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ryanjdonovan · 1 year

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DONOVAN’S OSCAR PROGNOSTICATION 2023

These are my 24th annual Oscar predictions, which don't mean much, except that the Oscars turn 95 this year. So that means that I've been writing this article for more than a quarter of the entire existence of the Academy Awards. That's an institution that started in 1929 and predates mainstream movies in color, World War II, the Great Depression, the Empire State Building, the end of Prohibition, and the Star Spangled Banner as the official national anthem, and is nearly as old as talkies. It's older than nonagenarians Client Eastwood, James Earl Jones, Gene Hackman, and Robert Duvall… and almost as old as Everything Everywhere All at Once's James Hong.

When I think of the effort and dedication that have gone into crafting these articles over the past 24 years, I can't help but feel… not proud… what's the word? Pathetic. Yes, pathetic. And regretful, and depressed, and wasteful. All those years… it's sad, really. Had I applied myself to some fruitful endeavor, I probably could have made something of myself.

And you… If you’ve been reading these since the previous millennium, you have my sincerest apologies. I feel bad about all the goals you may have been able to achieve, had you spent time nurturing your passions instead of reading my indulgent, hacky, blathering write-ups. Honestly, I had much higher hopes for both of us.

But, there's no sense in stopping now! Please squander more of your precious life and read on for my fearless predictions.

Also, you can follow me on Letterboxd: https://letterboxd.com/ryanjdonovan/

BEST PICTURE:

SHOULD WIN: Everything Everywhere All at Once WILL WIN: Everything Everywhere All at Once GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Empire of Light INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Glass Onion

I thought this day would never come: The movie that I think is the best movie of the year is going to win Best Picture. That film, improbably, is Everything Everywhere All at Once. The concept of this movie winning the big prize last spring was laughable, but it's steadily gained steam, and is now the heavy favorite. I couldn't be happier, or more surprised. Sure, there have been years where the film that I thought Should Win did in fact win; but those were limited to just the nominees -- and usually, my favorite film is not nominated. We can finally all rejoice and celebrate the fact that the Academy got this one right. (Well, let's not congratulate ourselves too much. There's plenty of other things the Academy will get wrong this year.) Everything Everywhere isn't just the best film of the year, it's the one that you feel the most. That's its superpower. Somewhere in the overstuffed cocktail of alternate realities, genre mash-ups, laundromats, and tax returns, it's infused with basic, grounded emotions, which shine through in every single scene. Even a scene with two rocks is emotional. But more than that, the sentimental swells don't feel manipulative. The film somehow manages deal with so many different themes and dovetail them in without feeling forced, by hiding them inside subverted genre set-pieces. Trying to overexplain why I love the movie will only serve to undermine it. What's great is that no two viewers have the same experience; everyone hones in on different aspects and themes that resonate with them. Each person finds different things to love about it. Fanny-pack bludgeonings are not your thing? Then maybe you'll like a toy-poodle-whip attack. Or a vengeful robo-grandpa. Or flapping hotdog fingers. (See? I shouldn't overexplain it.) The best I can do is say is that it's simply a modern masterpiece.

I love Top Gun: Maverick, but let's get this out of the way right off the bat: It is not better than the original Top Gun. It isn't. So just stop. (I swear -- while choking back tears for Goose -- this isn't just the nostalgia talking.) But the real question: Can it win Best Picture? You know, the Academy Award for the most prestigious movie of the year, joining the upper echelon as One of the Greatest Films Ever Made, with the likes of The Godfather, Schindler's List, Lawrence of Arabia, Casablanca, and Gone with the Wind? Well, if you had told me back in June that it would be nominated for this award, I would have said you were crazy. Yet here we are. And yes, there is a decent chance it will win. Why? One: It's awesome. Two: It has the benefit of being a movie that everyone has loved, and you can't say that about any of the other nominees. (Even people who dislike action movies, fighter jets, or men with mustaches like this movie.) Three: It may not be any voter's #1 choice, but it will probably be #2 on almost every preferential ballot, and if there's no other clear favorite, that could be enough to win. Four: It's a sneaky way to give Tom Cruise an Oscar without giving him one for acting; the self-perpetuated, self-serving narrative that Tom Cruise Saved Hollywood -- Nay, Saved Democracy! -- is oddly pervasive and shamefully compelling. Five: It's okay to hate the bad guys in the movie! Because they're… well… nameless and faceless and country-less. If we can all agree to hate the same generic enemies, then everyone is happy and everyone wins… especially Tom Cruise.

I’m a little leery of directors making semi-autobiographical 'this is why I became a filmmaker' movies -- especially ones that have a variation of the word “fable” right in the title. The risk is that it's going to be effusive and self-indulgent. And The Fabelmans, from Steven Spielberg, is those things, frankly. (Though, thankfully, not as indulgent or unnecessary as his West Side Story remake -- now that was a movie I didn’t need in my life.) But The Fabelmans is an enjoyable peek into the maestro's psyche, and it's been a huge hit with critics, audiences, creatives, and people with crazy uncles named Boris. (And the cameo encounter at the end is inspired, and apparently 100% true.) However, I can't help but be underwhelmed. Maybe it's because, for me, coming-of-age stories either resonate or they don't. Or maybe that it's a fairly trite, low-stakes movie, lacking the gee-whiz-ness that we've come to expect (unfairly, perhaps) from the master of spectacle. Either way, for a Spielberg film, it somehow feels pedestrian. (Though I think many will argue that's the point -- identifying the humanity in the filmmaker we've all built up as being super-human.) As for the film's Oscar chances, in the fall, it was a slam-dunk to claim Best Picture. It's been slipping back over the past couple months, and is now considered a long-shot, but can't be counted out completely.

Surprising as it may seem, I was not yet writing my annual Oscar article when the original version of All Quiet on the Western Front won Best Picture in 1930. With a new version nominated this year, could it be the first title to win Best Picture twice? The film won the top prize at the BAFTAs (British film awards), has nine total Oscar nominations, and has the muscle of Netflix behind it, so it's not out of the realm of possibility. The easy comparison is 1917 -- same war, same horrors, similar lone-soldier perspective, but different side of the battlefield (1917 also had most of the same nominations as All Quiet). But they have different trajectories: 1917 was an early front-runner that faded late in the race (eventually losing to Parasite), while All Quiet was a bit of a surprise on nomination day, but has been surging since then. Ultimately, war films these days are a tough sell for Best Picture (looking at you, Saving Private Ryan), in part because they tend to be bombastic testosterone overload, and in part because of the argument that any depiction of war glorifies it (which I don't understand; I doubt anyone that's watched All Quiet or 1917 can be anything but horrified). I expect All Quiet will make some, ahem, noise (sorry, couldn't resist) in other technical categories, but won't threaten Everything Everywhere for Best Picture.

If you've ever been to the Aran Islands off the western coast of Ireland, you know the deal: beautiful land and lovely people, but cold, rainy, and bleak (not to mention terrible cell coverage). And after visiting, it might not surprise you that boredom on those remote isles could drive people to: harbor grudges against lifelong friends, make irresponsible predictions about neighbors dying, talk about horse shite for two hours, or cut off their own fingers and throw them at someone's front door. Welcome to The Banshees of Inisherin. There is a lot of support for this film with critics, but with the Academy, I don't think it will be enough to sway a victory. The film, set in a fictional part of those islands, seems like should be a fun, chatty little film about fellas repairing a fractured friendship in the Irish countryside during a bygone era. It is not. It certainly starts out charmingly enough, but devolves into an increasingly spiteful contest of acrimony and one-upmanship. There's a distinct sense that the filmmaker isn't just being cruel to the characters, but also has disdain for the viewer. And most irritatingly, the ending feels like a slap, because the whole movie seems to be driving toward some kind of finality (absurd as it may be), but it just… doesn't. Thematically, I suppose it makes sense. Writer/director Martin McDonagh has talked about this being an allegory for the Irish Civil War in the 1920s (which is happening over on the mainland, where the characters are barely aware of it), so he's clearly not aiming for a simple or definite resolution. 'What was the point of all that?' might just be the point. Though personally, I think the overall story (ceaseless frustration, confounding escalation, and taking drastic, irrational measures which ultimately have no effect) is a better allegory for parenting: "Please don't poke your brother." Poke. "I'm telling you, don't poke your brother." Poke. "This is your last warning, don't poke your brother." Poke. "There will be consequences if you poke your brother again." Poke. "FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, I WILL CUT OFF ALL MY FINGERS IF YOU POKE YOUR BROTHER ONE MORE TIME." (Guess what happens next.)

I feel bad for not loving Tár -- a film about a world-famous conductor, played by Cate Blanchett, slowly (then quickly) unraveling -- partly because it's gotten the highest critics scores of any nominated film, but mostly because I've been shamed by my favorite podcasters, who have unanimously declared this the best film of the year. Why don't I adore this film? What am I missing? What's wrong with me? Ahh… that last question -- that's probably the one that writer/director Todd Field wants you to ask, as he squeezes his protagonist through a crisis of the soul. It's potent stuff, so why didn't it fully connect with me? Don't get me wrong, despite my lack of enthusiasm, I want movies like this to exist, and continue to get made. I guess I just want them to be more accessible, or feel like they've actually gone somewhere with the story. There are a dozen things are dropped into the story, that remain too vague to really put a finger on, or that completely disappear altogether. Without saying too much, I felt like I was curiously watching every corner of the frame, catching fleeting glimpses of things that never return. (I never thought I'd compare this film to Three Men and a Baby, but I'll be damned if I wasn't searching for the boy in the curtains.) Trying to explain this all to my wife, she skeptically asked, "Is this movie like Black Swan?" "No! I mean… okay, it's a little like Black Swan." But where that film has a tangible payoff, Tár, for me, does not. (To be fair, acolytes claim that you need to watch the film twice, perhaps three times, to fully appreciate it -- which is great if you have six or nine hours on your hands.) Tár will be the top choice for some Academy voters, but for most, it's too cold and bewildering to contend for the big prize.

For a few months, a big argument for giving Best Picture to Top Gun: Maverick was that it was the highest grossing movie of the year, and therefore the most beloved. Well, people shut up about that pretty quick as soon as Avatar: The Way of Water passed it at the box office. Yes, it's brought in the most money, but it's far from the most loved film of the year. In theory, there should be plenty about it to love; after all, it's basically a collection of director James Cameron's greatest hits: take the previous movie (Avatar), mix in more deadly creatures from another planet (Aliens), add mysterious underwater things (The Abyss), blow up a bridge (True Lies), throw in Kate Winslet (Titanic), and -- I wish I was making this up -- trap our heroes on a gigantic sinking boat. Voila! Avatar 2: Even More Stuff. (I assume we can expect killer cyborgs, flesh-eating piranhas, and Tom Arnold in next three sequels.) To be fair, the movie is a fun ride, and the technical advances are admirable. But when you combine the computer graphics, the jerky 3D, the high frame-rate, the questionable acting, and the basic plot from an episode of The Smurfs, it often just looks like one long video game cutscene. But on the plus side, all parents are happy to see that even with a different species on an alien planet in another galaxy, kids are still disobedient back-talkers. P.S. -- My kids thought the movie was called Avatar: The Wave of Water… and now I think that would be a much more logical title.

The story of Elvis Presley has been told on-screen ad nauseum, especially his early rise when his gyrations sent many schoolgirls (and a few schoolboys) swooning in the aisles. And the latest adaption got the blessing of his family, which means he'd have to come off as fairly saintly and misunderstood. So Elvis needed something extra to make it a unique experience. Enter notoriously bombastic director Baz Luhrmann. What he gives us is a movie that is more of a visual spectacle than an accurate representation. The film is a series of impossibly-heightened life-altering decisions, intercut with soaring musical numbers so dizzying that we quickly forget that the facts presented may be muddled with fiction. We can't really take anything at face value; but then again, the music is so good, we don't really care. It's also the kind of rags-to-riches-to-Vegas story that's easy to make fun of. (I mean, the preposterously bag wigs alone. And Tom Hanks… oooo, Lordy… we'll get to him later.) At its best, it's fascinating and sad. But ultimately, it's an average movie gussied up in glitz and glamour -- a bloated Vegas act meant to charm the masses. Colonel Tom Parker, for better or worse, would be proud.

Women Talking is certainly the most accurate movie title of the year. The film, written and directed by Sarah Polley (adapted from the book of the same name, and inspired by a real event), tells the story of women living in a remote Mennonite colony who band together to discuss how to collectively handle a series of rapes by men in the village. It's tricky, delicate, abhorrent subject matter. But the film focuses not on the horrifying events, nor on the response, but instead shows the decision-making process in between -- frankly, the part that most movies would skip over. In doing so, the film becomes a story of how to survive, how to come together, and how to thrive. Once upon a time, this film was a leading contender across most categories; there was even talk of it sweeping the Supporting Actress category (on the strength of performances by two former Girls with Dragon Tattoos). But critical and audience responses were tepid (for the few that actually saw the film), so it only ended up with a couple nominations. It won't factor into the Best Picture race, but with its other nomination for Adapted Screenplay, there's a chance Polley won't go home empty handed.

How would you like to be trapped in a life-or-death situation with the dumbest, most selfish people from around the globe? That's Triangle of Sadness. It's a fun satire, to be sure, but its aggressive eat-the-rich (or is it throw-the-rich-to-the-pirates?) rhetoric is also preachy, unoriginal, tiresome, intentionally frustrating, and simply too long. (Not surprisingly, it's the worst-reviewed film up for Best Picture. Also not surprisingly, it won the Palm d'Or at Cannes.) To give you an idea of what you're getting into, one sequence includes both a spirited discussion of American Communism versus Russian Capitalism, and a barf-o-rama that would make Lardass from Stand By Me proud. It aims to please the Parasite crowd, but does so with the subtlety of a sledgehammer (or, literally, a hand grenade). What it boils down to is this: rich or poor, old or young, beautiful or ugly, left or right -- stupidity trumps all.

I'm still a little surprised that Glass Onion didn't make the cut here. (But obviously having more than two "fun" movies would be too many.) I also would have put The Woman King, The Whale, and maybe The Menu into the ten contenders.

One transparent awards-bait film that everyone agrees shouldn't have made the cut is Empire of Light. I don't know what the film is trying to say, other than going to the movies is the best way to cure vague mental illness.

Because nobody asked for it, here's my list of the Best Picture nominees in order from best to worst. (Consider this my preferential ballot, since the Academy for some reason won't accept mine.)

1. Everything Everywhere All at Once 2. Top Gun: Maverick 3. All Quiet on the Western Front 4. Tár 5. Triangle of Sadness 6. Women Talking 7. Avatar: The Way of Water 8. The Fabelmans 9. The Banshees of Inisherin 10. Elvis

BEST ACTOR:

SHOULD WIN: Brendan Fraser (The Whale) WILL WIN: Brendan Fraser (The Whale) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Will Smith (Emancipation) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Felix Kammerer (All Quiet on the Western Front)

I realize that picking Brendan Fraser for the best male lead performance is no longer cool. It's a very 2022 opinion. Since then, Fraser's performance in The Whale has gone out of style, replaced by Austin Butler. And then replaced by Colin Farrell. And then replaced by Butler again. And then came Paul Mescal. And now Butler again. But I'm sticking by my choice for Should Win (and Will Win). This roller coaster is nothing new to Fraser. Over the course of this Oscar season -- and over the course of his career -- he has been cool and uncool, popular and unpopular, in demand and out of luck. There's been backlash, and backlash to backlash, and reclamation, and re-examination, multiple times over. So while it's completely surprising, maybe it shouldn't be surprising at all, that he's at the center of the Best Actor race. For my money, I think he gives an overwhelmingly powerful performance, one that would come through even without all the prosthetics and makeup. And I like the movie a lot too, which almost feels like a hot take these days. I prefer it to most of the Best Picture nominees. This latest Darren Aronofsky film is the kind of "dark" movie that works better for me than The Banshees of Inisherin or Tár or even frankly Elvis; it has a tenderness that I find missing in those films (and missing from most Aronofsky movies, actually). The Whale is challenging, that's for sure; it's full of contradictions and paradoxes, that are difficult to articulate and even more difficult to reconcile. But there's also something beautifully simplistic about it, and that stems directly from Fraser's performance. Whether you think Aronofsky has compassion for the character has been hotly debated (I think he does); but it's clear that Fraser -- the man and the actor -- definitely does. And that compassion is what I think voters will respond to the most, giving him the edge.

But only a slight edge. In fact, if you're betting, you should probably pick Austin Butler, for the oh-so-creatively-titled film Elvis. He's the one more oddsmakers are picking. Butler is the first person to be Oscar-nominated for playing Elvis Presley. But is he the best ever? The coolest? The smoothest? The most inspired? I'm not sure he can lay claim to any superlative. A small sampling of former Elvi includes: Kurt Russell, Don Johnson, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Ron Livingston, Val Kilmer (!), Jack White (!!), Frank Stallone (!!!), and of course, probably the most superlative of all, Bruce Campbell. (For my money, the best may have been lesser-known Drake Milligan.) Butler is good, but he's not Oscar good. Especially early on, his impersonation is more John Travolta than Elvis Presley. But his performance really takes off in the second half of the movie, during Elvis's decline (though he can never quite summon the deep baritone that Presley had during the Vegas years). We will debate the 'Best Elvis' forever (actually, other people will debate it; I don't really care). But there's no disputing the 'Most Intense Elvis': Michael Shannon in Elvis & Nixon. Disagree and he'll put his blue suede shoe right up your a--.

Maybe for the intelligence-impaired like me, they should have called it "The Wailing-Spirits-that-Foretell-Death-in-Irish-Folklore of Inisherin". Take my advice: If you go see a movie with the word 'banshee' in the title, make sure you know what it means ahead of time; the movie will make a lot more sense. We're talking, of course, about The Banshees of Inisherin, and the lead, Colin Farrell, has a strong case for taking the Best Actor prize. While he may not have the genuine goodwill or performative audacity of Brendan Fraser, his boyish likability has gone a long way with voters, and unlike Fraser, he's headlining a widely acclaimed film (both he and Austin Butler have the advantage of anchoring films up for Best Picture). Farrell has found another gear, doing the best work of his career recently (The Lobster comes to mind; Dumbo does not). In Banshees, he wields an effervescent charm, comfortable with the unnaturally lyrical, playful dialogue, (mostly) tempering what could be an annoyingly theatrical role. He treads the line between lamentable and pitiful. He's the naïve voice of reason; he is all of us in recent times, just trying to ignore bad news and get through by having a beer. That said, this performance is not quite my cup of tea -- or my pint of Guinness -- especially when paired with a flawless seasoned pro like Brendan Gleeson, so Farrell wouldn't get my vote. There are plenty of far-fetched things in the film, but Farrell effortlessly lifting a 350-pound dead animal like it's a pillow takes the cake.

Many people think Bill Nighy's nomination for Living is a make-up for Love Actually. Those people are wrong.

I'm not seeing what the Academy is seeing in Paul Mescal's performance in Aftersun, a film that's long on subtext but short on actual text. I would describe his performance -- as a doting (and mysteriously troubled) dad on a vacation with his pre-teen daughter -- as capable, even tender, but not necessarily award-worthy. I can see why people are praising the film (which ambitiously attempts to capture the undefinable moment when kids start to see their parents as real people, especially their flaws) but it just doesn't reverberate with me. (That's probably because, as a parent, I have no flaws. I also don't allow my 11-year-old to hang out unsupervised with drunken, horny young adults late at night.) Frankly, the most relatable part for most parents is when another dad carts off his screaming child from the water park, chiding the boy for "ruining everything for everyone as usual". And, is it just me, or when the daughter starts talking about being under the same sun as her distant father, is she ripping off the song lyrics from An American Tail?

There are several other actors that I'd slot into this category ahead of Mescal, chiefly Felix Kammerer (in All Quiet on the Western Front); but also Gabriel LaBelle (as the young Spielberg stand-in from The Fabelmans), Ralph Fiennes (in The Menu), or even Adam Sandler (in Hustle). (The prospect of Sandler doing another acceptance speech in his Bobby Boucher voice would be reason enough to nominate him.)

