#(( miranda says. no ava. you do not know her.

[royalreef]

@paleobird inquired: Name: Ava Ostrom Age: 25 How well do we know each other?: Decently well! Do you have a pet name for me?: Not at the moment. Do I have a pet name for you?: I don't think so! Are you attracted to me?: You're very pretty, yes! Why do you want to marry me?: Uh... political reason, I guess? Big wedding or Small wedding?: Whatever works for you! Do you see children in our future?: Hm, I'm not so sure, but... maybe Spouse Application - Accepting

It comes like an old, familiar friend, that tickle in Miranda's gums, that sweet, low simmer in her gut. It's been such a long time. Miranda almost forgot what it felt like, what sweet relief it brings, such a fond kindness it extends out to her and runs through her veins until they come back hot, until her heart remembers to dance. It's a kindly relative in that way, a favorite nanny, someone who brings snacks and toys for her little hands, not yet grown into itself, someone who runs their face all over hers and tells her all her favorite stories while getting her to promise not to tell anyone else. Not to let anyone else know, because then this couldn't happen again, because the troubles would start and Miranda's kindnesses would vanish.

Rage is such a strange animal. It comes to Miranda more often than it should, so often that the fact that she knows it by name should be cause for concern, would have left her community speaking behind her back and concerned for the points of her teeth. But she's a royal, and royals play by different rules, of course. It matters less, when you have more to defend, more to call your own. Loyalty too is highly prized, far moreso than rage is feared.

And if Miranda's rage is kin with her cruelty, well, that too can be overlooked. That much is expected, really, a hazard of the job, something to keep in mind but not to fuss over too much. It's only really important when it spills over, after all. When it becomes too much, when it starts to impact her duties, her purpose, the thing she was designed for. Then, maybe, concern is warranted, but if it keeps its manners about it, then it can stay as a polite house guest. It's been here before, after all, a family friend. It knows the way around the grounds already.

Miranda doesn't sneer. She doesn't bare her fangs or flatten her fins or growl like an animal. Miranda doesn't do anything at all.

All Miranda does is watch Ava. Her eyes, pointed forwards to direct herself towards those who wait in front of her, focus on Ava's face. It might be tempting to say that it's like she's never seen Ava before, but it's not really that kind of look. It is prying, intense, a categorization of her features unlike anything that Ava might have endured thus far, but the difference is subtler.

It's that Miranda keeps going. Her eyes — a stark and violent blue that never feels quite like they should be as bright as they are, gruesomely tropical and evocative of shallower, warmer waters than any warmth she actually holds in her gaze — fix deeper on Ava.

Miranda does not speak. She does not seem to breathe, her body struck with a stillness so abrupt that she does not look real, like motion is something that forgot her where it shouldn't have, a void surrounded by the world itself. Miranda just stares. She stares down and into Ava, the weight of her gaze pushing her deeper and deeper, inescapable, suffocating, wrenching free everything about Ava and laying it plain under her flensing gaze, pulling her apart and laying her plain to the air.

The world around them goes quiet, obeys instruction that it was clearly given. The world around them flees, turns darker by proxy, as Miranda pins Ava down, transfixes her into the singular space, the weight of her awareness greater than that of her family line, greater than duty, greater than the kingdom at her back and the ocean far above her. There is nothing else to do but to be reduced down into the smallest single fraction of yourself against such an event horizon, to forget how to run, to forget anything that might have helped you. Nothing would save you now. Nothing would help. There is only Miranda, and she sees all of you for what you are.

"Let me be perfectly clear."

It is not Miranda's voice. It is, but it is not, because it is not a voice that Ava would have heard now or ever again, not without a price to be paid, not without something to be lost. The voice is smooth and it is deep, unruffled as dark water without a ripple and without end, a dark and stubborn pool that invites all in, to be dragged down beneath the surface without recourse, without recovery. It is the voice of authority. It is the voice of a command which cannot be ignored. It is the voice of a thousand years and a thousand lives, of something grander than anyone could imagine, of beauty so intoxicating that no one would remember the intestines spilling out hot and writhing afterwards.

It is not magic, and it is not a siren's call. It needs no parlor tricks, no miserable attempts at forced control, no mockery of the power it holds. It simply doesn't need any of that. The voice that comes out is the voice of the ultimatum which orders creation by its own drum, because the voice is entirely what it says it is, because there are simply people who could command the stars to fall and they would listen.

It is the voice of the Crown Princess.

Princess Miranda does not move her lips, does not shift her chest enough to speak, does not inhale and does not exhale. The voice comes, willed from her, while she is taken by the stillness which the Earth revolves around, the fixed point in space which commands all to dance around it. It is the ultimate stillness of an ambush predator, the kind of stillness so resolute and perfect that alterations in her position do not seem natural, that she may as well have been a statue fixed in each and every place forever, and that all Ava did was forget between blinks what it was.

"If you wish to come to me and insist that you know me, and insist that you wish to pursue me as a political union — then I will treat you as such. Do I make myself understood?"

[chaoticcutiewhirl]

A more propper introduction

If you see my Tumblr hello again, I have some news besides the obvious:

The Emergency Comms have been retired kinda as I got the money I lost in a scam back (not the money that was lost back in June but I reearned it, thank you Ebay). Simply to say though, due to the game Mice Tea, I have found a character who is basically me to the core being the Snake love interest named Sylvia, and with that I realized, similar to the implications of the epilogue of her route, I would likely stay as a Snakegirl if I was in her situation. Because of this I started to have vivid dreams as a sort of anthro snake, a lamia, and after a few days of that, I realized moving my legs caused a similar feeling when you feel a sound in your teeth and after speaking with a few friends i have come to the end that I may be a Lamia Otherkin.

I have done my best with that information but the main aspect is sorta dysphoria involving my legs in the way they exist, before I thought some aspects that line up with the idea were just unachievable transition goals ideas of being a Tiefling but the factors that can't line up with Lamia, which really was one thing, was likely relieving pressure on my feet and in my legs from standing as I often shifted to the balls of my feet in order to feel different, thinking it was possibly an idea of wanting hooves but now I think it may be due to the idea of less pressure and friction put on my lowe half. And with the leg thing I found binding my legs in a blanket while sitting or laying down helps a lot. But I mean do know if synthetic body mods become a thing I am getting myself that Snake tail because omg my brain these past 3 days has been on fire with this.

Beyond that propper introductions:

Name: I am Avarstia Sylvia [Redacted] (I wouldn't give my full name openly but still choosing a new last name as well), but you can call me Ava, Avarstia, Sylvia, or Sylvie.

Pronouns: She/her , Fae/Faer

Species: Physically human but Lamia Otherkin, also a Bat furry on top of all of that

Sexuality/Romanticism: Demisexual, but also under the Lesbian umbrella for my Romantics.

Media Interests: Transformers, Dragonball, She-Ra, Furries, The Owl House, Signalis, Mice Tea, Generally a lot of Indie games, RWBY, Legends of Avantris, D&D, Anything made by IdolMantis, Anything made by 66Sharkteeth aka 66, Anything made by Miranda Mundt, Sonic, Et Cetera (There is a lot)

What do I do?: I am primarily a writer, I am currently writing a Novella series to possibly publish sooner than later as well as writing two different novels with more stories in the works beyond all of that. I also have some Art Comms if anyone wants my sorta meh art style

What kind of Music do I listen too?: (I like answering questions lol) I mainly listen to forms of rock, folk, and generally music with darker vibes such as Shawn James, Shayfer James, Will Wood, Hammerfall, The Dead South, Marah in the Mainsail/Coyote Kidd (My favorite), Miracle of Sound, The Aviators, Crane Wives, Et Cetera (Again I listen to a lot)

Beyond all of that I don't really have much else to add so have an artistic depiction of who I am who I intended to turn into another Fursona lol, this one being a Mojave Sidewinder (But as a Lamia I do not know if I am also a Sidewinder lol

[sapphicscholar]

Hacks 2.03 and 2.04 Thoughts

Like Ava, I’m trusting the process even when it’s painful, and I’m still watching with an eye toward critical generosity. That being said, some (though certainly not all!) of my thoughts verge on the critical this week as a heads up. Thoughts are below the cut for spoilers (because I had to get this word vomit out so I could start my actual workday haha)

1. I’ve seen a few other people say this already, but the episodes feel a little more disjointed this season with the episodic nature of being on the road and on tour. I don’t mind that in and of itself, but I think it’s also led to this season’s feeling less cohesive in the overarching narrative at least in part because we’re being told more things this season vs. last season when we actually saw most of the action (e.g., we keep hearing that Deborah’s bombing, but, until ep 4, we were largely seeing her get laughs and punchlines in, even if they weren’t the best). So rather than *seeing* the process, we’re often hearing about it via meta commentary for better or worse (again, I think you do what you can with 8 episodes and what seems like an ambitious story to tell and tour to take the characters on)

2. I really loved the scene where Deborah steps in and makes Weed stop the bus to let Ava go look for her dad’s ashes, and the final “fuck it” moment of shedding her fur coat to climb into a literal dumpster to help look was exactly the kind of narrative payoff and emotional catharsis I know and love from this show!

3. Deborah’s always had the capacity for meanness and real cruelty toward others, but this season I feel like we’re seeing more of it directed at strangers, people in the workplace, and even fans--all of whom in S1 we saw Deborah being fairly collegial and even downright friendly with (which set her up from the start, imo, as different from, say, a Miranda Priestly, even though she could be just as cutting). Again, I think part of it is the seeing vs telling thing - I know theoretically that Deb’s frustrated about the tour going poorly, so it would make sense for her to be lashing out more. But because we’re seeing so little of it, I’m not feeling it as much

4. On the other hand, Deborah’s deliberately making Ava jealous (sometimes using and tossing aside others to do it) feels exactly the right amount of petty, and the way she’s doing it, MY GOD, it’s fucking L Word levels of gay 

5. Curious to see what we do with all of Ava’s very vocal pledges to clean living and very visible backsliding (largely encouraged by those around her, which makes sense! The entertainment business is a hard place for sobriety, as are a lot of the most visible spaces for queer life)

6. Look...I could write a whole separate post on ep 4 alone, but bulleted thoughts:

I get that it’s necessary for Deborah’s growth (comedic and personal) both to bomb in this painful obvious way AND ALSO to have some of the really shitty ways she’s talked about whole groups of people drawn out into the open, not for laughs but for scorn. THAT DOES NOT MAKE IT LESS PAINFUL TO WATCH. Holy shit an entire childhood spent in comedy clubs and bar basements, and that’s still in the top 3 worst things I’ve seen go down on a stage

The first 10 minutes or so...idk. I get that we’ve got a queer cast and not totally straight writing staff and all, but a lot of the jokes felt less like we were having a good in-on-the-joke kind of time and more of a laugh at the expense of queer women (like c’mon, why does the first woman to approach Ava have to be creepy about it?) Going into it (esp after having heard so much about how queer fans would LOVE this ep), I think I wanted The L Word Olivia Cruise episode vibes, and instead, it felt like I was watching Friends at first

BUT by the end, the episode felt like it had swung around enough so we could see that Deborah was the problem (the internalized misogyny, the way that she has such deep-rooted problems with a lesbian audience, the doubling down on it all), but I don’t think I personally ever shook my unease from the beginning of the episode

I really, deeply appreciated Ava’s conversation with Deborah during the manicure (so many thoughts about hands and queer erotics...). It gives a lot more nuance to conversations about sexuality than we generally get on screen. Esp after Ava’s brash comments in early S1, this felt like a chance for Ava to be serious with Deborah; she isn’t trying to shock Deborah to get the upper hand anymore, but is instead talking through a lot of things she’s had to process and think through herself, and I SO, SO appreciated it. 

I do hope we return to some of this because I think Ava can and should have a chance to talk to Deborah after that set... echoing a brief conversation I had with @softdeb, the molly-fueled awkward dancing at sea was, um, a choice, and I hope it’s not the last we’ll see of that arc

Also the question of Deborah’s relationship to desire and intimacy felt not nearly so settled as some comments in interviews made it out to be! It feels live and open to me. This isn’t an argument for canonicity or anything, but I do think there’s still much to be interrogated after that meltdown at sea

Oh Marcus... I can and will not talk about the puppy who deserves better 

Deborah’s phone call to Marcus was also so very good. I have a lot of care for both of these two deeply flawed, human characters--and a lot of thoughts about their history--and seeing them have this moment of being able to see each other/be seen while sitting amidst the rubble of all the ways they’ve fucked up was gorgeous. It’s what I’m here for in this show, and ending on that note was enough to make me hopeful

[thatvictorian]

I posted 664 times in 2022

That's 660 more posts than 2021!

48 posts created (7%)

616 posts reblogged (93%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@suspiciouslyglowingmoss

@alcinas-darling

@ava-does-dumbassery

@hypo-critic-al

I tagged 323 of my posts in 2022

#dracula - 47 posts

#dracula daily - 35 posts

#lady dimitrescu - 33 posts

#jekyll and hyde - 28 posts

#lady dimitrescu x reader - 24 posts

#resident evil village - 23 posts

#jonathan harker - 21 posts

#writers - 19 posts

#the strange case of dr jekyll and mr hyde - 19 posts

#tanz der vampire - 18 posts

Longest Tag: 83 characters

#how dare you give him emotions he's not supposed to have those he is not hysterical

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

See the full post

55 notes - Posted November 1, 2022

#4

See the full post

59 notes - Posted April 26, 2022

#3

Donna's Hands

I could talk about her hands forever. The gentle curves of her slender fingers, her neatly painted nails, the way they gently rest on Angie's waist with gentle care. GOOD LORD

The way I'd love to sit and watch her sew by the fire, never faulting. The way her hands know the materials she uses, the way her hands would fit perfectly on my waist, the way she'd kiss my lips.

102 notes - Posted May 15, 2022

#2

Love Aflame

 Love, Aflame

Pov: You’re a maid who had been working for Lady Dimitrescu for quite some time. Recently you’ve caught the flu and have been reduced to bedrest. 

Warnings: Some slight anger from Lady Dimitrescu and a small argument between them. Other than that, this is fluff! A word a few might not know! Pulchritudinous! It means beautiful.  This was written for @alcinasdarling but also for @ladydimitrescuworship

Working in House Dimitrescu wasn’t exactly easy. The Lady’s daughters tended to be very aggressive in a playful way, and the Lady herself could have a bit of a temper. Although, you had worked up quite the good relationship between you. After the first year, you had been promoted to grand chambermaid due to your ability to follow orders and sarcastic sense of humor.  Perhaps the work had bored you way more than you had cared to notice, as you had taken up writing down your thoughts in a journal. 

The journal, old but usable, had been gifted to you. And by that, it was really just left on your nightstand. Usually when Lady Dimitrescu left you small gifts of appreciation, they were left with some sort of note. However when you had found it, there were none. 

December 18th, 

“I have begun my daily tasks as per usual, getting dressed and fixing my hair. The Lady has requested I clean the ballroom for she intends to host a ball. Of course, after eavesdropping   over-hearing a conversation between her and Mother Miranda, I knew this was really a ploy to hunt for test subjects and prey. It is now time for the Lady’s bath.”   

 “That’s an old entry.. Perhaps it’s about time I write another,”  You thought, picking up a pen that looked like a quill. After all, it could be quite frustrating trying to write with actual ink. The ball itself hadn’t actually been that interesting aside from sharing your first kiss with the Lady. Socializing isn't exactly easy when you know what the real reason was behind the whole event. The girls had been cleaned up and put in fine dresses, and the Lady wore a glorious red dress with fur on the shoulders.

December 20th, 

It has been sometime since I last wrote, perhaps I should do this more often now that the Lady has restricted me to bedrest. It is quite frustrating, as I can’t do any of my regular duties and feel quite useless just laying here. The ball itself was full of the usual boring guests, people from the village. No one I knew however. But I got the most incredible gift I could’ve ever asked for. Alcina had kissed me, her wine flavored lips pressed against mine. And when she kissed me for the first time, I felt something of which I could not name. At the time, I could not find the right words. Even when she had asked me how it made me feel. When I had told her I could not say, her lips upturned into a grin. As if the mere idea of making words incomprehensible to me was the most enjoyable thing in the world.

“Y/N, I have come to inspect your health,” Lady Dimitrescu’s voice called from the other side of the door.  You jumped, startled by the suddenness of her presence. The door began to open as you scrambled to hide the journal under the covers of your sheets.  Lady Dimitrescu stood high above you, moving to sit on your bed. Her weight tilting you slightly, she smiled.   “How are you feeling darling?” She purred, her golden eyes puncturing you with their gaze. You hesitated to answer her, causing her smile to drop. “I asked you a question, you are expected to answer. Or have you lost that precious voice of yours?” She growled. “No mistress, I have not.. I am feeling better.  I only ask to return to my work. It’s killing me just sitting here, I feel suffocated,” You said, clutching the sheets nervously. Lady Dimitrescu’s gaze softened as you coughed a few times, a light burn in your throat. “My dear, you are not well and I will not have you making yourself worse,” She stated firmly. Scoffing and rolling your eyes you tried to get up but were held down firmly by the woman, the journal slipping out from the covers and onto the floor.

“Oh? What’s this?” Lady Dimitrescu bent slightly to reach the item, easily holding your frantic self down. “N-nothing stop! Put it down! Hey! Can you hear me up there!?” You rambled on until she covered your mouth. Her eyes scanned the entry before she snapped the journal shut.  “Well.. isn’t this interesting..” she murmured, scooping you gently out of the bed. The urge to protest was quickly swallowed by the excitement and admiration rising in your chest. For a murderer, she truly was beautiful. Her ebony hair in soft curls, her porcelain skin, and most of all her air.  She carried you for a while through the hallways, soft candlelight warming your skin.  

Eventually you reached her room, she didn’t drop you for a moment. Not even as she bent slightly to enter the room. 

Finally she sat you on her bed. “Now pet, I want you to stay there until I return alright?” She purred. You nodded, swinging your legs. “Sure why not, after I assist you in–”, She raised a finger.  Lady Dimitrescu slipped into her bathroom, returning a short moment later in a white nightgown that, if the light landed on it right, was slightly transparent. “Wow.. just wow.. She’s.. incredible..”  You thought as she strode around to her side of the bed and slipped under the covers. Moving quickly to avoid her crushing you, you pulled the covers around you. A coughing fit racked your body as you leaned back against the pillows. 

“Easy my dear..” Alcina whispered, rubbing your stomach. Her fingers against your thin nightgown sent cold shivers throughout your body. Her smell, her touch. The way she carried herself so restrained so as to not hurt you by accident. God just her… 

It was hard not to leap up and kiss her, but the fear of destroying the relationship restrained you very well. “Thank you mistress, I appreciate it,” You whispered.  She smiled again, tilting your head over. She ran a finger across your lips before pulling you closer so that your noses were almost touching. “May I kiss you?” She asked in a breathy whisper. Your answer was pressing your lips against hers, rolling over her to straddle her lower stomach. At first you had been lifting yourself up but she pulled forward, cupping your cheeks with both hands. At last, your lips were touching. Her breath filling your lungs, the smell of the wine she drank filling your nose. The kiss lasted for a while, neither of you stopping to properly breathe. “My my draga mea, you taste so sweet..” 

All you could do was stare at her pulchritudinous body. “And you too mistress, I apologize for staring.” You tried to match her formal tone, even though your size made the romantic pose quite a funny scene. She chuckled, bouncing you slightly. In order to stop yourself from falling face forward onto her face, you rested your head on her chest.  “Rest now my dear, do not worry about your weight. I assure you, I am comfortable,” she said in a hushed tone. Soon the room had become quiet, the only sounds being Alcina’s breathy sighs of contentment as she breathed. Her skin and nightgown, warm. Sleep soon came to take you under its wing, Alcina stroking your hair.

Thank you for reading!! This is my first fic so I apologize for it being so short!

181 notes - Posted April 26, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Mother Miranda said it's my turn on the xbox

267 notes - Posted May 23, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[the-insomniac-emporium]

RE8 Ladies + Love Languages

While this isn't terribly long per character, I am putting it under a read-more for the combined length. Some characters have more details than others, partially due to how much I've written for them (and therefore had time to think about how they show their affections). For once the contents are not in alphabetical order. Crazy, right? PS there's a very, very brief implication of NSFW in Daniela's section.

Features the entire Dimitrescu family, Mother Miranda, Donna Beneviento, and as a lil bonus Ava.

Cassandra Dimitrescu:

Primary Love Language: Physical touch

Secondary Love Language: Acts of Service

Examples: Constantly wants to be touching some part of her lover, even if she sometimes pretends otherwise, from hand holding to making them sit in her lap. So goddamn touch starved. Preferably sleeps with her lover sprawled out on top of her, weighing her down, soothed by the constant pressure. Seriously, this woman needs someone to hold her as close as possible, running their fingers through her hair, pressing soft little kisses along her neck + shoulder. And then repeat. Every single day. For life.

Treating her lover’s wounds, or bringing them tea to soothe their nightmares, or monitoring their health when they're sick (see: Bound Blood + We Don’t Talk About That). Cassandra hates feeling like she owes someone, and isn’t fond of others owing her (because when they pay her back, she might end up owing them “the difference”). When it comes to love, however, all debts feel paid as soon as they are incurred. She does things for her beloved because she cares for them, expecting nothing in return. Sure, she’ll complain about the effort, but it doesn’t really bother her, and she truly hopes her lover knows that.

Mother Miranda:

Primary Love Language: Acts of Service

Secondary Love Language: Gift Giving

Examples: Despite the decades she has spent as a Goddess, commanding the willing masses, Miranda doesn’t put much emphasis on words. Instead, she values actions above all else. She doesn't care if someone says that they are devoted to her, she wants to see the effects of that devotion. In turn, she much prefers to show her affection rather than voice it, even if it leaves her lover less sure of her feelings. One must keep in mind that she is the leader of an entire region, and the fact that she chooses to personally take care of something for you means a hell of a lot. Even if it’s just making you a cup of tea whenever she brews some for herself, or something as big as setting up a studio for you and your personal projects, or simply ensuring that your favorite meals are added to the rotation.

Similar, in some aspects, to her preference to showcase her love rather than announce it, Miranda takes pride in her ability to select gifts. She remembers just about everything you ever tell her, easily memorizing things you express interest in. Though she won’t make a big deal out of it, you’ll often find little gifts from her lying around, casual reminders of how much of her attention is devoted to you.

Daniela Dimitrescu:

Primary Love Language: Words of Affirmation

Secondary Love Language: Physical Touch

Examples: What can she say, she loves to be worshipped. Having someone look at her with eyes full of adoration, one hand cupping her cheek, as they list a thousand reasons why they love her? That’s all she wants. Or sitting with her lover’s head in her lap, listening to them recite poetry that reminds them of her, while she runs her fingers through their hair. Ooh, or hearing them cry out her name like something holy as she all but buries her head between their legs. But don’t worry, she’s just as eager to return the favor, singing soft praises dedicated to her beloved. Admittedly, her compliments are sometimes a tad roundabout (so to speak).

“Mmm,” she’ll hum, “I’m the luckiest woman in the world. Living in a castle, my every need catered to, endless life, and, of course, the most darling little pet I could ever ask for. What more could I want?” Then she’ll pull her lover close, a kiss against their pulse point to claim them as her own. It’s impossible for her to determine her favorite place to touch her lover. There are little spots that elicit sweet sounds from them, then there are places where their warmth is a tad fiercer than normal, pure bliss against her own freezing skin. Wherever she touches them, it’s a silent declaration of her love.

Bela Dimitrescu:

Primary Love Language: Quality Time

Secondary Love Language: Words of Affirmation

Examples: It doesn’t matter what she does with her lover, as long as they are together, in the same room if not actively pressed against each other. Any hobby of theirs is one that she’ll instantly take interest in. An academic at heart, she loves to learn, regardless of the subject, and takes endless delight in learning from those close to her. There’s something incredible about the feeling she gets when she gets a chance to show her lover how much she remembers, and she sees that spark of joy in their eyes.

Considering her fondness for classical literature, it’s no surprise that she adores using language to convey the depths of her affection. Whether she’s quoting Sappho or Shakespeare, she often relies on dead poets to express herself. In turn, she cannot even begin to describe the feeling she gets when her lover returns the gesture, especially if they go so far as to write something original for her. More than once she’s tried to craft her own poetry, but has found herself lacking (at least to her own standards). One thing she enjoys is memorizing poetry written by someone from her lover’s home country, assuming that they’re not from Romania.

Alcina Dimitrescu:

Primary Love Language: Gift Giving/Physical Touch

Secondary Love Language: Quality Time

Examples: Considering the era in which she was born, it’s not terribly surprising that Alcina’s affection often manifests in less obvious ways. A hand on her lover’s back, guiding them along, or letting her knee touch theirs when they sit next to each other, or gently reaching out to give one of their hands a soft pat during quiet conversations. On top of that, she gives out gifts almost constantly. Oh, her lover very briefly mentioned enjoying a local artist? Well, Alcina will be certain to purchase several (or most) of their recent work. Did her beloved muse out loud about not having much jewelry? That won’t do! She’ll get them a large assortment, including plenty that bear the crest of House Dimitrescu. Everyone will know who her lover is, if only for the way that they are adorned with her loveliest finery.

