#like during the film strip puzzle

[cominy-kiwami]

why does it always affect me so deeply when you play the music box in resident evil village before you fix it and it plays the really short out of tune notes and then stops and the subtitle says “Something's not right.”

the little jingle has a really subtle sense of dread while also being calming.

#i love the way things are put in the beneviento house #like during the film strip puzzle #each strip gets a cute little romantic name #but theres periods after each one. #and you are in a dark and unfamiliar room. #and the only sound is the droning ambience. #its SO isolating

[360iris]

Backroom of a bad dream (marc spector x reader)

Marc is dreaming, he knows that. He knows it as soon as the clip starts rolling, frayed, fuzzy and worn around the edges. He can practically hear the feed spools of the movie projector turning as the lens focuses the film’s images onto the imaginary screen in his mind’s eye. 

A single ticket sold for admittance to a private showing of his early life, featuring people he wishes he could forget. Forgive, hah. Forget. Just let him forget. 

He wishes she’d allow him to omit the moments in time like this one, but bad memories latch onto him, into him. And this body holds them together like stitches sewn into flesh—and faintly he recalls you saying something to that effect once. During one of the many, painfully kind conversations the two of you have when the tide of emotions inside him is particularly high, to the point where it’s brimming to the surface and bubbling right over the edge. 

You’re always there to catch the splashes and beaded droplets of information, gathering what meager scraps he gives away, whether it’s done so intentionally or not. Lining up every detail like puzzle pieces, locating the edges first and then steadily working your way inward. 

He knows how tightly he guards the truth of his past, because he’s skeptical of what good it could do. Because he’s afraid to face the consequences if the iniquity of his actions see light and find a way to retake root. He doesn’t think he could handle Layla’s soft touches turning stiff and rigid, and he knows he would not recover if those doting and thoughtful eyes of yours ever dimmed when they fell onto him– like his mother’s had.

‘A means to hurt can also bring about healing, and growth.’ You’d said that particular evening, speaking more to the brim of the water bottle on its way to your lips, than to anything else. He’d guessed he must have looked as confused as he’d felt internally because you hurried to swallow the mouthful before elaborating on your thought. 

‘If you know the story of Joseph, his brothers plotted several times to murder him, resolving finally to strip him naked and sale him to the Egyptians, with the intention for him to be taken leagues away from his home, never to be seen again. Little did they know, they were pushing him closer to fulfilling his life’s purpose, he would become the most influential and powerful man in the land, second only to the Pharaoh himself.’ —his eyebrows were still raised quizzically and you’re reminded that with everything he's gone through, memorizing religious stories hadn’t remotely been on his list of priorities. 

‘He’s reunited with his brothers as a wealthy and respected man, utterly unrecognizable as their own flesh and blood by then, and instead of letting the great famine consume them for their past indiscretions, he shows them forgiveness. Though the most important part in all of it, to me, is what he says to them as they stand in fear of what he’ll do to them. He says ‘What you meant for evil, God meant for good.’ and that’s a quote I find myself thinking back on very often. The notion that perhaps, from every wrongdoing, every single nefarious lapse of humanity, behind the scenes something good and righteous is gradually weaving itself and taking hold. A greater plan, coming into play.’

But you’re not in his head as this scene of her drunkenly sauntering over to the dinner table plays, the frames clicking in and out of view cheaply. 

He can see her coal-black hair, long and neglected, flowing past her shoulders like curtains. Can make out the glass bottle of beer in her hand and the dark circles from lack of restful sleep. Eyes overshadowed, hateful and watching, scrutinizing his every movement. Inwardly and outwardly cursing him for every breath he took.

He could smell the alcohol, the sickly sweet sugaryness of the icing and burning candles on top of the cake which sat in front of him. 

Can hear the words that slip past her lips–and he’s sorry, he’s regretful and he hates her as she drills those same fucking words into his psyche. 

Her hostility churned, it burbled and seeped into the fabric of everything like thick, black ink. It festered and clung to him, a dripping, oozing sludge as he watched her hands grip the glass, her lips sneering and her eyes glaring emptily. There was no attainable sign of recompense for what he’d done because he’d survived yet another year, and she’d all but sworn to make this particular day hell on earth for him. It was his birthday.

Lying on his back, he jolts awake. Eyes wide and chest heaving as he registers his labored breathing, forehead drenched with sweat and knuckles stiff from how hard they gripped at the sheets beneath him. 

“We’re okay.” Steven’s voice comes out unusually hoarse, bringing up a sore hand to dab at the corners of their eyes and apples of their cheeks with a crooked wrist. Tears, he’d been drawn to tears. “We’re alright. We’re safe. And look, it's morning now.”

Beams of sunlight slipped through the open cracks and crevices made by the somewhat-drawn curtains, allowing golden slivers to illuminate the wooden plank flooring, filling the space with a warm, genial air. 

The sizable studio apartment his system shares with yourself and Layla is quiet and still. Not a single sign of Khonshu darkening his path with his towering visage presents itself as he looks over the empty space— but as Marc hastily props himself onto his elbows, he realizes that the same could be said for both of his girls. 

A wave of paranoia washes over him as he looks at the empty spaces beside him on the bed, the white sheets lay void of the bodily warmth he’d grown used to and spoiled by. Though just as he moves to sit up to continue his search, he spots you quietly exiting the dressing room which leads to the bathroom. 

Absentmindedly toweling wet hair with one rotating hand, you clicked the door shut behind you as quietly as possible, moving further into the general space before seemingly feeling his gaze and looking up to inadvertently meet his eye. 

You’re dressed in an ankle length, satin creme slip dress, the one you often wore to bed because of the lace detailing it had sewn along the collar and how softly it glided across the skin. Blanketing your shoulders and falling to your feet was a matching, ankle-grazer cardigan which you hauled with you almost everywhere, the snug material always plush to the touch.

“You’re up, baby?” With bare feet, you paddled over to where he lay, speaking softly even though he was awake now. 

He nodded wordlessly, peering up at you. Unable to read the slight, upward crook resting between your brows as you approached as anything other than disappointment towards him, because of him.

“We’d hoped you’d sleep a little longer, thought the extra rest might help some.” You said fondly, sinking into the mattress beside him. “Do you know what you might want for breakfast? Or, do you want one of us to choose? Layla just got back from the market, she's in the shower now– bought a bit too much if you ask me.” An amused chuckle gets peppered between your words. But other than the way he fiddles with the fingers of your free hand, he doesn’t speak. 

His eyes were hooded and preoccupied with a misty, glazed look about them; lips pressed into a line. He wasn’t completely still, as was typically characteristic of Marc, but the man in front of you was too withdrawn and remote for it to be Steven currently fronting. You surveyed him with a look of repose, pinpointing what giveaways were present to help clue you in on who it was you were dealing with, so you could act accordingly.

Twisting and tucking the towel back to keep it wrapped around your head, you laid down atop of the covers beside him. Resting an open-palmed hand across his chest which he continued to fiddle with as you nuzzled your face alongside his. “Where are you right now, baby? Can you tell me?”

He didn't answer immediately, swallowing thickly as he stared up at the ceiling. 

“It’s my birthday.” It wasn’t a question or announcement, just a despondent statement.

“Yes, it is.”

“She– She’d always make today unbearable.” And you’re well aware of who he’s referencing, his hands grasping yours a hair tighter as he speaks, your own grip firming as well. “She made me hate ever being born. I would wonder why this day just kept coming, why it never stopped.”

There wasn’t a way to broach the topic of his mother, no tactical approach to institute, to speak on her behalf regarding her grief, her anger and her pain. At one point you’re fairly certain she loved her first born son. 

Your own personal, and very secret theory was that her abuse angled towards Marc was her way of keeping her lost son alive, because perhaps forgiving him for his part to play in the tragedy would have felt too much like relinquishing the love that, which in her eyes, no longer had anywhere else to go. But that didn’t even remotely justify her cruelty, or unwavering devotion towards making Marc’s life as isolating and haunted as she possibly could.

Holding him inbetween your arms now, as tortured and mournful of a man as he is, you press your forehead into his cheek and think further on a certain comforting but dismal branch of thought. 

Though she’d been none the wiser, and truthfully did not deserve any of the credit, all of her unrelenting fury had given birth to Steven– well intentioned, delightful and unbelievably quick-witted Steven Grant. Where would any of you be without him, or your love for him? You scarcely dared to entertain the possibility.

The truth was that one utterly good thing had been unearthed from the soot and grime of her profoundly misguided actions, and you would nurture the little boy she’d left behind and support the men he’d grown into.

Nudging him closer, if that could even be possible at this point with the way the two of you were so intertwined, you tenderly massage his shoulder. “Every single day I’m grateful that you were created and placed along my path. And I know that you’re hurting, and I understand that I can’t carry that burden for you–or claim to always perfectly understand where you’re at in your journey, but I mean it when I say that I fully intend to be here when you need or just want me to be present. I’m here for you, and for Steven.”

You don’t expect him to respond exactly, having just wanted to know that he had heard those specific words from someone who genuinely cared about him. And when he rolls onto his side to face you, softly scooping you up into his arms like a well loved teddy bear, you audibly laugh as he speaks into your hair– because it’s a start to the day, and it’s enough. “Whatever you decide to make, Steven and I will have two plates of it.”

#moon knight system #marc spector x reader #marc spector #steven grant #moon knight #moon knight blurb #steven grant x reader #moon knight system x reader x layla el fouley

[doomskii]

The Beauty of Shorter Games

I grew up during the revival of the video game movie tie-in boom of the 90s, after the dust settled from the video game industry crash in the early-to-mid 80s. The ability of movies and video games to convey a narrative has always fascinated me. As I attempted to make my own games, it was overwhelming trying to learn the multiple disciplines required to make a game. I quickly grew frustrated with my inability to even ask the right questions in order to progress. My method of handling this was to research topics like sound design, storytelling, game design, software design patterns, and watch a lot of films and play a lot of games.

There are times when I question whether or not I am consuming all this media out of gluttony or purely out of interest in the creation and industry surrounding games and film. The likely conclusion is somewhere in the gray. Ultimately, I enjoy the process of playing, analyzing, and creating my own interactive scenes and mini game demos. That said, given I do all this in my off time, as I don’t make or play games for a living, I appreciate games that are under 8 hours, preferably between 1 - 5 hour(s).

There are exceptions, but I find games such as Katana Zero, Blazing Chrome, Call of the Sea, Gone Home, Cocoon, A Short Hike, and others to be stripped down of bloaty quantity over quality side quests, loot systems, expository dialogue, and obstacles that confuse tedium for depth and challenge. Shorter games, when executed well, tend to pick only a few areas of focus, such as being mechanically driven gameplay, atmosphere, or narrative, resulting in very approachable and meaningful experiences as the player. In Katana Zero, we are uncovering this mystery of who, and when, we are, paced alongside the increased demand in skill as a lethal assassin slicing through enemies and overcoming obstacles with playful design. Cocoon focuses on the idea of abstracting the role levels play in games and turns them into interactive and reactive in-game items for the player to solve puzzles with. Gone Home uses standard mechanics (interact and walk mostly), but compliments this with a unique sprawling level design and information-to-player pacing– resulting in a beautiful transition in tone and story that plays with our assumptions of what it means to be a lone person in an empty unknown building.

All the above said, at the very least, they make for great palate cleansers after investing time in a relatively longer game, or series, or after spending money on a more expensive title.

#video games #game design #short game #game narrative #game mechanics #narrative design

[cinema-tv-etc]

🎬🎥🎞️📽️🎭📀🎬🎥🎞️📸💽📽️🎬📹📼💻💿

WRITTEN BY KATHERINE DIAZ VILLEGAS

I don’t remember my beginning with books, but that may have been because they’ve simply just always been a part of me. I do, however, remember my many trips to the library where I would run around pulling out any and every book that piqued my interest until the stacks threatened to fall over. It wasn’t a need to escape that lead me to books, but my curiosity.

Books are so special because through words, an author can paint any realm, person or thing into existence. Storytelling has been the traditional method of passing down history and legends since the beginning, through cave drawings to sharing tales around a fire to hieroglyphics. Once stories passed on by word-of-mouth were officially transcribed, they soon became one of the most prized possessions one could own. Books have always had the responsibility to pass on information and ideas. With them, human beings have been able to learn, grow and create.

Film enthusiasts may argue that human beings need visualization to understand a story, but I disagree. The bond a reader has with a book is one of the most transcendent relationships one could ever have. No matter how words and phrases are written and arranged, not everyone will interpret them the same way. Though the story is written the same, each reader is different and will be affected by that story in an unparalleled way. Just because the author writes the sky is blue or that the valley was vast, how a reader visualizes or connects with that small bit of context creates a world of its own. Understanding the thoughts of a character and their reasoning behind it creates a genuine bond — one that is responsible for bringing so many beloved characters to life.

A book’s limits go as far as the reader’s imagination. No matter the genre, books awaken the brain in a way that pushes us to understand and imagine for ourselves. As the protagonist and characters grow, so does the reader.

In films, which are only possible with the effort of countless people and departments, the story only lasts an hour or two. Even in series, there’s still a certain type of limitation regarding time. Whenever films are adapted from books, more likely than not, you’ll enjoy reading the book even more than seeing the film. This is because there are more details and context in books. There’s no budget or post-production, producers or actors — there’s only the author, the story and the reader. Stripping away rules and opinions leads to the possibility to dream and create.

I’ve read well over a 1,000 books and never thought I would have a favorite until I stumbled upon “The Night Circus” by Erin Morgenstern. To me, this book was the puzzle that I never knew I needed to solve. It pushed what I had expected from novels and stories to a rich dream, interlacing past and present with a parade of characters each too extraordinary to not be known.

Books today are not a tool of the past, they’re ever-evolving. They will forever be a sort of dependency we’ll have. Like history, books are survivors that will live another day to tell their tale.

📖 📕📔📙📚 📗📘 📒📓📕📗📙📚 📖👀

Written by Mikael Trench

Films, historically speaking, are still very young forms of storytelling, with the first films ever made released during the 19th century. It’s easy to see why this art form is looked down upon by so many compared to books. Growing up, older generations warned us about the dangers of too much screen time. Equally likely is the chance your elders recommend to read instead. While literature has its perks, filmmaking is the superior storytelling medium.

What makes the art of filmmaking more admirable is the act of restraint. Books can tell any story featuring any ideas the author can imagine. While this gives books a distinct sense of escapism, films must be more inventive. Since films create fantastic scenes with budgetary limitations, filmmakers must find ways to balance these elements. From “Mary Poppins”(1964) to “Avatar” (2009), there’s bound to be a few films you admire for their ability to create mesmerizing illusions. The ability for filmmakers to work through these difficulties allows for an even greater appreciation of this craft.

Films can throw whatever visuals they want at us, but if the storytelling itself is no good, then there’s little to care about. What makes films stronger in this area is the variety of ways they tell their stories. Books allow little room for how they present their worlds other than blatantly putting it on the page for the reader to imagine. While that interpretation does add to the experience, there is still an element of disconnect that can leave some feeling underwhelmed.

From the birth of cinema, silent films always found ways to incorporate traditional literary storytelling techniques in a visual manner that allowed the audience to become far more engrossed in the experience than simply reading words. This not only offered for more enthralling moments to be made, but also for filmmaking to transcend the storytelling mold and become something far more universal. Storytelling in film must be inventive to be effective.

The legendary montage from the first 10 minutes of “Up” (2009) is a breathtaking piece of filmmaking. The animation and musical score visualize the couple’s story better than any words could. Regardless of culture or background, anyone could watch this sequence and comprehend the story while also getting wrapped up in the emotional context. It’s a testament to the craft put into every frame that makes up a film.

Films can achieve greater legacies than the books they are based on. Countless films from “The Shawshank Redemption”(1994) to “It’s a Wonderful Life” (1946) have surpassed their literary counterparts. These films differ heavily from their books, but no one seems to care. They were crafted with such ingenuity that audiences are more inspired by the big screen adaptations.

Films and books are two different works of art. Both have the power to allow us to escape into worlds we can only imagine. But filmmaking took the essence of storytelling and brought it to new and exciting heights before our very eyes. Whether they make us laugh, cry, scream or think, you can bet that a dedicated team is working their hardest to make those scenes last a lifetime.

🎬🎥🎞️📽️🎭📀🎬🎥🎞️📸💽📽️🎬📹📼💻💿

📖 📕📔📙📚 📗📘 📒📓📕📗📙📚 📖👀

[yeojaa]

wait !!!! find her jk with that prompt the other anon sent!!! can u plssss that’s literally something find her jk would actually do🥺🥺🥺🥺

[ read finders keep hers ]

pairing.  jjk x (named) f!reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  idiots in love.  like, that’s all there is to say.  angst central, my dude.  wc.  2.4k.  author note.  i meant to make this short and end with some tender lovemaking but...  i cannot be trusted near a keyboard so you get this word vomit instead.  xoxo!

You love Jeon Jungkook.  Have, you think, since before you knew what the word love meant.

(Maybe since you were children and you’d still stood a chance against him, bursting with pride from a job well done, young enough that your parents’ kind words felt better than anything in the world.  Before he’d turned into the president of the Casanova Club and he’d just been your and your brother’s best friend.  Little Jeon with the unbelievably big eyes, always so curious about everything.

Or maybe since your tenth grade White Day, when he’d bought you your favourite candies and pressed them unceremoniously into your hands, too many to hold so they fall to dirt and tumble around you.  He’d stooped to snatch them all up, shoving them into the pockets of your coat.  “Because we’re best friends or whatever,”  he’d said with this toothy, silly smile.

