY glad that my ultimate top-spot winner FOR THE WHOLE YEAR was one I got to experience on THE BIG SCREEN. You gotta hand it to Christopher Nolan, he sure hung in there, stubbornly determined that his latest cinematic masterpiece WOULD be released in cinemas in the summer (albeit ultimately landing JUST inside the line in the final week of August and ultimately taking the bite at the box office because of the still shaky atmosphere), and it was worth all the fuss because, for me, this was THE PERFECT MOVIE for me to get return to cinemas with.  I mean, okay, in the end it WASN’T the FIRST new movie I saw after the first reopening, that honour went to Unhinged, but THIS was my first real Saturday night-out big screen EXPERIENCE since March.  Needless to say, Nolan didn’t disappoint this time any more than he has on any of his consistently spectacular previous releases, delivering another twisted, mind-boggling headfuck of a full-blooded experiential sensory overload that comes perilously close to toppling his long-standing auteur-peak, Inception (itself second only by fractions to The Dark Knight as far as I’m concerned). To say much at all about the plot would give away major spoilers – personally I’d recommend just going in as cold as possible, indeed you really should just stop reading this right now and just GO SEE IT.  Still with us?  Okay … the VERY abridged version is that it’s about a secret war being waged between the present and the future by people capable of “inverting” time in substances, objects, people, whatever, into which the Protagonist (BlacKkKlansman’s John David Washington), an unnamed CIA agent, has been dispatched in order to prevent a potential coming apocalypse. Washington is once again on top form, crafting a robust and compelling morally complex heroic lead who’s just as comfortable negotiating the minefields of black market intrigue as he is breaking into places or dispatching heavies, Kenneth Branagh delivers one of his most interesting and memorable performances in years as brutal Russian oligarch Andrei Sator, a genuinely nasty piece of work who was ALMOST the year’s very best screen villain, Elizabeth Debicki (The Night Manager, Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, Widows) brings strength, poise and wounded integrity to the role of Sator’s estranged wife, Kat, and Aaron Taylor-Johnson gets to use his own accent for once as tough-as-nails British Intelligence officer Ives, while there are brief but consistently notable supporting turns and cameos from Martin Donovan, Yesterday’s Himesh Patel, Dirk Gently’s Fiona Dourif and, of course, Nolan’s good luck charm, Michael Caine.  The cast’s biggest surprise, however, is Robert Pattinson, truly a revelation in what has to be, HANDS DOWN, his best role to date, Neil, the Protagonist’s mysterious handler – he’s by turns cheeky, slick, duplicitous and thoroughly badass, delivering an enjoyably multi-layered, chameleonic performance which proves what I’ve long maintained, that the former Twilight star is actually a fucking amazing actor, and on the basis of this, even if that amazing new teaser trailer wasn’t making the rounds, I think the debate about whether or not he’s the right choice for the new Batman is now academic.  As we’ve come to expect from Nolan, this is a TRUE tour-de-force experience, a visual triumph and an endlessly engrossing head-scratcher, Nolan’s screenplay bringing in seriously big ideas and throwing us some major narrative knots and loopholes, constantly wrong-footing the viewer while also setting up truly revelatory payoffs from seemingly low-key, unimportant beginnings – this is a film you need to be awake and attentive for or you could miss something pretty vital. The action sequences are, as ever, second to none, some of the year’s very best set-pieces coming thick and fast and executed with some of the most accomplished skill in the business, while Nolan-regular cinematographer Hoyte van Hoytema (Interstellar and Dunkirk, as well as the heady likes of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, SPECTRE and Ad Astra) once again shows he’s one of the best camera-wizards in the business today by delivering some absolutely mesmerising visuals.  Notably, Nolan’s other regular collaborator, composer Hans Zimmer, is absent here (although he had good reason, since he was working on his dream project at the time, the fast-approaching screen adaptation of Dune), but Ludwig Göransson (best known for his collaborations with Ryan Coogler Fruitvale Station, Creed and Black Panther, as well as career-best work on The Mandalorian) is a fine replacement, crafting an intriguingly internalised, post-modern musical landscape that thrums and pulses in time with the story and emotions of the characters rather than the action itself. Interestingly it’s on the subject of sound that some of the film’s rare detractions have been levelled, and I can see some of the points – the soundtrack mix is an all-encompassing thing, and there are times when the dialogue can be overwhelmed, but in Nolan’s defence this film is a heady, immersive experience, something you really need to concentrate on, so these potential flaws are easily forgiven.  As a work of filmmaking art, this is another flawless wonder from one of the true masters of the craft working in cinema today, but it’s art with palpable substance, a rewarding whole that proved truly unbeatable in 2020 …
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discountscoobyart · 3 years
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so did you like the ending? of sk8?
hello ✨
short answer: yeah
long answer: i agree with people that it felt very rushed, there would have been enough time to resolve most major plot points, but for some reason they chose to focus more on ✨the power of friendship✨ and having fun while skating. not to say that’s a bad thing, but if you wanted adam to get a redemption arc, you would have to actually set up an arc and not drop this on us last minute. the treatment of kiriko (and tadashi) felt off because in the end they didn’t really matter?? which is sad because they could have been great characters. for the me the most unsatisfying thing is def that the whole adam thing was just resolved poorly. we didn’t get an adam redemption arc, which i wouldn’t have wanted in the first place just because they spend 12 episodes telling us how bad he is, but we also didn’t see him deal with any consequences for his actions. he’s just still kind of there. is he still evil? is he still after langa? we didn’t even see his reaction to losing to langa the way i was hoping to. there’s definitely a lot to unpack and there would be enough to make a season 2/ova/movie but hey, we don’t know that yet. and please what happened to the guy that hit shadow over the head???? pls studio bones where did he end up
on the positive side: renga canon!!! beautiful, we got a hug and them being each other’s definition of happiness and gay love saving langa’s life wow what a treat
we got happy miya!!!
we got the whole found family hanging out!!!
shadow x oka!!!
we saw reki teaching his sisters how to skate!!!
we saw langa showing off his skateboard to his dad’s grave which was cute etc.
yeah, it wasn’t perfect, it was disappointing even, but the rest of the show is still enjoyable and fun to watch and the episode is also still worth rewatching after all ☝️
anyway, SEASON 2 OLYMPICS ARC
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Text
Why I Think Sk8 the Infinity Deserves More Than One Season: An Essay
So as many of us in the Sk8 fandom know, after episode 10 of Sk8 drops in roughly 12 hours or so (it probably varies depending on timezones and shit, but for us Americans, it's around there.), there are only going to be two more episodes of Sk8. I'm not saying that this is a bad thing, really. Madoka Magica lasted for a single 12 episode season, and while I've only seen one episode of the show, it's got an 8/10 rating on average according to Google, which I think is pretty good for an anime that was released in 2011. But I am really pissed if this is all that we're going to get in terms of Sk8. I got into it about a day after episode 5 released on Funimation, and me and Jitters have been hooked on it since. And for the past few days while waiting for what has seemed like several years at this point, I have not only cranked out several Sk8 fics, I've been thinking for ages about all the things I love about this anime, and also what the second season could focus on, if we do ever get it, hence why I'm infodumping it on all of you, my dear followers. If you followed me for non-Sk8 things or literally anything else, sorry, but I'm not sorry.
Anyways, as for the subject on what the focus of a potential s2 of Sk8 could be, I see three possibilities; Renga, Matchablossom, and Miya. Stick with me, this is not just rambling on about how much I love those three things, I swear.
Let's start with Renga, since it's been a main focus of the fandom. Personally, I'm not really looking forward to Langa confessing to Reki in this episode, since Reki is still going through a lot mentally, and Langa just confessing to him in episode ten would just probably make things so, so much worse.
But I am pretty sure that Reki and Langa will make up in this episode, and while I'm not 100% sure about this, I can see the Renga confession/kiss coming in episode twelve. But if the fucking palm trees come before we see the aftermath I will fly my nerdy ass to Japan and personally fistfight every single person at Studio Bones, I swear to God.