Much like her eldest daughter (who likely takes after her mother), Alcina also enjoys the barest of interactions with her darling. With the endless stretch that is her potential lifespan, she knows that she has all the time in the world to learn new skills, or experience all that the village has to offer. Nothing warms her heart quite like the idea of getting to enjoy those things with the people that matter most to her- namely her partner and her children.

Donna Beneviento:

Primary Love Language: Quality Time

Secondary Love Language: Gift Giving

Examples: An odd mix of shy and calculating, Donna Beneviento is not one to rely on words, nor does she often take grand actions where others may observe. Instead, she works (and weaves) within the shadows. When it comes to love, she prefers to let her priorities reveal her feelings. Day after day, she chooses to spend time with her partner, regardless of the activity. If they ask for her company, she gives it without hesitation. She invites them to join her in the garden, or give input on her latest creations, and ensures that they are readily involved in just about every aspect of her life.

Being as talented as she is with crafting (both the overall art of doll-making and the somewhat related ability to sew all sorts of clothing), ‘tis not surprising that she also turns to gifts to express herself. From knitting hats in winter to soft blankets when her partner is sick, she provides for them in the easiest way she knows how.

Avaskian Caldwell:

Primary Love Language: Physical Touch/Words of Affirmation

Secondary Love Language: Quality Time

Examples: Arguably the most touch-starved person ever to exist, xer only possible rival being Cassandra. Struggles to strike a balance between hating being touched unexpectedly and wanting constant physical attention. Will give affectionate shoulder/back pats, loves forehead kisses/bumps, literally cannot sleep without cuddling someone/something (such as a stuffed animal). At the same time, a lifetime of severe anxiety has made it so that xe often relies on verbal encouragement from others to feel good/motivate xerself. Xe craves compliments, and defaults to poetry as a way of expressing love for others. One might think that being selectively mute might put a damper on this. However, if anything, it just furthers the value of xer speech. You know that xe cares about you if xe not only writes you poetry, but reads it aloud for you.

In true introvert/anxiety-riddled-bean fashion, Ava is also more than content to just chill with loved ones. Xe grew up in an admittedly fucked up family, but some of xer happiest childhood memories are of xerself sitting with xer brother, watching while he played through videogame after videogame, or sitting together on the big couch and reading. Years later, xe has a strong instinct to want to recreate those moments with xer new (slightly less fucked up) family.

[thessalian]

42 Touching for Alisaie and Remi? :D

Goldendale, following the fight with Coryvel

Alisaie looked around the bedroom at Fort Cupcake that she shared with Remi, more than a little rueful as she glanced at the badly burned clothes and small pile of singed hair by the chest at the foot of the bed, on which Alisaie sat, brushing last strands of hair off her shoulders. Then she glanced to the mirror, looking at the results of Remi's efforts to trim the scorched bits away while retaining as much of the length as possible. The result was even but asymmetrical, and the short-shorn ends on one side tickled her ear a little. "If I wear that hair comb Ava gave me," she said, "and braid it down the opposite shoulder, that should hide the worst of it. Thanks," she added, looking away from her reflection to smile at Remi. "I don't think I'd cut my own hair nearly as well as you did."

Remi, standing behind Alisaie as she tucked her dagger away, shrugged with a slightly bashful smile. "You're welcome. I cut my own sometimes, when it's getting too shaggy. It'a a lot easier doing it on someone else."

"Hmm. I'll have to try doing yours sometime." Alisaie reached for the longer ends of her hair to pull them around, starting her attempt at a braid. "I used to do haircuts for the staff at the Tipsy Pixie. Though I had scissors. I should have asked Miranda if she had sewing scissors ... but that would have deprived me of seeing how nimble those hands of yours can be ... with a smaller blade," she added, her smile turning into a teasing, promising grin. "I know how well you use them in a lot of other ways."

Remi didn't bother trying to stifle the giggle that comment brought out (Alisaie considered that alone a gift beyond measure from the usually composed and stoic not-quite-paladin). Instead, she reached forward to touch Alisaie's hand, stilling the aasimar's efforts at self-braiding. "Let me help you with that."

Alisaie took her hands away without hesitation in a show of absolute trust, even as she asked, "If you want to, but ... have you ever braided hair before?"

"Once or twice." Remi smiled a bit sadly at the memory of Beverley, one of the Combine's soldiers, who had worn her hair in a braid wound around her head to act as padding for her helm, and sometimes needed assistance. "Not ... recently," came the admission, after a moment of minor fumbling. "And not often. But once or twice."

Alisaie accepted that, though the next bit of minor fumbling got a slight huff of a chuckle that was more sheepish than anything else. "Yeah; my hair's a lot. This is the first time it's been cut since I was about thirteen, so ... you know. Lotta hair."

"I like it. Not just how it looks - though it looks great." Remi was conscious that while not precisely vain, Alisaie did appreciate looking her best, and anyone who grew out their hair that long was going to be sensitive about how it looked after it was shortened against her will, so she was quick to make the assurance. "It's just ... nice to have my hands in."

That got another chuckle from Alisaie. "I'll bypass the five or six naughty remarks that brings to mind and just say that the feeling's mutual. I mostly did my own until I lost those gold clips. There's definitely a feeling of being cared for having someone else do it."

Since that was at least part of what Remi was going for, and the kind of thing Remi had a hard time verbalising, Remi blushed and smiled ... and then cursed as she managed to tangle her fingers into the braid in that moment of distraction. "Oh. Oops!"

Alisaie just laughed. "It's okay." She reached into her haversack and grabbed a brush. "I can take over if you want, once you get untangled--"

"Noooo no no no." Remi gently took the brush from Alisaie's hand, though she knew that if Alisaie had really wanted to keep hold of it, the outcome of the contest would have been very uncertain. "I'll get it. I mean, I do need the practice."

"You don't--" Seeing the futility of telling Remi it wasn't necessary, Alisaie gave a cheerful sigh of surrender and said, "Okay, but now I'm really glad I didn't ask for anything complicated, like an inverse braid or something. Pretty, but complicated."

Remi frowned a bit thoughtfully, but stored that aside for later as she untangled her fingers from Alisaie's hair and started brushing it smooth again. The contented sigh she got from Alisaie suggested that brushing, at least, was something Remi did very well right from the outset. Learning braiding would take far more time and effort if she wanted to go beyond the basics.

Several weeks later, in a fancy resort hotel in Egref

"That feels different."

Remi grinned a little, standing behind the vanity stool in their honeymoon suite. Then she surreptitiously checked the diagram in the book she'd received from, of all people, her father. Amell Crestwind apparently knew his daughter far better than Remi could have imagined, and had passed a book titled "101 Braided Hairstyles" along to her at their pre-wedding lunch. "Thought it'd be useful for you both," he'd said, and the tone said more - how Remi had always been a tactile sort of individual and hair like Alisaie's was a glorious plaything for someone like that; how Remi was as sparing with words as Amell himself was (Corri spoke enough for husband and daughter both) and would probably appreciate another way to show her new wife affection. The less said about the apparent age of the book, and the suggestion that Amell once did Corri's hair and probably did to this day, the better.

Pushing those thoughts back into the 'how my parents met' box where they belonged, Remi just said, "I'm trying something a little different this time."

Alisaie raised her eyebrows in interested curiosity, but apparently decided to make Remi's life easier by sitting still. "Just for reassurance, 'different' isn't bad--" There was a minor wince as Remi pulled a little harder than she'd meant to, and one of Alisaie's new wings stretched out in a sort of reflex action that thwapped Remi in the shoulder. "Oh, shit; sorry!"

"It's okay! It's okay! Sorry - I didn't mean to pull." Remi went back to weaving the long white-gold hair into the patterns she wanted, being more careful so she didn't earn another hit from a wing. "Guess we're going to need to get used to that, too."

Alisaie gave a careful shrug, as much to keep her wings still as to avoid moving too much and making things harder for Remi. "There are worse things, Ree. I'm not going to talk too much shit about the most epic wedding present ever. But I might ask whatever aarakocra tailor we find about finger-preening the feathers. I know birds do it, so it'd be good to know."

"For both of us," Remi added with an anticipatory sort of smile. She enjoyed braiding Alisaie's hair as much as Alisaie enjoyed having it braided, and adding an extra bit of grooming on feathers as soft as the ones on Alisaie's wings was no hardship at all.

"Okay, if you insist." The words were offhand, but the tone was bashfully pleased; she clearly liked the idea.

"I do," Remi said, focusing on the last foot or so of Alisaie's hair.

She could hear the grin in Alisaie's voice when she replied, "You said that yesterday, if I remember right."

Remi chuckled. "So did you. And I think I'm done." She tied the end of Alisaie's hair with a bit of gold ribbon and stepped back, watching to see how Alisaie was going to check on the 'something a little different'.

The chuckle became a full-on laugh as Alisaie ran a finger along the chain that ran from the earring in her ear to her eyebrow, using her daily charge of Clairvoyance in the place of carefully positioned mirrors. Her tone was delighted when she said, "You did an inverse braid! When'd you learn to do that?"

Remi held up the book a little sheepishly. "I ... got some help. Let me know if there are others in here you might like?"

Alisaie didn't respond to that verbally, but the deep, heartfelt kiss she gave Remi was answer enough.

[chilly-flame]

would you ever consider writing ava x deborah? that would be a dream come true. (no pressure, I just love all your writings and think you’d do a brilliant job!)

Hello, kind anonymouse!

I so appreciate your question. I love the Hacks fandom--everyone has been creating the most fantastic stories and videos and I am here for it all!

However, I have some limitations that will probably (I never say never) prevent me from dipping my toe in. So, the short answer is: unlikely.

Stop here to avoid egregious, self-indulgent navel gazing below about Why I Probably Won't Write Hacks.

1) Comedy. I can write fun but not funny. Both Ava and Deborah have such biting, incredible wit, there's no way I could get there. When you have exceedingly good source material where everyone is beautifully drawn and very specific, it's really scary to get in that groove.

2) Ava. I tend toward the sweetness and light rather than the darkness of characters. As a writer I habitually externalize the conflicts around relationships because I want my characters to make good choices for the right reasons, even if something goes wrong as a result. (It's a goody two-shoes failing for which I have been called out many times.) Ava, on the other hand, is a delicious, brilliant train wreck. I would have the burning desire to make her different, which is just wrong. Her egocentricity, impulsiveness, and total lack of self-consciousness are way out of my wheelhouse. (Even if I were 25 again I couldn't have written Ava. She is like an alien to me.)

3) The age gap is very wide. (One could say Swan Queen was even more dramatic, but I tried to overlook that 😆.) I just don't know if I'm capable of making it work without constantly noting their differences, which would just be boring.

Hope you can understand, anon, and I'm sorry to disappoint. Besides, I'm weirdly still feeling my Andy and Miranda these days. It's bizarre. I've got nothing new in the works but that could change soon.

Thanks again for the question and for the nice compliment!

[page-doctor-bekker]

Rooftop - Part 1 (transfemme!sarah)

(A/N) hey! i have a long ass one-shot and i kinda of want to make it lead off a lil bit of a cliffhanger so i've got part one here for you. this takes place a few days after this oneshot

-

-

Sarah grabs her white coat from her desk chair, and stares at the embroidery.

Sarah Reese, MD

Dept. of Psychiatry

She sighed, before retreating to the bathroom to tuck and dress. Even after her orchiectomy, tucking was still mildly uncomfortable. At least she had graduated from using tape to using a gaff, which was much more comfortable and easy to take off at the end of the day.

Once she was dressed, clad in a pair of relaxed, navy blue dress pants and a pale pink button-down shirt speckled with cartoonish images of various types of fruit, she grabbed her lab coat, and shrugged it on.

There was a mirror on her closet door, and she caught a glimpse of herself in it. She gulped, and stood in front of it, staring herself down.

She pressed the pad of her thumb against her jawline, and dragged her skin around in a feeble attempt to soften it. Her jawline led her to her chin, the cleft in it causing a pang of dysphoria in her stomach. She puckered her lips, trying to make them look fuller, but that only exacerbated her chin. She sighed, and gave up. It is what it is.

She let her hand fall to her side, and fiddled with her coat. After a moment, she scowled at herself.

“Move on, Sarah, just move on,” She mumbled to herself, taking a hair tie from her wrist and putting her hair up into an unintentionally neat bun. No matter how hard she tried, she could never succeed in creating a messy one. That required more finesse than she had.

She smiled at herself, although her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I am a good doctor,” She affirmed, “A good doctor who made a mistake,” She quoted Dr. Charles, the thought of him filling her with calm.

“And Ava,” She gave herself a confident look, “Is not worth my time. I don’t even like her anyways.”

She paused for a moment.

“Because I don’t like women,” She shrugged, “And someday I will meet a man who loves me for me.”

“Don’t give me that look,” She snapped at herself, “Just because I’m not cis doesn’t mean I can’t be straight.”

“And I deserve better than Ava anyways,” She opened her mouth, then closed it, like a fish. She opened it again, “Someone better who is a man. I will find the man for me. The only reason I think I like Ava is because I haven’t found the man for me. That’s okay. I’m only 26. Some people don’t get married until after 30.”

“I am a confident woman,” She declared, “A confident straight woman.”

She started to walk away, but she looked back.

“And i’m a good doctor,” She said, sharply.

She saw Dr. Charles outside the hospital, and he waved her over. She ran to catch up with him, out of breath by the time she arrived, “Hello Dr. Charles,” She tried to catch her breath, thinking about how insane she must look right now.

“Dr. Reese,” He greeted with a nod, “How was your break?”

“It was very good,” She announced, “I feel like I am making progress with myself. I am a good doctor! What happened was a mistake, and it doesn’t define my clinical skills.”

He looked at her skeptically, “Good.. Good,” He gave a smile, “In my experience, all you really need after a mistake is to treat a few patients successfully, so I’ve volunteered you to be in the ED this morning.”

Her heart sank.

“And then, when Maggie dismisses you for lunch, come see me in my office and we can chat about what you did differently today,”

Sarah nodded, stuffing her hands in her pockets so she could fidget discreetly. If he knew I’m anxious, he might send me home again.

He gave her a pat on the back, “Holler if you need me. I’m just a page away.”

He left her at the doors to the ED and she took a deep breath, and smiled at the big red letters.

“Help! I need help!”

Go time.

She ran towards the direction of the voice, a large man in his mid-40s who was carrying a young girl, maybe 5 years old, in a bridal-style position.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Reese, I’m going to help you, tell me about your daughter,” She prompted, pressing two fingers onto the girl’s neck while awkwardly walking with the man.

“Ah, she’s my niece, Miranda Maxwell,” He corrected, “Uh, she’s almost six, she’s got a.. uh… Heart condition? She was born with it. Her mom said she sees a doctor here uh… Dr… Dr… Beaker? Brekker?”

“Dr. Bekker?” The name made Sarah’s heart flutter.

“Yes, that’s the one. Anyways, she collapsed today, and says her chest hurts, and she’s a bit blue around her lips and nails.”

Dr. Reese took Miranda from the man, and took a light jog into the emergency department. The man took off after her. Upon entering the ED, she called to Maggie, “Five years old with a congenital heart condition, chest pain, trouble breathing, rapid pulse, blue lips and nails, where do you want me?”

“Treatment five.”

Dr. Reese set the girl down on the bed and Monique rushed to start an IV, “Let’s get her on the monitors, and get her changed into a gown,” Sarah instructed, “And Maggie?”

Maggie looked up from where she was conversing with the girl’s uncle.

“Page Dr. Bekker, Miranda is a patient of her’s, and get Miranda’s parents here as soon as possible,” She looked back towards the girl, “Miranda? My name is Dr. Reese, I’m going to help you feel better.”

“It hurts,” She cried, clutching at her chest.

“I know, I know, we’re going to figure out why,” Dr. Reese cooed softly, before taking on a more serious tone with Monique, “Get a CBC, BMP, urinalysis, 12-lead EKG, and get her on oxygen until Dr. Bekk-”

“Talking about me?” Dr. Bekker startled Dr. Reese, “My ears were itching. Miranda, did you miss me? Is that why you’re back so soon?”

Miranda giggled through the pain at that, and Dr. Bekker smiled. Dr. Reese almost allowed herself to feel endeared by the rare display of kindness, but quickly regained composure.

“Maggie, where are we with her parents?”

“They’re on their way, but they said to do whatever it takes to help Miranda,” Maggie called back, and Dr. Bekker nodded.

“What seems to be the problem, Mindy?” Dr. Bekker pulled her stethoscope off of her neck, and pressed the drum to Miranda’s chest, and listened thoughtfully.

“I felt weird and then fell down. My chest hurts real bad,” She complained, “I can’t breathe.”

“Let’s get an echocardiogram,” Dr. Bekker noted to Monique, who nodded, and started to set up the ultrasound machine, “Does it hurt more when you breathe?”

Miranda shook her head.

She’s so gentle with her.

Sarah smiled.

“Okay, I’m going to look at your heart with this special tool, you’ve done this before,” Dr. Bekker assured, before squeezing the gel onto the girl’s chest and pressing the ultrasound wand down.

She can be gentle. And kind.

“Psych residents, I swear. God, isn’t anyone in this hospital competent?”

Sarah was shocked back to reality by Ava, who was snapping her fingers at her, “Dr. Reese? What tests did you order?”

“Uh… CBC, BMP, urinalysis, and a 12-lead-EKG?” She trembled, her voice seeming more questioning than answering.

“Okay,” She said quietly, focused on the ultrasound.

A few minutes of quiet later, Dr. Bekker put the wand away, “Clean her up, and,” Dr. Bekker looked back at Miranda, “And if I remember correctly, your popsicle of choice is cherry?” She winked at Miranda, removed her gloves, and helped herself to hand sanitizer off the wall. Dr. Reese nodded at Monique, who was wiping the girl off, and left as well.

“Um…” Dr. Reese started, “What do you think?”

“Transfer her up to the PICU and let me know when her parents get here,” Dr. Bekker told Maggie, before turning to Dr. Reese, “I think she’s in congestive heart failure,” She shrugged, “Did you see the ultrasound? She has a complete atrioventricular septal defect, she’s been my patient for the past year, we knew this was coming.”

“Why didn’t you operate earlier?”

“Her parents wanted to wait,” Ava shrugged and rolled her eyes, “Nobody wants to put their four year old daughter through open heart surgery. But now,” She gestured back towards the room, “Their five year old daughter is going to go through open heart surgery today.”

“Well is she going to be okay?”

“If I can get her in for- I’m sorry,” She interrupted herself, “Why do you care?”

“She’s…” Sarah balled part of her coat up in her hand, “She’s my patient, I just-”

“Not anymore she’s not,” Ava huffed, “Thanks for not killing her. Wish I could say the same for Mr. Nearling.”

Ava flounced off.

Sarah watched her leave, and turned to Maggie, who pointed at treatment 1.

“Ear infection.”

Dr. Reese nodded, grabbing the tablet the charge nurse was holding out, and heading to treatment 1.

By lunch, she had treated three ear infections, a gunshot wound, a miscarriage, and sent a psychosis patient up to the psych ward. By the time Maggie sent her off for her lunch break, she had practically forgotten about Ava.

Dr. Charles was waiting for her when she opened the door to see him, and he gave her a tight-lipped smile, “How was it?”

“Uh, good,” She sat across from him, and he pulled out his own lunch while she unpacked hers, “I saw Dr. Bekker.”

“Oh? How was that?”

Sarah tapped her foot, “One of her CHD patients came in, um…” She took a bite of her sandwich, “I ordered some tests for her. She was snarky about it when I talked to her afterwards though.”

Dr. Charles shrugged, “Well, Ava will always be Ava, regardless of-”

“She said, um… She thanked me for not killing the patient and said she wished she could say the same for Mr. Nearling.”

He sighed, and nodded, “Well, it’s only been a few days. She’ll get over it. You guys were good friends before, you’ll be good friends after a while..”

“Good friends?” She questioned, “What makes you say that?”

“Well, y’know,” He motioned back and forth with his hands, “You’d chat, you seemed to be happy when you saw her, she teased you a bit. All of Ava’s telltale friendship signs.”

Sarah was quiet, instead choosing to take a bite of her sandwich and chew thoughtfully.

“Tell me, Sarah, do you like Ava?”

“What do you mean?” Sarah asked, carefully.

“Like… You know, are you interested in her? Romantically?”

Sarah choked on her sandwich, coughing a few times.

“Remember to chew, Dr. Reese,” Dr. Charles reprimanded.

“I don’t like her,” Sarah defended, “I don’t care about her. I deserve better. If I still liked her after she talked to me like that, even if I liked her in the first place, I’d be crazy.”

Dr. Charles shrugged, taking a bite of his salad.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What?”

“The shrug.”

“What do you think it means?”

“Did you do Yolanda’s intake?”

“Who?”

Sarah nodded, stuffing her half-eaten lunch back into the bag and tossing it in the trash.

“Sarah, you haven’t finished your lunch-”

“Not hungry, I’ll see you around,” Sarah started to leave, but Dr. Charles stopped her.

“I’m supposed to pass a note on for you.”

-

-

(A/N) come back tomorrow for pt 2 lol

[slothgiirl]

Nothing’s gonna take you from my side (mc x noah fic)

15k. in which mc deals with the fallout of redfield/jane all while reconnecting with the boy they thought they’d lost forever. should be gender neutral but @ me if i made a mistake.

warning for mental illness. 

happy spooky month. (i basically started playing choices again and that made me miss my boy noah marshall and here we are 48 hours later. pls dont let this flop

before.

You can't sleep with that tree outside your window. Still, out of the corner of your eye as you get ready to lie in bed awake until morning, you can still see Cody's dead body in the branches. And every single time it's a rush for the bathroom as bile rises in your throat.

It's five in the morning when you finally snap, grabbing the axe from your garage and sinking the blade into the tree trunk with a satisfying wack. You can't sleep. You're a newly minted adult but ever shadow in the night, in the dark, makes you jump.

You swing the axe again, with a closed mouth scream of animal desperation.

The precious few hours you are able to sleep are hardly enough: especially when shut eye equals nightmares for you. It's a mixture of Jane and the monster who turned out to be Jane in a goddamn tragedy and all the really fucked up things that didn't happen (everyone dying). You dream of the girl who was Jane. You dream of being stuck in the same way that Jane was, as you scream and scream and no one ever comes to help you and it's easy to see why your friend ended up as twisted, a poor version of herself, after being left alone to rot all those years.

And that makes you think of him.

You swing the axe even as the tears sting your eyes because it wasn't what everyone thought. Maybe. . .you can never find it in you to blame him for his actions, not when you understood-understand him so well. It was Jane. And in the end.

You leave the blade stuck in the tree trunk, not even halfway cut, as you cover your mouth with your hands and let out a grueling cry. It's an accumulation of living in fear for months: of the terror that seems to live in your mind even in the aftermath, even when the woods have been peaceful for months. Slumping into the ground, you hug your knees to your chest, still in pajamas, and let yourself cry. Again.

Sometimes it feels like crying is all you're capable of. It seems strange to keep on living when-it should've been you. He deserved to live, to be happy, to be more. . .

“Aw kid,” Cid says, walking up to you, cup of coffee in hand. “Let's get you inside.”

You nod shakily, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, before getting up, brushing the dirt off your legs.

Cid wraps an arm around you, giving you more care and attention then your parents have in years. No wonder you understood him so well. You should’ve reached out sooner. You should’ve never pulled away after Jane. . .

“Jesus kid, you’re freezing. How long have you been out here for?”

Shrugging, you utter, “I-I couldn’t sleep. . .the tree.” And fuck, even to your own ears you sound like a complete disaster. Where did the fire that had you charging into the woods for Andy go? You look at your reflection in the glass planes of the back door and see a teenager who looks more like a ghost then a real living person.

There’s dark shadows under your eyes that no amount of concealer could hide. You lips a harsh line across your mouth. And there was a haunted quality in your eyes that matched the photos of refugees fleeing war. It was PTSD as Lucas would say back when none of your friends could sleep through the night.

“I’ll call someone to get rid of the tree,” Cid offers, as he gently guides you up the stairs, “just try and get some sleep. How else are you gonna enjoy your last summer before college?”

You nod listlessly.

Before you can curl up in the guest bedroom, you stare out into the woods behind your house. But there’s no shadows congregating into a shadowy person. There’s no red eyes glowing from the treeline and you have to wonder if Ava’s right; if Noah really is. . .dead.

“Relax Lucas,” Stacy grins, “no one’s gonna know,” she says, taking her hand off the steering wheel to slap his arm.

Lucas rolls his eyes. “I didn’t even say anything.”

You’re sitting smushed in the back with Lily and Ava and Dan. Andy had physical therapy today, otherwise there would be even less space in the back seat. Though Stacey’s mom van is roomy enough.

“Then why do you look constipated,” Ava laughs, not looking up from her latest book on witchcraft.

“Ava!” Lily giggles besides you.

“Have you figured out what to do with Pritch’s house,” Lucas asks instead.

“Not really,” Ava admits, “it's a dope house but. ..” everyone sombers up, “I-I don’t really want to live that close to the woods, y’know.”