Tom Cruise is a very strong second place for Gloriously Omitted. (For a hot minute, everyone was certain that he would actually score an acting nomination for Top Gun: Maverick. We dodged a bullet there.) But in an absolute shocker, Will Smith is the top choice, for Emancipation. Of course, Smith was never going to get a nomination this year. Obviously. Right? I mean… is it obvious? Let's think about this for a minute. (Why are we still talking about him? Hear me out.) Pretend, if you will, that last year's ceremony didn't have all the hullabaloo. (I'm trying to figure out how to write about Smith without using the word "slap", so I settled on the word "hullabaloo". You're welcome.) In the months following, Smith would have been riding high, the reigning king of Hollywood, with several high-profile projects making headlines (starring in Bad Boys 4, producing Cobra Kai and Bel-Air, unwillingly appearing in Jada's never-ending social media feed). Then late in the year, Emancipation would have been released, a dramatic opus with massive prestige appeal, featuring Smith attempting a superfecta: portraying a real-life figure rebelling against slavery, playing a pivotal role in the American Civil War, taking on a difficult (iffy?) Haitian Creole accent, and -- the pièce de résistance -- wrestling an alligator underwater. In other words, textbook Oscar fare. Honestly, it's not hard to imagine a world where Smith would have gotten another nomination for this role, and maybe -- I truly believe this -- a second consecutive Oscar. The real shame is, Smith's specter overshadows the fact that Emancipation is a legitimately good film, with quality work done by many people. Why oh why couldn't Smith have just taken a year off?? So close to the fallout, the film was tainted, and nobody was going to vote for this film on principle alone. But a year from now, with a little more distance (and Smith tucked away out of the spotlight), the film could have realistically been recognized for, say, Antoine Fuqua for Best Director. Or cinematography. Or production design. Or any of a number of craft categories. But by releasing the film this season, any chance of Oscar attention was torpedoed.

Also, I can't help but call this out… In case you're wondering how many people Will Smith needs around on set to help him try to win an Oscar, here's a sampling of his entourage on Emancipation (and these are just the ones with official credits in the film): Assistant to Mr. Smith, Executive Assistant to Mr. Smith, Production Assistant to Mr. Smith, Acting Coach to Mr. Smith, Acting Coach Assistant to Mr. Smith, Dialect Coach to Mr. Smith, Hair Stylist to Mr. Smith, Assistant Hair Stylist to Mr. Smith, Makeup Artist to Mr. Smith, Special Effects Makeup Artist to Mr. Smith, Makeup Production Assistant to Mr. Smith, Costumer to Mr. Smith, Trainer to Mr. Smith, Driver to Mr. Smith, Security Guard to Mr. Smith (x2), Historian to Mr. Smith, Chef to Mr. Smith, Chef Assistant to Mr. Smith, Religious Consultant to Mr. Smith, and of course, Wilderness Survival Expert to Mr. Smith. (I swear, I did not make any of these up.) Maybe these are the people that really deserve the Oscars.

BEST ACTRESS:

SHOULD WIN: Michelle Yeoh (Everything Everywhere All at Once) WILL WIN: Michelle Yeoh (Everything Everywhere All at Once) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Natalie Portman (Thor: Love and Thunder) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Viola Davis (The Woman King)

Michelle Yeoh and Cate Blanchett have been trading the lead back and forth, based mostly on the insights of "experts" who don't actually know anything. (Hey, don't look at me.) As the precursor awards (the most accurate predictors) roll in, Michelle Yeoh is emerging as the favorite, but not by much. It's still up for grabs, but I think the Screen Actors Guild award tips things in Yeoh's favor. Personally, I don't have a strong preference; they both do incredible work in very different roles.

But since I have to pick one, Michelle Yeoh is my Should Win pick by a narrow margin; she's also clearly who I'm rooting for. In Everything Everywhere All at Once, Yeoh is doing more than we (uncultured Americans) have seen her do -- especially comedy. She plays somewhere between six and six hundred roles in the film, and even within a single role, she tackles sci-fi, romance, action, adventure, slapstick, gross-out, martial arts, fantasy, superhero, and drama, as well as comedy. She quite literally does everything everywhere. Maybe Yeoh will compare notes with fellow nominee Ana de Armas, both having played ass-kicking allies of a certain martini-drinking superspy. Will they debate which co-star was a better James Bond -- Brosnan or Craig? (Hopefully they both say Connery.)

One of Cate Blanchett's biggest hurdles is herself -- or more accurately, her Oscar history. Having won twice already, voters will take a long look before giving her a third one, which would put her in the company of only seven other actors. (Even Blanchett herself seems to be suggesting that she doesn't need another trophy, instead talking up others actresses while on the publicity tour.) Victory or not, her role in Tár will go down as one of her best. Say what you want about the movie (I probably would have been very underwhelmed were it not for her), it's Blanchett doing what she does best -- cold, wiry, in command (with a haughty accent to boot) -- in every single scene. As an orchestra conductor, her expertise is sound, and she's obsessed with things that don't sound right (real or imagined). It's weirdly relatable: I zero in on every stupid little creak and hum in my house and assume the ceiling is falling down or an appliance is breaking or a pipe is leaking (and I'm right more often than I care to be). Her austerity is an organic extension of the movie itself, and her paranoia makes it difficult to tell where the real world ends and her mind begins. In a movie that probably won't win any other awards (compared to Yeoh's Everything Everywhere All at Once, which is a heavy favorite across the board), will Blanchett's performance be enough to win? One more thing in her favor: She also voiced Spazzatura the monkey in the animated nominee Guillermo del Toro's Pinocchio.

What to make of Andrea Riseborough's nomination for To Leslie, a tiny film very few people had heard of, let alone seen, that made only $27,000? (That's literally one theater for one week. If you saw the movie before the nominations were announced, and you are not Riseborough's cousin, I am officially impressed.) If you want hot takes, Twitter has mountains of them. And if you want all the tawdry details of exactly how this happened, there are plenty of online articles out there. But basically, her indie film had no publicity budget, so instead a no-cost social media campaign was launched on her behalf, and it shockingly resulted in an Oscar nomination. Personally, I'm conflicted. On one hand, it's impressive to see a tiny film get rewarded without spending millions on a slick campaign like the studios do. It's like the ultimate grass-roots, word-of-mouth success story. Wouldn't it be nice if all nominees had to do it on their own, without the corporations and publicity machines pumping endless dollars into what is essentially a shamefully political popularity contest? Imagine a performance being recognized -- gasp! -- based solely on its own merit. It's remarkably refreshing. On the other hand, this wasn't exactly organic. People didn't just happen to stumble upon this film and good-naturedly recommend it to their friends. This was much more calculated (and yes, publicists were heavily orchestrating this plan, too). Basically, the filmmakers and the "team" (I'm not singling out Riseborough, because I don't know how much she actually had to do with it) figured out that with roughly 1300 people in the Actors' branch of the Academy, you only need about 200 votes to secure an acting nomination. And so they enlisted some famous friends to host screenings and throw parties and post about it (all using lazy copy/pasted text) -- and effectively wrangle a couple hundred of their colleagues to vote. Looking at the number of recognizable faces they got to post about it, it was probably very easy to get 200 votes. If influential, Academy-friendly celebs like Gwyneth Paltrow, Charlize Theron, Edward Norton, Jennifer Aniston, and Kate Winslet each get 20 people, they're half way there. If you're a pessimist, it's nothing more than Tinseltown cronyism. It's basically the same (but weirdly inverted) tactic employed so successfully by Miramax years ago, with social media instead of advertising dollars. Is it better or worse than the big-studio tactics? Debatable. But it does show that in a post-Harvey, new-media, international Hollywood, a few powerful people can still move the needle. And A-Listers can essentially pick their friends. Now, are we reading into this too much? Probably. Sure, it's neat that a little indie movie can muster the support to get the awards recognition that it (may) deserve, but ultimately, I don't think I want Paltrow, Norton, and Winslet manipulating the Oscars and handing nominations to their pals. (By the way, the Academy loves this stuff, despite the fact that they say they don't. Controversy generates conversation, which generates interest, which keeps them relevant. If everyone agreed on everything, and nobody ever freaked out (and nobody wrote long, tedious prediction articles ever year), the Academy would become unnecessary.) As for the film and the performance themselves: The film is not great, but Riseborough is. As an addict and a mother trying to get her life on track, her character feels very familiar and very real; she's like someone we've all interacted with, tried to help, or relied on -- for better or worse. But is it worthy of an Oscar? The performance doesn't strike me as that much different from similar roles in other movies, so I'm not sure I would single her out. And the backlash won't help her in the voting (unless… there's a backlash to the backlash… which is probably inevitable). For Riseborough's sake in the long term, I hope she's remembered for the performance, and not the noise that's overshadowed it.

Michelle Williams is another great example of the chaos and unpredictability that is the race for Oscar nominations. If you're smart, unlike me, you'll ignore all the drama and wildly inaccurate predictions until the nominations are announced. For her work in The Fabelmans, Williams raised a few eyebrows when she campaigned for Leading Actress instead of Supporting Actress (it's not a trivial decision; establishing yourself as a Lead instead of Supporting, whether you win or not, is extremely important in future casting and contract negotiations, especially for actors over 40). Regardless, she was a front-runner early in the season (Spielberg + drama + eccentricity + four previous noms + a striking haircut + Dawson's Creek cred). As Michelle Yeoh and Cate Blanchett emerged as critic and fan favorites, the buzz on Williams died down. Then, after precursor awards and other strong performances, word was that she had fallen out completely. Finally, when nominations were announced, Williams had somehow avoided the Andrea Riseborough shrapnel and claimed a spot. (Viola Davis and Danielle Deadwyler were not so lucky.) For me, the film is melodramatic, and the characters (Williams's in particular) largely serve to amplify that, probably to their detriment. For voters, her competition is extremely strong (and she has the added obstacle of viewers not really liking her character), so it's clear she won't win. But… could she have won in Supporting Actress? Yes, I think she probably would have. On the other hand, did you see the scene of her buttering the toast?? The worst toast-buttering I've ever seen. I can't endorse an award for that.

Ana de Armas is probably the most polarizing nominee in any category, for her searing portrayal of Marilyn Monroe in Blonde (which was supposed to be Netflix's big Best Picture show pony). Reviews for de Armas have been positive, but reviews for the film itself have been… decidedly not. Personally, I'm not sure this film says anything that Elton John hasn't said already. As a historical document, this movie is probably a waste of time. But as an exploration of the anguish of a mental prison, exacerbated by being on public display and exploited by countless stakeholders, suitors, husbands, and hangers-on (not to mention a President of the United States of America), the film can be quite compelling. But, for most of us, probably not enjoyable. Marilyn learns early in acting class to picture herself outside her body, and uses that tool to externalize and dissociate trauma. And there's plenty of trauma. If the movie is successful, it is mostly due to the fervid performance by de Armas. She's fantastic in the film -- and not just her ankles, as Colin Farrell would have you believe. Trying to judge how "realistically" she portrays Marilyn falls apart pretty quickly; plenty of impersonators have had a closer physical resemblance, and the voice becomes less believable as the movie goes on. But that's beside the point. She's going for a hyper-stylized version of Marilyn, a play on what we've seen and how she might have felt -- a composition of imagery and memory, not reality. It's a commentary on the enigmatic nature of Norma Jeane Mortenson and the cult of Marilyn Monroe. And it's effective… the way a root canal is effective. (If you're looking for a good time at the movies, you should probably stick to Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.) de Armas was an early front-runner in the fall, but as reviews shredded the film, she seemed to slide out of contention altogether. But after some late awards attention, I was happy to see her sneak in as a bit of a surprise. But don't expect her to contend for the prize.

So if the ploy hadn't worked for Andrea Riseborough, who would I like to see here? I'd vote for Viola Davis, who anchors The Woman King as a fierce and compassionate warrior, which features fight choreography as good as any Marvel movie (and whose real-life soldiers helped inspire the Dora Milaje in Black Panther). I would also mention Zoe Kazan in She Said, who hasn't gotten the same attention as her co-star Carey Mulligan, but is very much the emotional driver of the film. And Olivia Colman is one of the few bright spots in Empire of Light (but she's had plenty of recent awards attention, so she can afford to take a year off).

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR:

SHOULD WIN: Brendan Gleeson (The Banshees of Inisherin) WILL WIN: Ke Huy Quan (Everything Everywhere All at Once) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Tom Hanks (Elvis) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Paul Dano (The Fabelmans)

When Ke Huy Quan wins Best Supporting Actor Everything Everywhere All at Once, it will probably be the feel-good moment of the night. When the film came out last spring, there was plenty of buzz about his welcomed return to the screen, his youthful buoyancy still shining through. (His last Hollywood role had been Encino Man (!) 20 years ago.) Any awards chatter was for co-star Michelle Yeoh; an Oscar nomination for his quirky performance seemed like an impossibility. As the year wore on, and the film remained in the conversation, his nomination felt possible, then realistic, and then inevitable. Now he's the heavy favorite to win, against seemingly the longest odds. It's the kind of underdog story we all love, and is practically the plot of the movie itself. And he's not just trading on nostalgia; initially his performance hits us with the familiar (he still sounds a bit like Shorty and Data), but soon it shifts as the role expands, and the brilliance of his casting becomes apparent. As the emotional center of the film, he's clearly the one I want to win the most. But I admit he's actually not my pick for Should Win (though it's very nearly a toss-up). Which brings me to…

Has there ever been anyone more perfectly suited for a role than Brendan Gleeson in The Banshees of Inisherin? (Other than perhaps Shelley Duvall as Olive Oyl in Popeye.) Instead of being cast, it's as if he existed fully-formed, sipping a pint in the Irish countryside (woolly vests and all), and the movie was created and filmed around him. (That may not be much of an exaggeration -- writer/director Martin McDonagh wrote the part specifically for him.) He seems to simply live this performance, my personal pick in this category. A consummate character actor for decades -- while also playing roles as varied as Winston Churchill, Mad-Eye Moody, and Donald Trump -- this is, in my humble (yet correct) opinion, a career best. He effortlessly conveys a lifetime of baggage that he doesn't need to (and refuses to) explain to us. His character is confounding and selfish; his motivations that are inscrutable and illogical at best, cruel and dangerous at worst. Like the landscape around him, he is harsh and unforgiving. And yet we still want to spend time with him, just as his puppy-like best friend does. (Gleeson gets extra credit for actually playing fiddle, and even composing the titular song.) Unfortunately for me, his brilliance gets overshadowed by the muck of the final act of the movie. As the story becomes repellant, his character almost literally cuts off his nose to spite his face. (Maybe 'cut off your fingers to spite your frenemy' was a common phrase in 1920s Ireland, I'm not sure.) As playwrights are often wont to do, McDonagh doesn't go easy on his metaphors. Gleeson's biggest hurdle in claiming Oscar gold isn't, however, the unpleasantness of this movie, nor is it front-runner Ke Huy Quan; it's his costar, Barry Keoghan. While voters adore this movie and its performances, Gleeson and Keoghan will inevitably cannibalize each other's votes, each boasting vocal supporters. As much as I adore the performance, when it comes to the film itself, I can't help but channel Gleeson's plainspoken character: "I just don't like it."

So what to make of Barry Keoghan as Dominic, who's repeatedly dismissed as the "dim" one on the island in The Banshees of Inisherin? Well, much has been made of his performance, by critics and moviegoers alike, but I'm not totally on board. By way of comparison, Keoghan amps up the affectations and mannerisms, while Brendan Gleeson gives a much more naturalistic (and for my money, impactful) performance. On my first viewing, I thought Keoghan was aggressively hammy, leaving no line of dialogue un-goosed, whose presence I felt was a little manipulative and mostly unnecessary. Without question, he was taking an awfully big swing. (I also spent a disproportionate amount of the run-time trying to determine if he has eyelids.) But I'll admit, upon a second viewing, I saw there was more to it; not nuance exactly, but an additional layer. Much of that is in the writing, but Keoghan taps into it in unexpected ways; he knows where he's going, and he doesn't necessarily care if the viewer goes there with him or not. It's the fate of the character -- and of the performance -- to be misunderstood, at least initially. But when you see that Dominic possesses a sort of invisible, simplistic wisdom, and is feeling things he can't express, the performance comes alive. (It doesn't hurt that he has the most acrobatic dialogue in the film.) That said, he's near the bottom of this category for me. He has no shot of winning of course, but he'll do plenty to wreck Gleeson's chances. Feckin' Dominic.

Brian Tyree Henry was a bit of a surprise nominee for his role in Causeway, an Apple+ movie very few people have seen, and even fewer have been talking about. Its lack of notoriety is a bit of a shame; for talky character dramas, I'd take this film over The Banshees of Inisherin any day. And Henry is a significant part of why it stands out. Not unlike Brendan Gleeson's, it's a comfortable, lived-in performance that doesn't call a lot of attention to itself. Unfortunately for Henry, he doesn't benefit from having the One Big Scene he'd need to truly contend for the prize. Oddly, that's probably the film's biggest strength: its measured, realistic feel. In a story that could easily drive straight into the melodramatic, the film remains restrained. (Jennifer Lawrence plays the main character, home after a severe injury in the military in Afghanistan, who meets Henry, a local mechanic, and they go on a journey of physical and mental healing together.) It's a slow burn. There aren't otherworldly stakes; sure, the characters have health issues, but the real stakes are friendship. (To which the marketing team undoubtedly said, "Are you kidding me?" I'm sure the filmmakers had to fight off all kinds of pressure to juice up the drama.) Unfortunately, it's a double-edged sword: The ending is probably too restrained; the final act doesn't quite come together, and the film feels largely unresolved.

How often do you hear someone say, "This movie could use more Judd Hirsch?" Well, that's the most definitive thing I can say about The Fabelmans. As someone who saw every episode of Dear John during its original run on TV, and counts Ordinary People as one of his favorite films, I'm definitely cheering for Hirsch. But he's only in two scenes! Dammit, Steven Spielberg, let the man cook! It would be a gas to see 87-year-old Hirsch collect the award (notably, he's the only former nominee in the group), but if I'm being honest, this is not an Oscar-worthy performance. I mean, he's in the movie for all of five minutes, and mostly yells and stomps around and dispenses unrealistic and irresponsible life advice. (And might be… a ghost?) It's a little silly. But also, I wanted more of it. And the best part of it is, supposedly the hallowed movie that made the legendary director think of Hirsch for the role was… Independence Day. Simply incredible. (Meanwhile, erstwhile fugitive Randy Quaid is still waiting for his Spielberg call.)

But as much as I dig Judd Hirsch, they nominated the wrong guy from The Fabelmans! Did they see the same movie I did? Paul Dano is clearly the more meaningful performance. With an understated performance (especially when compared to his other 2022 role, as the Riddler -- who's actually more of a yeller than a riddler), he moors the film emotionally and narratively, a welcome counterbalance to the louder performances in the film. Other standouts this year include: Eddie Redmayne (The Good Nurse), Micheal Ward (Empire of Light), Adrien Brody (Blonde), and Zlatko "The Croatian Burt Young" Buric (Triangle of Sadness).

In Elvis, Tom Hanks does a fantastic impersonation of Jiminy Glick; but of Colonel Tom Parker? Not so much. Other Glorious Omissions include Ray Stevenson in RRR, Ben Foster (who's trying to corner the market on adversarial sh-theels) in Emancipation and Hustle, and Miles Teller (or pretty much any of the lifeless clowns playing fighter pilots) in Top Gun: Maverick.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS:

SHOULD WIN: Kerry Condon (The Banshees of Inisherin) WILL WIN: Angela Bassett (Black Panther: Wakanda Forever) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Alison Doody (RRR) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Janelle Monáe (Glass Onion)

But how will Martin Scorsese feel? That's a question that nobody is asking, regarding the Best Supporting Actress race. Angela Bassett is the favorite to win for her performance in Black Panther: Wakanda Forever, and if she does, she'll be the first person to win an Oscar for acting in a Marvel movie. (As it stands, she's the first acting nominee.) I only bring up Marty because someone inevitably will, after the much-ado-about-nothing feud that he unwittingly sparked a few years ago when he off-handedly opined that comic book movies were not cinema. (The controversy is so stupid that it makes me nauseous, but on the other hand, I do like stirring the pot.) Bassett is certainly the fan favorite here, not just for the comic-book devotees, but for movie-goers in general. The only previous nominee in the group (for What's Love Got to Do with It almost 30 years ago), she's been doing undeniable work for decades. In Wakanda Forever, she achieves many of the hallmarks of an Oscar-winning performance, nailing a pivotal role in acclaimed movie that has significant heft and poignance, where she is largely the emotional center. If I'm being honest, it's not a career-best performance, but I'll be more than happy to see her claim the prize.