More likely during university.  That time you’d maybe (read: very) foolishly made out, liquor fueling the tangle of your limbs and how utterly good he felt within them, a nectarine dream in his brand new G Wagon.  You’d thought he’d laugh in your face, mumble something about no, we can’t - which he had - but he’d also taken you home, tucked you in and climbed in beside your inebriated self.

Definitely once you’d started seeing each other, spending more time in his bed than anywhere else.  It’d been nearly impossible to separate head from heart, falling deeper and deeper into the Jungkook-shaped black hole that seemed to eclipse everything else.  You’d fallen head over stupid heels, leaving bits of yourself hidden among his things.  Your lip balm in his trouser pocket, perfume on the collar of his favourite turtleneck, shape of your mouth alongside monogrammed initials. 

You hadn’t meant to.

Love him, that is.  It’d simply happened in between all the laughter, the eye rolls, the smiles.  Threaded between each action and cemented by the thud of your heart, beat into the ground like a drum.)

Sometimes, though, you don’t like him.  Oftentimes, in fact. 

You and Jungkook are as different as can be.  

You’re in business development at a tech firm;  he’s the technically unemployed son of a real estate mogul.  You invest most of your money;  he spends his as if it’ll never run out (which it likely won’t).  You grew up with an older brother;  he’s got two younger sisters.  You drink to celebrate, to wind down;  he drinks to prove a point.  You believe in love - have to, looking at your parents and feeling how you do about him;  he knows it exists but up until recently, had zero interest in it.

You wonder still, seated at the table with your group of friends and their partners, whether that still rings true.  (Deep down, you know it doesn’t. You know he loves you, wants you in a way he’s never wanted anyone else before, but your brain is a fickle thing, playing tricks when it shouldn’t.) 

Would he be happier without you?  Better off without you? 

Your thoughts mock you - just as he does, roguish smile turning his entire expression into sunshine.  Inescapable, all-encompassing, so blinding it’s almost hard to look at.  Trained on the girl he’s chatting up at the bar.  

This is what Jungkook does.  What he’s always done.  You should be used to it, really.  The man’s charm is always turned up to eleven, always in full effect even when he doesn’t mean it to be.  It’s simply part of who he is- young and rich and devastatingly, heartbreakingly handsome. 

Still, you can’t help the emotion that swells somewhere deep in your stomach, jostles the meal you’ve just had and turns your insides into a sea of nausea.  You know when he’s just being friendly and you know when he’s flirting.  It’s a terribly thin line but one you recognise, intimately familiar with the two sides of his personality.  

Right now, he’s flirting.  Doing that thing he does, one arm folded on the counter top, unblemished hand resting somewhere along his hip, silver of his rings acting as a beacon beneath the dim restaurant lights.  His other hand slots itself into the pocket of his coated jeans, tattoos thrown into stark contrast against his skin and the black of the denim.  There’s that smile of his, more a smirk but sunny, radiant, beautiful.  It lights up his entire face, steeping his expression in something warm.  The dimple in his cheek winks with each laugh - you can only imagine the one on the other side does the same, cut deeply into his skin.

Don’t be mad, you tell yourself.  He’s your Jungkook, bad habits and all.  

You love him.  You love him.  You love him.

If he notices your stoicism, he doesn’t comment on it.  Doesn’t ask what’s wrong or if you’re okay or what’s up.  Barely even speaks to you, save to toss his arm around your shoulder and tug you close, practically tug you into his lap while his friends share stories of their week.

It’s your usual Friday night dinner.  Something you’ve done with this ragtag group for as long as you’ve known them.  An excuse to go out and drink and eat some damn good (and often free) food. 

You wish you could enjoy it like you normally do.  Instead, you’re preoccupied by the way a perfume that isn’t yours lingers on his collar - seeps beneath the fabric and marks him up like a possession.  It’s too sweet - cloying sugar apples and coconut - nothing like your usual earthy wisteria and dewy rose.  It stings your nose when you inhale too deeply, nestled into the familiar shape of Jungkook’s frame, settled between the vertebrae you know best.

You hardly notice when he does speak to you, rousing you from thought you can’t quite place any longer.

“Ready to head home?”

The rest of your friends are going about their business, slipping their coats on and exchanging ideas for plans the following morning.  (Saturday brunch is a very popular thing, though it tends to lean late lunch versus true breakfast-brunch.)

You nod and slip from beneath your lover’s arm, plucking your purse up as you rise.  You’re ready to get out of here, ready to scrub away the melancholy that lingers like a thin film across your skin.  

He must have realised sometime between your silence in the car and your lacklustre kisses in the elevator.  You think he must, as he nearly slams the front door of his penthouse shut, kicks off his Chelsea boots and lets them tumble together just off the welcome mat.  (Not the reaction you’d expected, but you’ve learnt to never expect anything from him.  As much as he might be your best friend, Jeon Jungkook plays by his own set of rules.)

He doesn’t wait for you to undo your own shoes, carefully undoing the straps of your Jimmy Choos and setting them where they belong before you follow the sound of his footsteps.

When you find him, he’s stripping off his jacket and tossing it haphazardly across the back of his desk chair, keys and wallet and phone dropped none-too-gently upon wood.  He says nothing even as he crosses to his closet, steps inside and slips off each piece of jewellery:  assorted rings and his Rolex - everything but the bracelet you’d gotten him for graduation.  

His belt goes next, set back within the confines of its velvet lined drawer.  Through the hole goes the button of his jeans, down goes the zipper, and then he’s in nothing but his vaguely sheer dress shirt, boxer-briefs, and silly printed socks (yellow bananas on black fabric, for reasons), looking every inch the adonis he is. 

You still haven’t said a word, carefully hanging your dress in the small space you’ve carved out for yourself.  You don’t really know what to say - how to approach his apparent frustration when you don’t know where it comes from.

Is he upset with you?  Had you, somewhere along the line of your own sadness, done something to upset him?

You’re running through all the scenarios, lost in thought, when his voice breaks the quiet.  Snaps forth and hits its mark - a perfect shot.  “Seriously?”  There’s a fickle quality to his tone, a pettiness that you recognise when he hasn’t gotten his way, when he’s not quite sure what to say but knows he wants to have something.  (It doesn’t come out often with you, but you’re intimately familiar with it still.  His I-want-to-fight voice.)

“Pardon?”  You’re not expecting him so close, close enough to reach you but far enough that you can tell he’s purposely put this distance between you.  It feels strange - further apart than it is.

“You’re not going to say anything?”

You blink.  Once, twice, three times.  When you speak, it’s full of confusion, paired with your brows gathering in a little knot of bewilderment.  “Anything about what?”

“What happened at dinner.”  

He sounds so utterly deadpan, you can’t help but laugh, a sound of disbelief rather than amusement.  

“You mean you flirting with that girl?”  Even saying the words feels awful, makes you want to crawl into bed and forget about it all.

Jungkook, on the other hand, looks like you’ve just handed him the answers to all of life’s questions.  His entire face rearranges, all the pieces matching back up to form a proper puzzle.  There’s a certain smugness to it now, caught in the round of his cheek and how it ticks higher with his grin.  “So you did notice!  I fucking knew it.”

“Of course I did.”  You want to be appalled.  Know you should be.  (But it’s Jungkook and you love him.)  “Kind of hard not to.”  

He’s the devil in disguise, snapping you to him with a flex of his arms, hands curled around your waist.  It’s clear he’s pleased, absolutely tickled pink that you’d fallen for his silly little trick.  “Gotta keep you on your toes,”  he croons, eyes twinkling, mouth wobbling with the strain of keeping his laughter hidden. 

He expects you to agree - maybe roll your eyes and pat his cheek, laughs along with him and give him some sort of shit about how he’s an idiot - and visibly starts when you push yourself away, two palms flat against his chest. 

“Sure.”

One word.  Nothing like he’d imagined.

“Baby?”  You’ve made it two steps - two whole steps, which is two too many to Jungkook - when he’s pulling you back, trapping you against his chest with his arms looped around your shoulders.  “Where you going?”  He’s kissing along your shoulder, trailing warmth everywhere he touches. 

He still smells like that girl’s perfume.

“Can you get off me, please?”  You’re more polite than you normally are, working hard to keep calm when he only tightens his grip.  Of course he thinks you’re kidding, thinks you’re pouting and playing just like he had when you’d returned home.

When you repeat yourself - a little harder, a little quieter - he seems to realise how wrong he’s read the situation.

“Angel—”  You’re swept around, left to stare into the neat white of his shirt as he peers down at you, waits for you to meet his eyes.  You don’t, staunchly focused on the buttons of his Oxford, how they strain over his broad chest.  “Baby.”  Now he’s the one full of reprimand, disapproval colouring the single word that’s normally so sweet.

“What?”  It’s just as bratty as he was earlier but somehow worse, touched blue.

“What’s wrong?”  Jungkook seems genuinely perplexed, concerned and maybe, just a tiny bit frustrated.  He’s not used to you lashing out like this, soft and yet unyielding, hidden behind a door he’s fumbling with the keys to.

“You.”

“—me?”

You’re not one to throw out things you don’t mean, carefully picking and choosing your words.  It’s something you’ve always done - far more responsible than your idiot best friend who’s never had to worry about a thing in his life.  

The line of his mouth dips, pulls into a frown as he studies you and tries to crack open the windows to gain some insight.  It doesn’t work well;  he’s faced with a stone wall.

“Why’re you mad?” 

You want to laugh.  Do, actually, so short and abrupt it’s more of a scoff.  “What’s wrong with me?”  You’d pull away if you could. (Realistically, you could, but you’ve always been too soft for him.)  “You spent almost all of dinner flirting with someone else.”

“Yeah— to make you jealous.”  As if that makes it better.  As if that doesn’t tear a giant hole right in the centre of your chest, launches your poor heart out of the airlock to fend for itself in the emptiness of his expression.  

You don’t know why it feels worse to hear it out loud.  You’d figured as much. 

(Jungkook had done this in the past, though always jokingly.  He’d rarely been invested enough in a girl to go to such lengths but you’d seen it once or twice.  Always the age old adage of wanting what you can’t have.)

You wish you could separate the then from the now.  Remind yourself that he does care, that this is his twisted, stupid way of showing his affection - of keeping you around.  (You know he’s just as vulnerable as you - maybe more, sometimes - but he shows it poorly.  Pushes you away when he tries to pull you in.)

Tears are welling, spilling across your lashes faster than you can yank them back.  Something about being an angry crier.  

“Good job,”  you mean to snap, to make him feel how you do.  (Small - so very, very small.)  Instead, it’s terribly quiet.  A whisper that gets lost to the cotton poplin.  “Now I’m jealous.”  And miserable and insecure.  All things you usually aren’t, that only Jeon Jungkook manages to bring out in you.

“Baby,”  he tries again, crushing you to his chest, jut of his chin resting atop your head.  His hugs had always been your favourite - swallowing you whole, making you feel safe - but it’s too much now, a prison cell rather than your familiar bed.  “I’m sorry.”  He’s kissing again, stamping his affection into the dark of your hair, brushing over and over with the soft of his lips, his rounded adorable nose,  “I thought—”

You know what he thought.  Know where he’d been coming from (a place of immaturity, a gilded golden room with Jeon Jungkook stamped across the door) but it doesn’t make it any better.

Doesn’t make it hurt any less.

#anon.eml #bts #bts au #bts imagine #bts drabble #bts angst #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jungkook #jungkook au #jungkook drabble #jungkook angst #jungkook imagine #incoming.eml #work.zip #drabble.zip #finders.doc #jungkook.doc

[mappinglasirena]

I turn to the wise mapping blog for answers. In Rios's quarters there is a starlight cut into the ceiling which we see in I think... one episode? Where is that window situated and would it be at all visible from most parts of the room? (Asking for a friend.)

Thank you so much for that fascinating question! (And for letting me badger you into putting it in the ask box XD)

We do indeed only see the starlight (what an excellent word!) in action in ep. 3, “The End is the Beginning”, when Rios leans back in his armchair and looks up to see a shooting star outside the window.

If you look at the wider view of the room you can see it’s not the only window, either, there are in fact two more:

Looking at the layout of the captain’s quarters, this (roughly) is the location of the windows on there.

Now, as to from where you can see the windows: You have a very good view of one each from the armchairs, the desk chair, and the bed (it’s not directly above the bed, but the recess seems shallow enough that you’d be able to see outside even when lying down). If you were standing and walking around the room, some of the windows might get concealed by the ceiling beams, but, as an example: sitting in the armchairs, you can still see the window next to the bed.

(Also: the furniture is all very moveable, so it’s entirely possible somebody at some point decides to push the bed a couple meters towards the portside wall to have it directly under the window XD)

So far the location of the windows with regards to Rios’s quarters.

Your question actually made me curious though. I vaguely remember looking at exterior shots of La Sirena a few months back, trying to puzzle out where the windows would be located, and not having any luck. But now that we have the amazing illustrations from the Eaglemoss magazine and a number of proper set plans, I took another run at it. Mapping the outline of Captain Rios’s quarters onto the outside of the ship is complicated for a number of reasons (one of which I will touch on below). Without getting too deep into the weeds of “for production purposes, Sirena’s interior is a bit bigger than it technically should be”, this is a slightly inaccurate but good-enough-for-the-moment depiction of where we would expect the captain’s quarters to be located:

As you can see, there is no sign of windows, or even shutters, visible in this topview of Sirena’s hull. That doesn’t necessarily mean that there aren’t any. When the ship crashes on Coppelius, light floods in through a whole lot of windows in the ceiling of the upper deck, which you can’t find on the hull either. (cf. this shot from ep. 10, “Et in Arcadia Ego Pt. 2″)

We see that other windows, e.g. the ones on the side of the bridge, get shuttered when Sirena goes into warp, and after the crash, Agnes tells Picard that Rios opened some shutters she hadn’t even known were there. From all this, I’d say it’s likely that during flight, the windows blend in seamlessly with the rest of the hull plating.

One final note on a little quirk introduced by the way the series was produced:

As I speculated in one of my first posts about the captain’s quarters (linked in the Masterpost), and we since got confirmed, the sets of Raffi’s and Rios’s quarters actually overlap. The wall dividing them (the one the arrow points to in the image below) got moved back and forth in between episodes. The configuration in the image below is for filming in Raffi’s quarters. For Rios’s quarters, the wall got moved one section to the left, cutting straight through the “Raffi’s Stateroom”-label. (This also means both sets use the same door. The door that should lead to the Captain’s Quarters, the right one on the set plan, is really a blind door.)

Superimposed onto the ship’s hull, it would look something like this:

Eagle-eyed readers will already have realized that this means the strip of the room with Rios’s armchairs and the window in question in it is actually the bit that is shared between the two sets. This means that the window also appears in Raffi’s quarters:

(You can just see it over Rios’s head.)

In universe, I would imagine this simply means that Raffi’s quarters have a little starlight as well, though the chair she set up for stargazing isn’t nearly as comfortable as Rios’s armchairs.

I hope this will help with all your window-related fic-writing needs :D

If anybody else has any questions regarding Sirena’s layout or furniture or anything along the lines of “Have we seen where X happens?” “Do we know if they have Y on the ship?”, my ask box is always open and my ridiculously humongous screenshot collection and I are more than happy to help!

#star trek picard #la sirena #cristobal rios #raffi musiker #aramis in space #minimapping #asked and answered #@jazzfic #captain's quarters #upper deck #raffi's quarters #windows #sorry this took so long #i hope it was worth the wait ;) #i can't wait to read that story!! #(also: two posts in one week!! O.O #given my normal speed that is practically prolific!)

[demi-shoggoth]

COVID-19 Reading Log, pt 18

Man, this past month has been a heck of a year, hasn’t it? I’ve still been reading books, but my pace has ebbed and flowed, and I forgot to update this for a while. So here’s my thoughts on ten of the most recent books I’ve read.

91. The League of Regrettable Sidekicks by Jon Morris. I had no idea this book existed until I was doing image searches for this project for the other “League of Regrettable X” books. This one covers the sidekicks, minions and goons of comic history. Unlike the other books by Jon Morris, the spread is more even of Gold/Silver/other ages of comic books. After all, the 70s is when Jaxxon the green rabbit appeared in Star Wars, and the 80s had a shape-shifting penguin named Frobisher in the Doctor Who comics. It also feels like it’s a little looser about what makes a character “regrettable”. Some of the sidekicks in its pages, like Woozy Winks and Volstagg the Voluminous, are legit great characters.

92. Encyclopedia of Things That Never Were by Michael Page and Robert Ingpen. I wanted to like this book; I really did. For one thing, it was recommended to me by @listmaker-lastcity​, who I was working with on commissions. For another thing, it was fairly pricy used. Thirdly, to its merit, it is gorgeous. Michael Page, the illustrator, is credited first, and rightly so. But for an “encyclopedia”, it makes up a lot of stuff. It opens with a disclaimer that “the creators of this book have… unlocked their own fantasies”, which means that it invents Arthuriana and Greek myths wholeheartedly. Several of the entries do not exist outside this book, and others are so distorted that their actual folkloric origins have been clouded and obscured by people using this as a source. For material I’m not familiar with the primary sources of, like Gulliver’s Travels, I have no idea if it’s reflecting the source material accurately, or making things up whole cloth. As a fantasy, it’s intermittently fun; some rather nasty misogyny does sneak in and the book is wildly anti-science. As a reference work, it’s useless to the point of actively harmful.

