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amphibious-entity · 3 years ago

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TMBS Book 1 Brain Dump

~An Embarrassingly Long Post~

I don’t know why I’m writing this or why I’m so determined to do it. Maybe to finally assume my true form and become a mega dork on main, or maybe just for fun!

This is basically a compilation of all the main points running through my head after reading The Mysterious Benedict Society (2007) for the first time. Rather than posting a ton and spamming the tag, everything’s here in one neat package! (hopefully this gets it all out of my system rip)

Contents:

The Book Itself

The Book Itself, for real this time

The Characters

A Funny Parallel

The S.Q. Section

Lines & Scenes I Liked

Spoilers abound!

The Book Itself

Upon acquiring the first three books (don’t judge me pls), I was surprised at just how long they are. Like, they’re still pretty light being paperbacks and all, but these books are hefty lads.

The first book has this Disney+ Original Series circle thing printed on it, which is kind of unfortunate. Regardless, I love the cover illustration and yellow is actually my favorite color :D It made me weirdly quite happy whenever I saw the book lying around in my room

Also, it’s really cute how there’s a letter from Mr. Benedict at the end! (It only reveals that you can find out his first name if you “know the code”, meaning the bit of Morse printed below the summary on the back.) Shock and horror, though, as I realized I’m starting to recognize some of the letters

The Book Itself, for real this time

It’s wonderful how the tone of the book really shone through to the show adaptation. Something about the deliberateness of the aesthetic, from the set designs to the fashion to scene compositions, that really sells that particular style— like it’s very clear that this story is being told to us, rather than one we’re seeing unfold, if that makes sense.

Where that narration style stood out to me the most was the first chapter. We are told (rather than shown) how Reynie gets himself to the point of the second test, and there’s this whole twisty time maneuver for that whole sequence of events that’s really interesting

A super secret fun fact about me is that I wanted to be a writer when I was younger! So this particular balance of show vs. tell is really neat, since it runs counter to my own tendencies. The sheer amount of commas in every sentence is also kind of comforting, since Ahah, I Do That in those few serious-ish attempts at writing lol

Overall this book’s style reminds me a lot of Roald Dahl’s books, which are very nostalgic for me :D The whole “kids are more competent than adults” angle helps a lot too haha

The Characters

Oh boy here’s where I get a little bit critical! Overall I did really like this book!! it’s just that that expresses itself in all this weird “”analysis”” lol

Reynie - much better in the books than in the show

It’s sort of a lukewarm take but I feel like show!Reynie is kind of boring? He doesn’t have a lot going on flaw-wise, and obviously since he’s the protagonist he can’t have too many weird traits or else the kids watching can’t project themselves onto him as easily

(I call it the difference between an aspirational protagonist and a vessel protagonist. Going off of the Roald Dahl vibes, think Matilda vs Charlie. show!Reynie is more of a Charlie)

Thus when we get to see him really struggle with the Whisperer and doubt himself it gives him a lot more dimension, at least in my opinion

It is a federal crime that the white knight scenes were not adapted into the show

Sticky - my son

I’ve long held to no one besides myself and my long suffering sister that Sticky is The Best Member of the Society

He happened to hit a lot of the Bingo squares of Stuff I Like In Characters: glasses, anxious, nice :), kind of a coward but ultimately is there for his friends, etc

For some reason I don’t talk about him nearly as much as you-know-who, but I love him just as dearly

Kate & Constance - I don’t have much to say

Kate is really interesting in this book! I like how we get to see more of her depths, in particular that one passage about her belief that she is invincible being the only thing that keeps her from falling apart? :c

Also her constant fidgeting is relatable lol

Constance is somehow a lot more tolerable in the book. I think I’m just one of those people with no patience for small children, unfortunately lol

(Some of) The Adults

It’s interesting that they had such an offscreen presence for most of the book. Giving them more time was probably one of the stronger changes of the show

However if that decision was made at the expense of the white knight scenes I think the choice should have been clear

