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ryanjdonovan · 4 years ago

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DONOVAN’S OSCAR PROGNOSTICATION 2021

We all knew it was coming: The Oscar nominees are now almost literally handpicked by Netflix and Amazon. We thought it would be a few years away, but it's just one more piece of fallout from the pandemic. It won't be long now before I'm making my predictions for the Flixies or the Amazies. (By the way, streamers: I just want to watch the friggin' credits, why is that such a problem??)

In case you haven't been paying attention (and I'm pretty sure you haven't), Nomadland is going to win the big Oscars. Haven't seen Nomadland? Or even heard of it? Or any of the Oscar-nominated films? Or didn't even know the Oscars were happening this year? You're not alone. With no theaters this past year, the non-bingeable, non-Netflix-welcome-screen movies were pretty much an afterthought. (But if you asked the streaming services, the nominees this year each accounted for a billion new subscribers and topped the worldwide digital box office for months.)

Well, I'm here to tell you the Oscars are in fact happening, albeit a few months late. Fear not: my 22nd annual Oscar predictions will provide everything you need to know before the big night. (You don't even need to watch the movies themselves -- reading this article will take you just as long.)

BEST PICTURE:

SHOULD WIN: Minari WILL WIN: Nomadland GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Pieces Of A Woman INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Ma Rainey's Black Bottom

If you're a fan of capitalism, this is not the year for you. Nominees like Nomadland, Mank, Judas And The Black Messiah, The Trial Of The Chicago 7, Ma Rainey's Black Bottom, Hillbilly Elegy, Minari, and The White Tiger are all (to varying degrees) indictments of a capitalist system, or at the very least are suspicious of those who benefit from it, and focus on those left behind. It's certainly fertile ground for angst and high drama, if not belly laughs. (Don't get me started on the ironies of all these movies being distributed by billion-dollar conglomerates. The filmmakers, producers, and actors can tell you that the checks cash just fine.) Like Austin Powers said, "Finally those capitalist pigs will pay for their crimes, eh comrades?"

There is no way for me to talk about Nomadland, which will win Best Picture, without sounding like an a-hole. It's a gorgeous work of art, and a fascinating character study, but I struggled to connect to the story. (You should know that for me as a movie watcher, story is more engaging than artfulness or character. But hey, why can't we have all three?) I wanted to like it, I really did. I'm content to drift along with Fern, the resilient main character played naturally by Frances McDormand, but she has no true objective or antagonist. She's a nomad on the road, either searching or hiding, either with the world or against the world, we're not quite sure which. I thought it might be driving (literally) toward a bigger revelation or resolution, but no. (Same with life, I guess.) It's meandering, reticent, languorous, and ethereal (I'm trying really hard to avoid using the word "boring" here). This is all quite intentional, by the way -- the film moves at the pace of its protagonist, and the effect is palpable. (And don't worry, it's not lost on me that I'm watching this movie about people barely scraping by, on a large ultra-high-def TV on my comfy couch in my warm home under an electric blanket, using a streaming service that the movie's characters probably couldn't access or afford.) Am I wrong about all this? Of course I'm wrong. Every critic out there is doing backflips over this film. And not surprisingly, the movie's mortality themes are playing well with the Academy, whose average age and closeness to death are extremely high. (Like the nomad Swankie, they're all anxious about that final kayak ride down the River Styx.) But beware the movie whose 'user/audience score' is significantly lower than its 'critic score' -- it means that regular people are not quite buying it. For me, the biggest problem with slice-of-life films is that I don't really want to go to movies to experience regular life -- I have life for that. Then again, I'm also a superficial, materialistic a-hole. But you knew that already. (Added intrigue: Hulu, Nomadland's distributor, might score a Best Picture win before Amazon, and gives Amazon a subtle middle-finger in the movie with its depiction of seasonal workers.)

Remember when feel-good movies were a thing? It didn’t mean that there were no conflicts or problems for the characters, it just meant that they were enjoyable to watch, and you came out feeling good about humans. Minari is the rare feel-good Oscar movie, and my personal pick for what should win Best Picture. It easily might have been a tough sit based on the premise: A Korean family moves to rural Arkansas to start a farm, and must overcome a drought, financial calamity, a complete lack of agriculture experience, a crumbling marriage, the son's potentially-deadly heart condition, and a grandmother that drinks all their Mountain Dew. In keeping with Oscar tradition, it could have been a constant assault of upsetting scenes. But instead, it's a warm, sunny, optimistic, funny movie. The family faces struggles and hardships, to be sure, but the story is treated with positivity, not negativity; with a sense of community, not isolation; with an attitude of resolve, not blame. And they get through their problems with mutual support, togetherness, tenderness, humanity, and of course, love. (Not to mention grandma planting some weeds that may or may not miraculously heal physical and emotional wounds.) All these things combine to make it a more engaging experience for me than Nomadland. Not only do I wish this movie would win the Oscar, I wish I could give it a hug.

A lot of pundits think The Trial Of The Chicago 7 has the best chance to upset Nomadland. But I'm not seeing that happen. It was an early favorite and has been getting tons of nominations in the awards run-up, but it hasn't actually been winning much, and seems to be losing steam. (The lack of a Best Director nod is virtually a killer.) I think Minari has a small chance to sneak away with a victory, as it's gotten almost as much universal praise as Nomadland, but hasn't had the same audience. Judas And The Black Messiah is an interesting case, in that it's a late entry that had little early awareness (it didn't plan to be eligible until next year's Oscars), but it scooped several unexpected nominations. Debuting a contender late and taking advantage of recency bias has been a successful strategy in the past, so don't be surprised by a surprise. (Had Shaka King scored the last Director slot over Thomas Vinterberg, I think Judas would be a fairly legitimate threat.)

If you had asked me in September, I would have predicted that Mank would be the wire-to-wire favorite to win Best Picture. Aside from being a prestige David Fincher film (more on him later), it's a smorgasbord of Classic Tales of Hollywood. And the centerpiece couldn't be bolder: It's an homage to, a making of, a dissection of, and political dissertation on Citizen Kane -- only the most deified film of all time. Simply recite the synopsis, describe the film's 1940s black-and-white aesthetic, and mention Gary Oldman's name as the star, and just watch the Oscars come pouring in, right? Well, not quite. It netted 10 nominations, more than any other film, but it's looking like it might not win any of them, certainly not Best Picture. I don't think the film quite knows what it wants to be; at least, I'm not sure what it wants to be. Centered on Herman Mankiewicz, the man credited with co-writing Citizen Kane with Orson Welles, it's a distorted, polemical, impressionistic portrait of a man I barely even knew existed. Though Welles is only briefly portrayed in the film, it demystifies him a bit, suggesting that he's maybe not as responsible for this work of genius as we thought. If the film was framed as "Who actually wrote Citizen Kane?", it would be a little easier to get into. But it feels somewhat academic and circuitous (in a way that Kane itself doesn't). And while the script is clever, it's clever to the point of being confusing. Of course, a film of this pedigree invites a lot of scrutiny, maybe more than any other awards contender (or any film that actually got released this past year, period). It has a lot to appreciate, and surely would benefit from a second viewing. I also can't help but root for the fact that it's been Fincher's passion project for almost a quarter-century. (Then again, tell that to any indie filmmaker who spends their whole life on a single passion project that ends up getting completely ignored, and they’ll tell you where to shove your Fincher pity.) Ultimately, it's an admirable work, but if you're looking for a Rosebud, it's not there.

Promising Young Woman continues to defy expectations. Not only did it rack up six Oscar nominations, it's likely to win one or two of them, and for a while, was gaining on Nomadland for Best Picture. Now that the chips are falling into place, we know it won't win in this category, but it remains one of the most talked-about films of the season. What I like most about the film is not necessarily the literal story (I should have seen the main twist coming a mile away), but the way writer/director Emerald Fennell elevates it in an interesting way. Instead of showing the whole story, she starts her film at the end of a typical revenge thriller (several years after the incident and the legal aftermath). In fact, the victim is not even in the movie, and the victim's best friend is already far along on her path of retribution. (It also challenges the definition of "victim".) The film is not voyeuristically exciting in any way; it's unsettling, but also oddly charming in unexpected ways. The key for me is how it serves as a metaphor for the secrets people keep from loved ones and the toll that it takes on them, and the penances we give ourselves instead of allowing ourselves to heal. It also made me realize that movies could use more Juice Newton. (Paris Hilton, not so much.)

Sound Of Metal and The Father were probably the last two films to make the cut in this category, and are the least likely to win. Their best chances are in other categories. (Pro Tip: If you put the word "sound" in the title of your movie, there's a very good chance you'll win Best Sound.)

I don’t recommend Pieces Of A Woman to anyone who's pregnant, or partners of pregnant women, or anyone planning to have babies anytime in the future, or any partners of anyone planning to have babies anytime in the future, or people hoping to be grandparents anytime in the future, or doctors. (And I'm certain midwives are not giving this a ringing endorsement.) The film starts with an infant death, and then gets worse from there. It's not just an unpleasant experience, it's a series of unrelenting unpleasant experiences: Depression, extra-marital affairs, guilt, a domineering mother, lying, manipulative spouses, abandonment, feelings of inadequacy, sexual dysfunction, litigation, sibling jealousy, public shame, borderline domestic abuse, bribery, courtroom drama, financial problems, baseless blame, and drug addiction. And if that's not upsetting enough, they also manage to throw the Holocaust in there. (This should be a movie sub-genre: "Parade of Horrible Events". This fraternity would include: Manchester By The Sea, Mudbound, Uncut Gems, 12 Years A Slave, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, The Family Stone, and of course, The Revenant.) And then there are the characters. It would be one thing if these were ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances. But these are extraordinary a--holes making extraordinary circumstances much worse. It's literally laughable. If I didn't understand what the word 'melodramatic' meant before, I do now. I'm aware that this is based on the experiences of writing/directing spouses Kata Wéber and Kornél Mundruczó, and I don't mean to trivialize their pain or what they went through. Nobody should have to suffer that trauma. And I realize art is a healthy and oftentimes beautiful outlet for grief. But… did I mention the movie is unpleasant? There are certainly wonderful fragments and ideas in here; if the components added up to something moving, I would be much more receptive to it. If I were a snarky (okay, snarkier) reviewer, I might call it "Pieces Of A Better Movie".

Soul is a lovely and inspiring movie, but I'm at the point where I have to judge films by my experience while watching them with children. Try explaining this movie to a 6-year-old. Way too many existential/philosophical/theological questions. I guess it's good for parents who like to talk to their children, but if you're trying to keep your kid occupied and quiet (the reason screens were invented) so you can do something else, it's a bust. (It's no match for the hysterical self-explanatory antics of a certain motor-mouthed, overweight, black-and-white, martial-arts-fighting bear with a penchant for sitting on people's heads and, more importantly, keeping kids silently dumbstruck.) And: Did they have to make the entrance to the afterlife -- a giant bug zapper -- so terrifying? If that's how you get to heaven, what is the entrance to hell like??

BEST ACTOR:

SHOULD WIN: Chadwick Boseman (Ma Rainey's Black Bottom) WILL WIN: Chadwick Boseman (Ma Rainey's Black Bottom) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Pete Davidson (The King Of Staten Island) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Delroy Lindo (Da 5 Bloods)

This one hurts. I usually don't feel a connection to or an overabundance of sympathy for celebrities, but this one genuinely hurts. When Chadwick Boseman wins Best Actor (for Ma Rainey's Black Bottom), it will be a wonderful celebration, but also a painful reminder, not just of who he was, but of who he was yet to be. If ever there was a unanimous vote, this would be it. Before this movie, we had seen him play heroes and outsized personalities, but there had been nothing quite like his role as Levee, the gifted and demonized trumpet player in Ma Rainey's band. His brash, wounded performance is astonishing, revelatory. Since the film debuted after his passing, we can only watch it through the prism of his death. It's hard not to feel parallels: Levee is just starting to scratch the surface of his talent, giving us hints of his abilities with composition and brass before his breakdown; similarly, we have only gotten a taste of Boseman's range and depth. For both the character and the man, we're being deprived of the art he would have created. Boseman's passing makes the performance more resonant and unshakeable, but I think under different circumstances he would still be the front-runner in this race. The only difference would be, we'd assume this would be the first prize of many.

Anthony Hopkins picked an unusual time to go on a hot streak. He recently left a memorable impression on the Marvel Cinematic Universe as Odin, got an Emmy nomination for Westworld, and scored 2 Oscar nominations (after a 22-year drought) -- all after his 80th birthday. This year's nomination, for playing a man slipping into dementia in The Father, probably would have been a favorite to notch him his second Oscar in a different year. He seems like he should be a two-time winner, and we just don't know how many more chances he'll have. (I stand by my declaration that he should have won last year for The Two Popes, over Brad Pitt.) To those aforementioned aging Academy members who fear mortality and probably consider Hopkins a spry young man: Maybe you shouldn't watch this movie.

Riz Ahmed's performance in Sound Of Metal establishes the tone for the entire film, making the experience feel grounded and real. I appreciate how his outward, physical performance is very still, while his internal performance is frenetic, like there's a live wire in his head that he's trying to conceal from the world. His quietness leaves us with an uncertainty that feels like authentic; he's not going to tell us all the answers, because his character is figuring it out as he goes. Speaking of questions, I have a few about his band in the movie (before the hearing loss): Are they any good? What kind of living do they make? Is their cashflow net positive or negative? Are they considered successful (in whatever way you want to define that)? What is their ceiling, commercially and artistically? Are they one lucky break away from making it, or is it a lost cause? Most importantly, if Ahmed and fellow nominee LaKeith Stanfield (Judas And The Black Messiah) had a sad, doleful, wide-eyed staring contest, who would win?

Steven Yeun has been a recognizable face in film and TV (and a prolific voice actor) for a decade, but we haven't really seen him front and center until Minari. And after this bright, heartwarming turn, I think you can expect him to remain in the spotlight for the foreseeable future. His understated and remarkable performance carries this beautiful story of a family finding its path through a new way of life. Despite scant dialogue and minimal exposition, we seem to always know what his character is thinking -- that he's facing daunting odds but has a steel resolve. He and screen partner Yeri Han (who deserves as much credit as Yeun for this film) create one of the most tender crumbling marriages I've seen on screen in a long time. (Though a marriage counselor could have given his character some helpful "dos and don'ts" that might have saved him some headaches.)

What's more improbable, Mank's meandering, decades-long journey to the screen, or the fact that we're supposed to believe 63-year Gary Oldman as a man in his 30s and early 40s? Well, once his performance begins, it's so hammy that you forget all about the ridiculous age discrepancy. He's playing Herman Mankiewicz, whose bombastic writing and sozzled demeanor helped mold the script for Citizen Kane into the legend that it is. It's a bloviated, ostentatious, spectacular exhibition of affectation and panache that only Oldman could pull off. It's a lot of fun. (It must be exhausting to be his wife.) It’s as if Mank wrote the story of his own life... and gave himself the best part.

I'm naming Delroy Lindo for my snubbed choice, for his intense and crushing performance in Da 5 Bloods. I've been hoping he'd get an Oscar nomination for 20 years, and by all accounts, this was going to be his year. Even in the fall, after a slew of critics' awards, he was the odds-on favorite to win. So it was a disappointment that his name wasn't called when nominations were read. For now, he'll have to be content with being everyone's favorite never-nominated actor. (But here's to hoping The Harder They Fall is frickin' amazing, so he can end that drought next year.) There are plenty of honorable mentions this year: Adarsh Gourav (The White Tiger), Mads Mikkelsen (Another Round), and Kingsley Ben-Adir (One Night In Miami) come to mind. (By the way: How often do Kingsley Ben-Adir and Sir Ben Kingsley get each other's take-out orders switched?) But my runner-up is John David Washington (my snubbed pick two years ago), who undoubtedly became an A-List movie star in the past year… but not for the reason you think. Yes, Tenet was a blockbuster and the cinematic story of the summer, but he had special effects and storyline trickery supporting him. Instead, Malcolm And Marie is what stands out to me -- he has nothing but his performance (as abrasive as it is), and he still commands the screen and our attention. When he gets hold of a juicy monologue, he starts cooking… but when he starts dancing on the countertop? Look out.

BEST ACTRESS:

SHOULD WIN: Andra Day (The United States Vs. Billie Holiday) WILL WIN: Andra Day (The United States Vs. Billie Holiday) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Anya Taylor-Joy (Emma.) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Jessie Buckley (I'm Thinking of Ending Things)

Coming down to the wire, we've got a race where three women have a chance to win, and the favorite depends on who you ask and when you ask. Carey Mulligan, Viola Davis, and Andra Day have each won precursor awards, and seem to leapfrog each other daily. Mulligan has been picked by most prognosticators, with Davis right behind. But I'm going to put my untarnished reputation on the line and predict a long-shot upset for Day. (And when that doesn't happen, I'm going to say that I actually thought Mulligan or Davis were more likely.)

Maybe I'm picking Andra Day because she's also my personal favorite, for her star-making debut in The United States Vs. Billie Holiday. The movie itself is serviceable but not stellar (some of the scenes and dialogue are absurdly expository), but Day is an absolute dynamo as the Lady Day. The film is a fairly rounded picture of her life, including her drug abuse, health issues, singing the controversial-at-the-time civil-rights song "Strange Fruit", and an investigation by the U.S. government (hence the title) -- all of which is intriguing for those of us not familiar with her personal story. (I'm sure you'll be shocked to learn that, despite my curmudgeonly ways, I was not in fact alive in the 1940s.) Day has seemingly come out of nowhere, because there was no early hype about the film, and nobody even saw it until a few weeks ago (and even now, it hasn't been seen by nearly as many people as the other contenders). Known primarily as a singer before this (I'm a big fan), she literally transformed her voice (straining her vocal chords, taking up smoking) to capture Billie Holiday's unique vocals. The singing alone might be enough to get her a nomination, but it's the dramatic work that puts her ahead of the field. More than any other nominee, we really get the feeling that she's laying her soul bare onscreen. Even for a seasoned actress, the depth of this performance would be impressive. Her film doesn't have the popularity or momentum that Mulligan's or Davis's do, so she's heading into Oscar night as an underdog. But if voters judge the actresses strictly on performance, not on the movies themselves, she might just pull an upset. And, if you haven't heard Day sing outside this movie, do yourself a favor: Stop reading this article (you might want to do that anyway) and browse her catalogue -- she has the best voice of any contemporary singer, period. Forget Billie Eilish, why isn't Day singing the next James Bond song?

Carey Mulligan returns to the Oscar game for the first time in 11 years, for Promising Young Woman. (Is she bitter that her performance in An Education lost to Sandra Bullock in The Blind Side? Probably not as bitter as I am.) Promising Young Woman is getting a lot of attention and accolades, and much of it is due to Mulligan's strong turn as Cassandra, a woman on a revenge crusade that has taken over her life. It's a layered performance; we see a lot of Cassandra's facades, but we don't know if we ever see the real person. Her best friend's rape and subsequent suicide has left her stunted; by the time we meet Cassandra, she's literally and figuratively become someone else. As rough as it sounds, Mulligan is able to make it… well, 'fun' isn't the right word, but 'enjoyable'. We see Cassandra refusing to sit or be bullied; she has agency and kinetic energy in situations where many do not or cannot. Whether or not the film works rests largely on Mulligan's shoulders; it's a good thing she's such a talented actress, because not many could pull it off. The more people see the film, the more she's been picked to win the prize. Will she get enough support for a victory? (Ms. Bullock, you owe her a vote.)

Out of all the nominated performances this year, Viola Davis's is the most amusing. Playing the titular singer in Ma Rainey's Black Bottom, it's clear she's having blast. When she's onscreen, Davis owns every single inch of it. She doesn't just drink a bottle of Coke, she guzzles the whole thing with gusto and verve, serving notice that this is going to be the most entertaining consumption of soda you've ever seen. And so it is with the rest of the performance. (Though the lip-synching is not particularly believable; but then again, that didn't hurt Rami Malek in Bohemian Rhapsody.) It will be interesting to see what happens on Oscar night. She's been up and down in the predictions. She was down after losing the Golden Globe (it's taken us until now to realize the Globes are a waste of time??), but rebounded strongly with a Screen Actors Guild win. She is universally adored, but she's also won an Oscar already for Fences, so voters may not feel quite as compelled to give it to her overall.

And we haven't even talked about Frances McDormand in Nomadland yet. Early on, this category seemed like a sprint between McDormand and Davis. But when neither won the Golden Globe or Critics' Choice, it became anybody's race. As we near the end of the contest, McDormand has pretty clearly fallen toward the back. I don't think it's her performance; instead, she's been discounted due to her own victorious history. She's already got two Oscars (in 1997 for Fargo and 2018 for Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri); a third one would require extraordinary circumstances. By comparison, it took Meryl Streep 29 years (and a lot of Ls) after her second to get her third. But if McDormand hadn't just won for Three Billboards three years ago, I think she'd be a lock here; Nomadland may even be a superior performance. She's probably the only actor alive that could pull this off; if she gave up acting, this is how I assume she would be living in real life. It's remarkable how she internalizes everything, yet informs the viewer how she's feeling and what she's thinking with very few words, just her physicality. This project seems particularly challenging. Her character doesn't have the answers; she's searching, but she doesn't even know what for. "I'm not homeless. I'm just house-less. Not the same thing, right?" It's as if she's posing the question to herself, and she really doesn't know. She gets lonelier as the journey goes on, a sort-of self-imposed isolation, and the viewer really feels it. (What does she ultimately find? Well, that's one of the frustrating ambiguities of the film. Don't get me started.) No matter what happens in this category, what McDormand will find is Oscar gold: She's a producer on Nomadland, so she's a strong bet to walk away with a Best Picture statuette.

Saying Vanessa Kirby is the best thing in Pieces Of A Woman is a bit of a backhanded compliment. My distaste for the film was made pretty clear in the Best Picture section, and anybody acting opposite Shia LaBeouf is going to look like Streep. But Kirby is legitimately great, and I think a welcome surprise to those who know her from the Mission: Impossible and Fast & Furious franchises. (And how many fans of The Crown thought Kirby would beat Claire Foy to an Oscar nomination? Don't lie.) Kirby makes the most of her role as an unpleasant person in an unpleasant situation enduring a barrage of unpleasant events surrounded by really unpleasant people. (An infant tragedy is the least of their problems.) But ultimately the film fails her, and unfortunately I don't really believe what any character is doing in this movie. Her nomination has been bolstered by a whopper of an opening scene: a 24-minute single-shot of a childbirth that ends horrifically. But I can't help but feel like the shot comes off as gimmicky; the immediacy of the scene was effective, but the filmmakers seemed to choose stylistic camera movement and choreography over intimacy and realness. The scene may be emotionally truthful, but hoo-eey, Kirby is dialed up. (My personal favorite ridiculous scene? When she's on the subway, wistfully watching children giggling pleasantly and behaving like angels. Ahhh, seems so blissful. Have you ever taken kids on public transportation? They would be fighting, screaming, climbing over the seats, kicking her, throwing goldfish everywhere, getting yelled at by the parents, bumping into passengers, licking the handrails, wiping snot on seats, and saying inappropriate things to strangers. That's parenthood.)

When the movie gods decided to create a remake that would be the exact opposite of what I would like, they conjured up Emma.. (That's "Emma.", with a period at the end of the title. Seriously. It's a "period" piece. Get it?) Anya Taylor-Joy is undoubtedly talented, but she's a letdown as the fabled matchmaker. She also believes that she can bleed on cue. With regard to her climactic scene: "I was in the moment enough that my nose really started bleeding." Wow. No words. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but her performance actually makes me miss Gwyneth.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR:

SHOULD WIN: LaKeith Stanfield (Judas And The Black Messiah) WILL WIN: Daniel Kaluuya (Judas And The Black Messiah) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Shia LaBeouf (Pieces Of A Woman) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Glynn Turman (Ma Rainey's Black Bottom)

Can you have a movie with two main characters but no leading actors? If you're wondering why the two stars (and title characters) of Judas And The Black Messiah -- LaKeith Stanfieldand Daniel Kaluuya -- are both competing in the Supporting Actor category, congratulations, you're a human on planet Earth. That's Oscar politics for you, and it's nothing new. They are both unquestionably leads; nevertheless, the shift to Supporting has worked out well for both of them. The assumption was that Stanfield would campaign in the Lead category and Kaluuya in Supporting so as not to cannibalize each other's votes, and to have Kaluuya (the stronger awards bet) compete in the less crowded category. (It's been clear for half a year that Chadwick Boseman would be winning Best Actor.) Stanfield was considered an unrealistic shot to crack the nominees anyway (he was probably 8th for Best Actor, behind Delroy Lindo (Da 5 Bloods) and Tahar Rahim (The Mauritanian)). So when the nominations were read, it was a pleasant shock that he had been slotted in the Supporting Actor category. (And wouldn't you rather have him here than Jared Leto?)

But won't they split the vote, resulting in the very problem they were trying to avoid in the first place? As it turns out, no. Judging from other major awards, voters had made up their minds for Kaluuya long ago, so any votes to support this film will likely go to Kaluuya. It's not hard to see why: As Black Panther leader Fred Hampton, he's dynamic, steely, and charismatic. It's very different -- more confident, self-assured and domineering -- than we've seen him in other roles, like Get Out. (This movie is a like a mini-reunion of Get Out. Dang, now I want a sequel to Get Out.) But I'll be the dissenter, and cast my personal vote for Stanfield. I'm conflicted; they're a close 1-2. But for me, Stanfield's role (as an FBI informant infiltrating the Panthers) has more facets to play, and Stanfield's signature tenderness brings me into the character more. Plus, he also has the bigger challenge: he has to play the Judas (a role he initially didn't want). Like another character actually says to Stanfield in the movie: "This guy deserves an Academy Award."