93. Solutions and Other Problems by Allie Brosh. I was a huge fan of the “Hyperbole and a Half” blog back in the day, and knowing Allie Brosh’s history of mental health problems, I was worried when she seemingly dropped off the face of the earth. Her release of a second book was a pleasant surprise, but also showed that some worry was appropriate. This collection of essays, cartoons and heavily-cartooned essays is sadder than the first collection, as it was written during and after a series of family tragedies. It is still very funny in parts, however, and has an overall message of self-care and love that turned out to be extra relevant in the nightmare year that is 2020. It’s the only book for this project that I read in a single sitting. Highly recommended.

94. Mozart’s Starling by Lyanda Lynn Haupt. This book is half memoir, half biography. The composer Mozart owned a starling during some of his most productive years as a composer, and even wrote an elegy to it when it died. The author used this as a launching point to adopt her own starling, and to examine how this invasive species is seen in American birding culture. The writing is humanistic and charming, and very self-aware (the author worries that her starling is going to die, because that’s what always happens in “this animal changed my life” books). The message is one of respecting all other creatures and of valuing the lives of animals, which is not much of a surprise from the author’s other books (I covered The Urban Bestiary earlier in this project.

95. The Butchering Art: Joseph Lister’s Quest to Transform the Grisly World of Victorian Medicine by Lindsey Fitzharris. The subtitle says it all; this is a biography of Joseph Lister, focusing on his research into antisepsis and promotion of sterile technique in surgery. It takes ample digressions to talk about other major surgeons of the time, the state of hygiene and disease theory in Victorian England, France and the United States, as well as things like labor conditions and women’s rights. These bits and pieces are woven in successfully, so they feel like appropriate context setting. Fitzharris is empathetic despite the often grisly subject matter, but readers with a sensitive stomach and a low tolerance for gore might want to skip this one.

96. Twice the Thrills! Twice the Chills! by Bryan Senn. This is a big book, 400 pages in full sized paper. It is an overview of the horror/SF double feature, covering every movie released initially in that format between 1955 and 1974 in the United States. As such, it reviews more than 200 movies, with behind-the-scenes anecdotes, critical opinion and box office, and general coverage of trends and themes in genre cinema at the time. I enjoyed this book greatly, especially since it covered some movies I’d never even heard of. The timing is perfect, too, as I read this book just before @screamscenepodcast​ covered the first entries in it, Revenge of the Creature/Cult of the Cobra. My one complaint is that the author seems biased against Japanese films. He discredits the special effects and monster suits in kaiju movies compared to even movies like Attack of the Giant Leeches and The Killer Shrews, and complains about acting and scripts in Japanese films much more than he does for other dubbed films. He also consistently refers to Ishiro Honda as “Inoshiro Honda”, which is how his name was misspelled in the 60s. That level of disrespect for some of my favorite genre pictures is a constant low-level irritation in what is otherwise a fine resource.

97. Cursed Objects by J. W. Ocker. This is a fun catalog of objects said to be cursed, including the whys, supposed effects and current locations of these artifacts. The book is sorted into categories, like “cursed objects in museums”, “cursed furniture”, “technological cursed objects”. It takes a skeptical, folkloric look at the topic, being more interested in the stories than in any legit supernatural powers. It even talks about things that “should” be cursed because of their odd appearances or eerie provenances, but aren’t, like the Crystal Skull forgeries. The book is a pleasant and breezy read, and the author has a good sense of humor on the topic. He curses the book itself with an epigram against thieves, and buys a cursed dog statue on eBay that sat on his desk throughout the writing process.

98. Death in the Garden by Michael Brown. This book is wildly misnamed, being light on both the “garden” and the “death”. It’s supposedly a social history of poisonous plants, but is more interested in English herbals specifically. It refers to the authors by name extensively as if we should have all of these memorized, and the only place where the prose has any energy is in the biographical section for these herbalists. There’s very little information about the actual plants and their poisons. I would use the word “doddering” to describe the prose style, which is simultaneously rambling and boring. The photography is pretty, though.

99. Ripley’s Believe it Or Not! 1929-1930 by Robert Ripley. IDW puts out lovely volumes of vintage American comics, and this is no exception. Being a kid into weird facts and trivia, and an adult who is still into them, the Ripley franchise was a major part of my childhood. This is the first modern collection organized chronologically, covering the first two years the strip was in national syndication. The strips cover the typical Ripley mix of sports trivia, weird facts, word riddles and puzzles, misleading statements and the occasional outright lie. The book has a warning about the racial attitudes of the time, which is fair, but it’s not nearly as bad as I feared. Ripley’s habit of drawing from photographic references means that people in ethnic minorities look like real people. But the language is decidedly “of its time”, with slurs used to identify foreign ethnicities (particularly Asian ones). So be warned.

100. Unlucky Stiffs: New Tales of the Weirdly Departed by Cynthia Ceilan. I’m ordering material to pick up from my local library again, which is great! This book was actually recommended by the library website based on the morbid slant of some of the other books I was putting on hold. Unfortunately, this book sucks. It’s pitched as a “weird deaths” book, something like a more literary version of the Darwin Awards. But the deaths are often not all that bizarre, instead being typically sad accidents or murders. It just comes off as mean spirited and misanthropic. Not recommended.

#reading log #ripley's believe it or not #b movies #comics #medical history

[kiruuuuu]

It seems you’re not alone in this notion, anon, which continues to baffle yet delight me! Thank you, and because you’re such a darling (and honestly, all Doc/Lion shippers I’ve come across are), have a snippet about Doc catching Lion sleep :) Please enjoy 💙 (Rating G, fluff, ~1.3k words)

.

The first time Doc catches him, the sight triggers an uncomfortable rush of anger. Uncomfortable partly because he’s still not used to encountering this demon of his past on a regular basis; uncomfortable because a person sleeping this peacefully shouldn’t evoke this kind of emotion; uncomfortable because of its intensity.

Still, the fury rages inside him – they’re at work, what is he thinking? Doc hasn’t slept more than four hours each night, ever since they flew out to that cursed town in the middle absolutely nowhere, so how dare he. How dare he. Is he not taking his position in Rainbow seriously? If this is representative of his work ethic, he never should’ve made it this far.

And maybe his ire is tinged with envy, just a little bit, the green parasite poking out its ugly head. Sleep without nightmares is a luxury Doc is too busy to afford, though it seems Lion splurged without leaving enough for his co-workers. Doc would give a limb to be able to nap like this.

His thoughts race through his mind in less than seconds, and to an outsider it must look like there’s no hesitation between Doc spotting his colleague and mercilessly slamming down the files in his hand with a loud bang.

Doc’s fury rumbles, appeased, at the way Lion jumps, jolts awake, blinks at him blearily and disoriented.

“We’ve got work to do”, Doc announces, pulls the creakiest chair closer and feels most of his wrath dissipate at Lion’s wince. Not all, but most.

.

The second time happens months later. Doc is bustling about, sorting and tidying, when he barges into the supply closet. It’s small enough for three people to be a tight fit, the walls lined with spotless shelves which Doc keeps well-stocked and well-documented, the contents at any point fully accounted for and providing for daily use as well as most medical emergencies.

In between them, draped over rather than sitting on the cosiest office chair Rainbow has to offer, rests Lion. His head is tilted back over the slightly-too-short backrest, his lips parted and his breaths measured and calm. A while ago, Doc would’ve marvelled at the fact that he hasn’t woken up despite Doc’s ruckus, but now he’s got more information.

He always sleeps during his lunch break, Montagne told him and the slight reproach in his voice stung. Never longer than he’s meant to. I don’t think he eats at all.

There’s more Doc absorbed from the grapevine – problematic neighbours, difficulty sleeping (and doesn’t that sound familiar), overwhelming fatigue. Once he realised he didn’t only interrupt a perfectly legitimate nap that day, but also dragged Lion back to work by cutting his break short, he toyed with the idea of apologising. After all, Doc wants to be the bigger man, wants to mend bridges rather than burn them. But even though interacting with Lion has become gradually less awkward, he’d feel too weird bringing something up from weeks ago.

Instead, he’s been tolerant of Lion’s habit. Hasn’t asked him to join them for lunch, knowing he’d decline anyway, stopped looking for him, didn’t dig to catch Lion in the act once more. This, however, is a coincidence: their breaks usually line up, unless one of them is needed urgently, so Doc roaming around the medical office during normal break time happens seldom enough.

Lion’s eyelashes fan out over his cheeks and there’s a strand of hair sticking up. He looks like his muscles will be sore from how he’s perched on the chair, arms crossed, defiant even in sleep.

By now, Doc has forgotten why he came here in the first place. All his mind focuses on is how Lion’s shirt is untucked, the collar askew a little. His fingers itch to fix it.

Quietly, he closes the door behind him and is suddenly glad nobody is there to watch his emotions fight it out on his face. In the end, he pulls himself together with a sharp shake of the head, puts down the box he was holding and heads out for a late lunch break.

Before he leaves, he sets down the sandwich he made this morning on Lion’s desk.

.

The third time, it’s not during Lion’s lunch break at all.

Instead, it’s in the rental Doc’s driving back to their temporary headquarters. Lion in the passenger seat, starting out by hunting the orange street lights with his eyes and either humming along to the music to keep himself awake or compare his findings with Doc. He voluntarily surrendered the privilege to drive, stating he doesn’t trust himself to drive straight. It seems his evaluation was correct – he’s snoring softly by the time Doc parks them next to the unassuming-looking building Harry has chosen as their base of operation.

It’s six in the morning and neither of them has slept for almost two days now – no time, not with how many civilians needed first aid, not with how many hostages were injured. Their time and efforts proved fruitful, at least, and they’re convinced certain patterns, pieces of evidence, some testimonies will aid them in their search. This is why they’re here: to report to Harry and Thatcher so they can act on it, set the machine in motion.

Lion’s forehead is pressed against the cool window. He’s too tall for the tiny car they’ve been given, his limbs sticking out at odd angles, and yet he found sleep. He looks calmer than Doc has ever witnessed him to be awake, usually too high-strung, attentive, careful not to make any errors. Like he knows he’ll be judged harsher for them than Doc would be.

Maybe it’s unfair.

No, Doc knows it to be unfair. This isn’t their first cooperation in the past year, not their first all-nighter. Lion is diligent and complements Doc well, once they look past their incompatibilities – Doc acts with heart and Lion with logic. The biggest difference to… before is that they now strive to find compromises instead of insisting on their own way of doing things.

He kills the engine. The doors lock with a satisfying click and Doc slides lower on the driver’s seat, closing his eyes. Thatcher won’t be back before half six anyway.

The next time his eyelids slide open, it’s suddenly much brighter outside. A noise woke him, a rustling of clothes and joints popping. He looks over at Lion who’s regarding him with a puzzled expression. “Did you -”, Lion starts to ask and Doc merely sighs tiredly and stretches as an answer.

“Half six”, he reads out from his wristwatch, “on the dot.”

Lion suppresses a yawn almost guiltily, as if he felt bad for falling asleep. As if he didn’t just watch Doc wake up himself.

“Let’s head inside.”

And if he’s not mistaken, that was a rare smile on Lion’s face.

.

The next time could’ve been a still from a film noir, an old one, one Doc could re-watch endlessly.

Light falling into the room illuminates the bed sharply, reflects on the sheets and creates an oasis in the darkness of night. The broad strip cuts the mattress diagonally, emphasising the relief of a face so familiar to Doc’s eyes. To his hands. The nose throws a dramatic shadow, the pretty cheekbones catch the light, the fair hair shines brightly.

He could stand here and watch forever, wait until Lion has sunken back into a deep sleep, wait until his eyes flit to and fro below their lids, wait until the sun paints a more natural picture, a softer one. Though it’d be just as flattering as this.

But it’s late and exhaustion threatens to drag him to the floor, so Doc flicks the switch, bathing everything in darkness once again. He undresses blindly and slips under the covers, hoping for body warmth to embrace him, but is graced with more: strong arms wrap around him and pull him close.

Recently, Lion has stopped taking naps during the day. He says he doesn’t need them.

#rainbow six siege #doc #lion #doc/lion #fanfic #oneshot #request #this helped me get out of a small writer's slump #so thank you again anon!

[bowithoutadaemon]

Dad’s birthday card/gift update:

I can’t figure out how to make that fancy sliding card with the materials I got available. So that one goes to my pile of “try one day, when I randomly got the right stuff for it”. The right stuff in this case includes thick paper or thin cardboard and a long sturdy but very flexible piece of plastic film. Basically stuff you can totally find being used for packaging of grocery store stuff. I just don’t have any rn and don’t plan on buying any new food stuffs until next week.

So during the seminar I had just now (where we watched several different cup song performances multiple times while talking about perception and observation) I looked through some print-your-own escape room type puzzles. And am just using one idea from one of the free puzzles from Escape Team. Here is their puzzle. Took me a minute to spot what the important thing actually is.

I am making my own with a different number code. And then I’ll make a private tumblr blog and set that as a password.

Then I need to figure out how to make a puzzle that gives the url as a solution. Maybe that puzzle where you coil a strip of paper around something and write on it while coiled. And then the person has to figure out that the paper needs to be coiled around the same thing again to be able to read the message.

And I need to figure out what to uhm like be the prize... Like what will he end at? ... No idea yet... ehem...

So basically I got that “packaging” but rn the box is actually empty in the end. Which is not ideal. xD

#oh fuck empty box gives me the idea of a box in a box in a box in a box in a box in a box #and then the last one is empty because the thing you want it like written on the bottom of a previous box or something #that would be a fun starting point! but idk if I actually got enough cardboard to make that many boxes xD

[codylglobalcinema]

Blog 5: Micheal Haneke, Code Unknown;Cache

Through the many countries, languages, directors, and ideas we focused on this semester, there was one film that stood tall above the rest for me. That film was Code Unknown by Austrian film director Micheal Haneke. In just about every film we viewed, there was a great deal of cultural shock that had to be overcome, in order to help visualize the stories as much as I could. The way in which Haneke depicts the lives and thoughts of people, all types of people, broke down that wall for me almost immediately during the viewings of some of his films. There were motivations and emotions which transcended the boundaries of language, struggles shared by people of all walks of life. The two films which I have chosen to examine critically in this paper are Haneke’s Code Unknown (2000) and Cache (2005). The lens in which I am going to examine these films is with the focus on how they portray day to day life. But first, I will be going into the artistic background of Micheal Haneke himself. 

  Born in Munich, Germany in 1942, Haneke was the son of two people who were very accomplished in Cinema, German actor Fritz Hanke and Austrian actress Beatrix von Degenschild. As an adolescent he showed a personal contempt for school, with strong interests in literature and music. He attended the University of Vienna, and worked as an editor and dramaturge at the southwestern German television station Südwestfunk from 1967 to 1970. He made his TV directorial debut in 1974, and made his feature film debut in 1984 with The Seventh Continent. His work is known for often examining social issues and depicting the feelings of estrangement, never being afraid of tackling what may seem like very mundane emotions on the surface level. Hanke believes that “films should offer viewers more space for imagination and self-reflection. Films that have too much detail and moral clarity, are used for mindless consumption by their viewers” (McCan 76). What he means by this is that having all meaning and morality explained and rationalized for the viewer leaves the viewer with no room to think or analyze for themselves. One similar filmmaker who shares this sort of ‘passionate detachment’ of emotions from day to day people is David Lynch. Haneke’s distinct style is one to take note of, his unique worldview, because “he recognizes that the crises that affected twentieth-century humanity, in particular alienation and repression, continue in the new millennium even if they are simply embraced as features of contemporary life in much postmodern artistic expression” (Mcan 77). His style is very out of the ordinary, and has earned him the high acclaim and prestige which he carries today. 

The next aspect in discussing Micheal Haneke involves discussing the social and economical environment in which he works. Being from Austria, the locations and social topics of his film occur from within Europe. In the case of Cache, the meaning of his films can change based on the global events that happen around it, in this case being Cache’s theme of guilt and what to do with it, which had the impact of 9/11 tacked onto it due to how close the films release was the the tragedy. In Cache, Haneke does touch upon the war in Algeria a bit, and during an interview had this to say about its inclusion in the film: “I made use of this incident because it fits in a horrible way. You could find a similar story in any country, even though it took place at a different time. There's always a collective guilt which can be connected to a personal story, and that's how I want this film to be understood” (Schiefer). Hanke uses conflicts like this as just a backdrop to his stories, some historical context to add to the deeper meanings of his films. The true tension in his films does not come from larger-scale specific events, but rather the long-term reactions and ways in which characters deal with these events, opening up a channel to the viewer to see these events from another human point of view.

The final aspect of analysis directed towards Micheal Haneke himself is the ways in which he finances and distributes his films. Hanke premieres his films in film festivals such as Cannes, and the Locarno international film festival. This is his method of getting his films to reach more international and western audiences. 