I like the way Rhonda and Number Two are written

Milligan always on sad boy hours 😔✊

The “mill again” passage is touching but kind of messes up the pacing of the getaway, at least for me. Maybe I should read it again to make sure I didn’t miss something

Miss Perumal is much better in the show. We see so little of her in the book she doesn’t function well as an emotional anchor for Reynie, imo

The Institute Gang

Jackson and Jillson serve their purpose well, and Martina was surprising to say the least. I like the direction they took her in the show! I can’t imagine how funny it must have been to watch the tetherball subplot come out of nowhere lolol

These sections were written out of sequence, so random tidbit I couldn’t fit in The S.Q. Section: I like how he stumbles over his words. relatable

Mr. Curtain

While I think I know why they decided to not give Curtain the wheelchair in the show, we were totally robbed of Actor Tony Hale’s performance for the reveal during the final confrontation

Speaking of the wheelchair, it’s such a powerful symbol of his need for control or rather, his fear of losing it

The Contrast between him and Mr. Benedict. This point is expanded on in A Funny Parallel

Mr. Benedict

Oh boy, Mr. Benedict… How do I say this

I find it hard to trust Mr. Benedict, unfortunately

I mean to say, I do in the sense that I know he would never hurt the kids, thanks to knowing that a) this is a children’s book series and b) the meta (tumblr) states that he is really nice and lovable and stuff, but seriously. Why do the kids trust him at first?? I probably missed something somewhere

I like to think I’m an optimistic person, but unfortunately I’m also super paranoid. The premise of “a bunch of vulnerable orphans team up with a strange old man” is just so odd to me I don’t know how to explain it

I don’t know!!! I really want to trust Mr. Benedict

One of the strengths of the show is that we get to see him more often, and thus he gets to acknowledge more often that the plan is weird and that he feels really badly for putting the kids in danger and that he’s trustworthy and genuine

But his lack of presence for most of the book just makes him into something of a specter, invisible and unknowable, speaking only in riddles from across the bay

Which is why the white knight scene is so important!! I loved that scene ;-;

Because here’s an actual emotional connection! We can actually see it happening, rather than only being told that it exists

Reynie asking for advice and receiving encouragement, in words that demonstrate that Mr. Benedict actually cares about him and worries about him and agghh

It is a federal crime that the white knight scenes were not adapted into the show

But overall this whole issue didn’t ruin my enjoyment of the book at all! It’s just ->

A Funny Parallel

Okay, ready for my biggest brain, hottest take ever??

Mr. Benedict and Mr. Curtain…. are… the same

I mean obviously not entirely, given that one is benevolent and kind and the other is… Mr. Curtain

But seriously. Genius old man seeks out children (mainly orphans) to enact a plan. Said children often end up incredibly devoted to his cause and deeply admire him this is a little flimsy

Undoubtedly that’s intentional and is supposed to show the difference between them, like some kind of cautionary tale? “Let yourself be vulnerable and let others help you, lest you turn eeeeviiillll”

I guess that’s where the aforementioned epic contrast comes in. You get Mr. Curtain, strapped into his wheelchair and hiding behind those mirrored sunglasses, terrified (but unwilling to admit it) of ever showing the tiniest hint of vulnerability, vs. Mr. Benedict, who can let himself fall knowing that someone will catch him :’)

Anyhow I have nothing against the parallels, I just think it’s funny

The S.Q. Section

The S.Q. Quarantine Thread so it doesn’t leak out everywhere else <3

I’d like to meet the emo angstlord genius who read this book and decided to make SQ into Dr. Curtain’s son. What in the world

Okay I should probably preface this by saying that I absolutely adore both book!S.Q. and show!SQ with all my heart. Somehow, despite being a completely different character in both mediums, he has managed to be one of the best characters in either and certainly one of my favorites (besides Sticky of course) in the entire franchise, despite the fact that I’ve only read the first book/watched the show so far. I am confident in this statement.