It’s lily that jolts you all out of the awkward mood. “Maybe you should’ve gone to a college out of state then,” she prods, “Didn’t you get into Washington University?”

Ava shrugs, “community college is way more fucking cheap though. We can’t all get a full ride to Berkeley.”

Lily blushes, but smiles proudly all the same.

You stare out the window as the woods thin out, as you drive further and further down the interstate and a bolt of panic enters your chest as you realize you’re leaving the woods behind. You wrap the jean jacket that isn’t yours more tightly around your chest. It’s summer. But there’s a chill in your bones that never seems to relent.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stacey teases, “Berkeley’s alright, but it’s no NYU.”

“Are you a big city girl now,” Ava teases her, finally shutting her book, “going to go meet your Mr. Big?”

“Since when do you watch sex in the city?”

“It’s Sex and the city actually,” Lucas corrects with a grin.

“We binged a couple of seasons at Andy’s house the other day. That Miranda lesbian episode was fucking gross though,” Ava adds.

“We’ve always lived in a small town,” Stacey explains, “and New York seems like a dream.”

“Pizza rat though,” Lily counters.

“Okay, you’ve got a point,” Stacey admits, “but it’ll be nice not being known as former Major Green’s daughter.”

“I thought you guys were working on it,” you speak up, slumped against the backseat.

“We are,” Stacey nods happily, “it’s not really my parents. It’s me too I guess. I hate when people act like that’s all I am. And I think it’ll be a great experience. I loved the campus when I visited.”

“I’m happy for you Stace,” Lucas says softly.

“Plus I’ll get to heckle Lucas around town!” Stacey says once again, taking her hand off the steering wheel to slap Lucas’ shoulder.

Lucas rolls his eyes. “You’re buying me McDonalds.”

“McDonalds sounds good,” Lily adds, “I could go for some nuggies before we hit up Ikea.”

“Nuggies,” Ava snorts as Stacey pulls up to the Mcdonalds across the street from Ikea.

“Do you not want nuggies,” Lily says arching a brow.

“Oh I want nuggies,” she replies shamelessly.

“What about you hon,” Stacey asks. There’s only one other car before you have to order but you’re not hungry. Your appetite seems to have vanished along with your sleep. Even getting rid of the tree hadn’t helped much. Currently you had taken to sleeping in the living room, but sleep was still hard to come by.

“I’m okay,” you answer, “maybe just a small coffee.”

Stacey glances over at Lucas, before fixing her concerned gaze on you. “You sure? We haven’t had anything to eat since we left.”

You wanted to say you hadn’t even had breakfast, but you don’t want her to get any more concerned then she already was. It had been six months and you were still fucked up. Meanwhile your friends had recovered. Maybe they weren’t at one hundred percent, but none of them were calling you crying at three in the morning. . .anymore. It was just you that couldn’t get over it.

And there was no one you could talk to.

They hadn’t been there at the end with him the way you had. They couldn’t understand. When you told them it was Jane and not Redfield, when you told them what Noah had sacrificed in the end, they couldn’t wrap their head around it. And they didn’t want to. They just wanted to move on.

But you couldn’t.

Some essential part of you was forever in the ruins, as if you’d never left that night at all.

And the only other person who could understand was there too.

Right?

He had to be.

The same way Jane had been.

It was a selfish wish, knowing how being tethered to the power could twist a person, but you couldn’t help it. It was Noah. If you were a better person, you’d wish he’d moved on like Jane, and maybe he had. Maybe that's why nothing had happened in the months since that night.

Dan slips his hand in yours, and squeezes.

You smile gently and try to focus on enjoying the day with your friends.

The woods seem strange without a monster lurking in the shadows.

You're not even that close: hadn't even stepped one foot in the woods since that night. When you'd emerged hysterically crying and covered in dirt, all banged up from Jane, uttering his name like a prayer for which no words exist and quickly been taken to the hospital, you were sure you'd never step foot in the woods again.

Andy told you days later that no one had been able to find the ruins after your friends. No one had recovered his body.

You swallow thickly, hands pressed into a fist at your sides. There might be nothing out there. But if there's any chance that he is-that he's alice in whatever shape or form, you can't live with yourself if you abandon him the same way you'd abandoned his sister.

Sure, you were kids. You hadn't known better with Jane. But you're 18 now. You won't repeat the same mistake twice.

“Noah,” you whisper, taking a step closer to the tree line on one of the roads into town. You couldn't be at home right now, not with the open house going on.

Nothing.

Not even the crack of leaves or a bird singing. Just eerie silence as though the power and woods were one and the same and without the monster lurking in the dark, the woods were less haunting: less magical.

“Noah,” you repeat, taking a step forward until your hand touches the bark of the nearest tree, still safely held in the daylight, “Noah, it's me. Are you out there?”

You sniffle as tears well up in your eyes because you don't know what to do if he's really gone. You barely knew what to do with him when he was alive, all the complicated feelings of love and loss between you made it too hard for you to think clearly when it came to him. You only knew you couldn't let him go. Not again.

Too bad.

He'd still. . .that night. . .

“I meant it,” you utter louder, “I'm not leaving you again Noah.” If he even remembered who he was. Jane hadn't always remembered. “Noah, please let me know you're still out there.” Your gaze flits about as you look around the woods hoping to see any sign of shadows pooling together or those burning red eyes.

But there's nothing.

You wrap your arms around your chest, lips pinched tightly because fuck maybe he really was gone and you should be happy he isn't a monster but it's Noah and you're selfish because you should hate him after what he'd done to Andy and the others and you but you can't and you just want him back but things are never going back to the way they were and maybe that's a good thing because before you hadn't spoken to Dan in years and you wouldn't have know where everyone was going to college but at least Noah was alive if not happy and-and-

-you're gasping for breath.

A panic attack.

The first time this happened, you hadn't known what to do. It had felt like dying, stuck in that chair unable to help your friends all over again. It had felt like a blow to the chest as Noah came to the cold hard realization that there wasn't much left of Jane in the monster.

It had been Dan who'd talked you through it. And you take deep breaths and try to calm down because you were going into the woods again.

Just not today.

Tires screech to a halt behind you as you try to compose yourself in the midst of tears, short choked breathes that leave you gasping, and you're always so fucking cold even in mid July. Your flannel and jean jacket do little to keep you warm.

“Hon,” Stacey calls out, running up next to you, before saying carefully, “what are you doing out here?”

“She's clearly not okay,” Connor sighs, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, taking your other side. “Shit you're freezing.”

“I'm fine,” you reply tightly, voice cracking.

Stacey smiles sadly, wrapping her arms around you in a tight hug, the kind of hug you've always wanted from your parents when they tell you everything's going to be alright and you actually believe them. “You're okay. They can't hurt you now.”

Connor looks back at his truck, emergency lights flashing, “we were going to get pizza, wanna come with us? It's family night.”

You hug Stacey right back, arms around her waist, chin on her shoulder, gazing out into the seemingly normal woods. “You guys do family night now?”

“We were going to make pizza,” Stacey mummers by your ear, “but we killed the yeast and the dough never rose.”

“So we're buying pizza now,” Connor adds with a laugh.

You nod, “if you think that's alright.”

“Of course it's alright,” Stacey responds right away, “you're always welcome at my house.”

Her words make you want to cry all over again. It's enough to tease the smallest of smiles out of your lips. “Sounds good.”

Her grip on you eases to match her brothers, one arm around your shoulder. You're flanked by the Green siblings: safe and sound.

They lead you back to Connor’s truck, gossiping about how Staceys moms still wondering if it's not too late for Stacey to major in economics and how leaving politics has actually made their family much better, but that might just be the family therapy they're all going to. “Mom also wanted to roadtrip to New York to drop Stacey off,” Connor grins, “s’ gonna be so embarrassing for you. Have your parents walk you to your first class.”

“Oh shut it you,” Stacey retorts, clicking her seat belt.

You glance back one last time at the woods and-

there, behind a dead tree, it's rotting husk is a bounty for all the decomposers and bugs that live in the woods, a pair of glowing blue eyes looking right at you. Your heart skips a beat as you place your hand on the window, whispering so softly, “Noah,” as Connor drives into town.

Neither sibling hears you.

“Are you sure you want to live here,” Andy says skeptically as Dan and Ava help you carry the boxes of things you'd decided to keep when you sold your old house. It had too many bad memories for you to sleep there. “It's-,”

Bound by the woods on three sides, the backyard merging with the woods of the small cottage from the 1930s, before the cookie cutter houses of the suburbs were built.

“It's got character,” Ava grins, tossing a box down in the hall. “Still can't believe your parents let you sell the house.”

“They really like Alaska,” you shrug. You weren't sure what part their research base was in. Were they even still in Alaska?

“I wish my parents let me move out already,” she rolls her eyes, “but no. If I'm staying for community college then I have to live with them.”

Andy sits on the couch, crutches resting on the wall next to him. “I still can't believe I have to repeat senior year.”

“At least we’re together,” Dan says shyly, taking care to put down the box he'd carried inside down and out of the way so no one will trip.

“And we don't have to worry about Redfield this time,” Ava adds.

Dan elbows her.

“What! I'm just saying!”

Andy rolls his eyes. “So you're back to being the scariest witch in town then?”

“Damn right I am,” Ava grins. “Check this out.” She sticks her hand out and even gets you to wander over to her. Ave glances at you all, making sure you're paying attention, before snapping her fingers.

Nothing happens.

“Um,” Andy's about to start.

Ava rolls her eyes, snapping her fingers once more.

This time, smoke wafts up from the space between her thumb and middle finger.

“Shit Ava,” Andy's eyes go wide. “Should we even be messing around with that again.”

“It's just magic,” Ava huffs.

You say nothing, wondering if Noah would show up now that you were closer to the woods. Closer to him.

He hadn't appeared since that day.

It was enough to make you wonder if you really were seeing things.

“Well whatever it was that,” Dan, swallows, “that power Pritch told you about. . .its still out there even if it's not. . .” he trails off as unsettled as Andy who had rapidly lost all color.

“No-no. It's gone,” Andy said, “right?”

“Ask them,” Ava nudges you with her arm, “you're the one that spends all your time staring at the woods.”

“I-ugh,” you stutter wondering what happened to leave you this much of a mess. You look in the mirror and wonder where the person who told off Cody and Britney for bullying your friends went.

“Ava,” Dan snaps. “leave them alone. Let's just-”

“Not talk about this,” Andy finishes.

“No one ever want to talk about it but it's right there,” Ava yells, pointing her hand out the window.

“I think it's gone dormant again,” you lie. “like before we found that place.”

“I hope so,” Andy mutters.

“I'll be fine here,” you reassure them. “I don't want to be afraid of the woods for the rest of my life.”

“Right,” Ava says with a pained smile. “Let's finish getting these boxes in so we can start watching what we do in the shadows.”

“Again,” Andy complains, “what's wrong with-”

“We're not watching spider-man again!” Dan groans.

“Spider-man is a trans icon,” Andy replies.

“The only acceptable spider-man is the 1st and 2nd movie with Tobey Mcguire,” Ava adds.

You giggle softly, “why can't we just watch both. It's not like we have school tomorrow.”

“Finally someone with a brain,” Dan smiles.

Noah tosses rocks into a lake, little pebbles he can't make skip.

You laugh, teasing him easily. “What a loser!” From your spot sitting on the lake edge.

He turns back towards you with a scowl that carries no real heat, “I’d like to see you do better.”

“You think I can't,” you retort easily, getting up and dusting the dirt and grass from your butt. You never did know when to back down from a challenge.

“I know you can't,” he grins.

“Asshole,” you bite back as he drops a few pebbles into your outstretched hand, warm from his touch, and doesn't that make your insides turn to mush.  

“Takes one to know one.”

You take a pebble into your hand and flick your wrist.

It sinks right where it lands.

“Motherfucker,” you curse as Noah breaks out into laughter, his wide brown eyes dancing with glee as you pout.

“Don’t be a sore loser.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you wave off, “best two out of three.”

“No,” Noah snips back, “you lost.”

You roll your eyes, shoving him playfully. “Alright alright but I don’t even know how to swim so it’s not really my fault.” You look around at the lake. It’s a beautiful sight, the woods on the other side of the shore like something right out of a painting.

“You don’t know how to swim,” Noah says without missing a beat, ready to keep on teasing you.

You shrug, “it’s not like I had a pool in my backyard.”

His expression falls, “yeah well,” he fiddles with his beanie, “mom filled it up not long after. . .”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, closing the distance between the two of you, and wrapping your arms around him in an easy hug because you knew that Noah could be weird about this sort of sudden affection.

“It’s fine.”

“Still.”

He brings his hand up to cup your cheek.

The gesture sends your heart beating like a hummingbird in your chest, the base of your throat burning with anticipation for something you’ve never let yourself think about because when had it ever been the right time for this. When had you ever had the time to think about the possibility you dared no name.

Noah’s brows furrow, “where are we?”

You frown, looking around without moving away from him. The feel of his hand against the skin of your cheek felt like the only thing anchoring you to this world. It made you feel real in a way that you’d stopped feeling like a part of the world ever since the terrors of your senior year had started. The shoreline looks beautiful as you gaze out at the lake and behind you there’s a small quaint town and you know this has something to do with Tom and Andy but you can’t remember what right now even as you bite your lip in thought.

Your gaze goes back to Noah, words dying on your parted lips when you meet his eyes. Gone are the warm brown irises that had given him the perfect puppy dog eyes as a child, able to slip out of trouble easily. Instead his eyes burn an electric blue because it’s not Noah anymore but the shadow monster and you flinch in fear, pulling away so fast you stumble, tripping over grass and then you’re falling into the lake.

You can’t swim.

You scream, arms flailing out trying desperately to catch yourself.

Noah-the monster-the monster that might be Noah, reaches out one shadowy limp, and then you’re underwater.

Plunged suddenly into ice water, you take a deep breath from the shock that fills your lungs with water and you kick your legs but they are stuck in something and the sunlights never seemed so far away.

You don’t want to drown.

You don’t want to die here.

“Noah,” you scream in the water. Because if it is Noah he’ll help you. He won’t let you die. He died to save you once after all and you haven’t been able to stop thinking about that day. You hadn’t wanted to die but you hadn’t wanted him to die either. You had just wanted him.

You had just wanted the nightmare to end.

Gasping, drenching in sweat, you jolt up from the desk you’d fallen asleep on. Everyone’s packing up their things and leaving. The class is over and you’re shaking, looking around wildly as if you can conjure Noah up by sheer force of will.

He’d been in your dream.

Just like Andy a year ago.

It was real.

Noah was still out there and you had to find him before he lost his mind alone in the awful forest that you still hated. The leaves rustling outside your windows at night was enough to keep you from leaving your bed. The way the trees cast shadows meant you threw the trash away in the morning.

Noah was still out there and he needed you.

You don’t realize you’re crying until your English 101 Professor walks up to you, still sitting even as the next set of students start filling in.

“Do you think you can stand up,” he asks, peering down through his glasses. He’s an older man, beard gone white, short, with a bit of a belly like most middle aged people. Clad in corduroy, a white shirt, and a wool vest, he’s the very picture of what you imagine a professor to look like. Nothing like your biology professor who’d walked into class with sandals and a big tie dye piece of fabric that almost worked as a dress.

You nod, grabbing your notebook and hastily shoving it into your backpack, ignoring the searching stares of other students.

You follow your professor out the door, still shaking, shoving the hair that was sticking to your forehead, damp with sweat, out of your face. Your eyes flit around, searching for a boy you know isn’t there but if Jane sensed your distress with Cody then maybe Noah will sense yours.

“Sorry,” your professor says bashfully, “I still haven’t learned names, but are you alright? You look really shaken.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, all bundled up in a flannel, sweater, and jacket combo that helped ease the a/c that blasted the lecture room into arctic temperatures. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, just had a nightmare.”

“Hope I wasn’t that bad,” the man chuckles, “it was only the first lecture.”

“No,” you try, “no, it’s not you. I’ve-I have a lot of nightmares. And I don’t get much sleep.”

“Because of the nightmares,” the man asks, and you wonder what you’re doing spilling your guts out to this stranger when you keep telling Andy that you’re good. You keep telling Dan that you’re getting enough sleep and no mom you were eating a big heart breakfast even though it was usually only cereal that turned to mush before you could finish it.

“Yeah,” you sigh, clutching onto the strap of your backpack. “I’ve just sort of been a mess. And,” your voice cracks, “it’s just me. For a while it was all of my friends but they got better and I feel like shit because I can’t move on and it’s been almost a year.” And there was the word vomit.

“I know it’s not much but,” your professor tries, “everyone heals at different lengths of time.”

“I think I’m late for class,” you suddenly realize, because you’d scheduled art history right after english so you wouldn’t have nothing to do on campus for over an hour.

“It’s just the first day,” he repeats.

“I should get going,” you tell him.

“Of course.”

“I’ll try not to fall asleep in your class.”

“How about you first try to get some sleep at home.”

You feel heat rise to your cheeks, “yeah. No promises though.”

You’re painstakingly trying to make dinner that isn’t kraft mac and cheese or a frozen entree from trader joes. But you quickly learn that you don’t have a lot of the pantry staples. Like pepper, or bay leaves, and kraft mac and cheese was looking likelier by the minute. Who knew making pasta was so complicated.

At least you have salt for the pasta water, from the salt packets you’d collected over the course of the last month of take out. It was economical despite what Stacey had chastised you about the last time you’d facetimed. One takeout box worked as lunch and dinner.

Maybe Dan had a point.

You probably weren’t eating enough. All your jeans were a little loose now, but at least you were finally using the belt Ava had given you for your birthday so that you too could be “a bad bitch like me,” according to her.

At least the pasta sauce was easty, being from a can, all you had to do was heat it up.

There was enough daylight left, even as fall crept into the world, that you left the curtains open. It wasn’t like you were completely abandoned out here. You lived at the old house at the end of a street. And yeah, the woods surrounded your humble abode one three sides, but if you screamed, the neighbors would definitely hear.

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be Cid running over to check on you anymore.

You finally finish making pasta, only to find you didn’t leave the pasta boiling for long enough. The noodles are still chewy but you power through it in the name of self care.

It’s not that bad. Really, for the first attempt. You’ll have to go grocery shopping for more than chips and lunchables though if you plan on cooking more in the future and fuck why does everything connect back to Noah.

Like a great student in the cast of the Lucas, you’ve already finished your assignments due tomorrow but only because yeah, Andy had sort of been right, living this close to the woods freaked you out at night but every single night, like tonight, you bundled yourself in an oversized sweater you might or might not have begged off Noah’s mom, and step into your backyard with a heavy duty flashlight because you know you saw him. He’s out there, and maybe Lucas and Lily had been right to leave far far away, but you couldn’t when Noah was stuck here forever.

He didn’t deserve that. He was just a messed up kid the same way you all were after having gone messing around in those ruins as kids.

You step into the chilly air in dollar tree flip flops that you’d bought when you’d all gone to drop Tom off at his new job by his university, the local one that Tom had sort of always wanted to go to because unlike you, he’d thought about college since junior year instead of waiting for the last quarter of high school to panic. Your feet still get dirt on them, but not as much as if you went out barefoot.

“Noah,” you utter as loud as you dare in the quiet of the evening.

You didn't fancy becoming the local neighborhood crazy lady though you were on your way there.

Maybe it could be you and Ava as the village witches.

Holding the flashlight loosely, the same one Noah had taken into the woods when you’d both gone to save Dan, you cry out, feeling more sure of yourself by the minute, “Noah, are you out there? I think I saw you but considering how many police officers thought I must've seen things back in-well that night, I could have just imagined you. But I didn't, did I?” You sigh, peering out into the dark. “Do you remember me Noah? I'm your friend and-I just want to know you're there. I miss you Noah.”

Nothing peers back at you.

Last year, you'd feared seeing something looking back at you from the trees. Now, you wish there was a monster lurking about. Your monster.

Your life had officially gone from an Ari Aster horror movie to a Guillermo Del Toro movie. But given the last months, you weren't surprised.

You bite your lip, taking one last look around the yard before turning back to go to bed. “Goodnight Noah.”

Even Ava would be concerned if she knew you were purposely trying to get the shadow monster creature that Noah now was to come. She was firmly on the Noah is a SOB club. Which you might have been in if you hadn't seen Noah in the last moments of his life.

If he hadn't ultimately saved both you and Jane. In the end.

If if if. Your entire life now centered around what ifs.

You kick the kitchen counters in frustration. “Fuck,” you yell, wishing you could fix things: feeling helpless and alone and this would probably be another night tossing and turning until sunrise.

The pan of pasta you'd made earlier clatter to the floor, tomato sauce spilling like blood on the tile floor.

You scream, the ice in your veins thawing for the first time in months only to give way to the familiar terror of knowing something was in here with you. Something was in your kitchen.

You turn, bracing yourself for disappointment.

A figure coalesces from the shadows in the middle of your kitchen--you'd walked right by it without out noticing--it's eerie blue eyes glittering like fireflies in the encroaching darkness of the twilight hours. It casts its shadow across the entire house, blotting out the lamplight from the hallway, from the patio lights.

Noah.

You don't think twice, because it's Noah. Doesn't matter what shape or form he takes, you'd know this boy anywhere. Maybe it was Jane or running into the woods alone together that had bonded you until you couldn't even accept the idea he might be gone when every fiber of your being knew he wasn't, but you know it's him.

You reach out towards the shadows, taking a step forward, “Noah,” you whisper gently, awed by the fact he was finally here. “I've missed you. I-I was scared I wouldn't see you again. That you didn't want to see me.”

The creature that is and isn't Noah tilts its head, and you wonder if he remembers you at all.

You take another step forward, full in the shadows reach, “Do you remember me Noah? I'm your. . .” Friends wasn't enough to cover the ocean currents of emotions that swept through you when it came to Noah. “You're Noah. And I promised I wouldn't leave you again and I mean to keep my promise.”  

Your outstretched hand hovers between you, putting the ball firmly in his court. You're close enough where you could just touch him, but you wait.

Finally, after holding your breath and listening to blood rush in your ears, Noah reaches out with his own hand-like shadow brushing like a cool breeze against your hand.

“Sss s-stay.”

You nod quickly, a smile forming in your lips, tears of joy in your eyes forming rivers down your cheeks. “I will. You don't have to be alone anymore Noah. Not ever.”

during.

Your painstakingly cut out all the different groceries on the flyers as well as adding in all the index cards of additional groceries that weren't on the flyers instead of finishing your calculus homework. You couldn't wait until you were done with math for life.

It was nice to sit on the floor if a little awkward as Noah hovered about. Sometimes it was a lot like talking to yourself.

“-So my english teacher, professor I mean, put me in touch with a company to do their social media since I'm good at english or whatever. You know, the one I told you saw me wake up from a nightmare. Which is nice since I could use a big girl job. I sent my very sparse resume this morning so I'm just waiting to hear back from them.” You start spreading out each card on the floor before curling up on the sofa.

“Okay Noah,” you gesture with a laugh because really what was your life that you were letting Noah who didn't even have a body decide your grocery list for the week. “Remember we want a pile.” You'd dubbed this monster motor skills practice much to Noah's annoyance.

His eyes flicker red and you can guess the look he's giving you.

“Oh shut up,” you laugh easily, “I have to have my fun somehow. We don't all get to knock food off the counter when you don't like it.” He didn't even eat and yet somehow your cooking skills were still offensive to him.

He laughs in an approximation of leaves rustling in the wind: leaves crunching under boots as you walked through the woods. Then, Noah finally starts grasping at the bits of paper in creative ways. Sometimes he conjures up a gust of wind which has vastly improved from blowing everything to just getting the right bit of paper onto the couch by your side. Occasionally he'll grasp at the paper which is a toss up if it'll actually work. Then there the good old vanishing and reappearing which is the most taxing but fun to watch.

“I see you think we have that adult money,” you grown as he goes for the wagyu beef. “I'm going to have to stop letting you watch worth it when I'm in class.”

Noah grumbles, before sending a pillow your way.

Another headshot.

“Don't be a dick.”

“Sss o rry,” Noah says, not meaning it even a tiny bit.

You dissolve into laughter because honestly what was your life that this was how you spent your days. With Noah. With your monster.

It takes another hour but you finally have your list. “I'm not making lasagna. Baked ziti is easier.”

Noah sends a burst of wind your way.

“Shut up I’m not lazy. Cooking is just so long! You have to cut all these things and lasagna means boiling so many noodles without tearing them and I always feel like I'm wasting salt by seasoning the water.” You ramble on as you copy down the homework answers for your math work from Slader.

“Las yyya.”

“Ziti,” you counter, refusing to budge. “Maybe art history could be my major but I think I like the writing part of english the most, but I wouldn't want to be an english teacher.”

“Lasss a ya.”

“Fine,” you roll your eyes, “I won't change the subject but the answer’s still ziti.”

If he could, you imagine Noah would roll his eyes as he settles down on the couch in front of you. You sitting criss cross applesauce on the couch with your laptop and notebook.