     The first film which I will be doing a critical analysis of is Haneke’s Code Unknown. A film filled with several unfinished stories, it was my personal favorite film the entire semester of the Global Cinema course. The film shows many snippets and sections of life from different people's point of view, many of these characters briefly interacting with one another in different ways. The substance behind these many mini stories is the day after day, regular lives lived by each of the characters. Their actions are not the focus of the story, but their thoughts and their emotional choices. These characters are used to create a mood, a shared state of mind, “the characters more often function as parts of a puzzle rather than as empathetic figures in a drama” (Rooney). The two characters who I was drawn to the most, mainly due to them having the most screen time, were Anne (Juliette Binoche) and Jean (Alexandre Hamidi). Binoche’s character is an actress, which lends well to the films fractured storytelling, as it makes the viewer what is real, a flashback, or a rehearsal of a scene. “The fragmentary structure undermines the utopian idea of a community premised on a vague, and thus problematic, notion of the''common ``. In the "community without community" that Haneke envisions (after Balibar) the principles of democracy are tested on a daily basis rather than taken for granted” (Trifonova) . I really love this structure of storytelling, it adds much more than a linear format, as the whole film serves to dissect and strip away the normal, day after day feeling of life. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ujWUrZTulo 

The second and final film which I will be doing critical analysis on is Cache. Another film focused on character emotion with places and actions being a backdrop. The focus of this film is guilt. Hanke himself even states this, posing the question of “Do I accept it? And if I don't, what do I do? And if I do, what do I do?” (Delaney). The presence of real world events are much more present in this film, and affect the narrative directly. “Haneke uses this historical event that has been wiped from the French collective memory to frame his exploration of racism, violence and guilt in a postcolonial context ­ from the point of view of the privileged white middle class” (Delaney). The film has many subtle attributes in it, with one of the immediate details I loved were the actors for Anne and Georges reprising their roles from Code Unknown. The film follows Anne and George’s bourgeois home in which they’ve been living mundane lives, until disturbing video tapes begin to show up at their door. As the film goes on, you begin to realize that these video tapes are an allegory for France’s forgetting of the Senile river massacre, and the guilt that comes from that, as well as the idea of guilt in the eyes of a child. “‘Caché’ is the sharpest in terms of mocking its protagonist’s sense of reality and his delusion that he possesses any ability to be in control of it” (Celik). The characters have their weaknesses and insecurities laid bare on the screen, humanizing them and breaking down the way guilt and society affect people even after events have come and gone throughout history. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_ZtfuvxpEw 

[loverfighter]

well. i think i’ve finally pinpointed the Thing abt chapter 2 that really digs under my skin / makes me uncomfortable to look at too closely (not the character execution of half the losers which is major and probably reason numero uno why chapter 2 does not live up to the book nor first movie and i Will go on abt later but i’m waiting to finish my reread to do so) and it’s essentially that eddie and richie are almost.... forced apart for a lot of it. in chapter 1 we have so many moments, countless looks and gestures and dialogue to point at and say look! there! that’s why they’re in love! where the impact these characters have on each other holds weight and they’re so deeply intertwined to the degree of siamese twins, one never without the other, never farther than a thought or heartbeat away (physically touching in one way or another anytime they can, a beacon through the walks of hell). it’s clear, on both ends, that whatever love they hold for each other is profound and heavy and embedded six feet deep into each other’s souls, transversing across memory, distance, time. even in the background of a scene in which the main focus is ten feet away, highlighted in red and grasping at your attention, you can spot eddieandrichie⏤together, inseparable, linked. 

with chapter 2, this dynamic is hinted upon, and given to us through flashes, but never through scenes alone (prior to neibolt) or actual context. in fact, the scenes we Do have in which their magnetic pull towards each other is allowed narrative (hammock, eddie taking off the shower cap, eddie looking away smiling after richie’s “what the fuck does that mean”, going into the photo booth separated from the rest + eddie pulling richie in, eduardo! andale, them expressing constant agreement w each other through gestures, all of the jade of the orient stuff, etc) was courtesy of the actors and not the script or (likely) direction. bill even said that He was the one who had to push the clarity of richie’s sexuality, to clearly express that he’s gay (“““movie canon”””), while andy and the rest thought vague would be the best route to go in fear of audience reaction. and even then! it’s not as forward as it should’ve or could’ve been (considering they pulled eddie’s canon death scene w the love confession + more emotional moments between them in that setting + the supposed kiss), and oh! not to mention stripping eddie of his own homosexuality and giving richie the bowers storyline, which was the scene that cemented his sexuality in the movie, making it clear that the crew knew the dynamic and context of the interactions between eddie and bowers. 

the point remains that all of the “official” reddie scenes are... kinda out of nowhere? we are given spare information, but lacking any context, leaving the general audience with no way to complete the puzzle with a dozen missing pieces. during the flashback, we see richie carving r+e on the kissing bridge, set after the events of the arcade, and obviously the e stands for eddie, but that’s it! nothing before or during that flashback gives the average watcher any information besides that, and the ones of us who are invested have little satisfaction from that moment alone, when we’ve been building it up and expecting an actual storyline, rather than 5 secs in a minute long flashback clip (that is to say, the r+e is one of my fav reddie scenes, but maybe they shouldn’t have teased it in the trailers if that was all it was gonna be?). 

richie is the one to calm eddie down, snatch away his inhaler bc it’s meaningless physically and damaging psychologically, and tell him “you’re braver than you think.” but why is it that richie is able to get through to him when no one else can or bothers to, why richie, why does he understand what eddie needs to hear, why does eddie listen and take it to heart, especially when richie is the one emphasized to have a crush on eddie and not vice versa? they’re important to each other (on a deeper level than they individually are with the rest of the losers), it’s clear based on that scene, but that’s what it’s left at, with no scenes or dialogue previous to that moment propping it up, other than the r+e, which doesn’t account for eddie’s reaction. and then, they’re together when they face the doors, parallel to benverly who are shouting their love at each other. again, this is telling us something, which is less surprising based off of the inhaler scene 5 mins prior, but then it swiftly plummets to eddie essentially sacrificing himself / saving richie. again: why? 

to me, it’s obvious. to y’all, it’s obvious. we all know well enough, right. but susan in the seat next to me doesn’t, nor do her two friends, or even my friends (getting new ones) or the majority of people who came out of that theatre. they walked out of there and didn’t understand the relationship as requited bc they weren’t given the context and love and soul of reddie. and i think what upsets me most about that is that i can’t just brush it off as them not understanding the nuance or depth of a stupid clown film (if it was the stupid clown book, sure, or even the first stupid clown film but) bc it was done on purpose. they were afraid of negative responses to the lgbt storyline (and god forbid there’d be two of them in their precious big studio film), and so they strangled the heart out of reddie. and because reddie became canon (or richie’s crush became canon), they had to tone down the “gayness” of their relationship, because now the audience would have a new perception of what they were to one another, and no longer have the cushion to brush it off as a “brotherly relationship” (sorry finn). take bill and mike for example! objectively, they were probably “gayer” than reddie, because they were allowed to touch, to show affection, to say i love you. but of course they can’t be gay, bc bill has a wife and they don’t see mike as enough of a person to give him anything good. 

it’s like. what they (production) Have given us is flashes of moments that they are barely responsible for and bury ur gays (fantastic rep), wherein the sexuality of the character that actually dies is kept vague so that the record breaking number of people that went to see their film (who frankly don’t even care) won’t think the film is too gay. like. LMFAO it’s so dumb and frustrating bc on one hand we’re valid for clocking reddie but on the other we’re Too Wild for thinking that it’s a requited love story. like yes, i’m grateful that richie’s sexuality (re his attraction to men; i think he’s bi, movie canon leans toward gay but whatever) is canon, that the wretched grief he felt at losing the love of his life was Shown if only to paint how deep the emotion he felt went, that r+e is forever carved into history. but that’s hand in hand w me being upset over eddie’s character and sexuality being sidelined, at the graphic depiction of gay men being murdered with no full circle moment as it Should Have Been, at having to defend reddie as canon bc some cowards in the editing room couldn’t handle the negative reviews of a few bigots at the expense of their invested and loyal and passionate audience who care abt this story and the characters within it. 

idk. anyway. this is the result of me going crazy so don’t pay it much mind but. imagine how fucking tired i am

#this is my ansel moment

[rawiswhore]

Christian x Fem Reader- “Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want”

During the late 90's, Jerry Springer's infamous talk show was at the height of its popularity, notorious for being vulgar, crass, disgusting, gross and shocking.

Not just that, but so were so many other trashy talk shows that were popular and at the height of their popularity during that time: Ricki Lake, Jenny Jones, Sally Jesse Raphael and even Maury Povich's talk show was getting trashier by the end of the 90's.

If Paul Joseph Watson thinks pop culture in 2017 is more vulgar, trashy and crass than ever before, wonder how he felt about the late 90's and early 2000's, considering trashy talk shows like what I mentioned were at the height of their popularity, and Howard Stern was a popular radio host notorious and remembered for his obscene shock value humor, "South Park" was a popular adult cartoon that made the previously controversial "The Simpsons" and "Beavis and Butthead" look wholesome, Tom Green was a popular "comedian" infamous for his disgusting gross out humor, and Eminem was at his most shocking during the late 90's and early 2000's.

And...in the late 90's, the World Wrestling Federation, which was once a kid friendly wrestling company that had barely any swearing, blood, and sexual content and was like a live action Saturday morning cartoon, became much more violent, profane, oversexualized, shocking and even (dare I say it) vulgar.

I mean, it calls itself the WWF's Attitude era, for f*ck's sake.

This was an era where pro wrestlers were playing trash talking Andrew Dice Clay-lite guidos that exclaimed sexual innuendos and insults, porn stars that stole men's wives and even sisters and had sex with them, pimps that brought along a group of prostitutes, sex addicts admitting they lost their virginity to their sister at age 8 (and had sex with their sister before a therapy session), horny elderly women that flashed their breasts on television, incestuous "Leave it to Beaver" parodies, fat men in thongs rubbing their asses in people's faces, some fat hairy guy streaking naked into the ring and fratboys who make dick jokes, cut a promo in blackface, spraypainted racist graffiti on a wrestling group about black empowerment, kidnapped and raped a woman and point to their crotches while they shout an obscene catchphrase.

This was also an era where women were ripping the clothes and evening gowns off of one another until they were down to just bras and thongs, wrestled in bikinis in inflatable pools filled with pudding or mud, and did bikini contests.

This was an era where one woman was forced to get on all fours, bark like a dog and strip for an audience, a man eats dinner that turns out to be his kidnapped dog, a woman gets drugged and married through a drivethru wedding while unconscious, someone gets slammed in a pile of dog shit, and a porn star gets his dick cut off.

And it was the most popular show on television, eclipsing "WCW Nitro" in the ratings.

Plus, to add insult to injury, one of the writers for the WWF's Attitude era admitted he got ideas for the Attitude era while watching "The Jerry Springer Show".

So the WWF was finally getting with the times and blending in with the other trashy, vulgar pop culture of the late 90's.

And you were one of the things that helped make the WWF shocking during its Attitude era, your character you played was an oversexed, slutty nymphomaniac who would still say words like "fuck", "shit" and even "cunt" whether it's 8 PM or 10 PM, admitted you swallow cum and suck cocks, strolled to the ring in an evening gown with a noticeable semen stain, entered the ring wearing wrestling belts as a top and skirt, wearing a black leather outfit with your breasts exposed (and not covered by pasties), roleplaying as a urinal while a pro wrestler masturbated in your mouth, let 2 wrestlers rip the clothes off of you until you were down to a thong (only for you to lay in the ring while another wrestler pulls out a bottle of lotion and squeezes it on you, stimulating ejaculation), flashing the audience your T&A during a wet T-shirt contest, cutting a promo naked while being gangbanged by other wrestlers concealing your nudity, and even having actual sex with another wrestler in the ring in front of a live audience watching while this was all broadcast on television.

You have a Chris Jericho-like list of all of the things you got away with in the Attitude era.

"Monday Night Raw" was almost rated TV-MA because of you.

Since I mentioned trashy talk shows, one infamous talk show from a time when they were at the height of their popularity was Jenny Jones, and what her talk show is remembered for is having women (and sometimes even underage girls) with huge breasts, oversexualized women and underage girls, or women and girls who play men by using their looks to get what they want.

Some episodes of what I mentioned had all of the above.

Since Jenny Jones' talk show was at the height of its popularity, and the WWF during the Attitude era was taking a piece of the trashy late 90's/early 2000's pop culture pie, there was a segment obviously influenced by one of Jenny Jones' frequent episodes she'll always be remembered for.

During an episode of "Smackdown" near the end of the year 2000, Christian was standing and pressing his back on the wall in a hallway.

Yes, the same Christian that was wrestling partners with Edge.

Captain Charisma as he's nicknamed was dressing in one of those fishnet sleeveless shirts he wears with a pair of tights, no huge bubble sunglasses on his eyes.

This is the way you like how he looks the most.

There's Christian, but no Edge?

You had strolled up to Christian dressed in a bikini top and miniskirt, which made people in the audience get out of their seats and cheer when they saw you dressed like that.

You dressed so revealing for a reason.

Christian saw you approaching him, which made his eyes widen seeing you like that.

You tried looking seductive and sexy, not just in your outfit and the way you walk, but your facial expressions as well.

"Hey Christian" you said to him, smiling and grinning at him, trying to sound sexy.

"Hey" he replied, smiling back at you, his eyes looking up and down at you, reading you like a book.

Christian could nearly salivate from the roof of his mouth looking at you, wonder if the camera is noticing Christian's boner he has hiding in his tights.

Your cleavage was noticeable under your bikini top, and you pushed your chest out, Christian couldn't help but stare at your tits.

Your eyes just stared at Christian's face, your teeth biting your bottom lip and your eyes batted at him, trying to flirt with him.

One of your hands nudged the top of Christian's hands, and the camera filmed and caught that.

He turned his head and looked down at your hand on top of his, he could nearly giggle at this.

"What's going on?" he asked, his face looking at yours this time.

"Well..." you started "would you ever give me anything for free?"

His eyes grew wide and his mouth straightened, going from a  smile to a horizontal line.

"Whatdya mean?" he asked, his face looking puzzled. "Sex?"

"Not necessarily" you admitted. "More like money, drinks, clothes, material things"

You really didn't need to play anyone for stuff like that, but you're doing this because Jenny Jones' talk show is popular.

If there's something that's immensely popular, the WWF wants to cash in on that.

Al Snow's Chihuahua Pepper was obviously meant to be a parody of the Taco Bell Chihuahua that was popular around the same time.

Since Christian's character was somewhat of a goofball who was drooling over your exposed tits to him, he had to admit it.

"Well, I could buy you a drink" he suggested.  

He'd probably buy you a soda since he's so immature.

Edge is missing out on this, and even Jerry Lawler sitting at the commentary table mentioned that.

On Jenny Jones' talk show, women who use their looks, sexuality and flirtatiousness to get what they want are called "players" who "play" men.

You can play just about any man, especially the really hot ones; who you would rather play than the ugly ones.

Why do you think you're doing this with Christian?

You could do this with Test, who is hot but not enough.

Not to mention, Test is a terrible actor.

Jeff Hardy is someone to play too, he's really sexy.

Though, considering Christian's so immature, you should've played someone else who would buy you jewelry and clothes.

Someone like Test who really is mature, or even Val Venis.

Even though Christian might be broke and immature, your lust don't cost a thing.

"Either way, I don't care if you're broke" you admitted, running your index finger vertically up and down his chest. "We can still, y'know..."

You grinned from ear to ear after you said that, and Christian was looking at your finger on his chest.

Jerry Lawler was shrieking off camera, and the men in the audience got out of their seats and cheered.

"I'd buy you anything!" Christian exclaimed. "A limo, a new dress, whatever you want!"

"Me too!" Jerry shrieked.

The men in the audience still continued cheering, this time cheering for Christian.

"Anything?" you asked.

"Well, almost anything" he stated. "I won't buy you Disneyland"

Males and females in the audience laughed hearing that, and you're practical enough.

Y'know, with how beautiful you are, men in the WWF would want to buy you anything.

Though, they'd buy anything for Sable, Trish Stratus, Debra, Miss Kitty/Stacy Carter/the Kat and Terri Runnels as well, as well as the former Sunny.

#christian #wwf #attitude era #wwf attitude #2000 #2000s #00s #fanfiction

[angelic-holland]

Puzzle Pieces // th x fem!reader

Summary: 

Sometimes puzzles don’t quite fit, it’s almost perfect, but that almost perfect doesn’t make a puzzle whole. 

Falling out of love wasn’t earth-shattering, it wasn’t a big revelation that hit you all at once, your world didn’t crumble to the ground around you quickly. Falling out of love was almost as painful as falling in love. Filled with many of the same moments, your chest tightens when you see them, your eyes grow wide when you think about your future, unsure and so wickedly unaware, you wonder if they ever loved you at all, or if that was the piece of the puzzle that didn’t quite fit. Defective. A factory mess up. Wasn’t meant to be. 

Warnings: angst, fluff, smut if you squint

Word Count: an excruciating 10k

A/N: (***) indicates a time skip, long groups of italics indicate a flashback

One night you came across a Spiderman puzzle in the window of a toy store.

The look of pure excitement when he came back from filming Spiderman: Homecoming to see you laying on the carpet with Tessa, the puzzle box sat in front of you was all he needed to know that he was home. 

“Hey baby, what’s this?” He asks, setting his suitcase by the door and greeting Tessa who ran up to him, jumping up and slobbering kisses all over his face. 

“Thought it would be fun, a little puzzle for us to do while you’re here,” you shrug, “saw it in the window of the toy store on my way to work and thought of you.”

“Tessa’s gonna destroy this in a minute,” he laughs as he settles on the floor next to you, Tessa curling up by his side.

“Then we’ve got one minute to appreciate our work of art,” you grin, dumping the puzzle pieces out of the box.

It’s 100 pieces but it’s been a while since either of you have completed a puzzle so you and Tom spend the rest of the night giggling and playfully fighting over which red piece fits where on the spidersuit. 

“It’s 2am,” you groan, Tom’s foot playing with your own as you push down the last piece of the puzzle.

“We’re like two pieces of a puzzle, fit together perfectly,” he says, fingers running over the last piece you added.

“That’s cute,” you smile, looking at your work.

Tessa was sound asleep next to Tom, stirring slightly as he moved to kiss you.

You rolled onto your back, Tom straddling your hips, “missed you,” He says, leaving kisses along your cheek to your mouth.