But seriously! How?? Why?? I could probably write a whole other essay about why show!SQ is such an interesting character, and the change works so incredibly well. I’m just. Baffled

Okay, focus. book!S.Q. is such a sweetheart, oh my goodness. Like, 100% one of the most endearing characters in the book. Poor guy. I don’t even know where to start!!

He just seems to be a genuinely good guy at heart, despite being technically one of the bad guys. He’s genuinely happy for Reynie and Sticky when they became Messengers and helped Kate when she “fell” and was concerned about Constance when she looked sick and how he was in that meeting with Mr. Curtain and Martina?!!? aaahhhhghgh ;-; he just wants people to be happy TT-TT

Comparing him against literally every character at the Institute is probably what makes him so endearing tbh. When everyone else is so awful to the kids, it really makes him stand out. Like a cheerful little nightlight in the worst, most humid and rank bathroom you’ve ever been in

It’s kind of pointless to theorize about a book series that’s already concluded (I think?) but. Is the implication of S.Q.’s forgetfulness supposed to be that Mr. Curtain used him in brainsweeping experiments somehow? The timeline probably definitely absolutely doesn’t line up but like. How did he get to being a Messenger being the way he is now, given how cutthroat the process is? And then of course Mr. Curtain keeps him around as an Executive because he’s fun to mess with and presumably his loyalty. I’m very curious as to how their relationship develops in the other books, if at all. Those are probably where the seeds of the “let’s make them family” logic were planted

But wouldn’t it be hilarious if the reason we don’t know what “S.Q.” stands for in the books is that he just. Forgot

Another thing that occurred to me. Given that he and the other Executives were Messengers at some point, what were their worst fears? What is S.Q.’s worst fear?? Inquiring minds need to know

One last horrible little anecdote: I was thinking about book!S.Q. while eating breakfast, as one does, and suddenly it hit me.

I want to believe The Author Trenton Lee Stewart had the name for a character, S.Q. Pedalian, and was like, “Hm! What sort of quirky trait should this young fellow have?” Because, of course, in this style of fiction every character has to have at least one cartoonish or otherwise distinguishing trait to stand out in the minds of children. (For instance, Kate has her bucket, Sticky has his glasses, Constance is angry, and Reynie is Emmett from the Lego Movie)

Anyhow, he looks around the room, searching for inspiration. Suddenly he comes across a jumbo box of plastic wrap. Completely innocuous in design, save for one line of text. 300 SQ FT.

“…large… S.Q. …feet? THAT’S IT!” i’m sorry

Lines & Scenes I Liked

In no particular order!

Sticky quotes Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Evil combination aerobics/square dancing in the gym with the Executives

Everyone being happy at the end :’)

Everyone partying after Sticky reunites with his parents, and later finding Mr. Benedict asleep at his desk from the moment they shook hands :’’)

Literally any scene with Sticky in it

Any time Kate says “you boys” or “gosh”

[“Um, sir?” S.Q. said timidly, raising his hand. “A thought just occurred to me.” / Mr. Curtain raised his eyebrows. “That’s remarkable, S.Q. What is it?”] clown prince of my heart </3

S.Q.’s determined monologue about searching for clues after he bungled up the first time

Literally any scene with S.Q. in it (please refer to The S.Q. Section)

Reynie trying to resist the Whisperer.

[Let us begin. / First let me polish my spectacles, Reynie thought. / Let us begin. / Not without my bucket, Reynie insisted. He heard Mr. Curtain muttering behind him. / Let us begin, let us begin, let us begin. / Rules and schools are tools for fools, Reynie thought.]

NO MORE HURTIN’ WITH CURTAIN

Milligan showing up on the island!!