Noah reaches his hand out and you no longer flinch at the cool touch of shadow that obscure everything. Like a black void, not cold or warm. His touch is the closest thing to warmth you've felt since that night and maybe something inside of you was permanently broken if you couldn't get warm.

His hand against yours, hovering in the air because he wasn't corporal enough to hold your hand and fuck your heart aches at the thought that this is as good as it gets. That your growing pile of research into folklore and the occult that you hid from Ava wouldn't fix this. That you couldn't bring Noah back to.  . .back to himself.

Someone knocks on the door.

It must be Dan.

Noah rises like the moon in the night sky, smothering out the light pouring in from the windows, eyes flashing red.

You roll your eyes. Men. “It's just Dan. He's a friend. Your friend too. Remember I told you about our friends?”

Noah tilts his head. “fr iendssss?”

“Yeah. Friends,” you concur, tucking your hair behind your ears as you close your computer. “Now go. I'll be back tonight.”

“Noah ahhh lone.”

You shake your head having gone through this a hundred times before. “Don't be so melodramatic Noah. I'm going to the grocery store and mooching off Dan's car, ‘s not like I'm going to the moon.”

Within the span of a blink, he's gone.

You open the door to Dan’s cheery face. “So High school still sucks. I should've done online homeschool.”

“Well don't tell Ava that. She'll never let you live it down,” you comment.

Dan shrugs. “It's nice having Andy though. And you two.”

“Ah yes, us,” you tease, “the village weirdos.”

“It's good to see you laughing again,” Dan comments without judgement. “You looked rough all summer.”

You bite your lip, thinking his words over. “Yeah. It’s. . .Its nice to feel like a real living person again.”

“Did you go to therapy like Stacey said,” Dan asks.

You shake your head. “I stopped looking back.” Which was almost the whole truth. You'd stopped looking back because Noah was here with you now.

Deciding to change the subject because you hated lying to your friend, you ask, “did Ava say what our halloween plans are this year?”

Dan nods, letting it go, “Rocky Horror Picture Show plus lots of booze. Her words, not mine.”

“Andy shot down the cemetery idea?”

“Tom was the winning argument,” Dan confesses. “Called getting drunk at the cemetery too pedestrian.”

You laugh so hard your shoulders shake. “Fucking Tom, man. Yeah I wasn't looking forward to sneaking into a cemetery either.” You hated the idea of Noah having a gravestone when he was still alive and kicking. Your major annoyance of a roommate.

“Thank god for theater then,” Dan says with a smile as you pull into town.

It's springtime in your dream. The flowers are brighter and more fragrant than any wildflower bloom you'd seen with your real walking eyes. Even as the rain pours gently in a scene that would never exist in the same perfection in real life.

You're in the same opening in the woods that you'd found Dan in. A place you hadn't ventured since.

Noah sits, back against a tree truck, as close to flesh and blood as he could get nowadays.

Without hesitation, you run to him, “Noah,” you cry out in joy.  

His disarmingly warm brown eyes meet yours, brimming with the same joy you feel bubbling up from the tips of your toes all the way to your lips where you're smiling so hard it hurts. “Sup.”

You giggle, sitting down next to him, “I see you finally learned to talk.”

He rolls his eyes, before he wraps his arms around you and hugs you against his chest. “Is this real? Or just a dream.”

“Funny,” you whisper back softly, “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

You're missing him the moment he lets you go, pulling back. His shoulder still resting against yours as if you're two trees leaning against each other for support, too intertwined to separate now.

Noah studies you carefully, without any shame, with his own features for once. He looks at you with a kind of heart wrenching earnestness that you can't bear to see for this long without reaching for him but you don't dare.

You look away, the hollow of your mouth filling with emotion. You don't know what to do with it.

You hug your knees to your chest, lapsing into silence.

He brings his hand up to your cheek, causing you to wordlessly lean into his touch, a bone deep need that would send you into his arms even knowing that he'd led you and all your friends into a trap. Even then, you'd still follow him down to the ruins.

“I'm sorry,” he finally manages, his hand cool against your skin like his shadow form. And for once, in this dream, you're not shivering with cold.

“If you had told me,” you utter gently, “about Jane, I would've helped you.”

“Well I know that now,” Noah states bitterly, his thumb caressing your hallowed cheek. It seemed like months of barely eating had taken their toll on you after all. And while you were now making the effort to eat, you still weren't at your natural weight.

You smile tightly, wishing like you knew he was, that things had gone different somewhere along the line: that you had more than just dreams and a shadow. You wish you had the boy you missed even if he was a dick sometimes. You wish you could act on the feelings that had only grown even with Noah in his current state.

“Where did your chipmunk cheeks go,” he suddenly teases, steering the conversation away from becoming a sob fest on your end. Maybe his too. You weren't sure.

You scowl, but don't pull out of his hold, feelings incredibly relaxed with him. “Don't-”

He smiles a shit eating grin, mischief twinkling in his chestnut eyes, “is it because you can't cook?”

“You're such a dick,” you utter with a disbelieving laugh, even as you shove his shoulder roughly, breaking whatever heavy tension had weld up between the two of you.

“Oh and you're a fucking angel now are you,” he retorts.

“Well excuse me for forgetting which jar of white stuff was the sugar and which was the salt! I was just trying to be cute!”

Noah doesn't relent, “and which was the jar of coke.”

You roll your eyes. “You've got to ratatouille me if we're ever going to get anywhere in the kitchen.”

“God I love that movie,” Noah says with a fond smile on his face that softens his entire features up. When he smiles like that, he's heartbreakingly handsome that you can't look away, caught in his gravitational pull and fuck you don't stand a chance.

“Me too.” You agree. “We should watch it tomorrow.”

“Deal,” Noah says, puffing up his chest and sitting up straight as he holds his hand out.

You shake on it, before you both burst out laughing.

For the first time in months, you have to force yourself to wake up.

You're making pancakes for lunch. Nothing fancy, a box mix much too Noah's annoyance. You were in the mood for them and you had a mix so it was a total no brainer.

Noah's in the woods somewhere. He's yet to drag you in too deep, having quickly realized that you were still fucked up about venturing into the woods even with the biggest baddest monster around as your best friend. You can sense him out there even from your downsized house which was homier than your actual house ever was.

It's been over a year.

You think you're making a lot of progress.

You sleep through the night. You turn the lights off. And you don't flinch at the sound of random large noises.

Lucas even talked about visiting for the summer.

Progress.

It's a saturday morning and you only have an hour or two of work to get through, mostly email correspondence. Working from home was unexpected, but it saved you from dealing with customers. You got enough horror stories from your friends. You've got most of the day to spend with Noah and you're starting to feel like you should take him up on a walk through the woods.

Someone knocks on your door.

You aren't expecting anyone.

You swallow, reminding yourself that nothing was haunting you now. There was no monster waiting to kill you anymore. And monsters don't knock.

They knock again.

You brace yourself, before peering though the peephole.

It was just Tom and someone you'd never met before. Just Tom.

You open the door. “Hey Tom,” you say friendly enough, remembering to smile and act like a real human being instead of the heavily traumatized teenager you still were.

His own face is a grim mirror image of yours only a few months ago. All dead eyes and hallowed out. “I,” he looks at the friend he's brought along, “We have a problem. Like the one that happened here.”

Your stomach drops and you can only think Noah, as the ice in your veins ratchets up and you feel frozen in place.

Tom continues on, caught up in his own terror, “I already texted the others. I-I didn't know who else to ask.”

You feel yourself nod in some strange out of body experience which finds you sitting on your sofa.

“I smell something burning,” Tom's friend asks, clearing wondering if you're going to get up, but that seems like an impossible task as you think and think yourself into a black hole of misery.

What now.

Someone must've turned off the pancakes at some point you think as your friends still in town fill your house even as you sit on your sofa, a little ball of self amplifying panic that fills your chest and you're so so cold. It's summer again. A hot 89 degrees Fahrenheit and you're wearing a hoodie that's long lost Noah's scent.

You pull the sleeves down over your hands as Dan takes a seat next to you.

Ava has a thick three inch black binder of occult lore ready to go even as Andy jokes about Ava having finally achieved her lifelong dream.

It doesn't take long for the smiles to fade as Tom’s friend goes over  their situation and yeah. . .it sounds like a monster. Like Jane. Like Noah.

A monster in a lake.

It made sense.

What was a forest without something lurking among the trees. What was a lake without something hidden in its depths.

“I can't swim,” you utter the same words you'd told Noah months ago. It hadn't been a dream then anymore than your usual nights were. The only time that you and Noah saw each other as close to normal as possible.

You'd missed the quirk of his mouth as he laughed, the corners of his eyes all scrunched up.

Tom forces a smile for your benefit. “When we get rid of this thing you guys should come over for a swim.”

“Hell yeah,” Andy chimes in, patting your knee, “I can teach you to swim.”

You shake your head. “That's not what I meant. I-,” you glance at all the faces staring at you, waiting. You take a deep breath, your heartbeat slowing down as you sense Noah draw near. You hug your arms to your chest, always cold. “I had a dream about a lake, a couple months ago. I drowned. . .something drowned me.”

Dan inhales sharply, staring intently at his shoes.

“You think it's got something to do with the power,” Andy asks out loud.

“It has to be connected dude,” Tom says with a nod. “If they're sensing it from here.”

“It is only on the other side of the woods,” Ava points out, looking over at you with a frown.

Noah's inpatient. You can sense him pacing around the tree line behind your house. Your anxiety must’ve worried him.

You make the tough call. “Guys,” you stand up, moving towards the back door. “I have something to show you.”

They follow you out without a thought, everyone reeling from their own trauma as Ava and Tom bounce ideas off each other. Toms friend. . .you hadn't caught a name, looks just as shaken as you used to feel every day.

You force yourself to look at the trees. “Noah,” you reach a hand out, “it's okay. They're friends. You can come out.”

Ava's face immediately tenses, shooting you a dark look that means you are definitely having amping talk with her later. Right, she was part of club Noah was a rat faced liar.

Tree branches rustle and you smile as you spot a cluster of shadows in the split second before they form a humanoid body.

“Oh jeez,” Andy says painfully, wincing as Noah emerges into your backyard, eyes a sparkling blue of a lightning bolt.

You draw your hand back to your chest, imagine the way he'd held it in the dream, and that he couldn't in life.

“Friend ss!”

Dan jumps back a good two feet. Tom's gaze flits between you and Noah, before deciding to focus on Noah.

His friend utters, “is-are we safe?”

“Yeah Noah,” you reply ignoring her, “they're friends. They have their own not so friendly scooby doo monster they need help with. Remember Tom.”

Noah nods, “bass ket ball….Andy!”

“I'm sorry,” Ava cuts in sharply, glaring at you. “How long has this been going on for exactly?”

Noah looks at you, and you don't know if it's sheepish or if it's, you want me to get rid of them, so you cut in. “It doesn't matter. This,” you say, waving at Noah, “is help isn't it?”

“She has a point,” Tom utters with a shrug.

“Sssss orry Ava,” Noah utters loud enough to scare off the birds that had been standing on the utility pole.

Ava blinks, clearly thrown for a loop. And then decides to let it go for now, “Fine, fine but don't blame me when the shadow monster kills us all.”

“Which shadow monster,” Dan points out because now there were two. But one was Noah and he'd never hurt anyone. You knew that for a fact the same way you knew that Noah would capitulate to playing fear factor tea party even though he found worms disgusting as a kid.  

“We have the worst luck,” Andy groans.

Tom's friend shrugs, “I'll take all the help I can get.”

You look back over at Noah, who's at least trying, by shrinking himself down to almost human sized. “Behave.” You say teasingly, wagging a finger and everything.

Noah's eyes flash red which sends them all a step back. “Yessss mom,” he croaks back in the most teenage angst tone of voice that has you thinking you might just lift the my chemical romance ban for the week.

“You're such a dick,” you snip back with a laugh. You catch Andy's gaze, his expression funny as he looks at you, but says nothing.

Ava rounds on you as soon as Noah and the others are gone. You can sense him getting further and further away and your gut turns because what if he never comes back. “When the hell were you going to tell us about that thing!”

“It's Noah,” you protest with a whine.

Andy scowls angrily, “that's not Noah. And even if it was he tried to kill us, or don't you remember?”

You flinch because yeah. There wasn't exactly much you could say on that front.

“He was trying to help Jane,” you speak up, trying anyway.

“Ugh,” Ava groans, punching her nose bridge, “that was never Jane and it's not Noah. It's a monster. Get that through your head.”

You curl up into yourself.

“Guys,” Dan tries to speak up, but Ava is on a roll.

“It could have killed you,” she shouts, voice breaking.

“Noah wouldn't-” you protest, trying to get them to understand, but your limbs are heavy. Your cold and all you want to do is curl up in bed until he gets back.

“Noah tried to kill us,” Andy reiterates.

Which has you back to square one, “because he was trying to save Jane! He didn't know she was going to kill us and it doesn't matter because he died for me in the end,” you snap back just as pissed off.

“It wasn't Jane,” Ava says waving her arms aggressively.

“How else would she have known about the whistle?”

“Because Noah told Redfield!”

You shake your head. “You were there. You saw her cross out Redfield,” you tell the three of them. “And I was there at the end. Noah chose to die so Jane could finally be free. He died so I got to leave that place.” A violent shiver runs down your spine.

Andy draws back. You hadn't said a word of what transpired after you were left alone with the Marshall twins, it had seemed to be a private and intimate matter.

“So yeah,” you finish, “maybe he did lure us down there, but he also died to keep any of us from dying. You don't have to forgive him but he's lord fucking voldemort or sauron.”

Dan looks at you with pity.

You all sit down in an angry cloud of silence that buzzes and pricks at your thoughts. This was exactly why you hadn't told them.

“At least you finally found your spunk again,” Ava offers after a few minutes.

You ignore her.

She rolls her eyes, looking through her supernatural research.

“How long,” Dan ventures to ask.

The others are listening. They don't look at you but they straighten up on the couch.

For once you're glad not everyone is here. Stacey was relentless and Lucas never would never stop going at it even when he'd made his point. Lily might understand, but she'd still be hurt.

“Since last fall,” you admit.

Dan nods as though he had guessed as much, “when you started getting better.”

You nod. “Noah doesn't let me eat frozen meals or takeout all week.”

“Oh fuck,” Ava swears, “it really is Noah.”

You pull the fleece blanket that's usually somewhere in the living room over your shoulders to try and warm up, a useless exercise, you knew that by now but it didn't stop you. Not when your joints hurt from the cold. You couldn't wait until Noah got back.

“You know it's 93 degrees out right,” Andy says lightly.

“Yeah,” you shrug shamelessly, “I'm freezing though.”

Ava tilts her head in thought.

“Yeah, I'll say,” Andy replies, “you're not even sweating in this heat.”

“He's-he's never hurt you, not even by accident,” Dan asks gently.

“No-god no,” you answer honestly. “He's-well he's got okay control now. He did ruin a couple light bulbs but he's. . .he’s never forgotten he's Noah so no he wouldn't hurt me.”

“I hope for your sake you're right,” Andy mutters darkly. “You're the one playing house with a shadow monster.”

You slump into the couch as your cheeks burn. You can't make yourself look at any of them because Andy's words hit closer to home then you would like.

This was probably as good as it was going to get for you and Noah. There was no first kiss, no holding hands or. . .there was just the hours you slept in bed and your own monster who kept you cool if not warm.

And even with that realization, you'd still choose him.

Wasn't that what love is?

after.

“I can't believe you went on a dumb ghost adventure without me and unlocked a whole new skill,” you complain while sipping on your match latte that you'd bought that little electric thing for specifically.

Noah does jazz hands with a deadpan expression on his face that makes the action even more surreal, now semi transparent and glowing a ghostly blue but at least looking like himself.

You'd both been binge watching danny phantom for ideas.

You were coming up on the second year of community college and it was time to think about transferring. . .to the nearest university because Noah was pretty much bound to these woods. And there was no way in hell you were leaving him. So there was one choice.

This morning you really only had to select your next fall semester classes. But first, spotify. You needed some jams to get you through the morning.

“At least there’s something to be said for being a ghost monster thing,” Noah shrugs, sitting down on the floor, attempting to turn the page on a book you’d left open last night, too exhausted to clean up. His hand passes right through the pages.

“Noah,” you complain weakly because boy oh boy did this boy say the saddest things sometimes and it sucked you couldn’t actually hug him because you had the feeling that your words didn’t always stick. It was clear that Noah didn’t always believe you when you said your plethora of comforting words in place of hugging him until he realized just how much he meant to you.

He looks up at you from the floor with an easy smile. “Yeah?”

And you roll your eyes. Joking about it was good. Your therapist had said it wouldn’t always be as bad as it had been that first week when you’d been practically catatonic in the hospital. “How does tame impala sound,” you ask him because manners. It’s not like he could change the music, and you never wanted him to feel left out just because he wasn’t solid enough to affect the material world.

“I’m not listening to elephant for two hours.”

“Hey,” you yelp, “sometimes I listen to let it happen.”

He sneers, “still not listening to the same two songs on replay.”

“Who listens to an entire album all the way through,” you complain. “Fine, what do you want to listen to? And it can’t be angsty. I want to have a nice morning.”

“Oh come one,” Noah laughs, “Evanescence is unmatched.”

You scrunch your mouth in thought even as you bob your head in agreement. “It does have to be good to be meme worthy. But also, like what emo preteen didn’t have a big fat crush on Amy Lee.”

“I remember you being obsessed with daredevil,” Noah reminisces.

“Hey,” you point out, looking up from the list of classes, “I was obsessed with elektra. Get your facts straight.”

Noah laughs, floating up to sit by you on the couch because he might look like he used too but he was still more ghost than living breathing person, “like that makes it better.”

You smile nostalgically, your knees bouncing with delight as you abandoned the pretense of school to talk with Noah: an easy choice. “You remember when me and Jane would pretend to be elektra and catwoman?”

He snorts, shaking his head with amusement, hands resting on his knees even as he leans in closer to you, “I remember you two would chase me around the house with a stick.”

“It was a knife man,” you say between laughs, “you’ve got to use,” you raise your hands to mimic spongebob, creating a rainbow shape, “you’re imagination.”

He brushes strands of auburn hair from his eyes, and the action strikes a chord in your heart that makes you wish more than anything you could reach out and touch him.

But he’s intangible.

You shove that thought down, focusing instead of enjoying this moment with him. “How about Florence and the Machine?”

“Why are you always shooting down my ideas,” Noah huffs, smiling too softly as he gazes at you to truly be hurt or annoyed.

“You made us listen to Nickelback last time!”

He shrugs shamelessly, “Nickelback is unmatched performance art. And I stand by that statement.”

You shake your head, wracked with laughter until you feel pinpricks of tears in your eyes because this boy! It always came back to Noah and how easily he was able to tease a lightness out of you that you thought you’d lost forever after the night of the school dance.

“Gorillaz?”

He hums in thought, “Demon days.”

You scroll through spotify easily enough. That album was among your top played.

You keep the volume low because you are a certified adult and it's morning and you don’t want a racket this early in the morning. Well, noon, but that was early for you. Okay, so you were only sort of an adult, but you could make pasta without burning anything so baby steps.

“Hey,” Noah asks gently.

You look up, only to find him having shifted closer to you. If Noah could breathe, you’d no doubt be able to feel the warmth of his breath, but you’ll settle for his soothing presence that takes the sting from your perpetual chill. He’s leaning forward and his hand hovers above the skin of your cheek and you don’t dare to lean into his touch no matter how much you yearn to feel the touch of his skin that you know you won’t get because he’s not tangible.

So you lock eyes with him, holding your breath, gut clenching in anticipation.

Noah parts his lips as if to speak, but utters nothing. He closes his mouth again, letting the silence press on.

It might all be in your head, but you swear you can feel the warmth of his hand against your skin. His thumb rubs circles you can’t feel against your cheek.

He leans forward, his forehead resting against yours. Your eyes flutter shut, a sigh escaping your lips at the close contact. There’s a deep well of longing for more than can ever be possible between you and Noah at the base of your throat.

It’s easy to forget, but Noah’s dead.

He died and he’s here but not in the same way you’re part of this world.

A breeze passes over the swell of your mouth, and you slowly open your eyes, heart lodged in your throat.

Noah’s shifted his hold down to your jaw, sitting up on his knees as he leans towards you like a sunflower grows towards the sun, his thumb brushing over your mouth. And you wish more than anything that you could kiss him.

It’s always strange to look into his eyes, expecting a soft hazelnut hue, and seeing an inhuman vibrant blue of an electrical shortage.

“I’m glad it's you,” Noah whispers softly, his voice as gentle as a summer breeze.

It’s enough to break your heart all over again. “I’m just happy you’re here,” you say, painfully aware of the tears forming in your eyes. He was the choice you made over and over again because you’d take whatever Noah had to offer.

“If-,” he utters carefully, “if I could, I would kiss you right now.”

“I’d let you.”

His eyes reflect the same heart wrenching pain of knowing that anything more between you two just wasn’t in the cards.

You summoned the courage to lift your hand to cup his jaw, mindful to hover just over the space where his body should be, guided by the spectral blue outline. There’s nothing but air under your fingers.

Noah, forever out of your reach.

There’s a reason you try not to think about this situation too hard.

There’s no happy ending to be found here.

One second, Noah’s intertwined with you.

Within the span of a blink, he’s gone.

Disappeared.

Right, he’s a ghost, he can do that.

You walk through a trail behind your house. The suns still high in the sky and the anxiety is manageable with Noah goofing off along with you as you complain about having to take biology as a english major and the fact no one in your group for political science did any work but you and this international student from Malaysia which you couldn’t point to if someone held a gun to your head. The dumb american sterotype held true for you when it came to geography.

The woods don’t seem as menacing anymore.

“Malaysia’s in southeast asia,” Noah offers.

“How do you know that?”

Noah shrugs, “I wanted to travel. Go anywhere but Westchester.”

You frown. He’d never get to leave now. “Really? I just wanted to go to disney world,” you reply because it was true and you knew it would make him laugh.

He snorts, shaking his head, “you’re so basic.”

“Shut up!” You cry out, smiling easily. “My parents had a conference in disneyworld one year. And after that Disney would send us vacation information and videos back when VHS and DVDs were a thing. It just seemed. . .I know it's a tourist trap but everyone seemed really happy and I’d wanted the videos a lot on the weekends.” You admit, looking down at your sneakers. It seems silly when Noah knows what your family is like, what your perpetually absent parents are like, but you still feel a sense of shame at admitting that your parents never prioritized you.

They were more than happy to have you spend the night with Noah and Jane if that meant not having to take care of you, back when they still flew back to Westchester.

“Disney in Japan’s better,” Noah quips, “and you don’t even have to step foot in florida to go there.”

“Yeah,” you giggle, “because we live somewhere better than florida.”

“Much better,” he teases, “we don't have humidity.”

You snort, shaking your head as you continue down the well worn trail.

“Did-can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” you tell him, looking back, and waiting for him to catch up.

Noah floats in front of you, only an inch or two of the ground but it’s fine because no one really goes into the woods here as if there’s some subconscious warning ringing in the prey part of the townspeople’s minds, keeping them away from here. “Did your parents come to your graduation?”

You purse your lips. “No.” And then proceed to make the age old excuses for them. Parent-teacher conference week with your current nanny had been fun. “They were doing research up in Alaska I think. It was the only time of the year for some fish species. . .And Now I don’t really need them.” You think they’re in Antarctica, but you can never be sure. They're very hands off and don’t call except for christmas trusting that if you need anything, you’d call them.

Noah’s eyes flash red, and for a second, he loses control over his appearance. He’s an angry storm of shadows.

It speaks to the fact that for over a year now, he’s been your main companion that you don’t even flinch, just wait for him to calm down.

“It’s whatever,” you shrug, used to being on your own, “I had our whole group and Ava invited me along to her graduation potluck.”

“It’s not whatever,” Noah snarls, having regained his spectral blue form complete with his signature beanie. “They’re your parents.” His outburst sends the birds flying out of the trees, far away from him.

“Yeah, well,” you shrug, “we don’t exactly have great parents.” Noah’s had been okay if tense before the accident with Jane.

Noah frowns deeply, still seething. When he got into a mood, he could spend days mulling it over, working himself into a whole downward spiral of dark thoughts.

You leave him to his brooding as you make your way back to your house, hands in your jacket pocket: your old leather jacket for once. You knew what to expect from your parents and that was an allowance and a phone call at christmas. Not even almost dying had caused them to fly home and check on you.

The backdoor is open.

You know you'd closed it when you left. Having your own personal ghost hadn't made you sloppy.

You share a glance with Noah before calling out. “Hello?” It could just be Ava pulling a mean prank on you, but she had blatantly refused to come to your house as long as Noah was lingering around. It was a pointless stance when Noah could really wander freely around Westchester and often did. You sensed him around town sometimes when you were in class even if you couldn't see him.

“Oh you're finally back,” Lily says, calling out from your kitchen.

Wait, Lily! Wasn't she supposed to be in California?

“I told you we should've let them know,” Stacey cries out from inside, shrill voice carrying.

Oh! Were they all here.

You step inside excitedly, Noah following suit, still scowling.

He'd eventually get over the thing with your parents. You had.