“Missed you more,” you sigh against his lips before your hands slid into his hair, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of his weight on top of you, one hand holding himself up, the other softly stroking your cheek.

His tongue met yours and you giggled as you heard Tessa rustling above you and the inevitable crack of the puzzle getting torn apart as she walked over it, wet tongue licking a stripe up Tom’s cheek, causing him to pull apart from you, body shaking with laughter. 

“Tessa! Mum and dad are getting busy here,” he grins, rolling off of you and standing up, offering his hand to you.

“Are we locking her out of the room tonight?” You say excitedly as he pulls you down the hallway.

“Technically it’s morning, but yes, Tessa, it’s bedtime, we’ve got important business to get to.”

“Wait! She’s gonna eat those puzzle pieces if we don’t pick them up,” you say, pausing in your path.

“I’ll put it away, you go get naked,” he says, pointing at your bedroom and giving your ass a light slap before running back to the living room.

You laugh as you hear him greet Tessa again, the sound of the puzzle getting put back in the box moving to the back of your mind as you quickly pull your clothes off, laying on the bed and waiting for Tom.

“Tessa!” You hear him shout and you see the grey dog run into your room, jumping on the bed as Tom scrambles in, too late.

You’re in stitches as you pull the sheet over your naked form, giving Tessa a belly rub as Tom leans against the door. Eyes twinkling as he watches you both. 

“My two favorite girls,” he teases as he tosses his jacket on the ground.

“Can we kick one of your favorite girls out, the other’s got a welcome back present for you,” you smirk and Tom nods.

“Get lost Y/N, Tessa and I have some cuddling to make up for.”

“Tom!” You scoff, tossing the sheet aside and crossing your arms, which may or may not have pushed your breasts up front and center.

“I’m kidding, pretty girl, now what’s that welcome back present you had in mind?” He laughs as Tessa jumps off the bed to greet him again. 

Tom ushers Tessa out, giving her one last cuddle before closing the door, raising his eyebrow as he slowly strips for you.

“Hurry up mister, I’ve missed you,” you say, holding your hands out to urge him into bed.

“As you wish pretty girl,” he smirks.

You two spent the rest of the early morning rolling around in the sheets, making up for lost time, whispered and breathless “I love you” as you both took turns making each other feel just right. And you both were giggling, giggling when his elbow accidentally smacked the headboard or when you told him to “use your spidey strength”. 

You remember telling your friend how you and Tom would usually find something to laugh about during sex and at first she said that was weird but then she quickly changed her mind.

“If you're able to find someone who can make you feel really good AND make you laugh while doing it? You must be in love.”

And you smiled because she’s right, you were head over heels in love.

***

And so it became a thing. Tom would leave for a little bit, you ignored how long he was gone, because it didn’t hurt as much if you weren’t constantly counting down the days until he’s back.

You would go about your normal routine, finding more and more elaborate puzzles for you to piece together when he got home. 

“Hey gorgeous, I missed you,” He says, laying on his stomach next to you, hand gently resting atop your own as you smiled at him, Tessa vying for his attention on the other side, nose nuzzling his head as he gives you a quick kiss.

“How was filming?” You ask as he pets Tessa with his other hand.

“Tiring, but nothing would make me happier than making this puzzle, what’ve we got today?” He asks, eyes twinkling with interest as your hand sifts through the small puzzle pieces in front of you.

“The Iron Man mask,” you nod at the box in front of you.

“Using the box is cheating!” He says hand moving to shove it away.

“Is not! It’s just a tool we can use if we get stuck.”

“But we never get stuck, not really, we work too well to not be able to figure out a little puzzle,” Tom smiles, breaking out into a chuckle when Tessa nudges a piece of the puzzle with her nose towards him.

“I think she wants us to start,” you smirk, and Tom nods, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as the two of you concentrate on putting the puzzle together while you talk about the fun times he had on set with the cast and crew of Endgame, the conversation quickly turns to the best villain in the MCU, which he argues is “totally Thanos since they’ve been building it up for years and years.”

“Nope,” you grin, confident in your pick. 

“Then who?” He asks, hand fiddling with a puzzle, only a few pieces left.

“Ego!”

“What? No way,” he says, shaking his head.

“Okay hear me out, you think he’s a good guy to start with right? Quill’s dad, finally found him after years and years of searching for him. You’re rooting for him and you keep rooting for him as he tells the story of how Quill’s mom and him fell in love, and you see Quill slowly let his guard down, his wall crumbles, he’s got a dad and he just wants to know more about him, who he is, what he can do. And it turns out who he thought was his dad was the villain all along. Absolutely devastating, nobody cares about Thanos or whatever shit backstory they’ll give him.”

“Okay, okay, I think you won this round, reminds me, let’s rewatch the guardians movies sometime okay? We can have a movie night?”

“I’d love that,” you say as your hand holds the final piece of the puzzle.

His hand covers your own as you gently place it where it belongs, the edges matching perfectly with the surrounding pieces.

“We’re like two pieces of a puzzle,” Tom starts and you erupt into giggles as his hand tickles you.

“We fit together perfectly,” you are able to finish as he kisses along your neck.

How something so perfect could fall apart so easily? 

The answer to this question kept you up at night.

***

“Hey,” Tom huffs out as he collapses on the couch next to you, a small smile adorning his lips when Tessa sneaks from across your lap to lay between the two of you. 

“Hi,” you grin, head resting on his shoulder as his hand intertwined with your own.

“Missed you,” he mumbles and you smile.

“Missed you more,” you breathe out. It was all seemed so easy. The little moments like this, the moments right after he returned, seeing him after he’s gone made your heart flutter. You were just so happy to have him home you wanted to spend every second he was back with him. Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible, you had work, you both had friends and family, but regardless, you carved out as much time as possible to spend with him. That’s why these silly little puzzles were so important to you. Because it was something the two of you did together, you always did, and it was something to look forward to. 

The puzzle is sitting on the table in front of you, open but not disturbed.

“Shall we?” You ask, nodding towards the puzzle on the coffee table in front of you, a new addition to your living room. You should’ve had a coffee table when you first moved in together but it wasn’t something either of you thought much about until your mom jokingly chastised you about it. 

“Where would you put your drinks, where would you put popcorn and snacks while you watch movies? And your coasters, just get a coffee table, you won’t regret it.”

And so you did, went on a furniture run and picked up a small coffee table that Tom and you put together one day. You smile at the memory.

***

“I can totally help,” you say, holding up the directions as Tom’s gentle hands build the coffee table.

“You’re holding the instructions upside down,” he laughs, turning them in your hands.

“I totally knew that,” you huff, smiling at him before showing him the next step. 

He looked so hot building it, sweat beading on his forehead, eyebrows knitted in concentration as he built. Biceps flexing as he moved. 

The second it was finished you practically jumped him, kissing him deeply.

“Did this turn you on?” He laughs as he sets you on the coffee table.

“Careful! We don’t want it to break!” You say, about to get up when his hands spread your thighs.

“Nah, I built it, it’s pretty sturdy, promise, we can test it out right now,” he says, kissing up your thigh. 

“Great plan,” you breathe out.

***

“Guess so,” Tom says with a shrug, eyes no longer glimmering in excitement.

You watch as he kneels on the floor, you follow suit and sit next to him. You move to rest your head on his shoulder and he leans back to stretch at the same time, making you almost fall into his lap.

Maybe before it would be funny, you’d laugh and lay there as he played with your hair. The vibration of his body from his laughter comforting you. Now you just sat back up, head tilting curiously at the man next to you, seemingly a stranger as he fumbled around with the puzzle pieces, slowly placing each one in their spot. It was a big picture of dogs, one of which reminded you of Tessa, which was the reason you bought it.

“This puzzle’s boring,” he sighs as you're about halfway finished. The conversation at a stalemate, neither of you had much to say. You never did anymore. Telephone conversations while he was gone were now short and to the point. You started counting down the days until Tom was home, each day filling your heart with a sloshy mix of impending doom and heartache. Your mind wasn’t sure whether to be excited about his return, or afraid that the inevitable was quickly approaching.

“We don’t haveta finish it now, let’s just go to bed, you’ve had a long day,” you say, moving your hand to rest on top of his. His hand is tense and stiff under yours. Cold.

“Okay,” he mumbles, getting up, your hand drops to the ground, neglected. Before he would pull you up with him, kissing you like he did on your first date, short but sweet and passionate. Now it was a mumbled goodnight as you both turned in opposite directions on the bed, Tessa squeezing between the two of you. An unspoken barrier as you slept.

***

“Maybe another night,” Tom smiles as he greets you, hand tugging you into the bedroom when he got back from filming reshoots of Chaos Walking.

You figured he wanted to spend the night doing something else, something a little more R rated than a puzzle. 

You sigh into his hug, his arms no longer bone crushing, lung squeezing, just limp around your waist.

“Missed you,” you mumble into his neck, kissing along it while his hands tighten on your hips. You think he’s going to pull you to him, make his body flush with your own, having you panting and moaning his name until the sunrise reminds you that you have other things to do.

Finally.

“Not tonight,” he says, hands pushing your body gently away from him. 

“Okay,” you nod, head dropping to look at the ground, the empty space. Feeling the wall between you get thicker, once paper thin it’s now tough concrete.

“Just tired,” he sighs, stripping off his T-shirt and laying on the bed.

You follow suit, brushing your teeth, taking a very hot and very long shower to mask the tears you let trickle down your face. 

When did his body start to feel so cold against your own? The hot water running over your bare skin reminds you of the heat you’d feel rise to your cheeks when he said he loved you, even after 4 years those three words managed to make you blush. It reminded you of his fingers dragging along your skin as you welcomed him home, an activity that wasn’t very common now. 

When you got back he was fast asleep, body curled up with Tessa behind him. 

You smile at the sight, something that never failed to make you smile even when you felt like this.

You changed into your sleep shorts and one of his shirts, carefully climbing into the bed so you didn’t disturb him. 

As you lay, breath shallow, heartbeat fast against your ribcage, you faced the wall, staring at the window as the stars twinkled outside, wishing you were anywhere but here.

You freeze when you feel his hands pull you closer to him, head resting on your shoulder as your back rests against his chest. 

Your body relaxes as his fingers run up and down your arm, goosebumps erupting along your skin, heart slowing to normal. 

He’s silent, maybe he’s asleep, maybe he was just waiting for you to fall asleep so he can roll to the side and ignore you for the rest of the night. 

You pushed aside the fear you would wake up next to an empty spot, covers pushed down, cold where Tom used to lay. You wanted to appreciate the now. Because you honestly didn’t know how much of this you had left. 

As your breathing slowed to normal, your body much more relaxed against his own, you felt his lips mouth something against your skin, the words barely there, hardly scratching the surface of reality.

“Like pieces of a puzzle,” he says, voice groggy and sleep riddled. 

That had to be the only way he’d say it now, in his sleep, he hasn’t said it in what felt like ages, why say it now? 

“fit together perfectly,” he says, voice soft against your neck, legs intertwining with your own.

Perfectly.

You let out a shaky breath, “love you.”

“Love you too,” he mumbles against your neck, kissing it gently.

He’s not asleep. You feel the concrete wall start to crumble.

***

Tom had to stay an extra day in Korea. Which would’ve been fine if he called and told you. You got home from work earlier last night, changing into a pretty dress, the same dress you wore on your first date, long and floral printed. You and he had plans to go to a fancy restaurant near your flat, he’d meet you there once his flight landed. 

The embarrassment you felt sitting in that fancy restaurant, hair done, makeup done, nursing a vodka soda while the waiter would come to check in every once and awhile was mortifying.

“Your significant other here?” He’d ask and you’d smile sadly.

“Think he’s ditched me,” you laugh, feeling the tears well in your eyes.

You quickly paid for the alcohol and left, not wanting to embarrass yourself further. 

You allowed yourself a long shower, letting the mirror fog up with the steam from the heat. 

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. 

Scrub the makeup off your face. You only did it to try to make Tom smile, maybe he’d call you his beautiful girlfriend and your smile would be so wide you swore it looked stupid, then he’d say he loved your stupidly wide smile. He was never a fan of your put downs. Always encouraging you to talk about the things you liked about yourself instead. 

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.

Scrub the heat into your skin, pretend it’s Tom because the only heat you’ve gotten is the heat you feel when you’re arguing, a bad heat, nasty as a forest fire that’s about to destroy something beautiful. 

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.

Scrub the pain in your heart when you think about what was and what is the status of your relationship.

Previously full of sensual I love you’s and long phone conversations when he filmed, about anything and everything and nothing at all, just to hear each other’s voices. 

Now it’s mumbled and what felt like insincere love you’s and phone conversations you weren’t even sure could count as conversations. Mainly “I’ll be home then” and “I miss you”.

Did you miss him? 

Once when he was finishing his press tour in China he told you over the phone he heard a song and made him think of you. You were shocked into silence. What did you say? What could you say? You weren’t expecting him to say something like that. You also didn’t expect him to think about you when he was away. Always busy, interviews, friends, photo shoots. Did he have time to stop and think about you? Despite constantly thinking about him, you figured his cold hands and concrete wall told you all you needed to know. 

“Yeah, they were playing English hits through the years and one of them was No One Like You, by the Scorpians, have ya heard it?”

“No.”

“Well I dunno, just made me think of you is all.”

“I guess I’ll listen to it then.”

“You should. I gotta go but I love you okay?”

“Love you too.”

You got out of the shower and wrapped yourself in a towel, feet now cold against the floor of your flat you changed into your pajamas, another one of Tom’s T-shirt’s, your eyes welled up at the scent. The scent of him, clinging to your body in the form of his dark blue shirt. It smelled like expensive cologne masked by nature, the smell of pine and grass from walks with Tessa. 

You settled on the couch, staring at the puzzle you had set up before leaving for the restaurant, lip quivering as you called him.

“Hi baby, how are you?”

“Forgetting something?” You ask, nothing but bitter discontent in your voice. 

“Fuck,” you hear him groan.

“It’s fine, had my first vodka soda in ages while looking like a loser whose date stood her up. It was fun,” you lie.

“They needed me to stay another day, I’m sorry,” his tone pleading but not apologetic.

“Well you could’ve told me.”

“I’m sorry! How was I supposed to know they’d want me here another day? Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad at you Tom! I’m really not! Enjoy South Korea, please,” you sigh into the phone, fingers tapping at the coffee table, Tessa curled up by your side. 

“I should’ve called you last night when I found out. The timezones are messing with my head.”

“It’s fine,” your tone portraying the exact opposite.

All it took was one phone call, so fucking easy. Even a text message would suffice. Anything to tell you that he wouldn’t be home. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“I’m tired, it’s late, I’m gonna go to bed,” you say, pausing, waiting for him to say something, an I love you. 

“Okay.” 

It never came. 

You hung up before any more words passed between you. Besides, what else was there to say?

***

You’re exhausted as you slip out of your work clothes, tugging on your pajamas as Tessa runs circles around you.

“Taken you for a walk sweetheart, let’s go wait for dad alright?” You say, feet dragging your tired body to the couch, all but collapsing on it as Tessa wriggles her body to lay right on top of you.

“Silly girl,” you giggle, eyeing the puzzle box on the coffee table. He’d get home and you’d put the puzzle together and you’d laugh as his hand covers your own, nuzzling your neck as he whispers, “we’re two puzzle pieces, fit together perfectly,” as the last piece slides in.

That’s what you wanted. 

Lately, it was a lot of, “Maybe tomorrow”, “this puzzle’s boring”, the puzzle boxes accumulating dust as they sat on your bookshelf. 

You hear the turn of the lock and Tom’s feet dragging into the apartment, much the same style as yours. 

“Hi,” he mumbles out, not bothering to stop in the living room like he always did when he returned from filming or press.

Tessa perks up and jumps off you, running to greet Tom. 

“Hi princess,” he greets her, voice enthusiastic and excited. You don’t even bother getting up as he walks down the hallway to your bedroom. You hear Tessa move back and jump up on the couch with you, whining and nudging your head to look back at the damn puzzle.

You grumble, sitting up and opening the puzzle box, spreading the puzzle out in front of you. You bought one with the London Eye, where Tom took you on your first date. Hoping, praying, that maybe this would bring back the long lost spark in his eyes when he looked at you.

You settled in on the floor, leaning against the couch with Tessa curled up next to you. 

“Might as well,” you sigh, collecting the edge pieces. 

Your heart pounded in your chest as you waited for a ‘goodnight’ that never came. 

What the hell were you doing here?

You feel a tear slip down your cheek and you laugh bitterly when Tessa licks it off, groaning at her slobber. 

“Tess,” you giggle, hands busying themselves with fitting the edges together. You worked and worked as you heard Tom moving around in your bedroom.

Eventually, the noise stopped, he must be asleep. And you didn’t blame him, flights all over the world really wore him down and he had every right to sleep. You couldn’t be mad at him either, for forgetting your date, for losing touch with reality when he was away. You could never be mad at him, not truly. Your hands work mindlessly putting together the puzzle and you ignore the dull ache in your heart. You don’t even recognize that you’re still crying until your tears drop onto the puzzle. Your hand shakes as you wipe them away, body shaking with silent sobs. 

What happened? 

Time happened.

Distance happened.

You didn’t try anymore, neither of you put much care or time into loving each other. It wasn’t effortless like it was in the beginning. Falling in love was so much easier than staying in love. Making time for each other took energy, both exhausted from the toll of life, even going out on a date took a month’s planning. And even then it sometimes didn’t work out.

When was the last time Tom and you went on a date? 

You laughed, the thought left a bitter taste in your mouth, face crinkled in disappointment.