Leslie Odom Jr.'s quest for an EGOT (Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, Tony) has hit a speed bump. Already armed with a G and a T, he was the presumptive favorite heading into the Golden Globes to collect more hardware, for playing singer Sam Cooke in One Night In Miami. But that was before anybody had seen Judas And The Black Messiah. As the lone acting nominee for Miami, he's got a lot of support from anyone looking to honor the film and its stellar cast. And as the singer, he gets to show off his lustrous Hamilton-honed pipes several times. In many ways, he's the most relatable character in Miami, the one that (despite Cooke's fame at the time) seems the most mortal. So though he'll lose Best Supporting Actor, fear not: He's the favorite to win Best Song, and keep the EGOT dream alive. (Unless… 12-time nominee Diane Warren finally gets the sympathy vote for her song for the little-seen The Life Ahead. Wait, you mean she didn't win for Mannequin's "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now"??)

Paul Raci is a fascinating nominee, for Sound of Metal. He was virtually unknown before this movie (best known as Eugene the Animal Control Guy on Parks And Recreation), but his background is intriguing. He's a Vietnam vet who started as a small theater actor in Chicago (he has a Jeff nomination!). With his upbringing as a hearing CODA (Child Of Deaf Adult), he's a frequent player in ASL theater and is the lead singer in an ASL metal band. (Am I the only one who was gotten CODA confused with ACOD (Adult Child Of Divorce)? Is there such a thing as ACODDA (Adult Child Of Deaf Divorced Adults)?) And in the understated role of Joe, who runs a facility for deaf people and serves as a guide for Riz Ahmed's character, he's fantastic. It literally seems like he's been preparing his whole life for the role, and it pays off. (Though upon further examination of his character… Joe seems like a benevolent, trustworthy guy with altruistic motivations, with a shelter focused on mental healing, addiction recovery, and self-sufficiency. But he also appears to foster an environment that isolates its members, severs contact with all loved ones, preys on those who are unstable to begin with, and convinces members that they will struggle if they leave the community. Ultimately Joe runs every aspect of members' lives, and in return expects unwavering devotion and complete submission to his methods. As soon as Ruben says one thing to challenge him, Joe accuses him of sounding like an addict, knowing it will trigger shame and self-doubt, in a clear effort to control his actions. Joe even slyly suggests that he personally knows how to reach heaven, "the kingdom of God". Is there a chance Joe is actually running a cult??)

They may have just picked a name out of a hat to see which member of The Trial Of The Chicago 7 ensemble would get an Oscar nomination (now these are all supporting actors), but however it happened, nomination day was a good day for Sacha Baron Cohen. (He also got a writing nod for Borat 2.) He is effective in the movie -- maybe the best of the bunch -- and it's a (slightly surprising) affirmation that he's a good actor in addition to being a talented performer. Is his performance actually worthy of an Oscar nomination? I'm fairly impressed (except for his I-love-you-too-man scene with the inert Eddie Redmayne, which plays cheap… but you can probably pin that one on Aaron Sorkin). But there are several other people I would have nominated over Cohen. For starters, my snubbed pick, Glynn Turman, is exceptional as a musician holding his own against Chadwick Boseman in Ma Rainey's Black Bottom. (It seems like just yesterday he was the colonel on A Different World, one of his 150+ acting credits.) Honorable mentions include 7-year-old Alan Kim (Minari), Clarke Peters (Da 5 Bloods), Charles Dance (Mank), and Arliss Howard (Mank).

Wow. Shia LaBeouf is not the only repellant part of Pieces Of A Woman, but he's probably the most repellant part. I'm sorry, but anything he does, or is involved in, instantly becomes less believable. At one point he seems to be trying to creepily make out with his wife… while she's actively pushing in labor. Then later, in a distressing "love" scene, he looks like someone who has never had consensual sex with a partner before; I know the film is going for emotional rawness, but it just looks like assault. Bottom line, I have no idea what he's doing in this movie. (And I guess I don't care what he's doing, as long as it's not another Indiana Jones movie.)

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS:

SHOULD WIN: Yuh-jung Youn (Minari) WILL WIN: Yuh-jung Youn (Minari) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Nicole Kidman (The Prom) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Ellen Burstyn (Pieces Of A Woman)

Oh, sweet revenge. Don't you just love a rematch? It was just two short years ago when Olivia Colman, in a flabbergasting upset, tearfully apologized to presumptive victor Glenn Close in her acceptance speech. (…Or did she condescendingly mock her? We can't be sure about anything in that speech.) Now they are both nominated again -- Colman for The Father, Close for Hillbilly Elegy -- and the bad blood between them couldn't be boiling hotter. Since there are no nominee lunches or in-person media parades this year, I'm assuming they drunk-Zoom each other at all hours and call one another every cruel British and American curse word in the book. Colman even reportedly tweeted, "Glenn, this will be your Hillbilly Elegy: You never won a dang Oscar." Nasty stuff, but nothing unusual during campaign season. Colman is facing a tough challenge (besides playing a woman whose father is in the grips dementia). Voters will be hard-pressed to hand her a victory again so soon (and without any losses). Additionally, she didn't even get nominated for a BAFTA award -- the British Oscar-equivalent -- on her home turf (and they nominate six actors in each category). (But, she would be quick to point out, Close didn't either.) All the talk around The Father is about Anthony Hopkins. Colman is facing extremely long odds.

Which seems to perfectly set up Close to swoop in for the kill. Six months ago, on paper this seemed like a slam dunk. The word was that Hillbilly Elegy featured two of the losing-est actors (Close and Amy Adams) in transformative roles in a heart-wrenching adaptation of a successful book. It was going to exorcise the demons for both of them. Then the movie debuted. And the response was lukewarm. But then the response to the response was harsh. People hated the movie, hated the performances, and hated the participants for shilling shameless Oscar bait. (If you think there's a different kind of Oscar bait, I'm afraid you haven't been paying attention.) The film was weirdly derided as political, and faced a sort of anti-Trump backlash (which I don't understand, considering the movie takes place in the 1990s and early 2010s, when Trump was just known for being an inept USFL football owner and a silly reality-TV host). Entertainment Weekly actually used these words in a single sentence to describe the film: "ham-handed", "smug", "Appalachian poverty porn", and "moralizing soap opera". (I guess people felt about this film the way I felt about A Star Is Born.) And no, the movie is not great; it fades soon after the credits roll. But Close is compelling; at the very least, she's working her tail off. (If you think she's just hamming it up in drag, stay tuned for the end-credits images of the real Mamaw. It's uncanny.) I think the voters really want her to win (but I thought the same thing two years ago). The question is: Do they want her to win for this movie? The answer increasingly seems to be No. The general feeling (which I agree with) is that the role feels a little lacking, and below Close's other lauded performances. People realize that if she wins, it may get dismissed as being a flimsy career-achievement award, which would tarnish it.

So, which one will claim victory this time, leaving the other groveling at her feet, Colman or Close? Neither, it turns out. In a shocking turn of events, Yuh-jung Youn has emerged as a favorite over both of them. (Fortunately, she's blocked Colman and Close on Zoom.) Calling Youn the heart of Minari would be trite. She is, but she's much more than that. She's the conduit for connection: to the children, between the parents, and to the audience. Before her arrival, it feels like there's something missing. (The young son has a heart condition, is constantly chugging Mountain Dew, and is hiding his wet underpants. And the dad thinks he doesn't need a babysitter?) It's when Youn enters the film that the film excels, and we start to feel like part of the family. She also challenges our (and her grandson's) ideas of what a grandmother is (including possibly having magical healing superpowers). A lot of people are looking for a way to reward this film, and this category is its best chance. Heck, even if voters only hear Youn's one line of English dialogue ("Ding-dong broken!" -- referring to her grandson's wiener), that could be enough to win.

Maybe the most curious nomination is for Maria Bakalova, starring in Borat Subsequent Moviefilm as the notorious Kazakh's daughter. A lot of things in the past year would have been impossible to predict, but an unknown Bulgarian actress stealing the spotlight and getting an Oscar nomination for a surprise-release Borat sequel would have to be near the top. And she's actually the only one in this category who's managed to score a nomination from every major organization. She won't win, but her performance (and memes) may live on the longest.

I must be missing something in Mank. (Granted, I haven't watched it the requisite four times in order to truly appreciate it, according to the Fincherists.) But I just don't understand what the fuss is about with Amanda Seyfried. She certainly plays her part well (as Marion Davies, the illicit love interest of William Randolph Hearst and the platonic love interest of Herman Mankiewicz), but I don't see how she elevates it or brings anything extraordinary to it. Her character plays a pivotal role in Citizen Kane (Davies was the inspiration for Kane's second wife), and I presume she's supposed to play a pivotal role in Mank's literary epiphany, but I fail to understand why. (Or maybe I failed to understand her Brooklyn accent.) But more than that, her narrative thread seems distressingly incomplete. She appears to be set up for a meaty final scene, but then her character simply exits, leaving Mankiewicz (and me) baffled. I've been more impressed by her work in other movies, like First Reformed. Of course, perhaps the most significant implication of Seyfried's nomination: Two of the Plastics now have Oscar nominations. (Gretchen, stop trying to make an Oscar nomination happen. It's not going to happen!)

Just in case there was any confusion, 88-year-old Ellen Burstyn is here to let us know she can still bring the thunder. Pieces Of A Woman is a mess, and her character is dubious, but she gets one powerhouse speech to shine and (somewhat) anchor the movie -- a declaration of strength, resilience, and survival. And she delivers a two-handed, rim-hanging, backboard-shattering jam. Oh, right, there's the woman who scored an Oscar, plus four other nominations, in a 9-year span in the 1970s. And who's been an Emmy fixture the past 15 years. And who has four more movies already in the works. Just another not-so-gentle reminder that she's one of the great actors of her generation. (Honorable Mentions go to The United States Vs. Billie Holiday's Da'Vine Joy Randolph, who continues her scene-stealing ways after Office Christmas Party and Dolemite Is My Name; and Dominique Fishback, whose performance adds emotional heft to Judas And The Black Messiah.)

BEST DIRECTOR:

SHOULD WIN: Chloé Zhao (Nomadland) WILL WIN: Chloé Zhao (Nomadland) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Ryan Murphy (The Prom) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Christopher Nolan (Tenet)

The second-most-certain thing this year is Chloé Zhao winning Best Director for Nomadland. She's dominated the narrative and the awards circuit this year; nobody else is close. In fact, she might win four Oscars, which would be a record for one person with a single film. (In 1954, Walt Disney was a quadruple winner for four different movies… but do short films really count?) Odds are that she'll win three, but if she wins Best Editing early in the night, the record will be hers. Historically joined at the hip, Best Director and Best Picture have surprisingly been split between different movies several times in recent years. The voters will align them this year, but I'm going to malign them. (Disalign? Unalign? Who am I kidding, I will malign them too.) As tepid as I am on Nomadland for Picture, Zhao is my Director choice. She is clearly a masterful artist and impressionistic storyteller. But more than that, she's able to conjure a mood and state of mind with her pseudo-documentary hybrid style. She gets us to feel what the character is feeling and put us right in the environment -- and makes it seem effortless. The film's long, languid takes allow us to breathe the air, drink in the scene, and live in the moment, unhurried. Zhao augments the nomadic quality of the film in every shot. But (oh, you knew there was a 'but'), on the down side, I also find the style to be a bit tedious and overdrawn at times. Because of my lack of investment, the film often struggles to keep my attention, or more accurately, my curiosity. And despite the film being touted as a tale of community and interconnectedness, it mostly suggests to me (via the main character) feelings of pain, loneliness, coldness, and sadness. But ultimately, I think those things speak more to the story than the directing. This will doubtless be a crowning a achievement for Zhao, but I'm more excited to see what the future will bring, and what she can do for a story that I'm invested in.

I was really close to picking Lee Isaac Chung for my Should Win, for his rich, captivating film, Minari. (Really close. You, the fortunate, insulated reader, will never truly know how much I agonize over this. Some suffer for art, I suffer for unsolicited criticism.) Honestly, I was tempted to give Chung a clean sweep of Picture, Director, and Screenplay; but instead I've opted to spread them around (I can play Academy politics all by myself). So many of the qualities of Zhao's film are present in Chung's film as well; his toolbox is just as full and varied. His quiet, atmospheric shots are unburdened by haste yet always nudging the story ahead. Chung draws us in, as another member of the Yi family, our hopes rising and falling with each challenge and trifle (and sexed chick) they face. There's a real confidence in his style; he knows how to best engage the audience for the specific journey. For me though, what I appreciate most is the warmth of his filmmaking; while the story has tribulations, the film itself is compassionate, never harsh or aggressive. That stands in stark contrast to Nomadland; the palette is one of the main things that sets them apart. Chung also scored points by showcasing the best accessory on the virtual Golden Globes telecast: a ridiculously adorable child. (Was that his own kid, or a rental? Only his publicist knows for sure.) Careful, I might accidentally talk myself into flipping my pick to Chung.

This was supposed to be his year. Goddammit, this was supposed to be his year! That was the sentiment from cinephiles all over the internet this year. Throw a rock in any direction and you'll hit a podcaster (and possibly me) ranting about how David Fincher was robbed in 2011 when he lost Best Director for The Social Network to Tom Hooper and The King's Speech. (Was the Academy justified? Since then, Fincher landed a third Oscar nomination, fourth Golden Globe nomination, and two Emmy wins; Hooper directed Cats.) In early winter, the pieces seemed to be lining up for a Fincher victory with Mank: a big, mainstream, Hollywood-y underdog story; an ode to the most revered film of all time, Citizen Kane; a scenery-chewing performance from beloved thesp Gary Oldman; a film that was more accessible (read: less weird and violent) than most of his other fare; and a passion project that he had been developing for decades, written by his late father. The only question was not whether the film could win all the Oscars, but whether it could cure pediatric cancer or pilot a rocket to Jupiter. But that was 2020… and we all know how that year went. Maybe it's the fatigue caused by the prolonged award campaign season, maybe it's the lack of theaters that would have showcased his visual marvel, or maybe it's the fact that the film didn't quiiiiiiite live up to the hype, but one thing is clear: Fincher is out of the race. I'll say what a lot of the other film snobs won't: This is probably not the film we want Fincher to win for anyway. We want him to win for something sharper, weirder, more incisive, and more upsetting; in short, something more Fincher-ish. Mank is fantastic, to be sure; and in (mostly) pulling it off, Fincher demonstrates his mastery of historical and contemporary cinema. But the hiccups are puzzling. The film is structured like Citizen Kane itself, which makes it at times equally difficult to engage in; but while Kane's flashbacks feel natural, a handful of Mank's feel shoehorned. The dialogue is in the style -- but not the pace -- of hard-boiled 1940s films, which alone is a recipe for difficult viewing; further peppering every retort with unnatural irony makes for wit but not necessarily comprehension. The Kane-esque echo effect doesn't help; neither do subtitles. (I tried.) While it turns out that it's not supposed to be his Oscar year after all, I commend Fincher on an effort like this -- the singular vision, the vigor, the risk -- even when I don't necessarily love the movie or connect with it. We need his art, we need his beautiful mess. (But next time maybe throw in a grisly murder, perverted romance, or crippling heartbreak… and acquire a charming child for the awards telecast.)

Emerald Fennell impressively scored a nomination for her first feature film, Promising Young Woman, an inventive genre-mashup of a Rape Revenge movie -- a new spin on a 1970s grindhouse staple. Like a lot of people, I don't quite know what to make of the movie (I don't think I've ever actually seen a Rape Revenge movie… though I've seen plenty of Dognapping Revenge movies). It's a film that could go badly a thousand different ways, but Fennell makes choices that keep it fresh and thoroughly watchable. The primary word that comes to mind is 'subversive'. From the candy coloring to the pop music to the meet-cute to the campy suspense, she toys with convention at every turn (in some cases more effectively than others). Even the support casting -- the kooky, on-the-nose (or 180-flipped) cameos spice up the movie, but also tend to undermine it and give it a B-movie vibe. (Do we really need Jennifer Coolidge and Max Greenfield doing what they do best, but not as well as they usually do it? Probably not. Do they make me chuckle? Yes.) The result is an oddly entertaining movie on a subject that is anything but. The patina of playfulness is helpful; if it was an avalanche of distressing, horrifying scenes, it could be a tortuous watch. All in all, it might be the most enjoyable Rape Revenge movie you'll ever see.

Perhaps the biggest surprise nominee in any category is Thomas Vinterberg, for the Danish film Another Round. (The lion's share of the Oscar buzz had been for star Mads Mikkelsen; the film is also up for Best International film.) This movie is in the grand tradition of celebrating alcohol because excessive drinking is awesome. And the Academy has recognized Vinterberg because he has so astutely captured how booze is a tasty balm for every wound -- an ancient and failsafe key to enlightenment and inner peace. Wait, what's that? I'm sorry… I'm being told that this movie is actually a cautionary tale. Hmmm. I guess I should have watched it sober. In light of that, I suppose the film is an interesting examination of middle-aged ennui and the tendency to overlook that which is right in front of you. (Anyone that has gotten this far in the article knows exactly what ennui is, and should have overlooked what was right in front of them.) It's also an unintentionally apt allegory for pandemic life: When it started, we began drinking a bit at home, enjoying Zoom happy hours, and generally having a good time; pretty soon we were day-drinking out of sheer boredom, trying to teach our home-schooled kids long division while buzzed, and it got very sad and depressing; now we're all pretty much ready to jump off the pier. In general, I like the film (though I prefer my mid-life drinking crises more in the mold of Old School), but the story and arc are fairly telegraphed. You mean their problems can't be fixed by increased alcohol consumption? The more you drink, the harder it is to control? Drinking at work as a teacher around minors might go awry? Instead of booze, have they tried rest, exercise, healthy eating, or appreciating the good things in their lives? (Who I am kidding, those are a waste of time.) Ultimately, there are several directors I would have chosen over Vinterberg (Christopher Nolan for Tenet, George C. Wolfe for Ma Rainey's Black Bottom, and Florian Zeller for The Father come to mind), but it's interesting to see the continuing trend of nominating non-American filmmakers in this category, as the Directors' branch of the Academy becomes increasingly international.

I want to talk about the ending of Another Round for a moment. If you didn't see the movie (and I'm betting you didn't), just skip this paragraph. Most of the reviews I've read online interpret the ending as a hopeful, happy one. I think that's crazy. The ending is a Trojan horse. It looks joyful, but just underneath lies tragedy: The trio resume drinking after they've seemingly hit rock bottom and lost their best friend to booze; they believe they're in control and having a good time when really they're spiraling into chaos; they think they've found a balance, when they're actually sliding endlessly further into alcoholism. They don't realize that they cannot enjoy life sober. I think one of the reasons why I like the movie so much is that it masks that ending as a "happy" one, much the way a drinker would see it when they don't realize there's a problem. The ending is denial. A lot of people have seen the final scene as uplifting and life-affirming (even Vinterberg seems to say this in interviews, which is puzzling), that the friends have come to terms with their drinking, and have found a way to drink in moderation and still invigorate their lives and celebrate the small things. I don't understand that take at all. I would buy it if they had found a way to celebrate life while sober. Instead, I think it's the surest sign that they are destroying their lives, because they don't even realize it's happening. It's the 'darkest timeline'. They ask themselves the wrong question, "What would Tommy do?", instead of "What would Tommy want us to do?", and we know exactly what Tommy would do because we see him drink himself to death. Martin has gotten a reconciliatory text from his wife, but just as he's about to go to her, he instead joins the party, quickly gets plastered, and literally goes off the deep end. What's truly heartbreaking is seeing that they've (gleefully and unknowingly) perpetuated the cycle, having encouraged the next generation to drink in order to cope and be "awakened to life". I think there are hints in the final song lyrics ("What a Life") and the movie's poster (the image of Mikkelsen recklessly chugging champagne in a blurry stupor is from the final scene). To me, the seemingly exuberant ending is a fallacy… and utterly tragic.

In a surprise move that everyone saw coming, I'm naming Christopher Nolan as my Snubbed choice, for his twisty, backwards-y spectacle, Tenet. Did I understand the movie? Of course. Oh, you didn't? Dummy.

BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY:

SHOULD WIN: Derek Cianfrance, Abraham Marder, Darius Marder (Sound Of Metal) WILL WIN: Emerald Fennell (Promising Young Woman) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Aaron Abrams, Brendan Gall (The Lovebirds) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Sam Levinson (Malcolm And Marie)

Did his name have to be Ryan? No, that wasn't my biggest takeaway from the script for Emerald Fennell's Promising Young Woman. But it was a big one. As Carey Mulligan's chances fade a bit, Screenplay is the movie's strongest chance to strike gold, making a strong run in the precursory awards. The ending of the film has been pretty divisive, but I like that it's completely unexpected. Maybe it's contrived, but it's what makes the movie memorable for me, and separates it from other revenge thrillers. Or maybe it's inevitable, given the themes of the movie and the character pursuing her mission past the point of no return. Either way, did his name have to be Ryan? Unless Fennell's role (she's an actress, too) as Camilla Parker Bowles on The Crown accidentally embroils her in recent royal family controversies, she should be collecting this award on Oscar night.

Most of the praise for Sound Of Metal has been specifically for its sound design. But it starts with the script (written by director Darius Marder, along with Derek Cianfrance and Abraham Marder), which is the blueprint for the sound and experience of the movie. And it's my pick (by a hair) for best screenplay of the year. It has -- hey, whaddya know! -- an actual narrative, with a main character who has an objective and opposition. It's always impressive to me when a story has very little I can directly relate to, but it still manages to resonate, and strikes a tone that feels real. I also appreciate the skill in the writing -- it's minimalistic, yet thorough in the ways that matter. The film doesn't explain a lot or give us much exposition -- it doesn't lean on voice-over, window characters, or monologues. It's quiet. Which may seem obvious considering it's about a man losing his hearing, but even the man himself and the real world he lives in have a muted vibe (despite his mind being anything but calm). The film has also been lauded for its authentic portrayal of deaf people… but not for its authentic portrayal of audiologists. (I mean, how bad is Ruben's audiologist consultation, that he is in no way prepared for how things would sound after getting cochlear implants? I get more information from my dentist when getting a cavity filled.) Also: What does metal sound like? I still don't know.

Aaron Sorkin would seem like the obvious pick here, for The Trial Of The Chicago 7. It's the kind of sonorous, social-consciousness word-porn we've come to love and expect from him. But he's already got an Oscar (though most people assume he has three), and the fight-the-system theme isn't exactly unique to his script this year. Not surprisingly, the movie feels like a mash-up of The West Wing and A Few Good Men, complete with humorous exchanges of smug cleverness, heart-warming declarations of overly-simplified principle, and his own trademark Sorkin-esque version of facts. Sure, the story of the Chicago 7 is intriguing, but would I rather watch a movie about a Chicago 7-Eleven? It's tempting…

I've previously talked about the reasons I appreciated Minari so much (written by director Lee Isaac Chung). A lot of the sweetness of the film is present in the screenplay. He cleverly tells much of the story through the eyes of a 7-year-old boy, so it's told less fact-by-fact, and more through the filter of a child's memory. (Chung based the screenplay somewhat on his own experiences growing up.) Charming as it is, I can't help but view it through the filter of a parent's anxiety: 1) Is moving across the country to live in a small town where you don't know anyone, living in a trailer, and starting a farm with zero experience the best way to solve marital problems? 2) One of the main promotional photos for the movie is a of the little boy holding a stick. Am I crazy, or is that the same stick that the father was going to use to beat the boy when he disobeyed? Did the marketing person keep their job after that? 3) The friend's deadbeat dad leaves the kids alone overnight, presumably out carousing and drinking, then shows up at breakfast hammered, saying, "Tell your mom I was here all night." How many times can you get away with that? 4) When the boy cuts his foot, is it bad that I did not think of the wound or his safety, but about the blood getting on the carpet? 5) Why aren't these kids in school??

Perhaps the script (and movie) with the biggest head of steam coming into awards night is Judas And The Black Messiah, a late entry that has been picking up acolytes left and right. The film has been lauded for its approach to the story of Black Panther leader Fred Hampton -- by telling it as a gritty, 70s-style, cat-and-mouse thriller, from the perspective of the FBI informant sent to help stop him. Director Shaka King (who wrote the script with Will Berson, based on ideas from the Lucas Brothers) has said that structure, instead of a more traditional biopic style, helped get it made by a studio. Despite the inevitability of the ending, the dramatic conflict and ferocity of the performances make for a satisfyingly tense ride.

This is going to come back to bite me, but my snubbed pick is Malcolm And Marie (or, as it should have been called, Things You Shouldn't Say To Your Girlfriend At 2 AM When You're Drunk And She's In A Bad Mood). It's like a really long Bad Idea Jeans commercial. Now, I'm not necessarily recommending this movie. You should know that most critics and regular people hate it. It's two hours of a couple arguing. It's a rough ride. It's indulgent, overwrought, and well, chock-full of mental and emotional abuse. But (stay with me here), if you can get past all that, those elements have a purpose, and there is a point to the film. I think the key is that it's not intended to be literal. It's allegorical for how we talk to ourselves -- the internal conflict we have, when we wrestle with ideas that are hard to reconcile. It's also lyrical; there's an elegance in how the characters spew eloquent vitriol at each other and rhapsodize (okay, rant) about some opinions that seem dead-on and others that seem wildly inaccurate. In some ways, the words seem like the most important thing; but in other ways, I think the movie could work as a silent film. (Either way, it's inventive: It was the first major film to shoot completely during the pandemic, so it takes place in a single home, with 2 actors, in more-or-less real time.) Writer/director Sam Levinson poses interesting questions about storytelling and authorship: Sure, write what you know; but also, and maybe more interestingly, try to write (and learn) about what you don't know. (Case in point: I don’t really have any experience or expertise about the Oscars, yet here I am.) Levinson has gotten a lot of criticism for what appears to be his point of view. I think that's fair, but I also disagree. I believe it's a bit of a misdirection. I think he believes in both sides of the argument; he's been the irrational, emotional one, and the cool, calculating one. The characters are halves to a whole. There's also the frustration with how the couple end up. The film is ambiguous, but audiences seem to think they stay together. I think the girlfriend actually decides before the movie starts that she's leaving him, and this is their breakup. That's why she lets him say all the horrible things he does, because she knows he has to get it out -- it affirms what she already knows, and reinforces her decision. Did I sell you on the movie yet? No? Well, how about this: It's the best autobiographical movie that Burton and Taylor never made.