“What are you all doing here,” you ask, taking in the sight of your friends spread out in your house. It was a tighter fit than your childhood home, but it felt more like a home than that house ever had. Even Toms here on the couch exchanging notes with Ava.

“Friendsgiving,” Lily offers.

You'd forgotten that's why you had the week off from school. It had slipped your mind after years of not doing anything for this holiday. “I thought we were against Thanksgiving?” You feel touched and surprised and happy.

“Oh we are. It's all a bunch of government propaganda,” Lucas says pushing his glasses up, “but we're all in town for the week so. . .”

You smile.

And then Stacey spots Noah lingering by the backdoor.

“You,” she yells, her entire face flushing red.

Noah, who's dick-ish tendencies you're well aware of, proceeds to smirk which only pisses Stacey off more and has Lucas rising to his feet, fueled by the same anger as Stacey. “Me,” he smirks.

Stacey lobs the nearest thing she can find, a plate you'd bought at Ikea a year ago, at him.

Ava looks really pleased with herself.

Noah dodges even though it would've gone right through him.

The plate shatters against the doorframe.

He totally could've caught that. He could've saved your plate.

“Missed Stace,” Noah cackles.

Your friend turns even redder, before grabbing the vase on the table and aiming for Noah once again.

Ava smothers a laugh on the couch.

Lucas is starting to look like he wants in on the action.

Lily looks uncomfortable in the middle of the action. Like she's rather not deal with it which has been your friends m.o. for the last few months. They don't ask about Noah's and you don't bring him up. It'll save Andy an ulcer in the long run.

The vase shatters as it hits the wall, Noah having stepped out of the way in time.

Stacey eyes your favorite black mug emblazoned the sanderson sisters museum, and you know you have to step in.

She's hoisting the mug trying to get a clean shot, not caring that she just spilled half a mug full of water on your floor, when you step in between her and Noah. “Stacey, you're never going to hit him!”

“I don't care,” she snarls furiously. “He tried to kill us!”

“He didn't know,” you defend Noah. Because saying it's been two years wouldn't work. You can't force anyone to forgive him.

“You can't be serious,” Lucas says shaking his head. “After what he did.”

“He was just trying to help Jane. It's not his fault that the power corrupted his sister to the point she would try to kill us!” In the late sleepless nights, you'd thought about Jane and finally gotten that ghost to rest. What else had there been to think about alone and sobbing in the dead of the night, curled up like a bear hibernating for winter.

“I can't believe you're defending him!” Stacey yells.

You cross your arms over your chest, staring her down.

Lily tilts her head, glancing behind you at Noah, “I didn't know you could look like. . .you.”

“Yeah,” he deadpans, raising his arms to do jazz hands. “Ta-da.”

“It's a new development,” you offer through clenched teeth, still busy staring down Lucas and Stacey, who still has your mug in her hand.

“He learned it from our lake monster,” Tom adds, looking through your vinyls. “Man you've got to get some older stuff and not just what urban outfitter’s selling.”

You frown. “What's wrong with Lana Del Rey?”

“You just need more variety,” Tom councils.

“I told you,” Noah says with an annoyingly charming smirk. He pats your shoulder with his hand even though it goes right through the layers of clothes that you're bundled up in.

You roll your eyes.

“No,” Lucas says, head in his hands, “we’re not doing this. We’re not acting like everything's fine,” he manages through a clenched jaw.

You raise a brow at your friends. Stacey’s still visibly pissed. Ava has her own arms crossed over her chest, but resigned since she's had more time to process. Andy's sneaking a slice of pumpkin pie as the drama unfolds.

Lily won't meet your gaze.

Dan looks like he wants to speak up, but he doesn't and you understand because it's a lot to forgive let alone forget for long enough to sit down to a friendsgiving when Noah can't even eat food anymore and instead goes around pestering you to make meals from scratch.

“It's fine,” Noah says quietly. “I can just go.”

“You do that,” Stacey replies bitingly.

“Noah you-,” you turn to protest. But he's gone.

You swallow your words, looking at your friends. “So are we making or just reheating,” because you love your friends as much as you love Noah. It's why it feels like your heart’s being torn in half.

“A bit of both,” Tom says, “nothing complex.”

“Britney said she's on her way now,” Lily adds. “hope you don't mind. She's bringing Jocelyn since Jocelyn's friends with Tom.”

Your eye twitches. It's unfair that they can have you the two girls who bullied you all for years to the point you got bruises and Lily would skip class to cry in the bathroom but you can't have Noah here when he only tried to kill you all once on accident.

“We might have to use my desk chair and the couch but I think we can make it work,” you say instead of picking a fight.

Lily smiles happily and tells you about these cute turkey plates she got from the 99 cent store at the beginning of the month.

Britney's making you all watch Legally Blonde which no one is really mad about.

You've gotten a thick wool blanket because you're starting to shiver with cold and it's not even 11 at night but you're ready to kick them out so Noah'll come back. You're squished in between Tom and Ava which means they spend the entire time talking your ear off about the power and Ava's current witchcraft project which involves lots of dirt, salt, and herbal oils. They lose you and you're not sure what the spell’s supposed to do but Ava does conjure an actual flame from her fingertip.

Dans laughing easily, sitting on the ground by your feet, with Andy and Jocelyn, who's still bitchy but in a more affable way that gets a laugh out of you.

It's a nice night, one of the best you've had in a while with all your friends and now their friends too and you think that it would be easy to be friends for life. It's been two years since that school dance night. You've all kept touch.

But it's just not the same without Noah.

You're probably the only one who thinks that.

The dream is easy to get lost in. You and Noah throwing popcorn at each other instead of paying attention in the dream movie theater. Every time you look up at the screens there's a different movie playing.

At least here Noah is tangible, the popcorn he throws getting tangled in your hair even as you slump in your seat to try and dodge the attacks.

Noah grins mischievously and you don't have time to move before he's dumping the entire bucket of popcorn on your head.

“You're such a dick,” you laugh, beginning the long work of getting popcorn out of your hair. They don't stick in Noah's brown locks.

“It's a dream,” Noah notes, “just imagine them away.”

“Okay,” you try, shutting your eyes and imagining your hair a lavender purple shade.

You open your eyes and sure enough the popcorns gone. “Kind of digging how dreams work.”

“There's some nice things about them,” Noah agrees.

“Oh yeah like what?”

“Like this,” Noah grins smugly before leaning in and-

“Get up,” Ava snaps gleefully, as she pounces on you in bed.

“Wha-”

“Hurry up,” she repeats as you blink, trying to get your bearings.

“How did you get in here?” You ask, shoving her off you.

“Door,” she shrugs, “I found a spell to unlock locks. Where's your boyfriend?”

“My what!” You feel heat rise to your cheeks as you rush to change into a pair of jeans. Maybe a cleaner sweater too.

Ava rolls her eyes. “Your boyfriend. Noah? You're not shivering so he can't be far.”

She grabs your hand as soon as you pull your sweater over your head and drags you out of your room. Tom, Andy, and Dan are loitering around the living room.

After graduating, Andy and Dan have both decided to go to the local university. You knew it had to do with Tom and his whole research into the power even as Ava was planning a semester abroad because she firmly believed that there was more supernatural occurrences in the world.

You close your eyes focusing on Noah. “He's on his way,” you confirm, sending him in the woods near your house. When you both entered the dreamworld, Noah more often than not ended up in the ruins.

You took his word for it.

You didn't plan on ever stepping foot in those ruins again.

“I mean,” Ava laughs humorlessly, “I always thought I was the winona ryder of our group but you're an actual monster fucker so you've got me beat by a mile.”

You can only look at her with alarm, aware your mouth was just hanging open in surprise.

“Please don't say that shit,” Andy groans. “It's bad enough knowing that asshole’s doing fine and dandy not facing punishment.” He says as if Noah didn't die.

“I'm-what, what's going on here?” You look around at your friends.

They exchange glances as Noah appears, back resting against the wall looking too cool for school in his usual disaffected way, hands in his pockets.

Andy sighs, before speaking up, “Tom, I think you should-”

“No,” Ava shakes her head, “I can explain it.”

Tom raises a brow.

She nods. “I'm chill.”

“You've never been chill in your life but go on,” Andy teases.

Ava's expression softens, the guarded rage that simmered in the lines around her frown disappear as she looks at you and Noah. “I think I know how to bring Noah back.”

You swallow, “How-how is that even possible,” because you and Noah have never mentioned the fact that he's dead but he is. You watched him die.

“Ava,” Noah says, long having resigned himself to this partial existence, “even the power can't bring the dead back to life. Just look at the zombie animals. They're not really alive.”

Dan does a little, continue on, hand motion directed at her.

“Well, that's the thing,” she says, locking eyes with Noah, “I don't think you're dead.”

Noah’s expression is stone cold as he outstretches his arms out wide. Which like right, he was literally a ghost right now.

“Yeah,” Ava nods, “I can see that. But, it fits. I first started working on this theory when they mentioned they could sense you, and then there's the fact,” she looks at you now, “you're always cold. And not just you need a jacket cold but cold in the summer heat even with three layers, as if your body was-”

“Dying,” Noah utters aloud.

She nods, looking over at Tom.

He clears his throat, “when people get absorbed into the power, their memories don't last but you remember things pretty well.”

The corners of Noah's mouth lift up, a small smile on his lips. “Well I can't take the credit for that,” he says meeting your eyes.

“Somehow,” Ava says carefully to Noah, “down in the ruins, you two tied your lives together. That’s why you're still yourself and why they're always freezing cold. Because your body is still down in the ruins and I'm willing to bet it's frozen in the same state since that night.”

“Speak for yourself,” Andy scowls, “I'm not stepping foot in the ruins.”

“Redfield isn't there anymore,” Noah frowns.

“Yeah well,” Andy bites back, “I don't trust you.”

That shuts Noah up.

“And how. . .,” you start to ask as hope fills your chest even as you try to be careful because you saw Noah die and now Ava was bringing you a shot in the dark. “How would that work exactly?”

Ava shrugs. “First we have to go to the ruins. See if I'm right and then-”

“She doesn't know,” Noah states. “But I think it's worth a shot.”

“I'm going to wait with Andy out here,” Dan states, fingers wrapped tightly around the baseball bat with wire you'd kept since that school year.

“Yeah, sure,” you nod, wrapping him in a quick hug because he probably had the worst time of you all here and yet he'd still come along.

He hugs you back before you make your way to Tom and Ava are both bickering over some obscure text that might or might not be true: Noah sits on the crumbling step that marks the entrance to the ruins, deceivingly calm. It's the first time you've been here since that night.

You remind yourself there's nothing to fear. Just Noah and you're not scared of him.

“Well then,” Tom motions you first.

Noah rolls his eyes, “if I wanted to kill you I could do it without luring you down there.”

Ava twists her mouth, expression furious.

You go to smack his shoulder, your hand passing right through him and hitting the stone wall. “Shit,” you grumble, rubbing your knuckles.

Noah sniggers, not the slightest bit apologetic.

Ava gives you a look that can be best summed up as him?

You shrug. It's not like you planned on being helplessly in love with Noah Marshall, you just were.

Noah goes down first, his form glowing brightly for your benefit, as you follow closely behind him.

Tom and Ava wait a second before following you down. So they were using you as a test.

The ruins are just as dark and awful as you remember. Rocks slick with water that drips down from the roof. You pay close attention where you step, not wanting to break a leg down here, as you enter the chamber where the creature-that-had-been-Jane forced you to play are you scared.

The chairs are still tossed around the room that maybe was a basement once, or maybe it just reminded you of the idea of a basement, but it's the body lying in the floor that takes your breath away. Noah, exactly the way you'd last send him, covered in dirt and grime, absolutely no color in his skin. There was no rise and fall in his chest, and his lips were tinged blue.

Tom shines his light over Noah's prone body. “Well he's definitely preserved, there's no rotting smell.”

“Try not to talk about me like I'm a piece of meat,” Noah says, lingering next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours (or coming close to the feeling).

You look up at him, trying to gauge his reaction, but his expression is carefully blank. You turn to Ava, “what do you need me to do?”

Ava looks from you to Noah, “I'm not sure. There's not exactly an instruction manual but, you should be able to draw him out from the power.”

“Bet that goes both ways,” Noah utters grimly.

Tom nods.

“So I could just as easily get caught up down here?”

Ava nods sternly, “but that's not going to happen.”

Noah looks at you, shaking his head, “we shouldn't risk it.”

“What! No,” you shake your head, feeling warmth in your fingers for the first time in years. You reach for him, not caring that your fingers pass right through. It's the thought that counts and you've had millions of thoughts centered around  Noah.

“What if you end up like me,” Noah says, voice cracking.

You swallow thickly, “you can't think like that.”

“It is a lot to risk,” Tom points out gently.

You bite your lip, eyes tearing up, “I know.”

“Well I'm not,” Noah counters, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes glowing an infernal red as he makes his point. “It's my body after all.”

“Noah-,” you start.

“I'm not risking you.”

Ava fake gags, making you turn towards her, crouched over Noah's body with Tom all while taking down notes. When she knows she has the attention of you both, she smirks, “monster. fucker.”

Noah snorts.

“Don't worry Ava,” you joke, “you're still that very witch.”

“Damn right I am,” she grins.

“Should we. . .,” Tom says, scratching his chin in thought. “They're movies but still. . .”

“Maybe it has to just be them two,” Ava posits at Tom, “like it was last time.”

“Maybe. . .”

“So we’re doing this then?”

Ava's about to say something when she catches the death glare Noah's sending her. “How about you two decide that before we start trying anything.” She drags Tom up the stairs.

“Forget it,” Noah huffs, “I refuse to risk you.”

“I want to!” You cry out, “I want to help you and now I have the chance to.”

“Trust me. You don't want to be a monster.”

“You're not a monster,” you counter, squaring up against Noah.

He scowls before shifting into a mass of shadows, eyes a blazing wildfire burning though acres of bush land. He always had to have the last word.

“You're not a monster,” you repeat, still right by him, whether he was shadows or a specter he was Noah and that was all that mattered to you. “You've never been a monster. You've never hurt anyone. You helped out with the lake ghost. You've kept me company. It doesn't matter what form you take, to me, your Noah Marshall and that's all I really care about.” The tears fall down your cheeks freely now, even as you sniffle, soft smile on your lips as Noah calms down.

Fading from red to white to blue, until he's once more wearing the stupid beanie that you teased him about. Even death couldn't make him give up the beanie.

“You really would, wouldn't you,” he says in awe, “stay. Even if this doesn't work.” As if he couldn't wrap his head around the idea that he was that precious to anyone.

You nod. Not trusting your voice.

There's a tenderness in his expression that fills your chest with warmth as he closes the distance between you, careful, as he presses his insubstantial lips against yours and you've never felt this crazy about anyone before: never felt sure about anything like you know that if someone cracked your chest open, his name would be written on your heart.

You're not scared as darkness blots out the light of the chamber.

Darkness descends until you can't see a thing.

Noah holds your hand as you walk through the cemetery. His thumb rubbing circles into the back of your hand as you lead the way to where his tombstone is.

“Your so dumb,” you mutter for the thousandth time. Stacy's mom had graciously helped with spinning the whole Noah's actually alive story, but his mom was long gone leaving behind a tombstone for her two kids.

“It's hilarious,” he says nonchalantly even though you know he fidgeted the whole car drive here.

“Tom said to keep your nose down.”

“Tom has a stick up his ass.”

You smack his shoulder lightly, “be nice. I like Tom.”

“I never said I didn't like Tom,” he frowns, and if you didn't know him as well as you do, you'd believe the serious expression in his furrowed brow.

“You're such a dick,” you shake your head with a laugh.

Noah snorts, “I'm perfectly nice.”

“Who told you that lie!”

He pulls you in close, letting go of your hand to wrap his arm around your waist, “Lily thinks so.”

“please,” you counter, “if someone asked Lily to help them find their missing puppy she'd help them.”

Noah wags his finger, “now who's being a dick.”

You burst out laughing, still in amazement that Noah was here in the flesh and blood and you were never going to tire of simple things like holding his hand or having his arm around you as you walk.

Neither of you nor Noah were hopeless romantics or sappy people, but having been put through the ringer to so much as kiss, holding hands had become an unspoken agreement when you went grocery shopping or drove over to visit Tom as you finally took him up on the offer to learn how to swim.

You halt in front of his grave.

Noah Marshall.

1999-2018

It's simple. It's impersonal.

You hate it.

Noah doesn't waste a second, opening up the camera app on his phone. and taking a selfy in front of his own tombstone. “Get in the picture!”

You shake your head with a giggle, “okay, okay, just one,” and you snuggle up to him, pulling a funny face as he gets the inscription in the selfy.

“Guess this is goodbye to Westchester then,” he says out loud.

“I guess so,” you nod, peering out into the surrounding woods.

Noah leans in, kissing your cheek, “can't say I'll miss it. Not when I'm taking the best thing in this town with me.”

Your cheeks burn red. But the way the words melt your heart doesn't make you pull a punch. “You're such a nerd beanie boy.”

“Oh shut up,” Noah laughs, pink dusting his cheekbones.

There was no doubt about it. This was love.

[royalreef]

@paleobird || Starter Call.

The first thing that comes is a heavy snort, a deep rolling of the breath, jaws opening for a sliver as the scent wafts in. It is a familiar one. A known one. It is one that sets the body tensing regardless, fills the air with a silence that could swallow ships whole.

Miranda jolts a little, but does not respond so directly to her sister. There's a touching of the end of her head against her sister's temple, a softer chirrup that cannot be translated into the languages of those who do not know it by heart. As ever, when she pricks her head up, fins framing her face, the sunshine of late summer dappling over her scales and warming the sand around them, she already knows it is the harpy. Any greeting is moot by this point, politeness extended in a certain crucial direction, one where whether or not Ava herself introduces her intrusion onto the private beach or not hardly matters. Other things swing into crucial motion now, and they are determined by the blue merfolk laying in the sun, her legs kicked back and her heels buried in the sand.

"Ava," Miranda introduces her first, her hand snaking up a few precious inches to grab onto Bellanda's wrist, hooking gently over the extension of her arms that billows out into fins. "Bellanda- Ava, you were not called for. Why are you here?"

Why today, she doesn't say. She glances back down to her sister, finds Bellanda looking back at her, her fins loose around the back of her head. Another nudge of Miranda's head against her sister's temple, and her second chirrup gets a more quizzical chirrup in reply. She wants to talk, wants to speak, wants to use the words that were laid beside her as a pup as her first gift, but Miranda keeps flicking the ends of her fins, keeps blinking and turning her sight back to Ava out of the corner of her vision, keeps feeling it bud along her spine.

Bellanda takes her turn first, speaking while her younger sister stalls, twisting her head up so as to get a better look at the mess of blue and feathers and penguin-posture. There is not a point at which a smile crosses her face, not a point at which she does anything more than stare plainly down at the harpy, so much larger than her younger sibling, so much more well-muscled, so much more the gesture of violence incarnate that her position promised.

"Ava...? You are the harpy, correct?"

[fillingthescrapbook]

What I’m Watching

Call Me Kat

I'm still on the fence about this show. It's good when it follows its own path and creates its own stories. But out of the five episodes that had already aired, two have already gone fishing at the Miranda well: the pilot, which I sort of understand, and the hotel episode. To make things worse, both episodes really highlight the fact that Call Me Kat isn't as endearing as the show it is based on.

I really want to like this show, and to see these characters grow. But if the next episode dips into the Miranda well again, I'll probably just stop watching. I don't want to watch a show out of pity. It's depressing.

Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist

I thought the second season premiere was really strong. I liked the episode that followed. And then... I don't know. It's like a spark was extinguished. I still love Mo. I still love Maggie, and David, and Emily. I still like Leif, and I feel bad for the lack of Tobin development. And I'm starting to enjoy Simon again. Unfortunately, I feel like I've detached myself from Zoey. Which is not a good thing, considering the fact that she's the lead character.

I understand grief. I know she needs to process things. But what she's going through and what's happening in the show feels a little disjointed for me. And I think it has to do with Zoey getting promoted when her story focus should've just been on the dealing with her loss. This is why Maggie's storyline feels organic. David and Emily's too. Simon is in his element. And then there's Zoey. Feeling trapped, feeling guilty--and yet she's getting everything.

Sure, they needed to deal with the fact that the show lost Lauren Graham. And it would be weird if Leif had been promoted over Zoey, especially if we consider the fact that Joan, Lauren’s character, was clearly grooming Zoey to be her replacement down the line. But they could've just brought Renee Elise Goldsberry back in the meantime. Her character, Ava Price, could've merged the fourth and sixth floor at Sprqpoint. And there could've been a better storyline for both Zoey and Leif where the latter becomes co-manager with Zoey because of her six-months absence. And the power struggle between them continues even as Leif doesn't want to pressure her because he doesn't know how to deal with what she's going through.

I just feel like the promotion was too much too soon.

As for Max... I don't know. The past two episodes have completely eradicated any goodwill that I have for his character. He's become the "nice guy" who is actually only nice because there's something he wants from you. And I can't stand people like that. So I can't stand Max.

Superstore

This is the show that continues to be awesome, and I am gutted that they are ending this season. Sure season six hasn't been firing on all cylinders without Amy as the centerpiece of all the chaos--but the comedic strength of the ensemble cast more than makes up for it.

I am a little iffy about their plans to spin off Cheyenne into her own show though. I love Nichole Sakura and think she's a great actress. I'd love for her to lead her own show, yes-- But her Superstore character is not the most likeable or the most relatable. I feel like giving her a spin-off would only set the actress up for failure.

If NBC really wants to develop a Superstore spin-off based on an existing character, I think the best bets are Jonah, Garrett, or Dina. Jonah, because following his trajectory once he realizes what he wants to do in life would be interesting. Especially since he'll be middle-aged and just starting out in life. Although if Superstore gives him a happy ending with a returning Amy, obviously, he wouldn't be a great spin-off character anymore.

Putting Dina in a new environment that's not her element would be hilarious. She is someone who made Cloud 9 her entire personality. It would be fun to see her be the fish out of water for a change. And as for Garrett, he is the most relatable character in Superstore. He's also one of the most likeable. And they could spin him off into a gamer-centric sitcom where he is partnered with someone younger, and/or someone moneyed--and make it an odd couple type of thing. It can be hilarious.

Give Nichole an actual break with a different character. Cheyenne, the character, is not a star-maker. She's made to steal scenes, not to anchor a whole show.

Wandavision

I don't want to talk about it. Not yet. I just want to say that I am enjoying everything so far. I want to know what's going on. But I feel like this is a show that you only truly process once you've seen the whole thing. But Marvel really knows how to hype people up. And kudos to Disney+ for sticking with the weekly release.

Then again, I was never really a fan of binging shows.

[ahouseoflies]

The Best Films of 2020

I can’t tell you anything novel or insightful about this year that has been stolen from our lives. I watched zero of these films in a theater, and I watched most of them half-asleep in moments that I stole from my children. Don’t worry, there are some jokes below.

GARBAGE

93. Capone (Josh Trank)- What is the point of this dinner theater trash? It takes place in the last year of Capone's life, when he was released from prison due to failing health and suffered a stroke in his Florida home. So it covers...none of the things that make Al Capone interesting? It's not historically accurate, which I have no problem with, but if you steer away from accuracy, then do something daring and exciting. Don't give me endless scenes of "Phonse"--as if the movie is running from the very person it's about--drawing bags of money that promise intrigue, then deliver nothing in return.

That being said, best "titular character shits himself" scene since The Judge.

92. Ammonite (Francis Lee)- I would say that this is the Antz to Portrait of a Lady on Fire's A Bug's Life, but it's actually more like the Cars 3 to Portrait of a Lady on Fire's Toy Story 1.

91. Ava (Tate Taylor)- Despite the mystery and inscrutability that usually surround assassins, what if we made a hitman movie but cared a lot about her personal life? Except neither the assassin stuff nor the family stuff is interesting?

90. Wonder Woman 1984 (Patty Jenkins)- What a miscalculation of what audiences loved about the first and wanted from the sequel. WW84 is silly and weightless in all of the ways that the first was elegant and confident. If the return of Pine is just a sort of phantom representation of Diana's desires, then why can he fly a real plane? If he is taking over another man's soul, then, uh, what ends up happening to that guy? For that matter, why is it not 1984 enough for Ronald Reagan to be president, but it is 1984 enough for the president to have so many Ronald Reagan signifiers that it's confusing? Why not just make a decision?

On paper, the me-first values of the '80s lend themselves to the monkey's paw wish logic of this plot. You could actually do something with the Star Wars program or the oil crisis. But not if the setting is played for only laughs and the screenplay explains only what it feels like.

89. Babyteeth (Shannon Murphy)- In this type of movie, there has to be a period of the Ben Mendelsohn character looking around befuddled about the new arrangement and going, "What's this now--he's going to be...living with us? The guy who tried to steal our medication? This is crazy!" But that's usually ten minutes, and in this movie it's an hour. I was so worn out by the end.

88. You Should Have Left (David Koepp)- David Koepp wrote Jurassic Park, so he's never going to hell, but how dare he start caring about his own mystery at the hour mark. There's a forty-five minute version of this movie that could get an extra star from me, and there's a three-hour version of Amanda Seyfried walking around in athleisure that would get four stars from me. What we actually get? No thanks.