Tessa noticed your discomfort and nuzzled her head against your middle, resting her upper body on your legs as you worked.  

Time didn’t seem to pass, or it passed all too slowly. One mind didn’t work as fast as two. You wished there were a second set of hands, one resting gently on a part of your body, your waist, thigh, back, the other excitedly helping you piece together the puzzle. His voice sweetly whispering how you two fit together perfectly.

Your hand shook as it picked up the last piece. 

This is it.

You’re done.

You gently whispered, “we’re like two pieces of a puzzle, fit together perfectly.” Your voice cracked when you said perfectly like your mind was telling you you’re wrong wrong wrong. There’s no fixing this. You frowned as you attempted to push down the last piece, a side of the London Eye’s base. A very important part, if this were the real thing, the whole infrastructure wouldn’t hold up, but it didn’t seem to fit, no matter how you turned it.

You sat back and your teary eyes scanned the rest of the puzzle, every other piece was where it belonged. 

Right?

You grabbed the box, the picture was flipped down, you didn’t want to cheat as Tom would say. 

Your eyes darted between the picture and the puzzle in front of you on the coffee table. 

Every other piece was right where it needed to be, nothing out of place.

Then why didn’t this piece fit?

Your hands shook as you pressed down the piece into the puzzle. 

Fit, fit, fit. 

Why won’t you fit?

You didn’t realize you said this out loud until Tessa’s ears perked up, looking at you curiously. She had settled down to rest with her body pressed against yours. Maybe she knew you missed the warmth of Tom’s body pressed tightly by your side. 

“I don’t know either,” you laugh, fingers angrily shoving the stupid puzzle piece in. It bounced right out, almost mocking you.

“Come on, come on, come on,” you cry out, knees tucking into your chest as you sobbed, tossing the puzzle piece behind you. Eyes squeezing shut as you breathed harshly through your nose. 

Pointless. 

You don’t hear the quiet patter of footsteps behind you, you don’t realize Tom was watching you this entire time, you didn’t see Tom sit down on the other side of you, puzzle piece in a shaky hand. Your eyes were squeezed shut, hot tears running down your cheeks.

The feeling of his hand on top of yours on the coffee table made you almost jump out of your skin. Your head turns wearily, forcing your eyes open to look at him. 

“It doesn’t fit?” He asks, eyebrows raised. 

He had a sad look on his face, it probably mirrored your own, his eyes were the same red-rimmed as yours, mouth downturned into a slight quivering frown. 

You quickly shake your head, no, it doesn’t. 

You were afraid to speak, of the word vomit that might come out of your mouth. Why is the world so cruel? Why don’t you love me anymore? Why don’t I think I love you anymore? How can we fix this? 

Your mind whirled with these questions as his thumb rubbed the skin of your hand. Warmth spread through your hand, up your arm as his arms draped over your own.

You stared at the puzzle with the missing piece, the emptiness of the wooden coffee table between parts of the London Eye staring back at you, almost making fun of the hollowness you felt in your heart as it pounded against your chest.

“No, no, no! It’s pointless, fucking pointless,” you shriek. 

 What was pointless?

Surely you looked like a hysterical mess, arms throwing his off, hands tearing apart the intricate patterns that hold each puzzle piece to the next. 

“Hey, Hey, it’s okay, I’m here, I’m here,” he says, voice shaking much like your body does as your hands toss the stupid puzzle on the ground, piece after piece. 

“You’re here,” you choke out between sobs. 

“Yes, I’m here, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere, not for a while, I’m here.”

He kept repeating himself, voice stronger and more sure with each “I’m here.” 

Your hand grips the puzzle piece you’re holding tightly, the other closing in a fist and hitting the ground next to you. 

“Y/N…” he sighs, his arms wrapping tightly around you, not letting up as you try to swat him away, fist hitting his arm again and again as you cry. 

Bone crushing. Lung squeezing. 

Slowly your hand drops the puzzle piece to the ground, other hand gripping his bicep, tears staining his gray shirt as your head stayed tight against his shoulder. 

He let you cry in that awkward position, both your upper bodies turned to face each other but legs splayed out in front of you for a while. He was whispering into your hair as his hands steadied you into reality.

“I’m here,” he says, voice so sure, being strong for the both of you as you continued to cry.

Steadily he moved his arms to pull you into his lap, your legs perpendicular with his own as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, clutching onto the back of his shirt. You were afraid, afraid that if you let go he would leave again, leave you cold and abandoned, the puzzle pieces scattered around you a cruel reminder of your state of being. 

“Don’t go,” you whisper, voice hoarse as his hands gently run up and down your back underneath your, his, shirt. 

You felt warmth spread throughout your body, a gentle warmth that you missed, the feeling of his fingers against your body welcoming.

“Never, never ever,” he whispers and you can’t help but think about how that was a promise that couldn’t help but be broken, there would always be another movie, always an obligation that took him away from you, and that was okay, because he was doing what he loved and you loved that he was happy. But worry and doubt couldn’t help but seep into your mind as you wondered if he would be better off with someone who had the same career, who could travel with him, who understood what it was like to be so utterly destroyed from jetlag. Understood parts of him you never could.

“Y/N?” He asks, thumbs running over your ribs as you took deep breaths, your eyes blinking away a few remaining tears, smaller hands still tightly gripping his shirt, your body is no longer shaking with sobs. 

You hum against his shoulder, afraid of what you’d say if you speak. 

“I’m sorry,” his voice is soft and sincere, he wants you to know how much he means it, how much saying this in person means. 

What is he apologizing for?

For the increasing distance between you both the past few months. For not saying “I love you” enough even though he was always thinking about it. For being gone when you needed each other. For short phone calls that he wishes he could extend but he was just so tired. For the sleepiness in his voice, the bags under his eyes and the stars that died in his eyes ages ago, now just filled with utter exhaustion. And it wasn’t any fault of yours, nor his, not really. Things got in the way, it wasn’t this hard when he was gone on the Homecoming press tour, what changed?

But he didn’t want to tell you all this now. He wanted to make things right, he’s wanted to make things right for a while but he never found the time. Neither of you did. But he was determined to make time. 

His heartbeat was painful against his chest as you continued to quietly sniffle, trying to collect yourself.

“I’m sorry too,” you whisper against him. He shifts under you slightly. 

“Don’t go,” you whimper, heart racing in your chest. Now’s the time he tells you he’s sorry but he can’t do this anymore, now’s the time that the concrete wall becomes unbreakable.

You didn’t realize you were falling asleep until Tom’s hands started to lift you, your heavy-lidded eyes opening wide.

“Don’t go,” you mumble again, please.

Your voice sounded so small and broken, Tom’s heart ached hearing how hurt you were. 

You both needed to stop being so stubborn and just lay out all your feelings, everything that’s happened in the past few months on the table. Now wasn’t the time though. You were falling asleep against him, grateful for his warm body against yours. 

Tom came home exhausted but was now wide awake, mind reeling with every possible scenario that could happen.

I don’t love you anymore, you’d say, and his world would all but collapse. 

I love you but I don’t know how to make this work, again his world would cave in on itself.

You could ghost him, something he had never thought of before but for some reason that idea was front and center. The thought of you completely dropping out of his life after so long caused his heart to pound in his chest.

“Gimme a second, let’s get you more comfy,” he says, strong arms moving back to your waist, helping you off him, your hands reluctantly letting go of his shirt as you slumped down on the ground.

“Come to bed, you need to rest,” he says, standing up with his hand outstretched.

You quickly took his hand in your own, he helped you stand up, your legs shaking as you looked at him, wide eyes staring into your own.

“Here,” he says, hands moving to grip your thighs, letting you jump into his arms.

It wasn’t an excited jump, like when you picked him up from the airport for the first, and last, thanks paparazzi, a twirl me around I’ve missed you and this is a cheesy romance film from the 1950s, jump. This jump was a jump of sheer exhaustion, both of you worried your legs wouldn’t be able to carry you the few feet to your bedroom. 

“I-, I-, I,” you try to get the words past your throat but they don’t work. Scared of the response you might get, or the lack thereof. 

“Shhh, I got you,” he whispers into your ear as he sets you down on the edge of the bed, tugging his t-shirt over his head before helping you lay down, facing away from him, your body flush against his warm chest.

You smiled weakly at how warm you felt with him next to you, the conversation you would eventually have to have pushed to the back of your mind. 

“I’ve got you,” he reassures you, hand running up and down your arm as the other rested under your head, trying to be as close as he could to you. He never wanted to let you go again. Your legs shook still and he noticed this, brows knitted in worry. He gently used one of his legs and guided it between your own, hoping the extra warmth and closeness will help calm you down.

You’re silent as your heart tries to calm down, hands gripping the sheets in front of you as you stare out the window, the night sky clear and beautiful, stars twinkling. 

“We needa talk,” you hear Tom say against your shoulder as the heavy weight of the day pushes you to sleep. 

***

You wake up the next morning, heart still heavy with the events of the night before, now laying on your back. You yawn, still tired. Always tired.

Your hand reaches out to rest of Tom’s warm chest next to yours but you’re met with a cold bed.

Fuck.

You quickly get up, the sheets shoved to the side as you raced out of your room. You expect to hear Tom moving around, Tessa as well. But it’s silent.

The silence of the apartment is the loudest thing you’ve ever heard as you run down the hallway, checking the bathroom, no, the guest bedroom, no, the kitchen and living room were empty too. 

The sinking feeling in your gut almost made you cry, tears welling in your eyes as your knees buckled and you almost fell to the ground. Out of the corner of your blurry vision you saw breakfast sitting at the kitchen table. What looked like a smoothie, eggs, toast. You tilted your head and moved closer, seeing a piece of paper with Tom’s handwriting scribbled on it.

You quickly sat down, shaking hand picking up the note.

“Took Tess on a walk, made you some breakfast before you haveta go to work, I hope you slept okay, love you, Tom xx”

You smiled at the piece of paper in your hand, heart fluttering as you imagined him waking up and taking the time to make you breakfast. The effort it took to make something other than cereal for breakfast when you both couldn’t cook very well. 

Time and effort.

You blinked away the tears as you ate, fingers tapping along the kitchen table. You had to be at work at 10, 10 to 5, another long day you didn’t think you could handle. But there’s no way they’d find someone to cover for you in such a short notice. What time was it anyways? 

Shit. 9:30. You had hardly enough time to quickly change into a nice blue dress and grab your purse, eyes darting to the living room, expecting to see the mess from the puzzle all over the floor. 

Gone. 

The puzzle was no longer strewn on the floor, the puzzle box not sitting up right on the coffee table. 

You wonder if Tom picked it up after you fell asleep. His body leaving your own, leaving you cold. You wonder if he put it on the bookshelf with the rest of your puzzles so you ignore the ticking clock, telling you that work is waiting, walking quickly to the bookshelf that had your set of puzzles from over the years, all sitting perfectly still, dust collecting over the past few months. 

You rummaged through all of them, even though you knew deep down it wasn’t here. 

Where’d he take it?

You didn’t have time to dwell on everything so you pushed everything down and headed out. 

***

Tom watched as you slept, his mind running a mile a minute, not letting him sleep. He thought about the puzzle you got, the London Eye, he wondered if you got it because it made you think of your first date. He wondered if he could ever recreate the feeling of your first date, not the awkwardness but the feeling as you left the London Eye, the feeling that he knew deep down you were the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

You were the daughter of his mom’s new friend. The two of them decided to make you meet once, while they were out for coffee. It was an awkward meeting to say the least. He thought you were pretty, beautiful, and after he shook your hand he was flustered and looking for something to compliment you without being weird. 

“I really like the way your skin feels,” He stammers.

What the fuck was that Tom? He thinks, almost smacking himself. 

Your eyes grew wide, an eyebrow raised, your cheeks slightly blushing but not a match to his tomato reds. 

“Nice handshake,” you laugh and Nikki elbows him.

The next day you agree to go on a date with him, telling him to make it worth your while. 

He brought you to the London Eye. As soon as you arrived he sort of regretted it, the line atrocious, wait times were upwards of an hour. You looked so pretty in your floral dress and he managed to compliment you normally this time, saying how pretty the red dress looked, telling you that lilies were his favorite flower, loving the pattern of them.

He was worried you’d be annoyed with having to wait for so long to go on the Eye, something you’ve probably done before, and only for a short time. What type of date was that?

But as the line moved, slowly but surely, you allowed yourself to open up, the conversation flowing from what you were in school for to him becoming a professional certified carpenter, something his mom made him do when he never got called back about auditions. You felt the disappointment in his voice when he talked about auditioning and never getting the role so you changed subjects, he laughed when you stopped your rambling for a moment to stare at him, eyebrows knitted in concentration as your eyes roamed his face. 

“This patch of freckles,” you say, fingers lightly tracing the side of his face, “looks like Ursa Major.”

“Hmm?” He asks, head tilted to the side as his eyes slipped shut, appreciating the feeling of your hand on his face. 

“The constellation,” you say, finger lightly tracing the constellation among his freckles.

“Never noticed that before,” he sighs. 

You’re at the front of the line.

You hop onto the capsule, ignoring as it filled with other people, situating yourself at the end, Tom standing beside you.

“It’s so pretty up here,” you smile as the capsule takes you up.

He turns, his body facing you. Your body was  turned towards him but your head was turned and watching the sunset over the London skyline. 

“It really is,” he says, eyes meeting yours as your head turns. 

And before he realizes what he’s doing or that there are other people in the capsule, or that this was your first date and you hardly knew each other he was kissing you. It was short and sweet and he pulled away quickly because he wasn’t sure if you were going to kiss him back and he was afraid he made things awkward. He was blushing and before he had a chance to comprehend your response your hands are gripping his shirt, pulling him back down to your lips for a longer kiss, his hands resting lightly on your hips. You kiss like you’re the only two people on the capsule, eyes shut as your hands release his shirt and he hopes and prays you don’t let go or pull away, sighing into the kiss when your hands softly rest against his chest. Neither of you pulled away or even thought to pull apart until someone coughed loudly behind you, making you both blush and pull your lips apart, foreheads resting against each other. 

“Wow,” you mumble, lips smiling as his thumb rubbed your hip over your dress. 

“Wow,” he repeats, eyes twinkling.

***

And so Tom knew what he had to do. He woke up early, letting you sleep, he knew you would miss his body next to yours but he had a plan. A plan to bring you back to where you first kissed, your first date, and not try to recreate that moment because that wasn’t genuine, it wouldn’t feel right. But to remind you and himself of all the reasons you fell in love in the first place. 

He sent a text to Harry and Sam, enlisting their help before making his way to the living room, eyes sad as he observed the mess from the night before. Tessa followed along behind him quietly, nose nudging some of the puzzle pieces as he picked them up, placing them in the box. 

He called his mom, knowing she would have a better idea of how to make his plan a reality. They talked in hushed whispers over the phone before he decided to make you breakfast before taking Tessa on a walk. He contemplated sending you a next to let you know where he would be but he decided that a handwritten note would be better.

Please, please let this work.

Please come back to me.

***

Your day was filled with mundane tasks at the library, there was no children’s reading hour so you spent the majority of your time putting away books, cleaning, and checking people out. You focused on the busy work to distract yourself from Tom’s sleepy words last night.

We need to talk.

Who says that? People who are about to break up with their girlfriend, that’s who.

Your mind continued to repeat those words, we need to talk.

Talk about what? How we can’t seem to make time for each other anymore? How you once traced constellations along his freckles and now you could hardly spend five minutes with him before he was on to the next adventure? How you had both grown tired and the growing strain on your relationship was too much to handle?

How you missed him so much, you missed him even when he was here because he was so distant. His words, his hands, his body, his eyes a million miles away even when he was sitting right next to you.

You said goodbye to your coworker before you made the walk home, not bothering to check your phone, there probably wasn’t anything from Tom anyways.

You made it back home, expecting Tessa and Tom to be hanging out on the sofa, catching up on Love Island or some other TV show he hadn’t gotten the chance to see while he was busy. 

The flat was empty.

You sighed, ignoring the living room and the reminder of your breakdown as you tossed your purse on your bed, laying down and taking a few deep breaths. 

We need to talk.

You reluctantly got up and walked to the kitchen, you hadn’t had anything to eat since this morning so you were starving. 

You grabbed a go-to of yours, peanut butter and jelly, too exhausted to make any dinner. You took your sandwich to the couch, about to sit down when you see the puzzle on the coffee table, you pause, feet stuck to the ground, a bite of your sandwich in your mouth, wide open. You quickly swallow before kneeling on the ground at the coffee table. The sandwich is forgotten next to a bouquet of flowers, lilies, your stomach erupted with butterflies. 

You glanced at the puzzle sitting on the coffee table, the London Eye, but it was complete, no missing piece in sight. 

This wasn’t the same one you did last night.

Next to it was another note in Tom’s handwriting.

“If you know, you know. Meet me at 6:30.” 

Your heart started pounding as you checked the time, it was already 5:45. You knew right away where he wanted to meet you, the completed puzzle told you everything you needed to know. 

***

Your mind raced as you sat in the back of the Uber, one hand tightly gripping your purse as the other tapped along your leg, bouncing up and down. You were never nervous for dates with Tom. At least you were going to assume that’s what this was until he said otherwise. 

“Date night?” the woman driving you asks and you nod, gulping. 

“Yep,” you voice shakes slightly with a nervous stutter. 

The rest of the car is silent as you pull up to where you were 100% sure Tom would be. 

As you walk up to the daunting ride, you look through the crowd of people, people taking pictures, people standing in line, looking for Tom. 