Speaking of fan favorites and venerable veterans, Jamie Lee Curtis scored her first nomination for Everything Everywhere All at Once. It's probably a bit of a career achievement recognition, but not an unwelcome one. She's clearly having a blast, both in the movie (as a ridiculous, curmudgeonly, dragged-up tax auditor slash alternate-universe mutant love interest), and on the press/awards tour (whooping it up as her co-stars rake in the accolades). She even has the year's most fun character name, Deirdre Beaubeirdre. In terms of winning, it's never a good thing to compete against someone from the same movie; it's even worse when your competition is as unforgettable as Stephanie Hsu. Fortunately, Curtis isn't here to win, she's here to party.

Somehow, Stephanie Hsu's character in Everything Everywhere All at Once is even more ridiculous than Jamie Lee Curtis's, but much more of the film's central conceit and emotional heft revolve around her. She's the beneficiary of some of the film's most gonzo gambits, and steals every scene that Michelle Yeoh and Ke Huy Quan don't. When she's not using sex toys as deadly weapons (a certain pair of clubs comes to mind), she's tapping into a heart-wrenching ennui that feels very grounded and real. Despite being the least known of any of the nominated actors prior to this film, her versatility, costumes, and choice of breakfast food have made her one of the most memorable. I expect her first nomination is just the beginning.

My personal pick is Kerry Condon, the put-upon (but decidedly not dull, despite her reputation) sister in The Banshees of Inisherin. Critically, she's our proxy, our way into the confounding quarrel between men and the idiosyncratic goings-on in the town. The film, via Brendan Gleeson's character, explores the themes of legacy (creating art, late-life crises, having purpose in one's life, leaving something that will last, etc.) in an inelegant way, which by the end hinders the viewing experience. Condon's character, on the other hand, explores the same themes in a much more elegant (and subtle) way; and as such, Condon makes great strides toward (almost) rescuing the film. Her character, unlike so much of the film, has clarity of purpose. I credit the story for that, of course, but Condon's performance is also largely responsible. It makes her scenes, which are too few, immensely refreshing. It doesn't hurt that she's the only sane one on the island. And the only wise one. Her wisdom is never more evident than when she exits the film well before the ending -- a valuable lesson for all of us.

There are plenty of things about The Whale that have been criticized: the story, the casting of Brendan Fraser, the performances of minor characters, the melodrama, the believability, and the ending. But the one thing everyone praises is Hong Chau, who plays Fraser's nurse and confidant. She brings a strong sense of humanity to the story -- not just kindness, but anger, frustration, humor, resentment, and heartbreak, too. She's not exactly the audience's avatar, but she enables us to tap into the many conflicting feelings from scene to scene, and the film is much better for it. She's also gotten a boost from double-dipping -- playing a fun, pivotal role in The Menu as well. She has a lot of supporters, but in this stacked category, she was probably the last one to make the cut.

One actress I would have liked to see make the cut is Janelle Monáe, for her sneaky performance in Glass Onion. Another standout this year was Thuso Mbedu in The Woman King. And what about Kelly McGillis and Meg Ryan for Top Gun: Maverick?? They should be the top choices as Ingloriously Snubbed -- not from the Oscar race, but from the movie completely! #JusticeForKellyAndMeg

Alison Doody's cringeworthy performance in RRR just makes me nostalgic for her character Elsa in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Sigh.

BEST DIRECTOR:

SHOULD WIN: Daniel Kwan, Daniel Scheinert (Everything Everywhere All at Once) WILL WIN: Daniel Kwan, Daniel Scheinert (Everything Everywhere All at Once) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Baz Luhrmann (Elvis) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Joseph Kosinski (Top Gun: Maverick)

The unlikeliest prestige film of the year is helmed by the unlikeliest directing duo. Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert (often credited as the single entity "Daniels"), bring an usual sensibility and playful DIY aesthetic to their brilliant opus Everything Everywhere All at Once. I can't tell if they share the same brain, or if they each bring completely different and unique sets of perspectives that somehow mesh into a cohesive (yet deliriously messy) vision. However they do it (and I don't think even they can explain it), it works. (For a primer, watch their early music videos and short films, like Pockets and Dogboarding, most of which are under three minutes long.) Emotional absurdity -- or is it absurd emotionality? -- is their specialty. With Everything Everywhere, by far their most ambitious undertaking to date, they make the preposterous relatable, endearing, intimate, and sentimental. In doing so, they craft the best movie of the year, with the best directorial effort of the year. And so the unlikeliest directing duo will soon be known as the unlikeliest Oscar winners.

The Fabelmans is, in part, Steven Spielberg's apology to his father, who he blamed for his parents' divorce for many years -- which is why the father in so many of his early films is absent, irresponsible, or a child-eating shark. Which begs the question: Had he known the truth, would Spielberg have been a lesser, perhaps terrible, director? Maybe E.T. would have stayed home; maybe Richard Dreyfuss would have just eaten his mashed potatoes; maybe the Ark would have remained unraided; maybe Jaws would have stuck to seafood. Thank goodness for childhood trauma, I guess? (Humorously, and tellingly, he said of making The Fabelmans, "This is like a 40 million dollar therapy session.") Until recently, giving Spielberg the Best Director Oscar seemed like a perfunctory exercise: A career-capping reward for his most personal movie (about making movies, no less) seemed like too good an opportunity for voters to pass up. But now, not only is he not the unanimous choice, he's not even the favorite. And I'm helping lead that charge -- I don't think this is even in Spielberg's top 10 directorial efforts. I realize that I sound like an underqualified a-hole troll trying to impress online idiots with a contrarian take: "Meh, Spielberg isn't that good". But the point is that he is that good, and this movie should be better. In this story, his avatar learns he can tell the truth with the camera; then he learns he can bend the truth with the camera; finally, he learns he can create magic with the camera. I just wish he had created magic when making this movie.

Many have viewed Tár as a commentary on the famous and the powerful -- using an orchestra conductor as the conduit to a world most of us know little about, but reflecting a hierarchy that feels disturbingly familiar. That's all valid, but I'm actually fascinated by the allegory to filmmaking itself -- the conductor as a stand-in for the director. (Not surprisingly, the director and the writer of the film are the same person, Todd Field.) In a profession where the credit "a film by" is often used in place of "directed by", the portrait of a megalomaniacal conductor is fairly apt comparison. Seen through that lens (pun partially intended), it's interesting to see Fields's thoughts (or fears?) on the matter. (As a filmmaker, the parallels must not be lost on him.) In the movie, the conductor is theoretically controlling everything -- at least she believes she is -- but the further we probe, the less we see she's actually in control of. The control is an illusion, an instrument of a rigid but brittle power structure. Ultimately, the true lack of control is exposed, and all hell breaks loose. I'm guessing Field, or any director, could relate. (And we've all seen movies where that's clearly happened to the director.) Would Field suggest that this is a truism of directing any film? Or a cautionary tale of what could happen (and what has happened) to other directors? Or would he simply say, "It's about a conductor, you idiot"?

I'm out. I'm out on Martin McDonagh. I've tried, I really have. In Bruges. Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. I even watched his 2006 Oscar-winning short film, Six Shooter. My reactions have ranged between unimpressed to downright repelled. I thought his latest, The Banshees of Inisherin, would turn it around for me. And for the first half of the film, it did; I was ready to repent and declare that McDonagh had finally won me over. But then the chopping began. And I realized it was all a trick. While the film is more palatable than Three Billboards, it's still mean-spirited and off-putting enough to make it official: I dislike his films. He's so deft at writing rich characters and compelling scenes; wouldn't it be grand if he just told a nice, pleasant story? Or if another director made a more conventional film out of one of his scripts? Of course, McDonagh has no interest in doing those things. I can only imagine that his mind is filled with the dark stuff, and the film would be impure if he filtered any of it out. Damn him and his artistic integrity. Critics are doing backflips for this guy, and I can't figure out why. I suppose it could be his ability to imbue his films with the sense of holding opposing opinions in one mind. More than likely, each viewer believes they identify with one of the main characters -- the one that values today, or the one that values tomorrow. Frustratingly, I think that McDonagh is saying that each of us is really both at the same time… and there's no painless way to reconcile that.

The increasing internationalization of voters in the Academy has resulted in more nominees from overseas, especially in the Director category. This year's big beneficiary is Ruben Östlund, a semi-surprise in this group for Triangle of Sadness (which also scored noms for Picture and Original Screenplay). He has a strong Nordic sensibility, but also takes lots of cues from American filmmaker Robert Altman. Much more popular abroad, Triangle of Sadness hasn't really struck a chord with North American audiences. Perhaps this is because Östlund largely treats his characters as generic stand-ins for classes and stereotypes, rather than treating them as individuals. By the same token, the film strikes me as less malicious than, say, The Banshees of Inisherin, because it is more blunt and broad, and takes aim at groups instead of unique people (and as a result, I find it a bit more palatable). His filmmaking style is often overtly combative, using techniques to restrict what the viewer is able to take in (scenes shot from a great distance, muffled dialogue, characters partially or completely out of frame). The general consensus is that Östlund's nomination is more of a reward for the culmination of his last three films (a trilogy of sorts) -- the previous two, Force Majeure and The Square, were much more highly regarded -- so don't expect a victory for him here.

Why no Best Director nomination for Joseph Kosinski, the technical force behind Top Gun: Maverick? If you ask me, he's the one we should credit with rescuing the theatrical movie experience. (And maybe his team of digital artists who magically de-aged Tom Cruise by 30 years.) Kosinski is my narrow Snubbed choice over All Quiet on the Western Front's Edward Berger (I had predicted Berger would grab the typical international director slot over Ruben Östlund). There are plenty of other directors worth mentioning, including Antoine Fuqua (Emancipation), Sarah Polley (Women Talking), and Robert Eggers (The Northman).

Can a movie be over-directed? Based on Baz Luhrmann's Elvis, the answer is a resounding yes. Baz never met a shot he couldn't muddle up by shaking the camera, zooming and whip-panning, superimposing junk on top of it, and generally loading it up with artifice. My hands down pick for Gloriously Omitted.

BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY:

SHOULD WIN: Daniel Kwan, Daniel Scheinert (Everything Everywhere All at Once) WILL WIN: Daniel Kwan, Daniel Scheinert (Everything Everywhere All at Once) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Sam Mendes (Empire of Light) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Robert Eggers, Sjón (The Northman)

What a loaded category. In most other years, four of the nominated films would probably be the favorite. (Apologies to Triangle of Sadness.) This year, it will realistically come down to two films: Everything Everywhere All at Once and The Banshees of Inisherin.

Mystifyingly, the award that Everything Everywhere All at Once deserves the most is the one it's least likely to get. The screenplay categories are the ones that are often used to spread the hardware around -- especially if the Picture and Director winners are expected to align, and the directors are also the writers. So while Everything Everywhere (written by Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert) is the most original screenplay, and the best screenplay, and the most fun screenplay, and the most emotional screenplay, there's a strong chance The Banshees Of Inisherin will win here as a consolation prize. And that would be a goddam, low-down, filthy disgrace, I tell you. The films couldn't be more different, but they surprisingly take on some similar themes. Specifically, I think Everything Everywhere deals with midlife crisis more interestingly, complexly, and elegantly than Banshees. (Admittedly, the one thing Everything Everywhere is missing is a donkey.) Who will actually win? It's coming down to the wire, so it's pretty much anybody's guess. But I'll say that the Everything Everywhere's unique blend of reverence and irreverence will tip the scales.

I really don't know what to make of the script for The Banshees of Inisherin (written by Martin McDonagh). I can't say that it's bad, but I also can't get past the unpleasant experience of the final act (which is, of course, completely intended). McDonagh is undoubtedly a gifted scriptwriter; I've said before that while I don't like his films, his scenes are impeccably crafted, and his lyrical dialogue simply hums. This script in particular has a purity to it, as well as a commitment to themes that feel true to the author (even if the story's contours and destination don't suit me). But I don't know what he's trying to achieve. Sure, it's a war allegory. But there has to be more to it. Is it a grief metaphor? (I have some theories on the ending -- or non-ending -- that are a little far-fetched but seem logical to me; however, the Internet tells me I'm wrong. I won't do any spoiling of the ending here. But buy me a beer, and I'll give you an earful.) Is it saying that man can't escape his nature? (The characters on the island are literally and figuratively removed from the Irish Civil War on the mainland. But they’ve got their own little interpersonal civil wars, which seem just as important, just as trivial, and just as confounding. Their tiny haven seems like a deliberate microcosm of the greater population, despite being completely isolated. After all, Inisherin translates to "Ireland island".) Or simply that the Irish are drunkards that like to fight and swear? (The film doesn't exactly offer evidence to the contrary.) I just don't know. The best way I can reconcile it is to consider it a folktale, one that's been retold and exaggerated and reinterpreted over the course of 100 years, with an absurdist ending that can be customized to whatever the storyteller wants to convey. "Let me tell you the sad tale of the rowin' Irish lads and the Banshees of Inisherin…"

Todd Field has written three feature films in his lifetime (including In the Bedroom and Little Children), and all of them have been nominated for Best Screenplay. When he finally writes one that isn't, just imagine how disappointed his family will be with his failure. Like his previous nominations, this one for Tár won't result in a victory. But it won't be for lack of effort. Critics can't stop praising this screenplay, even if they can't agree on what it means or what it's saying. I'm not able to agree (or disagree) because I haven't got a clue what it means or what it's saying -- and that's perhaps my biggest problem with it. It's a mystery that remains a mystery (for reasons unknown, or maybe just unclear); instead of a reveal, we get shadows and ripples, mostly. It's a little frustrating. Despite the overarching narrative, to me it feels more like a series of essays than a complete story. It doesn't every really crescendo (at least, not in a way that feels earned); it feels like it's missing a critical coalescence in the final act. This is all completely intentional by the writer, no doubt. It's all there, I'm sure; he just doesn't want us to find it, at least not in the conventional way. Are the characters discussing music and composition, or sex and orgasms? Are we seeing things objectively, or from the main character's perspective, or someone else's? Will our conductor be haunted for the rest of her life, or has she paid her penance and will now be at peace (despite living in professional purgatory)? "You're just stupid," the fervent supporters would certainly tell me, right after Googling what the story really means. Despite my misgivings about this film, I loved Fields's previous films, and am eager to see what he tackles next. (I just hope he dumbs it down for me.)

They say 'Write what you know'. Maybe The Fabelmans, Steven Spielberg's autobiographical coming-of-age story, should be an argument against that. I can't help but question whether Spielberg is the right person to write and direct his own biopic. The script (co-written by frequent collaborator Tony Kushner) is, disappointingly, a very conventional drama; but it also gets too cute and corny when it shouldn't, and gives some very young characters some very unrealistic dialogue. It's like a long, mediocre episode of The Wonder Years (but with fewer uses of the word "butthead"). It's fictionalized, but not as much as you might expect. (Maybe it should have been more fictionalized.) Ultimately, I'm not sure what the script is saying, other than 'My parents got divorced so I became a filmmaker'. Believe it or not, it's Spielberg's first Oscar nomination for writing, but alas, it won't be his first win.

Reactions have been mixed to the script for Ruben Östlund's Triangle of Sadness. What the story seems to strive for and what it actually achieves are, unfortunately, very different. What it aspires to: a clever, incisive examination of class and classism -- society's inherent flaws laid bare, pitting capitalism, socialism, Marxism, sexism, elitism, and all the other -isms against each other, under contrasting sets of circumstances. What is actually is: White Lotus meets Below Deck -- with more arrogance, less subtlety, and the same amount of feces -- playing out in hyper-speed to a logical, imploding conclusion (which is, of course, Lord of the Flies).

My pick for Ingloriously Snubbed, the electric script for The Northman (written by Robert Eggers and Sjón), has a lot going for it: revenge, destiny, and naked sword-fighting inside a volcano… but mostly deadbeat dads.

My Gloriously Omitted choice: Sam Mendes usually doesn't write the movies he directs; Empire of Light is a good example of why.

BEST ADAPTED SCREENPLAY:

SHOULD WIN: Edward Berger, Lesley Paterson, and Ian Stokell (All Quiet on the Western Front) WILL WIN: Sarah Polley (Women Talking) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Andrew Dominik (Blonde) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Dean Fleischer Camp, Nick Paley, Jenny Slate (Marcel the Shell with Shoes On)

Women Talking (written by Sarah Polley) is heavy, heady stuff, dealing with the philosophical, the theological, the moral, and the ideological… but not necessarily the practical. While the central deliberation is fascinating (it's like 12 Angry Men, but with characters deciding their own fate), I tend to focus on the logic in movies (always a dumb thing to do), so I'm very curious about what would happen next. Where will the women go? How will they live? Will they find income, or try to live off the land? How far could they possibly get before the men track them down? Will they get double-counted in the census?? (You know, important stuff.) Since the film is primarily dialogue, and the subject matter is so weighty, the film feels very "written", and as a result is getting a lot of attention for its screenplay. It's the favorite to win, but its lead is shrinking by the day. We'll see if it can hang onto the lead come Oscar night.

Spoiler, for those who have never heard of World War I: All is not quiet in All Quiet on the Western Front. The German film (written by director Edward Berger, Lesley Paterson, and Ian Stokell) is based on the classic novel of the same name, penned by a German combat vet. Some updates have been made to the new film version, making the tale of a young Central Powers soldier at the end of the war even more harrowing and heartbreaking. The attention to detail is captivating -- especially a remarkable sequence about the cycle of a soldier's uniform, hauntingly symbolic of the systematic, unending death. If anything has a chance of beating Women Talking in this category, it's this script; if you ask me the day before the ceremony, I might well predict this as the winner.

Let me get this straight: Top Gun: Maverick, a masterful and pioneering technical achievement in aerial filmmaking, is not nominated for Best Director or Best Cinematography, but despite banal characters and a wafer-thin plot, it is nominated for Best Screenplay? That's the Oscars for you. Maybe I'm not being fair. Maybe I'm holding screenwriter Christopher McQuarrie's pedigree against him -- after all, he won an Academy Award for writing The Usual Suspects, one of the best scripts of the last 30 years. (Alas, he wrote that solo; he teamed up with a cabal of writers for Maverick.) But then I think of how the Maverick script oh-so-subtly informs us about Rooster and who his father might be… while he's sporting a mustache, shades, Hawaiian shirt, and white t-shirt, using an avian call sign, literally playing 'Great Balls of Fire' on piano. We get it; they probably could have stopped at the mustache. And for those of us dummies who are still unclear, the script throws in flashbacks, old photos, and Maverick looking traumatized for several minutes. "Ohhh, I wonder if that guy is related to Goose…" Then there is the huge missed opportunity for fun dialogue. "I feel the need… the need for speed", "Take me to bed or lose me forever", "The Defense Department regrets to inform you that your sons are dead because they were stupid", "Negative Ghost Rider, the pattern is full", "Yeehaw, Jester's dead", and "Bullsh-t, you can be mine" are all fantastic lines that are not in this movie. And no dialogue in it comes close to the original film's. Forget about an all-time classic like, "Your ego is writing checks your body can't cash." (Though to be fair, I've spent years trying to figure exactly what that means.) I just don't think "I am good, I'm very good" is catching on. Oh also, the story manages to work in Penny Benjamin, the admiral's daughter that Maverick slept with years ago, mentioned in the first movie. Penny is now played by Jennifer Connolly, age 52. That means that she was 16 during their first romance in 1986. Congratulations screenwriters, you've made Maverick a pedophile.

Remember those times in college or early adulthood when you hang out in cheap bars with pals that you spend all your time with, bond with, confide in, make plans with, and share big dreams with? You know, the ones you're certain will be your best friends for life? And then you get a little older, and you realize that, in fact, those people have become pretty irritating and annoying? Like, it turns out they're just the worst? And you feel like you want to kill them in a highly premediated, theatrical, convoluted, yet somewhat comedic kind of way? Uh, no? Well, someone in Glass Onion does, so I'm officially not alone. Welcome to the confusing Adapted Screenplay category, where two original stories are officially considered "adapted" instead of "original" solely because they are sequels. This tale of treachery and murder (written by Rian Johnson) is one of those non-original original adapted screenplays. It might not be quite as dazzling as the predecessor, Knives Out (also a screenplay nominee, my snubbed choice for Picture and Director, and one of the best films of 2019), but it's a worthy heir, very clever and extremely fun. It's maybe not so much a mystery as, well, an onion, revealing layers and new information as the movie progresses. (Some argue that it irritatingly eschews the rules of a whodunnit by withholding necessary information from the viewer.) I just have one piece of advice for those who are fed up with their friends: If the world's greatest detective is with you, maybe wait until, you know, after he leaves before you murder one of them.