With this in mind, this next season could showcase how Reki and Langa's relationship changes once things take a romantic turn, but it could also showcase the conflict of wondering if they should make their relationship public to their families and peers. Remember, Sk8 takes place in Okinawa, a city in Japan. I did some research on LGBT rights in Japan a while ago, and while Japan's culture and whatnot doesn't really have any history of being hostile towards homosexuality and such, it doesn't really recognize same sex couples, and gay marriage isn't legal there either. And there are always some people who are against LGBT rights/are homophobic, etc. So there's a chance that Reki and Langa could deal with that, but honestly, it feels like there's a real slim chance of that. But we probably would get more Renga in a s2 of Sk8.
Next up, Matchablossom. In this past season, we've seen glimpses of what Cherry and Joe were up to as teenagers, but it's been confirmed that Cherry and Joe are childhood friends. Not "we've been friends since we were teens". They've known each other since they were children, most likely around elementary/grade school. We might get a deeper look at Cherry and Joe's relationship from their past, maybe even revealing how the two met, that is if it's not revealed before the last two episodes air. We might be able to see the reason why the two of them fight like an old married couple, maybe the two of them had some sort of big fallout after their friendship with Adam fell apart. Or maybe an event of some sort could cause them to become closer than they were before. I'm not sure what that sort of event would be, but I feel it'd be rather interesting.
And last but not least, Miya. He hasn't really gotten too much focus in Sk8, which is honestly fair, since he's a supporting character for the most part. But I'm curious about a lot of things involving Miya. For example, why'd he start skating competitively? How did he get involved with Adam? And is Adam a reason Miya got involved with S? There's a lot of questions that I have about Miya that have been left unanswered, and I hope that maybe we'll get answers to those questions.
Anyway, that's just my theory/take on things. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk
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t-o-m-hollands · 4 years
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PARIS PART II of III
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Warnings: Swearing, heavy drinking, smut. +18.
SUMMARY: Timmy is an artist living in Paris in the 1950′s. You come to him to model for a painting but you have an unusual demand for the artist.      
R E A D    P A R T   O N E    H E R E
1st of October, 1952 - Paris.  
It’s Tuesday and Timothée is tired. It’s 1 in the afternoon but his head is still aching from last night. It's been seven months since you left Paris, and somehow, life has gone on.  
The sun is shining mercilessly bright and he wishes he was back in his studio, so he could hide from it. But it’s a place he spends as little amount of time as possible in as of late. Instead he’s sitting on a bench just below Sacré-Cœur, wearing last night's clothes, a mess of curls framing his tired face. In one hand a cigarette and in the other a freshly printed copy of the Tatler. On the front page is your face, radiantly beautiful, in a wedding dress and veil, diamonds in your ears and diamonds on your head. Next to you is your Freddie, looking straight at the camera, unnecessarily smug; or so Timothée thinks. Inside the magazine there’s an entire montage in the happy couples’ honor, complete with exclusive pictures from the high-society occasion.  
“Dubbed the wedding of the season this intimate affair took place on a drizzly September morning between baron Freddie Fairfax and his blushing new bride. Freddie, who is the son of the 9th Earl of Abington, was overheard by some guest remarking over the beauty of his new bride, who was wearing a bone-white couture gown signed Christian Dior and accessorized with a diadem, an heirloom of the Fairfax family that has been in their possession for generations and borrowed to the bride on this special occasion. The nuptials were exchanged in St Margaret’s Church, gloriously decorated with bunches and bunches of yellow chrysanthemums, aconites and white lilies, in front of an audience including representants from most of the royal households of Europe and the English social elite. The reception took place at the Earls 25,000 acres estate in Oxfordshire and upon arrival the guest were served ice cold”    
Timothée stops reading and throws the magazine down on the bench. For a long time he sits there, watching as people climb their way up the stairs to the church, and smoking cigarette after cigarette until his throat feels sore. It’s a fine October day, the air crisp and clean. The leaves on the trees changing from emerald green to vibrant shades of orange and yellow. Some have already fallen to the ground. A melancholic part of him, the majority in fact, can’t help but to think of it as a metaphor of his life. He’d met you and the entire world had seemed in bloom. Now it was rapidly fading.  
Someone sits down beside him on the bench, but he ignores them, mind too far away to care.      
“You are monsieur Chalamet, I presume”. With a startle he looks at the person next to him. It’s an elderly lady, possibly in her 80’s, with hair in a sophisticated updo, burgundy lips and sparkling eyes. She’s clothed in an expensive fur coat and with diamonds on every finger. He suddenly feels dirty in his unwashed clothes.        
“Yes madam, and who are you if I may ask?”  he answers politely.    
“Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright” she introduces herself, stretching out her heavily bejeweled hand. He shakes the elderly woman’s hand. It feels strangely cold in his.    
“And what can I do for you, madam?”    
She doesn’t answer at first but looks down on the magazine between them. “Pretty, isn’t she?” she asks. He doesn’t answer at first, doesn’t know what to say to that. “Yes, very pretty” he answers at last.  
“It was a terrible wedding” she continues. “Terrible”.    
“And how do you know the bride?” He asks, feeling rather uncomfortable
“She’s my grandniece” she says and looks up at him again, studying his face. “She lived with me for a period, here in Paris. I believe you know one another?”  
He doesn’t answer her question, knows she already knows the answer to it, instead he asks “and why was the wedding so terrible?”  
“Oh” she says and swats with her hand, but there’s a look of worry on her face he can’t look past. “When the bride’s wearing the wrong dress, or the bridesmaids won’t behave, or the food’s terrible, well those are all things one expects at a wedding. But when the bride marries the wrong groom, well, that’s not quite as easily overlooked. Then you find yourself actually praying for an ill-fitted gown instead”.  
He stares at her in confusion. “What do you mean, the wrong groom?”  
She observers him with shrewd eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”  
“Madam, with all due respect, I not sure what you want with me” he says slowly.  He finds himself wondering if maybe he’s still asleep and this is a strange dream produced by too much absinthe. If he’ll perhaps wake up in a ditch soon, with a hangover from hell.
“But don’t worry” she says with a kind smile “We can still fix this”.  
  He wonders if he should leave, for this is not a conversation he wants to have, especially not with a complete stranger. But despite himself he says “there’s nothing to fix”.  
Then she takes him by surprise, for she grabs the magazine from the bench and hits his arm with it, not hard, but enough to get a reaction out of him. “Ow!” he bursts out, “what was that for?”
“For you to get a grip of yourself! Don’t be so defeatist, I told you we can fix this. You still love her and she loves you, not that absolute buffoon”.  
“It’s too late, she’s already married him. And I'm over it” he lies, trying to keep on to some kind of dignity in this bizarre situation.  
“Don’t be ridiculous, you haven’t moved on from any of it, I know an idiot in love when I see one, and you’re it”.  
“Gee, thanks” he mutters, rubbing the sore spot where she hit him with the magazine.  
“Now, what are we going to do? Are you going after her?”  
He stares at her in disbelief, “no, she’s married, I told you, it’s too late”.
“Do I need to use this again?” she threatens and holds up the magazine, but there’s a humorous gleam in her eyes that makes him smile.    
“Why are you trying to help me?” He asks.
“Well, quite frankly dahling, I'm not trying to help you. But that girl, my dahling niece, is miserable.” There’s sadness now in her old eyes and something twists uncomfortably in Timothée’s chest.  
“It’s that bloody women's fault, her mother!”  She bursts out, taking him aback. The venom in her voice almost palpable, “She’s whispering ideas of self-sacrifice in her ear. Not that her father’s any better – defeatist! That’s the only word to describe him! Never could fight for himself. To think that my dahling sister could have given birth to such a fool. And now my grandniece...” she trails off, sadness in her voice again.    
“Now your grandniece has a title and is married to one of the richest people in England.” He states firmly.    
She throws the magazine down on the bench again and swats her hand in front of her, as if to get rid of a particularly annoying fly, and the diamonds on her hand sparkle in the sun. “Yes, but it’s not what she wants. Is it? What she wants is, well, it’s you.”    
There’s something so penetrating about her eyes and the way she looks at him. Crinkled and full of wrinkles her face may be but those shrew eyes shine bright as ever. They are very familiar eyes, a strong remembrance to another pair of eyes that haunt his dreams.  He looks away,    
“But she did decide to marry him, that was her decision. Doesn’t mean I don’t understand it, but there’s where we’re at. There’s nothing to be done.”    