You find him leaning against the railing by the water, wearing a blue button up shirt and nice dress pants. He looked beautiful in the slowly setting sun. 

He waved, a backpack slung over his shoulder. Your feet moved faster and faster as you met him, breathless.

“Hi,” you smiled, faltering slightly, still so god damn unsure. 

“Hey,” He says, your eyes widened as they searched his eyes, finding a slight glimmer amongst the chocolate brown.

“What happened to the puzzle?” You ask, head tilted questioningly as you let your hand slip and intertwine with his as you stood in front of him. 

“It’s kind of a long story, but uh, shall we take a ride?” Tom asks, nodding at the Eye on your right.

“We’ll have all of fifteen minutes,” you try to explain and his other hand runs up and down your other arm. 

Step closer, search for those stars in his eyes and on his cheeks.

And your body moves with your thoughts, chest flush with his as your hand rests against his chest.

“I’ve missed you,” you say, eyes darting between his eyes and his lips. 

“I don’t want to miss you anymore,” he whispers, voice barely audible against the background noise.

You close your eyes, lips frowning as you thought about his words.

He didn’t want to miss you anymore? 

What did he mean? 

He noticed your curiosity and disappointment and shock over what he was saying, quickly following up.

“I just, I miss you constantly, and I don’t want to miss you anymore because I don’t want to be away from you. I can’t spend this much time away from you anymore. It’s breaking my heart,” he says, tears welling in his eyes as your thumb strokes his chest.

“Then I guess I don’t wanna miss you anymore either,” you giggle, blinking away a few tears, his hand moving up your arm to cup your face.

“Good,” he nods, wetting his lips as he stared at your own.

Your hand gripped his shirt, pulling his face down to meet yours, kissing him, mouths conveying everything that your words couldn’t.

“You know, I got us a special capsule,” he says when your lips finally pull apart, your cheek resting against his, lips ghosting your earlobe.

“Mhm? What’s that?” You ask, eyes glancing at the London Eye next to you.

“They call it the couple’s capsule or something, we get the whole thing to ourselves and we get extra time and everything,” his voice rising in excitement.

“And we still should talk,” he finishes, eyes looking in yours for cracks to your exterior.

“Okay,” you say quietly, eyes looking at the ground between you, your feet planted between his tapping against it. 

“Come on, let’s head up,” he says, quickly kissing your cheek before dragging you along with him. 

“What about the line?” you ask, nodding towards the long line of people all waiting in the evening summer heat for a few moments on the Eye. 

“Nah, we get to skip ahead,” he says, coming to a little side entrance.

You board the capsule and Tom slips off his backpack, setting it down on the bench before sitting down, tapping the space next to him.

You sit down, sighing as his hand moves to rest on your thigh, appreciating the warmth of his hand against your bare leg. 

“I’m sorry,” Tom starts and you interrupt.

“No, I’m sorry,” your eyes pleading with Tom to let you talk, to give you the opportunity to say what you so desperately need to. 

“I’m sorry for being so distant lately, when you’re home, when we talk on the phone. I guess I just couldn’t put in the effort, I guess I was scared that you stopped caring, so I tried to not care either and this is what it got us into this mess.”

“Why wouldn’t I care? Y/N, I could never stop caring about you, I’m so fucking in love with you, hearing you cry, feeling how upset you are, it breaks my heart so bad, I can’t stand seeing you upset. I wish I could take away all your pain, I want to do better. Life’s slowed down and I’m back for a good while. We can be us again, we can see cheesy old romance movies at the drive in, we can take Tessa to the dog park, I can attempt to teach you how to golf again, we can have sex,” Tom pauses, eyes searching your face for your reaction.

You giggled then paused.

In. 

“In?” You ask, lips quivering as you spoke.

“In? What do you mean?” He asks, eyebrows knitted in confusion.

“You said you’re in love with me.”

“Well yeah,” he says, a nervous laughter bubbling up his chest and out of his mouth, cheeks flushing like when you first met, “been in love with ya for a while.”

“Well yeah, you love me, I love you too, but you’ve never said that before, that you’re in love with me.”

“Huh,” Tom says, fingers pausing their movement on your thigh.

“I’m in love with you too,” you say in one breath, hand covering his own.

“Oh thank god, this would’ve been awkward if you weren’t,” he teases, nudging your side with his elbow.

“I thought, thought you didn’t love me anymore,” you whisper, not sure if you even want to say it out loud.

“What?” he asks, jaw almost dropping as he looks at you, visibly hurt that you would think that. 

“And last night, I dunno, that stupid fucking puzzle, when the piece didn’t fit, I thought it was a cruel fucking joke, that we were over and even a child’s toy was mocking us.”

“Have I ever told you that you’re a little bit superstitious?” He says, breathing evening out.

“Not funny, I just thought, there was this wall, right, here,” you say, gesturing to the inch or so between your legs where you weren’t touching, “and it was so thick and I kept pounding on it, but I just gave up. And you didn’t build it, this barrier I felt, maybe I just made it all up in my mind but it felt so real,” you sighed, eyes watching his face as it glows in the setting sun.

Your other hand, the one not resting on top of Tom’s, moves to his cheek, fingers lightly touching the brown freckles against his tanned skin.

“You got some sun,” you comment, “your Ursa Major looks like Orion now,” you observe, fingers tracing the constellation on his skin.

“I’m sorry, if it didn’t seem like I was, uh, like I wasn’t trying as hard to knock that wall down. I was so busy I just never recognized it was there until it was so thick we couldn’t knock it over. Is it, uhm, still there?” He asks, nodding towards the small space between you.

You grin, shaking your head slowly, body inching closer to him, legs and arms touching, “not anymore.”

“I uh, I got you something,” he says, pulling his backpack onto his lap.

“You didn’t haveta-,” you start but let Tom finish.

His hand leaves your thigh as he unzips his backpack.

“They were just little things that made me think of you,” he says, pulling out a small red drawstring bag.

“Oh Tom, this is beautiful,” you whisper, holding up the necklace that glimmered in the sun.

“Got it in Mexico, Harry had put a clip of me with that guy in the video on instagram and I was so worried you’d watch it and figure out I was getting you a present. It’s got a red jewel, your favorite color, and it sparkled so pretty in the sun, and it made me think of you in that red bikini when we went to Hawaii, anyways, I was gonna give you this right away, but mum’s a genius and told me to hang onto it, give you everything altogether when the movie press was over.”

You thumb runs over the jewel, breath quickening as you put the necklace on, smiling at how it fit around your neck, dropping perfectly on your chest. 

“From Mexico, yeah, and uh, here, this is from Bali, just a little hand stitched thing, they said if you hang it keeps the bad dreams away,” he says, handing you a beautifully stitched floral pattern on the small patch of white cloth surrounded by a wooden edge.

“Wow,” you smile, watching as Tom pulls yet something else out of his backpack.

“Here, tea from LA, the lady at the tea shop said it helps you sleep, and I know sometimes when I’m not home you can get restless and it takes you a while so. Yeah. And from New York, the new Janet Evanovich book, Becausewhen we were talking on the phone as I was in the book store you were telling me all about the murder mystery she wrote right before it and I saw this one was brand new so, yeah.”

You gulped, looking at the next thing he got as your mind raced with questions.

“And this is really pretty, it’s from China, I thought, it uh, matches your dress, you know the one you wore on our first date,” he says, hands holding a red silk scarf with a floral pattern. 

Your hand shakes as you hold it and he pulls something else out.

“From Korea; they call it Hanji, it’s the art of paper making, its super traditional,” he says, gently handing you a delicate piece of paper with a beautiful scene painted on it, a man and woman sitting on a bench, looking at the sunset.

“You, you thought of me,” you whisper, as he puts the gifts back in his bag.

“Why- Yeah, of course I thought of you, every second of every day I’m away I’m thinking about you. I get distracted in interviews because I’m wondering how you would answer the question, or what you’re doing, if you are missing me as much as I’m missing you. And I dunno, I would just see these things and think about you even more cause they remind me of you.”

“Thank you,” your voice cracks as he sets the backpack down and you both stand up. He leads you to the edge of the capsule, you’re almost at the very top of the ride, looking out over the water.

“I want to fix this, because I love you too much to see you hurt, and I love you too much to leave you for so long again,” he whispers, as he pulls you into a hug, arms tight around your waist, head resting atop yours as your cheek presses to his chest. 

You immediately reciprocate, arms tight around his shoulders as you smile.

Bone crushing. Lung squeezing. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I stopped trying, but I love you too, and I never wanna stop loving you,” you mumble as he kisses the top of your head.

“And I never wanna stop making puzzles with you, and kissing you,“ he says, kissing all over your face as you laugh in his arms. 

Your lips meet his and you’re the only two people in the world as you kiss, mouth open as his tongue meets yours. It’s passionate and it’s yearning and it’s needy and it makes you want to drag him back to your flat and show him how much you missed him.

So that’s exactly what you do. After hours of showing each other just how much you missed each other you shower together, enjoying the heat of his body along with the heat of the water against your skin. 

As you lay in bed, facing each other, Tessa laying on the other side of Tom, like you used to, your fingers tapping along his palm, you smile as he intertwined his fingers with your own, thumb rubbing the skin of your hand.

“We’re like two pieces of a puzzle, he says against your lips.

“Fit together perfectly,” you finish together. 

***

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13 Best Blumhouse Horror Movies Ranked

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Has any single person had a greater impact on horror this century than Jason Blum? The one-time Miramax executive struck out on his own in the 2000s when he founded Blumhouse Productions, a company where he remains the CEO. And in the ensuing years, Blum’s production label would define, and redefine again, the trends of horror movies and thrillers.

Operating on the philosophy that a horror film with a micro-budget will almost always turn a profit, Blum frequently allows directors broad freedom to make what they want within the genre, and in the process has kept multiplexes perpetually spooky. In 2009 Blumhouse helped reinvent the found footage horror aesthetic, and in the 2010s, the modern phenomenon of talent-focused horror gems began with Blumhouse’s gambles.

Working with filmmakers like James Wan, Scott Derrickson, Ethan Hawke, and Jordan Peele, Blumhouse Productions’ title card is now a promise of something different, if still eminently commercial and entertaining. It even paved the way for the controversial modern discourse around “elevated” horror, with Peele’s Get Out being the first chiller to win an Oscar for screenwriting since The Silence of the Lambs.

So with a new Blumhouse horror movie in theaters this Friday the 13th, we thought it a good time to count down the 13 best Blumhouse efforts that paid off with a bloody good time.

13. Hush

At the bottom of our top 13 is this taut thriller from Mike Flanagan, director The Haunting of series and Doctor Sleep fame. Flanagan and his co-writer and star (and also wife), Kate Siegel, wanted to make a horror movie with little to no dialogue. So they came up with this concept of a deaf-mute woman (Siegel) in a remote house, who is stalked by a killer with a crossbow. Hush is at its peak in the first 20 minutes as the masked man (10 Cloverfield Lane’s John Gallagher Jr.) realizes his quarry can’t actually hear him and begins to play games.

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The pair’s relationship with sound makes an interesting dynamic in this tense home invasion movie, though the cat and mouse chase does grow somewhat repetitive and generic as the film progresses. Still, a fine performance from Siegel and an indication of what Flanagan could do on a small budget make this very much worth checking out. – Rosie Fletcher

12. Happy Death Day

The Groundhog Day formula where an odious person is doomed to relive the same day countless times has proven remarkably flexible. And Happy Death Day is no exception with its horror-comedy blend of Punxsutawney hijinks and ‘80s slasher movie clichés. Starring a ridiculously game Jessica Rothe as Tree, the sorority girl who is constantly waking up with the hangover from hell, Happy Death Day follows the typical “Queen Bee” slasher archetype, and forces her to relive the same horror movie again and again. Until she can figure out who her masked killer is, and maybe how to be a better person, she’s condemned to die in increasingly preposterous ways. Worse still, she must also wake up in a dormitory afterward.

It’s derivative in a million different ways, but delightful in many more thanks to a cheeky atmosphere from director Christopher Landon and a very savvy, self-aware script by Scott Lobdell. Most of all though, it benefits from Rothe’s comedic talents on full display, as she backflips between initial verbal bitchiness and constant physical comedy. She even manages to find a little pathos, one stab wound at a time. – David Crow

11. The Visit

The Sixth Sense may remain M. Night Shyamalan’s masterpiece, but it was an oft-referenced moment from a different film that became key to Blumhouse pulling him back from the brink of irrelevance.

Having made four objectively terrible movies in a row, including the notoriously bad wind-smeller The Happening, Shyamalan seemingly decided to use what he’d learned from a very effective part of 2002’s Signs, where Joaquin Phoenix reacts to a tense home movie of an alien sighting, and took the next logical step: What if the director put together 90 minutes of unsettling home movie moments just like that?

Your mileage may vary with the handheld, mockumentary style of The Visit, but it’s hard to argue that this brisk, low-budget tale of two young siblings staying with some very, very odd grandparents they’ve never met before could play out more wildly than it does here. And Shyamalan certainly doesn’t pull many punches when it comes to putting those poor kids in peril during the film’s climax. – Kirsten Howard

10. Creep

No, not the one set on the subway, this Creep, directed by Patrick Brice, written by Brice and Mark Duplass, and also starring them both in a tense two-hander, is an altogether more unsettling affair. Brice plays Aaron, a videographer who answers an ad posted by Josef (Duplass), the latter saying he’s dying and wants a video diary made to leave to his son. But Josef’s behavior is weird – exactly how weird is too weird is the challenge faced by Aaron.

At just 77 mins long, this is a compact, unusual, often funny movie which picks at male relationships in the modern day, and how far kindness and politeness can override instinct. Duplass and Brice are incredibly natural in a film that’s extremely unusual, steeped in unease but not really like a traditional horror, with laughter and tension relief keeping you on your toes throughout. There’s a sequel which is good too, though if you can watch the first without spoilers it delivers a particular kind of dread that’s hard to replicate. – RF

9. Upgrade

A couple of decades ago, there were plenty of films around like Upgrade. You didn’t even have to move for fun sci-fi action movies, really! But the glory days of never having to wait for the next Equilibrium, Gattaca, Cypher, or even Jet Li’s The One are long behind us. It’s pretty tough to get a slick little concept movie made when you’re expected to compete with huge action tentpoles at the box office—unless you’re Leigh Whannell, one of Blumhouse’s integral puzzle pieces.

Whannell paid his dues at the production house for 15 years as both a writer and helmer before unleashing his sophomore directorial effort, Upgrade. The film, which follows ludicrously named technophobe Grey Trace after he loses his beloved wife in a violent mugging, sees a paralyzed hero get implanted with a chatty chip that allows him to regain the use of his whole body. Soon Trace become virtually superhuman—imagine an internal K.I.T.T.—but all is not as it seems.

It shouldn’t be as delightful as it is. Admittedly, the whole thing isn’t too far removed from an elevated episode of The Outer Limits. But if you miss old school sci-fi nonsense and feel nostalgic for a time when smart sci-fi projects didn’t end up as eight drawn out episodes on a major streaming service instead, Upgrade really scratches an itch.

Of course now might be a bad time to mention that an Upgrade TV series is in the works… – KH

8. Halloween

In resurrecting one of horror’s most enduring—yet stubbornly uneven—franchises, director David Gordon Green (working with screenwriters Danny McBride and Jeff Fradley) made the smartest move he could: He stripped away the ridiculously convoluted and nonsensical mythology the franchise had built up over decades. Instead he simply made a direct sequel to Carpenter’s 1978 masterpiece.

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The result was easily the best Halloween movie since the original itself, bringing the characters and the story into the present while reverting Michael Myers back to the enigmatic, unstoppable, unknowable force that was so terrifying in the first film. Jamie Lee Curtis, Judy Greer, and Andi Matichak as three generations of Strode women bring healthy feminine empowerment to the proceedings while the intense violence and uneasy psychological underpinnings give this Halloween a resonance that has been lacking for so long. – Don Kaye

7. Split

As the movie that suggested M. Night Shyamalan’s renaissance was real, Split is still a surprising box office win for the eclectic filmmaker. With a grizzly premise about a man suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder (formerly known as split personality) kidnapping teen girls to hold in a zoo, this could be the stuff of ‘70s grindhouse sleaze. While there is a touch of that to Split, more critically the movie acts as a buoyant showcase for James McAvoy at his most unbound.

Playing a character with 24 different personalities, a shaved and beefy McAvoy is visibly giddy bouncing between multiple alters that include a deceptively sweet little boy, an OCD fashion designer, and a bestial final form. The commitment he shows to each also becomes its own special effect, causing you to swear his physical shape is changing with his expressions.

Similarly, scenes with theater legend Betty Buckley as his psychiatrist also rivet with the energy of a stage play, and suggest a sincere sympathy for mental illness. A rarity in horror. Nevertheless, the movie still comes down to his alters’ obsessions with their kidnapped prize (Anya Taylor-Joy), a young woman who hides demons of her own. When these true selves finally cross paths in a genuinely tense finale, Split is maniacally thrilling. – DC

6. Sinister

An unsettling entry in the horror subgenre of writers who destroy their families, Sinister marked director/co-writer Scott Derrickson’s (The Exorcism of Emily Rose) return to horror after he detoured with an ill-fated remake of The Day the Earth Stood Still. Thus Derrickson and co-writer C. Robert Cargill concocted a unique, if somewhat scattershot, mythology about a pagan deity that murders entire families in the ghastliest ways imaginable.