Living is an adaptation of a story that's already been told by Akira Kurosawa (in the film Ikiru) and Leo Tolstoy (in the novella The Death of Ivan Ilyich), so it has some pretty big shoes to fill. It doesn't hurt that the writer is Kazuo Ishiguro, who's no slouch himself (Nobel Prize winner, author of books like The Remains of the Day and Never Let Me Go, and screenwriter of several movies). Living probably won't have quite the legacy that Ikiru does; but then again, that film didn't get any Oscar nominations. Take that, Kurosawa!

I'm picking Marcel the Shell with Shoes On (written by Dean Fleischer Camp, Nick Paley, and Jenny Slate) for my Snubbed slot. It's a wonderful, simple story about the wonders of simplicity, about connections past and present, about people loved and lost, and maybe -- just maybe -- the meaning of life. (Honorable Mention goes to the script for She Said, written by Rebecca Lenkiewicz. But honestly, I can't believe they didn't get Ben Affleck to do the voice of Harvey Weinstein; his impression -- which is not as much of a hit at parties anymore -- is uncanny.)

In 10 years' time, will Blonde (written and directed by Andrew Dominik) be considered shameless exploitation or high camp? Right now, it's really hard to tell. The harrowing portrait of Marilyn Monroe is very serious subject matter, but is also highly fictionalized and shellacked with glitzy flourishes. It has the schlock of a Russ Meyer film, but the prestige of being an adaptation of a revered Pulitzer-finalist book by Joyce Carol Oates. (It's actually not even the first adaptation of the book -- there was a barely-remembered CBS mini-series in 2001 starring Poppy Montgomery.) The film is leaden with symbolic imagery; the NC-17 content is meant to evoke the dizzying, gut-wrenching experience of being Ms. Monroe, but often comes off as either vile or silly, including (but not limited to): facial and genital body horror, drowning children, scary mommies, domestic abuse, living photographs, unabashed nudity, national monuments as giant phalluses, Hollywood as a literal burning hellscape, kneeling in the Oral -- ahem -- Oval Office, and of course, a talking fetus. Subtle, this script is not. (Dominik even said prior to its release, "There's something in it to offend everyone.") I'm sure there will be an online reclamation of this film at some point, but for now, it will have to live with my Glorious Omitted commendation.

#oscars #oscarpredictions #oscarpredictions2023 #oscarprognostication2023 #donovansoscarprognostication2023 #oscars2023 #academyawards #academyaward

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acciojaeyun · 3 years

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venus among the stars | fred weasley

pairing: fred weasley x gn!reader warnings: none, just fluff and babie freddie prompt: "you awfully know me so much for someone who doesn't talk to me," "that doesn't mean i don't observe you,"

a/n: i just realised after i wrote this that james phelps (fred weasley) is really an astronomer! this is coincidental and not really planned. i just can't help but associate sleeping at last's venus with fred. :>

summary: fred had been at the astronomy tower for some time now. he loved looking at the stars and planets, little did he know, he was already venus in somebody's eyes.

"Where are you heading off, Freddie?" George asked as he watched Fred stand up while messily putting all of his quills and parchment away. "The tower, I could pretty much use a breather right now. Umbridge's a pain in the arse." Fred muttered, not minding to listen to whatever George had to say in response - he was too clouded in his mind to do so, anyway.

Fred had been on the receiving end of the stress that was inherent to being a seventh year. He knew George had it too, but he was in awe of how he can easily manage it as if it were something not too much of a deal.

At some point, he envied how George seemed like he got everything sorted out. He had to give him the appreciation for that. Hey, George was always the one who assessed most of their pranks; from that, it wasn't new knowledge to Fred if George wasn't that stressed out over life in general.

That is why he had been in the Astronomy Tower more than usual. Looking at the constellations each night, reminiscing his second year in Hogwarts and how he was trying to memorise the name of constellations at the back of his head - something he took pride in himself, he was fascinated with Astronomy, that loud boy. He found calm within the stars and the planets.; and the occurrence of Umbridge made him find a significant purpose other than peace: sanity. That was why Fred had been in the Astronomy Tower regularly.

Little did he know or maybe not, someone was observing him for some quite time now. All along, Fred knew he was alone. The student lurking seated at the last step of the Astronomy Tower proved otherwise. Y/N had seen Fred one time in the Astronomy Tower one night they had been later than their usual time in visiting the tower.

To Y/N, Fred was beauty. They couldn't deny it. The night of the Yule Ball they had seen Fred in its wool vest and black coat with his hair falling perfectly as if it were like dominoes, he had never left Y/N's mind.

Now, Y/N had dedicated constellations to Fred more often than not. He had been something that had given them hope. His smiles and laughs had become Y/N's source of happiness as well; and as the year progressed and the arrival of Umbridge had manifested in Hogwarts, they couldn't help but notice the light in Fred's eyes diminish increasingly.

They had been debating over themselves about it for some quite time now. They had always been wanting to approach Fred, but they were too scared to do so. They had placed Fred in a pedestal, unwillingly, at that. But they couldn't help it, he was ethereal. A figure of magic and love rolled into one.

Tonight was one of those times. They had seen Fred in the Great Hall, writing in dinner tonight; which was very unusual of him. When Fred had gotten up to go to the Astronomy Tower - they presume - they had waited out a bit before following him in his tracks.

Which leads to tonight, with Y/N seated on the last steps of the stairs. They were looking at Fred's face lost in thought, arms leaning on the rails of the tower, moonlight illuminating the crevices of his face.

Y/N felt the unexplainable pull towards Fred. But even though they had been experiencing that for quite some time, they couldn't find any strength in them to actually approach them. He was too high, the Fred Weasley. And who were they? Y/N Y/L/N. To them, it was such a laughable concept.

"How long have you been here?" Fred asked as he towered over the seated figure, making Y/N choke on air and stand up rather messily. "Oh – about that, uh – I have been here for just like – like now?" they reasoned, hands instantly shaking and sweating up out of embarrassment and butterflies.

Fred looked at them and licked his lips. "Oh, were you going to the Tower?"

"I mean, I am technically at the Tower, anyway, so..." they trailed off, internally slapping themselves for such a response.

The ginger boy chuckled, "Oh, sorry. You're right. I'm leaving already, anyway. The tower is yours."

"Right," they answered quickly, earning yet another mental slap.

Fred smiled and excused himself, Y/N trying their best not to turn around to follow his trail.

"Oh, and," they heard Fred call after them.

Y/N turned their body towards the direction of his voice, they had terrible eyesight especially when it's dark. And it's not helping the situation as Fred was already at the bottom of the stairs.

"You are welcome to join me anytime." he smiled and turned away from Y/N's dumbfounded figure.

The stiff fellow then shook their head whilst smiling to themselves. They now went to replace Fred's then place, smiling at the clumps of stars at the pitch black sky.

Days passed and Y/N had been trying to catch Fred in the Astronomy Tower, but they had not been met with the familiar figure of the ginger-haired twin.

"Waiting for someone?"

Just as when Y/N almost gave up in trying to catch Fred, there goes the Weasley leaning at the frame just a few meters away from the staircase. "Yeah," Y/N smiled, "I was waiting for him for three days, actually."

Fred frowned, guilt consuming him instantly. "I'm sorry, I got caught up with my studies."

"Oh, don't be sorry. I was just kidding, Fred."

He let out a faux exhale, "I thought you were serious, Y/N."

"You know my name?"

The boy furrowed their eyebrows. "Should I not?"

"No, no. It's that we just - you don't talk to me that much..." they trailed off.

"Ah," Fred pushed himself from the doorframe, walking towards the side of Y/N who has been watching his every step. "We may not talk that much, but that doesn't mean I haven't noticed you."

Y/N looked bewildered, making Fred smile more. "I – uh, may I ask when, and how?"

"We've been going here for weeks now, Y/N."

"Yeah, and –"

"You like the moon, correct?"

"Yes?"

"Your favourite moon is Callisto."

"You awfully know me so much for someone who doesn't talk to me." Y/N chuckled. "That doesn't mean I don't observe you," Fred countered, meeting Y/N's curious eyes that he had been wanting to look into forever – much more often than the stars at the sky.

Y/N took a huge leap of faith, scooting closer towards Fred, leaning their head on his shoulder albeit strugglingly. "If I hadn't liked you for a long time, I would've been running off the staircase now." Y/N kid, as Fred laughed in response.

"I saw you here last week, actually," Fred started. "I wanted to look at the stars that night because they seem so serene, you know?"

Y/N hummed. "They're silent beauty."

"Just like yours," Fred whispered. "I never knew I'd find you in the midst of those beautiful constellations, Y/N."

As Fred was met with silence as a response, he took that opportunity to continue with what he's been dying to say since the moment he saw them. He leaned his head on top of Y/N's, "You found me, Y/N."

"What do you mean, Fred?"

"You pulled me into focus." he whispered back, as serenity found its way in Fred's whole being.

Maybe the year wasn't going to be so bad. Fred, being the lad who always had perfected executions of the things he found fascinating, had found Venus when he was experimenting with his calculations. An astronomer at best, Fred had found his whole universe, Y/N; who was beautiful as endless.

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omg-imatotalmess · 4 years

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Avoidance

Hey guys! So, this is for @thisismysecrethappyplace who tagged me in their writing challenge. I’m sorry this took so long to get out. I hope this helps you through your birthday blues. Hope y’all enjoy!

Pairing: George Weasley x Reader

Requested: Kinda

Warnings: Slight angst (it ends nice and fluffy I promise)

15. I’m hopeless and awkward and desperate for love!

---

Love was a funny thing. It had the power to make people do the stupidest things without even realizing it. It had the power to make people forget themselves. Love could completely turn someone inside out and set them on their head, and they'd be happy about it. You couldn't fathom it. How anyone could be happy about tearing their heart out and handing it to someone for safekeeping was a mystery to you. In fact, you thought it was total bullshit. Then you met George.

Well, that's not exactly it. It wasn't love at first sight by any means, but sometime in the years you'd known him, it crept up on you. You hadn't even realized it at first. It had come on so slowly over the years that it felt natural. Then, all of a sudden, sitting in a sunny corner of the library, it hit you like a ton of bricks. You were in love with George Weasley. The boy who taught you to play quidditch, who laughed at all your bad jokes, who had been your best friend forever. Of course, you loved him. It was inevitable. And that's why you'd taken to avoiding him.

You couldn't stand to be the aching, puppy-eyed girl grinning ear to ear as you offered him your heart. Never in your life did you want to feel that stupid. You also didn't like the very real possibility that it would ruin things between you. All you wanted to do was wait it out. Let yourself slowly fall out of love with him, and then things could go back to normal. However, George seemed to have other plans. After a good week of avoiding him, he finally caught up to you while you sat in the astronomy tower.

"There you are. Been looking for you for ages, you know," he said. You could feel him grinning at your back.

"Uh, yup, here I am. You found me," you said, cringing at your stilted words.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you didn't want to see me. Silly me, I didn't know we were playing hide and seek," he laughed, dumping his bag on the floor and sitting down beside you. In typical George fashion, he left a tiny gap between your shoulders but knocked your knees together as he sat. It was friendly. You wished it wasn't. Then you hated yourself for wishing that.

"Yeah, silly you," you said.

"C'mon, don't tell me you're really avoiding me." His tone was still teasing, but you could hear the tightness beginning to form.

"Well..." you began.

"What? Why? Is it because Fred and I let you take the fall for that prank on Snape? Because I feel terrible about that, and I really am sorry," he said.

"I am still kinda mad about that," you muttered to yourself.

"Does that mean you're avoiding Fred, too?" he asked, looking very much like he hoped the answer was yes. Just for the safety of knowing it wasn't just him.

Things would have been so much easier if he didn't turn those big brown eyes on you. When he looked like that, you could see how devastatingly handsome he was even with that wounded look on his face. You hated it. The last thing you'd ever wanted to do was hurt him. How the hell were you supposed to explain to your best friend that you fell in love with him and wished you hadn't? You had the feeling that it would come out wrong if you tried anyway. You looked away.

"You're not." It was a statement.

"Well, no, not exactly," you mumbled.

"What's the matter? Did I do something wrong?" he asked.

"No!" you said, just a little too loud. "No, of course not."

"You don't exactly go around ignoring your best friend without a good reason. Especially not you. Unless you forgot how to speak English or something. Even then, I bet you'd still come mess with me just because you knew I wouldn't understand you. You'd get a real kick out of that," he babbled.

"George, take a breath," you reminded him.

"What did I do?" he said, cutting off his rambling. You shifted uncomfortably, blushing under his gaze. If only he was just a little less endearing. If only he was ugly. If only you weren't dumb enough to fall in love with him.

"You didn't do anything. I'm just being stupid," you said.

"That doesn't exactly tell me much, you know," he replied, reaching out to take your hand. It was something he'd done a million times before. Your skin shouldn't have prickled under his touch.

"No, I guess not. It's really not a big deal, though." The tingling spread up your arm.

"Tell me about it anyway," he said, giving your hand the most unbearably sweet squeeze. It was like he had a direct line to your heart. That one little squeeze sent it into overdrive. You shivered, pulling your hand away and standing up.

"I can't. Not right now, okay?" you said quickly. Snagging your bag from its place by the window, you turned to run like the coward you were.

"(Y/N)." Your name sounded heavy and tragic on his tongue. The whole situation felt like something out of a ridiculous romance novel, which made you hate it even more.

"I'll explain it all to you when I get it straight in my head, okay? I promise," you said. While you never really planned to tell him about being in love with him, you would eventually be able to go back to normal.

Taking one long step forward, he grabbed the sleeve of your shirt. His grip was so gentle that you could have pulled away if you'd really wanted to, but you didn't. Both of you stood there. Neither of you moved or spoke for a moment. You just kept your back to him, letting him curl his fingers into your sleeve. Eventually, he brought himself closer, leaning his forehead onto your shoulder.

"Please don't ignore me anymore. It's only been a week, and I miss you," he whispered. You weren't sure you'd ever heard him so quiet.

"George-"

"Please? I'd really rather you talk this through even if I don't have a clue what you're on about," he said.

Jesus, having him so close you could damn near hear his voice inside your head was painful. So was the thought of walking away. George was your best friend. He deserved an explanation. It was cruel of you to do this to him when he didn't do anything wrong. You just weren't sure how to start.

"I'm hopeless and awkward and desperate for love!" you blurted. Well, that was one way to do it.

"You're in love?" he asked, somehow sounding more upset.

"That seems to be what came out of my mouth," you said.

"You're in love," he said again. This time it was more to himself.

"Yeah," you sighed, turning to him. You rubbed the back of your neck awkwardly, feeling your cheeks flushing with heat. This wasn't a conversation you really wanted to have. He'd reject you in that sweet yet joking way only he could pull off, and you'd have to pretend to be okay with it, and things would be so much worse. If the castle was capable of swallowing you whole, you wished it would.

"With who?"

"Excuse me?"

"Who is it?"

"Who... am I in love with?" you asked. Oh no. Oh god. George, that sweet, stupid boy. He didn't get it.

"Do I know them?" he asked. A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth.

"I should hope so. You know, come to think of it, he actually looks a lot like you," you laughed, suddenly dizzy with mortification. The whole situation was laughable. Completely bizarre. What could you do besides laugh?

"Oh," he croaked. "Fred then."

"Fred?" you asked, blinking dazedly.

"It's alright. You could have just told me. I would have even put in a good word for you. We're close, you know, I have an in with him. Wouldn't have minded setting you up. Can't imagine why you didn't just ask," he said with a half-hearted laugh. He began to back away from you. You watched as he ran a hand through his hair and bit his lip. For a split second, you thought he was going to cry.

"I'm not talking about Fred," you said.

"'M not sure who else you'd be talking about," he said.

"You dense--" you muttered. Shaking your head, you figured you'd better give this another shot.

"You, George, I'm in love with you," you admitted. It was his turn to blink at you. If the situation hadn't been so painfully awkward, you might have laughed at him. Half bent over with his bag hanging from one hand, lanky limbs paused mid-movement and sticking out at odd angles.

"Me? You really mean that? Me, as in George Weasley?" he asked.

"You know a lot of other George Weasleys?"

"Me! You're in love with me!" he hooted. A grin cracked across his face as he dropped his bag and swept you up in his arms.

"I'll assume it's reciprocated then," you said as he crushed you against his chest. He laughed. It sounded a lot like years worth of built-up worry finally being released—a wonderfully contagious sound. A smile pulled at your mouth, and you buried your face in his chest.

In lieu of an actual answer, he pulled you up, so your feet dangled off the floor and kissed you. You'd thought about George kissing you a thousand times, but you never imagined it would be like this. He kissed you like it was the only thing he'd ever wanted to do. Despite the enthusiasm that you could feel emanating from every pore, he was gentle. His mouth was warm, stretched around a familiar grin, and tasted faintly of honey. You wondered briefly why you ever thought about denying yourself this before George overtook all your senses. Reluctantly, the two of you parted to breathe.

"Guess I should have said something sooner," you panted.

"Definitely," he said, sounding a little breathless himself.

"So, I guess it really would be safe to assume you like me too," you teased.

"I've been in love with you since fourth year. Glad to know you finally caught up," he said. His face was flushed a soft pink, making his freckles stand out more. You loved them. You loved him.

"Sorry for keeping you waiting," you said.

"This was definitely worth the wait." Smiling, you leaned in and captured his lips again. Now that you knew you were allowed, you weren't sure you'd ever stop. Maybe love wasn't so funny after all.

@hufflepuff5972

#i didn't proofread this #sorry #george weasley x reader #george weasley x reader fluff #george weasley x reader imagine #george weasley #george weasley imagine #george weasley oneshot #george x reader #harry potter imagine #harry potter #hp #fluff

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briteboy · 3 years

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it’s been a very long time since i’ve felt compelled to write, but i want to do my story justice in time, and for the first time in a long time i’m feeling inspired and i want to keep this momentum up... i’ve gotten messages about the impact of my story on some of you and that means the world to me, so thank you from the bottom of my heart. i’m reworking a lot of its framework and thinking about how i want it to evolve, but for now here’s a little something i wrote last year for what could hypothetically be the start of santi’s written story, idk. i’m just vibing

One single, nervous thought punctured the stillness as I rose from the hardwood floor to meet the smog and swelter of August: This is home now.

I wouldn’t quite call it happy, but hope was a funny thing in my chest. A swell of foreign, restless energy I couldn’t put a name to. It was the meeting of heart and throat atop a rollercoaster before the freefall, a sting of the sharpest rat’s tail chiles of my youth. This strange hollowness was something I hadn’t felt in quite some time, both exciting and terrifying— so much that it rendered me immobile on the floor, staring up at rectangles of light etched upon the cracked ceiling from the eastward facing window.

This is home now. This is home now. This is home now. Followed by: I hate sunrises. And I did, inexplicably so, gut-wrenchingly so. Yet I always seemed to wake with them.

I guess I owed it to a number of things, this ripple of daydreamed optimism— the most prominent of which came in the form of good friends and better memories— God knows those were few and far between. Even then, I swore to myself that I’d never take that for granted. That summer had been good to me, those two mindless months of salt and sweat, pretending life didn’t exist beyond the grey shores of Rockaway Beach.

It was Gianni’s idea to rent the house out through July. ‘House’ was a generous term; it was more of a glorified shack, really, with its single bedroom, slate blue shingles corroded by sea spray, broken down boat junking up the backyard. The kind of rental you see described as ‘cozy’, whose only charm is that flushing the toilet is always a gamble. The shed next to the boat had supposedly been renovated into a pool house despite the lack of a pool. It was a laughable excuse for a homestead, but I slept there on a paper-thin cot with the spiders and mosquitoes, just glad that I wasn’t bumming off someone’s couch for once. On the nights that left me restless and trembling, I found myself wedged between my two best friends in the one bedroom like a kid who’d had a bad dream.