“I saw the painting you made of her” She says in a voice that make him think she’s fishing after something and in the corner of his eyes he can see her inspecting him. He lights a new cigarette and avoids her eyes. “The one with yellow tulips?” she adds, making it sound like a question.    
Ah    
“’s just a painting” he mumbles, feigning nonchalance.    
She continues to observe him before sighing. Then, she pats him on his arm and in a gentle tone she says “we both know that’s not quite true”.    
And suddenly he wants to weep. Weep in a way he hasn’t since he was a child. Without holding back, without grace or shame. Weep, and subject the poison from his body. But he doesn’t. Clenching his hands around the rim of the bench with all of his strength he manages to keep the storm at bay. Only when he feels he has his emotions locked up and under control does he look at her again. Her familiar eyes, full of sympathy, observes him and something inside his chest is screaming.  
“Could I paint you, madam?” he asks with a smile, to lighten the mood.  
She throws her head back in laughter. “Oh, how sweet of you, but I'm afraid my modelling days are far behind me. But if you ever need something, a listening ear or” and she looks at his dirty clothes “or perhaps a loan, then feel free to keep in touch.”
She gently pats his shoulder, then gets up and leaves.  
  *  
February 12th, 1953  
In a dimly lit club in Pigalle Timothée is writing a letter. Smoke surrounds him and the dim light shining through gives the illusion of a halo around his head. It’s a bad place to conduct letters in. People around him are cheering and talking, singing and howling with laughter while a modern band plays experimental jazz. It is rowdy, and it is wild, and it’s the perfect distraction.  
It’s a shabby sort of place, where the floors are sticky with god knows what, the music is loud and the liquor comes cheap. Timothée thinks it’s heaven.
A man sits down next to him in the bar and orders a Gin Rickey.  
“Terrible, aren’t they?” He questions in a broad American accent, gesturing toward the band as the bartender hands him his drink. Timothée nods in agreement and gestures with his empty glass to the bartender, implying need of a refill of his whiskey neat. The barman catches his gesture and pour him a new glass of Glenlivet and hands it to him just as the band begin a new tune.  
“Hardly Duke Ellington” he says to the stranger and nods to the scene. He folds the unfinished letter and puts it in his pocket for later. The other man snorts in response, “that’s putting it kindly” he says, amusement in his voice. Timothée takes a good look at the stranger. He looks to be about his own age and is wearing a nice grey suit and hat tilted to the side. With a square jaw, a tall stature and piercingly blue eyes he could pass for a movie star. Lighting a cigarette, the man then offers one to Timothée, who gladly accepts the offer in a gratified manner. He’s been running low on his own stash these last few days.    
They start talking. Discussing the differences in American and French jazz, the best drinking holes in Paris and who really is the great American writer. Timothée claim it’s Hemingway (“mark my words, he’ll win a Nobel price one of these days) whereas the stranger argues for F. Scott Fitzgerald (“the way he writes about the promise of the American dream, no one can rival Fitzgerald” he proclaims and Timmy wants to argue that surely he writes about the failed promise of the American dream, but they move on to a less dividing topic). The discuss bourbon and whiskey and rum as the bartender refill their glasses and the liquor no longer burns his throat and his eyes have adjusted to the smoke in the room as they mindlessly chat on. Timmy finds out that the strangers name is William and that he’s originally from California though went to boarding school in ‘good ol’ England’ but that he’s spent the last year in New York. Also, that he’s just separated from his wife. Timmy in turn tells him of his own life in broad strokes, his American mother and French father, art school and life as a painter in Paris. A few drinks later still and they get a hold of an old, wooden table at the far back of the room and so they cross the room, avoiding collision with the dancers, all in various states of drunkenness, and they begin a game of cards. The jazz band plays on.      
William turns out to be quite the gambler and Timothée, who’s been walking around for months now with a feeling that he has nothing more to lose, can’t help but bet on the few things he has. They laugh and play and share stories of their youth while the jazz band play louder and louder. Perhaps the good company and distracting surroundings goes to his head, because a couple games in and Timmy is indebted to the American. He has had a bad hand overall as of late and he tells his opponent as much. The man in turn laughs and leans back in his chair, his cards in one hand and a cigar in the other. He takes a long drag from it before blowing out smoke across the space between them. Around them people dance to the chaotic music.  
“Hell, I’m feeling generous tonight and you’ve been good company. Not many people I can talk to here in France, my French is terrible. So, you’re a painter, how about a painting, then? And I’ll write the whole thing off.” he suggests and smiles broadly.    
Timothée hesitates. His apartment has been unusually empty of paintings as of late. The few ones he had he sold just last week in order to meet rent. Inspiration to paint new ones had not been with him. Not since you left. Everything he had managed to paint had come out drained of colour and bleak and he ended up losing interest in it.    
He only has one painting left.  But he couldn't, could he?
“Alright” Timmy agrees. Because what choice does he have? Maybe it’s time to put this ghost to rest, once and for all. Your gone and no wishful thinking or practices in gratefulness can change that simple fact. You’re married and there’s nothing he can do about it, despite madame Marguerite’s words of your misery ringing in his ears. There’s nothing he can do to save you now. You’ve made your choice, and all there is now is the aftermath. The post mortem. You have to live with that decision and so does he. Even if he doesn’t want to. So, why should he keep the painting? The baron got to keep the real you after all, and the only thing he has is the picture of you. A picture that can’t talk or laugh, can’t smile or play with his hair or touch him or dance to Chopin or lecture him about classical music. A painted image that he has stared himself blind at for these past few months, grieving that he cannot bring it to life, while the baron got the real you.    
His unfinished letter burns in his pocket but he ignores it.  
And so they leave, on unsteady legs and heads swirling with liquor, and the jazz band plays them out to their worst tune yet as they exchange the smoky club air for a cold night’s breeze.  
“Fuck” William mutters as they enter the night. “Fucking freezing” he adds and shivers in his nice suit. “No worry” Timothée slurs “not far”. They stumble their way across the cobblestoned streets. “You damn Frenchmen” the other man mutters after some distance, “always got to fucking walk everywhere, taxis where invented tor a reason, you know!” Timmy snorts and points to a building just a couple of meters away. “Live there, yeah?”  
And with a lot of effort they help each other up the stairs to the loft. Once inside William asks if there’s any brandy, for ‘recovery purposes after their hellish journey’ and so, they drink some more. They start discussing politics, a bad idea all around, before venturing into the less dividing topic of French cinema. It’s not long after that they’ve both fallen asleep, William slung on the sofa, his long limbs hanging over the edge, and Timothée’s sprawled out on the carpet, the bottle of brandy clutched firmly in his hand. (For recovery purposes.)  
A few hours later and Timmy’s hurling down the toilet. He wants to check his head for bullet holes, that’s how bad it’s aching. After having cleaned up, although there’s nothing to be done about the mess of curls that is his hair, he joins the American in his living room.  
William is sitting up on the sofa, but it looks very much as if he’s just woken up, hair a mess and a 5 o'clock shadow, his expensive suit all wrinkles now. The sun is shining mercilessly bright and its rays lights up the room as he rubs his eyes. “Coffee?” he requests in a gruff voice. Timothée nods, before realizing that any movement of the head is a terrible idea as pain shots through it.  
“What a fucking night” William mutters some time later as they drink their coffee. “And I’ve got a meeting with the lawyers this afternoon, not the sort of thing one should do hungover.”  
“Oh yeah?” is all Timothée manages to get out, head still too sore to put any thoughts together.  
“Yeah, divorce proceedings”  
“Rotten business” Timmy states and the other man laughs. “Rotten business, indeed” he agrees and cheer him with his mug of coffee. “Still, a necessity that must be endured.” He looks around the loft. “But I’ll have a new painting to hang in my bachelor pad, that’s something to write home about!” he says, more cheerful now.  
And fuck, he’d forgotten that part.  
Feeling nauseous again he puts down his coffee cup. “Yeah, you’ll have a new painting” he agrees, mostly to fill the silence.    