As an honorable mention, it would have been a nice story had Mank been nominated here, as it was written by David Fincher's father, Jack Fincher, over two decades ago. The elder Fincher was a life-long newspaper man, who had an affinity for 1930s/1940s cinema, a strong knowledge of Herman Mankiewicz, and a fascination with a famously-dissenting Pauline Kael article that disparaged Orson Welles's contributions to the Citizen Kane screenplay. David Fincher had hoped to get his passion project off the ground in the 90s, but hasn't been able to until now. A nomination would have been a touching tribute to his father, who died in 2003. (Another interesting connection: John Mankiewicz, Herman Mankiewicz's grandson, was an executive producer on David Fincher's House Of Cards.) Despite my frustrations with the overall movie, the script is slick, and analyzes some intriguing inside-the-snowglobe aspects of Citizen Kane. It's a crackling, showy piece that jauntily goes out of its way to flaunt its writerliness. (For you keen-eyed writers out there, you'll notice I just made up the word 'writerliness'.) It doesn’t necessarily require you to believe that Citizen Kane is the greatest film ever made, but a healthy sense of awe doesn’t hurt. (It also helps to have a working knowledge of the film's lore, pre-WWII Hollywood, and 1930s -- or some would say, 2020s -- California politics.) The script simultaneously adores and gives a middle finger to Hollywood. Isn’t that what art is supposed to do? (That's not a rhetorical question. I'm actually asking if art is supposed to do that. Because I don't know.)

I've picked The Lovebirds as my Gloriously Omitted choice, not because it's a bad movie, but because it's a missed opportunity. It should have been amazing. The premise, the trailer, the choice of leads, and the chemistry are all fantastic, and set lofty expectations. But the movie itself is just… underwhelming. Maybe hopes were too high, but it's not as clever, tight, or funny as I wanted it to be. The problem isn't the actors -- Issa Rae truly holds the screen, and Kumail Nanjiani is naturally funny (though his character doesn't stray far from previous ones). I think it's the script (from Aaron Abrams and Brendan Gall), which feels rushed and half-baked, like a collection of sketch ideas. It's as if the screenplay left chunks blank, with a note saying, "The actors will figure out something funny on set." For these actors, I'd rather see a taut thriller story, and let them imbue it with humor and humanity. Or better yet, let Rae and Nanjiani write it themselves next time.

BEST ADAPTED SCREENPLAY:

SHOULD WIN: Christopher Hampton, Florian Zeller (The Father) WILL WIN: Chloé Zhao (Nomadland) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Jane Goldman, Joe Shrapnel, Anna Waterhouse (Rebecca) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Ruben Santiago-Hudson (Ma Rainey's Black Bottom)

Adapted Screenplay is going to get swept up in the Nomadland tidal wave on Oscar night, but to me it's probably the film's weakest element. I've talked about my lack of connection to the story. I understand the opinion that it's resonant, but is it revelatory? I can certainly see how it would strike a stronger chord during the pandemic, when we are all isolated; it makes the main character's loneliness feel more real. We've all been living in Nomadland, and whether it's David Strathairn shattering our favorite plates, or our kids shattering our iPad, we're just about at wit's end. But Chloé Zhao's script also plays up the theme of community and interconnectedness, and I didn't really feel that. The main character seems to be closing herself off from connection (though the ending suggests a change that we never actually get to see). A red flag is a movie description that says, "It asks more questions than it answers." Ugh, that's tough. For me, narrative is king. I understand that the movie is literally about a drifter with no plan, and the structure of the film is supposed to make you feel unmoored, but a little plot direction would be nice. Then there's the emotional climax, when Bob the Nomad Guru comes to the rescue to explain the whole theme. He tells Frances McDormand (but really, us) that he gets through grief by helping other people: "For a long time, every day was, How can I be alive on this earth when he’s not? And I didn’t have an answer. But I realized I could honor him by serving people. It gives me a reason to go through the day. Some days that's all I've got." Hmmm, where I have I seen that exact sentiment expressed before? Oh yeah, an award-winning short film called Through The Trees. (Available now, for free on YouTube.)

Dementia Mystery Thriller… is that a movie genre? Well, it might be, after success of The Father (written by Christopher Hampton and Florian Zeller, adapted from Zeller's Tony-winning play). "Exciting" is hardly the word I would use to describe the horrible crumbling of the mind that is dementia, but in this movie, it weirdly fits. The film has a way of presenting the disorder in a unique manner, that goes a long way in conveying the helplessness and frustration of the victim. With copycat movies inevitable, I can almost see Christopher Nolan's version now: Demento, where a mumbling Tom Hardy (unrecognizable under heavy old-man makeup) kills his caregiver twice because he can't remember if he already killed her… or her identical twin. The big twist comes when he discovers whether he killed them in the past, or in the future, or if he's remembering the memory of someone else who killed them. The scenes of the movie play in a different random order every time, and the only score is the constant deafening sound of the old man's heartbeat. Marion Cotillard plays the twins -- apparently the only females in the universe -- using whatever accent she feels like, because she has limited, unrealistic dialogue, and has no compelling story or agency, or any useful traits for an actress whatsoever. Hardy's son may or may not be a British crime lord or an undercover MI6 agent, played by Michael Caine (digitally de-aged to look the age that Hardy actually is). An emaciated Christian Bale, who manages to lose 3 inches of height for the role, makes a cameo as Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Revolutionary practical effects include a life-size recreation of Westminster Abbey inside a zero-gravity chamber, for one massively-complicated but forgettable 5-second shot. It will only cost $723 million, and will go straight to HBO Max. I will name it the best film of 2022.

I may be picking The Father, but I'm rooting for The White Tiger, written and directed by Ramin Bahrani. Set in India in the recent past, it's a striking, chilling tale of what men may be willing to do (or forced to do) to escape poverty. Bahrani constructs a fiery examination of themes that never get old: power vs. agency, freedom vs. choice, complicity vs. culpability. His script uses a lot of devices that shouldn't work: excessive, expository voice-over; explicitly-stated metaphors; speaking directly to the audience; and on-the-nose correlations to current times. But the story and acting are strong enough to make these feel integral. Given the themes and foreign setting, it has the misfortune (or great fortune) of being an easy comparison to Parasite, last year's Oscar grand prize winner. But I find The White Tiger far more accessible and scrutable than Parasite (maybe partly due to the devices I mentioned). A win here would be a welcome surprise. By the way, Bahrani's first Oscar nomination is an interesting footnote to Hollywood lore: In the 2014 Roger Ebert documentary Life Itself, we learn that Ebert was given a legendary token by Laura Dern -- a puzzle that had been passed on from several film icons, with the understanding that each would pass it on to someone truly deserving. Dern had gotten it from revered acting teacher Lee Strasberg, and it originated when Alfred Hitchcock gave it to Marilyn Monroe years before. And now Ebert was giving it to Bahrani. 60 years of movie history, from Hitchcock to Bahrani, and into the future. (Good thing it's not at my house, we would have lost several pieces by now.)

Four of the most famous and popular men in the country walk into a bar… so shouldn't the patrons be freaking out more? One Night In Miami plays out a very intriguing hypothetical scenario: When Malcolm X, Muhammad Ali, Jim Brown, and Sam Cooke all met one night in 1964, what did they talk about? The compelling script (by Kemp Powers, based on his own play) and naturalistic direction (by Regina King) make for a highly enjoyable think-piece and character study. It's a daunting task, to say the least: Not only are they representing extremely visible and important figures, but two of the actors (Kingsley Ben-Adir as Malcolm X, Eli Goree as Ali) are reprising roles already played by Oscar-nominated performers (Denzel Washington, Will Smith) who may be more famous than the actual figures themselves. I guess my hang-up (besides the horrendous Johnny Carson impersonation) is, what are the stakes? Historically, we know the stakes for these four people, in the larger context of their lives and the civil rights movement. But in the film itself, in that single night, for these specific characterizations, what are the stakes? What are they each looking for that evening? I think the movie doesn't fully address this, structurally. Ultimately, due to their fame, we know where the characters' lives go from here -- how it "ends". While that makes it interesting culturally, it feels like it puts a ceiling on the movie in a way, like it's holding something back. With these outsized characters, plot-wise, I wanted a little bit more.

Released in October with almost no warning, Borat Subsequent Moviefilm either single-handedly swung the presidential election, or had no absolutely no impact whatsoever, depending on who you ask. It's a rare feat for an original movie and its sequel to both score Oscar nominations for screenplay; I can't think of another time it's ever happened for a comedy. The fact that it's even under consideration -- given its improvisational nature and whopping nine (nine!) screenwriters (I'm not going to name them all, I'm trying to keep this article brief) -- is fairly astonishing. Even more baffling still, it's been placed in the Adapted category instead of Original. (Pesky Academy rules: Any sequel is automatically defined as an adaptation of the original.) The movie itself is unfortunately a shell of the unrelentingly funny original (Sacha Baron Cohen looks more like a middle-aged man doing a mediocre Borat impression at this point). When the big night arrives, the film will either single-handedly swing the Oscar vote, or have absolutely no impact whatsoever, depending on who you ask.

One of the biggest surprises on nomination day was the exclusion of Ma Rainey's Black Bottom from Best Picture and Best Adapted Screenplay, assumed to be a lock in both categories. It was even thought to contend with Nomadland in this category (it would have gotten my vote, had they asked me). I think it was diminished by the perception of being a fairly straight recreation of August Wilson's play, which is a shame. The film version (written by Ruben Santiago-Hudson) makes wonderful use of the physical space, the confinement, the claustrophobia. And I'd say the movie feels more like an album than a play -- a collection of "songs" (monologues, exchanges, and actual songs), each with its own rhythm, beat, lyrics, and theme, but coming together as a cohesive piece. The composition is effective; it draws you in the way the best albums do, and challenges your brain to think one thing while your heart feels something else. (My only complaint is that I wanted more of Viola Davis and Chadwick Boseman together! Their personalities are electric, and their personas overtake the room. Their conflict is brief (it mostly flows over to conflicts with other characters), and I really wanted to see them alone, head-to-head and unbridled. I realize their distance is purposeful, and important thematically, but damn, it could have been a showdown for the ages. Just another reason to wonder… What might have been?)

The remake of Rebecca was written by a few people, including Joe Shrapnel, whose name may have been a bad harbinger for what was to become of this script. Keep it simple: Please leave Hitchcock alone.

#oscars #oscarpredictions #oscarpredictions2021 #oscarprognostication2021 #donovansoscarprognostication2021 #oscars2021 #academyawards #academyaward

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alkhale · 5 years ago

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Lost and Found (Jason Todd x Reader) Ko-fi Request

JASON TODD x new fledging superhero female OC plssssss

I wanted to try to make this one as open as possible because I wanted to give more free reign over the imagination of the hero’s occupation as a hero, but hopefully these work for you! Always love writing for this beautiful, beautiful boy :’)

THE BACKGROUND:

- You have a very interesting choice for occupation as a so-called “hero”

- Within the scope of that title, many brave men and women under that profession might not exactly consider you to be on their… level, per say. Several very, very big names have become only a bit or vaguely aware of your new, bustling presence in Bludhaven, apparently making quick time and moving all the way to Star City or popping up in Metropolis in a single night.

- Villains don’t really know what to do with you. They most leave you alone, to be honest, because they have a feeling dealing with you is just a headache. The only villains that really have any beef with you are big time thieves, and Cat Woman is not happy about your new rising popularity but she’s still staying off your radars for now. (You’re working on her)

- Most heroes advise you to stay home, they’re the ones giving you the most trouble. Small run-ins have them instructing you to go ahead and give up this line of work and perhaps join a local law enforcement or help-group, they think it’s much better for you.

- You, however, are determined, and you’re rather set on doing what you feel is truly your happiest calling.

Jason Todd, currently donning the sleek, reinforced metal of Red Hood’s mask, gave the drug dealer one last good kick to the ribs, listening for the satisfying crack of a few that promised he wasn’t getting up or going anywhere anytime soon.

Goons littered the hallways, their blood spilling over across the walls. The acrid smell of cigars snubbed out by their own fluids flooded the deserted motel hallways. Car lights were punched out in the front of the parking lot of the cheap, off-the-highway motel they’d been hiding out at like a pack of rats. It hadn’t been hard for him to find them, to be honest, a much easier job tonight more than anything. Jason was just a bit pissed off so he let off more steam than usual.

Jason tapped one gun against the side of his mask, a light little thump thump as he set his hand on his hip, surveying his work. He’d dump the cash in a fucking river. It was blood money and he had better things to do then get his hands on it. He’d rather just break another ATM. Fuck, I’m still pissed off. I should get Thai tonight.

Normally, Jason had a very nice, selective choice of arsenal on his person. Guns he’d tuned up and had tricked out. Nice, pretty things that never failed him. Classic knives, the works, he liked having options.

Jason let out an aggravated sigh, muffled through his mask. He scowled, kicking another limp body for emphasis and turning, wiping some blood off the corner of his jacket.

His fucking problem was that one of his pretty, nice little guns was missing. Gone. Lost. He was one hundred-fucking-percent sure it was his last job in Bludhaven after tangling up with Dickie Bird and having to scram before he received any kind of dark tongue lashing from Bats or the Demon Spawn pulled some sick shit like pulling Alfred up on speaker again to discuss his misdemeanors. Like the little shit can talk. Jason had come scrounging back, searching through the dockyard left and right for his gun and found nothing. Nada.

He really liked that gun too.

Have to put in an order for a new one. Jason rubbed the top of his mask, hooking his fingers to prepare taking it off. What a pain. Thai it is. I’m starving—

“Hi! Excuse me, but is this your gun?”

Jason stopped.

It took him a second to process what he was seeing. Only a second, because he sensed no blood thirst or killing intent—he still cocked his gun and pointed it at the newcomer without a single hesitation though because what the hell, right?—and he needed that good second because even quick footed, always adaptable, always moving Jason needed that fat second to understand what the fuck was in front of him.

Halfway through what appeared to be some kind of… portal? It was the weirdest fucking portal he’d ever seen and he’d seen some weird fucking portals. A bright yellow, piss yellow, stretching in a warped, warbling kind of flame in the middle of the air, as though cutting straight through dimensions. Jason could get a peek of something behind. A city? He sniffed the air. A dock?

In the middle of the portal, with one, combat booted foot out, was a slender leg covered in black tights. Black tights led to a black fitted top that was clad by a… a construction vest? A neon green construction vest. Over her face—he assumed her because of the body and hair, but who the hell was he to know, right?—was a weird mask of a man, like some kind of religious figure, covering her entire face. Her hair was pulled back into two buns on either side of her head.

In one bare hand, held out to him by this new person in the middle of a piss yellow portal, was his gun.

Jason stared.

“Sorry, I know, this must look strange, right?” you quickly apologized, stepping fully out of the portal. It disappeared and you now stood before him, mask and stupid construction vest and his gun. “Here! This should be yours unless…”

You trailed off, mask looking pointedly at the bodies scattered around them. “Oh, unless it’s one of these guys’s. Sorry about that.”

“What the fuck?” Jason said, rough through his mask. He still had the gun pointed at you.

You beamed behind your own. “I come in peace! Just trying to return this. Found it in the dock by… Fifth? It was glowing, so that meant someone was looking for it—”

“Hold on,” Jason waved his gun at you for emphasis. You nodded at it, waving his gun back. Jason almost laughed. Who the fuck is this clown? “I’ll ask you two questions. Just two. Depending how you answer, I’m going to shoot you, got it?”

“Oh,” you said, sounding a bit sullen. You glanced at your watch. “Will this take long? I have two more deliveries.”

“No,” Jason said. “Depending on how you answer.”

“...okay, shoot,” you said. You paused, quickly holding a hand when Jason raised his gun. “Sorry, I meant figuratively, please. Ask the questions.”

Jason cocked his masked head to the side. “Who the fuck are you. Why the fuck do you have my gun.”

“I feel like those weren’t phrased as questions—”

Jason shot at your feet. You yelped, jumping up. “Jeez! Is this what I get for doing a good deed? Saint Anthony! I’m Saint Anthony!”

“Yeah,” Jason said. “And I’m Jesus fucking Christ.”

Jason prepared to shoot your kneecap out and you squawked, tossing the gun his way. Jason quickly caught it, inspecting it for any damage before narrowing his eyes at you behind his mask. You wiped your hands off your pants like brushing off germs.

“That’s my alias,” you said, tapping your mask, a pious man’s face printed over it. “Saint Anthony! You know, the patron saint of lost things? The guy you pray to when you lose shit?”

“Do I look like I pray?” Jason said, pointing his gun to the drug dealer whose brains he’d blasted out. You made a small noise, as though just noticing.

“Well, you never know. Met some strange folks who pray and still do some very questionable things—let’s not get hasty!” Jason put his gun down. “That’s my codename! Have to be careful with this hero business, you know. I felt like it fits because of my power.”

You pointed to his gun and it began to glow a soft piss yellow. Jason dropped it in disgust, pulling his other gun back up and getting ready to shoot you. “I can see what items are lost! If an item belongs to someone and they’re looking for it, it’ll glow and I can see it like that. Then I pick it up and it teleports me to whoever it belongs to.”

“What the fuck are you saying?” Jason said. “You’re a human lost and found?”

“Yes! But much more effective,” you reached into a sack you had strapped to your back, opening it up for him to see where several more objects were glowing a piss yellow. “I decided I should put my talents to use, so I go around returning lost objects. Everybody loses something once in a while, you know? The other day I found this strange looking little USB and it turned out it belonged to Lex Luthor’s secretary and oh, boy, that was a sticky situation when Mr. Superman came and—”

Jason shot at your feet again. You jumped, clutching the sack protectively to your chest. “What the hell was that for?”

“I just felt like it,” Jason said. He tucked his gun back into his strap and picked up his now found weapon, inspecting it curiously. “Weird fucking power, sweetheart.”

You shrugged in a what-can-you-do manner.

“You said you were a hero?”

“Oh, more of a good samaritan,” you said, waving a hand. “I’ve just been working with the police lately on stolen goods. Sometimes burglars are real clumsy and drop items, you know? Apparently night vision goggles are very expensive so they’re always looking for those.”

You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck. Jason watched you in idle interest, having a bit of fun with this interaction. Been a while since he met anyone so fucking weird. He kind of liked it.

“Anthony, huh?”

“Yes!” you slung your sack back over your shoulder, sticking out a hand to him. “It’s very nice to meet you…?”

Jason tapped his gun against your palm in greeting. He tucked it back into its holster, giving you a long look behind his mask. You stopped, cocking your head at him. “What?”

“No, it’s just…” you rubbed the back of your neck. “Ah, nothing really. If we’re all squared away here, you mind if I take off? I’ve still got this pair of chain cutters and this funny looking stone to deliver.”

“You ever worry you’re delivering it to some weird place?” Jason said. “Or to someone who, I dunno, might kill you?”

“Oh, all the time,” you said cheerfully. “But usually I can take care of myself.” Jason quirked a brow behind his mask. “But thank you for your concern! I’ll be off then, Mr. Red. Thanks for your cooperation!”

You grabbed the funny shaped rock from the bag, a piss yellow portal appearing in front of you. Jason watched wordlessly as you stepped halfway through before turning back to him, raising a small hand in a little wave.

“Live a good life, Mr. Red!” you waved harder. “If you ever lose anything again, I’ll be sure to look out for it!”

Jason offered a lazy wave back, kicking a goon in the head who’d started to rouse.

You curled your fingers into your palm. The portal began to swallow you whole and you watched behind your mask as Jason turned, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

You figured for this particular customer, perhaps it was better not to say he was glowing a very beautiful, very somber shade of yellow.

Looks like whoever lost you is looking very hard for you, Mr. Red.

#jason todd x reader #ko-fi request #jason todd #reader insert #batman reader insert #this was very fun to write

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7-wonders · 5 years ago

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Twilight, Eat Your Heart Out

Summary: Pondering your own mortality is never a good long-term solution, especially when you have to compare it to the immortal vampire you’ve found yourself entangled in a relationship with.

Word Count: 4209

A/N: Vampire Michael is back! I hope you enjoy this; feedback is always appreciated and, if you feel so inclined, I would love if you liked, reblogged, or commented.

Jealousy, in any sense of the word, is not an emotion that you’re very familiar with. Of course, there were occasions throughout school where you felt wrongfully snubbed of an award or a grade, certain that you deserved a higher score. Never before have you been in a relationship where just the mere sight of your lover with another person fills you with self-doubt and envy. You’re better than that; your happiness and sense of fulfillment, you’ve always believed, does not rely on another person. At least, that seemed to be the case before you got yourself entangled with a suave, mysterious Antichrist who just so happens to also be a vampire.

Entering into a relationship (you wouldn’t dare to call him your boyfriend, or even use the word ‘dating’ to describe the odd situation that you’ve found yourself in) with arguably the most dangerous creature in the world was not something you had penciled into your five year plan. Lately, it seems like nothing is going according to the plan that you had meticulously crafted upon graduating college and landing your job at Kineros. You weren’t expecting to have your first bona fide lover, nor did you believe that you would suddenly learn about the warring forces that are essentially playing a game of chess and using humans as the pawns. You also never thought that you would be an accessory to murder.

Multiple murders, at that.

Blood bags don’t satiate Michael, who always complains that blood is so much better when it comes directly from the ‘source.’ In an attempt to quell Michael’s more...sadistic tendencies, you’ve offered to allow him to drink from you whenever he needs to. Shockingly enough, it turns out that even the cruelest of vampires, the one who is arguably the ruler of all others of his species, has a heart when it comes to certain humans. He had explained to you how taking blood from you multiple times a week, no matter how small the amount, would eventually kill you. So here you are, standing in some alleyway acting as the bait for Michael’s next meal.

This routine hasn’t seemed to get any easier since the first time Michael asked you on a hunt with him. Lure in an unsuspecting victim who has less-than-innocent intentions with you, guide them back far enough to where any wayward screams won’t be heard, and let Michael handle the rest. A fairly simple ploy, but one that never failed to have your stomach curdling with some sort of negative emotion. Before tonight, you had never been able to pinpoint what this foreign feeling was.

It’s while you’re watching Michael pin tonight’s prey, a pretty brunette that had been planning on robbing you, against a wall that you start to realize what this might be. The low lighting that the street lamps cast into the alley glints off of his talon ring, which he uses to quickly and precisely slit open the woman’s throat. His hand tangles in her hair, yanking her head back and allowing him to drink deeply from the flowing wound. She moans weakly, pathetically, and you become aware of something else that’s nestled right beside the disgust that forces you to avert your eyes from the gory scene.

You’re jealous. Not only are you jealous, but you’re jealous of the woman that Michael’s currently draining dry. You understand why everything about this situation looks so intimate; Michael’s nature, of course, is seduction. His ethereal beauty and dangerous charm are integral in beguiling his victims, and he’s going to use these weapons to his advantage. Still, the intimacy of this situation has you nearly doubling over in disgust.

Michael, finally satisfied with his meal, carelessly discards the barely-breathing woman on the ground like she’s little more than an empty wrapper. He grins up at you, blood-stained teeth glinting in the light of the moon. Gracefully stepping over the body, he approaches you slowly and fluidly. It’s almost as if he’s a predator stalking his prey, although that isn’t too much of a stretch; you are, after all, human. There’s hardly any mess on his face, always the clean eater.

“You certainly do have a way of picking the most delicious meals for me, pet.” Michael darts his tongue out, licking a few stray drops of blood from his lips before capturing your lips in a kiss. The copper taste of his kisses, while familiar by now, are still something you don’t think you’ll ever get used to. “Shall we be on our way? The night is, after all, still young.”

“Don’t you need to clean up this mess first?” Michael smirks, waving one of his bejeweled hands in the air nonchalantly.

“A simple phone call is all it takes, nothing to worry about.” He slings his arm around you, silver talon coming dangerously close to puncturing your shirt and your shoulder.

As you leave with Michael, you can’t help but cast your glance to the glassy eyes of the corpse that lay sprawled on the ground. Although there’s no sign of life left in her body, you swear you can feel her stare follow you when you round the corner.

This trend continues for the next two weeks, with every feed that you help bring to Michael invoking that same fiery jealousy in the pit of your stomach. These people, you know, are nothing more than food to Michael. But the way that he looks at them right before he strikes, convincing them that they’re safe and to give themselves over to him, makes you realize that you’re not special. That tender look, which you thought was special only to you, is just another play in Michael’s book. Slowly, you start to become aware of the fact that maybe it’s not just jealousy that you feel whenever Michael must partake in a feed.

You’re scared, as well.

Every human that he kills, every possible victim that walks past you when you’re scouting for Michael, reminds you that there is a very thin line separating them from you. You could just as easily be Michael’s next kill, the vampire draining you and leaving your body on the wet pavement with little more than a glance that one might give a dead deer on the side of the road. Michael claims to be fond of you, says that he couldn’t imagine killing you, but you know just how volatile Michael’s kind are. One day he could be your lover, and the next day he could be your killer. It’s a fact that remains in the back of your mind, always making sure you’re alert for any changes in his emotions towards you.