It was just the three of us, because wherever Gianni went, Rooney went, the two of them rendered inseparable ever since their chanced meeting in Gianni’s hometown. Eighteen and newly confronted with the horrifying reality of impending adulthood and What the Fuck Do I Do Now Syndrome, Rooney’s most frivolous manic episode to date had led her to Naples and straight into Gianni’s heart, like something out of a foreign film. She left with an existential crisis and came back with a boyfriend.

He was my best friend first, and I always made sure she knew this. Not that I resented her for it; I loved Rooney and her softhearted presence in the shambles of my life. In fact, she encouraged the closeness between Gianni and I in her own spritely, teasing way, even the jokes about us being husbands. She almost wanted it to happen, and if I’m being honest, if I was going to marry anyone, it would be Gianni.

Quincey Prep stole our livelihood and exacerbated our mischievous behavior rather than broke it, as all reform schools are wont to do, but both Gianni and I owed it a certain gratitude for bringing us together and forming a bond that could not easily be broken by a five-foot-two baker’s daughter from Queens. But he loved Rooney, so I loved Rooney, and so there were three of us in this beach house that summer, and I don’t remember ever being so happy to be cramped and sweaty and sunburnt.

My new home was a shoebox of a fifth floor walk-up above a dim sum restaurant just off Canal Street, but it was the best thing that had happened to me in the past seven years.

that’s all i have for now lol i forgot i even wrote this........... i’m going to write more but i don’t have a plan yet...i probably shouldn’t even worry about a Plan rn anyway as i imagine this story is going to have many iterations before it really becomes anything tangible aside from its trajectory on my blog. i have some choker stuff too tho lmk if u guys are interested :~}

#a serious case of the novembers #?#idk #my writing #sure :)

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the-raven-who-writes · 2 years

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Medieval Adventures: A Tale of Kingdoms and Knights

Genres: Slice-of-life, Fantasy, Magic, Self-Insert Trigger Warnings: Mentions of food and implied suicide Word Count: 604 Chapter 0: Prolog

Once upon a time, there was a girl who loved to read stories. Soon, she learnt how to make her own. She wrote poems and songs too, yet she always came around on writing bits and bobs of stories.

The settings of her stories tended to be wildly different, so she mentally organized them into Worlds in her own whimsical little ‘Universe’ after a while.

She was a tad bit lonely though, so she made herself a bunch of friends. Soon however, they too became part of a story, and she, a character of sort.

It seemed peculiar, yet nice. To be in a World where she didn’t have to worry about consequences. One where she could be her truest self. And make friends with people who never existed. Where she was once bored out her mind, she soon began daydreaming.

Of course, she wasn’t a character in every one of them. But in her favorites, she instilled a bit of herself. A little quirk, a worry, a way they showed their care. She made many individuals that way.

Without these stories, she felt, that she would have been long dead. Lost her sanity, and given up on everything. Mourned a short while, then her name being just that. A name. Meaningless.

These stories, while they took away her worries, made her realize that she needed to make herself a legacy. One to be remembered, at least by a few.

And she wanted her stories to be a part of it. She really did.

Whether what she felt was airy joy, the spark of a silly idea, something laughable or the terrifying depths of pain, despair or hopelessness; it found its way into one of those stories. She held them close to her heart. She showed those ‘little’ things in different ways, with a bit of fiction and magic.

She wanted everyone to feel happy, and she wanted to be happy. Where she couldn’t trust them with her issues or interests, she’d implement them in a story, and take care of her mental self.

But there is a limit to how much you can handle. Ah, whatever, that’s not important now.

This one was thought of around three or four years ago. But the only similarity about it was the fact that it happened in the same World and that she found a way in. It was only truly born last year on a rainy evening, near a window and a cup of warm piping chocolate milk. And a little sister.

Bit by bit, she established the way this World worked, bringing in her previous idea of it together as well. She worked on timelines, backstories, kingdoms, politics and plot stuff.

But as the year ended, she had an epiphany on her emotions and her mental growth. She decided to implement it to her character’s arc as inspiration to herself and whoever read it.

And here she is now, typing this down near a cup of warm piping chocolate milk. Or, I should say, me. I’m starving, I should probably drink some. Mm.. just the way I like it.

Anyway, this story has been rewritten thanks to a few changes in its direction and character details. The original chapters can still be found on my blog, since they aren’t bad, really.

You could read my story, you know. They’re not that bad.

If you enjoy these, please consider giving a reblog and comment.

Now, go and read silly, I’ll just finish off this delicious drink. I made it myself, too! Just like the day I started all this.

- Jo, the Raven who writes

Taglist: @transgender-er, @startheultramarinesquirrel

#jo writes #matkk #tw food #tw implied suicidal thoughts #jo #my stuff

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elriel-oblivion · 3 years

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So it's been four days so here's part two 😁 Just wanted to say a huge thanks to everyone who read/liked/commented/reblogged the last part! It was such an amazing response, especially given it was my first time posting my writing here, so thanks for all the love you shared 🥰🥰

Heads up, this part is actually part one from Elain's pov. Initially I wanted to continue from where the last part left off in Elain's pov, but as I was writing the background, I realised I'd written too much to just skip when Az gets to the estate and cut straight into a continuation of part one, so I ended up rewriting the whole thing in her view. So there's no new elriel moments, but you'll get a lot of new stuff anyway 😅 I would've said you don't have to read this part to understand part three, but when I was rereading the later parts a few hours ago, I realised there's some stuff that alludes to things in this part, so I strongly recommend you don't skip this 😅😅

Also, wow, some of my fave paragraphs I've ever written are in this part 😁 Bonus points if you can find them; there are four I'm thinking of in particular 😉

Word count: ~ 3.1K. Lemme know if you'd like to be tagged/removed 😊 Next part up in two or three days 😊

AO3

Ashes from the Deep

Part II

It had been a pretty uneventful day as Elain worked through her new plant textbook. Feyre and Rhysand had decided to spend the weekend away at the mountain cabin, Cassian and Nesta were away doing things she wished not to think of, and Mor was at the Winter Court.

Amren had only been round in the mornings, probably to check Elain was still alive. She'd glance round the living room, examine some of those fine crystal glasses in the display cabinet and then leave. There was no difference today, though Elain always felt Amren's scrutiny upon her even when that muted silver gaze was directed elsewhere; perusing Rhys' wine collection had become a tired ruse.

So besides preparing and taking her meals with Nuala and Cerridwen, Elain had spent her afternoon with her book, making notes and copying drawings. The twins had gone off on some errands, so she'd wandered into the garden at some point to tend to her many plants, telling them how lovely they each were. The crocuses looked particularly stunning this autumn day, their pale violet colour breathing life into the shades beneath some of the trees.

With her book, she'd identified new weeds, digging into the soil to rip some pesky ones out. Sometimes she didn't want the help of a tool; sometimes she needed to feel those roots on her bare skin.

Harvesting the carrots and beetroot was also on the agenda today, along with seeding for some spectacular displays next year. She'd been collecting the seeds from some of her summer blooms, like those soft clouds of baby's breath, saving them to replant. These she sowed directly into ground she'd prepared days before, her fingers digging into the crumbly clumps of earth.

Autumn onions she'd plant tomorrow, perhaps. Feyre always remarked on how their strong taste complimented meats well, so Elain wanted to harvest some fresh for her sister for once. It'd take a few months of waiting, but there was little else better than picking out and eating food one had grown with their bare hands and the essential ingredients of love and care.

Setting her book on the patio table, Elain surveyed the garden. It was a good day's work. Plants watered and sown, weeds uprooted, and hands sweaty and soiled, Elain was proud of what she'd achieved today. There were no distractions, nothing to take her from the one thing she always found satisfaction in.

After a long shower, she found herself back in the garden with a cup of tea and a blanket. The sunset washed the sky in a blaze of red and orange glory before it yielded to the cool tones of twilight then night. Elain sat in silence, hands wrapped around her mug. How long would it be until someone's arms were wrapped around her, until she felt the warmth her sisters finally had?

Silly, these thoughts. Immortality stretched far ahead, there would be time to develop that companionship. Months and years were but a heartbeat in the life of a High Fae. She wouldn't even notice the years pass.

Or so everybody else kept saying.

With her tea finished, she perused the book of recipes she'd borrowed from Nuala. Some recipes jumped out, ingredients for which she'd been growing for a few months now. Pumpkin pie sounded especially delightful, the gourd having almost darkened and hardened to ripe quality just a couple days ago. They should be ready for harvest tomorrow.

A chill wind sent Elain inside to prepare and have her dinner in pleasant silence. Even her mind was quiet tonight. After washing her dishes, she stood by a bay window, fingers idly tapping the windowsill.

Faelights bobbed like tiny lamps, dotted through the garden. The full moon was now high in the sky, its ghostly glow illuminating the datura flowers she'd seeded half a year ago. She pulled on her blanket and went out again for a better look at those gorgeous blooms, the petals opening only at night.

Elain couldn't be happier she'd found seeds of a triple-flowered variety. They'd grown to produce large trumpets, three layers of petals ruffled against each other. Somehow she thought of her sisters as she crouched and stared at the flowers, each layer so similar, yet fighting for space and breath as it unfurled before another. It was only when they were all fully open that they could sigh along the night breeze as one, an ethereal song of togetherness, tinged with notes of poignancy, only heard by those with the will to look deeper.

The white petals were stained with velvet violet, a true vision in her garden. While the others had given her passing compliments on the flowers, Azriel had seemed stunned the first time he saw them, citing them his favourite of all the plants Elain had grown so far. Something about their shape and contrasting colours, he'd mentioned.

She smiled fondly at the memory, where his eyes sparkled as he reached for one of the soft petals.

Her hand lashed out to grab his wrist. 'Don't touch them; the leaves and stems are highly poisonous.'

His brows rose. 'You wouldn't think that at first sight. But they're beautiful, Elain. Truly magnificent,' he said, his smooth voice so low, a voice that was night given sound. And how befitting, as even those datura flowers seemed enraptured by his presence, one shy petal finally unfurling towards him.

She beamed at him. 'They like you. Flowers like it when you talk to and compliment them - but these ones haven't given me the same reaction as they have to you. I think they really like you, Azriel.'

His answering smile was heartbreakingly tender.

A few more seconds passed before she realised she still held his wrist. She silently let go.

It was a shame she'd have to dig out the datura shrub and move it inside for the winter; it did look magnificent in the moonlight.

The sky shifted past its midnight velvet, and still Elain crouched, admiring the flowers. She shivered in the night's chill. The stars above twinkled and glistened, cold and distant as ever, yet stunning - infinitely more striking than they'd ever been when she was human. A thousand different colours sparkled in that vast expanse, the moon a phosphorescent queen in the centre of her court.

The Night Court truly lived up to its name in the wee hours of the day. Its opulence never failed to mesmerise her; the enhanced Fae eyesight was at least one thing she was grateful for from this body.

Her eyelids became heavy and she yawned. Why was she still out here? It was late into the night; she should be in bed by now. But the night was so beautiful and it was so quiet and she wanted to appreciate it all just once. Just once without the expectations of others, without having to wear that miserable smile all the time.

Of course, it didn't look miserable, which is probably why almost nobody ever bothered to look deeper into Elain. She should be used to it by now, but it still felt - wrong. That most overlooked her so long as she wore a smile. That most didn't think her capable of feeling the utter bitterness and loneliness she had once seen so plain on her sisters' faces.

And in acknowledgement of her sisters' hardships, Elain didn't fault them for not looking, for not seeing her. To see past the thick blanket of darkness in one's own mind was a trial in itself. But it had been years since the war now. And still they didn't notice.

They didn't notice that Elain was being shredded from the inside out.

It was almost laughable. But not funny enough.

No, it was not funny that people still treated Elain like a child, that people wanted to keep Elain in some weird impasse of a stage between child and adult. She'd thought finally carrying out her duty and giving her hand in marriage would show everyone that she was growing up: Elain Archeron, middle born but first married. Of course it was still on her own terms, to a man whom she'd loved. A man who'd seen her through the rubble of her family's lives. But she'd overall hoped doing what was expected of her would be enough.

Clearly not. She didn't even know who she was any more. Did she ever? Everything she'd once yearned for, gone. That fragile human life would soon be just a speck on the horizon of her past.

She sighed. Rebuilding herself was going to take a long time.

But what would she have to do for people to see her, to listen to her? Throw a rage? Fall into a drunken stupor and break a few dozen bottles?

She definitely could, but those were not her. She was Elain Archeron. And so she would wait. Patience wasn't a bad thing at all; she saw it on the shadowsinger's face all the time, that tranquility and calmness she so wished to feel inside.

Azriel. Her heart softened as he entered her mind again, and she dug her fingers into the soil, if only to occupy her fidgety hands. As sure as the chaos of her visions these days, there was a mess of butterflies related to him she wasn't willing to show. Or understand.

Elain and the spymaster? Now that was laughable. Truly laughable. He was wise and patient, while she - well, everyone already thought her a child, and though he listened like no other around her, surely even he couldn't glimpse the adult she so desperately wanted everyone to see.

No, it was foolish to entertain the idea of a relationship with him. No matter how much he saw.

No matter that he was the first to see her since Graysen.

Elain exhaled. She stifled another yawn, smoothing out the soil, then brushed her hands clean. She wrapped the blanket closer around herself and stood. Twinkling stars and velvety darkness and -

There, a knot of shadows materialising at the far edge of the garden, collecting and swirling into a larger mass before Azriel himself stepped out and sagged against a tree. His shadows whirled and obscured him, a dark fire with him burning at the core.

Elain's voice left her throat before she even thought to call him and she ran over to his figure slumped in the dimness.

She couldn't help but say his name again as she neared. 'Azriel!'

Those beautiful hands fiddled with a Siphon, but he looked even worse up close. Fatigue dragged at his body, a second weight to all the muscle and armour he already had to carry. Sweat and dirt clung to him, his hair. At least the shadows were parting, swallowing each other and misting away as they often did around her. Perhaps she should ask someday why they did that. But not today, not when his breathing was so laboured.

She raised a hand - to do what, she had no idea. She couldn't just touch him right now. 'You don't look okay.'

Something else limned his features as he huffed a light laugh and said, 'I'm fine, don't worry.' His voice was raw, so starkly different to its usual icy smoothness. It was common for him to guard his emotions, but in his state, this kind of thinking was just unhealthy. What would it take for him to be honest with her?

'You don't have to pretend with me, Azriel,' she said, lowering her hand. She studied the ground, embarrassed that she'd come up to him. What could she even offer in her pathetic childlike state when he was so clearly affected by his mission right now?

His hand rose. Her heart faltered, she had to do something, and she blurted, 'Can I wash your hair, please?'

His eyes widened, his entire composure crumbling. It wasn't often that the shadowsinger looked startled, but Elain was far too shy to show that she quite liked the effect her question had on him.

'You want to wash my hair?'

His face was so exquisite, it hurt to look at it. His eyes would be even worse; it wouldn't be the first time she was rendered speechless by their kind gaze. A myriad of colours swirled in their glistening depths - gorgeous greens and brilliant browns, all so natural and rich, if only she could look at them long enough to find their matches in the garden around her. Though, his eyes were an entire spectrum of colour in their own right. How would she ever pick out each and every shade?

And if she somehow did have the courage to meet his eyes now, what would she see of herself in their reflection?

A lovesick puppy? A doe-eyed, fearful fawn?

No, she didn't want to know.

So she swallowed and focused on his hair. Perhaps this Fae eyesight was a curse, for even his hair was shockingly fascinating. Only flat black from a distance, the faelights bobbing about the trees highlighted layer upon layer of silky raven locks up close. His hair was so dark it seemed to absorb the surrounding light. Mud stained one side of his head, and it was an effort to keep her hands from brushing it away, so she said, 'I'm positive that's mud and you shouldn't sleep with that in your hair. It'll only take a few minutes.'

He ran a hand through his hair, clumps of dirt falling out.

'You've managed to get some on your face, too.' There were light specks of mud and blood across his face, a more noticeable patch along his cheekbone, thrown into sharper relief by the faelights and his own weariness. Was that a cut beneath the patch? And another on his temple?

She leashed her arms.

What had happened? He wore the signs of a fight, but why would he come here when he knew Elain was the only one home?

His eyes bored into her face, but she refused to meet them. He seemed to lean forward then, stumbling.

Ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous that he wouldn't even acknowledge he was in need. Azriel rarely stumbled. Any fatigue Elain had felt just a while ago was now burrowing down a little longer. Her voice was firm when she spoke. 'I'm washing your hair. It'll help relax you into falling asleep.'

His brows rose, but if Elain stood there one more moment she wouldn't have the courage to do anything for him. For herself - she could take care of someone else. She could do for Azriel what she hadn't done for Feyre all those years as a human.

And for Azriel, she could tend to the male who'd provided her with comfort and safety in this world of distress and danger.

So she pulled him along, clenching her jaw and refusing to look back. Her heart hammered in her chest but she continued, hand wrapped round his armoured arm. Her hand slid down to his wrist but just as she was about to replace her grip, he grabbed her other hand and pulled her into him.

The shadows instantly began to ensconce them, dozens of those cool tendrils twining like vines. The estate loomed huge before them, and Elain gripped Azriel's hand tighter.

'My bathroom,' she said. Beneath the low whisper of those shadows, her blood thrummed, her heart so painfully obvious against her ribs now. It would be a wonder if the spymaster wasn't aware of it. Though she did hear another flutter above, right by her ear. But as expected, the shadows made quick work of their journey and she didn't have the chance to dwell on it further.

Now out of the comfort of Azriel's hold, Elain set down her blanket and made to grab a chair from her bedroom. His dark presence was so overwhelming that she exhaled lightly as she entered the room and took the chair. She dragged it to the sink, avoiding his gaze, and pulled a towel, soap and a large jug from the cupboard by the door.

As she settled the soap and jug on the sink, she dared a glance at him. He was still clad in full armour, those black scales gleaming like obsidian over his skin, his Siphons glistening jewels across his body. 'I think you'll have to collapse your armour for this,' she said.

He inclined his head and tapped a Siphon, those scales lashing back into each other with cruel elegance. They were a mirror of their master: cold, controlled and unyielding, forged from scintillating darkness. He was a night sky riddled with stars; light existed if only one bothered to look for it.

Azriel's great wings righted themselves as he stood straight, now looking smaller in just his black tunic and trousers. Something about him seemed vulnerable without the armour, so Elain breathed, 'It's beautiful, all of it.' The hulking armour, the classic simplicity of the tunic and trousers, and the male who wore them all.

He was just so wonderful, Azriel. An enigma that could see her own. Her heart clenched.

Azriel rustled his wings, colour blossoming on his cheeks.

Elain blinked and pulled the chair out a little. 'Please sit.' As he sunk down, she rested the towel on his shoulders, hovering her fingers above his forehead. Her body tensed and her fingers remained suspended. It was like a spark of tension flickered in the space between their skin, teasing her, tempting her, taunting her.

After all, she'd offered to wash his hair, an act that would certainly require touching. But why was she so hesitant? She'd touched him before - kissed his cheek, even. Although that had been in the heat of adrenaline, a mark of her gratitude where a simple thank you wouldn't suffice, not for risking his own life for hers.

This was - what was this?

She finally lowered her fingers through that tense spark, pushing his head back against the sink. It was exhilarating, this contact, but he lowered his wings, shifting on the seat. Elain moved into the space he gave, turning on the tap as he went still. Just as her body was taut, taut as the skin of a drum.

She checked the water. Warm. It was time to start.

Azriel was looking up at her. Something like yearning swirled in his eyes.

He looked so tired. It made her heart ache.

'You can close your eyes,' Elain whispered. And he did.

___

Feedback's welcomed; thanks for reading 😊

If anyone wants to know what the datura flowers look like, CTTO:

@illyrian-lover-flower @julesherondalex @nooriee @mis-lil-red @verifiefangirl @tswaney17

#elain archeron #azriel #elain x azriel #elriel #acotar

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dappersheep · 3 years

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Food Fantasy: An Analysis on what killed a Golden Goose (1/3)

So first things first, disclaimers! I do not claim nor pretend to know every nook and cranny, ins and outs of the history of FooFan's conception, existence and uncertain future. I do not own the game nor its characters, only the opinions and thoughts stated hereon out.

This was born to vent out my frustrations with how a game like this was abused poorly by its own developer and publisher instead of being nurtured to become its full potential that could have overshadowed and remained better than the likes of Tencent's Tales of Food --I could dream, but it honestly had the potential to be.