“Haven’t seen any of your work yet though” William considers. “You might be shit. My five-year-old niece might be a better painter, and I’ve just promised to write off your debts to me” he adds and laughs. Timmy gets up, there’s no putting this off. “I’ll go get it and you’ll decide” he says and heads for his bedroom.  
The paintings leaned against the wall.  He doesn’t turn it, doesn’t want to see it one last time. There’s not enough brandy in the world for that recovery. Something inside his chest is rioting against the very idea of handing the picture over to anyone else, but he pushes down the feeling of nausea and heads back to the living room, canvas clutched firmly in his hands.  
“Well” he says and holds it up, so the other man can see. “Here’s your winnings”.  
William looks up at it and then, the strangest thing happens. His entire being freezes, his mouth ajar, stuck mid-movement as he had begun to say something before having seemingly been struck by lightning. Bells are ringing alarmingly in Timothée’s head, going off like sirens. Somethings wrong.  
He observes Williams glossy eyes taking in the portrait in front of him, mouth still agog in chock. He places to painting on the dingy little table but William still doesn’t take his eyes off it. He gets up slowly and walks over to the painting, as if in a trance, like a man bewitched, and he reaches out a hand to touch the painting and with hesitant fingers he gently touches your cheek. The nude portrait of you, the one Timothée had painted on the day that you left him, posing slung on the very same sofa William’s just slept on.    
And it hits him then, like a collision.  
That this is William. The William. The man who broke your engagement and sailed across the Atlantic with his new bride. A bride he’s apparently already separated from.    
“How, how-” William begins but he seems unable to finish the sentence.  
A sudden feeling of being a side character in somebody else’s story settles inside of Timothée. Words like destiny and star-crossed comes to mind as he observes the other man and his wide, wild eyes, the way he looks at the painting in absolute wonder.  
“Is, is she still here? Is she still in Paris?” and his voice is weak but full of hope. Slowly Timothée shakes his head. “She’s left.” He confirms, and the crushing disappointment is so clear in the other man’s face that it feels cruel to continue, but he does. “She’s married now. To a baron”.  
William’s head snaps away from the painting for the first time since he saw it. “Freddie?” He asks, voice bitter and Timmy nods. “That fucker” he swears “he always was sniffing after her” he adds resentfully. He looks back at the painting and his expression soften, but he looks sadder too.    
“That’s why you came here, isn’t?” Timothée asks hesitantly. “To look for her?”  
William nods, seemingly unable to look away from the picture. He reaches for it and an overwhelming urge to stop him, to remove the painting from his sight washes over Timothée. To hand this portrait of you away to a stranger had seemed like a sad but unavoidable thing to do. But to give it away in due for his debts to your ex fiancé… It felt dirty and cruel.    
But what choice did he have?  
And so, he watches William take the painting and watches him leave with the only thing he has left of you.  
Because Timothée is 26 and he still hasn’t got any money. And he can’t compete with handsome William, or to Freddie the baron. Because Timothée is 26 and all he’s got to show for it is an apartment he can’t afford anymore and a broken heart.    
He runs to the bathroom and hurls in the toilet again, unable to ignore the feeling of nausea and guilt any longer.
*
That night you come to him in his dreams. Like a vision you appear at the end of his bed, drenched in water. White, wet silk clenching to your body, hair slicked to your face and such a haunted look in your eyes that he involuntarily reaches out for you, to hold you, to help you, to save you. He’s not quite sure. But before he can reach you the scenario changes. Because suddenly – as is the way of dreams, you’re the Tate museum watching John Everett Millais Ophelia. Your standing next to him, water dripping from your drenched body down on the floor. He looks at you, but you keep your eyes on the painting.
And when he looks back at it, it’s no longer a portrait of Ophelia lying dead in the water. It’s you.  
He wakes with a jolt, drenched in cold sweat, gasping for air. It feels like he has to force fresh air into his lungs, like he’s been under water for too long. He feels around himself, automatically, to feel for your body, make sure you’re safe.
Bur you are miles away.
*    
February 14th, 1953  
Timothée writes a new letter.    
It’s 5 am and I'm drunk and I am thinking of you and in a few hours it’ll be 12 am and I'll be drunk and I'll be thinking of you. And so the story goes.    
I met your William, charming bloke, shame about his wife. He came here looking for you, you know? Don’t worry, I told him you got married to a baron. Your wedding pictures looked lovely in the Tatler, by the way.  Diamonds suits you.
I haven’t painted much since you left. I have no inspiration. For anything.  
You know, we've made a beating heart out of my pain. It’s a living, breathing creature and it walks with me everywhere, hidden somewhere under my ribcage. Like a second heart. Where I go it follows. What I feel for you, it’s a Frankenstein's monster kind of grief, bits and pieces cut out from us both, turned into a living creature. Can you hear it beating for you? Can you hear it screaming out for you? Saying ‘where did she go? Where did she go? Why can’t I follow?’ Like a child begging for its mother. Come back, come back and collect your second heart, take it out of my body, remove it from me, I cannot stand its begging. I'd kill the monster, but it’s the only thing I have left of you now. Don’t think I could stomach the loss.    
I’m not the same I was before I met you. This love has made a different man out of me. This love has made a bitter man out of me. This love sure feels a lot like drowning. In my dreams you come to me, all Ophelia-esque and suffering, and I want to pull both our bodies out of the water, but you’re determined to sink and I don’t want to let go of your hand and so – we drown.    
I know it’ll pass, this longing I have for you. It must. I cannot keep walking these streets wrecked with grief. One day at a time. That’s what I tell myself each morning as a watch the sun rise over Paris, my head and heart pounding in revolt, one day at a time.      
There’s a Swedish saying that goes ‘a lot of water shall run under a lot of bridges before I forget you’. What it essentially means is that it’ll take a lot for me to forget you, or the way you made me feel.    
But I'm sorry. One mustn’t be morbid. I won’t write you again. I’ve tried to be grateful; I am trying. I hope married life is treating you well. I hope you’ve gotten all you ever wished for. I hope you’re happy. I honestly do. You deserve the best life has to offer. I’m just sad I can’t be the one giving it to you. Being without you is a hard thing to be grateful for.    
One day at a time.    
Yours,      
Timothée      
*    
The next morning, he calls the model agency. Later, just as his headache is subsiding, a blonde model named Lucy knocks on his door. She’s chatty and friendly and moves around too much when he paints her. Her laugh is loud but childlike and she keeps the conversation going. He plays a Benny Goodman record and her hips gently swing along to the rhythm almost involuntarily and she sings along in a sweet voice to ‘The Sunny Side of the Street’.  
Outside the sun is shining and the whole world seems at rest. It’s not the same – God knows it’s not the same – but for the first time in months it all seems, not alright perhaps, but bearable.      
Later that night as he washes himself clean from the yellow paint that’s stained his fingers, he tries to push the feeling of guilt down from where it seems to be stuck in his throat. When that doesn’t work he tries to wash it down with absinth but as he lays down on the livingroom floor, too tired to make it into the bedroom, he watches the golden painting of Lucy gleam even in the dark, he wonders if perhaps absinth is what makes guilt grow.    
*  
1st of Mars, 1953  
Timothée wakes to sunlight streaming in through the large and unwashed windows. For a long while he lays there completely still, sprawled out on the white linen sheets, curly hair draped over the pillow; trying to force his eyes to get used to the light. His head is pounding, and his body aches, but the sensation feels as familiar as the scent of turpentine and oil paint. Slowly he moves his limbs, first wiggling his toes and his hands; as if to count them all, and then, with monumental strength of character, he gets out of bed. Naked as the day he was born he walks over to the window. Far down on the street Paris is already awake, cars and passer-byers chasing down the streets. Some have changed out of their heavy, winter jackets to lighter coats as the bustle off to their individual destination.
It is the first day of spring.  
He turns away from the window, in search for some clothes but stop in his tracks. As if seeing the room with new eyes he takes it in. Around the bed lay bottle after bottle of liquor, the sheets are old and dirty, the room hasn’t been dusted in months, and various pieces of clothing lay scattered everywhere.