When you meet one of Michael’s oldest friends (both in age and amount of time that they’ve known each other), that fear morphs into dread. The Countess, as she’s known as, owns the Hotel Cortez and uses its’ guests as her food source, which Michael considers to be a genius move. She’s radiant, mysterious, and absolutely gorgeous; you start to wonder if every vampire becomes ethereally beautiful when they’re turned, or if attractiveness is a prerequisite to vampirism. She had appeared suddenly, visiting with Michael in his plush office when you arrived for a “late night of work.” You were stunned by this goddess sitting opposite your lover, the two clutching crystal glasses of blood.

“Elizabeth, allow me to introduce you to (Y/N) (Y/L/N),” Michael said warmly, standing with his visitor on his arm. “(Y/N), this is the Countess, my closest confidante for the past hundred years or so.”

She held her hand out for you to take, a talon ring all-too-similar to Michael’s digging into the skin of your wrist when she pulled you towards her. “What a stunning creature you are, my dear.”

“Oh, well, thank you,” you said in a voice an octave higher than your usual, causing Michael and the Countess to have laughed.

“My, my, Michael, it has been quite some time since you’ve found yourself enamoured with a human in this way. Why, the last had to have been Oscar, back in the late eighteen hundreds?” The Countess smiled wistfully. “It always did amuse me, how he would rather come up with the fanatical idea that you had a portrait stashed away somewhere that grew old in your place instead of believing what he had seen to be true.”

You had been jarred out of your semi-stunned state upon the familiarity of this man’s idea. “Wait, are you telling me that Michael once had a relationship with Oscar Wilde?” The two smiled conspiratorially, choosing to remain coyly silent instead of telling you if your suspicion is true.

“My dear Countess, we have not had the chance to reconnect since the turn of the century. For all you know, I could have had a harem of human lovers in that time,” Michael cooed.

“I know you too well for that to be more than a fantasy. Say, has it really been that long since we’ve last seen one another?” The Countess spoke, leaving you mildly upset that the two were basically talking directly above your head.

“Unfortunately.”

The platinum vampire sighed. “Nothing like the rich blood of those who indulged themselves due to their belief that they would die when the calendar changed to the year two thousand. Of course,” she smiled patronizingly at you, “you were hardly more than a babe then, weren’t you?”

You tightly returned her smile as Michael chuckled at his friend’s joke, the two continuing with their reminiscing. Eventually that night, you had left early, feigning exhaustion from a long week in order to get out of the awkward situation. Awkward for you, at least. For the two immortal beings, you’re sure you were little more than a pest, a persistent fly that finally managed to find an exit through a window.

It’s not as if you’re angry that they made fun of your youth. You can’t place the blame on two creatures who have lived hundreds of years combined for picking on how you’ve only existed for a mere blip on their timelines. Instead, the two inadvertently opened your eyes to what lay underneath all of the jealousy. A lingering sadness wraps itself around you, reminding you it’s there from the moment you wake up, and whispering in your ear to lull you to sleep. You’re sure that Michael’s noticed the change in your mood by now, being so attuned to your thoughts and feelings even without the fledgling link that had been created through him consistently feeding from you.

As a person who relies on logic and research, you love facts. With this situation, however, the facts of the matter are not too appealing to analyze. For starters, you like Michael Langdon, a lot more than you’re supposed to. What had started as a simple ‘enemies with benefits’ situation has evolved into something that you never saw coming: your life is now a bad vampire fanfiction. What kind of human falls in love a relationship with a vampire who feeds from them in exchange for immunity and confidential information? You can only pray to whatever’s out there that this affection you’ve developed isn’t sensed by Michael, lest he decide to prey on you even more than he already does.

Even if you didn’t care for Michael like you do, it’s impossible to deny just how introspective you’ve become since meeting the Countess. Maybe it’s because you had been so swept up in the enigma that is Michael, but after he pierced your neck with his fangs while having you pinned against your desk, you sort of forgot about the fact that Michael’s going to remain the same as he’s always been. More specifically, you forgot that you won’t remain the same. It was easy to imagine him as your equal, with you holding the leverage of your tantalizing blood over his head and using that to your advantage. You became an odd team, helping Michael to successfully hunt and kill people whose deaths wouldn’t arouse too much suspicion.

When the Countess reminded you of that fact, of how you came into the picture in what’s essentially the opposite of dog years (does every vampire year equal 70 human years?), it forced that issue of immortality versus mortality to center stage. No matter how your attempt to change the phrase, the words mean the same thing: you are going to grow older and die, while Michael will be the same as he’s always been and continue to go on without you. It’s not as if this is new information for you, considering one of the first things Michael told you was how he’s been on the Earth for over 400 years. It is, however, something you’ve deliberately avoided thinking about while trying to navigate the schematics of suddenly taking up company with a vampire.

Michael could, of course, give you immortality to allow you to live for eternity with him, but who’s to say that he’ll even still continue to tolerate you beyond next month? Immortality is a gift to Michael and his kind, and it’s not a gift to be given out frivolously. All humans are, all you are, at the end of the day, to Michael, is a meal. Nothing more. He could easily decide that he’s bored of you, his new human toy, and drain you of every drop of your blood until you’re just as lifeless as the corpses you’ve watched him devour lately. Humans are expendable, a renewable resource that Michael is determined to cultivate when he brings about the apocalypse in order to fulfill his father’s wishes.

Even if Michael weren’t to get bored of you, it seems like he just brings in a new human to capture his attention until they, too, die. It’s a constantly revolving door of human lovers, you realize, ones who do nothing but serve as distractions for the vampiric Antichrist until the time comes for his ‘mission.’ What makes you better than Oscar Wilde? The man based one of his greatest works on Michael and penned many an eloquent letter for his blond-haired lover, only for said lover to allow him to be exiled and dead from meningitis. If he didn’t want to take the most well-versed and passionate of his lovers to be his eternal companion, what would make him want to take you? You are, after all, a mere researcher at a robotics company whose greatest accomplishment will likely be nothing more than improving sex robots (at least that’s what you tell yourself).

It’s a train of thought that makes you especially melancholic. Why even bother to continue associating with Michael if he’s just going to toss you out like trash when you’re one day old and withered? It’s never good on one’s psyche to ponder mortality for an extended amount of time, but it’s all you can think about whenever you see Michael. So, like any person who’s not good at confronting their emotions would do, you ignore the source of all of this inner turmoil. While that’s easier said than done, all you really have to do is get work done during the day and lock yourself in your house at night. Easy, right?

You’ve managed to exponentially increase your productivity at work during the daytime, eliminating your need to work into the evening hours in an effort to finish your projects. The hardest part is the evening, when you can hear Michael crooning through your apartment door in that honey-laced voice to just let him in, pulling out every pet name in the book in an attempt to persuade you. You almost gave in a couple of nights ago, hand on the doorknob before you stumbled back and hid under the covers in your bedroom. After that night, though, he finally seemed to get the hint and left you alone. You’re lonely, lonelier than you’ve been since you first met Michael, but it’s for the best.

Tonight, it seems as if your week of avoiding interaction with a certain mysterious blond is finally catching up with you. You get home late, the moon already hanging high in the sky by the time you finish getting drinks with a couple of friends. Unlocking your front door, you can immediately tell that something’s off. The window, which was closed before you left, is now open, the curtains billowing inwards. Your heart beats wildly for a few moments, until you catch Michael’s distinctive scent: expensive cologne and something woodsy, both masking the metallic smell of blood that always follows him.

“I know you’re here, Dracula, you big fucking nerd,” you grumble, shutting the door behind you and tossing your keys on the counter.

“Why do you continue to insist on calling me that horrendous nickname?” You can’t see where he’s at, but you can hear his voice coming from somewhere in the kitchen.

“Sorry, Mephistopholes, it won’t happen again.” You only jump slightly when, in a split second, Michael’s got his arms wrapped around you from behind and his chin resting on your shoulder.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” It’s not a question; he knows it just as well as you do.

“And what if I am?”

“Well, I certainly don’t enjoy it. I also don’t like thinking I’ve upset you in some way.” Michael grabs you by your shoulders, spinning you around and backing you against the kitchen counter so he can look at you. “So? What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing. I’ve just been tired, haven’t really wanted to see anyone lately,” you shrug, staring at the shine on Michael’s shoes. Your eyes widen when his large hand grips your chin, forcing you to look up towards him.

“You know, I don’t tolerate liars, (Y/N). I could very well just read your thoughts to figure out what’s troubling you, but I won’t because you’ve told me how uncomfortable that makes you. So, you can either tell me know, or we can stand here like this until you decide you’re ready to talk like an adult instead of giving me your childish silent treatment,” Michael snaps.

“What if it’s because of your attitude, hm?”

“It’s not,” Michael says with his eyes narrowed, daring you to try and come up with another excuse. “I’m giving you one more chance before my patience runs out, (Y/N).”

“You’re infuriating,” you scoff, pushing him off of you (surprisingly, he lets you) and stalking off towards your bedroom.

“Is it something to do with work? Did one of the victims that you caught for me actually touch you? Did the Countess scare you?” He knows he’s got you when your back stiffens at his last guess, breathing hitching before you walk faster. Unfortunately, due to his speed, Michael’s already sitting perched on your bed by the time you cross into the room. “So the Countess scared you?”

“Shut up about it, please.”

“I’m not going to. I care about you, and I don’t want to see you upset in any way.”

“You care about me?” Michael nods, not sensing the sarcasm in your voice. “Just like you cared about all of your other lovers, who you then cast out and let die when they grew boring to you?”

When you turn around to glare at him, Michael’s already staring at you with those wide blue eyes. Instead of getting angry, or firing back, things you expect him to do, he just reaches out a hand and grabs your own. He remains silent, probably to let you calm down while you continue to throw daggers at him with your eyes, and you allow him to pull you onto his lap.

“Hearing about my previous human lovers frightened you?”

“Not in the sense of, ‘oh, I’m jealous that he’s been with others before me.’ It frightens me how insignificant a role in your eternal life I’ll play,” you confess.

“Why do you believe that?” Michael’s not asking this question to be condescending, you know, but to truly understand the thought process behind your feelings.

“I’m a mere blip on your timeline; I barely take up any space, considering how long you’ve lived and how long you will live. I’m like a fucking baby compared to you, and I truly don’t know anything about the world in the way that you do. Why am I to believe that I’m anything different compared to all of the other human partners you’ve taken? You haven’t turned any of them, and there’s no way that you’ll turn me. Even if you don’t grow tired of me within the next few months, I will grow old and die; it’s inevitable. I’ll die, and you’ll continue on with living.”

“But in the meantime--” you cut Michael off, too fired up to let him speak.

“In the meantime, I’m a meal. That’s all humans are to you and your kind. You can sugarcoat it all you want, say that I’m your ‘lover’ and that you ‘cherish’ me, but at the end of the day, I’m nothing more than a to-go meal for you. Your entire mission is to let Hell rule on Earth, and enslave the best, most tasty humans as your blood bags. Who’s to say that I won’t wake up to you draining me one day? I help you get your meals, but the only thing separating them from me is that I managed to make you laugh long enough to escape death.”

Michael knows that you have some valid points and a right to be upset by them. Tears brim your eyes, but you refuse to allow him to see you cry or show any more vulnerability than you’ve already been forced to. He kisses the back of your hand over and over again, calming you down before he speaks.

“Do you know why I have never turned any of my previous human partners?” You shake your head, shrugging. “It’s because, although I have loved each and every one of them very much, I knew that they were not compatible with eternity. None of them would be able to handle the burden that an immortal life comes with. Sometimes, they also choose to turn down my offer. I have only offered the gift to three people in my lifetime, and all three of them said no.”

“So the Countess…?”

“Is not one of my creations, no. In fact, I have yet to make a creation.”

“Why have they said no, then?”

“There was a man,” Michael says slowly, fondly, “who I was very much enamored with. It was over a hundred years ago, but I can still remember everything about him like it was yesterday. He’s the last mortal I’ve ever offered to turn, and he refused. Said that he didn’t want to live long enough to see what became of his works. He told me that his mortal life was painful enough, and that he rather wouldn’t extend it for an indeterminate amount of time. I was...heartbroken. I vowed that I would never allow myself to get close to a human again, and that I would never offer anyone the gift for as long as I lived.”

“Michael, I’m so sorry.” You reach for his face, gently tracing your fingers along his jawline.

“No need to be sorry, I’ve long since moved on.” He kisses your cheeks, letting his forehead fall against yours. “I didn’t tell you this to get pity from you. I told you this so that you would understand that I don’t treat all humans as my prey. I have a...talent, if you will, a sort of night vision for the soul. I can see exactly who each person truly is, no matter how they try to hide it.”

“So I passed that test, then?”

Michael chuckles, “you did, and so has every human I’ve ever been fond of. I can’t promise you much: eternity, that I’ll be the lover you need me to be, or even regular dates. But I can promise you that, no matter what happens, you will always hold a special place in my heart.”

“Right next to Oscar Wilde?” you prod with a cheeky smile on your face.

“Hypothetically, if I had been in a relationship with Oscar Wilde, then yes.” He’s deliberately careful with how he chooses his words, enjoying stringing you out on this mystery.

“Thank you,” you kiss him softly. “I’m sorry for being annoying lately.”

“You weren’t annoying, not in the slightest.” Michael shifts you on his lap, so you’re now straddling him. “Are you feeling better now?”

“I am.”

“Good, I can’t stand to see you upset.” His fangs are peeking over the top of his full bottom lip, and you grin before lightly touching the point.

“Are you hungry? It’s been a couple of weeks since you’ve fed from me, we should be good.” You start to sweep your hair away from your neck, but Michael stops you.

“I am hungry, but it’s a...different type of hunger,” he alludes, making your face heat up as he rapidly changes positions so you’re lying on your back. “Let me show you just how special you are to me, darling.”

//////////////////////

Tag List: @nana15774 @queencocoakimmie @sammythankyou @girlycakepops @trimbooohgodplsnoooo @lichellaw @sebastianshoe @pastel-cloudz @ultragibbycentralworld @grim-adventures58 @dandycandy75 @dolceandchalamet @everything-is-awesomesauce @langdonslove @ccodyfern @consultingsnowqueen @starwlkers @readsalot73 @jimmlangdon @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @hplotrfan @omg-hellgirl @gallxntdean @storminmytwistedmind @venusxxlangdon @divinelangdon @born-on-stgeorges-day @hecohansen31 @langdonsdemon @kahhlo @americanhorrorstudies @1-800-bitchcraft @antichristwrites @missantichrist @forgetting5sos @sadsadiesworld @michaelsapostle @izuniias @wroteclassicaly @lvngdvns @sarahandthejets @rocketgirl2410 @littlepsychos-world @trelaney

#vampire!michael #michael langdon #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x you #american horror story #american horror story imagine #american horror story apocalypse #american horror story imagines #ahs imagines #AHS #ahs imagine #ahs apocalypse #michael langdon au

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wildmichaelflower · 5 years ago

Text

Diving Into the Dark Ch. 2

It’s finally here, thanks to everyone for being so patient! Let me know what you think, feed my ego, and let me know if you want to be on the tag list!

Calum picked up the cigarette he hadn’t noticed he dropped, quickly taking a hit, hoping it cleared his head as he tried to process what had happened a few moments ago. He had found his soulmate, he had no way to prove that, but there was no other explanation to describe the experience he had when he looked into her eyes. He should be ecstatic, but there were other concerns he had. Like how he had no idea what his soulmate’s name was, and how she was fated to be a werewolf’s mate when she was human. He took another drag, letting that smoke come out on a sharp exhale.

He tensed as a pit of fear formed in his stomach. Surely he was worried, but he felt no reason to be afraid. Then he realized: soulmates could pick up the other’s emotions. He took a deep breath, hoping his soulmate was OK as he focused his hearing, trying to find her voice.

“I’m sorry sir, but my boss asked me-” Her voice sounded small.

“Oh, I know your boss, I’m sure he won’t mind if you take a break,” A man cut her off, and Calum frowned. He recognized that voice. It was Ryan Jackson, a beta whose parents worked in the Los Angeles pack’s security office.

He snubbed out his cigarette before hurrying downstairs. Many were surprised to see Calum join the party, but knew from the look in his eyes that it was best to let him accomplish his task and made way for him. He finally found who was looking for, Ryan had cornered the young lady a few feet from the bar and showed no intention of letting her do her proper job.

The lady that had been on his mind the last ten minutes bit her lip when she saw him, and he felt anxiety mix in with the fear.

“I-I’m sorry sir, I was on my way up with your drink when..” She gave a small glance towards the muscled man towering over her.

“No need to apologize,” He gave her a small smile before turning to Ryan, who tried to keep his cool in front of Calum.

The two men were the same age, but it as an Alpha, Calum was guaranteed respect from the beta, whether the two liked it or not.

“You need to leave this young woman alone Ryan,” Calum spoke calmly, but it was clear that it was an order.

Ryan instinctively stepped back, but challenged, “And if I don’t?”

Calum frowned, “Then we’ll have a problem, won’t we?”

Ryan frowned as well, but left, leaving the two alone, and Calum made sure he was clear across the room before turning to the young woman, biting his lip as her blue eyes met his brown ones.

“Are you OK?” He asked softly, relaxing as he felt her do the same.

“Yes, thank you, and again, I’m sorry, I was just about to head up but he stopped me and-”

“Hey, I understand,” Calum gave her a small smile, “That guy can be a jerk.”

She nodded, “Well thank you again.. Here is your drink,” She handed him his whiskey glass, “And if you need anything, my name is Sonia and you can ask for me at the bar.” She politely smiles as she begins to walk away.

Sonia, Calum couldn’t help but grin as he repeated the name in his head.

“Hey mate..” Ashton approached Calum, “Everything OK?”

He bit his lip and nodded, “Come upstairs with me?”

Ashton nodded and followed his friend, biting his lip as the two sat on a couch, watching as his friend took a deep breath.

“Something happened tonight,” he smiled weakly, “I found my soulmate.”

Ashton widened his eyes and grinned, “Dude, that’s awesome! But why do you look so nervous?”

Before he could answer, both of the young men looked up as the sliding door opened, watching as Mr. Moran came over, biting his lip.

“Evening gentlemen,” He began, “If I may, I would like to talk to Mister Hood about the situation that just happened.”

Calum bit his lip and nodded, “Of course, sir.”

“One of my workers was responsible for bringing you your drink,” He nodded towards to glass in the younger man’s hand, “But there was a delay in bringing it to you?”

Calum frowned and nodded, “Another one of the special guests were trying to distract Sonia from her work. I talked to him though, and he’s not going to bother her anymore.”

The owner nodded then nervously continued, “Did anything else happen? Staff was telling me that when Miss Sonia returned to the bar, she was very red and seemed lightheaded.”

Calum widened his eyes but tried hard to remain calm; as much as he respected Mr. Moran, he couldn’t let any council members know that he had found a soulmate, at least, not before he told his own parents.

“It is a bit hot a bit out here sir, she may need some water?”

Mr. Moran nodded and let his shoulders relax, “Right, I’ll check in on her when I return. I appreciate the concern.” He gave them a gentle smile, “Let Luna and her children watch over you.”

The two men returned the same farewell and watched as the older man returned to the club.

“Calum, don’t tell me that your soulmate is-”

“A human, yes she is,” he sighed, “I looked into her eyes, and I became warm,” he smiled, “but it was like I was freezing before, and hadn’t realized it.”

Ashton sighed and nodded, “I understand, but do you think the elders of our council will? Some are still upset about-”

He cut him off, “I know, but that’s why the younger generation will be better leaders. We’re more open minded, and when we take charge, no one will need to worry who their soulmates are.”

“OK, I get it Mister Soapbox,” Ashton chuckled lightly, “Thank you, and I’m sure there are others who are more grateful than I am.”

Calum nodded and finished his drink, “Fuck, this isn’t going to be easy, is it?”

Ashton shook his head, watching his friend, “No, but Amare and Fortuna must have wanted this to happen, and they will work together for you, and your soulmate. And her name was..?”

“Sonia,” he grins, “And you won’t believe how beautiful her eyes are.”

Ashton smiled and listened to his friend continue, the two looking up as the door opened and their friend Michael stumbled over to them.

“Guys,” he grinned, “You are missing the best full moon party so far this year! I mean, I can understand you Calum, you like being alone on these nights, but Ashton? Dude! You totally missed Ryan getting his ass handed to him by this alpha!” Michael collapsed on the couch next to the pair, snuggling a pillow into his chest.

Calum bit his lip, “That was me, and you’re so damn drunk.”

Michael’s eyes shot open, “Dude!! What happened?!”

The two brunettes shared a look, it’s not that they didn’t trust Michael, they were just concerned on how he would take the news while intoxicated.

Calum sighed, he knew it wouldn’t be fair to hide this from Michael, he was their best friend after all.

“He was interfering with one of the humans who works here, and I stepped in.”

“So? Why not just get Mister Moran? It’s his business,” Michael wondered.

Calum swallowed and looked down, “Well, that human.. They’re my soulmate, I think.”

Michael sat up, staring wide eyed at his alpha friend and Calum quickly continued, “And no, I don’t know how that is possible, as this has never happened before, but how do I bring it up to the elders? Especially when many of them can’t accept alpha-omega relationships? Or even respect humans?”

“But your parents aren’t like that, and they’re elders,” Michael pointed out and Ashton sighed.

“My mom was an elder, or at least supposed to be, and look what happened once she met my dad.”

The boys sat in silence for a moment, thinking back to the story they have heard, one the eldests still enjoyed gossiping about, the one that had left Ashton and his siblings outcasted almost their whole childhoods.

Calum started to laugh dryly, shocking his two friends as they stared at him, “It’s kind of sad isn’t it? I barely know her name, yet if I was asked, I’d abandon everything I knew to be with her, just because Sors put us together, and I’m supposed to trust them.”

The boys sighed sadly for their friend and Ashton rose, “Maybe we should head home, and tomorrow, when you’re sober, you can still see if you have Amare or alcohol to blame.”

Calum nodded and followed his friends inside and down the stairs to the bar to pay their tabs. As Fortuna would have it, Sonia was at the register. She offered the three men a small smile as she pulled up their tabs.

“Heading out gentlemen?”

Ashton nodded and gave her a polite smile as he handed her his card, “Yeah, it’s getting late, and we have work tomorrow.”

Sonia nodded and smiled as she rang him up, then Michael, then bit her lip when it came to Calum.

“Oh, Mister Moran said your drinks were on the house tonight Mister Hood, he wanted me to explain it was because of the delay to get you your drink earlier.”

Calum frowned, “That wasn’t the bar’s fault. Is he paying for it, or someone else..?”

Sonia hoped her worry didn’t show, but Calum picked up on it as he felt it overcome him and he didn’t wait for an answer as he put his card away and pulled out a few twenties, more than enough to cover what his tab would have been, setting the money down on the counter.

“Here, for your trouble,” He smiled as her eyes widened, “I’m sorry about what happened earlier with Ryan, I promise he won’t ever bother you again.”

Sonia bit her lip, “Sir, you’ve been drinking, are you sure you want to tip this much?”She turned to look at Ashton and Michael, expecting his friends to speak up, but they only smiled as Calum insisted she take it.

“Thank you sir, this means so much!” Sonia exclaimed as she stuffed the money into her jeans.

Calum couldn’t help the grin exploding on his face as Sonia’s excitement attached to his soul, “Of course, and before I leave, I was wondering if I could get your number?”

Sonia blushed and smiled softly as she took her pen and wrote it down on a napkin and Calum reached for it, but as she quickly pulled it away, he looked up at her.

“I usually don’t give my number out to men I just met, especially customers, but there’s something about you that makes me trust you.”

She let him take the napkin from and watched as he quickly set it into his phone, watching as his friends went to wait outside.

“Can I text you tomorrow?” He asked as she gathered the glasses at the bar, setting them on a tray.

“Sure,” she agreed, “I should be up around ten, so you can expect an answer around then, but as long as I’m not called in, I should be free all day.”

Calum nodded and smiled, picking up her tray and handing it to the bartender, who took it into the kitchen, watching as Sonia grabbed a spray bottle to wipe down the counter.

“Before I leave, can I ask how you’re getting home?”

Sonia smiled, “Only if you answer why you’re being so concerned.”

Calum swallowed nervously but nodded. He knew that to a human, he was coming off as weird and maybe even creepy, but to a wolf, it was the adrenaline of the instinct to protect your soulmate.

“I drove here, my car’s out back.”

Calum nodded and gave her a smile, “I’ll text you when I head out so you can have my number, can you text me when you get home safe?”

Sonia smiled and nodded, “Sure, Mister Hood,”

Calum smiled, “And if you’d like, you can save my number under Calum, unless you prefer Mister Hood,” he winked.

“I’ll think about it,” she teased, “Now are you this concerned towards Julia or Noah as well?”

Calum bit his lip and tried to think about how to respond, “I don’t want you to think I’m crazy, or creepy-”

Sonia cut him off with light laughter , “It’s L.A., I’m sure I’ve heard it all,”

“Right,” Calum smiled, “I guess, there’s just something about you. I wish I could explain it more.”

Sonia blushed and kept her eyes on the counter, scrubbing on a spot that wasn’t there.

“I’ve heard the rumors about you, that you don’t want to settle down, you used to come just for hookups, but now you prefer to be alone.”

Calum sighed and watched her, waiting for her to say more.

“I just- I see how some of the other VIPs Mister Moran invites treat my coworkers, and I don’t want to be a toy for you. I know I said I trust you, and I do, but you have reputation here.”

Calum nodded, “I understand, and I don’t know how to show you that I can be different.”

“Let’s just take things slow, not rush anything,” Sonia smiled and Calum’s heart rate began to race at the sight of it as he nodded and smiled in agreement.

“Slow, that’s new for me,” Calum admitted and Sonia giggled.

“Don’t worry, I’m a good teacher.” She came around the counter and headed to clean the dancefloor.