Out of respect for the main tag, I personally will not be tagging this post and the following two with the main tag. If you want to tag it yourself with it, that's your choice. Only followers of my blog will see this.

This analysis is divided into three parts: Funtoy, Elex, and the Community. It starts under the cut. Well let's get started.

Funtoy

Ah yes, the creator. The developer. You'd think that with their sudden rise to fame during their global launch, they'd have used the massive profits they earned within the first quarter of 2018 to improve certain things about the game and then trickled it down as quickly as possible towards Global, right? Yeah, I thought so too.

After playing the game since launch, I've seen and experienced way too many things that just hammer in the fact that this is one of the most unfair gacha I've played in years. Some reasons being the following:

(Note: These are experiences ONLY on Global's version, it may also apply to CN being the original server)

⦁ The game's gacha model is aimed towards maximum predation on its players. F2p are forced to either spend some money (and thus tempt them to keep spending after getting a taste of it), or risk not even getting a good ascension of the unit to be useful at all. Paying for the event packs also doesn't guarantee that you would be able to secure a spot in the ranks. In fact, if you can't comprehend how the battle mechanics work, you could even de-rank. Fun way to burn that 800$, huh? At least you have the skin from rebates.

⦁ A little less known thing and probably theoretical at worst, the long joked about spaghetti coding of the game along with an outdated spine technology for the sprites could very well be the reason why a 2D game like this experiences the shittiest lags. Also how easy it is to hack this game with the right know-how.

⦁ Speaking of bad gameplay mechanics, did you know you could spend over fifty Mirrors and not get that final enhancement from +9 to +10 simply because there's absolutely no tangible safety net before +10?

⦁ If you're F2P, this game is terrible in giving you resources to stockpile. Because Funtoy certainly doesn't have a lot of weekly/monthly or even friendly events wherein you can get resources without spending another kind of resource. The Hawthorne event's rewards are lackluster at best, Bingo is severely limited in what it gives, and Recall also doesn't give much for a big event that only happens (supposedly) every 6 months. Did I also mention that daily resource rewards also kinda suck compared to how much you burn in just one event?

⦁ Monthly subs are a scam. Yes, you heard that right. My point of comparison here is Arknights. A monthly in AK allows you to have enough to 10-pull after 30 days, on top of a bit of stamina to help you. In FooFan? You have two monthly subs that do different things and even then, you won't have enough to 10-pull by the end of 30 days, nor is the stamina you get enough to even stockpile and ease the pressure of your need to save for the Gates or that stamina event that suddenly popped up.

⦁ A conga line of 'Must procure this unit at a high ascension to do well in the following events!'. You missed the first Pizza event? Missed the first Turkey event? God forbid, you weren't able to 5* your Beer on his debut? Well sorry, that 5* Black Tea of yours isn't gonna do squat to give you good damage. No, your 2* B-52 also isn't going to do much of anything with his lackluster damage capabilities. If you want a chance to get those event URs again, you have to wait for their pool with laughably limited pulls... and a bloated price to even pull.

⦁ The events starting after the first iteration of Turkey event get even more paywalled. As far as I remember, by the time Minestrone rolled around, an F2P with ample crystal resources can only get 2* at best. 3* and above are paywalled.

⦁ The game has incompetent balancing. The devs themselves likely have little experience in gameplay design and balancing, especially for a game with a growing roster of characters . A prime example of them launching a character not knowing it would pretty much unbalance the game? Look no further than Beer. The guy had to have a couple of nerfs done to him because he was just too meta. You know what's sadder? Before the 'switch' to Brave meta, almost all meta units was built to benefit off the Beer meta.

⦁ Artifacts. Do I even have to explain how the introduction of such a game feature so early into the lifespan of this game essentially fucked over the balance even more? Not to mention, all the more reason you'd be crying with the Gates of Trials demanding so much out of your stamina and crystal resources. F2Ps are again, the ones that suffer in this part. What's their reason? Profit, of course.

⦁ The nerf of resto chests. This was the primary source for people who were saving up stamina for the Gates... until Funtoy decided they were being too generous to their playerbase and dropped the stamina probability rate to 1% or less.

⦁ Terrible UI layout and design. Come on, be honest now, you've lost several thousand of your hard earned crystals buying screws in the fishing shop because you didn't notice that shiny warning in small text and a green button with the crystal image slapped on it, didn't you?

⦁ Look at all these SRs! All of them! Wow, they even outnumber the Rs by at least 80! What's that? There's more URs now too compared to Rs and Ms combined? That can't be real. But seriously, you'd think Funtoy could make some of these SRs into Rs and add them to the perm pool/shard fusion so people aren't stuck pulling Macaron or Dorayaki every time. They could have also populated the Team Up rewards with SRs instead of Rs. But you know... that won't bring them profit. Haha... haha.... Oh and I haven't even told you about the SP class...!

⦁ Lore. Yes, I'm sure by now you're aware that the in-game lore is different from the ones in the non-SP Food Soul bios, in the SP Food Soul bios that sort of ties in with the New World story (that global will never be getting btw). At this point, Funtoy handwaves the confusion away by saying, 'they're all different timelines'. Yes yes, an easy and cliche move to explain how shitty the writing direction went after a while. I don't know what happened, all I know is that lore got weird(er) when they introduced SP Rice.

⦁ They. Keep. Adding. More. Characters! They fail to see that a lot of their earlier players have imprinted on the first few waves of Food Souls and they sadly also fail to properly give some of them more story expansion... or skins. At the moment, they're shelling out so many JP-centric Food Souls because... as I see it? They're pandering to the last bastion of whales they have.

⦁ Merchandise. And I mean a variety of merchandise that isn't using the same official art every time. Like they couldn't afford to commission a couple of artists one or two times to make unique merchandise that would sell. They started too late on that train, and they even made it too hard for anyone not in CN or JP to even procure what already exists. Not to mention, they keep using the same 'popular' set of characters for their merchandise and never really expanding out to making merch for other characters.

These are all the things I can list off at the top of my head why Funtoy as a developer sucks ass. They could sweeten their words all they want, it won't change the fact that they've certainly made way too many bad decisions and found out about it too late, and now they're desperate to keep Food Fantasy alive to keep their profits coming in to make whatever that cat girl game they have and that supposedly 'side-game' FF2 they announced.

There may have been problems out of their control that I or you do not see, but one thing is for sure, they were blinded by greed for the money they were raking in on all their servers at the start, and never actually bothered to invest in more manpower in the right places to improve the game, both gameplay-wise and worldbuilding wise. It's actually saddening that this game could have been so much more with several QoLs and a more fleshed out lore, perhaps even spacing out the number of new units they keep introducing while going back to giving their old units more attention.

That's it for Funtoy. We're moving onto Elex in the next part and boy is that also a trip.

#ravings of a madman #food fantasy but not tagged right

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sugarandspace · 3 years

Text

Breathe in, breathe out (Sterek)

(posted on AO3 under the pseud aconitum)

Summary: Stiles hates being cold. It brings back bad memories.

Word count: 3,682

Warnings: nogitsune trauma, panic attacks, (but it’s a hurt/comfort fic so things end relatively well!!)

A/N: my very first Sterek fic that I posted on AO3 in October! Gifted to the lovely @sparkandwolf who was a huge help and encouraged me when I was panicking about writing these new characters! ily Em 💙

Read on AO3

Stiles curses Scott as he makes his way through the front door. The apartment is dark which means Derek must still be at work. Stiles is kind of glad about it because he’s sure he’s a laughable sight in his soaking wet clothes. He closes the door behind himself and doesn’t even bother to hang up his coat - it would only result in a puddle on the floor - and only takes his shoes and socks off before he heads to the bathroom.

Not only is he soaking, but he also stinks, and he can’t stop shivering.

It was supposed to be an easy case. Just a lone Kappa, Scott had said. They could take out a river monster with just the two of them, he had said. And Stiles has to admit that he had been right, they had been able to deal with it. They had just ended up in the river in the process. In the middle of December.

Stiles is pretty sure his bones have a layer of frost around them, and a part of him is surprised to see that his toes are still functioning. Scott and his stupid werewolf body temperature had recovered from the dive a lot sooner than Stiles, and his best friend had looked genuinely worried when Stiles had gotten out of his car at the parking lot of his and Derek’s apartment building.

(Maybe it had something to do with the fact that it took a couple of tries for Stiles’ shaking hands to be able to open the car door, maybe not.)

Stiles had insisted he’d be fine as soon as he was able to boil himself in the shower.

That’s what he was planning on doing, and with shaky hands, he takes off his clothes and puts them straight into the washing machine. The stench of mud is unpleasant even to his nose, and he can’t even imagine how strong it would be to Derek’s supernatural senses. He presses the lid closed and plans to deal with it in the morning since he’s not going to risk getting noise complaints from his neighbors because he used the washing machine at 11 pm.

Stiles gets into the shower and stands under the spray of water, turning the temperature warmer and warmer until it's way past the point he usually uses. It should be scalding but the coldness is persistent, and it’s paired with a tight feeling in his chest that he doesn’t quite understand.

Well, he understands the feeling, is intimately familiar with the feeling of pressure around your chest that’s caused by anxiety, but what he doesn’t understand is why the feeling is there. The evening went fine when you look at the big picture. Scott and he got away with minor aches that were going to pass in a day or two, and the monster was defeated. There was no reason for Stiles to feel that pressure that was making it harder to breathe.

He rubs the shampoo into his hair with more force than is necessary and does his best to ignore the feeling.

Stiles feels like he could stand under the water until Derek comes home and forcibly drags him out of there, but eventually he finds the willpower to turn the water off. He wraps a towel around himself and just stands in the bathroom.

The shower helped him warm up a little but some of the coldness lingers deep down, somewhere the shower couldn’t reach. He also knows that as soon as he opens the door and steps out, the warm cocoon of steam the shower had produced will leave him and he’ll feel cold again.

Eventually, the thought of warm clothes and their soft bed motivates Stiles to move, and he speedwalks through the dark apartment into the bedroom, not bothering to turn the lights on as he rushes to the wardrobe and pulls out a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie that really belongs to Derek. If Derek comments on it, Stiles is going to blame the fact that he got dressed in the dim light provided by the streetlights behind their window, but in reality, he hopes that its comforting scent will ease the persistent anxiety that doesn’t seem to be leaving him anytime soon.

Stiles rubs his hands up and down his arms, trying to generate some warmth. It’s quiet in the apartment, and as Stiles looks at the bed and thinks about going to sleep, he’s hit with a memory so strong it threatens to strangle him.

The quiet, the darkness, not being able to get warm and being all alone - these are all things he’s experienced before. Being so common, he’s probably experienced them more than once, but since one of the situations was vastly more traumatic than the others, his mind digs it up and throws Stiles back.

Back to when he was controlled by the nogitsune.

Suddenly the sight of the bed makes Stiles feel sick, going to sleep the last thing he wants to do. He rushes out of the room into the living room where he turns all the lights on before curling into a tight ball on the corner of the couch. He turns the television on just to have some background noise, so he doesn’t feel as alone.

What he really wants is for Derek to be here, but he’s working late at the station and Stiles isn’t about to call him and make him worry. There’s no real threat here, nothing but stupid memories that shouldn’t even bother Stiles anymore. It’s been years since it happened, months since Stiles last had a nightmare. He should be over it.

Stiles presses his hands against his face and tries to focus on his breathing, knowing that a panic attack is not far. He has to remove the hands, however, when he realizes that not being able to see his surroundings is making it worse. It’s making the hairs at the back of his neck stand up and it’s making him feel like there’s someone behind him. His head whips up and he looks around himself, wary of all the possible hiding places in their apartment.

He knows he can’t be alone.

He looks at his phone on the coffee table where he had forgotten it when Scott came to pick him up. It was a good thing he did because if he hadn’t, the phone would either be at the bottom of a river or broken beyond fixing. He reaches for the phone with shaking hands and finds Derek’s contact.

He's just going to call him to hear his voice, and to ask him how much longer until he’s coming home. Derek doesn’t need to know that Stiles needs him to come home right that second.

He takes in a few deep breaths, breathing in the scent of Derek from the hoodie. He pulls the hood up so he’s even more surrounded by it, and tucks his freezing toes between the couch cushions. Once he thinks he’s as calm as he can be, he presses call and brings the phone to his ear.

It rings a couple of times before Derek answers.

“Hey Stiles,” he says, sounding happy. “Did everything go okay with Scott?”

Stiles had texted him earlier, telling him what they were going to do. Derek had been sorry he wasn’t able to join them and had told Stiles that there was a lot of work at the station and that he might be staying until late.

“Yeah,” Stiles replies. “Everything went fine.”

It’s not a lie, at least not a full one. Falling to the river and the coldness that resulted might have been what brought all this on, but the monster-fighting went well all in all. It’s what came after that’s bothering Stiles.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“Why is your voice shaking?” There’s a clear urgency in Derek’s voice but it’s the soft tone Stiles is used to hearing when they are alone. Stiles appreciates it so much and tries to focus on it instead of the panic still squeezing his chest.

“Stiles?”

This time the word is more urgent, and Stiles knows he has to respond, or else Derek will be at their door in fifteen minutes. Which might be what Stiles really wishes, but he doesn’t want to make his boyfriend worry, and he doesn't want to bother him while he’s working.

“You don’t need to worry,” he rushes out. “I’m home and I’m not hurt.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, Stiles,” Derek tells him, his tone a little more stern now. Stiles can hear noises from the background and a part of him regrets calling because he’s failed spectacularly in not making Derek worry.

“Do you think I could come to the station?” Stiles asks, trying to salvage the situation. “I don’t really want to be alone right now.”

“I don’t know what’s going on but I don’t like the idea of you driving right now,” Derek tells him. “I’m coming home.”

“Derek-”

“I’m coming home,” Derek repeats. “I was almost done anyway. I can finish the rest of the work tomorrow.”

Stiles feels bad for disturbing, but a bigger part of him feels relief knowing that Derek is going to come home.

“Okay,” Stiles says. The word comes out in a relieved breath and he’s not sure if even Derek’s supernatural hearing is able to pick up.

“I’m leaving the station now,” Derek says. “I can put my phone on a speaker and stay on the phone with you if you need.”

“No, I want you to focus on driving,” Stiles says. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive from the station to their building. He’ll be fine for fifteen minutes. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Derek says and Stiles can hear a car door close. “I love you and I’ll be home soon, okay?”

“Okay. I love you too,” Stiles says and ends the call. He holds the phone tightly in his hand as he’s fully alone again. The sounds from the television are doing close to nothing to mask the loneliness, and the paranoia is starting to creep back in.

Stiles gets up from the couch and rushes to the corner of the room, sitting down with his back pressed to the wall firmly. This way he can see the whole room, and no one will be able to sneak behind him.

He hugs his arms around himself and wishes he could get warm.

Stiles focuses on his breathing, trying not to let it get too fast. His eyes scan the room from side to side, terrified that the next time he looks he’ll see a man wrapped in gauze standing in the corner.

He startles when he hears the door to the apartment open, convinced that it can’t have been fifteen minutes already. But apparently it has since he sees Derek walk into the room, dressed in his uniform and looking frantic. It takes a moment for Derek to notice him on the floor, but when he does, he rushes to him.

“Stiles!” He says as he kneels on the floor in front of him. He looks Stiles over like he’s trying to find injuries.

“I’m not hurt,” Stiles says and he knows Derek can hear that he’s telling the truth. Derek nods and pulls him into his arms.

Stiles soaks up the comfort and warmth, the scent of Derek much more comforting in person. Derek's arms around him make him feel safe, and the pressure of anxiety clears up a little, making it a little easier to breathe.

“What happened?” Derek asks, but he makes no move to pull away and Stiles is grateful.

“Bad memories,” Stiles mumbles.

Derek doesn’t press further, but he pulls away from the hug and offers his hand for Stiles as he stands. Stiles lets him pull him up from the floor.

“You are freezing,” Derek says and rubs at Stiles’ upper arms through the hoodie before pulling him into another hug, this one more comfortable since they are both standing.

“Fell into a river earlier,” Stiles explains. “Can’t get warm. Brings back bad memories.”

It takes a moment but then Stiles can feel Derek tense up, and he guesses Derek understands just what memories Stiles means. He’s been there enough times after a nightmare to know that the feeling of coldness is almost always present in them.

“The nogitsune?” He asks quietly and Stiles gasps sharply, getting even closer to Derek and nodding against his shoulder.

“Okay,” Derek says, holding Stiles tighter. “Let’s get you to bed, get you warmed up.”

“No,” Stiles says and his head whips up so fast he almost knocks it against Derek’s. “No.”

He’s shaking his head and he feels his breathing pick up. Derek must be able to hear how his heart speeds up because he’s quick to reassure Stiles.

“You don’t need to sleep,” he says, immediately knowing what the problem is. Derek knows that when Stiles gets like this, when the memories of the nogitsune and the darkness are strong in Stiles’ mind, he’s afraid of falling asleep. Whenever he wakes from a nightmare that’s half a dream and half a memory, the fear is so strong that it leaves no room for the logical side of Stiles’ brain to work. He knows that it’s been years since the nogitsune, and he knows that the spirit is safely locked away. But it doesn’t help when he’s feeling like all he needs to do is fall asleep and then he can’t know if he’ll truly be awake the next time he opens his eyes.

“Promise?” Stiles asks and he holds Derek’s eyes as he waits for the answer.

“I promise. I won’t let you fall asleep,” Derek says and Stiles trusts him. If Derek promises something Stiles knows he can count on it. “I just think it would be more comfortable. Easier to get you warmed up.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees and pulls away, but he doesn’t get far before Derek is pulling him to his side as they walk to the bedroom together.

Derek lets go of Stiles only long enough so he can turn the lights on and take off his uniform, and then holds the covers up and lets Stiles get in before crawling in behind him. Stiles is still wearing the sweatpants and the thick hoodie, but he can feel the heat coming from Derek who is holding him tight to his chest.

It helps, but it’s still too quiet in the apartment and Stiles keeps looking at the open door of their wardrobe. Realistically he knows that there’s no one hiding there but he’s unable to look away. He lets out a frustrated whine and turns around, Derek’s arms around him loosening just enough to let him move. Stiles situates himself against Derek’s chest and hides his head in his neck, his arms trapped between their bodies. Stiles feels bad for his cold fingers and nose coming to contact with Derek’s skin but he doesn’t seem to mind, and only pulls Stiles closer when he stops moving.

“I should be over this,” Stiles says, wanting Derek to know that he doesn’t like to be bothering him with something that happened years ago. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Derek says. He slips his hands underneath Stiles’ - well, technically his own - hoodie and Stiles lets out a shaky sigh at the warmth they bring against his naked back. “What you went through was traumatic. Something like that never truly leaves.”

Stiles knows Derek talks from experience and so he doesn’t argue. Stiles knows that this is probably going to follow him for the rest of his life, and he appreciates that Derek isn’t trying to convince him that everything will be completely fine if he just gives it time. It won’t and it’s okay. It’s something Stiles, and something they can learn to live with.

Just like they live with the nightmares that occasionally make Derek wake up soaked in sweat.

They stay under the covers, and Stiles can feel his heart calming down and his body warming up. As he listens to the steady beat of Derek’s heart and feels the coldness leaving his body, the memories retreat back to the far-away part of his brain that they’ve made their home. Some uneasiness remains, but Stiles knows it’s not there to stay.

He feels so comfortable that he starts to doze off, but before he can fall asleep he feels Derek leave a kiss to the top of his head and his voice is deep and calm when he speaks.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” he tells Stiles, and while Stiles appreciates that Derek remembers and keeps his promise, he’s ready to brush him off and tell him he’s okay now and it’s okay to let him sleep. He doesn’t have time to do it though before Derek is speaking again.

“Come on,” he says and pulls his hands away from Stiles’ back to gently nudge him. He scoots downwards on the bed so he can kiss Stiles’ lips softly and Stiles is helpless to resist. The kiss ends too soon when Derek is pulling away and getting out of bed. “I’ll make you a cup of tea. Chamomile, because I know that caffeine keeps you awake.”

“But it’s-,” Stiles starts as he sits up on the bed and looks at the clock on the nightstand. “Two in the morning.”

“Just some tea and something light to eat,” Derek says as he pulls some sweatpants on. “Come on.”

Stiles follows Derek to the kitchen, turning the television off on his way there. When he gets to the kitchen Derek is already preparing sandwiches while the water is boiling in the kettle. Stiles takes out their favorite mugs and puts the teabags in them to wait for the water to finish boiling.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Derek asks.