87. Black Is King (Beyonce, et al.)- End your association with The Lion King, Bey. It has resulted in zero bops.

  ADMIRABLE FAILURES

86. Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (Cathy Yan)- There's nothing too dysfunctional in the storytelling or performances, but Birds of Prey also doesn't do a single thing well. I would prefer something alive and wild, even if it were flawed, to whatever tame belt-level formula this is.

85. The Turning (Floria Sigismondi)- This update of The Turn of the Screw pumps the age of Miles up to high school, which creates some horny creepiness that I liked. But the age of the character also prevents the ending of the novel from happening in favor of a truly terrible shrug. I began to think that all of the patience that the film showed earlier was just hesitance for its own awful ending.

I watched The Turning as a Mackenzie Davis Movie Star heat check, and while I'm not sure she has the magnetism I was looking for, she does have a great teacher voice, chastening but maternal.

84. Bloodshot (David Wilson)- A whole lot of Vin Diesel saying he's going to get revenge and kill a bunch of dudes; not a whole lot of Vin Diesel actually getting revenge and killing a bunch of dudes.

83. Downhill (Nat Faxon and Jim Rash)- I was an English major in college, which means I ended up locking myself into literary theories that, halfway through the writing of an essay, I realized were flawed. But rather than throw out the work that I had already proposed, I would just keep going and see if I could will the idea to success.

So let's say you have a theory that you can take Force Majeure by Ruben Ostlund, one of the best films of its year, and remake it so that its statement about familial anxiety could apply to Americans of the same age and class too...if it hadn't already. And maybe in the first paragraph you mess up by casting Will Ferrell and Julia Louis-Dreyfus, people we are conditioned to laugh at, when maybe this isn't that kind of comedy at all. Well, don't throw it away. You can quote more--fill up the pages that way--take an exact shot or scene from the original. Does that help? Maybe you can make the writing more vigorous and distinctive by adding a character. Is that going to make this baby stand out? Maybe you could make it more personal by adding a conclusion that is slightly more clever than the rest of the paper?

Or perhaps this is one you're just not going to get an A on.

82. Hillbilly Elegy (Ron Howard)- I watched this melodrama at my mother's encouragement, and, though I have been trying to pin down her taste for decades, I think her idea of a successful film just boils down to "a lot of stuff happens." So in that way, Ron Howard's loss is my gain, I guess.

There is no such thing as a "neutral Terminator."

81. Relic (Natalie Erika James)- The star of the film is Vanessa Cerne's set decoration, but the inert music and slow pace cancel out a house that seems neglected slowly over decades.

80. Buffaloed (Tanya Wexler)- Despite a breathless pace, Buffaloed can't quite congeal. In trying to split the difference between local color hijinks and Moneyballed treatise on debt collection, it doesn't commit enough to either one.

Especially since Zoey Deutch produced this one in addition to starring, I'm getting kind of worried about boo's taste. Lot of Two If by Seas; not enough While You Were Sleepings.

79. Like a Boss (Miguel Arteta)- I chuckled a few times at a game supporting cast that is doing heavy lifting. But Like a Boss is contrived from the premise itself--Yeah, what if people in their thirties fell out of friendship? Do y'all need a creative consultant?--to the escalation of most scenes--Why did they have to hide on the roof? Why do they have to jump into the pool?

The movie is lean, but that brevity hurts just as much as it helps. The screenplay knows which scenes are crucial to the development of the friendship, but all of those feel perfunctory, in a different gear from the setpieces.  

To pile on a bit: Studio comedies are so bare bones now that they look like Lifetime movies. Arteta brought Chuck & Buck to Sundance twenty years ago, and, shot on Mini-DV for $250,000, it was seen as a DIY call-to-bootstraps. I guarantee that has more setups and locations and shooting days than this.

78. Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga (David Dobkin)- Add Dan Stevens to the list of supporting players who have bodied Will Ferrell in his own movie--one that he cared enough to write himself.  

Like Downhill, Ferrell's other 2020 release, this isn't exactly bad. It's just workmanlike and, aside from the joke about Demi Lovato's "uninformed" ghost, frustratingly conventional.

77. The Traitor (Marco Bellochio)- Played with weary commitment by Pierfrancesco Favino, Tomasso Buscetta is "credited" as the first informant of La Cosa Nostra. And that sounds like an interesting subject for a "based on a true story" crime epic, right? Especially when you find out that Buscetta became a rat out of principle: He believed that the mafia to which he had pledged his life had lost its code to the point that it was a different organization altogether.  

At no point does Buscetta waver or even seem to struggle with his decision though, so what we get is less conflicted than that description might suggest. None of these Italian mob movies glorify the lifestyle, so I wasn't expecting that. But if the crime doesn't seem enticing, and snitching on the crime seems like forlorn duty, and everything is pitched with such underhanded matter-of-factness that you can't even be sure when Buscetta has flipped, then what are we left with? It was interesting seeing how Italian courts work, I guess?

76. Kajillionaire (Miranda July)- This is another movie so intent on building atmosphere and lore that it takes too long to declare what it is. When the protagonist hits a breaking point and has to act, she has only a third of a film to grow. So whispery too.

Gina Rodriguez is the one to inject life into it. As soon as her motormouth winds up, the film slips into a different gear. The atmosphere and lore that I mentioned reeks of artifice, but her character is believably specific. Beneath a basic exterior is someone who is authentically caring but still morally compromised, beholden to the world that the other characters are suspicious of.

75. Scoob! (Tony Cervone)- The first half is sometimes clever, but it hammers home the importance of friendship while separating the friends.

The second half has some positive messaging, but your kids' movie might have a problem with scale if it involves Alexander the Great unlocking the gates of the Underworld.

My daughter loved it.

74. The Lovebirds (Michael Showalter)- If I start talking too much about this perfectly fine movie, I end up in that unfair stance of reviewing the movie I wanted, not what is actually there.* As a fan of hang-out comedies, I kind of resent that any comedy being made now has to be rolled into something more "exciting," whether it's a wrongfully accused or mistaken identity thriller or some other genre. Such is the post-Game Night world. There's a purposefully anti-climactic note that I wish The Lovebirds had ended on, but of course we have another stretch of hiding behind boats and shooting guns. Nanjiani and Rae are really charming leads though.

*- As a New Orleanian, I was totally distracted by the fake aspects of the setting too. "Oh, they walked to Jefferson from downtown? Really?" You probably won't be bothered by the locations.

73. Sonic the Hedgehog (Jeff Fowler)- In some ways the storytelling is ambitious. (I'm speaking for only myself, but I'm fine with "He's a hedgehog, and he's really fast" instead of the owl mother, teleportation backstory. Not everything has to be Tolkien.) But that ambition doesn't match the lack of ambition in the comedy, which depends upon really hackneyed setups and structures. Guiding Jim Carrey to full alrighty-then mode was the best choice anyone made.

72. Malcolm & Marie (Sam Levinson)- The stars move through these long scenes with agility and charisma, but the degree of difficulty is just too high for this movie to reach what it's going for.

Levinson is trying to capture an epic fight between a couple, and he can harness the theatrical intensity of such a thing, but he sacrifices almost all of the nuance. In real life, these knock-down-drag-outs can be circular and indirect and sad in a way that this couple's manipulation rarely is. If that emotional truth is all this movie is trying to achieve, I feel okay about being harsh in my judgment of how well it does that.

71. Beanpole (Kantemir Balagov)- Elusive in how it refuses to declare itself, forthright in how punishing it is. The whole thing might be worth it for a late dinner scene, but I'm getting a bit old to put myself through this kind of misery.

70. The Burnt Orange Heresy (Giuseppe Capotondi)- Silly in good ways until it's silly in bad ways. Elizabeth Debicki remains 6'3".

69. Everybody’s Everything (Sebastian Jones and Ramez Silyan)- As a person who listened to Lil Peep's music, I can confidently say that this documentary is overstating his greatness. His death was a significant loss, as the interview subjects will all acknowledge, but the documentary is more useful as a portrait of a certain unfocused, rapacious segment of a generation that is high and online at all times.

68. The Witches (Robert Zemeckis)- Robert Zemeckis, Kenya Barris, and Guillermo Del Toro are the credited screenwriters, and in a fascinating way, you can see the imprint of each figure on the final product. Adapting a very European story to the old wives' tales of the American South is an interesting choice. Like the Nicolas Roeg try at this material, Zemeckis is not afraid to veer into the terrifying, and Octavia Spencer's pseudo witch doctor character only sells the supernatural. From a storytelling standpoint though, it seems as if the obstacles are overcome too easily, as if there's a whole leg of the film that has been excised. The framing device and the careful myth-making of the flashback make promises that the hotel half of the film, including the abrupt ending, can't live up to.

If nothing else, Anne Hathaway is a real contender for Most On-One Performance of the year.

67. Irresistible (Jon Stewart)- Despite a sort of imaginative ending, Jon Stewart's screenplay feels more like the declarative screenplay that would get you hired for a good movie, not a good screenplay itself. It's provocative enough, but it's clumsy in some basic ways and never evades the easy joke.

For example, the Topher Grace character is introduced as a sort of assistant, then is re-introduced an hour later as a polling expert, then is shown coaching the candidate on presentation a few scenes later. At some point, Stewart combined characters into one role, but nothing got smoothed out.

ENDEARING CURIOSITIES WITH BIG FLAWS

66. Yes, God, Yes (Karen Maine)- Most people who are Catholic, including me, are conflicted about it. Most people who make movies about being Catholic hate it and have an axe to grind. This film is capable of such knowing wit and nuance when it comes to the lived-in details of attending a high school retreat, but it's more concerned with taking aim at hypocrisy in the broad way that we've seen a million times. By the end, the film is surprisingly all-or-nothing when Christian teenagers actually contain multitudes.

Part of the problem is that Karen Maine's screenplay doesn't know how naive to make the Alice character. Sometimes she's reasonably naive for a high school senior in 2001; sometimes she's comically naive so that the plot can work; and sometimes she's stupid, which isn't the same as naive.

65. Bad Boys for Life (Adil El Arbi and Bilall Fallah)- This might be the first buddy cop movie in which the vets make peace with the tech-comm youngs who use new techniques. If that's the only novelty on display here--and it is--then maybe that's enough. I laughed maybe once. Not that the mistaken identity subplot of Bad Boys 1 is genius or anything, but this entry felt like it needed just one more layer to keep it from feeling as basic as it does. Speaking of layers though, it's almost impossible to watch any Will Smith movie now without viewing it through the meta-narrative of "What is Will Smith actually saying about his own status at this point in his career?" He's serving it up to us.

I derived an inordinate amount of pleasure from seeing the old school Simpson/Bruckheimer logo.

64. The Gentlemen (Guy Ritchie)- Look, I'm not going to be too negative on a movie whose crime slang is so byzantine that it has to be explained with subtitles. That's just me. I'm a simple man. But I can tell you that I tuned out pretty hard after seven or eight double-crosses.

The bloom is off the rose a bit for Ritchie, but he can still nail a music cue. I've been waiting for someone to hit "That's Entertainment" the way he does on the end credits.

63. Bad Hair (Justin Simien)- In Bad Hair, an African-American woman is told by her boss at a music video channel in 1989 that straightening her hair is the way to get ahead; however, her weave ends up having a murderous mind of its own. Compared to that charged, witty logline, the execution of the plot itself feels like a laborious, foregone conclusion. I'm glad that Simien, a genuinely talented writer, is making movies again though. Drop the skin-care routine, Van Der Beek!

62. Greyhound (Aaron Schneider)- "If this is the type of role that Tom Hanks writes for himself, then he understands his status as America's dad--'wise as the serpent, harmless as the dove'--even better than I thought." "America's Dad! Aye aye, sir!" "At least half of the dialogue is there for texture and authenticity, not there to be understood by the audience." "Fifty percent, Captain!" "The environment looks as fake as possible, but I eventually came around to the idea that the movie is completely devoid of subtext." "No subtext to be found, sir!"

  61. Mank (David Fincher)- About ten years ago, the Creative Screenwriting podcast spent an hour or so with James Vanderbilt, the writer of Zodiac and nothing else that comes close, as he relayed the creative paces that David Fincher pushed him through. Hundreds of drafts and years of collaborative work eventuated in the blueprint for Fincher's most exacting, personal film, which he didn't get a writing credit on only because he didn't seek one.

Something tells me that Fincher didn't ask for rewrites from his dead father. No matter what visuals and performances the director can coax from the script--and, to be clear, these are the worst visuals and performances of his career--they are limited by the muddy lightweight pages. There are plenty of pleasures, like the slippery election night montage or the shakily platonic relationship between Mank and Marion. But Fincher hadn't made a film in six years, and he came back serving someone else's master.

60. Tesla (Michael Almereyda)- "You live inside your head." "Doesn't everybody?"

As usual, Almereyda's deconstructions are invigorating. (No other moment can match the first time Eve Hewson's Anne fact-checks something with her anachronistic laptop.) But they don't add up to anything satisfying because Tesla himself is such an opaque figure. Driven by the whims of his curiosity without a clear finish line, the character gives Hawke something enigmatic to play as he reaches deep into a baritone. But he's too inward to lend himself to drama. Tesla feels of a piece with Almereyda's The Experimenter, and that's the one I would recommend.

59. Vitalina Varela (Pedro Costa)- I can't oversell how delicately beautiful this film is visually. There's a scene in which Vitalina lugs a lantern into a church, but we get several seconds of total darkness before that one light source carves through it and takes over part of the frame. Each composition is as intricate as it is overpowering, achieving a balance between stark and mannered.

That being said, most of the film is people entering or exiting doors. I felt very little of the haunting loss that I think I was supposed to.

58. The Rhythm Section (Reed Morano)- Call it the Timothy Hutton in The General's Daughter Corollary: If a name-actor isn't in the movie much but gets third billing, then, despite whom he sends the protagonist to kill, he is the Actual Bad Guy.  

Even if the movie serves up a lot of cliche, the action and sound design are visceral. I would like to see more from Morano.

57. Red, White and Blue (Steve McQueen)- Well-made and heartfelt even if it goes step-for-step where you think it will.

Here's what I want to know though: In the academy training sequence, the police cadets have to subdue a "berserker"; that is, a wildman who swings at their riot gear with a sledgehammer. Then they get him under control, and he shakes their hands, like, "Good angle you took on me there, mate." Who is that guy and where is his movie? Is this full-time work? Is he a police officer or an independent contractor? What would happen if this exercise didn't go exactly as planned?

56. Wolfwalkers (Tomm Moore and Ross Stewart)- The visuals have an unfinished quality that reminded me of The Tale of Princess Kaguya--the center of a flame is undrawn white, and fog is just negative space. There's an underlying symmetry to the film, and its color palette changes with mood.

Narratively, it's pro forma and drawn-out. Was Riley in Inside Out the last animated protagonist to get two parents? My daughter stuck with it, but she needed a lot of context for the religious atmosphere of 17th century Ireland.

55. What She Said: The Art of Pauline Kael (Rob Garver)- The film does little more than one might expect; it's limited in the way that any visual medium is when trying to sum up a woman of letters. But as far as education for Kael's partnership with Warren Beatty or the idea of The New Yorker paying her for only six months out of the year, it was useful for me.  

Although Garver isn't afraid to point to the work that made Kael divisive, it would have been nice to have one or two interview subjects who questioned her greatness, rather than the crew of Paulettes who, even when they do say something like, "Sometimes I radically disagreed with her," do it without being able to point to any specifics.

54. Beastie Boys Story (Spike Jonze)- As far as this Spike Jonze completist is concerned, this is more of a Powerpoint presentation than a movie, Beastie Boys Story still warmed my heart, making me want to fire up Paul's Boutique again and take more pictures of my buddies.

53. Tenet (Christopher Nolan)- Cool and cold, tantalizing and frustrating, loud and indistinct, Tenet comes close to Nolan self-parody, right down to the brutalist architecture and multiple characters styled like him. The setpieces grabbed me, I'll admit.

Nolan's previous film, which is maybe his best, was "about" a lot and just happened to play with time; Tenet is only about playing with time.

PRETTY GOOD MOVIES

52. Shithouse (Cooper Raiff)- "Death is ass."

There's such a thing as too naturalistic. If I wanted to hear how college freshmen really talked, I would hang out with college freshmen. But you have to take the good verisimilitude with the bad, and good verisimilitude is the mother's Pod Save America t-shirt.

There are some poignant moments (and a gonzo performance from Logan Miller) in this auspicious debut from Cooper Raiff, the writer/director/editor/star. But the second party sequence kills some of the momentum, and at a crucial point, the characters spell out some motivation that should have stayed implied.

51. Totally Under Control (Alex Gibney, Ophelia Harutyunyan, Suzanne Hillinger)- As dense and informative as any other Gibney documentary with the added flex of making it during the pandemic it is investigating.

But yeah, why am I watching this right now? I don't need more reasons to be angry with Trump, whom this film calmly eviscerates. The directors analyze Trump's narcissism first through his contradictions of medical expertise in order to protect the economy that could win him re-election. Then it takes aim at his hiring based on loyalty instead of experience. But you already knew that, which is the problem with the film, at least for now.

50. Happiest Season (Clea Duvall)- I was in the perfect mood to watch something this frothy and bouncy. Every secondary character receives a moment in the sun, and Daniel Levy gets a speech that kind of saves the film at a tipping point.

I must say though: I wanted to punch Harper in her stupid face. She is a terrible romantic partner, abandoning or betraying Abby throughout the film and dissembling her entire identity to everyone else in a way that seems absurd for a grown woman in 2020. Run away, Kristen. Perhaps with Aubrey Plaza, whom you have more chemistry with. But there I go shipping and aligning myself with characters, which only proves that this is an effective romantic comedy.

49. The Way Back (Gavin O’Connor)- Patient but misshapen, The Way Back does just enough to overcome the cliches that are sort of unavoidable considering the genre. (I can't get enough of the parent character who, for no good reason, doesn't take his son's success seriously. "Scholarship? What he's gotta do is put his nose in them books! That's why I don't go to his games. [continues moving boxes while not looking at the other character] Now if you'll excuse me while I wait four scenes before showing up at a game to prove that I'm proud of him after all...")

What the movie gets really right or really wrong in the details about coaching and addiction is a total crap-shoot. But maybe I've said too much already.

48. The Whistlers (Corneliu Porumboiu)- Porumboiu is a real artist who seems to be interpreting how much surveillance we're willing to acknowledge and accept, but I won't pretend to have understood much of the plot, the chapters or which are told out of order. Sometimes the structure works--the beguiling, contextless "high-class hooker" sequence--but I often wondered if the film was impenetrable in the way that Porumboiu wanted it to be or impenetrable in the way he didn't.

To tell you the truth, the experience kind of depressed me because I know that, in my younger days, this film is the type of thing that I would re-watch, possibly with the chronology righted, knowing that it is worth understanding fully. But I have two small children, and I'm exhausted all the time, and I kind of thought I should get some credit for still trying to catch up with Romanian crime movies in the first place.

47. Borat Subsequent Moviefilm (Jason Woliner)- I laughed too much to get overly critical, but the film is so episodic and contrived that it's kind of exhausting by the end--even though it's achieving most of its goals. Maybe Borat hasn't changed, but the way our citizens own their ugliness has.

46. First Cow (Kelly Reichardt)- Despite how little happens in the first forty minutes, First Cow is a thoughtful capitalism parable. Even though it takes about forty minutes to get going, the friendship between Cookie and King-Lu is natural and incisive. Like Reichardt's other work, the film's modest premise unfolds quite gracefully, except for in the first forty minutes, which are uneventful.

45. Les Miserables (Ladj Ly)- I loved parts of the film--the disorienting, claustrophobic opening or the quick look at the police officers' home lives, for example. But I'm not sure that it does anything very well. The needle the film tries to thread between realism and theater didn't gel for me. The ending, which is ambiguous in all of the wrong ways, chooses the theatrical. (If I'm being honest, my expectations were built up by Les Miserables' Jury Prize at Cannes, and it's a bit superficial to be in that company.)

If nothing else, it's always helpful to see how another country's worst case scenario in law enforcement would look pretty good over here.

44. Bad Education (Cory Finley)- The film feels too locked-down and small at the beginning, so intent on developing the protagonist neutrally that even the audience isn't aware of his secrets. So when he faces consequences for those secrets, there's a disconnect. Part of tragedy is seeing the doom coming, right?

When it opens up, however, it's empathetic and subtle, full of a dry irony that Finley is already specializing in after only one other feature. Geraldine Viswanathan and Allison Janney get across a lot of interiority that is not on the page.

43. The Trip to Greece (Michael Winterbottom)- By the fourth installment, you know whether you're on board with the franchise. If you're asking "Is this all there is?" to Coogan and Brydon's bickering and impressions as they're served exotic food in picturesque settings, then this one won't sway you. If you're asking "Is this all there is?" about life, like they are, then I don't need to convince you.  

I will say that The Trip to Spain seemed like an enervated inflection point, at which the squad could have packed it in. The Trip to Greece proves that they probably need to keep doing this until one of them dies, which has been the subtext all along.

42. Feels Good Man (Arthur Jones)- This documentary centers on innocent artist Matt Furie's helplessness as his Pepe the Frog character gets hijacked by the alt-right. It gets the hard things right. It's able to, quite comprehensively, trace a connection from 4Chan's use of Pepe the Frog to Donald Trump's near-assuming of Pepe's ironic deniability. Director Arthur Jones seems to understand the machinations of the alt-right, and he articulates them chillingly.

The easy thing, making us connect to Furie, is less successful. The film spends way too much time setting up his story, and it makes him look naive as it pits him against Alex Jones in the final third. Still, the film is a quick ninety-two minutes, and the highs are pretty high.

41. The Old Guard (Gina Prince-Bythewood)- Some of the world-building and backstory are handled quite elegantly. The relationships actually do feel centuries old through specific details, and the immortal conceit comes together for an innovative final action sequence.

Visually and musically though, the film feels flat in a way that Prince-Bythewood's other films do not. I blame Netflix specs. KiKi Layne, who tanked If Beale Street Could Talk for me, nearly ruins this too with the child-actory way that she stresses one word per line. Especially in relief with one of our more effortless actresses, Layne is distracting.

40. The Trial of the Chicago 7 (Aaron Sorkin)- Whenever Sacha Baron Cohen's Abbie Hoffman opens his mouth, the other defendants brace themselves for his dismissive vulgarity. Even when it's going to hurt him, he can't help but shoot off at the mouth. Of course, he reveals his passionate and intelligent depths as the trial goes on. The character is the one that Sorkin's screenplay seems the most endeared to: In the same way that Hoffman can't help but be Hoffman, Sorkin can't help but be Sorkin. Maybe we don't need a speech there; maybe we don't have to stretch past two hours; maybe a bon mot diffuses the tension. But we know exactly what to expect by now. The film is relevant, astute, witty, benevolent, and, of course, in love with itself. There are a handful of scenes here that are perfect, so I feel bad for qualifying so much.

A smaller point: Daniel Pemberton has done great work in the past (Motherless Brooklyn, King Arthur, The Man from U.N.C.L.E.), but the first sequence is especially marred by his sterile soft-rock approach.

  GOOD MOVIES

39. Time (Garrett Bradley)- The key to Time is that it provides very little context. Why the patriarch of this family is serving sixty years in prison is sort of besides the point philosophically. His wife and sons have to move on without him, and the tragedy baked into that fact eclipses any notion of what he "deserved." Feeling the weight of time as we switch back and forth between a kid talking about his first day of kindergarten and that same kid graduating from dentistry school is all the context we need. Time's presentation can be quite sumptuous: The drone shot of Angola makes its buildings look like crosses. Or is it X's?

At the same time, I need some context. When director Garrett Bradley withholds the reason Robert's in prison, and when she really withholds that Fox took a plea and served twelve years, you start to see the strings a bit. You could argue that knowing so little about why, all of a sudden, Robert can be on parole puts you into the same confused shoes as the family, but it feels manipulative to me. The film is preaching to the choir as far as criminal justice goes, which is fine, but I want it to have the confidence to tell its story above board.

38. Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets (Turner Ross and Bill Ross IV)- I have a barfly friend whom I see maybe once a year. When we first set up a time to meet, I kind of dread it and wonder what we'll have to talk about. Once we do get together, we trip on each other's words a bit, fumbling around with the rhythm of conversation that we mastered decades ago. He makes some kind of joke that could have been appropriate then but isn't now.

By the end of the day, hours later, we're hugging and maybe crying as we promise each other that we won't wait as long next time.

That's the exact same journey that I went on with this film.

37. Underwater (William Eubank)- Underwater is a story that you've seen before, but it's told with great confidence and economy. I looked up at twelve minutes and couldn't believe the whole table had been set. Kristen plays Ripley and projects a smart, benevolent poise.

36. The Lodge (Veronika Franz and Severin Fiala)- I prefer the grounded, manicured first half to the more fantastic second half. The craziness of the latter is only possible through the hard work of the former though. As with Fiala and Franz's previous feature, the visual rhymes and motifs get incorporated into the soup so carefully that you don't realize it until they overwhelm you in their bleak glory.