Calum chuckled then stuffed his hands into his jacket, “I’ll let you get back to work, but I look forward to talking to you tomorrow.”

Sonia nodded and smiled over her shoulder before going back to picking up the abandoned glasses.

Calum couldn’t help his grin as he headed out to regroup with his friends, who were sitting inside Ashton’s red Mustang convertible.

“Ready?” Ashton smiled as Calum got in beside him, pulling out of the parking lot as he buckled himself in.

“So you got her number, that’s awesome!” Michael grinned, “Now to get to the step where you reveal you’re a werewolf and you two are soulmates, but no one knows why as it never happened before in anyone’s history.”

“Wow, you make it sound so simple,” Calum rolled his eyes, “We agreed to take things, whatever they may be, slow.”

The boys nodded and the car became silent, and Calum took the moment to text Sonia, then stared out the car window, the only noise left in the car being Michael’s soft snoring.

Back at the bar, Sonia finished her cleaning duties and was about to check out, when Mister Moran called her into his office.

“Yes sir?” she bit her lip nervously, she knew her service had been worse than average that night, but she didn’t understand why this couldn’t wait until morning.

“Sonia, thanks for coming in, I’ll try to make this quick so you can get home,” her boss smiled, but there was an emotion there that Sonia couldn’t understand. It reminded her of the sad smile her mother bore right before she would ask questions she didn’t want the answer to.

“You’re not in trouble, I just wanted to ask about your service to Mister Hood today. Do you remember him?”

Sonia nodded and swallowed dryly, “If this is about the tip sir, I tried hard to resist, and his friends made no effort to stop him. I can give-”

“You can keep whatever tip you earn,” he interrupted, “I’m more concerned about what happened when you first went up to the VIP lounge.”

Sonia nodded, she knew something weird happened up there and it had been on her mind all night.

“Well I had brought Mister Hood his drink, as I was instructed,” she began, “He was smoking his cigarette, I apologized for being late and explained why the usual wait staff wasn’t serving him. Everything was going fine, but suddenly I, I don’t know, I guess I got a little dizzy. Once I got my way again, I asked Mister Hood if he needed anything else, but he didn’t respond, so I promised to be back soon with his drink.”

Mister Moran nodded and sighed as he poured himself a drink, keeping his back to Sonia as he watched the city slowly put itself to sleep.

“And Mister Hood, how did he seem?”

“Well.. I guess he looked like I felt, like he had disappeared for a moment, and was slowly coming back.”Sonia bit her lip nervously. How could all this be important? “Maybe it was the heat sir, it can do things to people.”

Her boss nodded as he took a small sip, “Possibly.” He sat his glass down but continued to watch out his window, “Thank you Miss Sonia, that is all. Don’t worry about locking up, I’ll make sure to do that before I leave. Get home safe OK?”

Sonia nodded and bid her boss goodnight, grabbing her purse from the rack as she headed to her car.

Mister Moran listened as the remaining staff filed out of the club and made sure the last car left the parking lot before sitting back down at his desk. He sighed before picking up the phone and dialed a number. It rang once before a young voice greeted him.

“Yes, hello. Can you please put either of the Alpha Hoods on the line please? I believe it may be urgent.”

Tag list: @calumisanactualangel @bigtimesos @calumculture @kchillout @prrettythoughts @irwinkitten @seedlesss-vascularr @abiglesbianmess @scribblesos @inside-the-time-stone @megz1985 @sparkled5sosheart @calntynesvalentyne @rosecoloredash @dukesdad-calum @callum-ashton-luke-michael @empathycth @cashtoncalum @calumhoodclub @wantirwinback @miinae22

#Calum Hood #CH #Calum Hood fic #Calum Hood fanfic #CH fic #CH fanfic #5 Seconds of summer #5SOS #5 Seconds of Summer fanfic #5 Seconds of Summer fic #5SOS fanfic #5SOS fic #5SOS au #5 Seconds of Summer au #calum hood au #wolf!sos

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jess-the-vampire · 6 years ago

Note

So! Been seeing you post a lot, so I figured I'd offer a lengthy neutral take (I don't ship, as a rule). From my perspective, the core problem with Tom and Star’s relationship is that, to put it extremely bluntly, Star likes Marco more. That's not to say she doesn't like, or even love, Tom! But it means that so long as they’re together, there will be a part of her that’s unhappy things worked out this way. (1/6)

As to why Star prefers Marco to Tom, I think it’s pretty straightforward: Tom is one of many, MANY people who put pressure on her, and Marco is one of the very, very few that doesn’t. I think the most recent episodes demonstrate this pretty well—Take Tom’s plan for a trip. (2/6)

It was well meaning! It was sweet! But for Star, whose life has been an increasingly stressful and dramatic trainwreck ever since Ludo stole the spellbook, it’s another lump of pressure that Tom has inadvertently dumped on her—especially since he leaves the planning to her (Another well-meaning gesture), at a time when she’s incredibly burned out from making decisions and plans for everyone else (Up to and including a royal coronation with thousands of guests). (3/6)

Contrast this to Marco—the second Star arrives at the door, she’s welcomed with open arms, and is allowed to spend the entire next episode as a limp lump of flesh. And that’s really how Star and Marco have functioned throughout most of the series—On Mewni, Star is beset by responsibilities and expectations from her parents, Eclipsa, the people, the monsters, the Magical High Commission, etc. (And as well-meaning as Tom is, he’s a part of that largely due to his own insecurities). (4/6)

But with Marco, Star has someone who doesn’t judge her, doesn’t ask anything of her, and will always have her back in a fight, without exception (And the one time he is a burden, by returning unannounced in Lint Catcher, he recognizes what he’s done, apologizes, and offers to go back to Earth before Star decides to make him her squire). He’s a rock in the storm, as opposed to Tom who occasionally is the storm. And for someone in Star’s position, it’s easy to see why that’s so desirable. (5/6)

I genuinely like Tom, and I think he’s made an incredible number of strides since his first appearance. And I think that no matter how the series ends up, he and Star will remain friends. But there’s a reason why their relationship is troubled, and it’s not all on Star. But, that’s just my take. (6/6)

Well, i have to disagree with about everything you said i’m afraid.

Tom putting pressure on her is the complete OPPOSITE of who his character has become as of recently, because putting pressure on her, and making her do things was something he abandoned all the way back in s2.

That was what Mr Candle Cares was about, Tom respecting Star’s choices and for him to stop trying to make them for her.

Marco had this conversation with him directly, to let Star make her own choices, and he needs to consider what SHE wants, and from that point on tom ends up always letting star make her choices.

In Club Snubbed, he literally outright is not trying to pressure her at all, his intent was to never come off as though he was coming onto star, and he wanted her to make all approaches towards him.

Tom even mentions in THIS episode, he does not want to ever pressure star into doing anything she doesn’t want to do.

Something people seem to completely forget about their dynamic is tom lets star do what she wants, at the end of the day, star is the character who ends up winning their side of the argument.

Whether it’s Monster Bash, Is Another Mystery, even technically Blood Moon Ball counts. Because Tom’s efforts for that ball were all to please Star and do what would make Star happy.

While in those situations Tom was being selfish to a degree, at the end of the day, Star ended not being pressured into anything, she got her way and Tom usually had to apologize for it.

Tom never really gets to do things, he wants to do, because Star and her stuff always ends up coming first for him, whether he wants it to or not.

Like, is tom letting star pick what she wants out of a fun trip something really to shun him for? Tom didn’t sit there and force star to pick anything, he gave her a book and suggested she find some places she wanted to go because she wanted to go on the trip with him.

That’s not pressuring her, pressuring her would well...be him almost demanding her to do so, but he doesn’t. He’s upset she didn’t choose anything but he doesn’t make her do it, he suggest to help her out and be supportive since she said she was having a hard time.

Like, why is tom now a bad boyfriend, for letting star have a say in a trip they agreed to go on together?

Tom’s not really doing anything wrong here, the entire conflict is due to star’s own internal issues and an identity crisis. Not to Tom wanting her to help plan their trip.

Star doesn’t pick anything because she doesn’t know what to do with her life and she doesn’t even know what to do now that she’s free. Something she mentioned herself.

I mean, this is the only example you give me of tom pressuring her, and it’s just him letting her pick places for them to go? That’s....not a problem, Tom’s doing what he tends to do, let Star have a say in everything.

And blaming Tom for being part of a society that’s not his own fault? Tom was born into royalty, you shouldn’t say Tom’s now suddenly a really bad boyfriend, because of something that can’t be helped about his character.

Heck, marco is a PRINCESS, and you left that out of this conversation, marco has his own ties to mewni and ignoring those as being issues because the person associated with them isn't tom isn't cool. Marco is also a part of that, and that can’t be ignored.

Tom and Star have their own chill moments, they were friends before they even dated, you’ll find them hanging out in star’s room, playing board games with tom’s family, surfing, ect.

Tom admires Star, he wishes he could be, someone like Star. Star is the person who inspired him to be a better person, to care about conflicts he was never involved in, to grow and change and become a better boyfriend to her then the first time around. And when duty calls, he’s here to help her out with whatever she needs of him, no questions asked. When Star went to face meteora alone, Tom went after her, because he wanted to help, because he has her back and won’t let her go through this all alone.

When Tom screws up, he apologies, he doesn’t fight it, he accepts when he messed up and he doesn’t try and worm his way out of it. Tom matches Star’s chaos half the time, them both being wild ones, but tom also manages to be more mature then Star.

They both can be reckless, but Tom helps give her hope when she thinks she’s lost it all, he is always there to be supportive, and when she screws up he doesn’t flip out on her, he acts reasonably.

Tom didn’t need a blood moon in the sky to repair his relationship with Star, he worked his but off and earned her trust and friendship again, and Star returned his feelings.

Tom puts so much effort into his relationships, Marco is terrible at romantic relationships, time and time again he is shown he just can’t handle them the same way he handles his friendships.While Tom works to do better, Marco just...doesn’t try, he seems more comfortable without dating the person because he seems to have a serious issue with commitment.

While Marco and Star have remained the same these days, Tom and Star boost each other up to do better, even when things are rough they grow and they learn to do better together.

Marco and Star stay where they’ve always been, but tom and star always keep growing and so does their characters because of their relationship specifically.

Tom is not lesser, and it is not ok nor fair to treat him as a lesser being then Marco in star’s life.

Marco is her best friend.

But that makes Tom no less important to her growth and who she is.

You can say Star is somehow unhappy to be with Tom, but if that was the case she would’ve left him long ago.

Even under blood moon influence, she and tom still stuck together, a magical moon curse couldn’t even break them apart.

That should mean something.

Saying Tom is lesser to Star makes Star seem cruel and it overlooks the entirety of their set up relationship.

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andystanberg · 6 years ago

Text

Red Hair and Hand Me Downs: Chapter 4

Family Don’t End in Blood

Chapter 3 | Read on AO3 | Read on Wattpad | Chapter 5

Chapter Summary

Harry gets acquainted with the other Slytherins. He also receives a lesson in blood.

Harry was too relieved that he didn't end up as a hatstall and was with Draco and Pansy to notice the way only Slytherins cheered and clapped for him on his short walk over. It was only when he had sat down in between Draco and Pansy and had looked around did he realise that for all the other first-years, they had gotten a few polite claps from the other tables, despite being in different houses.

Instead, every other house, especially the Gryffindors and even most teachers, were staring at him in shock. Harry ducked his head to stare at the empty table in front of him when the whispers started up again.

“Harry Potter? A Slytherin? No way.”

“Potter’s a Slytherin! What does this mean?”

There were many others, all variations of the two. Harry couldn’t understand why this was.

“Harry,” someone whispered. He looked up at Draco’s still-composed face. “Ignore them. They’re just jealous. The other Slytherins are all proud, see?”

Harry couldn’t resist the temptation and sat up. What Draco had said about the Slytherins was mostly true, aside from one or two of the older students who were scowling at the redhead. Harry averted his gaze back towards the Sorting. Draco and Pansy slung an arm around his shoulders and out of the corner of his eye, he could see them glaring daggers at any student who dared to even look his way. He relaxed minutely, grateful for them.

“Weasley, Ronald.”

Harry watched intently as Ron walked up the stool. Like Draco, the hat had barely touched the boy’s head before declaring him a Gryffindor. Harry clapped enthusiastically, noting that Fred, George and Percy were doing the same. Ron seemed to sense his gaze, as a moment later, he looked over and waved cheerily.

Harry had been a little worried that Ron would snub him like the rest of the school had done, but in the end, he needn’t have. He waved back.

The last first-year to be sorted, Blaise Zabini, looked at him weirdly. The other Slytherins, aside from Pansy, Draco, Crabbe and Goyle (the last two too busy complaining about the lack of food), shared the same expression.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Potter, please tell me I didn’t see you just wave to a Gryffindor.” The scorn was evident in Blaise’s voice.

Harry suppressed a sigh. Maybe hating my friends is another one of those wizarding customs I’m unaware of, Harry thought sarcastically.

Draco, who appeared to be resigning himself to the exact same thought, cut in. “Look, Blaise. Gryffindors are okay. Harry, Pansy and I know three of them and they’ve all been… reasonably nice.” Seeing Blaise’s disapproving look, he added, “Well, one of them was a blubbering mess and the other was rude and bossy, but –“ he saw Zabini smiling smugly and scowled. “It’s not like you can talk, though.”

Blaise still didn’t look convinced.

“Zabini, stop being a close-minded prat. That Gryffindor is a friend of Harry Potter’s. Don’t you think that ought to mean something?” Pansy rolled her eyes. What she said must have had more effect on him, as a second later, he apologised.

“Sorry, Potter,” he muttered.

“No problem.” Harry waved him off. “It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.”

Draco and Pansy gave him guilty looks.

Everyone’s attentions were brought back to the front of the Hall as the eldest wizard of the teaching staff stood up. Harry recognised him as Albus Dumbledore from the Chocolate Frog card he had read on the train. He started trying to recall what the card had said – something about a dark wizard, dragon’s blood and a guy called Nick… No, that can’t be it. Nicolas, perhaps? Yes. Now what was his last name?

Harry was broken out of his thoughts at the sound of gasps filling the Hall. Apparently he was so distracted that he didn’t hear Dumbledore’s speech. He looked down and saw that the previously empty golden plates were now filled with every kind of food imaginable. His mouth watered. He saw the rest of the Slytherins serving themselves and quickly followed suit.

Harry had never seen so much food in his life. He piled his plate with some of everything – excluding a type of unappealing boiled sweet.

–

Harry had finished a quarter of what was on his plate – which, despite not sounding like much, was quite a feat, considering how he wasn’t used to eating that much and the sheer amount of food he had hoarded – when a ghost captured his attention. Or, to put it more accurately, drifted through him.

The cold-shower-on-the-inside feeling gave Harry a nasty shock, but, believe it or not, that wasn’t what had made him lose his appetite. I hope ghosts don’t make going through me a habit, Harry thought, as the ghost finally noticed what it had done. It floated above the table in front of him instead. The redhead blanched as he took in the ghost’s bloodied robes, gaunt face, sunken eyes and pale complexion.

Draco didn’t look too happy with the ghost’s general appearance either.

“First-years,” the ghost greeted with a curt nod. “I am your house ghost. You may call me the Bloody Baron – only the Bloody Baron.” A few of the Slytherins around him, including Harry, gulped. “I expect you all to win us the House Championship for the seventh year in a row. I hope you will not disappoint me.”

This was all said very threateningly.

The Bloody Baron was called away by some older Slytherin. Harry sighed in relief, before pushing his almost completely full plate away. He glanced at Draco and saw the boy looking worried for a brief second, but then Harry blinked and the boy was already chatting to Blaise about something. Harry shrugged it off.

After a while, it became apparent that most of the first-year Slytherins knew each other from before Hogwarts, aside from two girls. One was very tall, towering over most of the Slytherin boys, with wild black hair. Harry thought he would not like to cross her at all. She introduced herself as Millicent Bulstrode.

The other was quite the opposite. She was on the small side of average for an eleven-year-old girl’s height, with tan skin and straight brown hair. This girl pushed up her glasses that, unlike Harry’s, suited her quite well, and announced, “Tracey Davis.”

Having finished long before everyone else, it gave Harry time to survey the staff table. Among them was Hagrid, who was drinking deeply from his goblet, Professor McGonagall, who was having a chat with Professor Dumbledore and a bunch of other teachers. The one that Harry was most interested in, however, was talking to Professor Quirrell.

The unknown teacher had raven-black hair, a hooked nose and unhealthily pale skin. He must have sensed Harry’s gaze, because suddenly he was looking straight at him. At the same time, an iron-hot pain flashed across the scar on Harry’s forehead.

“Ow!” he cried, pressing a hand to his scar, but the pain was already gone. In its place, an uncomfortable feeling settled in.

“What happened?” Draco asked immediately. His worry only worsened when he saw how Harry was rubbing his scar.

“Nothing.” Draco kept looking at him. Desperate to change the subject, Harry then asked, “Draco, who’s that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?”

Draco turned around. Upon seeing who Harry meant, his face lit up. “Oh, that’s Professor Snape. He’s the head of Slytherin and our Potions teacher.”

Harry recalled Draco telling him that on the boats earlier. Dread filled his stomach. “Right,” he mumbled. Malfoy didn’t pursue it further.

“So, what did you all do on your holidays?” Daphne Greengrass asked out of nowhere. “My family went to Paris! Such a shame, really. My sister and I wanted to go someplace else for a change.” She pouted. Daphne was blonde, tall, fair and pretty – kind of like the female version of Draco, Harry mused.

“My mother decided we needed mother-daughter bonding time,” Pansy mocked, “so instead of going overseas like we usually do, we were stuck in our manor doing nothing aside from sitting and talking while my father was ‘away on business’ at the Ministry. I did find out some good gossip, however. Blaise, why don’t you tell us what your mother has been up to?” Heads swivelled to the Zabini boy, who was scowling.

“Bugger off, Parkinson. But if you must know, my dear mother has a new suitor in her sights,” he said casually.

“What happened to the old one?” Theodore Nott taunted, not seeming to expect a real answer. He didn’t get one. “I spent my holiday travelling across Europe. We got to meet the local wizards, though, more interestingly, I learnt about Ancient Rome. Did you know powerful wizards used to make muggles fight each other as a sport? I believe the muggles were called gladiators – something like that.”

“Don’t muggles do that now without wizards controlling them?” Blaise pointed out. “Anyway, what about you, Potter?”

Everyone turned to face him. Harry didn’t know what to say. ‘Oh, my relatives kept me locked in a cupboard while you were all off with your families and half-starved me after I accidentally set a snake on my cousin at the zoo. Also, I only found out I was a wizard after Hagrid knocked down the door to a hut on a rock surrounded by sea. It’s a funny story on how I got there, why don’t I tell you? Yeah, because that will go down well,’ he thought bitterly.

Instead, he said, “What about Millicent and Tracey? We haven’t heard from them yet.”

Tracey spoke first. “My father, the wizard in my family, taught me some spells. I mostly spent the summer practising wand movements. My muggle mother tried to teach me how to cook, but it didn’t go very well.” She grimaced.

Millicent was next. “My mother gave me fashion magazines. I used incendio on Witch Weekly until she got the hint.”

Harry wondered if he should point out that magic wasn’t allowed outside of school for underage wizards, but after seeing the others’ approving nods, he wasn’t sure.

“Now you, Potter. Surely the saviour of the wizarding world would’ve done something interesting over the holidays,” she demanded.

Harry gulped. There was no way he could pass it on to Crabbe or Goyle, as they were too busy stuffing their mouths with as much food as possible. Before he could think up a lie, however, Dumbledore stood up again.

“Ahem – just a few more words now we are all fed and watered,” the wizard called out. “I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. First-years should note the forest in the grounds is strictly forbidden to all pupils.” He droned on, telling them about the no-magic rule in corridors, Quidditch trials, and, most interestingly, about the third-floor corridor ban.

Harry must have spent too long wondering if he was serious about the whole “painful death” thing, as soon they were being called to the front of a tall Slytherin student. She had the same shiny badge with a ‘P’ on it that Percy had.

“First-years, over here please! My name is Gemma Farley and I’ll be leading you to your dormitories. Please remember that no one from other houses are allowed into our common room, so keep the password to yourselves. Follow me!”

As she led them away from the feast and down a staircase or two, the first-years all happily chatted amongst themselves.

“That was the most food I’ve ever seen – let alone had!” Harry laughed. Draco shot him a surprised look. It looked like he was about to say something when someone commented on the temperature drop. Harry shivered when he realised that it was pretty cold in what must have been the Hogwarts’ dungeons.

“You’ll get used to it!” Gemma called over her shoulder. They kept walking until they were in front of a blank stone wall.

Harry thought there must have been a mistake, or that maybe you had to tap the bricks in a pattern like Hagrid had done to get into Diagon Alley until Gemma said clearly, “Meracus.” This must have been the password they were expected to remember as a second later, the wall slid across to reveal a passageway. At the end was a well-lit room, with mostly green furnishings. All around were large windows that showed the murky water outside, giving the room a green tinge. Harry figured they were surrounded by the lake.

“The password changes every fortnight, so you need to keep checking the notices,” Gemma explained. “You see that stairway to your left that leads downwards? Those are the boy dormitories. The one on the right are the girls. A fair warning: boys cannot enter girl dormitories. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to come to me or any of the other Slytherin Prefects. Our Head of House is Professor Snape, who you can also come to. I think that’s all – I forget things easily – so off you go!”

With that, the first-years took it as their cue to race to the separate dormitories. The boys shoved their way into their new room and laughed as they sprinted to claim the best bed. Harry followed behind them at a more subdued pace, but he was just as excited as the rest of them.

The boys’ dormitories were luxurious. The first things Harry noticed as he entered were the six queen-sized, four-poster beds with thick green curtains hanging off them and the wall at the back of the room. As the boys around him fought over beds, Harry took in the glass wall that separated the dorm from what must have been the lake they travelled over an hour or so ago. As he watched, he saw lake creatures of all sizes dart around, too fast to identify. He swore he saw a human for a second, but then it was gone and all he could see was a large tail disappearing around the corner.

“Harry, hurry up and get over here!” Draco called, snapping Harry out of his thoughts.

The blond had saved him the bed next to him. It was one of the closest to the only fireplace in the room and it was near the breath-taking window. Harry smiled gratefully as he rushed over to flop onto it before Blaise – who had been eyeing it off – or anyone else could take it.

He shot an apologetic look at Zabini. The boy just grumbled under his breath and stalked over to one of the other beds. Blaise was the last one to drag his trunk out of the pile of their belongings that had been brought up and to his new bed.

There were three beds on each side of the room: three against the glass wall and three on the side they had entered through. Draco and Theo, on each side respectively, were the closest to the fireplace. Next to Draco was Harry, then Blaise, and next to Theo was Crabbe, then Goyle. The two latter were already asleep and snoring rather loudly. Harry almost pitied Nott, but then he got too swept up in the conversation happening around him to care.

“Which subject are you looking forward to the most?” Draco asked the dorm. “Personally, I reckon Potions will be the best!”

Theodore laughed. “You’ve only told us that about a thousand times! Charms will be the most useful, though I suppose they won’t start teaching us the interesting stuff until next year at least.”

“Defence Against the Dark Arts sounds fun,” Harry put in.

“Finally, someone who knows what he’s talking about!” Blaise agreed. “I can’t wait to learn about hexes and jinxes!”

The boys chatted merrily. Soon the topic steered back to families and Harry found he couldn’t say anything of use. Instead, he just listened.

“I feel sorry for Millicent and Tracey,” Draco said absentmindedly. “They don’t know anyone!”

“Why is that?” Harry asked. His assumption from earlier was right.

Theo and Blaise cleared their throats awkwardly. “Potter, you need to know something about the wizarding world,” Nott began.

“Shut up!” Draco glared at the boy, who held his hands up in mock-surrender.

“Look, Malfoy, someone’s got to tell him, and it’s obvious you’re not,” he reasoned.

“Fine,” Draco huffed. He sat back on his bed and folded his arms, turning his glare to the floor.

“As I was saying, there’s something you need to know about the wizarding world and how it works. Specifically, families. All wizarding families, like the Malfoys, Parkinsons, Notts, Crabbes, Goyles – essentially every Slytherin in our year aside from you, Davis and Bulstrode – are what we call ‘purebloods’. The Potters used to be a pureblood family, until your dad married your mum, who was a muggleborn. Muggleborns are magical children born in muggle families, by the way,” he added, seeing Harry’s scrunched up face.

“Anyway, since your dad didn’t marry another pureblood, that makes you a halfblood. Purebloods who have children with halfbloods, muggleborns or muggles mean that their children are halfbloods. Halfbloods who have children with other halfbloods, muggleborns or muggles make their children halfblood. Basically, if it’s not a person with two pureblood parents, or if they’re not a muggleborn, they’re halfblood,” Theodore explained.

Harry turned this information around in his mind. It was quite a lot to take in.

“And what exactly are blood traitors? Draco said something about –“

“He did, did he?” Theo shot Draco a glare.

“I didn’t mean – look, I was being stupid,” the boy in question rushed to explain. “When Harry and I first met, I mistook him for a Weasley and said some unpleasant things, and-“

“Draco, Theo, don’t worry about it. Draco might have been a right prat at first, but he apologised,” Harry cut in. Draco reached over the divide between their two beds to shove Harry playfully.

“To answer your question, Potter, ‘blood traitor’ is a term used by some pureblood families to describe other pureblood families that associate with muggles, or don’t follow the traditional pureblood ways,” Blaise explained quietly.

From the way everyone was looking at the floor, Harry wondered if that meant their families believed in that kind of thing. It seemed rather stupid to Harry – family wasn’t something you could change, so why care about it?

It was a while until conversation picked up again. Theo, Blaise and Draco avoided the subject of families. Harry was all too happy to do the same.