He can’t go on like this. It’s time, whether he wants it to be or not. He has to go on.  
He pours down the absinthe, the rum, the whiskey and the brandy down the kitchen sink and watches as it disappears. He cleans and wipes the floor, washes his sheets and clothes and then carefully folds them and puts them away in his closet.  He finishes his painting of Lucy and then starts on another. He calls his delighted art dealer and informs him of the progress, tells him that he’ll have more ones in no time. He then swallows his pride and calls madam Marguerite, asking for the loan she offered. Pride won’t keep him warm if he loses the apartment due to not paying rent. She too sounds delighted and tells him he can pay her back by coming over for dinner. They both need the company.      
And so, he walks to her apartment, a bouquet of daffodils in hand, smelling like clean laundry and with his newly brushed hair it all feel an awful lot like going to church. Upon arriving at Marguerite’s home, a maid opens the door for him and he tries not to smile when she wrinkles her nose and takes his old and patchy coat. The apartment is palace-like in grandeur, white marble everywhere, and decorated with expertise. She leads him into the lounge and announces him.  
“Mr. Chalamet, madam”.  
“Yes, thank you Louise” Marguerite answers and the maid leaves them.  
“A cocktail?” she asks, holding up an empty martini glass. He politely accepts and looks around the room as she prepares it. “Is that a Picasso?” he asks astonished, pointing at a blue portrait of a woman on the wall opposite.  
“Yes” she says and hands him a martini.  
“How- how?”  
She smiles at him indulgently. “I knew him in my youth” she explains and takes a sip from her own drink. He stares at her in amazement. “You know Pablo Picasso?”  
She scoffs. “Oh, don’t be jealous of that, man’s an absolute fool”.
And so, they talk, all through drinks and then dinner.  About art and music. About both of their childhoods, different though they both may have been. She tells him stories from her long and impressive life. About dahling Humphrey. After dinner, which had been a superb affair of duck confit; served on the finest of porcelain and paired with the finest of wines, they’d gone out on the terrace for drinks and smokes. He sticks to his old Lucky Strikes and she to imported Russian cigarettes, (a habit she’d picked up during the war, she’d told him).  
“Darling Humprey would have liked you, he would have rooted for you” she says and leans back in her chair, a Hermès blanket in her lap to keep her warm.  
“Oh really? Was he a good gambler?”
“Oh god no, he was terrible better. And a sore loser.”  she says and smiles in the fond way she does when she thinks of her late husband.  
“How reassuring for me” he says dryly.    
“Dahlinh” she begins in a drawl that would have made Betty Davis proud, “what should be reassuring is that I’m fighting in your corner, and I don’t believe in a losing hand”. Then, changing the subject she says “My niece is quite right you know, your knowledge of classical music is subpar, so I'm educating you. Next week, I'll take you to the opera.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, indeed. Gianni Schicchi. I have a spare ticket so feel free to bring someone along with you”.  
 “Puccini?” he says with a grimace.
“Now boy, I'm fond of you but if you say bad word of Puccini I will throw you of this balcony myself”.
He smiles, but she reminds him so much of her grandniece in this moment and something in his chest is calling out for you
Later that week he calls Lucy and they go out dancing. He doesn’t take her to Pigelle, wants to keep away from its smoke-filled rooms and sticky floors. Escapism isn’t heaven. Not anymore. Instead he takes her to La Noyade, a nice place where nice people go to have fun. And they dance, and she makes him laugh and it’s not world-altering or butterfly-inducing but it’s a good way to pass the time. They mindlessly chat about movies, and music and film stars over glasses of Champagne and they never once wade into personal territories. She wears a nice and tight dress in a sunny color, her golden blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, and as he watches her seductively move her hips to the live band's music, he finds himself thinking ‘why not?’ And when she kisses him with painted-pink lips under a streetlamp he kisses her back. Because why not. And when he takes her to bed that night and fucks her into the mattress, her moans ringing in his ears, and her yellow hair sprawled over his pillows he nearly manages to forget you.  
Nearly.      
He holds her as she falls asleep and he tries to get used to the unfamiliar scent of her hair, the unfamiliarity of her body next to his. One day at a time.
(In his dreams you come to him, through the haze of a misty beach. You take his hand and guide him into a boat. And there you lay, as the boat drifts away and you watch the stars. You hold him close, and breathing feels easier. The rioting creature inside his chest finally at ease.)
*
Walking of the stairs of L'Opéra Garnier one can’t help feel anything but small. The supreme grandeur of the palace is designed to make you feel inferior after all. The high ceiling, gloriously painted by Isidore Pils, is enough to knock the breath out of anyone, and then white marble and gold for as far as the eye can see.  
Timothée is wearing a tuxedo, the cheap rental kind, and the collar hasn’t been starched properly. It itches, and he fights the urge to scratch at his neck, and so he keeps his hand occupied by taking Lucy’s hand in his, and they make their way forward.  
They make their way down the grand foyer. All around them people are dressed up to the nine’s in evening dresses, furs and tuxedos and more diamonds than he’s seen in his entire life, and god, Timothée misses Montmartre. Through the crowd he can see madam Marguerite, fitting her surroundings perfectly.  
“Madam” he greets and kisses her cheek.
“Timothée” she responds, and she sounds fond. However, before he can introduce Lucy to her Marguerite looks over his shoulder and excitingly exclaims “Oh, there you are darling!” Without thinking he turns around to look at whomever Marguerite is greeting.
His body reacts before he does and goes completely still and for a moment he doesn’t understand what’s happening to him.
It’s you.  
With your hair up in an eloquent hairdo, wearing a black velvet gown that he bets costs more than his apartment, and diamonds around your neck, you’re walking towards them. Arm in arm with you walks a man Timothée recognizes from the Tatler, Freddie, with blond hair and upturned nose. He’s certainly not wearing rental wear. “Timothée?” you ask in a weak voice as you reach him. You’re seemingly unable to believe your eyes. “Is it really you?” And with your painted blood-red lips you lean in to kiss his cheek, but they never touch his skin. You pull away and he sees how Freddie’s arm tightens around your waist.
Then you look at Lucy.
“Oh, yes of course, this is Lucy she’s my, uh” he halters.
“Muse” Lucy fills in and Timothée wants to protest, wants to catch the word midair and change it for something else, something less familiar. But he can’t. So, he watches in silence as she stretches out a hand for you to shake, which you elegantly do and even though you’re politely smiling there’s a frozen look on your face that unsettles him. With effortless grace you introduce yourself.  
Then, “and this is my husband, Frederic”. You smile up at him and something inside Timothée chest is wreaking havoc. Freddie looks bored.  
“Should we move along?” Freddie says in a drawling, posh voice that makes Timmy’s skin prickle in displeasure.  
“Of course” Marguerite says, and leads the way, calling out ‘hello’s’ and ‘dahling’s’ to various familiar faces as she goes. Lucy crosses arms with him and they follow the older women's lead, you and your husband at your heel.  
Timothée feels disorientated, head swimming with thoughts. There are too many feelings at once inside of him, too many different emotions fighting for dominance. But somehow, he continues to put one foot in front of the other and before he knows it, they’re in the auditorium. They’re in one of the boxes, and Marguerite places herself front row, next to an elderly gentleman she greets with fond familiarity. In the row behind them Freddie guides his wife and then sits down next to her. He and Lucy take the two seats behind them, Timothée ending up in the seat right behind you. He sees how Freddie leans in to whisper something in your ear, but he can’t hear his words. All he can see is that you stiffen, and slowly shake your head.  
He looks at you, you’re perfect updo, not a hair out of place, the immaculately painted lips, the swan-like neck and perfect stiff posture. Your face still with that unsettling frozen look, as if you’ve retracted somewhere far inside yourself and he remembers how you used to dance in his studio, unguarded and free. Laughing and dancing while he painted you. A sudden urge to take your hand grabs hold of him. To take your hand and lead you away from all of this, away from the man sitting down beside you. To loosen your hair and limbs. To take you home and play Chopin and make you laugh again. Erase that frozen, still look from your face.  
The lighting dims in the auditorium and then the orchestra begin the dramatic first chords of the opera but Timothée finds it hard to concentrate. Lucy has her eyes set on the stage, her hand on his knee. He feels like a trapped animal.  