Remember the white knight hhhhhh

“controle”

A Super Secret Bonus Section

I would be extremely surprised if anyone read through all the way down here lol. Regardless, here’s a little acknowledgements section :D not tagging anyone since I don’t want to bother all of these people

Special shoutout to tumblr blog stonetowns for unknowingly yet singlehandedly demolishing my reluctance to read the books by posting a ton of cute quotes. Thank you for your service o7

Thanks to the two OGs that liked the post I made right before this one, for being my unwitting enablers and for sticking around despite being a) technically an internet stranger (hello!) and b) someone I haven’t spoken to irl in literal years (hey!!)

Last but not least thankz 2 my sister for putting up with me ranting about the book when I first got it and for asking about “CQ” sometimes lol. (i desperately hope you’re not reading this orz)

#the mysterious benedict society #this took me like three days to finish rip #it’s worked though! i feel less of a Mighty Need to think about this stuff constantly now #however!!! today through some conniving i have gotten the Second Book #now I’m at 3 out of 4 infinity stones. muahahaha #was going to include my villain origin story about why i like show!SQ so much but cut it for being too long and irrelevant. however #if the words jeff naomi and Sweet Dreams are Made of These mean anything to you please hit me up. it’s kind of a funny story

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t-o-m-hollands · 4 years ago

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PARIS PART II of III

Warnings: Swearing, heavy drinking, smut. +18.

SUMMARY: Timmy is an artist living in Paris in the 1950′s. You come to him to model for a painting but you have an unusual demand for the artist.

R E A D P A R T O N E H E R E

1st of October, 1952 - Paris.

It’s Tuesday and Timothée is tired. It’s 1 in the afternoon but his head is still aching from last night. It's been seven months since you left Paris, and somehow, life has gone on.

The sun is shining mercilessly bright and he wishes he was back in his studio, so he could hide from it. But it’s a place he spends as little amount of time as possible in as of late. Instead he’s sitting on a bench just below Sacré-Cœur, wearing last night's clothes, a mess of curls framing his tired face. In one hand a cigarette and in the other a freshly printed copy of the Tatler. On the front page is your face, radiantly beautiful, in a wedding dress and veil, diamonds in your ears and diamonds on your head. Next to you is your Freddie, looking straight at the camera, unnecessarily smug; or so Timothée thinks. Inside the magazine there’s an entire montage in the happy couples’ honor, complete with exclusive pictures from the high-society occasion.

“Dubbed the wedding of the season this intimate affair took place on a drizzly September morning between baron Freddie Fairfax and his blushing new bride. Freddie, who is the son of the 9th Earl of Abington, was overheard by some guest remarking over the beauty of his new bride, who was wearing a bone-white couture gown signed Christian Dior and accessorized with a diadem, an heirloom of the Fairfax family that has been in their possession for generations and borrowed to the bride on this special occasion. The nuptials were exchanged in St Margaret’s Church, gloriously decorated with bunches and bunches of yellow chrysanthemums, aconites and white lilies, in front of an audience including representants from most of the royal households of Europe and the English social elite. The reception took place at the Earls 25,000 acres estate in Oxfordshire and upon arrival the guest were served ice cold”

Timothée stops reading and throws the magazine down on the bench. For a long time he sits there, watching as people climb their way up the stairs to the church, and smoking cigarette after cigarette until his throat feels sore. It’s a fine October day, the air crisp and clean. The leaves on the trees changing from emerald green to vibrant shades of orange and yellow. Some have already fallen to the ground. A melancholic part of him, the majority in fact, can’t help but to think of it as a metaphor of his life. He’d met you and the entire world had seemed in bloom. Now it was rapidly fading.

Someone sits down beside him on the bench, but he ignores them, mind too far away to care.

“You are monsieur Chalamet, I presume”. With a startle he looks at the person next to him. It’s an elderly lady, possibly in her 80’s, with hair in a sophisticated updo, burgundy lips and sparkling eyes. She’s clothed in an expensive fur coat and with diamonds on every finger. He suddenly feels dirty in his unwashed clothes.

“Yes madam, and who are you if I may ask?” he answers politely.

“Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright” she introduces herself, stretching out her heavily bejeweled hand. He shakes the elderly woman’s hand. It feels strangely cold in his.

“And what can I do for you, madam?”

She doesn’t answer at first but looks down on the magazine between them. “Pretty, isn’t she?” she asks. He doesn’t answer at first, doesn’t know what to say to that. “Yes, very pretty” he answers at last.

“It was a terrible wedding” she continues. “Terrible”.

“And how do you know the bride?” He asks, feeling rather uncomfortable

“She’s my grandniece” she says and looks up at him again, studying his face. “She lived with me for a period, here in Paris. I believe you know one another?”

He doesn’t answer her question, knows she already knows the answer to it, instead he asks “and why was the wedding so terrible?”

“Oh” she says and swats with her hand, but there’s a look of worry on her face he can’t look past. “When the bride’s wearing the wrong dress, or the bridesmaids won’t behave, or the food’s terrible, well those are all things one expects at a wedding. But when the bride marries the wrong groom, well, that’s not quite as easily overlooked. Then you find yourself actually praying for an ill-fitted gown instead”.

He stares at her in confusion. “What do you mean, the wrong groom?”

She observers him with shrewd eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Madam, with all due respect, I not sure what you want with me” he says slowly. He finds himself wondering if maybe he’s still asleep and this is a strange dream produced by too much absinthe. If he’ll perhaps wake up in a ditch soon, with a hangover from hell.

“But don’t worry” she says with a kind smile “We can still fix this”.

He wonders if he should leave, for this is not a conversation he wants to have, especially not with a complete stranger. But despite himself he says “there’s nothing to fix”.

Then she takes him by surprise, for she grabs the magazine from the bench and hits his arm with it, not hard, but enough to get a reaction out of him. “Ow!” he bursts out, “what was that for?”

“For you to get a grip of yourself! Don’t be so defeatist, I told you we can fix this. You still love her and she loves you, not that absolute buffoon”.

“It’s too late, she’s already married him. And I'm over it” he lies, trying to keep on to some kind of dignity in this bizarre situation.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you haven’t moved on from any of it, I know an idiot in love when I see one, and you’re it”.

“Gee, thanks” he mutters, rubbing the sore spot where she hit him with the magazine.

“Now, what are we going to do? Are you going after her?”

He stares at her in disbelief, “no, she’s married, I told you, it’s too late”.

“Do I need to use this again?” she threatens and holds up the magazine, but there’s a humorous gleam in her eyes that makes him smile.

“Why are you trying to help me?” He asks.

“Well, quite frankly dahling, I'm not trying to help you. But that girl, my dahling niece, is miserable.” There’s sadness now in her old eyes and something twists uncomfortably in Timothée’s chest.

“It’s that bloody women's fault, her mother!” She bursts out, taking him aback. The venom in her voice almost palpable, “She’s whispering ideas of self-sacrifice in her ear. Not that her father’s any better – defeatist! That’s the only word to describe him! Never could fight for himself. To think that my dahling sister could have given birth to such a fool. And now my grandniece...” she trails off, sadness in her voice again.

“Now your grandniece has a title and is married to one of the richest people in England.” He states firmly.

She throws the magazine down on the bench again and swats her hand in front of her, as if to get rid of a particularly annoying fly, and the diamonds on her hand sparkle in the sun. “Yes, but it’s not what she wants. Is it? What she wants is, well, it’s you.”

There’s something so penetrating about her eyes and the way she looks at him. Crinkled and full of wrinkles her face may be but those shrew eyes shine bright as ever. They are very familiar eyes, a strong remembrance to another pair of eyes that haunt his dreams. He looks away,

“But she did decide to marry him, that was her decision. Doesn’t mean I don’t understand it, but there’s where we’re at. There’s nothing to be done.”

“I saw the painting you made of her” She says in a voice that make him think she’s fishing after something and in the corner of his eyes he can see her inspecting him. He lights a new cigarette and avoids her eyes. “The one with yellow tulips?” she adds, making it sound like a question.