Soon, the boys fell asleep one by one, until it was only Harry who was left awake, mulling over everything that had happened in his mind.

In one day he had panicked over being left at a train station in London, met the Weasleys, ran at a wall with his trolley, found himself on Platform 9 and Three-Quarters, got onto the Hogwarts Express, became friends with Ron, met Hermione, Neville, Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle, sailed across a lake, entered a castle, conversed with a mind-reading hat, been sorted into Slytherin, been drifted through twice, met the rest of the Slytherins in his year, went into an actual dungeon, came across yet another sliding wall, learnt more about the wizarding world and now here he was, with his bed against a solid glass wall that they had to trust wouldn’t break and flood them with water from the lake outside.

It was a lot to wrap his head around, to say the least. Harry rolled over and stared at the long-diminished fireplace. Three months ago, if you had told Harry Potter that his life was extraordinary, he would have laughed himself into hysterics.

Harry rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, willing for sleep to come. When it finally did, it was to the thought of the promised magical lessons he’d have the next day.

#harry potter #drarry fic #drarry #draco malfoy #harry potter fic #harry potter au #rhahmd #my works

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winterverses · 7 years ago

Text

Grass of Parnassus

I’ve been to this place. If you’ve been on a drive through the Rockies with me, I might have pointed it out. The little flowers, by the way, are beautiful. I’ve always been fascinated by them.

This is very... take it as you like it, I think. Some days I think it’s sweet, and other days not so much. Ambiguity is attractive. Who would know this better than Kiryuu Touga from Shoujo Kakumei Utena? And who better to comment on how frustrating it is than Saionji Kyouichi?

(ps: hello tousai crew)

Up here, the air was thinner, and the mountains rolled by our car relentlessly. I’d never seen anything like them. Japan has mountains, it’s true, but these Rockies were, if not as resonant to me as Fuji-san, at least impressive. I could barely tear my eyes from the leaping crags and the still, blue-green lakes. Touga had rented a convertible, and while I tried to disguise my gawking, eventually he’d slowed to well below the speed limit, tacitly allowing me to feast my eyes.

“Are we close?” I asked, feigning irritation, still unable to quite look away from the spectacular views. “You drive so slow, it’s going to take hours to get there.”

I could hear his soft laugh over the rumble of the engine. “We’re close. We may not be in time for lunch.”

In Tokyo, it was nearing three in the morning. “I can only imagine the texts I’ve gotten,” I grumbled, willing myself not to fumble for my useless phone. “You could have given me a little more notice. My girlfriend was furious.”

“You can check your email on my phone if you like. If she has the brains to realize you can’t use your phone, your inbox will be full by now.” Without even looking my way, he threw the phone into my lap, and the wind whistled louder around us as he sped up. I guess he thought I wasn’t looking at the scenery anymore. Well, I was distracted.

As soon as I keyed in his pin, I saw the thirty or so texts from his recent ex. I started to read them out loud without even realizing it, incredulous. “‘What did I do wrong? Call me.’ ‘I love you, Touga. Please forgive me.’ ‘I’ll do anything...’ “You’re a horrible boyfriend. Why would you dump her the day before your trip? Great way to celebrate your anniversary.”

His mouth a twist of amusement, he spared me a level glance and then turned back to the road. “One month isn’t an anniversary. She was getting boring anyway. I doubt your messages are any better.”

“Ugh. They’re not.” I’d logged into my personal email only to find a whole page of diatribes. “I’m not even reading this. She’s ready to kill me.” I turned the sleek, pretty thing off and dropped it in his lap. He always had the best of everything, but it didn’t sting as much as it had in high school. The last time I’d gone with him on any of these trips was probably years ago, though he’d sometimes mention them, throwing out little hints or suggestions. I’d only come this time because he couldn’t return the ticket.

Abruptly I felt the car slow, and I glanced around. Mountains fringed with glacial ribbons, soft heathery brush. The air was so clear that I felt like I could see every detail of the cliffs around us.

“There,” Touga said and slowed further, then pulled into a turn. There was a small turnout, a row of restrooms, and a gravel road leading into a hollow nestled between two mountains. We pulled slowly up the drive to a large log building with a red roof.

“How... rustic.” I looked over at him in surprise. “I thought it would be more expensive. And tasteless.” The lodge overlooked a serene lake so blue it looked tropical at the same time as it looked icy. Several expensive cars were parked on the gravel. We pulled up beside one and stopped. “This doesn’t look at all fashionable,” I said, and I couldn’t help the note of approval in my voice.

Touga leaned back in his seat and shot me an exasperated look. “Kyouichi, since when would I bring you somewhere fashionable and expensive and tasteless? Trust me. You’ll like this place. I may even be able to scare up a fishing rod and a boat for you.”

I climbed out of the car and grabbed my overnight bag. “Since when do you stay in places like this?” I asked, but I was barely listening for his answer. Tall pines cradled the lodge, and there were antlers on the outside walls. It looked old and a little shabby. The kind of place that has fireplaces going even in summer, and where the water doesn’t always work right. In short, it looked perfect for me. I started up toward the lodge, not waiting for Touga. I wanted to see the inside.

I wasn’t disappointed. A wash of wood and smoke and fur engulfed me as I stepped inside, and I breathed deeply. There were chairs made of actual antlers here, and taxidermied animal heads dotted the blonde wood walls. No one was behind the counter. It was as if this place didn’t care whether or not it had visitors. I could see a little gift shop full of unidentified wooden and fur trinkets through the right hand doorway, and I heard snatches of conversation coming from the other. Before I could investigate, Touga came up behind me and tapped the bell on the desk.

An awkward, thin girl materialized out of the door behind the desk; I’d taken it for a closet. She paused when she saw me and Touga and then spoke in English. “Hi! Do you have reservations?” She was rather plain, with a nose too snubbed to be pretty and a bit of an overbite, but she seemed very friendly.

There was a short pause as Touga mentally switched gears into English. We’re both fluent speakers, but the language came more naturally to me. Of course, because he couldn’t stand not to be perfect, he’d asked for my help learning, and I’d drilled him until he was almost as good as I was, but still there was always a little hesitation when he had to switch from one language to another. “We do. A reservation for Touga Kiryuu, for three nights.”

Her smile brightened when he spoke. They always light up when he’s around. In her case-- Angela, her name tag said-- it made her gorgeous. “We do have your reservation here, Mr. Kiryuu. I’m afraid we’ll have to ask your friend to sign in also.” The smile dimmed back into professional welcome as she turned it on me, and once I would have taken it personally, but time and real life had taught me better. She’d met him before, and liked him, but I was a stranger. “Here’s the book, and we’ll need some identification.”

I grinned crookedly and pulled my passport from its spot in my jeans pocket. “Kyouichi Saionji. Nice to meet you.” Pushing it over to her, I then signed the ledger in perfect kanji.

“Nice to meet you too, Kyouichi. I’m Angela.” Her smile flared back to that dazzling brightness, and I felt myself get a little bit fluttery in the stomach. I backed off to let Touga deal with the details.

Passports safely in hand, we climbed the stairs to our room on the top floor. Touga had already explained to me on the way there that we were sharing a room, something we’d never even had to do in high school, but that he’d had it switched out for one with two beds. The decor got no better inside the room. More taxidermied heads, more blonde wooden walls, more furs. There was no view to speak of, as the windows were microscopic, and a cold black iron stove sat in the corner.

Did I mention I loved it?

There was a little informational pamphlet on the table near the window, but I decided to save that for when I was bored. Dumping my bag on the bed, I began to make myself at home. Touga didn’t bother, instead leaving his bag beside the bed and checking the time. “Lunch will be over, but the restaurant will still serve us. Shall we get something to eat?”

I grimaced and finished tucking my clothes into the drawers near my bed. “Might as well.”

The water was icy clear, perfect, tinged with blue in the way that all the water in these mountains seemed to be. True to his word, Touga had sweet-talked his way into borrowing the owner’s fishing rods and personal boat for me to use-- and then promptly laughed at the idea of coming out on the lake with me as if it was the funniest joke I’d told him in months, giving me the excuse that the reflection on the water would turn his skin the exact color of his hair. “It’s not as if they make sunblock or anything,” I growled under my breath, again, glad that he couldn’t hear me. Some days it was just like being in high school again. He was so damn aggravating. Hell, his real objection was probably that life jackets were too unfashionable for The Great Kiryuu Touga to ever consider wearing. I huffed again and almost missed a gentle tug on my line.

Probably a weed or something. I waited, but the tug didn’t come again. Despite the bright sun, I could feel the cold seeping in through the aluminium walls of the little canoe. God only knew what Touga had told them to get them to allow me out there alone. I’d never been in a canoe before. By way of help, Touga had searched up a webpage with an explanation of how to paddle it, and left his phone with me. It kept buzzing at intervals, another annoyance, as his now-ex girlfriend contacted him over and over, trying to figure out what she’d done wrong.

He could be a little nicer to them. At some point it had become clear to me that he had no intention of ever settling down, or even getting close enough to anyone that the question ever came up, but it wouldn’t hurt for him to be nice.

That little tug on my line again. I waited, my thoughts suddenly halted, the soft sweep of air through the brushlands the only noise. For some reason, the guests had disappeared one by one today; no voices disturbed that gentle susurrus of wind and water. The tug didn’t come again, but this time I was wary. The last two guests had left at lunch, a pair of dark-haired girls that had been kind of cute in an overfed American way; they’d driven off in their silver car hours ago. As far as I could tell, the only cars left belonged to the staff. And our rental convertible, of course. But… thinking back, I wasn’t sure it was a rental. He had excused himself “to get the car” while we were in the little airport, it was true… but come to think of it, the car had been in the parkade, not near the doors. And I hadn’t seen any paperwork in his hands.

The fishing rod nearly leaped out of my hands, and I set my wondering aside. There would be time for that later.

In several hours, I had a string of trout and what looked like whitefish large enough to feed a family of six, and I was hungry enough to eat them all myself. When the staff member had been giving me the safety talk, there’d been a moment where she’d paused, glancing at Touga, and then said they would be happy to cook whatever I brought back; glancing at Touga’s phone, I saw that it would be dinner soon, and decided it was time to head in. The canoe was a little awkward to paddle, but it wasn’t hard once I got used to it. I made my way to the dock where I’d said goodbye to Touga that morning.

He was nowhere to be seen, of course. After dropping the fish off with the cooks, I caught sight of him coming down from the rooms above… followed by the girl who’d checked us in, Angela. I couldn’t help a flare of angry distaste. Really, couldn’t he even go one day? No wonder he hadn’t wanted to go fishing, if that was what had been on his mind.

“Had enough?” he asked as he caught sight of me. His hair was faintly mussed. His clothes showed no sign of disarray.

“I don’t know, have you?” I replied in Japanese. There was no need to embarrass the girl by making sure she knew that I was aware of what had gone on.

He only rolled his eyes. “If I’d wanted to spend time around a sour face like that, I’d have brought your ex,” he said.

“She’s not my ex,” I snapped. “I haven’t decided yet.” But with the way she was acting, it was likely. What kind of woman tried to stop her boyfriend from seeing his oldest friend? It wasn’t even as if we were doing something like going to bars or anything. She just couldn’t handle the--

He was not competition. I scowled all the way to dinner, ignoring his calmly affable conversation or replying with the shortest, surliest replies I could get away with.

Still, he liked the fish. Sometimes he had trouble making himself eat, but not this time. Must have been the mountain air.

It was good fish, though.

I managed to convince him out on a hike the next day, up to the glacier-fed waterfall that was the source of the lake below. The water was the iciest, cleanest water I’d ever tasted… and the hike wasn’t bad. Not hard, but not really that easy either. Some of the climbing sections were pretty steep, and other parts of the trail were submerged under freezing lake-water. We had it all to ourselves; no one was left at the lodge. Some tour buses came by, but invariably a staff member came out to chase them off after a half hour or so. Odd place. You’d think they would want the business.

But the lack of people meant we could spend as much time as we liked examining trees and rocks and tracking squirrels and such. Touga swore he’d seen a fox. I didn’t see anything. Then again, he knew more about this place than I did. It was Touga who’d pointed out the delicate green-veined white flowers, calling them Grass of Parnassus, and naturally launched into one of those long-winded explanations of how Mount Parnassus was sacred to both Apollo and Dionysus, and how that was odd because they were opposite in terms of worship with Apollonian being serene and contemplative worship while Dionysian was raucous and given to excess and therefore this and that about these damn flowers… they were pretty, though. Little green-veined white stars that didn’t seem like they were anywhere until you really looked for them, and then you’d realize they were all over the place.

That night he disappeared for a while. It’s not as if I didn’t know what he was doing. I pretended I was still asleep when he came back to our room. Couldn’t he have gotten separate rooms? It’s not like the place was full or something.

He ever so graciously obliged me when I casually checked if he wanted to come out on the canoe with me the next day, though. And someone had left a large umbrella near the door; Touga took it without asking, and no one ever said anything about it. Maybe he’d arranged for it. The asshole. No matter what, he always had the jump on me, one way or another.

He wouldn’t fish when we were out on the lake. Said he would scare off our dinner. I almost wanted to just forget about it then and there, and just fail to bait the hook so I caught nothing, but… it was hard getting him to eat sometimes. I decided I’d better not risk it. He sat in the bottom of the canoe with the umbrella propped over his shoulder, being used as a sunshade, and a book open in his hand. We sat there silently for hours, drifting on the lake, until I had a decent string of fish.

The dining room was empty that night. Just us and the waiter. And he didn’t disappear that night either. Maybe Angela had gotten sick of him. But no, when we went to check out that morning, she was there, smiling at us the way she had that first day, though this time her smile didn’t dim any when she looked at me. “Hope we see you again soon!” she chirped, that dazzling smile of hers making me self-conscious. Fortunately, she had to turn away to check in a family of five who’d just come in. She didn’t look like she was pining away over his departure. Maybe he was losing his touch.

“What do you think?” Touga asked as we walked down the front steps.

“About what?” I asked, feeling grumpy. This whole thing had been pointless. I’d broken up with my girlfriend for this.

“About the place, Saionji. What do you think? Would you like to come back?”

Something about his tone didn’t sound right. I scowled at him, but he missed it, as he was putting on his sunglasses.

“What am I supposed to think?” I snapped.

I definitely didn’t deserve the long-suffering sigh I got in return. Touga was silent for a moment, then laughed quietly, shaking his head. “All right,” he said, picking up his bag and walking to the car. “Although if you like, you can come and stay whenever you want.”

“I don’t even have to see the price to know I can’t afford that,” I said. “Besides, it’s not like I need your permission.” Touga just smiled secretively, and it was only then that the truth dawned on me. “You bought it? Why?”

He shrugged noncommittally and tossed his bag into the back seat. Someone had already started it and brought it around for us. Naturally. “I needed property overseas. I just thought you might enjoy it.”

That could mean anything, from exactly what he said to ‘I bought it for you.’ Rubbing my forehead, I tossed my bag in the back and got into the car. As he got in beside me, I couldn’t help a little laugh. “Next time, I get a couple weeks of warning. And you’re going to learn to fish.”

“Really, Saionji, she was terrible for you,” Touga said, putting the car in gear. “You’re not even going to miss her.”

It would have been paranoid to assume he’d bought the place to ensure that I’d break up with a girlfriend he didn’t like. Even so, I couldn’t rule it out. Maybe I’d never be able to figure out why he did the things he did when I was involved… but it would be stupid to dwell on it. “Where are we going now?” I asked.

“Someplace expensive and tasteless,” Touga said, and I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

Well, even if he wasn’t, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. He had come fishing with me, after all, and it wouldn’t reflect very well on me if all I did in return was act like a spoiled brat. That was his job. “Fine,” I said, and looked away before he could see my grin. I knew he knew, though. He always did.

#Utena #Touga #Touga Kiryuu #Saionji #Kyouichi Saionji #touga/saionji #maybe #SKU #RGU #Shoujo Kakumei Utena #Revolutionary Girl Utena

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frostywindmademoan · 8 years ago

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You Up For An Adventure?

A fic in which Michael is actually kind of romantic (I hesitate to call this an AU but it might as well be cause my boy is actually a sociopath)

Michael intently stared at the petite (Y/H/C) girl sitting at the bar who had a man on either side of her, leaning in, clearly captivated by whatever it was she was saying. She had a smart twinkle in her eye and the shadow of a smirk on her lips that juxtaposed the sour look that was plastered on Michael’s face. “What’s wrong with this one then?” John nodded towards Michael. “Been starin’ at (Y/N) for nearly 10 minutes now.” Arthur gruffly responded. “Poor fucker.” John sighed. “I can hear you, you know? You’re both standing right beside me.” Michael snapped his eyes away from the girl at the bar to give his cousins a scathing look.

“The way you pine after her is pathetic mate. You young Blinders have a whole gaggle of silly girls who are looking for a bit of danger who chase after you lot, and yet it’s her you got it for.” Arthur slurred. “He’s right mate, it makes no sense. That girl ain’t after danger, she is danger. She’s got every man she walks by wrapped ‘round her little finger and she plays ‘em all. Men are a game for her. Girls like that’ll break your heart and laugh about it!” John berated him. “You think I don’t know that? She’s one of my best mates. I’ve seen first hand how she treats fools like those two at the bar with her right now.” Michael and (Y/N) had become close friends after being introduced about 3 or 4 months ago. Her older sister had been Ada’s best friend growing up, so all of the Shelbys were close to (Y/N), her sister, and her two older brothers. The whole family had handsome genetics, thus little (Y/N) grew up to be a beauty. Michael had met her as a result of Tommy needing a rival fooled into playing right into the Shelby’s plot by an innocent and pretty looking face. (Y/N) was cast by Tommy to play the role of the innocent, pretty face. Being around the same age as her had given Michael the chance to become her friend, but he quickly developed deeper feelings. Feelings he’s been trying to hide for months, but he was growing less, and less subtle as time marched on. He knew fancying her was ridiculous. She saw him as nothing more than a friend, but maybe that’s what made her so appealing. These days Michael rarely encountered a girl he wasn’t able to make swoon. (Y/N) was different, though.“Give it up mate. She ain’t interested in a relationship with you, or anyone for that matter.” John clapped Michael on the back before wandering off to the private booth, shortly followed by Arthur. Michael returned his attention to the bar.

(Y/N) happened to glance up and see Michael looking in her direction. She didn’t pay much mind to the angry look on his face or what that expression might mean. She had seen that look cast towards her so many times that she assumed that that must be the natural form of Michael’s face. (Y/N) had grown bored of the two blokes, whose names she hadn’t bothered to make note of, so she slipped down from the stool she had been perched on. “Thanks for the drink and the chat boys.” (Y/N) said as a means of excusing herself before walking off towards Michael. The two men shared a bit of a shocked look in response to the way she had so casually snubbed them. “Evening handsome.” She flashed Michael a dazzling smile. Handsome was her pet name for Michael. It was a play on what all those swooning Blinder chasing girls would whisper and giggle about as he walk by. Michael knew (Y/N) only called him that sarcastically, as a joke, but it still brought him great pleasure. She called him handsome instead of her usual go to term of endearment, ‘darling.’ She used ‘darling’ with everyone. It was part of her charm and helped rope people in. Having a different pet name made Michael feel special, sarcasm be damned. “No need to abandon Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum over there just for little old me.” Michael grinned. “What does that make you then? The Cheshire Cat?” she scoffed. “And you sweet little Alice.” This was one of the things Michael most enjoyed about (Y/N), the way she could give easy and witty banter. (Y/N) appreciated the same thing in Michael. All the other men who chatted her up seemed to assume that she was some sort of airhead. It was partially why she enjoyed yanking those men around so much. Michael was different, he held conversations of substance with her. “You up for an adventure handsome?” She asked. Michael’s lips spread into a wide smile. From time to time (Y/N) would suggest they go on an adventure, as if they were little kids playing make believe. (Y/N) made Michael feel innocent again. Around most people (Y/N) had an alluring nature. She was sly in the most irresistible of ways. The sprightly, almost whimsical, side of her was similar to the term handsome. It was exclusively reserved for Michael. “C’mon then.” She took his hand and pulled him out the door.

“Where we goin’ then?” Michael asked as (Y/N) continued to lead him by the hand through back streets and allies. She somehow knew all the little passage ways and out of the way places. “Not much farther now.” She replied. (Y/N) led him directly to a dirty and decrepit looking building. It looked like a place no one had paid any mind to for years and years. No one but (Y/N), that is. “Here we are!” She happily exclaimed. “Here? You must be joking.” Michael looked the building up and down. It looked as though it might completely fall apart at any moment. “Stop being a baby.” (Y/N) darted to the door that had been haphazardly boarded up. Her small frame easily slipped through a gap between two of the poorly placed boards. “Fuck it.” Michael sighed. It was in situations like this that Michael had first begun to fall for (Y/N). Running through abandoned streets, free and wild like this, was a stark contrast to the poised, decisive, and almost pernicious way both she and he acted around others. Michael had to pull one of the loosely nailed boards out of the way so that he could fit through the door. By the time he got inside (Y/N) had already begun ascending a winding staircase within. “C’mon!” She yelled. “This doesn’t seem safe!” Michael wearily eyed the broken down stairs. “You’re being a baby again!” She laughed. This was the true and genuine (Y/N), loose and unrestrained. When the war broke out she was still young, but all the men in her family had been shipped off to France. Even her brother who was a year shy of being of age. He forged documents so that he could enlist just like everyone else. He wasn’t even supposed to be in France. He never came home. None of the men ever made it back. Her mother, sister, and herself had to fend for themselves. Her childhood abruptly ended when her family was cut in half. This warped and skewed her view point. She saw men as fleeting things that would violently leave her life. (Y/N) never let them close enough for their inevitable departure to hurt her. Michael was somehow different. He was a companion to her, and she felt she didn’t have to hide from him her desire to make up for that lost childhood. In a way, Michael also had a desire to regain the innocence of his childhood. (Y/N) was an escape from the world of violence he had entered after reconnecting with his family. They were a good fit for each other.

Once Michael had finally caught up with (Y/N), it was all the way up the stairs and onto the roof of the rickety building. Michael was hesitant to place his full weight on the feeble looking roof, but all hesitation disappeared when he saw (Y/N) lying on her back, gazing up. Her sleek hair seemed to glisten in the moonlight and was splayed out all around her, almost forming a halo surrounding her head. Her expression was relaxed and content. The ghost of a smile hung to her lips. Michael relaxed at the sight of her and followed suit, laying down next to her. The smog of the city made it hard to see many stars, but the full moon still shown vibrantly. “Isn’t she lovely?” (Y/N) hummed. “The moon is a she?” Michael turned his head to look at the profile of (Y/N)’s dimly lit face. “Yes, don’t you think so? ‘Mother moon’ has a nice ring to it.” She also turned her head to face Michael. She was close enough that she could see a sparkle in his eyes, despite the lack of light. She realized that they were merely an inch shy from being nose to nose. Suddenly, (Y/N) turned her head back to face upwards. Something in that moment had made her remember that Michael wasn’t some childlike companion, but a man. A handsome man at that. The way the Blinder girls giggled about him made sense. It was lucky that it was so dark, or else the flush that had spread up her neck and into her cheeks would have been seen. In that brief moment of closeness Michael’s heart had begun to race. He worked hard to not let it shatter when she turned away. “The sun is a man, eternally chasing after her.” (Y/N) continued the conversation about the moon. “She’s like you then. Always outrunning the men.” Michael said. Faintly, he could see her lips form into a smirk. “They’re pathetic, aren’t they? Those men who chat me up, thinking they can succeed where others have failed. Audacious fuckers.” She chuckled. “It’s cruel, what you do to them.” Michael now turned away from her to stare up. The irony of Michael of all people calling her cruel was not lost on (Y/N), but she chose to not draw attention to it. “Maybe it is cruel, but I’d rather be cruel than weak and hurt.” (Y/N)’s smirk fell into a hard line. “Is that what you think? That getting close to someone is weak?” Michael once again looked at her, baffled. “Not necessarily getting close to someone, but loving someone, yes. Placing your happiness in another person is ridiculous. People are fickle. They float in and out of your life and it’s stupid to become too attached.” Her tone was almost one of disgust. As if the very idea of love repulsed her. “People may leave, but what you shared with them stays forever.” Michael was a far cry from being a romantic, but it crushed him to hear (Y/N) speak this way. “You ever been in love?” She asked him. “I think so, yeah.” He whispered while staring intently at (Y/N), willing her to realize that he was referring to her. “I hear it hurts. That true?” She questioned him. “Yeah it’s true, but in a really great way. You’ve never been in love?” Michael was a bit shocked. She was an adult, surely in all her years she had fallen in love at least once. “No, never.” (Y/N) flatly responded. Michael’s heart grew heavy. It’s one thing to be a tease like everyone thinks (Y/N) is, but it’s an entirely different thing to be opposed to love entirely. Suddenly a thought came to him. “It’s an adventure.” He told her. “What?” She turned to face him. “Love. It’s an adventure. There is a chance that this whole building will crumble and hurt us, maybe even kill us, but we’re still here because the view makes it all worth it. Love is the same way.” Michael reasoned. “You make a decent point, handsome.” She couldn’t deny how marvelous his metaphor was. “How ‘bout it then? You up for an adventure?” Michael asked. (Y/N)’s heart began to pound. She didn’t know if she was up for it or not. She stared at him for awhile. Her eyes flit up and down as she examined every inch of his demeanor, as if the answer to the question was hidden somewhere in his face. Michael grew increasingly nervous as her silence continued. He had just as good as admitted to loving her. He feared that he might have scared her away. It was in the crease between Michael’s eyebrows that had folded with worry that (Y/N) found her answer to the question. To double check and make absolutely sure, she then examined his lips, pursed together in response to the tension that hung between Michael and herself. His lips were chapped and far from perfect, yet beautiful all the same. This is what assured her that she had indeed found the correct answer in him. “Yes, I’m up for it.” (Y/N) nearly gasped her answer. She hadn’t realized, but she had been holding her breath while looking at him. The heaviness within Michael’s heart lifted as it began to skip and jump. With a surge of confidence he closed the small distance between them, pressing his chapped lips against her smooth painted surface of her own lips. Michael placed a gentle hand on her cheek, willing her to stay in place within that perfect moment. (Y/N) shifted to be closer to him, grabbing ahold of the fabric of his shirt. “You won’t leave, will you?” She whispered against his lips. “No love, I’m not going anywhere.” Michael smiled. “Good, cause I’ll kill you if you do.” (Y/N) briefly matched his smile before placing her lips back onto his.