Stiles looks at him and sees that Derek is still focused on the sandwiches, his tone light in a way that’s giving Stiles an easy out. It would be the easier choice, but it’s not what Stiles wants to choose.

“There was a Kappa in the river a little south from the town,” Stiles starts. The water finishes boiling and he keeps a part of his focus on the task of preparing the tea so that the memories won’t have his full attention. “We both ended up in the water, and I was freezing the whole time Scott drove me home.”

“Why did he leave you alone?” Derek asks, his tone confused rather than accusing. From the corner of his eye, Stiles can see that his full focus has shifted from the sandwiches to Stiles. “Why didn’t he stay?”

“Because I told him I was fine,” Stiles says as he takes the tea bags out of the water and brings them to the trash, focusing on staying detached from the memories. Forcing himself to focus on here and now so he can tell what happened without remembering it too vividly. “I thought I would be fine after a warm shower, but no matter how hot the water was, it wasn’t able to make me feel properly warm. I started feeling anxious and then all I could think about was how cold I was and how I was alone and then I couldn’t be sure if I really was alone.”

Despite his best efforts, Stiles is getting worked up again. It comes to a stop when he feels a steady hand on his shoulder, turning him around and pulling him against a solid chest.

“I’m really glad you called me,” Derek says as they sway a little where they stand.

“I feel bad for interrupting your work,” Stiles admits, even though he knows what Derek will say.

“Don’t be,” he says. “I can finish it tomorrow. You’re more important.”

Stiles absolutely does not blush at the words. That would be ridiculous, they’ve been together since Stiles came back to Beacon Hills for the summer after his second year in college. Such simple words aren’t enough to make him blush.

Except they are, and he’s unable to hide it when Derek pulls away enough to see his face. By the small smile he has on his face Stiles knows he noticed.

“I love you,” Derek says.

“I love you too,” Stiles replies. “I love you so much.”

And then they are kissing, in their kitchen at two in the morning after a disastrous evening. Their lives are unusual, and they both have plenty of nightmare fuel from things that will follow them the rest of their lives, but they also have each other, and in that moment Stiles feels incredibly grateful for that. Things aren’t perfect, but they are pretty damn close.

Derek is the one to pull away from the kiss first.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s eat so we can sleep. It’s late.”

“Oh, so now you care about what time it is,” Stiles says and rolls his eyes. “It didn’t bother you when I was cozy in bed about to fall asleep cuddled up to my personal heater.”

Derek shrugs, “I made a promise.”

Stiles’ mind draws empty on witty comebacks so he goes to get their mugs and brings them to the table while Derek puts the sandwich ingredients in the fridge and brings their plates.

“Besides I know how cranky you get when you wake up hungry,” he says as he sits on the other side of the table, opposite Stiles.

“Hey,” Stiles protests and pokes his foot against Derek’s shin under the table.

“It’s not a lie,” Derek defends himself and starts to eat.

Stiles lifts the cup of tea to his lips with both hands and breathes in the warm steam, reveling in the warmth the cup brings and the feeling of safety that is brought by the person sitting on the other side of the table.

He’s going to be okay.

#teen wolf #sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #sterek fanfiction #my writing #i got hit by the sudden late night motivation to drag these here as well #i wasn't going to do that at first #because i thought i'd just write one #maybe two fics for this fandom #but now it's gotten pretty clear that i'm not going anywhere #so here people of tumblr #check out my latest obsession!#* fingerguns *

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aelaer · 3 years

Note

First: welcome home & I hope you get the sleep you need to get back into your routines! Second: it's Feb. 2, a significant day to our beloved Stephen Strange. I know you're exhausted right now, and the timing is poor--but perhaps when you're up to, you could write a little one-shot about his feelings all these years later (is it 2022 or 2023?) on the anniversary of the accident that changed his life forever. Can't think of anyone better suited to write it! xx

This was sent a year ago but last month I planned to have it out for Feb 2nd, hah.

For canon, he comes back in 2023 in what I think was likely after Feb 2nd, so realistically he can address the anniversary again in 2024. It'd feel like only 3 years for him while, in actuality, it'd been 8. But when it comes to his experienced time versus actual passing time, Stephen's pretty messed up without the Decimation already (I'm not sure how I feel about the name of the "Blip" yet.)

The prompter also requested first person after I asked for more details, and I haven't ever written Stephen in first person so I thought I'd give it a go. I know first person isn't everyone's cup of tea, but if you're willing to give it a shot, call me very obliged.

Warning for canon compliance :P

——————

Staring Back In Time Rating: G (well, other than language)

An entry from the memoirs of Doctor Stephen Strange, Earth's Sorcerer Supreme, during his time as the Master of the New York Sanctum, several months after the Battle of Earth against Thanos:

February 2, 2024

Calendars don't mean as much as they used to. Once upon a time my life was ruled by the calendar. Consultation here, surgery there, society dinner over the weekend. Dates were important and generally set without change once marked down.

It doesn't work that way as a sorcerer. I keep a schedule, of course, one that marks down classes with apprentices and adepts and meetings with other Masters, never mind all the business outside of Kamar-Taj. But I learned early on that these set times shifted occasionally to accommodate the emergencies that the order often had to quash down, and it became obvious that as a Master, my schedule was more of a hopeful guideline than anything set in stone. Flexibility was a necessity.

Ever since my return to the living, keeping anything resembling a set schedule has been more of a laughable dream. Earth being the center of two universe-changing, Infinity Stone-powered events in a matter of hours did serious damage to the fabric woven about reality across the planet, and the Masters of the Mystic Arts are going to be dealing with the multidimensional repercussions for years to come. Nothing is predictable in my day-to-day anymore.

My relationship with time was fucked the moment I confronted Dormammu, so I can't say it's a large surprise that calendars have become mostly irrelevant.

If someone had told me that I, Doctor Stephen Strange, a man of order and precision, would learn to live with such unpredictability, I would have laughed in their face. But I'm not the man I once was (and thank God for that; that man was a dick). However, it's also because of this change that I didn't realize the day until it was nearly done.

I was reviewing my schedule for tomorrow, which I had set up on Google Calendar (Google had, naturally, survived the Decimation just fine, but like most other non-vital services, had many of their upcoming products delayed for years. But their email and calendar services continue to work great). Tomorrow's a Saturday, which means nothing in my world. My work continues on. The threats on our reality care little for weekends or holidays.

Still, it was only during this review, shortly before I planned to retire for the night, that I realized that today is February 2nd.

I won't ever forget the day, of course. It was both three years ago and eight years ago—or perhaps many lifetimes ago would be a more accurate description, though I lost track of time in both of my major journeys with the Time Stone. One day I'll write about them. Not now, but one day. Both memories are still too fresh.

The memory of the day of the accident, though? It feels both like yesterday and centuries ago. Some parts of the day are engraved in my memory like a film. I remember the last surgery down to the individual conversations. Christine's "thank you". Nick's watch. The cling of the bullet as I dropped it onto the tray.

I can remember my last conversation with Billy, too, in the car. Every damned word. But the drive itself is fuzzy, even in my head with my memory. I remember it began to rain during the drive, not beforehand, and I know the road was narrow and two-laned. I know I avoided a direct route to avoid traffic, driving first into Jersey before heading north and crossing the river again. But the rest is forgotten to time, or perhaps to trauma.

I was told that Billy was the first to call 9-1-1 as he heard the tearing of metal and shattering of glass before the connection was lost. The driver I hit—I learned much later that she escaped with only minor injuries—called a couple minutes later. But it was out in the mountains, dark, and raining. It took them hours to find me and extract me from the car.

Funny. Never thought I'd ever write about one of the worst days of my life like this. But I was told early on that personal journals were encouraged for all who stay in Kamar-Taj. Something about its therapeutic benefits was mentioned at some point. I only picked up the practice once I learned that each gifted journal was inaccessible to others until the time of their death, and after I mastered the art of enchanting a pen to write the words I spoke. Unfortunately this journal appeared to others after the Decimation, but Wong has reassured me that no one read it and it has since disappeared again from public view.

Still, the point is that, one day, someone just might read this—account of a man who was part of an effort to save the universe. And it is difficult for a reader to judge my actions if they don't know how I was the one who ruined my life. My driving was reckless and stupid. I was running a little late, but it wouldn't have mattered in the long run had I been fifteen, twenty minutes, thirty minutes late. Not really.

Then again, I suppose it would have. I certainly wouldn't be here right now.

One could say that the accident and everything that has followed is some sort of penance for my hubris as a surgeon. I enjoy my newer abilities—quite a bit—but the responsibility that has come with them has not come without its own hardships and sacrifices. Perhaps the worst of the sacrifices were the ones I was unable to prevent others from performing, all for the sake of the universe.

Those sacrifices were made willingly, but I cannot help but feel responsible for them, regardless.

During my first winter again returned to the living, when the days grew colder and my hands ached in the bad weather, and the only thoughts to accompany the pain were bitter, another thought was born. I was tempted, for the first time in a long time, to give it all up, restore my fine motor skills with channeled magic, and go back to the world I once knew, for a life much, much easier than this one is now. Even with all the troubles that had cropped up as people tried to reorganize a world that doubled in size overnight, it was miles away from the difficulties we were facing in Kamar-Taj.

Their sacrifices—the fates I pushed so many people towards—quelled the idea quickly. It did little to ease the physical pain or sting of guilt, but it lifted the temptation. And ever since that day, I have considered the situation and I don't think I will ever be tempted by the idea of giving up my duties for an easier, pain-free life again.

And I suppose that counts for something.

——————

(Hey look, my interest in geography's leaked again.)

I've always wondered where Stephen actually crashed mostly because New York City is *flat* and those mountains were *very much not flat*. I figured out the bridge that he crossed to get out of the city (there are like, 21 bridges that lead out of Manhattan) was the George Washington Bridge, and it leads to New Jersey—but that's not necessarily useful because it can quickly turn back into New York state if you turn north. We also know he crashed down into a body of water, which *might* be the Hudson, but also might not, but that the body of water is to his left, which narrows it down a bit. But again, not much. And the site of his crash is so dark in the videos and screenshots that I can barely tell what's on it. It looks like a bridge and some industrial building, so the Hudson's a good guess, but otherwise? Well, basically I turned on the topography part of Google maps and started searching.

The 202 on the east side of the river just north of Peekskill (again in New York) matches the movie road's windiness, height, and closeness to the river, and even has a bridge that could be just to the north of the crash site. Unfortunately the railing's off and there's no industrial building thingy by the bridge. It also makes the route out of the city via George Washington Bridge make no sense. Like the Stark Industries area in LA in the films, it's probably a completely fictional landscape.

But as I wasn't able to find a better locale that was still close enough to NYC to direct an emergency helicopter to, my headcanon for this scene is that he left via George Washington bridge to avoid some major traffic or something, crossed the river via the 287 a bit further up north to get back to the east side of the river, then went up the 9 to the 202. Unless someone who lives in the area can find the actual road he was driving (if it's real), this is what I'm gonna go with. (And if someone DOES please let me knowwwww). Funny enough, I don't see him getting led to *his* hospital totally unrealistic, because he'd need a very talented orthopedic surgeon with a specialty in hands to come in, and generally speaking a patient can be helicoptered to another hospital where such a surgeon is available. If Stephen is working at the Metro-General, it's likely they can afford a large cast of talented surgeons. So I don't think Nick was necessarily the lead surgeon in his case, just one of many necessary surgeons.

#sobeautifullyobsessed #stephen strange #doctor strange fanfiction #doctor strange #mcu fanfiction #my writing #my fanfiction #gen fic #ask #answered #prompt fill

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cockasinthebird · 4 years

Text

To @withoneheadlight, and a huuuge thank you for the inspiration!!!❤️💕 I deviated a bit from the “original script,” I hope that’s ok 😌

I just couldn’t stop thinking about your post??? I dropped everything to write it, and it might be a bit rushed because of it, but it was so much fun!! So please, do enjoy~

The sun is too bright, the cars outside his window too loud, the fucking seagulls cawing and screeching.

Billy hadn’t come home yesterday again, and at this point who even knows how many times he’s spent the night in someone else's bed.

Not that it’s really any of Steve’s business, of course, they just live together, barely even friends but on tolerable terms, at least. Tolerable meaning they’ve made peace; Billy apologised during Steve’s last year of high school, and when he started working at Scoops Ahoy after graduating, Billy always saw it fit to come by-

“Picking up my shitty sister,” as he put it.

And when Steve started working at Family Videos-

“Waiting for Max to finish up at the arcade,” he’d claim as he browsed, “You, uhh, recommend anything?”

Not that it isn’t still hostile between them, but maybe that’s just how Billy is, and maybe that’s just how Steve likes him. Mean and rude and inconsiderable at times. Yet Steve’s favourite cereal is always stocked up, laundry washed, dishes done, and he feels guilty.

Guilty that he doesn’t do more at their shared apartment. Guilty that he never really thanks Billy for what he does. Guilty that he has an undeniable crush on his ex-nemesis now roommate.

With a heavy sigh, Steve drags himself out of bed, head throbbing from having drowned in sorrows in a bottle of straight jack. Slips on a pair of socks so as to not touch the chilly floor, and a shirt, large and black with Metallica printed on front; a shirt that isn’t his, that he “stole” from the dryer a few days ago. He gives the collar a sniff and it doesn’t smell of Billy - it smells of the laundry detergent they use, but knowing that Billy has worn it before is enough to warm his aching heart just a slight bit.

Stupid stupid stupid, he repeats in his mind as he inches toward the door of his bedroom.

Save for the floorboards creaking underneath his sluggish weight, it’s quiet. No tv running, no music from Billy’s bedroom, no grunting as he lifts weights on the bench that takes up far too much of the living room.

He’s not here. Billy’s not here.

Steve continues reminding himself how idiotic it was of him to even come out here. California is far away from his parents' reach, a place where he can maybe find out who he is, and Billy always talked about coming back here, so them moving in together was “convenient.”

However, so far all Steve has found out about himself is that he doesn’t know how to cook, gets sunburnt so easily that it’s laughable, and that he’s all too invested in Billy’s personal life.

When he opens the cupboard and finds Kellogg’s Apple Jacks™ on the shelf, a new and unopened pack, he groans in defeat as his heart does its usual dance and song, because of course Billy had ensured there was food for Steve. He always fucking does.

He pours them into his favourite bowl, a white one with fancy flowers painted in blue, stolen from his old home to just have something from his parents with him, and next goes milk. He yawns wide before shoveling in the first mouthful, the one that’s always perfectly crunchy and having just started tasting of cinnamon before it all becomes a soggy mess.

About halfway through the bowl, the floorboards behind him creaks and he nearly drops the bowl as he jumps, spilling a bit of milk on the floor.

Steve spins around to find Billy there, dressed in only his sweatpants, eyes cast down at where he was apparently staring at Steve’s ass, who’s quick to realise that he hadn’t bothered with underwear because he was oh so convinced he’d be alone for at least two more hours.

“O-oh, Billy, I-I didn’t hear you come in last night,” he stutters under the intense stare, placing the bowl on the counter and hopes it isn’t too noticeable when he gathers his legs.

Billy doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything, simply looks down Steve’s naked legs, eyes burning and hungry. When he finally meets Steve’s gaze, he wets his lips before rasping out,

“I came home like an hour ago, was about to take a shower but wanted coffee first, and…” he trails off, and so does his eyes again.

Steve is… unnecessarily excited under those heady, ocean blues as they take in all that he is. Feels himself swell at the attention, but paralysed by shock of having been caught by Billy in Billy’s shirt and practically nothing else.

And Billy steps through the door frame into the kitchen. Keeps walking slowly, cautiously maybe, he makes his way to where Steve leans against the counter, fingers curled around the edge with anticipation and a bit of fear.

Normally he’d have guessed that Billy would call him names, mock him with a poisoned grin, but with such heavy lids and mouth slightly open, that doesn’t seem like the most likely outcome to this, and it only thrills Steve all the more.

Billy comes to a standstill in front of Steve, feet almost touching, and he leans closer, places his left hand next to Steve’s, thumb touching skin there. And he bites into his plump lower lip, eyes dancing across Steve’s features just to land on his mouth, mind clearly working away at something.

Up this close Steve catches a whiff of cigarettes and the usual cologne, maybe a bit of sweat from whatever he’s been doing all night. Or whoever. He can feel Billy’s calm and collected breathing ghost across his lips, and his heart stops beating in anticipation, lips quiver, dick hopeful.

“Is that my shirt?” Billy mumbles out and tugs at the hem that stops mid-cheek on Steve’s slighter frame.

He might be taller by a few inches, but he still swims in the shirt stretched out by Billy’s broad shoulders and chiseled pecs.

“Y-yeah…”

At that, Billy’s fingers let go of the shirt, then spread out against Steve’s skin. He takes an all too loud breath at the electric jolt Billy’s warm palm urges out, shooting straight to between his thighs where his cock gives a curious little kick.

The hand wanders, across his thigh to his front, moving at a pace so slow it can only be deliberate, Billy teasing him, or maybe waiting for him to say stop.

But he doesn’t, so he doesn’t.

Smooths the tips of his fingers higher up, through the coarse pubic hair, till he reaches the base of Steve’s shaft, the palm of his hand grazing against the lazy head, effectively making him grow harder, and gasp out a breathy, “Fuck.”

Billy moves closer again, knee pushing Steve’s legs apart, noses nuzzling together, lips like feathers, daring Steve to kiss him.

He moans instead, as the hand tickling his skin closes in an expert fist, possibly giving away just how many times Billy must have done the same notion to himself. A thought that delights Steve to impossible extends, knowing that the hand Billy jerks off with is now stroking him under the shirt.

“Fuck, Billy,” Steve whimpers and brings a hand to steady himself on Billy’s firm shoulder.

And he can’t wait any more; presses their lips together and is immediately met with the same fervor he offers up - soft lips in a hard embrace, touching each other as if they’ve always wanted this, as if all the strife in their past was just tension and unresolved shit that culminated to punches and bleeding noses.

The motion of Billy’s fist is relentless, and Steve has to break away to breathe. “A-ah, shit, Billy!”

He bites his way down Steve’s neck, painful and delicious, stroking his now fully erect cock like he’s eager to have him cum, wanting to watch Steve unravel and cry out his name.

And just as Steve is seconds away from ruining the shirt, Billy pulls off, leaving behind an ache that makes Steve cry out from the edge of release.

“Fuck! Billy you asshole, why-” he doesn’t get to finish that thought before he’s spun around, a hand on his upper back pushing him against the counter, head throbbing worse than his filled dick. “Billy- Billy!”

“Want me to stop?” Billy snaps a bit too loud, a bit too sudden, but the answer is inevitably,

“No,” and Steve is set on that.

He’s wanted this for far too long; suspects that he’s been craving Billy since before he graduated, but didn’t dare think about it too long. Spent some extra time restocking the porn section of Family Videos in the backroom behind the curtain, borrowed a few gay ones in secret. He was more than curious, he was interested.

Now he’s here, cheek pressed against the cold surface of their kitchen counter, eyes closed to the world as he focuses on how Billy’s holding him down with one hand, the other squeezing his ass, spreading him, exposing him, and-

It is slick and wet and weird when Billy licks his fat tongue flat across his hole. Not bad weird as far as he can tell from the way his entire body squirms with pleasure, his prick leaking, and he gasps when Billy does it again.

And again. He grabs on with both hands as he sloppily eats out Steve’s ass, sucking with wet lips, tongue sliding over the rim time and time again, the tip prodding at his entrance, making him moan out, whimpering for more without as many words.

Billy seems almost happy to oblige, shoving his tongue in, and Steve knows what that looks like, but to feel it? His body is on fire, burning hot and white, feeling better than he ever thought it actually would; he knows the men on those tapes are just actors, always just believed they were exaggerating, but no.

Steve has never been this aroused in his fucking life, 21 years old and hornier than he ever was as a teenager surrounded by hot girls. None of them he ever slept with made him feel this… incredible, and he has none other than Billy fucking Hargrove to thank for it. With every lick and suck and penetration he’s nearing the edge again, faster than he ever thought he could, to be honest, but it’s just not enough to get him there.

“Billy- Billy please, I’m so close, please touch me,” he begs with a voice all indecent, drooling a bit on the counter as he stays flat and powerless, simply unable to do anything.