He thanks his lucky star that it’s at least only a one-act opera he tries to focus on the performances, but his eyes keep moving back to your neck. Your dress is backless and if he reaches out his hand, he could touch your skin. But doesn’t. Knows you wouldn’t want him to.
When O Mio Babbino Caro starts playing he sees how you lean forward, mesmerized by the beautiful voice of the soprano and he smiles, for he remembers you telling him it’s your favorite aria. But he sees how Freddie puts a hand on your arm, making you sit straight again.  
‘Huh’ Timothée thinks and looks at your husband, ‘so this is what pure hatred feels like’. He digs his nails into his hand, leaving little half-moon shaped marks.    
Eventually the wretched thing ends and after having applauded the performers and the orchestra you all rise up to leave. You turn and look at him and he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch your cheek, tell you how beautiful you are, how brave and wise and kind, and how undeserving the man next to you is. But he doesn’t.  
Once outside it’s decided that you and your husband are going back to George V with your aunt for drinks. Politely you invite him and Lucy but he reclines with a bad excuse. He observes you, and even with your perfectly polite manners it’ like you’re walking around half-asleep, still with that frozen look in your face that’s beginning to scare him. And Christ, you’re just so guarded. You bid your goodbyes, and kissing her cheek he thanks Marguerite for the tickets, but when he tries to say goodbye to you, he can see Freddie’s arm tighten around your wait again. So instead of leaning into a kiss on the cheek he politely bows his head and you and in a gentle voice he says “goodbye then, it was nice seeing you again”. You smile back, eyes glossy and for a moment he wonders if you’re about to cry but a moment later you’ve pulled yourself together and politely bids goodbye to Lucy.  And then you’re walking away, Freddie’s arm still around your waist.  
* The next morning he goes to visit madam Marguerite, a book in hand. Louise lets him in, looking down on him as usual. “Would you like me to mend this, monsieur?” she asks, both sarcasm and contempt clear in her voice, as she looks takes his coat, indicating the big tear in one of the sides. “If you wouldn’t mind” he answers cheekily and walks past her.  
Marguerite is sitting on the terrace eating breakfast, Le Monde in front of her. He puts down his copy of Jane Austen’s Emma in front of her.  
“There” he says and sits down in the chair opposite her “your literary soulmate”.
She scoffs “Mr. Knightley really isn’t my type”
He rolls his eyes, but smiles fondly at her “No I shouldn’t think so. And I meant Emma, not Mr. Knightley. You and Emma are the same”.   “Oh what utter nonsense!” She burst out, indignant, “I’ve never meddled a day in my life!”    
Timothée stares at her in disbelief.  
“Honestly!” she defends herself “I didn’t know they were coming to Paris until the day before and then, well, it seemed unnecessary to tell you”.  
“You should have warned me she’d be there” he says sternly. “If nothing else then because then I wouldn’t have invited Lucy”.
She has the decency to look ashamed. “Oh, I dare say I should have warned you. But I was afraid you’d cancel, and I needed you to see it with your own eyes.”
“See what?”
She looks him dead in the eye then, a grave look, “the change in her, of course”.  
He stays silent, doesn’t know what to say, drags his hands through his hair in distress.  
“So” she says after a few moments of silence, “what do you make of Freddie?”
“The words princeling comes to mind”.
She observes him for a second, a sceptic look on her face, “I’m sure that’s not the only word that comes to mind”.  He can’t help but smile at that, because she’s right. “True, but those are not words I'd use in front of a lady. She bursts out in laugher. “Darlinh, I practically invented swearing, no need to hold back in front of me.”
“What do you think of him?" He asks instead.
She huffs. “I prefer Picasso”. *
14th of Mars, 1953
Timothée is painting. Specks of yellow and gold adorn his hands and white shirt. The afternoon sun is lighting up the room and Chopin is playing for the first time in months on the record player. The knock on the door startles him, and since he was in the process of painting the details of Lucy’s eyes a stroke of dark paint ends up on her eyebrow as his hand jerks in surprise at the sudden noise.  
“Fuck” he swears, and with a great deal of annoyance does he go to open the door.
You look surprised as he flings the door open.  
“Sorry” you say, apologetically. “Is this an inconvenient time?”
He doesn’t answer, can’t seem to find his voice, just steps aside, inviting you to come in. You do, and move into the studio. He walks after you, seemingly in a daze.  
“Drink?” he asks eventually, interrupting the pressing silence.
“Yes please” you answer. He looks at you, your hair is elegantly styled and your wearing another expensive looking dress. You’re not looking at him though, but instead at the golden portrait of Lucy he’s in the process of making. You don’t say anything. There’s still that still look on your face and it unsettles him.  
He hands her a glass of gin. “Where’s dear Freddie then?” he asks, in a feigned nonchalant manner as he offers you a cigarette. You step closer to him so that he can light it. You’re so close he can smell your familiar perfume, and feel the heat from your skin. He looks down on you as you try to get the end to gleam. He can count your eyelashes from this distance, see every single feature in your face, every crook and corner. In the beginning, when you had first come to this studio, he had felt obsessed by the idea of painting your perfect likeness.  But the closer he looked at you, the more impossible it felt.       “Freddie is at a business function. I was not required” you answer and steps away from him, blowing out smoke into the room.   “And where’s your muse?” you ask, and there’s a certain amount of resentment in your voice that you can’t seem to keep at bay.
“Right here” he answers simply, looking at you.
“And Lucy?”
“I don’t know” he responds truthfully.  “I got your letter” you say, calmly.
Ah,
“Sorry” he says. “Shouldn’t have sent that. I was drunk”.
You keep looking at him, seemingly deep in thought.   And before he loses all courage he asks, “may I paint you again? One last time?”       “In what colour?”       “In all your colours, just as you are” he answers, and then “I don’t have rose-colored glasses when I look at you anymore”.     The room goes very still for a moment.   “Do you still want me?” you ask, voice small.     And with sincerity clear in his voice he answers. “More than ever”.
“No” you say and put down your drink, stubbing out your cigarette in the ashtray. “No, I don’t want you to paint me”.
Something twists painfully in his chest.  
“That’s not what I want you to do to me” you continue and step closer.
And then you kiss him.  
He grabs hold of you and kisses you back, trying to express every ounce of longing he’s felt since you left into the kiss. But he can tell part of you is holding back.   “Don’t do that” he says in a low voice, pulling away from you. His eyes are bright and shining. “If you’re with me, you’re with me. Don’t keep foot out the door. If you’re with me; be with me. If you don’t want to be, then you have to leave. I don’t want you half-heartedly. I understand you can’t stay with me longer than today but if you’re with me then don’t keep your mind on him.”       You stare at him, taken aback.       “Well?” he asks “is this what you want?”       Your answer is a red-hot kiss. Your answer is your hands, trying to tear his shirt off of him. Trying desperately to get your hands on his skin and he wants to cry from the sheer relief of feeling you touch him again. Frantically you’re tearing at his clothes. He grips your hands to stop you.       “Slowly” he whispers in your ear. He can tell that you’re worked up from your labored breathing, chest rising and falling quickly, your eyes gleaming as you look up at him. The frozen look finally gone. You look alive again. He can tell that all you want right now is for him to lay you down and fuck you as hard and fast as he can. But he doesn’t want to rush this, knows this is all the time he’s going to get. And he feels like a man living on borrowed time.     He kisses you, languidly, and your lips taste like gin. He leads you down, so you’re lying on the soft carpet, hovering above you. For ages all you do is kiss, your hands roaming his body, like you can’t stop touching him. Eventually he starts to remove your clothes, the silky material of your dress soft like water in his hands as he takes it off you, sneaking in kisses all over your body as he does so. You in turn help remove his dress shirt and trousers. Until eventually there’s nothing but air separating you.       He looks you directly, deep into your eyes “Sure?” he asks, because he must hear it. Couldn’t live with himself if you ended up regretting this.       “Yes” you say, voice barely louder than a whisper, but it doesn’t waver.       The last rays of golden sunshine lights up the room and maybe it’s his overactive imagination, but he swears the light forms a halo around your head. He’s prowling over you, settled in-between your legs.  He thinks you must see, surely you must see, all the wonder in his eyes that he feels when he looks at you.       He kisses your sensitive nipples and you shiver in delight. Your hands in his hair and you move up against him, desperate for him to touch more of you. He bites, nips, licks and sucks your breasts, leaving wet traces as he goes and god, he’s missed this; missed you. The taste and feel of your soft skin, your gasps and moans, your hands tugging at his hair. Some part of him, a particularly cynical part of him, thought he’d must have made it up, that in the aftermath of you leaving his brain had beautified the memories of you until you’d reach almost divine proportions. But it was all real.