Small note: Alicia Silverstone, the male lead's first wife, and Riley Keough, his new partner, look sort of similar. I always think that's a nice note: "I could see how he would go for her."

35. Miss Americana (Lana Wilson)- I liked it when I saw it as a portrait of a person whose life is largely decided for her but is trying to carve out personal spaces within that hamster wheel. I loved it when I realized that describes most successful people in their twenties.

34. Sound of Metal (Darius Marder)- Riz Ahmed is showing up on all of the best performances of the year lists, but Sound of Metal isn't in anyone's top ten films of the year. That's about right. Ahmed's is a quiet, stubborn performance that I wish was in service of more than the straight line that we've seen before.

In two big scenes, there's this trick that Ahmed does, a piecing together of consequences with his eyes, as if he's moving through a flow chart in real time. In both cases, the character seems locked out and a little slower than he should be, which is, of course, why he's facing the consequences in the first place. To be charitable to a film that was a bit of a grind, it did make me notice a thing a guy did with his eyes.

33. Pieces of a Woman (Kornel Mundruczo)- Usually when I leave acting showcases like this, I imagine the film without the Oscar-baiting speeches, but this is a movie that specializes in speeches. Pieces of a Woman is being judged, deservedly so, by the harrowing twenty-minute take that opens the film, which is as indulgent as it is necessary. But if the unbroken take provides the "what," then the speeches provide the "why."

This is a film about reclaiming one's body when it rebels against you and when other people seek ownership of it. Without the Ellen Burstyn "lift your head" speech or the Vanessa Kirby show-stopper in the courtroom, I'm not sure any of that comes across.

I do think the film lets us off the hook a bit with the LaBoeuf character, in the sense that it gives us reasons to dislike him when it would be more compelling if he had done nothing wrong. Does his half-remembering of the White Stripes count as a speech?

32. Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (George C. Wolfe)- This is such a play, not only in the locked-down location but also through nearly every storytelling convention: "Where are the two most interesting characters? Oh, running late? They'll enter separately in animated fashion?" But, to use the type of phrase that the characters might, "Don't hate the player; hate the game."

Perhaps the most theatrical note in this treatise on the commodification of expression is the way that, two or three times, the proceedings stop in their tracks for the piece to declare loudly what it's about. In one of those clear-outs, Boseman, who looks distractingly sick, delivers an unforgettable monologue that transports the audience into his character's fragile, haunted mind. He and Viola Davis are so good that the film sort of buckles under their weight, unsure of how to transition out of those spotlight moments and pretend that the story can start back up. Whatever they're doing is more interesting than what's being achieved overall.

31. Another Round (Thomas Vinterberg)- It's definitely the film that Vinterberg wanted to make, but despite what I think is a quietly shattering performance from Mikkelsen, Another Round moves in a bit too much of a straight line to grab me fully. The joyous final minutes hint at where it could have gone, as do pockets of Vinterberg's filmography, which seems newly tethered to realism in a way that I don't like. The best sequences are the wildest ones, like the uproarious trip to the grocery store for fresh cod, so I don't know why so much of it takes place in tiny hallways at magic hour. I give the inevitable American remake* permission to use these notes.

*- Just spitballing here. Martin: Will Ferrell, Nikolaj (Nick): Ben Stiller, Tommy: Owen Wilson, Peter: Craig Robinson

30. The Invisible Man (Leigh Whannell)- Exactly what I wanted. Exactly what I needed.

I think a less conclusive finale would have been better, but what a model of high-concept escalation. This is the movie people convinced me Whannell's Upgrade was.

29. On the Rocks (Sofia Coppola)- Slight until the Mexican sojourn, which expands the scope and makes the film even more psychosexual than before. At times it feels as if Coppola is actively simplifying, rather than diving into the race and privilege questions that the Murray character all but demands.

As for Murray, is the film 50% worse without him? 70%? I don't know if you can run in supporting categories if you're the whole reason the film exists.

28. Mangrove (Steve McQueen)- The first part of the film seemed repetitive and broad to me. But once it settled in as a courtroom drama, the characterization became more shaded, and the filmmaking itself seemed more fluid. I ended up being quite outraged and inspired.

27. Shirley (Josephine Decker)- Josephine Decker emerges as a real stylist here, changing her foggy, impressionistic approach not one bit with a little more budget. Period piece and established actors be damned--this is still as much of a reeling fever dream as Madeline's Madeline. Both pieces are a bit too repetitive and nasty for my taste, but I respect the technique.

Here's my mandatory "Elisabeth Moss is the best" paragraph. While watching her performance as Shirley Jackson, I thought about her most famous role as Peggy on Mad Men, whose inertia and need to prove herself tied her into confidence knots. Shirley is almost the opposite: paralyzed by her worldview, certain of her talent, rejecting any empathy. If Moss can inhabit both characters so convincingly, she can do anything.

26. An American Pickle (Brandon Trost)- An American Pickle is the rare comedy that could actually use five or ten extra minutes, but it's a surprisingly heartfelt and wholesome stretch for Rogen, who is earnest in the lead roles.

25. The King of Staten Island (Judd Apatow)- At two hours and fifteen minutes, The King of Staten Island is probably the first Judd Apatow film that feels like the exact right length. For example, the baggy date scene between a gracious Bill Burr and a faux-dowdy Marisa Tomei is essential, the sort of widening of perspective that something like Trainwreck was missing.

It's Pete Davidson's movie, however, and though he has never been my cup of tea, I think he's actually quite powerful in his quiet moments. The movie probes some rare territory--a mentally ill man's suspicion that he is unlovable, a family's strategic myth-making out of respect for the dead. And when Davidson shows up at the firehouse an hour and fifteen minutes in, it feels as if we've built to a last resort.

24. Swallow (Carlo Mirabella-Davis)- The tricky part of this film is communicating Hunter's despair, letting her isolation mount, but still keeping her opaque. It takes a lot of visual discipline to do that, and Claudio Mirabella-Davis is up to the task. This ends up being a much more sympathetic, expressive movie than the plot description might suggest.

(In the tie dispute, Hunter and Richie are both wrong. That type of silk--I couldn't tell how pebbled it was, but it's probably a barathea weave-- shouldn't be ironed directly, but it doesn't have to be steamed. On a low setting, you could iron the back of the tie and be fine.)

23. The Vast of Night (Andrew Patterson)- I wanted a bit more "there" there; The film goes exactly where I thought it would, and there isn't enough humor for my taste. (The predictability might be a feature, not a bug, since the film is positioned as an episode of a well-worn Twilight Zone-esque show.)

But from a directorial standpoint, this is quite a promising debut. Patterson knows when to lock down or use silence--he even cuts to black to force us to listen more closely to a monologue. But he also knows when to fill the silence. There's a minute or so when Everett is spooling tape, and he and Fay make small talk about their hopes for the future, developing the characters' personalities in what could have been just mechanics. It's also a refreshingly earnest film. No one is winking at the '50s setting.

I'm tempted to write, "If Andrew Patterson can make this with $1 million, just imagine what he can do with $30 million." But maybe people like Shane Carruth have taught us that Patterson is better off pinching pennies in Texas and following his own muse.

22. Martin Eden (Pietro Marcello)- At first this film, adapted from a picaresque novel by Jack London, seemed as if it was hitting the marks of the genre. "He's going from job to job and meeting dudes who are shaping his worldview now." But the film, shot in lustrous Super 16, won me over as it owned the trappings of this type of story, forming a character who is a product of his environment even as he transcends it. By the end, I really felt the weight of time.

You want to talk about something that works better in novels than films though? When a passionate, independent protagonist insists that a woman is the love of his life, despite the fact that she's whatever Italians call a wet blanket. She's rich, but Martin doesn't care about her money. He hates her family and friends, and she refuses to accept him or his life pursuits. She's pretty but not even as pretty as the waitress they discuss. Tell me what I'm missing here. There's archetype, and there's incoherence.

21. Bacurau (Kleber Mendonca Filho and Juliano Dornelles)- Certain images from this adventurous film will stick with me, but I got worn out after the hard reset halfway through. As entranced as I was by the mystery of the first half, I think this blood-soaked ensemble is better at asking questions than it is at answering them.

20. Let Them All Talk (Steven Soderbergh)- The initial appeal of this movie might be "Look at these wonderful actresses in their seventies getting a movie all to themselves." And the film is an interesting portrait of ladies taking stock of relationships that have spanned decades. But Soderbergh and Eisenberg handle the twentysomething Lucas Hedges character with the same openness and empathy. His early reasoning for going on the trip is that he wants to learn from older women, and Hedges nails the puppy-dog quality of a young man who would believe that. Especially in the scenes of aspirational romance, he's sweet and earnest as he brushes his hair out of his face.

Streep plays Alice Hughes, a serious author of literary fiction, and she crosses paths with Kelvin Kranz, a grinder of airport thrillers. In all of the right ways, Let Them All Talk toes the line between those two stances as an entertaining, jaunty experiment that also shoulders subtextual weight. If nothing else, it's easy to see why a cruise ship's counterfeit opulence, its straight lines at a lean, would be visually engaging to Soderbergh. You can't have a return to form if your form is constantly evolving.

19. Dick Johnson Is Dead (Kirsten Johnson)- Understandably, I don't find the subject as interesting as his own daughter does, and large swaths of this film are unsure of what they're trying to say. But that's sort of the point, and the active wrestling that the film engages in with death ultimately pays off in a transcendent moment. The jaw-dropping ending is something that only non-fiction film can achieve, and Johnson's whole career is about the search for that sort of serendipity.

18. Da 5 Bloods (Spike Lee)- Delroy Lindo is a live-wire, but his character is the only one of the principals who is examined with the psychological depth I was hoping for. The first half, with all of its present-tense flourishes, promises more than the gunfights of the second half can deliver. When the film is cooking though, it's chock full of surprises, provocations, and pride.

17. Never Rarely Sometimes Always (Eliza Hittmann)- Very quickly, Eliza Hittmann has established herself as an astute, empathetic director with an eye for discovering new talent. I hope that she gets to make fifty more movies in which she objectively follows laconic young people. But I wanted to like this one more than I did. The approach is so neutral that it's almost flat to me, lacking the arc and catharsis of her previous film, Beach Rats. I still appreciate her restraint though.

GREAT MOVIES

16. Young Ahmed (Jean-Pierre Dardenne and Luc Dardenne)- I don't think the Dardennes have made a bad movie yet, and I'm glad they turned away from the slight genre dipping of The Unknown Girl, the closest to bad that they got. Young Ahmed is a lean, daring return to form.

Instead of following an average person, as they normally do, the Dardenne Brothers follow an extremist, and the objectivity that usually generates pathos now serves to present ambiguity. Ahmed says that he is changing, that he regrets his actions, but we never know how much of his stance is a put-on. I found myself wanting him to reform, more involved than I usually am in these slices of life. Part of it is that Idir Ben Addi looks like such a normal, young kid, and the Ahmed character has most of the qualities that we say we want in young people: principles, commitment, self-worth, reflection. So it's that much more destructive when those qualities are used against him and against his fellow man.

15. World of Tomorrow Episode Three: The Absent Destinations of David Prime (Don Hertzfeldt)- My dad, a man whom I love but will never understand, has dismissed modern music before by claiming that there are only so many combinations of chords. To him, it's almost impossible to do something new. Of course, this is the type of thing that an uncreative person would say--a person not only incapable of hearing the chords that combine notes but also unwilling to hear the space between the notes. (And obviously, that's the take of a person who doesn't understand that, originality be damned, some people just have to create.)

  Anyway, that attitude creeps into my own thinking more than I would like, but then I watch something as wholly original as World of Tomorrow Episode Three. The series has always been a way to pile sci-fi ideas on top of each other to prove the essential truths of being and loving. And this one, even though it achieves less of a sense of yearning than its predecessor, offers even more devices to chew on. Take, for example, the idea that Emily sends her message from the future, so David's primitive technology can barely handle it. In order to move forward with its sophistication, he has to delete any extraneous skills for the sake of computer memory. So out of trust for this person who loves him, he has to weigh whether his own breathing or walking can be uninstalled as a sacrifice for her. I thought that we might have been done describing love, but there it is, a new metaphor. Mixing futurism with stick figures to get at the most pure drive possible gave us something new. It's called art, Dad.

14. On the Record (Kirby Dick and Amy Ziering)- We don't call subjects of documentaries "stars" for obvious reasons, but Drew Dixon kind of is one. Her honesty and wisdom tell a complete story of the #MeToo movement. Kirby Dick and Amy Ziering take their time developing her background at first, not because we need to "gain sympathy" or "establish credibility" for a victim of sexual abuse, but because showing her talent and enthusiasm for hip-hop A&R makes it that much more tragic when her passion is extinguished. Hell, I just like the woman, so spending a half-hour on her rise was pleasurable in and of itself.

  This is a gut-wrenching, fearless entry in what is becoming Dick and Ziering's raison d'etre, but its greatest quality is Dixon's composed reflection. She helped to establish a pattern of Russell Simmons's behavior, but she explains what happened to her in ways I had never heard before.

13. David Byrne’s American Utopia (Spike Lee)- I'm often impressed by the achievements that puzzle me: How did they pull that off? But I know exactly how David Byrne pulled off the impish but direct precision of American Utopia: a lot of hard work.

I can't blame Spike Lee for stealing a page from Demme's Stop Making Sense: He denies us a close-up of any audience members until two-thirds of the way through, when we get someone in absolute rapture.

12. One Night in Miami... (Regina King)- We've all cringed when a person of color is put into the position of speaking on behalf of his or her entire race. But the characters in One Night in Miami... live in that condition all the time and are constantly negotiating it. As Black public figures in 1964, they know that the consequences of their actions are different, bigger, than everyone else's. The charged conversations between Malcolm X and Sam Cooke are not about whether they can live normal lives. They're way past that. The stakes are closer to Sam Cooke arguing that his life's purpose aligns with the protection and elevation of African-Americans while Malcolm X argues that those pursuits should be the same thing. Late in the movie, Cassius Clay leaves the other men, a private conversation, to talk to reporters, a public conversation. But the film argues that everything these men do is always already public. They're the most powerful African-Americans in the country, but their lives are not their own. Or not only their own.

It's true that the first act has the clunkiness and artifice of a TV movie, but once the film settles into the motel room location and lets the characters feed off one another, it's gripping. It's kind of unfair for a movie to get this many scenes of Leslie Odom Jr. singing, but I'll take it.

11. Saint Frances (Alex Thompson)- Rilke wrote, "Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us." The characters' behavior in Saint Frances--all of these fully formed characters' behavior--made me think of that quotation. When they lash out at one another, even at their nastiest, the viewer has a window into how they're expressing pain they can't verbalize. The film is uneven in its subtlety, but it's a real showcase for screenwriter and star Kelly O'Sullivan, who is unflinching and dynamic in one of the best performances of the year. Somebody give her some of the attention we gave to Zach Braff for God's sake.

10. Boys State (Jesse Moss and Amanda McBaine)- This documentary is kind of a miracle from a logistical standpoint. From casting interviews beforehand, lots of editing afterwards, or sly note-taking once the conference began, McBaine and Moss happened to select the four principals who mattered the most at the convention, then found them in rooms full of dudes wearing the same tucked-in t-shirt. By the way, all of the action took place over the course of one week, and by definition, the important events are carved in half.

To call Boys State a microcosm of American politics is incorrect. These guys are forming platforms and voting in elections. What they're doing is American politics, so when they make the same compromises and mistakes that active politicians do, it produces dread and disappointment. So many of the boys are mimicking the political theater that they see on TV, and that sweaty sort of performance is going to make a Billy Mitchell out of this kid Ben Feinstein, and we'll be forced to reckon with how much we allow him to evolve as a person. This film is so precise, but what it proves is undeniably messy. Luckily, some of these seventeen-year-olds usher in hope for us all.

If nothing else, the film reveals the level to which we're all speaking in code.

9. The Nest (Sean Durkin)- In the first ten minutes or so of The Nest, the only real happy minutes, father and son are playing soccer in their quaint backyard, and the father cheats to score on a children's net before sliding on the grass to rub in his victory. An hour later, the son kicks the ball around by himself near a regulation goal on the family's massive property. The contrast is stark and obvious, as is the symbolism of the dead horse, but that doesn't mean it's not visually powerful or resonant.

Like Sean Durkin's earlier film, Martha Marcy May Marlene, the whole of The Nest is told with detail of novelistic scope and an elevation of the moment. A snippet of radio that mentions Ronald Reagan sets the time period, rather than a dateline. One kid saying "Thanks, Dad" and another kid saying, "Thanks, Rory" establishes a stepchild more elegantly than any other exposition might.

But this is also a movie that does not hide what it means. Characters usually say exactly what is on their minds, and motivations are always clear. For example, Allison smokes like a chimney, so her daughter's way of acting out is leaving butts on the window sill for her mother to find. (And mother and daughter both definitely "act out" their feelings.) On the other hand, Ben, Rory's biological son, is the character least like him, so these relationships aren't too directly parallel. Regardless, Durkin uses these trajectories to cast a pall of familial doom.

8. Sorry We Missed You (Sean Durkin)- Another precisely calibrated empathy machine from Ken Loach. The overwhelmed matriarch, Abby, is a caretaker, and she has to break up a Saturday dinner to rescue one of her clients, who wet herself because no one came to help her to the bathroom. The lady is embarrassed, and Abby calms her down by saying, "You mean more to me than you know." We know enough about Abby's circumstances to realize that it's sort of a lie, but it's a beautiful lie, told by a person who cares deeply but is not cared for.

Loach's central point is that the health of a family, something we think of as immutable and timeless, is directly dependent upon the modern industry that we use to destroy ourselves. He doesn't have to be "proven" relevant, and he didn't plan for Covid-19 to point to the fragility of the gig economy, but when you're right, you're right.

7. Lovers Rock (Steve McQueen)- swear to you I thought: "This is an impeccable depiction of a great house party. The only thing it's missing is the volatile dude who scares away all the girls." And then the volatile dude who scares away all the girls shows up.

In a year short on magic, there are two or three transcendent moments, but none of them can equal the whole crowd singing along to "Silly Games" way after the song has ended. Nothing else crystallizes the film's note of celebration: of music, of community, of safe spaces, of Black skin. I remember moments like that at house parties, and like all celebrations, they eventually make me sad.

6. Crip Camp: A Disability Revolution (Nicole Newnham and James Lebrecht)- I held off on this movie because I thought that I knew what it was. The setup was what I expected: A summer camp for the disabled in the late '60s takes on the spirit of the time and becomes a haven for people who have not felt agency, self-worth, or community anywhere else. But that's the right-place-right-time start of a story that takes these figures into the '80s as they fight for their rights.

If you're anything like my dumb ass, you know about 504 accommodations from the line on a college syllabus that promises equal treatment. If 2020 has taught us anything though, it's that rights are seized, not given, and this is the inspiring story of people who unified to demand what they deserved. Judy Heumann is a civil rights giant, but I'm ashamed to say I didn't know who she was before this film. If it were just a history lesson that wasn't taught in school, Crip Camp would still be valuable, but it's way more than that.

5. Palm Springs (Max Barbakow)- When explaining what is happening to them, Andy Samberg's Nyles twirls his hand at Cristin Milioti's Sara and says, "It's one of those infinite time-loop scenarios." Yeah, one of those. Armed with only a handful of fictional examples, she and the audience know exactly what he means, and the continually inventive screenplay by Andy Siara doesn't have to do any more explaining. In record time, the film accelerates into its premise, involves her, and sets up the conflict while avoiding the claustrophobia of even Groundhog Day. That economy is the strength that allows it to be as funny as it is. By being thrifty with the setup, the savings can go to, say, the couple crashing a plane into a fiery heap with no consequences.

In some accidental ways, this is, of course, a quarantine romance as well. Nyles and Sara frustratingly navigate the tedious wedding as if they are play-acting--which they sort of are--then they push through that sameness to grow for each other, realizing that dependency is not weakness. The best relationships are doing the same thing right now.

  Although pointedly superficial--part of the point of why the couple is such a match--and secular--I think the notion of an afterlife would come up at least once--Palm Springs earns the sincerity that it gets around to. And for a movie ironic enough to have a character beg to be impaled so that he doesn't have to sit in traffic, that's no small feat.

  4. The Assistant (Kitty Green)- A wonder of Bressonian objectivity and rich observation, The Assistant is the rare film that deals exclusively with emotional depth while not once explaining any emotions. One at a time, the scrape of the Kleenex box might not be so grating, the long hallway trek to the delivery guy might not be so tiring, but this movie gets at the details of how a job can destroy you in ways that add up until you can't even explain them.

3. Promising Young Woman (Emerald Fennell)- In her most incendiary and modern role, Carey Mulligan plays Cassie, which is short for Cassandra, that figure doomed to tell truths that no one else believes. The web-belted boogeyman who ruined her life is Al, short for Alexander, another Greek who is known for his conquests. The revenge story being told here--funny in its darkest moments, dark in its funniest moments--is tight on its surface levels, but it feels as if it's telling a story more archetypal and expansive than that too.

  An exciting feature debut for its writer-director Emerald Fennell, the film goes wherever it dares. Its hero has a clear purpose, and it's not surprising that the script is willing to extinguish her anger halfway through. What is surprising is the way it renews and muddies her purpose as she comes into contact with half-a-dozen brilliant one- or two-scene performances. (Do you think Alfred Molina can pull off a lawyer who hates himself so much that he can't sleep? You would be right.)

Promising Young Woman delivers as an interrogation of double standards and rape culture, but in quiet ways it's also about our outsized trust in professionals and the notion that some trauma cannot be overcome.

INSTANT CLASSICS

2. Soul (Pete Docter)- When Pete Docter's Up came out, it represented a sort of coronation for Pixar: This was the one that adults could like unabashedly. The one with wordless sequences and dead children and Ed Asner in the lead. But watching it again this week with my daughter, I was surprised by how high-concept and cloying it could be. We choose not to remember the middle part with the goofy dog stuff.

Soul is what Up was supposed to be: honest, mature, stirring. And I don't mean to imply that a family film shouldn't make any concessions to children. But Soul, down to the title, never compromises its own ambition. Besides Coco, it's probably the most credible character study that Pixar has ever made, with all of Joe's growth earned the hard way. Besides Inside Out, it's probably the wittiest comedy that Pixar has ever made, bursting with unforced energy.

There's a twitter fascination going around about Dez, the pigeon-figured barber character whose scene has people gushing, "Crush my windpipe, king" or whatever. Maybe that's what twitter does now, but no one fantasized about any characters in Up. And I count that as progress.

1. I’m Thinking of Ending Things (Charlie Kaufman)- After hearing that our name-shifting protagonist moonlights as an artist, a no-nonsense David Thewlis offers, "I hope you're not an abstract artist." He prefers "paintings that look like photographs" over non-representational mumbo-jumbo. And as Jessie Buckley squirms to try to think of a polite way to talk back, you can tell that Charlie Kaufman has been in the crosshairs of this same conversation. This morose, scary, inscrutable, expressionist rumination is not what the Netflix description says it is at all, and it's going to bother nice people looking for a fun night in. Thank God.

The story goes that Steven Spielberg and George Lucas, when constructing Raiders of the Lost Ark, sought to craft a movie that was "only the good parts" with little of the clunky setup that distracted from action. What we have here is a Charlie Kaufman movie with only the Charlie Kaufman moments, less interested than ever before at holding one's hand. The biting humor is here, sometimes aimed at philistines like the David Thewlis character above, sometimes at the niceties that we insist upon. The lonely horror of everyday life is here, in the form of missed calls from oneself or the interruption of an inner monologue. Of course, communicating the overwhelming crush of time, both unknowable and familiar, is the raison d'etre.

A new pet motif seems to be the way that we don't even own our own knowledge. The Young Woman recites "Bonedog" by Eva H.D., which she claims/thinks she wrote, only to find Jake's book open to that page, next to a Pauline Kael book that contains a Woman Under the Influence review that she seems to have internalized later. When Jake muses about Wordsworth's "Lucy Poems," it starts as a way to pass the time, then it becomes a way to lord his education over her, then it becomes a compliment because the subject resembles her, then it becomes a way to let her know that, in the grand scheme of things, she isn't that special at all. This film jerks the viewer through a similar wintry cycle and leaves him with his own thoughts. It's not a pretty picture, but it doesn't look like anything else.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

What about Lady D and truth, for the prompt thing?

(Longer than all of my one word prompts, at close to 1300 words, so under a read-more)

In all her years, Lady Alcina Dimitrescu has rarely been one to humor anxiety. She was strong-willed, determined, held a great favor for honesty, and had few reasons to doubt herself. After all, she was one of Mother Miranda’s chosen “children”, selected to rule over a grand estate for decades. What could possibly make her palms sweat, or her heart skip beats? To her immense displeasure… the answer was love. Love was what both thrilled and terrified her, acting as butterflies in her stomach yet a snake coiling around her throat all the same. It held her heart hostage inside her own chest. Yes, love did all this and more, for it was a mighty affection, far stronger than Alcina had felt before (at least when it came to romance).