*feedback is greatly appreciated*

#Michael Gray #Michael Shelby #michael gray shelby #Michael Gray fic #Michael Shelby fic #Peaky BLinders #Peaky Blinders fic #Michael Gray Imagine #Michael Shelby Imagine #Peaky Blinders Imagine #writing

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ourownspaces · 8 years ago

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Chapter- 1

"Whoa, whoa, hey..." Dylan finally plucked the cigarette from his mouth, wearing that same preteenish grin he always did when his humor was about to surface. It was a precursor they were all used to, and once the others' eyes all followed his, they were already snickering to themselves, seeing Thomas eyeing his phone while the majority of them took a smoke break.

"Something's up, here. Wha--does no one see this?" The brunet said again, cracking up a little himself before Thomas' gaze finally lifted, looking about to all of them in confusion that grew on his innocent frowning.

"What?"

"This is the most I've ever seen you look at your phone. I mean like, ever, dude. Just in these last, what--couple seconds," they had all erupted into laughter by then, making Thomas smile begrudgingly, letting his cell drop out of his sight, "That's more than you've looked at your phone since I've known you."

"Yeah, yeah, alright, man," he laughed along, pressing his thumb into the screen to blacken it, and shaking his head as all of them began to nosily ask what it was he was so eager over, "It's nothing! Honestly, I'm just...it's my realtor, 's all."

As he lifted his eyebrows, silently adding a 'really, that's all', to his statement, his castmates all glanced to eachother again, hurriedly bursting into another bout of laughter at the blond's expense.

"It's your realtor. Really," Kaya snorted before dragging again, still grinning hard enough to bring her sparkling blues to a squint.

"Okay, now...! That’s what’s up! Who's your realtor, Tbs?" Dexter asked. And he didn't do it in pure intention. By now, Thomas had caught on to what it was they were all rotating their mob-like teasing toward.

"I'm not with my realtor," he spaced out the words, attempting somewhat to insert seriousness into them, despite his bursting into laughter anyway, "Seriously, I mean it! I'm tryin' to get this condo! I've been trying to get it. For over a year, now."

"Bro, the same house?" Ki Hong interceded, "Why? In the world!?"

"What's holdin' it up?" Dylan asked right after him.

"I really want it. Like I've wanted it since I turned--what--twenty-six," Thomas nodded with his words to Ki Hong, toying with the bridge of his nose, then using the same hand to toy through his hair, "I waited ages for one in the building to become vacant--first off, ...then afterward they rebuilt and renovated and, then, fine'lly, after all that, I put an offer on it, but every bloody time I do, someone bids over me," he said, looking somewhat wistfully to his phone screen again, as though he were waiting for a message that was not coming, "The same bastard. Every time."

"And you seriously can't just look somewhere else," Dylan asked again. Though, Thomas seemed pretty adamant over what he wanted, so it was more of a final check to make, before Dylan offered his advice at a different angle, "Well then just shell it out; why don't you just overblow the bidding?"

"Nah, I don't want to throw money around like that," Thomas shook his head, answering honestly, "...I hate the bastard, but I want to be fair... just raise it sensibly 'til I can win out. He just won't give the fuck in." He shed harsh words toward his faceless adversary, but did so with good humor, not meaning any true malice toward whoever they were, "We're already about to end up paying more than the property value on it even is, at this rate."

"You want us to go with you to a walk-through or something?" Ki Hong asked, too excited, and grinning, "So we can like--BOO-YAH whoever it is, y'know, once they see who they're up against?"

"No," Thomas chuckled again, "I don't want to 'boo-yah' anyone. I've got it handled, don't worry about it."

Just then, his screen lit up to life, and Thomas immediately unlocked it to read what had come in. They all--now personally invested--stood in a matching anticipation, and when his head lulled back, they sighed out their condolences for him.

"Did it again, yeah?" Will asked, patting Thomas on the arm.

"I'm gonna be middle-aged, time this goes through..." Thomas groaned, throwing out his smoke and snubbing it on the ground.

"Thomas?"

His head whipped around, hearing his name, along with the subtle clicking of heels on the open floor. He'd been standing there for at least half an hour, staring out of the lower balcony, and the artificial turf and lush plants they'd gotten onto this high rise. He hummed his acknowledgement at being called, rubbing over his jaw with a single hand as the other was wrapped around his chest, holding himself loosely at the curve of his ribcage.

"I've gotta run; got a meeting," the redheaded real estate agent said to him, looking at her watch, rather than to her client as she hurried to the door, "Listen, stay as long as you like, just turn everything off whenever you're ready to go, yes? You remember where the key is?"

"Erm, yeah. Outside outlet," he nodded, thanking her before she bade him goodnight and let the door click heavily to a close at his back. She'd hardly broken him out of his reverie, even with that much, and he was sunken fully into it yet again the moment she exited.

Thomas hadn't known exactly how long after that, that he'd stood there; he’d just known that it were enough to have seen the sky darken from a glowing orange to a now luminescent indigo. For a moment, he had trouble deciphering whether or not it were later the same evening, or early the next morning. But his senses snapped erect at last for him to check his phone and find out... and to his relief. It had been only a few hours. That willed down his initial (albeit slight) panic. For then.

But it was reignited again, the moment he heard some minor commotion at the door. It made him turn, made his arms drop to his side as the sounds of a key turning rang out. Soon after, the noise was followed by the full opening of the door.

"...excuse me," Thomas called out, making the young woman jump at him just as he had at her. His face was frowning, as it always did, but now there was an affronted quality to it. And apparently that same quality had filtered into his voice as he looked at her, "This isn't an open house."

"I’m aware of that... doesn't look like it stopped you," she immediately responded, having the same level of offense in her own voice, "Why are you in here--who are you?"

"I'm the buyer." he answered, hearing smugness dignifying his accent. She didn't seem too convinced of that however, not from what he could tell of her expression.

"The b--,” she cut herself off, looking him from toe to head with her eyes in slits, “look... go home, kid. Now. I don’t know what you’re playing with in here, or why you’re sneaking around in this building, or any of that--and I don’t care, either. It’s not funny, I’m not laughing. So go on. Or I’m gonna call your parents. Or the cops. You're like sixteen."

"--I'm twenty-seven," he spoke over her. And it were oddly enough that he did in such a manner. That misconception--while usually flattering to him--now, brought his eyes to roll, and an extreme annoyance to well inside him, "Now, what are you doing in here. You know, this is trespassing under English law."

"Not to the buyer of the property it isn't."

Thomas's eyes narrowed at her, both in incredulation as well as irritation--both of which were unmatched in him, up to this very moment, "Yes. The buyer of the property. Which, as I stated before, is me."

"I heard you the first time you told that lie!" she retorted again, "I just put in my offer for this condo, I have been for months. I'm the buyer."

"You w--" Thomas froze then, feeling his heartbeat lurch, and begin to pound adrenaline into him. And he kept that way for a while, his fingers now up and pressing into his temples, and his head subtly shaking as he released snobbish, disbelieving snorts of laughter, "You what?" He finally said again, as though in those long seconds, he'd relived the disappointment... and the fury he'd been dragged through the past year... all just in that very moment, "You're the one who's been keeping me out of my house for a bloody year?"

"Your house?! ...oh my motherf--" she trailed, biting her lips and letting her nostrils flare, apparently feeling the same burning frustration that her component were, "Oh my God, it's you. You’re him... You son of a bitch," she said. But now there was something of a smirk on her face. Not a friendly one, but more of one that someone would wear in the satisfaction of finally being face to face with something she'd intended to destroy. It was oddly cinematic, if he were honest. But Thomas hadn't the time to really mull on this, with is own rage blaring.

They both stood there in these matching states, unable to come to the belief that the person before them had been the one keeping them from their dream home, and driving them out of both their money and minds alike. But it were Thomas that finally spoke up first, lifting his palm upward to gesture at her in skepticism before huffing.

"You're American!" He said, having the volume of his attitude reverberate back down to them from the second floor of the condominium.

"You're a little fucking kid!" She answered back, having taken extreme offense at what he'd said.

"Will you stop that--! I'm likely older than you are, first things," Thomas briefly swept the same hand again, this time palm down, in a gesture that told of his refusal to touch on the subject of his age again, "Secondly: why on earth would you want this condo?"

"I'm a student; it's close to my school. Not that that is any of your business. Why do you want it!?"

"I wanted the security of a high-rise and doorman, if you must know."

"Why, are you playing hide-n-seek?" She asked, dripping in sarcasm, "You don't wanna get tagged so you thought you’d buy a condominium?"

"I am a twenty-seven year old ad-ult," Thomas said again, his voice still matching hers in being loud enough to bounce from the walls and high ceiling, "And I am an actor. I can't afford someone with dangerous intentions finding out where I live without adequate security."

"You are not an actor."

"I am--...Christ, are you bloody serious," he asked lowly--half to her, half to himself for keeping up this argument as he ran a hand up his forehead and into his hair.

"Denzel Washington is an actor."

"I'm not Denzel Washington."

"You aren't an actor, either," she quipped, "If you were, you'd just go buy a house somewhere--a mansion. And have your own security."

"And if you were a student, you'd be off living on campus or with friends, so I guess you're just a big a liar as I am."

"A liar living in this condo," she said, folding her arms indignantly at him. He huffed another laugh, nodding an 'oh really?' as he matched her posture.

"Counting on that, are you?" He asked. She cocked an eyebrow at him, silently giving her affirmation, and he snickered, "Because I rather doubt it."

"Do you 'rotha' dowte eh'?" She mimicked him and his accent, sneering and rolling her eyes.

"I'd say so, yeah," he laughed again, "If you're a still a student at this age, and just moving here, from the sounds of it," he said, gesturing to her again, "You've no doubt got piling American student loan debts from your college years in the States. So even if you were to win out over me, I doubt by the time you graduate, you'd be able to afford staying here much further past a year--especially given how much you've driven up the asking price of this place. That is, unless they're paying you to get your education over there nowadays. Or are your parents here helping you out..?"

Her face dropped after he said this, and subsequently, Thomas felt an instant guilt pang sharply in his chest. It was meant merely as another jab, not as a death blow. But he'd apparently stricken a few chords within all of that, and the second she grabbed her purse from the floor, he felt worse.

"Look, just tell me why it is you want this place," he called out once her back was turned to him, and receding toward the door, “Out of all places.”

"Go fuck yourself, actor," She said deadpan.

"Hey, I'm sorry, okay?" He called out again, feeling too stubborn to chase after the girl, but not too deep off in his pride to keep from expressing regrets if he'd honestly hurt her feelings, "Christ, you haven't exactly charming to me from the second you barged in here, have you. And you've been blocking me from buying the home I've wanted for about three years for ages, now. Be fair, at least."

"It's the closest place both to the school, and the fucking airport at the same time, in case I get overwhelmed and wanna go home. What the hell kinda friends do you think I have here, I just moved--like you said. So what--! I wanna live somewhere nice! And I don't wanna be around all those people in a dorm, all in someone's space, anyway, I'd rather be as by myself as possible. And I wanna live somewhere nice as long as I'm by my freakin' self!"

He waited for the ringing of her yells to die down, his arms still folded, but the fire in his disposition having waned now, for truce's sake.

"And the two extra bedrooms?" He asked, brows elevated further.

"I wanted them for my mom. And my best friend. They're both still back home."

He sighed, letting his arms fall by his sides, and at last shrugging. "...was that so hard?" he asked again, throwing some aggravation into the words, but still more calm than he'd been, "...And I don't see the point in running out and buying a mansion and my own security or any of those things unless I have a family who needs it. And I don't. So it's just... pretentious. I just need a doorman. And some extra rooms in case I wanted a few people over as well. I'm not exactly the most extroverted of people. I like my own space," he said, "And it's more convenient for me to be closer to the airport as well, to be honest. I travel a lot."

"Whatever," she sighed, turning to the door again.

"Does that mean you're backing off, then," he asked to her back.

"It means kiss my ass."

The door clicked again behind her, and Thomas groaned to himself, hearing her replace the key in the outside outlet clip.

#thomas sangster #thomas brodie sangster #thomas brodie-sangster #tmr #tmr newt #newt #fic post #tbs #tbs imagine #thomasbrodiesangster #tbs imagines #thomas brodie sangster imagine #thomas sangster imagine

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drink-n-watch · 4 years ago

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Genre: Comedy, School, Books, Short

Episodes: 12

Studio: Creators in Pack TOKYO

Oh boy, how do I summarize this one. O.k. do you know what a poser is? Wait that’s a bad stat, I’m not entirely sure what a poser is. Let me rephrase that, do you know those people that really want to be a part of a community or just want to have a specific hobby or skill (like playing guitar let’s say) but are more into the idea of it than actually doing it. It’s not ill intentioned or anything. In their heads they’ve decided this was a part of their identity but when it comes time to put it into practice, it just doesn’t work out. Well that’s Sawako with books. She wants to be this huge literature buff and spends all her free time in the library, but when it comes to actually reading something, it’s a bit of a challenge for her. Still she is not letting that stop her and the self proclaimed “Miss Bernard” is more than happy to bestow her book knowledge on all those around her… no matter how spotty it may be.

I think Sawako’s plan may have worked better than anyone expected because I went in to this show firmly convinced that it was about a knows it all book worm that solves all of her friends problems with a somewhat sharp tongue and himesama attitude. How did she manage to befuddle me before I had even seen the series?

awwww they’re cute!

It seems that whenever I watch a short anime, it’s the first thing I mention in the reviews. I can’t help it. I think the production of short programs series is just so different at the core from regular shows and that’s bound to affect the outcome.

Miss Bernard is sort of what I have come to expect from classic short programs. Very few characters, not much animation, limited settings and fairly simple designs. It’s a budget anime. But by that, I don’t necessarily mean cheap. Well I do but not in the negative sense of the word. The production had limited resources to pull this together so they put in just as much as they needed on each technical element. Not more but also not less which is not something I can say for every anime!

Still, it’s not a particularly memorable production and as far as visuals go, the last short I watched was Null and Peta which was far more impressive.

not that this was bad…

So what is Miss Bernard Said? Should you watch it? For one, it’s an adaption of a 4 koma manga. Each episode is a single 5 minute skit (more like 3 when you take out the OP and ED) and they don’t have much to do with one another aside from the characters. The humour is probably going to be divisive. There’s a distinct eastern feel to it that might alienate certain viewers. It often feels almost like a stand up routine, with characters all talking very fast at each other and delivering punch line after punch line with minimal set up.

Then there’s the actual subject matter. Miss Bernard herself might not be the nerdy bookworm she hopes to become but that’s kind of the target audience here. The show (and jokes) revolve around classic literature, mostly Japanese classics as well as golden age Science Fiction for some reason. Being a fan of both I was delighted by the many (occasionally more obscure) references to books and authors but was a little tiffed on several occasions that Simak was completely snubbed. People underestimate Simak. Sure his works may not be as flashy or spectacular as Heinlein, Dick or Sheckley (als underrated in my opinion and very smart author) or as visceral as Asimov, Herbert or all the Russians (Russians are an emotional bunch) but still. In case I’m being subtle, I like Simak.

don’t change the subject!

Also, if that little spontaneous Science Fiction related rant bored you, you should stay very far away from Miss Bernard Said. I’m not kidding.The substance of it really resides in the literature discussions and jokes. Not every episode is about classic authors or books but they still fall into the same category. Like discussing Fermat’s Last Theorem at a diner in a way that makes it obvious that Sawako is completely missing the point. (I also like Fermat, I have a soft spot for trolls…)

So this is random but it’s a “joke”, I really enjoyed. At ne point the girls ask Endou what bk cld a girl read t attract a boy and after pondering the weird question he ends up answering “The Little Prince” at which al the girls scowl. That’s it. The Little Prince is one of my favourite books and I didn’t’ really get why the girls hated the answer but at the same time the delivery and absurdity of it all really made me laugh…

On the other hand, if you read this entire post without rolling your eyes or falling asleep,you may have found a short for you. There are even some pretty cute friendship moments here and there!

Favourite character: Shiori Kanbayashi

What this anime taught me: You want to hear the Simak rant again?

“Bad choices make good stories”

Suggested drink: The Book of Kells

Every time Endou gets a chance to read – take a sip

Every time anyone explains the plot of a famous book – take some notes

if it’s Sci Fi – also take a sip

Every time Miss Bernard gives a random quote – take a sip

Every time Kanbayashi gets mad – take a sip

Every time Sawako didn’t actually read something – cheers

Every time Sumika crushes on Endou – take a sip

Every time we see a supporting character (not one of the main 4) – gasp

Every time we’re not in the library – look around

I don’t have many caps of this one, everything just sort of looks the same. Stil, here you go

Miss Bernard Said Wha? Genre: Comedy, School, Books, Short Episodes: 12 Studio: Creators in Pack TOKYO Oh boy, how do I summarize this one.

#anime #comedy #Miss Bernard Said #School #short

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raiswanson · 7 years ago

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Ten Questions Meme

Tagged by @prycarious oohhh, this tag game is fun every time (sorry this took a little while!)

I know you’re supposed to make your own ten at the end of this one, but I’m too lazy this round. Sorry.

1. What kind of genre do you like to write? Why?

My true love is and will always be Fantasy (with SciFi right behind). One of the biggest reasons is it allows me to write a bazillion different characters, and none of them have to be human.

Also, dragons. Naturally. ;)

2. Which do you like writing better, heroes or villains?

Oh definitely heroes. People get way more upset when you’re mean to them. :333 And the purehearted ones that just wanna do the right thing are so cute. What precious angels. 10/10, would ruin their lives and make them cry again.

I also tend to write super super outright horrible evil villains, and it’s just hard to like em. They're a bunch of mean, monstrous assholes with not a lot of redeeming qualities. The only time I really enjoy writing them is during their death scenes, or scenes where they get smacked down by a bigger bad lol

3. Do your characters have a favorite type of weather?

Well, sure, many do. SS loves snow, Victor loves the rain, Val and Vithmon adore hurricanes, Maika relates to Etak’s dust storms, Rewill likes it when it’s dead still/quiet, etc.

But I mean by this point I have so many different characters with different likes and dislikes that this question isn’t exactly on I can answer conclusively lol

4. Romantic or platonic relationships?

I enjoy writing both immensely. I just love giving my characters deep meaningful relationships, first and foremost. But I gotta say, letting them kiss and junk is 👌 👌 👌

5. Which OC of yours would you get along with best?

Uhh, well, there are very few of them to choose from since they’d all personally try to murder me with their bare hands, but...I’m inclined to say Sri Lok or Hadrian, but they get along with everyone. Going on current projects, I’ll say Rewill. He’s a cool dude. Grounded. Fun to talk to. Very open minded. 10/10 would have him piggy-back me across the space station.

6. Would you survive in your OCs’ world? Why or why not?

NOPE. DEFINITELY NOT. AS A HUMAN I AM WEAK AND SQUISHY AND IN A LAND FULL OF GODS AND DEMONS AND MONSTERS THAT IS NOT SOMETHING YOU WANT TO BE.

In the world Pryza takes place in, I’d probably have a better chance. But between alien takeovers, spacecraft sabotage, and general lack of safety regulations in the colonies, the odds would still be stacked against me lol. (Maybe if I lived on Earth there I’d be okay..)

7. What would you say is one of your “quirks” as a writer?

I’ll be real I wasn’t really sure how to answer this one as I’m bad at analyzing my own work in any way. So I asked a friend what they thought and got: “Sassy ass characters who are actually squishy inside.” I always have one of those. Always. (also a cinnamon roll. sometimes they are the same character.)

I also have a habit of splitting my books in two acts, the first being heavy in character building with an easy-going (even if action filled) plot, then hitting the second and cranking things up to max so that everyone is screaming and running and there’s chaos in the streets and are you sure this is the same book you’ve been reading????

Honestly idk, I see myself as a pretty bland, vanilla writer. I don’t think anything about my work really ~stands out~ enough to be considered a quirk. Is my quirk being typical and kinda forgettable?? It seems that way. *shrug*

8. Are there any writing “rules” that you break consistently? Ie commonly said rules that you just don’t follow?

“NEVER USE SAID/ADVERBS HURR DURR” is a “rule” I pretty proudly snub. But uhhh, not reeaalllyyy? I think that to some degree I follow the guidelines in place for my genre/style/intention.

That said there’s only one rule I follow completely and that is “there are no rules”

9. What does “show don’t tell” mean to you?

This one is kind of a poster child of “poorly given writing advice” to me. Because the way it’s given, people take it outright and turn around to scream “TELLING IS ALWAYS BAD!!” when that’s not what’s intended, exactly? You can’t put definites on the arts. It goes against everything they are.

To me it’s just a warning to not deliver the entire story as a sequence of action inputs in a text adventure game. You gotta lean into description where it fits, and be blunt where it’s called for. It’s a very contextual thing that you gotta play by ear.

I realize this barely answers the question but that’s because “show don’t tell” doesn’t really mean ANYTHING to me. It’s an incomplete statement that leaves so much unspoken that it’s left essentially worthless.

10. Post a recent snippet of your writing. Do you like it?

“For what it is worth, I am sorry you had to pay the price for my mistake,” Meecha said. I peeked back to see the pair regarding one another with rigid expressions. Finally, Reegil swallowed and bowed his head.

“You took responsibility, as you said. Our payments were the same in the end,” he replied. Chewing my lip, I pushed myself to stop eavesdropping and moved onward as his final words crept into my ears with ominous weight. “I only hope you are not forced to pay it again.”

It’s aight. I think it carries the impact I want it to, and that’s all I can really ask of it. ;o

If you want to do these questions yourself can feel free~ I’ll tag on the next one. ;D

#tag Rai

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wellmeaningshutin · 8 years ago

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Short Story #94: Wrath.

Written: 4/11/2017 Interwoven Week

Boris was the guy that people went to when they wanted somebody to disappear, or even die very violently. His actual name was James, but he felt that people would respond to something that played off of his Russian heritage, and felt that the name “Boris” was much more threatening than the name his parents gave him. Also, it didn’t hurt to use a fake name when your business isn’t exactly legal. Even though Boris was a killer for hire, he had a soft spot for anyone with a reasonable desire for revenge, and has been known to do pro bono work for anyone who can give him a good story, especially since he mainly either kills people who stole drugs, cheating spouses, and the occasional business partner.

The first time Boris had decided to kill somebody for free was when a dentist had come to him, explaining that he discovered one of his patients had stolen the dentist’s collection of pulled teeth (the dentist would not explain why he collected these teeth), so he decided to confront the guy, but lost his spine on the drive over and decided to just follow the guy around until he worked up the nerve to either ask for his teeth back, or sucker punch the guy. However, while he shadowed his client while silently giving himself a pep-talk, saying “you know teeth, you can knock his out no problem” or “you’re a lion, you’re a big, sexy lion”, he saw the client had entered a nursing home, which seemed innocent, until he watched from a doorway as the client entered the rooms of a catatonic old woman and, well, proved to be a degenerate and a menace to society. Boris had found some of the story strange, and a little confusing, but he said to the dentist that a man like that should not be able to continue on living, and that the police would be too much trouble, and was surprised when the dentist said really just wanted the teeth back, but if he wanted to kill they guy he could kill him. Even though the dentist didn’t have the best intentions, Boris knew that the job was still a noble one, and decided to do it for free, wanting to kill a man who had actually turned out to be worth killing.

Yet, Boris’ strangest client was a young girl, about the age of ten, who had approached him and said, “You kill people, right?”

“Yeah,” said the hit man, “but I don’t do it for free.”

“Okay. How much would it cost to kill God?”

Looking around for some sort of parent that may be with the child, somebody who would pop in and explain that it was a joke, “What- what are you talking about?”

“A cross fell of the church and killed my mom. The preacher said it was an ‘act of God’. People said ‘God has a plan for everything’. So, God took my mother away from me. He’s an asshole. I want you to shoot him in the face.” A puzzled expression was the only response she got. “Its not the only bad thing he did either. He’s killed a lot of people. He’s caused a lot of storms. He’s allowed drugs and murderers to exist. He lets children be born in bad situations, and then sends them to hell for having to survive. There is no reason that we should be okay with this. People tell me to pray to him, to get on my knees and beg him to stop doing bad. Why am I supposed to kiss his ass, just so he wont take my dad too? Why should I-”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Sheesh. Problem is girl, I’m agnostic.”

“What is that.”

“I don’t know if God exists, I’m not sure.”

“What does not knowing if he exists have to do with it? Can’t you still shoot him, even if you’re not sure it was him that you shot?”

“Okay, even if I could find him, or whatever, what would I do then? How would I kill God?”

“With a gun.. Do you know how to kill people? Am I in the wrong place? I thought you were supposed to be a professional? Why is a mean old man such an obstacle for you? Just fucking shoot him!”

“You swear a lot for a little girl.”

“And you kill people. Am I going to have to take my money elsewhere?”

Rubbing his temple, “I don’t think there’s anywhere you will be able to take that money, you’re asking for an impossible task. Look, if there is a God, no mortal could kill him, even with a gun. Think about it. If somebody could actually kill the guy, wouldn’t they have done it already? If the guy can knock over gigantic crosses, create storms and wars, then what the hell would a bullet be against him? You’re not thinking this through.”