“’s just a painting” he mumbles, feigning nonchalance.

She continues to observe him before sighing. Then, she pats him on his arm and in a gentle tone she says “we both know that’s not quite true”.

And suddenly he wants to weep. Weep in a way he hasn’t since he was a child. Without holding back, without grace or shame. Weep, and subject the poison from his body. But he doesn’t. Clenching his hands around the rim of the bench with all of his strength he manages to keep the storm at bay. Only when he feels he has his emotions locked up and under control does he look at her again. Her familiar eyes, full of sympathy, observes him and something inside his chest is screaming.

“Could I paint you, madam?” he asks with a smile, to lighten the mood.

She throws her head back in laughter. “Oh, how sweet of you, but I'm afraid my modelling days are far behind me. But if you ever need something, a listening ear or” and she looks at his dirty clothes “or perhaps a loan, then feel free to keep in touch.”

She gently pats his shoulder, then gets up and leaves.

February 12th, 1953

In a dimly lit club in Pigalle Timothée is writing a letter. Smoke surrounds him and the dim light shining through gives the illusion of a halo around his head. It’s a bad place to conduct letters in. People around him are cheering and talking, singing and howling with laughter while a modern band plays experimental jazz. It is rowdy, and it is wild, and it’s the perfect distraction.

It’s a shabby sort of place, where the floors are sticky with god knows what, the music is loud and the liquor comes cheap. Timothée thinks it’s heaven.

A man sits down next to him in the bar and orders a Gin Rickey.

“Terrible, aren’t they?” He questions in a broad American accent, gesturing toward the band as the bartender hands him his drink. Timothée nods in agreement and gestures with his empty glass to the bartender, implying need of a refill of his whiskey neat. The barman catches his gesture and pour him a new glass of Glenlivet and hands it to him just as the band begin a new tune.

“Hardly Duke Ellington” he says to the stranger and nods to the scene. He folds the unfinished letter and puts it in his pocket for later. The other man snorts in response, “that’s putting it kindly” he says, amusement in his voice. Timothée takes a good look at the stranger. He looks to be about his own age and is wearing a nice grey suit and hat tilted to the side. With a square jaw, a tall stature and piercingly blue eyes he could pass for a movie star. Lighting a cigarette, the man then offers one to Timothée, who gladly accepts the offer in a gratified manner. He’s been running low on his own stash these last few days.

They start talking. Discussing the differences in American and French jazz, the best drinking holes in Paris and who really is the great American writer. Timothée claim it’s Hemingway (“mark my words, he’ll win a Nobel price one of these days) whereas the stranger argues for F. Scott Fitzgerald (“the way he writes about the promise of the American dream, no one can rival Fitzgerald” he proclaims and Timmy wants to argue that surely he writes about the failed promise of the American dream, but they move on to a less dividing topic). The discuss bourbon and whiskey and rum as the bartender refill their glasses and the liquor no longer burns his throat and his eyes have adjusted to the smoke in the room as they mindlessly chat on. Timmy finds out that the strangers name is William and that he’s originally from California though went to boarding school in ‘good ol’ England’ but that he’s spent the last year in New York. Also, that he’s just separated from his wife. Timmy in turn tells him of his own life in broad strokes, his American mother and French father, art school and life as a painter in Paris. A few drinks later still and they get a hold of an old, wooden table at the far back of the room and so they cross the room, avoiding collision with the dancers, all in various states of drunkenness, and they begin a game of cards. The jazz band plays on.

William turns out to be quite the gambler and Timothée, who’s been walking around for months now with a feeling that he has nothing more to lose, can’t help but bet on the few things he has. They laugh and play and share stories of their youth while the jazz band play louder and louder. Perhaps the good company and distracting surroundings goes to his head, because a couple games in and Timmy is indebted to the American. He has had a bad hand overall as of late and he tells his opponent as much. The man in turn laughs and leans back in his chair, his cards in one hand and a cigar in the other. He takes a long drag from it before blowing out smoke across the space between them. Around them people dance to the chaotic music.