He grinds his body against yours, fill his hands with your breast, kisses you everywhere he can. He reaches down a hand to the wetness between your legs.     “So wet” he murmurs against your skin “have you been thinking about this all day?” He pushes a finger inside you and you buckle up against him in response. “Mon cœur” he continues as he presses wet kisses against your throat, and adds another finger inside you, touching you with expertise in just the way he knows will send sparks of pleasure all down your spine. He remembers exactly how you like to be touched. “I asked you a question”.       “Yes” you moan.       He looks down on his fingers, moving in and out of you, glistening with your wetness. “Have you missed it?” he asks, voice low, and he speeds up the pace, his thumb moving over your clit. Your head thrown back you let out a deep moan and in a breathless voice you answer “yes, yes, missed it so much”.
Your hair has fallen out of its elegant hairdo, your cheeks flushed and wet and lips swollen from kisses. You look wild and free.
“I’ve been thinking about this, touching you; fucking you, ever since the opera” he leans down and kisses your clit, fingers still moving inside of you. And then he sucks on it and you explode around his fingers, cramping down around them, hips bucking and moans falling freely from your lips.
He strokes your cheek and kisses your face as he lets you catch your breath. Eventually you start kissing him back, softly at first, then ardently. He so hard he feels he could self-combust but as he lines up at your entrance, he looks you in the eye and asks “sure?”  
“Never been more certain” you reply, voice like honey, and you wrap your leg around his waist, trying to guide him inside you.    
He lets you get used to him, adjust to his size, before he starts moving. Your hands are in his and he can feel your wedding ring against his skin.
You try to incite him to move faster, bucking your hips against him, but he doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t want to go too hard on you.
“I’m not made of porcelain” you hiss, frustrated “you’re not going to hurt me. Fuck me like I'm yours”.
He’s starts fucking you with more force then, grinding where he knows you like it. Your nails are scratching his back, pulling at his hair. Sounds – moans, whimpers and begging's of more – escaping your mouth uninterruptedly. You can’t seem to stop them. He looks down on you and he swears out loud. The good damn sight of you like this, he knows he’ll never get the image out of his head. Knows that in months from now – when you’re back in good old England with your husband and he’s all alone here in this apartment – that he could paint this moment with picture-like perfection. Your glossy eyes filled with bliss, wild hair and flushed skin, lips still painted red and formed in a moan. But he won’t. He’ll let it be a memory, the thought of anyone else seeing that painting too unsettling for words.         You come again then, eyes tight shut and head thrown back, mouth wide open in a silent scream. He feels your orgasm, can feel you spasm around him and he swears he’s gone to heaven.   And as the final rays of sunlight disappears outside, he calls your name – half prayer half cry– and releases inside you, white hot pleasure racing down his spine, and then the whole room goes dark. The only reasons he knows the world hasn’t ended are your warm and sweaty body beneath him. The only sounds in the whole, wide world are both of your breathless gasps.   *    After, you put on your clothes in silence, avoiding the others eyes. He feels almost shy. The thing inside his chest is crying, knowing that you’re minutes away from leaving again, that this time it’s forever.   How do you do something even though it kills you?       “I’m sorry, for everything” you say and it startles him.     “For everything?”       “Yes. I’m sorry I came back” you avoid his eyes as you speak “well, I’m sorry but I don’t regret that part. And I’m sorry I can’t stay. I’ve never meant to hurt you.”       Because it’s the right thing to do.  
You are staying with your husband. This is your decision. He can’t force you to leave, or stay. He can’t save you, no matter what Marguerite says. Not when you’re determined to drown.   “I’ve loved you wholeheartedly and I have no regrets. I’ve loved you of my own free will. You don’t owe me anything.”    
The frozen look is back on your face and your spine straight again, hair fixed in place. You’ve put your armor back on.  And like this, you leave.
* 18th of April, 1953
It’s a fine morning in April and Timothée is headed over to madam Marguerite’s apartment, a box of treats from her favourite patisserie in one hand and bouquet of magnolias in the other. Later this week she’s taking him to the opera again, Rossini this time, and he wants to give her something as a thank you.
Outside on the street an ambulance is parked. He walks past it and starts climbing the many stairs to her apartment. When he gets to Marguerite’s floor he’s taken by surprise. The apartment door is wide open and in the doorway stand a sobbing Louise, being comforted by a medic. Dread settles in his stomach.
“What’s going on?” he asks, and he can hear the panic in his own voice. “Where’s madam Marguerite?”
Louise starts sobbing even louder and the kind-looking medic pats her sympathetically on the shoulder.
“She passed away in her sleep last night. This woman here found her this morning”.
Something falls inside Timothée and is lost forever. The ground feels unsteady under his feet and for a second, he waivers. “Have you notified her family?” He asks.
The man shakes his head, “no, not yet”.
“I’ll do it” Timothée says firmly, letting it be known that this isn’t up for discussion. 
*  “Frederic Fairfax speaking” Freddie’s drawly voice answers when Timothée calls your London address.  
“Hello, it’s Timothée Chalamet, could I speak to your wife, it’s urgent”  
Silence for ten long seconds.
“No, anything you want to tell her you can tell me” Freddie eventually answers and there’s tension in his voice.
“Is she not in?”
“Yes, she is, but I'd rather you take this with me, Mr. Chalamet”.
“I see” Timmy answers, and he somehow manages to keep the rage he feels out of his voice. “But I have some very distressing and urgent news I have to pass on”.
“Then I suggest you share them with me”
Timothée wants to bang his head against the wall. But he keeps his voice calm. “You see, her greataunt Marguerite has passed away.”
“I see” the other man answers in a cold, unfeeling voice. “Well, if that was all, Mr. Chalamet, good bye.”
And he hangs up.
* May 1st, 1953.  
In a red brick building on Chancery Lane, London, Timothée is sitting smoking in an armchair. The solicitor’s office looks like you would imagine a solicitor's office to look like, with oak furniture and cabinets full of files with important documents, outside busy men in suits hustling by and secretaries in pen skirts tapping on their typewriters’.  
Madam Marguerite’s solicitor Mr. Lancaster looks on the crowd gathered for the reading of the will.
There’s Timothée, lounging in his chair, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else and avoiding looking at you. There’s you, perfectly poised and wearing black, hands clapped in your lap to stop them from shaking. Then there’s your parents, your black-clad mother sniffling into a tissue and your father, with a grave look on his face.
Freddie is nowhere to be seen, and this surprises Timothée.  
“Shall we begin?” the solicitor starts, organizing the papers in front of him. There’s a general hum of agreeing from the crown and Mr. Lancaster clears his throat. “Very well then. I had the great fortune of knowing Mrs. Beauchêne-Wright and I considered her a personal friend. She was a remarkable woman” he clears his throat again and Timothée shuffles with his feet, still not understanding why he’s been called to be present at this occasion. “An extraordinary woman” he repeats and look down at the papers in front of him. “Very well then” he says, before beginning to read from the will. “This is the last will of me Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright of 55 Rue de Châteaudun 75009 Paris -”
*   It’s raining outside, a gentle but persistent drizzle. TImothée  stands under his umbrella and observes as your mother storms off, her husband at her heel, into a taxi. She slams the door and they drive off, water splashing up on the sidewalk. His head feels foggy. The whole situation feels unreal. He’s standing outside the red brick building smoking, trying to get a grip on the situation. In a few hours he has to get back to Victoria station to take the night train back to Paris.  