“If you’re not going to help me, then can you at least tell me where I can buy a gun? If I can’t pay anybody to do it for me, I guess I’ll have to kill him myself.”

“I see nothing wrong with that.” So, Boris sold the child a snub nosed, kid-sized revolver and several boxes of ammo. The girl thanked him, then wandered out, back into the city, trying to figure out where she was even supposed to find the guy. If she could just see him for a couple seconds, all she would have to do is point and shoot, probably nailing him right between the eyes, and nobody would have to suffer ever again. ———————————————————————————————————

X-Ray stood on his trusted corner, trying to make his living by asking everyone who walked by if they would like a rock or two of pure pleasure. Most people just kept walking, some of the fiends would stop and actually buy some, but he knew that if he wanted to move his way up in this business, he would have to find a way to get new customers. Having a steady income wasn’t good enough, especially if that income only provided him with enough money to keep the power and water on in his house, and maybe allow him to buy some cheap as hell food. On the rare occasions that he would talk to straight edge people, who he mainly just wanted to get addicted and become another one of his customers, they would always assume that he had a lot of money, just because he dealt drugs. Sometimes he would point to his clothes, and say, “Do I dress like somebody who has money to throw around”, and they would usually say something about people who came from the ghetto not knowing how to dress themselves. In his mind, everyone with money was like that, but he only talked to one or two people in that category.

As he stood there, announcing his wares, he noticed, across the street, a young girl who was all alone and looked like her parents had a good amount of money. That’s when he realized that children would be the easiest way to expand his customer base, especially ones who could steal money from their parents, who would be too soft to pose a threat. “Hey, you there, little girl” shouted X-Ray, “you lost or something?”

Normally she wouldn’t talk to strangers, but she had a gun in her bright pink backpack and wasn’t worried. So, since she was lost, she decided to walk over to the teen who was waving her over. “Do you know how to get to.. Um.. Do you know where the frozen yogurt store is, near..” Being a child, she didn’t have a very good idea of the city’s layout.

“Yeah yeah, I know where you’re talking about,” he lied, “but, uh, why are you over in this part of town? Don’t you know that it can be pretty dangerous?”

“I’m not worried about danger.” Said the girl whose palms were covered in lines from colored markers that smelled like fruit. “Nobody around here is dangerous anyways.”

“Why do you say that?” Just the other night, he had seen a stray dog pull a abandoned baby out of a dumpster and eat it, but he guessed that the incident involved a dangerous animal, instead of a dangerous person.

“I went to some guy who kills people, but he said he couldn’t kill the guy I wanted him to.” Then again, about a week ago he saw a corpse in the alley way, but he also didn’t know if somebody had killed the woman, or if it was just drug related, or even was the result of another stray dog attack. “So now I have to go and kill him on my own.” The police who sometimes came through could be considered dangerous, mainly because they were bound to shoot you, beat you up, throw you into a hostile environment, or send you to prison, which was filled with dangerous people, but he couldn’t tell if police counted, since they were supposed to be everywhere, and weren’t specific to this area. Although, were they supposed to be specific to the area, “I’m going to kill him dead”, or did they just have to be in the area, even if they were everywhere.

People called him X-Ray due to the way he tended to over analyze things. Some of his friends said it was like he smoked pot once and never came down.

“So you’re a killer then?” Asked X-Ray, only tuning in at the last sentence. “Who are you killing then? You don’t look like you could kill a rat.”

“I’m going to kill god”, said the girl, completely serious. He hadn’t seen somebody be this severe since he saw a local bookie’s goons threaten his father back when he was as big as this girl, and he guessed that those thugs could be considered dangerous people too, but he also didn’t know if they were still around. And what if they were just muscle in appearance only, and never actually laid a finger on any deadbeats?

“That’s a good one. How you gonna do that?” Gunshots sounded in the distance, but there was no way for him to know if they were from violence and danger, or from target practice.

“I-” looking at her feet, “I don’t know. I have to find him, but I don’t know how to find him.”

“Shit, that’s the easy part.” X-Ray was no better than a corner kid, a peddler of wares, but he had seen enough crime movies to have a rough idea of what it was like to be higher up in the crime scene. “If you want to find the guy at the top, you just gotta cause enough trouble at the bottom for him to come out of hiding. God or no God.”

“So, wait. What?”

“Like, okay. So, you find people at the bottom, and then blam blam. You kill them. They’re dead. And then somebody above those guys are upset, so they come out from wherever they are, and you plug them too. You turn them into trash. Then, like, this keeps going, but eventually some hitters come after you, and you have to learn if you’re a mark or not. You either gotta live in the shadows, or die like a baby in the jaws of a dog. This time is also when somebody close to you is gonna die, if they can’t get you they’ll get the ones you love. You know, to draw you out too. Eventually you get your revenge, after wondering if its all, like, worth it and shit, and blat blat, you get the guys who got yours. Then, things get bad, and you finally get face to face with the boss man, the king pin, and you talk to each other for a while, he puts up like some crazy motha fuckin fight. Like, this fight is the best fight, and it goes on for some time as you guys spray bullets at each other, real crazy shit. Then, like, he gets a bullet in you, and its in some place where you’re not gonna live afterwards. But, you know, you also kill him, and then you die shortly afterwards, and like wonder if the death and everything was even worth it.

“Also you might fall in love with a guy, but I do not think you should do that. They either gonna die, or you gonna die then they’ll have to, like, mourn you and shit. Sadness cuts both ways when you deal with revenge.”

The girl stood there for a bit, thinking over what the guy told her, trying to figure out who the hell she is supposed to shoot first to get all of this started. And how long was this supposed to take, she wondered. Was she going to end up as a grown woman, spending her life going after God, and then finally having the big shoot out when she is as old as her mother, maybe looking exactly like her mother, a realization which led the girl to get lost in a day dream, where she pretends to be her own mom, and then God finally runs into her and says something like, “I’m going to have to kill you all over again”, and she responds with something clever (for a child), like, “Go to hell”. Watching the girl trying to process the information, X-Ray wondered if she was reconsidering the whole thing. So, he decided to go back to his original plan. “You know,” he said, smiling a hustler’s smile, “If you don’t want to go through all of that, I know where you can find God real easy.”

Snapping from her fantasy, “What? Where?”

Reaching into his pocket, then producing a couple of vaguely-semen-colored rocks in his hand, “All you gotta do is smoke this shit, then you’ll be face to face with the big man himself.”

“Bullshit.” She said, half believing him but wanting to go through with her fantasy.

“You calling me a liar? Fuck outta here if you don’t believe me then, your ass could get eaten by some dogs or some shit.” Watching the stray root through the trash was more traumatizing than he would ever want to admit. “Why you askin’ for my advice anyways if you gonna question me?”

“Sorry, sorry.” She reached for the rocks in his hand but he closed it and snatched it away, which annoyed her.

“I’m not going to give this away for free though, so if you wanna… You know what? You have a noble cause and shit, so I’m gonna make this half-priced. $60 a rock. And when you need more to go after God and wait for your big shoot out, you’ll know where to find me.” Adding that last bit just to make sure that when she inevitably became addicted, she would come back for him. Although, while she rooted around in her backpack for money, he wondered if she would be able to find her way back to him, or if she would just end up finding any of the other young dealers around the downtown area. The girl didn’t even know where she was now, so how would she find her way back to him? Before he could find an answer to this question, she had shot him in the chest, causing him to become wide eyed and stare down at the girl, who was staring up at him, pointing the smallest gun he ever saw, which had a smoking barrel.

After he dropped to the ground, she searched his pockets for the rocks that would let her see God, knowing that it would be easier to steal than buy. Plus, if the guy was selling access to God, then wouldn’t he be on the big man’s payroll? Wouldn’t he be one of the little people that had to drop just to get everything going? And, she figured, if he wasn’t, then it was good practice anyways. ———————————————————————————————————

A few months back, Ramona was so desperate for money that she offered to tell people’s fortunes just for a quick buck, and she was surprised that it had actually worked, and gave her a stable enough income to keep withdrawals at bay. It turned out that a lot of the fiends and dealers in the area were very superstitious, so they would come to her to know how they were going to die next (a common problem), and how to avoid it. The clients that she had were very happy, becoming more satisfied with her fortunes every day that they were still alive, and the ones who believed her bullshit and dropped dead were in no position to tell everyone that she was a fraud. Half of the time that she told people their futures she was incredibly high, and was surprised that nobody was realizing that all of the mystical shit that came out of her mouth was just a bunch of high talk, but she didn’t care enough to point it out to anyone, she want ed to stay in business.

Her newest client was a girl who had wandered into the abandoned motel that Ramona worked in, and when she was found, the girl claimed, “I got one of the people on the bottom, now I have to hide and wait for somebody else.”

This was just a load of nonsense to Ramona, but she was able to smell danger on the young girl, which was also the smell of money. “I see that you are in a rough situation, you know that this is my specialty? The moon and the stars and the great man inside has lead you to me. A prophecy foretold.”

“The hell are you talking about? Are you talking about God?”

“No, not God, there are things in the Earth beyond what lies in Heaven and Hell.” She figured that if she acted like she knew more than what religions claimed, she would seem more trustworthy. “There are things you cannot see without the third eye of the cosmos, the fortunes past told. A galaxy forgotten and remembered again. Eons of suffering, rebirth, and harmony. Eyes without faces and faces without love. These area all mystic truths.” It was only several minutes ago before she got loaded. “If you are in danger, I can whisper to the secrets of the universe to find some answers, but it will cost you.”

“I spent all my money on a weapon. Would you be okay with trading?”

“What do you wish to trade?”

When the girl threw down the packet of crack, her heart almost shot out of her chest. Even though it wasn’t her favorite substance, there was a good amount of it, and she could probably trade it for something better. “Okay, yeah, you ready for the future to be told?” Too lit to contain her excitement, “Hold out your hand.” The girl listened, and Ramona tapped her fingers on the girl’s palm for ten seconds, then said, “When you see a red light, you must duck, and then you will be free from death. That clear?”

The girl nodded. ———————————————————————————————————

A priest stood at his podium, trying to remember where he had been going with his sermon, hoping that he could feel his way back to the point he was trying to make. It would be unfair to assume that his current troubles with his sermon reflected on him as a priest, he was actually one of the best in the city, a good man down to the core, but his memory had been hazy, headaches had become constant, and he didn’t know it, but he had a brain tumor. Every day for him was painful and confusing, but he tried to put on a brave face and let the lord guide him through the darkness. “And lo, he said, to all that would hear it, all that were listening to him. The masses who had gathered, they looked up at him, at what he had to say, willing to listen to his words, that he would say, and absorb their meaning. Just like all of you,” gesturing to the congregation, “Just like how all of you are listening to me now, they also listened to what he had to say.” The pain in his skull wasn’t as bad as the pain in his soul, also caused by the tumor, which made every day miserable, made him long for an end to all of his suffering. It was as if existing alone was too much for him, and it was an uphill battle just to keep going through the days. The only thing that kept him from an early checkout was the hope for an act of god, was the strength of his unwavering faith.

“And listen they did. Oh boy, did they ever listen when he talked. He said words, they listened to the words, all through the magic of vibrations. They all, all gathered and it was a give and take. He talked, they listened to him talking, and lo, and lo, it was a true community that had formed when he had spoken to them.” The page he initially read from in the bible was lost to him, because it was early on in the book, which accidentally closed due to the lightweight left side that required him to hold down if he wanted to book to stay open. At this point, he was just running out the clock, trying to think of something other than how terrible life had been. “Listening, talking, communication, these are gifts given to God. God is great for he has allowed us to have these things, he has given them to us. It is great. So great.”

Right when the priest felt like throwing up, church door had opened and a little girl had come running towards the podium, running past the pews, looking haggard. At first the priest wondered if she was lost or scared, then he thought she may have belonged to one of the adults in the congregation, but he was surprised when she had removed a gun when she as only five feet away from him. They both stared each other in the eyes, they were both incredibly happy to have this moment. The priest believed this to be an act of God, a way to save him from his agony without him having to sin by suicide, while the girl believed that a priest was pretty high up, and would really speed up the process of getting to the man in charge. Most of the congregation wasn’t paying attention, their focus had shifted away from the priest when he forgot what he was talking about, and the few people who did notice were either frozen in shock or believed that the lord would save the priest.

Only when the girl sunk three rounds into the priest did people pay attention, and they screamed in horror as the priest stepped back and fell into a pool of holy water, which began to turn red with his blood. They watched as the girl ran up to the podium, announced, “Tell God I’m coming for him. That fuckers gonna pay.” Some people screamed that she was the Antichrist, and later people would claim that she spun her head around, or that the crosses on the wall turned upside down. Before the girl leaved, she scanned the room for any nuns or other priests, but if there were any, they were hiding too well for her to see.

On her way out, she looked an elderly woman in the eyes, who then had a heart attack and died, believing that she locked eyes with the Antichrist, and her husband then had a heart attack, because he believed that the Antichrist gave his wife a heart attack. The girl, right before she walked out the door (everyone was too afraid to try and stop her) she shot a portrait of Jesus Christ, causing a hole to form in his right eye.

#Free Write #Short Story #Writers on Tumblr #Revenge #God

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teachanarchy · 8 years ago

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Dear Well-Meaning Men Who Believe Themselves to Be Safe, Thereby Legitimizing the “Not All Men” Argument,

Let’s start here, even though this should go without saying: We don’t think that all men are inherently abusive or dangerous. Plenty of men aren’t.

There are men that we love very much – men around whom we feel mostly safe and unthreatened; men who, in fact, support, respect, and take care of us on familial, platonic, romantic, and sexual levels. Not every man has violated us individually; for most of us, there are plenty of men that we trust.

We know what you mean by “not all men” – because on a basic level, we agree with you.

But the socialization of men is such that even a good man – a supportive man, a respectful man, a trusted man – has within him the potential for violence and harm because these behaviors are normalized through patriarchy.

And as such, we know that even the men that we love, never mind random men who we don’t know, have the potential to be dangerous. Surely, all people have that potential. But in a world divided into the oppressed and the oppressors, the former learn to fear the latter as a defense mechanism.

So when you enter a space – any space – as a man, you carry with yourself the threat of harm.

Of course, in most cases, it’s not a conscious thing. We don’t think that most men move through the world thinking about how they can hurt us. We don’t believe The Patriarchy™ to be a boardroom full of men posing the question “How can we fuck over gender minorities today?” You would be hard-pressed to find a feminist who actively believes that.

But what makes (yes) all men potentially unsafe – what makes (yes) all men suspect in the eyes of feminism – is the normalized violating behaviors that they’ve learned, which they then perform uncritically.

Make no mistake: When you use the phrase “not all men” – or otherwise buy into the myth of it – you’re giving yourself and others a pass to continue performing the socially sanctioned violence of “masculinity” without consequence, whether or not that’s your intention.

In truth, the only thing approaching defiance against this kind of violence is to constantly check and question your own learned entitlement – and that of other men. But you can’t do that if you’re stuck in the space of believing that “not all men” is a valid argument.

So we wanted to call you in, well-meaning men, to talk about these four points that you’re missing when you claim “not all men” as a way to eschew responsibility for patriarchal oppression.

Because it is all men, actually. And here’s why.

1. All Men Are Socialized Under (And Benefit From) Patriarchy

Here’s the truth: Most of the time, when we generalize and use the word men, what we’re actually referring to is the effects of patriarchy. What we’re actually intending to communicate when we say “men are horrible,” for instance, is “the ways in which men are socialized under patriarchy, as well as how that benefits them and disadvantages everyone else, sometimes in violent ways, is horrible.”

But that’s kind of a mouthful, isn’t it? So we use men as a linguistic shortcut to express that.

And before you come at us with “But that’s generalizing,” it’s actually not. Because it is true that all men are socialized under and benefit, to some degree, from patriarchy.

That is to say, the only thing that we truly associate all men with is patriarchy – and that’s hella reasonable, even though it affects men differently, based on other intersections of identity.

Because here’s how it works, my friends: Living in the United States, every single one of us is socialized under patriarchy – a system in which men hold more power than other a/genders, in both everyday and institutionalized ways, therefore systematically disadvantaging anyone who isn’t a man on the axis of gender. As such, we all (all of us!) grow up to believe, and therefore enact, certain gendered messaging.

We all learn that men deserve more than anyone else: more money, more resources, more opportunities, more respect, more acknowledgment, more success, more love. We all internalize that. To say that “not all men” do is absurd – because, quite simply, all people do.

For people who aren’t men, this means that we’re socialized to feel less-than and to acquiesce to the needs of the men in our lives. And this doesn’t have to be explicit to be true.

When we find it difficult to say no to our male bosses when we’re asked to take on another project that we don’t have the time for, or to our male partners when they’re asking for emotional labor from us that we’re energetically incapable of, it’s not because we actively think, “Well, Jim is a man, and as a not-man, I can’t say no to him.”

It’s because we’ve been taught again and again and again since birth through observation (hey, social learning theory!) that we are not allowed – or will otherwise be punished for – the expression of no. In the meantime, what men are implicitly picking up on is that every time they ask for something, they’re going to get it (hey, script theory!).

A sense of entitlement isn’t born out of actively believing oneself to be better than anyone else or more deserving of favors and respect. It comes from a discomfort with the social script being broken. And the social script of patriarchy is one that allows men to benefit at the disadvantage of everyone else.

And all men are at least passively complicit in this patriarchal system that rewards male entitlement. We see it every single day.

The thing about privilege is that it’s often invisible from the inside. It’s hard to see the scale and scope of a system designed to benefit you when it’s as all-encompassing as patriarchy. And that might lead you to buy into the idea of “not all men.”

To those on the outside, however, the margins are painfully visible. That’s why men who really want to aid in leveling the playing field have a responsibility to listen to people who can see the things they can’t.

When gender minorities tell you that you’re harming them, listen. Listen even when you don’t understand. Listen especially when you don’t understand.

You can’t see all the ways in which your maleness distorts the fabric of society, but we can. And if you want to help dismantle patriarchy, you have to make the choice to accept that a thing isn’t less real just because you haven’t seen it – or don’t believe yourself to have experienced it.

2. All Violations (Big and Small) Are Part of the Same Violent System

Picture this: A well-meaning man offers a woman a compliment at a bar. He has no sinister motive, and he is – after all – in an appropriate setting for flirting.

When the woman rebuffs him for whatever reason (she’s in a relationship, she’s not into men, she’s just not interested), the man feels snubbed – because he was polite and respectful, but not rewarded for it.

This well-meaning man would probably tell you that he’s not owed a woman’s affection; he knows that. But he still feels hurt that he didn’t get it. And that’s fair. Rejection hurts.

But maybe he believes himself to have approached her in a kind enough way that he should have at least gotten to talk to her a bit. After all, men know that being gentlemanly is the “right” way to “get” women, and therefore expect on some level to be rewarded for that good behavior. But if that sentiment drives some of his disappointment, then that’s a sense of entitlement, however small.

Such a man isn’t an outright abuser. But his learned entitlement makes him potentially unsafe for women to be around. And it’s hard to see that sense of entitlement from the inside, let alone question it or start to break it down.

As such, when we generalize and say, “Men feel entitled to our bodies,” this man would be wrong if he said, “Not all men are like that – I’m not.” He just doesn’t connect the bitterness of rejection with the broader sense of entitlement he’s learned and internalized. Furthermore, he may not realize how this sense of entitlement is symptomatic of a larger patriarchal culture in which men are taught that they’re owed romantic and sexual interest from women.

This may seem like a tiny sliver of the patriarchal pie, but it’s poisoned nonetheless.

Here’s another example: A well-meaning man, in a conversation with a woman, talks over or mansplains to her without recognizing the behavior. He would probably never intentionally do this. Maybe he’s read Men Explain Things to Me by Rebecca Solnit and wouldn’t dream of patronizing a woman. He just wants to voice his opinion. And that’s fair, right?

Here’s the thing about opinions, though: They’re actually not all equally valid or worth sharing, no matter what you were taught in grade school. You’re actually not automatically entitled to share your opinion; in fact, your opinion might be pointless or even harmful in some conversations.

This well-meaning man thinks he’s contributing to a discussion, which he feels entitled to do, because he has a right to his opinion. He doesn’t see the pattern of being talked over, belittled, or dismissed that his female friend experiences daily, to which he’s just contributed.

And why would he? He was just offering his opinion. He wasn’t trying to make her feel small. From his perspective, it’s just a discussion.

How could this – in any way, shape, or form – be similar to something as potentially career-damaging as gender minorities not being invited to share their thoughts in academic or professional settings, or being passed over and not asked to sit on a panel of experts? How could this be similar to an intimate partner believing that his word is the end all, be all, never letting his partner get a word in to express her needs?

We hate “slippery slope” arguments, but that’s exactly what this is – a series of sometimes unintentional microaggressions that enables a larger culture of silencing and marginalizing people other than men. In that context, all of these violations matter.

Think about it: If you never unlearn the entitlement inherent in offering unsolicited compliments or talking over a woman, will you really stop there?

One man expects a reward for good behavior, the next for unsolicited “compliments,” the next for street harassment. One man stays quiet about rape jokes, the next actively makes them, the next learns that if he commits rape, his friends will laugh it off. There’s a very clear line that leads from “benign” entitlement to harm and violence against us.

So sure, maybe “not all men” street harass or commit sexual violence. But how have your own actions contributed to a culture that allows those things to happen?

3. The Impact of Your Actions Is More Significant Than the Intent

Cool. You didn’t mean to contribute to the objectification of queer women when you made that lesbian porn joke. Perhaps you even think that you’re so “enlightened” as a “feminist man” that we should just know that you “didn’t mean it like that.” In fact, maybe you even think that you were being “subversive” when you said it. Okay.

But from a woman’s perspective, that doesn’t matter, because we still have to feel the effects of that mindset every single day – and your bringing that to the foreground has a negative impact on us, no matter what the hell your intent was.

Many men don’t do hurtful things maliciously. They may be doing them subconsciously, adhering to the ways in which they’ve been taught to behave, as all of us do.

Other men, of course, are intentionally violent. But the effects of both can be incredibly damaging.

Surely, we’re less likely to harbor resentment towards someone who stepped on our toes accidentally than we are towards someone who stomped on them with malevolence – especially when accountability is had and an apology is issued. But our goddamn toes still hurt.

To a gender minority, there’s very little difference between the impact of inadvertent and intentional harm. A man who makes you feel unsafe by accident is as harmful to you as one who does it on purpose.

So no matter how well-intentioned you are, you’re not off the hook when you hurt people. And because of everything we’ve discussed above, you are likely (yes, all men) to hurt and violate. And you need to be willing to take responsibility for that.

4. The Depth of Work to Be Done Is Avoided By Most Men

It’s understandable that we react by distrusting even “safe” men as a rule when even safe men can hurt us – because even “safe” men have been raised in and shaped by a patriarchal society that both actively and passively harms us every day. There’s no escaping that, regardless of anyone’s best intentions, so it’s useless to talk about intent as a mitigator of harm.

Add to that the constant stream of disappointment and hurt we feel when self-proclaimed “safe” or “feminist” men do turn out to harm us – which happens way too often to be treated like an anomaly – and it’s easy to see why women react with distrust or even outright hostility when “safe” men show up in feminist spaces.

We want to trust that your good intentions will lead to positive actions, we do. But here’s what we need you to understand before that can possibly happen: What you’re asking us to accept from you will take a hell of a lot of work on your part – and we’ve seen over and over again that many self-proclaimed “allies” just aren’t willing to do it.

Being a “safe” man – hell, being a feminist man – is more than just believing yourself to be and collecting accolades from others about the minimal work that you’re doing not to be an asshole.

Doing the work means really doing the work – getting your hands dirty (and potentially having an existential crisis in the process).

Consider it like this: If you go through life assuming that your harmful behavior is appropriate and most of society provides a positive feedback loop, why would you stop to examine yourself? You’ve never been given any indication that you should.

If you never learn to see your behavior within the context of the broader harm done to gender minorities, what motivation will you have to change? And if you keep passively absorbing toxic attitudes towards male entitlement, will you really move to check bad behavior in other men?

Because here’s the truth: Even when it’s not conscious, male entitlement is a choice – a choice to be uncritical, a choice to continue to passively benefit. And attempting to fight that entitlement is also a choice – one that has to be both conscious and ongoing. You’ve got to choose it every day, in every instance.

But how many well-meaning men are truly choosing that path, instead of just insisting that it’s “not all men” and that they’re “not like that?”

Hint: You are “like that” – especially if you’re not actively fighting patriarchy. And claiming that you’re “not like that” doesn’t negate patriarchy – it enforces it.

Fighting learned male entitlement means assuming the burden of vigilance – watching not just yourself, but other men. It means being open to having your motives questioned, even when they’re pure. It means knowing you’re not always as pure as you think.

It means assessing the harm you’re capable of causing, and then being proactive in mitigating it.

Most of all, it’s a conscious decision to view every individual’s humanity as something exactly as valuable and inviolable as your own.

And it means doing it every single moment of your life. Point blank, period.

If you really want to stop the “all men” cycle, that’s the only place to start.

***

Well-meaning men, if we’re being honest, we love many of you. And those of you whom we don’t know, we want to believe and appreciate. We want to feel safe around you.

We don’t want to fear or distrust men. We don’t want to have to perform risk assessments on every man that we meet. Trust us – it’s a miserable life! We’d gladly abandon this work if it wasn’t absolutely necessary to our survival.

But it’s not our job to be vigilant against harmful behaviors that we can’t possibly hope to control, though. Nor is there anything that we alone can do about this. It’s incumbent upon men to make themselves safer as a group.

And there’s no way that you can do that until you accept that yes, it is all men – including you – and start working against it.

Love always,

Aaminah and Melissa

#violence #men #patriarchy #sexism #gender

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