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True crime writer Ethan Hawke discovers the extent of those murders in a box of 8mm films left in the attic of his new home (where the last killings took place), and it’s the unspooling of those films—along with long sequences of Hawke moving through the shadows and silence of the house—that provide Sinister with its sickening core and palpable dread. Derrickson sustains the film’s foreboding mood for the entire running time, making the movie an authentically frightening experience. – DK

5. Oculus

The film that brought much of the world’s attention to Mike Flanagan, Oculus turned out to be a preview for the horror filmmaker’s interests. It also remains a truly unnerving ghost story. Not since the days of Dead of Night has a film so successfully made you scared of looking in a mirror.

Officially titled the Lasser Glass, the mirror in question is the apparent supernatural cause of hundreds of deaths, including the parents of Kaylie Russell (Karen Gillan) and her brother Tim (Brenton Thwaites). When they were children, their mother starved and mutilated herself before their father killed her. But now as an adult, Kaylie is convinced she can prove the antique glass is the true culprit, and she’ll document its evil power before destroying it. But the funny thing about evil mirrors is they have ways of protecting themselves, and wreaking havoc on a sense of time, place, and certainly self-image.

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With the movie’s near masterful blending of events occurring 11 years ago and in the present, Flanagan revealed a knack for dreamlike structure, and stories about the past damning the future. These are ideas he’s gone on to explore in richer detail with The Haunting of Hill House and Doctor Sleep, but Flanagan’s ability to juxtapose childhood trauma with a nightmarish present was never more potent, or tragic, than in Oculus’ refracted gaze. – DC

4. Paranormal Activity

It may take some mental gymnastics, but if you can take a step back and ignore all the sequels that followed in the wake of this surprise 2009 blockbuster, then you’d remember Paranormal Activity is a stone cold classic. It is also the movie that put Blumhouse on the map. Already mostly finished when Jason Blum saw a DVD screener of Oren Peli’s Paranormal Activity, this $15,000-budgeted terror is arguably the most evocative use of found footage in all of horror.

While Peli is obviously influenced by 1999’s The Blair Witch Project, that earlier movie is as famous for its shaky disorientation as it is its scares. By contrast what occurs in Paranormal Activity is excruciatingly clear. Seriously, the camera barely moves! Instead we’re asked to sit back and watch in near slow motion as an unwise couple (Katie Featherston and Micah Sloat) meddle with forces that were better off left undisturbed.

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It begins when Micah brings a home video camera into their house to track apparent ghosts in the dark; it ends in a demonic rush of violence. Everything in between is tracked by a disinterested lens, which usually sits statically in a corner or on a tripod, capturing the tedium of everyday life in its everyday natural lighting. Only occasionally does the horned shadow on the wall manifest. But then Paranormal Activity is chilling in its isolation. – DC

3. Insidious

As the fourth feature film directed by Australian filmmaker James Wan, Insidious follows a couple named Josh and Renai Lambert (Patrick Wilson and Rose Byrne), whose son inexplicably falls into a coma and becomes a vessel for malevolent entities from a dimension called the Further. The family enlists a psychic named Elise Rainier (Lin Shaye) in a battle involving astral projection and demonic possession.

Following an era of horror films that were more torture porn or police procedural (including Wan’s own Saw), Insidious was a return to the kind of horror filmmaking that was dependent on atmosphere, suspense, and what you don’t see lurking in the shadows. And Wan seemed to imbue that creepiness around the edges of every shot. Using actual adult characters and developing them (as opposed to the hipster teens that infested nearly every horror movie for at least 10 years previously) also set the film apart as a serious attempt at a genre that had been too often exploited in a tossed-off fashion.

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The world-building of Insidious left the door open for sequels, of course, and while the three produced so far have had their moments, none has matched the sheer invention and terrifying fun of the original. – DK

2. The Invisible Man

Leigh Whannell’s reimagining of the classic Universal Monster, the Invisible Man, was as much of a surprise when it hit screens earlier this year as the titular villain himself. As a smart social commentary on domestic abuse and gaslighting, while also being enormously effective as a straight up horror, this was a highly fresh take on an old standard.

At the core was the terrific performance of Elisabeth Moss as Cecilia, a woman stuck with her controlling boyfriend Adrian (Oliver Jackson-Cohen) in their high-tech, high security fortress of a home. When Cece finally manages to escape and Adrian appears to take his own life, she hopes her ordeal can finally be over. But in fact it’s just beginning.

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Playing on the true horror of not being believed, Whannell’s Invisible Man is as harrowing at times as it is thrilling. Yes, there are some extraordinarily shocking set pieces – the restaurant scene of course stands out – but it’s the increasing desperation of Cece, whose world is falling apart at the manipulative hands of a man who won’t let her go, which stays with you.

The Invisible Man is a thrilling horror, for sure, with a feel good ending (if you want to read it that way…), but it’s something altogether more exciting than that too: a fresh, relevant take on a classic, expertly directed and boasting star power delivered on a moderate budget, which flexes exactly what horror can do. – RF

1. Get Out

More impressive than any awards it won, Jordan Peele’s Get Out encapsulates the essential draw of horror: through entertaining “scares,” it unmasks truths folks might find too horrifying or uncomfortable to acknowledge. In the case of Get Out, it is the despair of Blackness and Black bodies still being commodified by a predatory American culture.

Wearing influences like Rosemary’s Baby and Stepford Wives on his sleeve, Peele pulls from classic horror conventions for his directorial debut, but gives them a startling 21st century sheen. His movie’s insidious conspiracy is neither an obvious coven of witches or the openly racist heavies of a period piece. Rather Peele sets his story about a Black man (Daniel Kaluuya) coming to meet his white girlfriend’s parents in a liberal conclave of wealthy suburbia. Written during the final days of the Obama years, Peele casts these parents (Bradley Whitford and Catherine Keener) as genial and welcoming, shielding cries of racism behind fashionable political correctness.

Yet once Peele moves past that trendy veneer, he finds a potent allegory in which the ghosts of slavery are still alive and well, even in Upstate New York. Peele also packs anxieties about interracial relationships, culture clash, and childhood trauma into a film that is nevertheless gregariously funny. Ultimately though, its final effect is triggering in the best way. Get Out offers an opportunity to confront real dread, one uneasy laugh, and then sudden jump scare, at a time. – DC

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One can imagine an American director such as Norman Jewison or Sidney Lumet directing a film about the legal battle at the heart of “Pieces of a Woman”: A terrible tragedy has occurred, and an expectant young Boston couple (played by Vanessa Kirby and Shia LaBeouf) have taken their midwife (Molly Parker) to court. The media are all over the story, which casts the entire practice of home birth into question. But instead of focusing on the trial, Hungarian director Kórnel Mundruczó concentrates our attention on the couple, both of whom are shattered by the experience — but especially to the wife, who has more to rebuild than just her relationship. It is her very identity that’s on the line in this mature, masterfully acted human drama.

Though he’d been invited to Cannes before, Mundruczó (“Delta,” “Johanna”) grabbed the world’s attention a few years ago with a movie called “White God,” in which all the stray dogs of Budapest rise up against their bipedal overlords. It was a bombastic but ultimately ridiculous film — a B-movie variation on Hitchcock’s “The Birds” treated with utmost seriousness — which developed a cult following while adding nothing significant to the cultural conversation. He returned three years later with a more substantive film, surreal refugee fable “Jupiter’s Moon,” although technique once again eclipsed the telling.

Early on, it feels as if the same could happen to “Pieces of a Woman,” Mundruczó and screenwriter Kata Wéber’s first English-language project: A few minutes in, after establishing salt-of-the-earth construction worker Sean (LaBeouf) and his relatively refined wife Martha (Kirby), Mundruczó launches into one of those stunts that will go down in film history. Decades from now, whether they love or hate the movie (it’s the kind that divides), audiences will still be talking about the virtuoso 23-minute “oner” — an elaborate, unbroken plan sequence that stretches the duration of a scene, à la “Children of Men” — in which Martha gives birth.

The shot starts casually enough, with Martha’s contractions arriving six minutes apart, but quickly escalates as her water breaks. Sean calls the doula, only to learn that she’s busy with another delivery. The woman sends a replacement, Eva, who’s warm and encouraging (qualities Parker so effortlessly embodies), guiding them through the process. Your average viewer may not notice that Mundruczó doesn’t cut, choreographing DP Benjamin Loeb’s camera so it’s right in the middle of the process, but they will certainly feel the mounting tension. Can he sustain this all the way through childbirth? In short, yes, Mundruczó intends to capture the miracle of delivery in all its joy and agony — stripped of glamour, yet completely spontaneous and unpredictable despite the careful planning this scene must have required.

Think of all the great actors who’ve gotten the chance to die on camera over the years. But how many have been able to give birth before our eyes? It’s a wondrous thing to watch, although the tone takes a turn toward the end of the scene, and suddenly this precious rite shared by so many women assumes a sharp pang of suspense. There’s blood in the bath, and the baby’s heartrate isn’t where it should be. Audiences must discover for themselves what happens, but suffice to say, the results aren’t typical, and it will take the rest of the film to process the shock.

It’s hard to proceed without giving away too much. Sean and Martha seem so close during the delivery — a couple from separate classes, where the gap between their white- and blue-collar identities is bridged by an intuitive intimacy that renders them stronger together — but as they both try to make sense of this tragedy, their inner demons reemerge, and they seem less like a couple and more like two separate, susceptible people.

We learn that Sean has addiction issues. “I’ve come back from death before,” he says. This latest setback could send him to the brink again. Meanwhile, Martha has weaknesses as well. She carries the damage wrought by a domineering mother, Elizabeth (Ellen Burstyn), who remains an invasive presence in her life. Elizabeth has never approved of Sean, but senses a way to manipulating the situation through him. It’s her idea to sue the midwife, although it’s unclear what the family hopes to gain by doing so. Will this bring the couple closer together? Not likely.

In some marriages, pregnancy can drive a wedge between the parties, upsetting whatever magnetism attracted them in the first place. In others, parenthood and the responsibilities it confers become the cement that holds a couple together. For Sean and Martha, we sense that they needed this child. The complications could be their undoing.

With mesmerizing skill, Mundruczó and Wéber (who, significantly, share “a film by” credit) explore the ramifications of loss on these two fundamentally good but imperfect people. Many would-be parents have faced similar challenges, which makes “Pieces of a Woman” both empowering (to see this universal human experience so sensitively depicted) and somewhat risky: No matter how respectful the filmmakers intend the film to be, their treatment examines Martha and Sean’s trauma through the lens of melodrama, which thrives on conflict rather than the kind of communication they so desperately need to heal — and which seemed to exist in their relationship prior.

Is it fair, for instance, to bring all the characters together — not just the couple, but also Martha’s sister (comedian Iliza Shlesinger, striking in this serious role), her husband (filmmaker Benny Safdie), mom Elizabeth and the caught-in-middle cousin-cum-lawyer (Sarah Snook) who agreed to take the case — for the kind of overcooked family gathering one might expect from a “Sopranos” season finale? And isn’t the film’s symbolism a bit too on-the-nose? Sean builds bridges, a career that has a direct resonance on his relationship. Martha obsesses over apples. While her houseplants go neglected, she tries to sprout their pips, as if to prove that she can create life (when grafting is the way to go, but nowhere near as elegant a metaphor).

A complicated personality off-screen, LaBeouf brings tenderness and vulnerability to the role, revealing a side of himself we seldom see — this despite the fact he literally turns his back to the camera during his most brittle scenes, including a key exchange with Elizabeth when Mundruczó shoots him from behind because head-on would be too painful. The director was right to enlist an actor as mighty as Burstyn to play the mother-in-law. The choice makes the character that much more imposing, and her conviction turns a late monologue into a showstopper: “I know what it’s like to start over. You have to burn bridges.”

But this is ultimately Kirby’s movie, as the stage marvel (better known to audiences for her work on “The Crown”) delivers her most impressive screen performance to date — not just the remarkable commitment of that childbirth scene, but the way she navigates the character’s uncertainty for the rest of the movie. Martha has such a complicated reaction, both physical and psychological, to her delivery that it couldn’t have been easy for Kirby to decide how to play so many seemingly contradictory facets: devastated yet resilient, angry but empathetic. The courtroom scenes, when they come, are less about the case than Martha’s feelings of guilt. Mundrucz�� and Wéber gave her the pieces from which to assemble this character, but only Kirby could have taken that puzzle and turned it into such an astonishing portrait.

#Vanessa Kirby #Pieces of a Woman #Kornel Mundruczo #Review #Articles

[recentanimenews]

What is Tower of God? A Beginner's Journey to the Phenomenon

  It’s finally happening: on April 1, 2020, Crunchyroll and Telecom Animation Film are adapting the megahit WEBTOON Tower of God into an anime. Tower of God is the closest WEBTOON has to a Naruto or Bleach-sized hit shonen comic. A series that’s been going strong for ten years, with a fanbase that includes both curious new readers investigating this new “Webtoon” thing as well as older readers with warm and fuzzy feelings for that cool Korean comic they found once.

  Up to this point, I’d never read very far into the series myself. But I’ve always been curious. The world of Korean comics is vibrant—comics optimized to read on your phone which vacillates between professional work and endearingly amateur productions. I’ve heard good things about Tower of God over the years from a former coworker of mine who recommended it especially highly. With the anime about to air in just two weeks, I figured it was time to blast through the first season of the comic (about 80 or so chapters) and discover the truth:

  What is Tower of God? 

    Well, now I know. Tower of God is the story of Rak, a huge and arrogant crocodile man. With his mighty spear he aims to defeat all challenges and conquer the world of.........nah, just kidding.

  Tower of God is the story of Bam, a young boy chasing his friend Rachel, up a tower featuring countless floors of tests and challenges. But it’s also the story of the ruthless king Zahad and his adopted daughters, murderous princesses who wield the legendary weapons known as the 13 Months. One of these princesses is Anak, a headstrong lizard girl with a secret. And then there’s Khun Aguero Agnis, the runaway scion of a royal family of schemers and assassins.

  Tower of God features plenty of tropes and ideas familiar to fans of Shonen Jump comics and their ilk. There’s an emphasis on solving games and puzzles familiar to any fan of Hunter x Hunter (for that matter, Khun begins as a dead ringer for Killua.) There’s the team-based interplay of Naruto, where mismatched heroes are forced to work as a team against dangerous foes. The 13 Months are introduced as living weapons right out of Bleach, though that angle is dropped quickly (at least in part 1.) There’s even a section where Tower of God becomes a magical school story, as one of its many tests forces the cast to train and study in close quarters.

    In my mind, Tower of God stands out from the pack in two ways. The first is in its emphasis on scale and lore. The world where the story takes place is a big one, filled with creatures that dwarf Bam from the very first chapter. The 13 Months grow and shrink, filling the whole of the long and thin WEBTOON display with their power. The world of Tower of God is also a weird one—much of the cast are cool and stylish teens, but there are also lizard people, devil men, folks with multiple eyes and a full range of conniving royal families and insignia. There aren’t just separate powers, artifacts, and abilities, but individual character classes that play different roles in battle. Fans of Type-Moon properties and of Kinoko Nasu (the writer of Fate/stay night and Tsukihime) should get a kick out of the endless flow of proper nouns and concepts introduced, contextualized, and retrofitted every other chapter.

  The Secret to Tower of God's Success

  This leads me to Tower of God's second distinguishing feature, which is its exuberance. On its publication in 2010, series creator SIU (short for Slave. In. Utero.) claimed it was only the first story in the Talze Ulzer series. Years later, none of those other stories have come to fruition, just as the Ogre Battle Saga remains incomplete and fans of Xenogears continue to trawl its millennia-long history in search of clues. Reading through the first arc of the series, I began to suspect that Tower of God was a stand-alone story that spun out of control, a narrative that despite its author’s obsessive planning features its share of dead ends. Compared to One Piece or even Bleach, projects managed by editors and hammered into marketability by constant reader surveys, Tower of God gives the impression in its first few chapters of a webcomic in its first phase, the author casting around for inspiration before settling into a groove.

    Based on my research, this is almost exactly what happened: Tower of God came into being as ideas and drawings scribbled in a notebook the author worked on during mandatory military service. And this isn’t a bad thing! ONE was a webcomic artist who drew One-Punch Man as a one-off joke, and from there took the world by storm. Tower of God may be a tangle of monsters and tests and ideas and powers, but that tangle is genuine. You get the sense reading it that the author crammed every one of their favorite ideas into the strip, even if not all of them fit perfectly. There’s something refreshing about that compared to the almost aggressively polished and formulaic storytelling (with all due respect to its effectiveness) you find in a Shonen Jump comic. Tower of God became popular not because it was a market-tested, efficient Rube Goldberg machine of cliffhangers, but because readers across the world responded to the author’s scrambling passion and gave their sketch-filled notebook a life of its own. SIU’s hobby became too big to fail. And now it’s an anime.

  I’m curious to see how the new adaptation cuts and refines the comic’s original story. Of course, I hope that the staff does what is best for the purposes of the medium, rather than slavishly recreate the comic. The nature of webtoons themselves, a long film-strip of discrete moments, already lends a “cinematic” feeling. But part of me hopes that the spirit of those early chapters is kept intact—just like the adaptations of ONE’s work went to great lengths to keep the source material’s DIY spirit alive. Either way, I’m excited to see the new adventures of Rak: the noble crocodile who, as we all know, is the true hero of Tower of God.

    Are you a fan of Tower of God? Are you looking forward to the upcoming anime? Is Black March more or less powerful than King Arturia's Excalibur? Let us know in the comments!

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Adam W is a Features Writer at Crunchyroll. His favorite comic on Webtoon is Your Letter. He sporadically contributes with a loose coalition of friends to a blog called Isn't it Electrifying? Find him on Twitter at: @wendeego

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