You walk out of the solicitor's office, a dazed look on your face, seemingly not even noticing the rain falling down. You seem him and walk up to him and he lifts his umbrella so you’re under it too.
“Gotta admit, didn’t see that one coming” he states and hands you his cigarette. You take it gratefully and inhale deeply.  
“No” you say, some seconds later, “no I didn’t quite see that coming either”. A homourless laugh escapes you. “They’re furious about it” referring to your parents. “Asked if they could contest the will. Mr. Lancaster told them they didn’t have a leg to stand on”.   “So” you say and look up at him. “What are you going to do with the money?”
The money. Marguerite’s entire estate divided between him and the woman in front of him. There had been a few smaller bequests to various people and charities, but the absolute majority of the fortune where to be split between you. Even after all the death duties it was by all consideration a fortune.  
“Dunno” he answers. ”Haven’t really thought ahead that far”.  And then, because he can’t contain his curiosity anymore. “Where’s dear Freddie then?”       You’re silent for a moment, avoiding his eyes as you watch the rain create patterns in the puddles. “Freddie’s left.” you say eventually. “He’s seeking for a divorce. God knows he’s got grounds for it.”  the cigarette shakes in your trembling hand. “I’ve been a terrible wife all things considered.”    
He’s stunned into silence, too much life-altering information having been dropped on him already today. Eventually he gets a hold of himself and states, because he already knows it to be true, “he knows about us, doesn’t he? About what happened in Paris.”    
You nod, and two tears fall down your cheeks. “They’re furious with me.”
“Who are?” he asks, confused.  
“My family”  “Why?”
A grimace, then “doesn’t matter”. Drop the cigarette on the ground and stomp it out. “Mr. Lancaster says we have to go to Nice. Apparently, most of her possessions are there and we need to go through them. He says that since we own the house now, we can live in it while we do so”.
He observes her for a moment. “I have an exhibition in Paris this month, I can’t leave before that’s done.”
You smile, but it’s still devoid of humour. “And I have a divorce to settle.”
The rain keeps falling around them.  
“How about this” you say “we’ll go there in July, a summer on the riviera doesn’t sound too bad, and we’ll...” you trail of for a second “and we’ll settle everything then”.  
Gently he puts his fingers under your chin and tilts your head up so that you look at him. You look as if you’re bursting at the seams, like you’re at your last straw. “Alright” he says and leans in to gently press a kiss on your forehead. “Alright, sounds like a plan”. And then he looks you in the eyes again “Everything will be alright, you know. Everything will be fine”.
You smile again, and this time it’s more genuine. Then you lean in, and place the softest of kisses on his mouth.  
Then you leave.   A/N: jesus christ, I spent a good 25 minutes of my life googling the rules of aristocratic titles in England.  Freddie’s father is an earl, that makes freddie as the oldest son a baron and his wife a baronet? Right? If that’s not correct then, well, sorry, but those rules are mind boggling. 
Other things I've googled a lot is the language of flowers and what different flowers symbolizes.  
That ‘Swedish saying’ timmy refers to in his letter is not a saying but in fact from a song by Veronica Maggio called Stopp and very badly translated by me.    
Also. I know that timothée’s letter is a bit... disturbing, but the thought of it wouldn't leave my mind so I had to write it.
I am planning on writing the last part, but this story always takes a lot of effort to write so it’ll be a while.   
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Text
So Sk8 the Infinity!
I'm going to complain and over analyze stuff in this post. Also, spoiler warning.
So I love Sk8. Absolute beauty. Mwah. However...
A second season is not out of the question, so here are some things I want to see in the new season, because the season 1 ending... it was really unfufilling.
Final spoiler warning.
-Let Shadow get the girl.
He was developing an obvious crush on her since day one, and seeing her end up in a relationship, right as Shadow plucked up enough courage to talk to her really bothered me.
-Let Miya get his friends back.
If there's a season two, this just has to happen. He definately grew as a person thanks to Reki, so he deserves to have a second chance. This is also coupled with the scene in the final credits when his old friend passed him, and said something that made Miya smile.
-Keep the rivalry between Joe and Cherry
Honestly, their petty rivaly is among the best parts of the anime. It showed no signs of stopping, and the ship was strong. Personally, I don't think Matchablossom will be canon, but wow I love the ship.
-Slow down Langa's attention and arc
There's no way to say this gently. Langa's ark went way too fast. In a matter of episodes, he was already a near pro a skating. Even if he did snowboard, it just seems unrealistic. If there's a season 2, I want to see Langa struggle a bit more. He also got way too much attention for a guy who's not the mc. The anime was basically all about him might as well make him the mc.
-Give Reki more attention and arc.
I love him with all my heart, but he was a really static character. Sure, he went through a depression phase, but he ended up right back where he started. In multiple ways. He came back to the happy, bubbly, and enthusiastic Reki we all know and love, but he also never gained any visible skill. He learned a few tricks, and that. was it. He's supposed to be the main character, but if I jumped in mid season, I could have easily mistaken Langa for that role. He easily beat all his opponents, got more camera time, and improved with little effort. Reki is supposed to be the main character. At the beginning, I was kind of happy that Reki never won. I showed that protagonists don't have to be prodigy gods at everything they specialize in. But then, over an ENTIRE SEASON, he didn't win one. He got better, moving from struggling to keep up with Shadow to almost winning against ADAM, but there were special circumstances to aid in that achievement. But his improvement was almost invisible. I didn't even realize it until I started to over analyze the anime (as I normally do).
-ADAM dies lonely in a trashcan under a bridge.
Fuck ADAM
-Let Tadashi live his own life!
He may have like ADAM, both in the past and maybe even the present, but ADAM calls him his dog, and won't let him step out of line. Sure he gives him freedom, but that will only get you so far.
And last but not least
-RENGA
All in all, I love the anime, have become obsessed with the sun in human form that is Reki, and would murder Bone Studios if they even thought about taking it down.
But for season two, I would want there to be a big bad skater guy who comes rolling in, and when Langa and ADAM challenge him, they get obliterated. Langa gets hurt, and Reki, pretty mad, reverts back to their old problem of wanting to beat the person who hurt the other. But Reki knows Langa will disagree, just how he didn't want Langa to go up against ADAM, so he secretly plans to challenge him, and practices every waking moment he can so he can stand a chance against this new guy, even going as far as to miss some 'S' nights. Langa, however is just confused about why he got destroyed, and his injury stopping him from skating coupled with not thinking he needs to practice or improve, he just doesn't. Meanwhile, Miya is spending more time skating with his old friends just for fun and not bothering to improve, Shadow is trying to figure out who this guy is that's with his manager, and finds out he's just using her, so he goes on his own quest to get them to break up or show her proof that he's toxic, and Cherry and Joe are just arguing in the background, maybe throw in some financial dilemmas as well, like an episode or two. Building on financial problems, I want ADAM's family cred to go down the drain, not because of 'S', nononono, no one's touching 'S', but for different reasons. Tadashi reaches down to his inner friend and gives him support. Miya introduces his friends to 'S'. Anyways, Reki challenges the new guy, and people laugh because Reki is kinda known for being the less skilled one who hangs out with the big 6 (which is a thing that happened after the tournament), so yeah, Reki races him, beats him by literally an inch without using anything to disadvantage the guy. Langa is so freakin' excited that he tackle hugs him and pulls a Yuri! On Ice and kisses him in doing so. Season ends with , Miya goes on to the national team because his friends (both groups) encourage him to so as long as he kept doing it for fun, Shadow gets the dick away from his manager and he gets with her, Cherry and Joe staying single (but one day Cherry adopts a child and she calls both men a variant of 'dad' but the two legally aren't married, or even dating?), and ADAM, I guess he can open a small shop. Tadashi does most of the work though. He's basically ADAM's boss. I guess ADAM can have some happiness. AND FINALLY Langa and Reki get together .(Ms Hasegawa is in literal tears because not only did her baby get a friend but a boyfriend too!)
And that concludes my post about Sk8.
If you for some reason didn't watch it and scrolled all the way down here (doesn't matter if you read it or not, but there's a continue reading button...), then
Watch.
The.
Freaking.
Anime.
Pirate it if ya gotta! But watch it!
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