Then he’s left alone, ready to complain and tell Billy, “Fuck you,” but when he glances over his shoulder, he sees Billy whip out his fat cock, and Steve sucks in a quick breath, eyes wide and amazed. He’s seen it before, in the showers at school, accidentally in the shower of their apartment, but never like this… so girthy and veiny, red and shiny with pre.

Billy grabs Steve by the hips, and for a moment he thinks that Billy’s just going to fuck him, right here right now, unprepped, dry, it’s probably going to hurt, but Steve’s so curious to finally find out what that feels like- what Bill’s dick feels like, what it’s like to have sex with Billy.

Yet he’s still relieved when he instead feels it between his cheeks, rubbing through the spit and across his rim. He gasps and moans all the same though, lets Billy control the pace as he with a bruising grip on Steve’s hips pulls him into his thrusts, skin slapping together in an obscene fashion that makes Steve’s cock drip and throb, keeping him on that sharp edge of orgasm.

“Shit, Billy, ah-h,” Steve whines out a plea.

When a hand closes around his aching cock again, he moans unadulterated, the pleasure of Billy’s every touch pushing the hangover into the background. The rhythm is erratic in a sense, quick then slow, all the way up or shallow, but in tact with how Billy’s hips meets Steve’s cheeks, keeping him from cumming as if he’s wanting to time it, have them both cumming together at once.

But Billy cums first; he’s quick to pull up the tee and paints Steve’s back with hot and warm semen, grunting a few times as he stops pounding against Steve’s ass. He then bends over to get a better grip on Steve’s cock as he jerks him to completion with a few practiced flicks of his wrist, Steve being loud in comparison and definitely less controlled, eyes rolling back to watch the fireworks as he spills over the cupboard beneath them.

In that moment he’s beyond thankful that Billy’s there behind him, supporting him and keeping him caught against the countertop, or he might just fall to the floor as his legs give out. As he lays there, for a moment in complete bliss with no headache, eyes closed, panting, he feels Billy wipe his back clean with a napkin.

“Can you stand?” he sounds all too amused, hands down on Steve’s hips, rubbing where his fingers might just have left a few bruises.

“I’m… I’m, ahh, yeah,” Steve exhales and pushes himself up and standing.

He turns around to watch Billy tuck himself away again, chest heaving a bit, a rather relaxed expression on his face, and when their eyes meet he smiles. Not a grin, nor a smirk, but an actual smile, and it makes Steve’s heart throb and bleed and hope.

“You can keep the shirt, I guess,” Billy shrugs all nonchalantly, as if they hadn’t just been doing whatever they were doing. “I’m gonna take a shower now, wanna join me?”

#Harringrove #My Writing #Lemon #A quick lil thing for you #withoneheadlight

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broccoliboix5peepeeman · 3 years

Note

Just want to say I ♥️ your blog & your writings!! That being said, I'd like to request a prompt where Shoto confess his feelings to Izuku, only for said confession to trigger Izu's unpleasant memories from his middle school days. (Think of the bad memories as/like the flashback prom scene from the 1999 film "Never Been Kissed") 'K, that's all I want to say. TYSM & ILYSM 💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

Ohmigosh thank you so much ILY2?!?!?! Of course, friendo - hope you enjoy! 💖💖💖 (I haven’t watched Never Been Kissed, but I looked up the scene for reference and changed a few things, hope that’s okay! :))

(Izuku, sweetie, I am so sorry for what I’m about to do to you, but it’ll be okay in the end I promise)

Izuku stared at Aizawa's back tiredly and sighed. Usually, he'd be scribbling away in his workbook at the mere prospect of learning more about the emergence of heroes, but he found that his heart just wasn't in it today.

He hadn’t slept much the night before and the quirk training that his class had completed last period was still on his mind, draining all of his energy in more ways than one. Not only was Izuku physically exhausted from it, but his mind was also reaching its wit’s end. Every time he closed his eyes, instead of strategies and new ways to adapt One for All, his vision was filled with very distracting images of Todoroki.

The two of them had been sparring partners for their training and it had started off great. Both of them had been performing quite admirably, he reckoned, until his crush had somehow managed to burn his shirt off again, causing Izuku to stumble on his feet for a moment. Eventually, he had managed to pin his friend to the ground, claiming his victory in front of the class, but it didn’t stop there. While his peers had let out a series of whoops, Izuku could focus only on the way Todoroki had gazed up at him, flustered and panting heavily; he looked like he wanted to tell Izuku something.

He was jolted out of his stupor when a clump of paper hit him across the face and fell onto his desk. Looking at the offending material with suspicion, he discreetly opened it to find Uraraka's handwriting staring back at him.

“Todoroki-kun is watching you.”

Izuku looked up to meet his friend's knowing eyes and scowled. Uraraka merely smirked in response and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Unable to stop himself, he lobbed the paper back at her. The ball hit his friend square in the forehead, eliciting a surprised shriek from her. Izuku felt a little guilty when Aizawa turned to look at her, unimpressed, but that didn’t stop a smug grin from plastering to his face.

He then chanced a look back and found Todoroki gazing at him almost longingly. When they made eye contact, Izuku’s eyes widened and he quickly whipped his head back around, trying to ignore the heat flooding to his cheeks.

Todoroki-kun was watching me!

☀️🌙

'Deku-kun, you can't keep going like this!'

'I can, I shall and I will.' Izuku replied easily, gathering his things into his backpack. The last bell had just rung, prompting Uraraka to immediately bolt out of her seat to nag him about Todoroki.

'Come on! He totally likes you back! He hasn't taken his eyes off you since you straddled him in front of the class - not that he doesn't always stare at you, but usually he has more tact-'

'Uraraka-chan, stop. It's not gonna happen.' As much as he knew that his friend was only trying to help, he didn't like it. Uraraka was giving him hope and Izuku had learnt early on in his life that hope almost always ended in disappointment.

He sighed heavily. 'He doesn't even think of me that wa-'

Suddenly, someone tapped him on the shoulder and Izuku leapt several metres into the air with a shriek, promptly bashed his head on the ceiling and collapsed to the ground with a groan.

'Midoriya!' Todoroki knelt down beside him, his expression one of concern, while Uraraka's distant cackling could be heard in the background. 'Are you okay? I didn't mean to scare you.'

'N- No, it's okay, Todoroki-kun! Sorry for worrying you.' He accepted his friend's outstretched hand and pulled himself to his feet, dusting his clothes. Izuku then peered up at his crush to find him staring at his shoes, clearly nervous. 'What did you want to talk about?'

Pink dusted Todoroki's cheeks and Izuku had to restrain himself from outwardly cooing.

'Can we talk in private?' He rubbed the back of his neck, quickly glancing at Uraraka, who seemed to take the hint, for once.

'Okayyyy! Meet you two back in the common room!' As she bounced past them, she gave Izuku a knowing look and mouthed details later, before shutting the door behind her.

Silence fell over them then, broken only by Izuku's rapid heartbeat that was drumming in his ears. He watched as Todoroki shuffled on his feet and scratched his cheek out of habit.

‘I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while but I’m not very good with words, not like you are. I tried writing it down, practicing in front of a mirror - I even asked Yaoyorozu for help, but I don’t think it was very useful, so I gave up and tried to forget about it.’ Todoroki swallowed heavily and raised his eyes to where Izuku’s tie was. ‘But I can’t. Everywhere I go, I think of you; your smile, the way you can light up an entire room, everything about you is just so unforgettable.’

‘Todoroki-kun...’

‘And then we had that sparring session and you pinned me, but I wasn’t even mad about losing. All I could think about was the way you were looking at me. You looked so gorgeous and I felt so lucky. I wanted to tell you as much, but then everyone started cheering, so I didn’t, but in that moment I realised that if I don’t tell you, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life, so here it goes.’

Todoroki finally looked up to meet his eyes.

'I think I'm in love with you, Midoriya.'

Izuku's heart stopped.

☀️🌙

Before he could comprehend what was happening, someone grabbed his hand and pulled him into an empty classroom, shutting the door behind them.

Taking in his surroundings, Izuku turned to find Aina, a girl from his class that he had harboured a crush for, for a while now. She looked at him through heavy-lidded blue eyes. Immediately, a blush formed across his face and Izuku swallowed thickly - no one had ever looked at him like that before.

'Er… I-' His attempt to gain some insight into the situation was quickly stifled by his inability to speak without stuttering. 'Wha- How can I he-'

'I think I'm in love with you.' She suddenly exclaimed, passion laced in her voice.

Izuku blinked once, then twice… Then he scrambled to hide his face with his arms as the weight of the confession finally hit him.

'WHAT?!' He squeaked a little bit too loudly.

Aina relaxed a little bit and smiled softly at him.

'I said, I think I'm in love with you.' She stepped forward, now less than a metre away. 'You're so handsome and intelligent. I've had a crush on you since last year. I didn't want to say anything because you're too good for me, but I just can't keep it in anymore.'

Izuku took a step back, but Aina just took a step forward to counter him. 'I want to be with you. Please, Midoriya-kun!'

So many thoughts raced through his mind. Aina wanted to be with him?! Aina, who had guys fawning over her 24/7, who was smart and athletic, and had such a useful quirk that allowed her to create basic foods. She really loved him? Quirkless, useless Deku, who liked to mumble to himself and carry around notebooks full of information about heroes that he had never met? It was almost laughable.

‘But I’m quirkless.’ He tilted his head to the side in question. ‘I’m a crybaby who mutters to himself. You can’t possibly like me.’

Aina chuckled quietly at that, which further confused Izuku.

‘I don’t care if you’re quirkless - you have a big heart and that’s all that matters.’ She took another step forward; Izuku blushed at the proximity. ‘I love it when men cry and you’re not afraid to speak your mind. You’re inspiring, Midoriya-kun, truly.’

Izuku knew he shouldn’t believe her - years of developing a thick skin had taught him not to trust anyone… But Aina was looking at him with such sincerity that Izuku allowed himself to hope that maybe it was real. After all, he had always tried to look at things positively. Maybe it wasn’t too bad to allow one person into his life? Aina had never given him any reason to doubt her - she never picked on him like Kacchan and the others did.

‘Really?’ He whispered, tears brimming from the corner of his eyes.

‘Really.’ Aina replied. She rose to her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around Izuku’s neck, eliciting a small squeak from him.

So close!

‘Can I...’ Aina bit her bottom lip, a blush forming across her cheeks. ‘Can I kiss you, Midoriya?’

Izuku's breath hitched and, before he could stop himself, he nodded awkwardly.

Aina laughed and whispered, ‘Close your eyes.’

Izuku swallowed heavily and complied. His eyes fluttered shut and he waited, frantically trying to calm his breathing as his heart pounded against his chest. He felt Aina edge closer to him, until her breath fanned his face and he could smell her perfume. He exhaled shakily, parting his lips in preparation. However, before their lips could meet, his crush suddenly ducked to the side.

She chuckled and whispered into the shell of his ear. ‘Did you really think someone like me could love a quirkless freak like you?’

Izuku’s eyes shot wide open and his stomach dropped when Aina stepped back to smirk at him. She wasn’t alone though; while his eyes had been closed, several others, including Kacchan, had filtered into the room and were staring at him. Some glared at him with disgust, others sniggered with amusement, while Kacchan sneered at him with outright disdain.

‘I- I don’t understand.’ Izuku stuttered out, stepping backwards and knocking the back of his legs against a desk.

‘This is a lesson, Deku.’ Kacchan spat, while Aina grinned from his side. ‘Never hope for anything in your miserable life. You’ll never be a hero.’ He stepped forward. ‘You’ll never have friends.‘

He took another step; Izuku could see himself in the reflection of Kacchan’s crimson irises. ‘And you’ll never be loved by anyone except your poor mum who has no other choice.’

He set off an explosion in Izuku’s face then, knocking him back against the desk. The moment he fell, Aina called out ‘Now’ and the others in the room bustled to action. Before Izuku could comprehend what was happening, several eggs were thrown at him. The first one cracked against his chest, padded by his uniform, but when the next one hit, he wasn’t so lucky. A brittle shell cracked against his forehead, sending its runny innards trailing down his face and sealing his eye shut.

Izuku hastily tried to wipe the yolk away, but when another egg slammed against his left temple, he cried out and curled in on himself. Forgoing any attempts to clean himself or fight back, he crawled into a ball position and waited it out as several more eggs smashed against him, until his shirt was sticky and his hair was plastered to his face.

He wouldn’t cry though. He refused to give them the satisfaction. He panted to control his breathing and when his peers eventually stopped, he gingerly raised his head from his arms. He rubbed at his stinging eye and sat up to find Kacchan and Aina standing over him.

‘Have you learnt your lesson yet, Deku?’ The blonde spoke dangerously. Before Izuku could even open his mouth to respond though, Kacchan raised his arm and, using his quirk, threw his final egg at him.

It struck his nose with a crack and blood shot out of his nostrils. Izuku cried out then, the sheer power behind it sending him back to the dirty floor. Cracked shells dug into his face as he used the sleeve of his uniform to pinch his nose.

Aina bent down then and Izuku stared at her at best as he could with his one working eye. Any feelings he had for her had quickly transformed into a deep loathing that he had only ever felt towards Kacchan.

Blood trickled down into his mouth and Izuku spat it out onto the carpet, indifferent to the way it mixed in with the yellow yolks around him.

‘Anything to say?’ She asked, voice sickeningly sweet. When Izuku remained silent, she snorted, before standing up and following Kacchan out of the room. However, when they reached the door, she looked over her shoulder at him, her words echoing across the room.

‘You are nothing.’

☀️🌙

‘Midoriya? Midoriya, are you okay?’

Izuku sobbed into his hands, eyes squeezed shut as he crouched down. When Todoroki called his name again, the ghost of egg shells cracking against him tickled his skin cruelly and he found himself pushing his friend’s hand away when he tried to touch him.

‘You don’t mean that!’ He shouted, hating how wet his voice sounded. Why Todoroki? Out of all the people, why did it have to be him? Was this another cruel joke? Was Kacchan going to appear with the rest of his class and taunt him like last time?

'I do mean it.' Todoroki pressed, voice almost pleading.

'You can't!' Izuku grit his teeth and pressed the heel of his palms to his eyes. 'I trusted you! Why are you doing this?!'

'I- I'm-' His crush stuttered through his words, the hurt in his voice echoing that of Izuku's heart. 'I'm sorry. I just needed you to know-'

'You're lying!' Izuku exclaimed, tearing his hands away and looking up at Todoroki with red-rimmed eyes. Any other time and he would've quickly noticed just how distraught his friend was, but right now, his mind was plagued by the sniggering faces and humiliating taunts of his peers. He felt nothing but the ache of the purple bruises that had stained his skin for over a week after the incident. He thought of how he had opened his heart once before, only to have had it thrown back in his face.

He blinked as more tears escaped him. 'You don't love me! No one can love me. I'm useless Deku. I am nothing!'

'What are you talking about?' Todoroki frowned; a look of anger flashed across his face and he knelt down to look Izuku in the eye. 'That's not fair, Midoriya. You don't get to tell me how to feel. You don't have to like it, but I love you. Feel free to hate me, to push me away, to wish I was gone from your life forever, but do not call me a liar when I've never been anything but honest with you!'

Izuku froze at that. Memories of when he had finally told Todoroki about One for All came flooding back to him. He remembered how upset his friend had been at the prospect of Izuku not trusting him, how he had promised never to lie to Todoroki again. He remembered how his friend had promised to do the same, even though he had no reason to, and at that moment, Izuku finally realised how foolish he had been.

This wasn't Kacchan or Aina. This was Todoroki, kind, brave and caring. Todoroki, who had followed Izuku into danger more times than he could count. Todoroki, who constantly told him just how amazing he was.

Todoroki... Who had just told Izuku that he loved him.

'Fuck.' He muttered to himself, running his hands down his face. 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Todoroki-kun. I wasn't- I didn't…'

'What's wrong?' Dichromatic eyes searched his own for answers. 'Please, Midoriya.'

'This has happened before.' Izuku admitted, wiping his runny nose with his sleeve. He took a deep breath and retold what had occurred all those years ago. As he spoke, he noticed the anger that had resurfaced on Todoroki’s face, albeit it was not directed at him this time.

When Izuku finally finished explaining, he exhaled and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. ‘Well, now you know.’

‘Midoriya-’ Todoroki began, shaking his head. ‘You- You know I would never do that to you, right?'

Izuku remained silent. Todoroki was right - he knew deep down that he had no reason to doubt his friend, but the nagging voice in his head didn’t care about logic.

Todoroki sighed heavily. ‘You’re my best friend, my first ever friend. I would never intentionally hurt you. I meant what I said before. I love you and we don’t deliberately hurt the ones we love. You taught me that. Be that as it may though, I understand that you don’t feel the same way about me and that’s okay. I can push my feelings aside for the sake of our friendship. Having you in my life is already more than I deserve-’

‘No.’ Izuku reached out a trembling hand and rested it against his friend’s scarred cheek. ‘I don’t deserve you. You’re- You’re amazing, Todoroki-kun, and I-’

He turned away then and bit his lip. It was silly - Izuku had always worn his heart on his sleeve. Why was it now so difficult for him to tell his friend how he was really feeling? He trusted Todoroki with his life, yet something was holding him back.

You’ll never be loved by anyone.

His vision blurred.

You are nothing.

A hand came up to rest against his own and Izuku’s head shot upwards to find Todoroki nuzzling his cheek against his calloused palm. Izuku stared unabashedly at his friend, at the way his jaw relaxed as he gazed right back at him, at the way his dichromatic eyes shone like the sky as the classroom light reflected off his brimming tears, at the way his cheeks were dusted a slight pink and radiated warmth from the contact, and at the way his mouth was slightly upturned as he urged Izuku to carry on, even if it meant rejection.

Todoroki’s courage inspired his own.

‘I- I love you too.’ Izuku squeezed his eyes shut. ‘Truly, I do, and it scares me. It scares me because so much could go wrong. Even if you’re not cruel like Kacchan and Aina, something else could go wrong and I don’t think I could take it if that happened.’

‘Don’t you think it’s worth the risk?’ Todoroki gently removed Izuku’s hand to intertwine their fingers. ‘There’s always a possibility of something going wrong - even if we weren’t training to be heroes. The one thing I am certain of though is that I would never hurt you. I would hold you and treasure you and there isn't a person alive who could stop me from caring about you.’

Izuku's body moved before he could comprehend what was happening. He threw himself forwards and tackled Todoroki to the ground, eliciting a surprised grunt from his friend. As they fell, he held the back of Todoroki's head to protect his crush from the hard floor, not minding the way his knuckles stung slightly from the impact.

'Todoroki-kun…' Izuku nuzzled into his friend's neck, warmth seeping into his very core when gentle arms wrapped around his waist. 'You truly are perfect. Nothing could ever stop me from caring about you either. I love you. I love you so much, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for doubting you. I'm sorry for-'

'I forgive you.' Todoroki leant his cheek against Izuku's hair, arms tightening around him. 'You were scared. I know what that's like, but you helped me, remember? Let me help you.’

Izuku’s tears drenched his friend’s uniform, but Todoroki said nothing, instead rubbing soothing circles across his back as he sobbed against him. When his eyes eventually dried out and his voice was hoarse, Izuku finally pulled away to look down at his friend. The view was oddly reminiscent of their fight from earlier.

‘Can… Can I kiss you, Midoriya?’ Todoroki asked, raising a hand to cup his jaw.

Izuku smiled down at him, before nodding once. He had had crushes before, but nothing compared to how he was feeling right now. Todoroki wasn’t just some crush, he was his friend, and Izuku would do anything for him without a second thought.

‘Yes.’

Todoroki flashed him a soft smile, before gently guiding Izuku’s head down, lifting his own to meet him halfway. Izuku met soft lips and he felt warmth that he hadn’t known was possible. Their noses bumped together and neither of them seemed to know what to do next, but it was more perfect than he could have ever imagined because he was kissing Todoroki.

‘I love you.’ Izuku whispered against his mouth, relishing in the way Todoroki let out a breathy laugh in response before pressing another kiss to his lips.

Yeah, hope led to disappointment most of the time, but nothing about Todoroki could ever be disappointing to Izuku.

#tododeku #midoriya izuku #todoroki shoto #tw: blood #tw: bullying #bitchy ocs #bk is a bully and a bad person #flashbacks #tw: food #angst #hurt/comfort #AgarJelly writes #wingman ochaco

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