And it was love for you. She had yet to approach the subject with you, out of her anxiety, but had not attempted to directly hide her feelings. By this point, her pining was clear to just about everyone in the castle. Well, everyone but you. Despite the way Alcina softened around you, despite the way she easily forgave your mistakes (even the ones that cost her), despite the way she constantly invited you to share a drink or meal with her, despite everything, you did not make the connection.

At first you had merely assumed you had caught her eye, and that before long she would select you as her next “meal”. After a couple of months, you realized your misjudgment, then believing that she enjoyed your company; but only as a friend, of course. There was little reason for you to assume that an incredibly powerful, century-old, blood-drinking immortal was romantically interested in a servant such as yourself. To Alcina, your obliviousness came off as humility, which only strengthened the thundering of her heart. In the end, it took the intervention of a trusted colleague for you to realize the truth.

“How do you feel about Lady Dimitrescu? Like, emotionally,” Ava wrote, before passing xer notebook to you. Admittedly it had taken a while for you to adjust to xer odd way of communicating, but once you had, well, xe was always an interesting conversational partner. Plenty of odd anecdotes and humorous stories about your employers. More than that, xe had a knack for understanding even the most intricate of human emotions. On several different occasions you had seen xer talking with other maidens, about serious subjects, acting as a pseudo therapist. Now it appears to be your turn to have your mind examined.

“She’s, hmm. I suppose I have conflicting emotions about her,” you reply, as quietly as you can, worried that somehow your employers would overhear. Recognizing that you hadn’t actually answered Ava’s question, you continued, pausing here and there to think about how to articulate your thoughts. “On one hand I know that she’s capable of great, terrible harm. I’ve seen the results, I’ve even poured them like wine for her to drink… But she can be awfully sweet, when she so desires, especially to her children. Perhaps I’ve come to be numb, insensitive to the violence around us, but I cannot help but admire Lady Alcina. Even, well, I suppose I might be inclined to say that I do more than just admire her.”

“Ooh la la, my friend! Would you ever consider telling her? I imagine it would go rather well. Just a feeling, though, so no pressure!” Ava replies, presenting xer notebook with a flourish and a grin. Immediately you’re blushing, somehow not having expected xer to say anything like that. It takes you a moment to think about what xe said, trying to figure out what you’re wanting to do- what you’re willing to risk. You were certain that Ava knew what xe was talking about, considering how close to the Dimitrescu xe was, meaning that you stood a good chance of starting something meaningful with Alcina.

“Wait,” you start to say, remembering tidbits from the past few months, “has she felt something for me for some time now? Have I been misinterpreting things this entire time?” At that, Ava gives a hearty laugh, the most noise you’ve ever heard from xer. But xe doesn’t give you a proper response, instead giving you a pat on the shoulder before leaving the room forthright. You’re left to your own devices, to ponder your options fully. It’s not hard to make a decision; not when you think about how much Alcina means to you. “Guess we’ve got something to talk about… here’s hoping Ava knows as much as xe seems to.”

—————————

“Lady Dimitrescu? May I have a minute of your time?” You ask, trying to keep your voice as steady as possible. Despite the evidence of her affection, as well as Ava’s testimony, you could not help but be nervous. There was certainly a risk to opening up to one’s own boss, particularly when they were as dangerous as Alcina. Thankfully, the good lady seemed to be in a pleasant mood today. Certainly that would help, yes?

“Of course, my dear. There are few things that would ever distract me from you,” Alcina replies, making your heart skip a beat. Admittedly you doubted the truth behind her words… but that didn’t mean she hadn’t successfully flustered you. More than that, she seemed rather pleased by your unsubtle blush, a satisfied smile gracing her lips. For a few seconds you’re too distracted by her to speak. “Please, take a seat, make yourself comfortable. I assure you that you have no reason to be nervous.” Except you did, of course, but there was no point in arguing. So you settle down as best as you’re able, heart still racing. Part of you couldn’t help but wonder if she could hear it.

“I… I do not want to be overly forward, Lady Alcina, for you are first and foremost my employer, and a Lord of the village, and I hold nothing in my heart for you but respect. There’s simply something that I must, well, get off my chest,” you explain sheepishly. Across from you, Alcina does her best to appear welcoming, even if it meant less-than-perfect posture (not that it was anywhere bad enough for you to notice). Although you are not aware, her chest thrums with excitement. Were you going to make this easy for her? Were you to reach out in the way that she had yet to do? Was your confession, your truth, the same as her own? “I have… ahem, found myself falling for you, my Lady, over these past few months. I-I know that you likely do not share these feelings, and that the chances of us becoming a couple are slim to none, but I-”

To her, this was absurd, and she would hear no more of it. So she rose to her feet, making you do the same out of nerves, one hand going to gently cup your chin. She held you there, forcing you to make eye contact. Except her gaze held nothing other than affection.

“Do not fret, my dear. You have consumed my heart in its entirety, and I will hear no talk of me denying you what is rightfully yours. I have ached with this truth for some time, but now I am free to bear it with pride, your hand in mine,” Alcina says, voice a perfect blend of softness and confidence. Before either of you realize it, you’re wrapping your arms around her, pulling her in close. She’s eager to return the embrace, fingers rubbing gentle circles into your back. “Thank you, dear, for saying what I could not.”

[letterboxd]

Watching John Malkovich.

To understand better why Letterboxd members set out on quests to watch specific actors’ entire filmographies, we invited Tim Rod to describe her dangerous and seductive journey through John Malkovich’s screen history.

For many film lovers, 2020 has been a year of catching up: on franchises, on directors’ filmographies, on historical gaps and top 100s. But for some Letterboxd members, the year indoors has been an opportunity to hyper-focus on a single actor and their work.

Jeremiah Lambert is on a Bacon Fest, Naked Airplane has embarked on a wild ride through the works of De Niro, Hackman, Hoffman, Nicholson and Pacino. Joey is preparing for next year’s centennial of The Kid by churning through Charlie Chaplin’s catalog (with David Robinson’s biography Chaplin: His Life and Art in hand). A quick Twitter survey found others churning through a performer selection as wide-ranging as Burt Lancaster, Parker Posey, Maggie Smith, Nicolas Cage, Cary Grant, Kevin Costner, Robin Williams, Adèle Haenel, Alan Arkin, Sam Rockwell and a Seth Rogen thirst project.

It can be a bumpy journey. In one performer’s oeuvre the quality will range widely, the genres too. But the rewards are many in a close study of craft, and there are revelations, whether it’s that Australia’s Miranda Otto deserves more recognition, or it’s “the total acceptance, lack of judgment, and vulnerability with which Alan Arkin has played so many of his flawed and wonderful characters”.

With Christian Bale in ‘Empire of the Sun’ (1987).

In 2020, no fewer than three movies and two television series starring John Malkovich have been released: Arkansas, Valley of the Gods and Ava, as well as The New Pope and Space Force. The legendary actor has kept himself busy, and I know this because I have seen most of his filmography—41 films and two series—in the span of a single month. I adore Malkovich, always have, and I came out of this experience with a deeper admiration for him, and with some thoughts about his unique, remarkable skills as an actor. (And, I had a really good time.)

Allow me to begin by saying that John Malkovich is the best part of every movie he is in. No matter the movie, Malkovich will always steal the spotlight, and he can turn a good movie into a masterpiece, or an average movie that wouldn’t catch anyone’s attention into one worth watching, if only to see him do his thing.

He’s starred in movies that are considered masterpieces by many: Being John Malkovich (1999), The Killing Fields (1984) and Empire of the Sun (1987). Movies that may be considered the opposite of masterpieces, like Supercon (2018), Eragon (2006) and the most recent Ava (2020), and he’s also starred in some gems that I knew nothing about but am glad to have discovered, such as The Convent (1995), Eleni (1985) and The Ogre (1996). Malkovich has brought to life iconic characters including Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Tom Ripley, Hercule Poirot (in BBC’s The ABC Murders), the artist Gustav Klimt, and several of David Lynch’s people, in the short film Psychogenic Fugue (2016).

As Mitch Leary in ‘In the Line of Fire’ (1993).

Malkovich has received two Academy Award nominations, for Places in the Heart (1984), in which he played Edna’s lodger, the solitary yet kind Mr. Will, and for In the Line of Fire (1993), where he played the complete opposite: the psychotic Mitch Leary, determined to kill the President of the United States. Though Malkovich is not a classic action-film actor, his work in that genre is driven by logic, intellect and emotion, and the delicacy that he employs to challenge concepts of masculinity and keep us guessing. His soft and collected voice threatening Clint Eastwood over the phone is scarier and more effective than a deeper one would have been.

That voice. Malkovich has admitted that he hates the sound of it, that he would always avoid listening to it, just like so many actors avoid watching their own films, but I’m bewitched by his voice and I could never get enough of it. It can be tender, sweet and calming, seductive when the role requires it, and terrifying. With that versatility, it’s not surprising that he has done some narrating work as well, for films including Paul Newman’s The Glass Menagerie (1987) and Alive (1993).

Malkovich is at his best when seduction and villainy combine, as they do in Dangerous Liaisons (1988). Vicomte Sébastien de Valmont has been performed by many actors over the years, but I find Malkovich’s take to be the most memorable and exquisite. He captures perfectly the depravity and evilness of Valmont, but also the nuances, his journey from womanizer to man genuinely in love and, ultimately, his tragic redemption. He even brings a comedic aspect to the character that adds more depth and dimension.

With Glenn Close in ‘Dangerous Liaisons’ (1988).

Valmont is an awful human being, a monster even, and yet, every time I watch this movie, I find myself fascinated by his mastery of the deception, his sensuality and complete control of the situation, until the situation is “beyond his control”. In her review of the film, Catherine Stebbins calls John Malkovich “a sexual force of nature”, and I completely agree. If you want to see more of Malkovich’s sensual side, other notable mentions include The Sheltering Sky (1990), The Object of Beauty (1991) and Beyond the Clouds (1995).

And then there’s Being John Malkovich (1999), in which ‘John Horatio Malkovich’ displays so many facets of his craft. The fictionalized Malkovich is possessed by different characters, one of them a woman. Catherine Keener’s character falls in love with a subtly different version of Malkovich, when he is a vessel for Lotte (Cameron Diaz). Even though Lotte doesn’t have full control of Malkovich, he uses his femininity to bring the character-inside-the-character to center stage, delivering a subtle-yet-perfect performance. Even when we don’t see Lotte, we know she’s there.

John Malkovich as John Horatio Malkovich possessed by Lotte, in ‘Being John Malkovich’ (1999).

Not many actors could pull this off as brilliantly as John Malkovich does. To be fair, not many actors have been given the chance that Spike Jonze and Charlie Kaufman gave Malkovich: a film with his own name in the title.

I’ve discussed some of the most well-known of Malkovich’s performances, but I’d like to mention an overlooked one that I found heartbreaking and noteworthy. I didn’t know of the existence of The Ogre (1996) until I took a closer look at Malkovich’s filmography. It’s not without its flaws, but I found myself absorbed in the fairy-tale story of Abel, a naïve French prisoner of war who is taken to Nazi Germany and used to recruit children for Hitler’s Youth. Once again, the actor’s duality is on display, as Evan writes in his Letterboxd review: “Malkovich is both queasy and endearing as the (ig)noble simp who just wants to save the babies.” The Ogre tells a tragic story, but thanks to Malkovich’s tenderness, we can’t help but have sympathy for his character. At times it reminded me of the innocence of Lennie in Of Mice and Men (1992), another of the actor’s more noteworthy performances.

One of Malkovich’s great contributions to cinema is elevating an average movie just by being in it. One such role is as English conman Alan Conway in the bizarre true story, Colour Me Kubrick (2005). Malkovich admitted in an interview that he thought his performance was good, and I agree. If there’s one reason to watch that film, it’s to see Malkovich playing an eccentric conman who poses as Stanley Kubrick, using different voices and accents. As TajLV writes, “if there were anything to commend this film other than Malkovich, I’d happily rate it higher”.

As Alan Conway in ‘Colour Me Kubrick’ (2005).

One fun fact: I sometimes forget John Malkovich is American. Maybe it’s because he has starred in many European productions—out of the 41 films I watched, 18 were European. Malkovich is of European descent, has lived in France for a decade and speaks fluent French, which allowed him to star as the mysterious Baron de Charlus in Time Regained (1999), with entirely French dialogue. He also delivers lines in French and Portuguese in A Talking Picture (2003) by Manoel de Oliveira.

You’ve probably heard Malkovich use words, expressions and even entire lines of French dialogue on more than one occasion. He does this often, which gives him a certain European vibe, consistent with his own character, mannerisms and dress sense—elements that he sometimes brings to his characters. Maybe that’s the reason he has played so many intellectuals and artists: professors, scientists, detectives, painters, writers, a scientist and a robot, and even the Pope… It seems there’s nothing John Malkovich can’t do, including directing.

To end my marathon, I watched his directorial debut, The Dancer Upstairs (2002), an assured movie adapted from a novel about the Maoist uprising in Peru in the 1980s, starring Javier Bardem. It was a nice surprise, and a strong start to what could have been a career as a film director, if not for the fact that he doesn’t have the patience to do it again. I recently read an interview where Edgar Wright revealed advice he always gives to directors, which is to make their second movie the one that will define them. I wonder if we will ever see John Malkovich’s second film, but for now, I hope he keeps gifting us with more unforgettable performances. At least we know that in the distant future, along with all the movies he has already appeared in, people will enjoy a never-seen-before performance when Robert Rodríguez’s short 100 years is released in 2115.

If there’s one thing I have learnt after watching most of his filmography, it’s that John Malkovich is one of the best and most versatile actors of our time, with the most unique voice I have heard in cinema, and with a rich filmography that encompasses every genre. And he’s not only a brilliant actor, but also someone I find personally fascinating. I truly find comfort in him. I hope we all get to enjoy his art for years to come, because his talent is limitless and I know he still has so much more to give. John Malkovich deserves all the praise for being a force of nature in the theater and film industry for over 40 years.

Tim is a Letterboxd member based in Spain, who has recently moved on from her John Malkovich marathon to a Sacha Baron Cohen quest.

[kalinara]

So today’s RipWeek topic is “romance”.

I’ve certainly blogged a lot about Rip and romance in the past.  I’m a TimeHex shipper from way back, I like TimeShip, Hunterburn, Time Canary, and pretty much any other version you can think of.  I genuinely think that Rip was lowkey romantically in love with his entire team, happy to pine for each one of them and write terrible sonnets that will never see the light of day.

But I really find Rip’s relationship with romance  or romantic love to be interesting in its own right, because I think we underestimate how truly different his (and Miranda’s) perspective of love and romance must be from our own.

Rip was a Time Master from the age of ten-ish.  Before that, it’s hard to say.  He was living on the streets at age five, and living a life harsh enough that even when living in a safe place with a maternal figure he clearly adores, he’s still inclined to stab the nearest threat.

The Time Masters are a cold organization.  Even Mary Xavier, while maternal and supportive, is brisk and efficient in manner.  Casual expressions of affection doesn’t seem to be a thing for them.

Teamwork is definitely not a thing for them.  In the flashbacks in Marooned, we saw Miranda Coburn ace her Captain’s exam by pulling a maneuver that endangered herself and her teammate, without any kind of warning.  It got results though.

“Attachment” is discouraged, and we can see why, when Rip talks about how his infatuation with life in the Wild West (...if that’s what we’re calling Jonah Hex), almost led him to stay behind and give it all up.  We know Rip’s seen some awful stuff.

And we saw how an illicit love affair, between equals, led to public humiliation, and one of them forced to resign her position completely.  Later, they sacrifice her as though she meant nothing.

One thing that stands to me, when I think about the beginning of season one, is how quietly supportive Rip is when it comes to romance for and between the crew.  It doesn’t really fit his initial demeanor of course, but it’s definitely there.

In the Pilot episodes, the moment that I would consider to be Rip’s defining moment, is when he saves Martin’s marriage.  He didn’t have to do that.  He could have left Martin’s fuck up alone, a harsh, painful lesson.  If he were as much of a cold, selfish asshole as a lot of fans liked to complain, he would have left it alone.  But it was important to Martin, and it was important to him.

After Carter died, Rip immediately gave up the closest thing he had to a workable plan against Savage to get his body back for Kendra.  Even though Kendra may have been dying.  It was important to him that she have that comfort and that closure.  When Scythian Torvill appeared, and Kendra couldn’t kill Savage, Rip protested and then agreed: he understood that Kendra couldn’t sacrifice someone she loved.

Rip kind of slyly supported Ray and Kendra, as evidenced when he left Ray in charge of the Waverider in Marooned, and left Kendra “in charge” of Ray.  He was cautiously encouraging to Jax in Night of the Hawks, only solemnly advising him to be careful, because a young black man dating a young white woman in the 1950s is taking a very big risk.  

Rip never makes a big show of it, and never makes speeches about it, but it’s clear that love is something that Rip wants to support.  Even in season 3, when everything starts going off the rails, Rip recognizes what’s going on with Sara and Ava, and doesn’t want to jeopardize that.

Romance for Rip himself though is complicated.  His love for Miranda came paired with humiliation and death.  Whatever went on with Jonah Hex was illicit and rule-breaking, forcing Rip into a choice between Calvary and the Time Masters.  His thing with Gideon is almost completely unacknowledged, except for a single kiss in a disintegrating mindscape.  Even afterward, when it’s just the two of them, with no potential negative consequences, Rip has no intention of talking about it until Gideon brings it up.

I think that, for Rip, romantic love will always be on the edge of taboo.  It’s tantalizing and secret, shameful and delightful at the same time.  It’s not something that he’s willing to acknowledge in words, unless forced, but it’s something he will support in all forms when he can.  

[page-doctor-bekker]

Rooftop - Part 2 (transfemme!sarah)

(A/N) this is the second part to this :) i didn't like the first part but i like this second part. i know this seems like it's moving quickly but. it's not. i promise ;) this is a queued post and it's supposed to go up b4 i even wake up so goodmorning future me coming to check for notes :)

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Sarah,

Meet me on the roof after your shift.

Sarah looked from the note, up to the glass doors that lead to the roof, then back to the note. Golden hour made it so that she could hardly see if anyone was out on the roof, let alone who it might be.

It’s practically public. There’s no way anything could happen. I am safe. Nobody knows, nobody will hurt me for it.

Her heart was practically beating out of her chest, and her stomach felt like it was two heartbeats away from dropping out of her ass, but she pushed the door open anyways and approached the balcony edge of the roof.

Chicago nights were never quiet, what with sirens and highways and all that, but it grew to be comforting. Her mom always said that when she was born, the city was silent until she started to cry. Her way of telling me off for talking too much, I suppose.

“Dr. Reese?”

Sarah looked back, and there she was. Tall, blond, and beautiful. Her accented voice rang through the air and sent fluttering butterflies through her stomach. It cut through the Chicago noise like a surgical scalpel.

Sarah’s face hardened, and Ava cocked her head to the side, “Miranda pulled through,” She said, walking towards Sarah. Her footsteps sounded at the pace of a healthy resting heart, and Sarah took a deep breath, and moved her tongue around her dry mouth.

“We repaired the defect,” She stepped up to Sarah, “She’s recovering in the PICU.”

“Did you just want me up here to discuss a case?” Sarah objected. Her tone dug an icicle into the surgeon’s chest, and Ava was taken aback.

Ava stared into Sarah’s eyes, looking for warmth that wasn’t there, or guidance on what to say next. She longed to cut the tension with a stainless steel No. 10 scalpel.

“I, uh…” She stumbled, uncharacteristic of her normal self, and with a complex tone, “I’m sorry.”

Sarah cleared her throat, “You are?”

Ava nodded, and twisted her finger in the hem of her scrub shirt.

She’s nervous.

“I mean, you did cock the whole thing up but-”

“Are you just here to lecture me again?” Sarah interjected, “Because… Because I don’t-”

“No, no, urgh…” Ava made a noise of frustration, “Look, it’s… I’m not going to lecture you again.” She affirmed, and took a shaky breath.

She’s more nervous than I am. And I’m the one that worries about being attacked all the time.

The silence weighed on Sarah’s chest in waves, to the rhythm of Stayin’ Alive by Bee Gees. She could almost feel her ribs crack under the weight of a resident’s hands.

Ava’s hands were shaking. A cardiothoracic surgeon, steady as a rock and confident as a bird taking flight, had shaky hands from a collegial interaction.

“I don’t want to lecture you,” She mumbled, and looked down at her shoes, a display of nervousness Sarah had never seen from her before today, “Because I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s a little too late for that,” Sarah breathed, not a hint of sarcasm in anything but her word choice.

“I know,” Ava quickly interjected, “You don’t have to forgive me, but I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. I truly can’t…” She cut off.

A siren sounded in the distance. The evening sun finally dipped below a Chicago building, letting Sarah finally see Ava’s face in detail. She seemed… Perplexed, maybe even scared.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Ava’s accent was always one of her most attractive features, at least to Sarah, even now when she could see her features clearly.

Sarah wondered if she was choking on something. There was a lump in her throat, the balloon of an intubation tube, and her cheeks felt damp.

“Sarah?”

Sarah was sniffling before she even realized she was crying. A million people have cried in this very spot.

“Sarah? Why don’t we sit down?”

“I thought you hated me,” She choked out, “I thought you’d never talk to me again, I thought you had just been playing with me all this time-”

“Jesus, Sarah, never,” Ava reached an arm out and rested it on the other woman’s shoulder.

Sarah almost melted under the surgeon’s touch, until she realized how close the surgeon’s face was to her own. She could feel her warm breath on her mouth, smell the combination of Burt’s Bees Coconut and Pear chapstick (Her favorite chapstick brand - Refused to use anything else) and Trident Dragon Fruit-Lychee gum (She went through a pack ‘a day), it blended together to create a fruity, tropical air. Laying underneath those dominating scents was lilac perfume, something Sarah always hated until she smelled it on Ava.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you like I did,” Ava whispered, “And I just-”

Ava’s pager went off with a piercing beep, and she took a step back to read the message. She tucked it back onto the waistband of her scrubs, and gave a sympathetic smile to Sarah, “Balloon angioplasty, I gotta go.”

“Okay, I’ll uh… I’ll see you tomor-”

“Wait,” Ava held a hand up, “Let me.. Buy you dinner? A drink?

This will take an hour and a half at most. You can wait in the doctor’s lounge? I’ll text you.”

Sarah smiled at Ava, who reached out and squeezed her shoulder, and walked off.

Sarah looked off onto the Chicago skyline and let out a shaky breath, and a sob. She didn’t understand what was upsetting her, what was happening, or how she felt. She understood nothing.

She let out a wail, threaded her hands through her hair, and tugged. She started braiding her hair with shaky hands. Cross, over, cross, over, cross, over, cross, over… The repetition calmed her mind, calmed her body. Put her at peace.

She sighed, puffing out her cheeks. Ava… Oh Ava…

Sarah sat on the bench, feeling things between her legs shift. She felt her stomach twist with dysphoria and she cleared her throat and took a deep breath. Once everything settled, she expected the dysphoria to fade, but it didn’t.

Her chest started to hurt, and any air she got seemed to be ripped away from her. She thought of the man from a few days before, and it got worse.

Instead of in her body on the balcony, she was swirling around into a black hole. She saw herself from above, and she was crying. She was crying, and rubbing her hands together, another nervous tic of hers.

Then she was back. And the dysphoria wasn’t any better, but she couldn’t find a reason. She couldn’t find anything; A way to fix it, a way to make it stop, nothing.

There’s nothing worse than the feeling of dysphoria. It took a long time to identify that that was what it was. She used to think the feeling of dysphoria was just indigestion, because that’s a bit like what it feels like.

The best way to describe it is by sending you on a rollercoaster. No, literally. One with a huge drop, or a loop. How do you feel when you start falling down that drop?

That’s what it feels like, but without the adrenaline and without the fun. Horribly uncomfortable.

Then, it hit her.

Ava.

Ava was a goddess. She seemed to carry an aura about her, an energy that flowed around her in waves, like ribbons around a rhythmic gymnast. She radiated confident femininity, arrogance that only she could pull off without seeming like an asshole, and a kind of catty playfulness that fueled her endless bantering.

And Sarah felt that she was hardly worthy of kneeling at Ava’s footsteps, hardly worthy of following her around like a dog, and hardly worthy of dinner and a drink. Whatever Ava saw in her, Sarah didn’t see.

Sarah at work is calculated. Precise. Cisgender, and sexually ambiguous at most. How could she even think of presenting the real Sarah to Ava, when she wasn’t even sure if she knew the real Sarah herself?

“Sarah?”

Sarah was shocked out of her dissociative haze, only to look back and see the one and only Ava Bekker standing in the doorway to the roof.

“I texted, I paged you, what’s up?”

Sarah stood up, and headed for the door, “Just zoned out,” She chuckled, letting Ava’s aura wash over him, “I’m hungry, what were you thinking for dinner?”

“Do you like mexican food? There’s a great place a few miles away called Casa de las Flores,” She gave a small smile, “I could use a margarita.”

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(A/N) lol i never intended to write this chronologically but whatever. next part will be their lil dinner date