“Hell, I’m feeling generous tonight and you’ve been good company. Not many people I can talk to here in France, my French is terrible. So, you’re a painter, how about a painting, then? And I’ll write the whole thing off.” he suggests and smiles broadly.

Timothée hesitates. His apartment has been unusually empty of paintings as of late. The few ones he had he sold just last week in order to meet rent. Inspiration to paint new ones had not been with him. Not since you left. Everything he had managed to paint had come out drained of colour and bleak and he ended up losing interest in it.

He only has one painting left. But he couldn't, could he?

“Alright” Timmy agrees. Because what choice does he have? Maybe it’s time to put this ghost to rest, once and for all. Your gone and no wishful thinking or practices in gratefulness can change that simple fact. You’re married and there’s nothing he can do about it, despite madame Marguerite’s words of your misery ringing in his ears. There’s nothing he can do to save you now. You’ve made your choice, and all there is now is the aftermath. The post mortem. You have to live with that decision and so does he. Even if he doesn’t want to. So, why should he keep the painting? The baron got to keep the real you after all, and the only thing he has is the picture of you. A picture that can’t talk or laugh, can’t smile or play with his hair or touch him or dance to Chopin or lecture him about classical music. A painted image that he has stared himself blind at for these past few months, grieving that he cannot bring it to life, while the baron got the real you.

His unfinished letter burns in his pocket but he ignores it.

And so they leave, on unsteady legs and heads swirling with liquor, and the jazz band plays them out to their worst tune yet as they exchange the smoky club air for a cold night’s breeze.

“Fuck” William mutters as they enter the night. “Fucking freezing” he adds and shivers in his nice suit. “No worry” Timothée slurs “not far”. They stumble their way across the cobblestoned streets. “You damn Frenchmen” the other man mutters after some distance, “always got to fucking walk everywhere, taxis where invented tor a reason, you know!” Timmy snorts and points to a building just a couple of meters away. “Live there, yeah?”

And with a lot of effort they help each other up the stairs to the loft. Once inside William asks if there’s any brandy, for ‘recovery purposes after their hellish journey’ and so, they drink some more. They start discussing politics, a bad idea all around, before venturing into the less dividing topic of French cinema. It’s not long after that they’ve both fallen asleep, William slung on the sofa, his long limbs hanging over the edge, and Timothée’s sprawled out on the carpet, the bottle of brandy clutched firmly in his hand. (For recovery purposes.)

A few hours later and Timmy’s hurling down the toilet. He wants to check his head for bullet holes, that’s how bad it’s aching. After having cleaned up, although there’s nothing to be done about the mess of curls that is his hair, he joins the American in his living room.

William is sitting up on the sofa, but it looks very much as if he’s just woken up, hair a mess and a 5 o'clock shadow, his expensive suit all wrinkles now. The sun is shining mercilessly bright and its rays lights up the room as he rubs his eyes. “Coffee?” he requests in a gruff voice. Timothée nods, before realizing that any movement of the head is a terrible idea as pain shots through it.

“What a fucking night” William mutters some time later as they drink their coffee. “And I’ve got a meeting with the lawyers this afternoon, not the sort of thing one should do hungover.”

“Oh yeah?” is all Timothée manages to get out, head still too sore to put any thoughts together.

“Yeah, divorce proceedings”

“Rotten business” Timmy states and the other man laughs. “Rotten business, indeed” he agrees and cheer him with his mug of coffee. “Still, a necessity that must be endured.” He looks around the loft. “But I’ll have a new painting to hang in my bachelor pad, that’s something to write home about!” he says, more cheerful now.

And fuck, he’d forgotten that part.

Feeling nauseous again he puts down his coffee cup. “Yeah, you’ll have a new painting” he agrees, mostly to fill the silence.

“Haven’t seen any of your work yet though” William considers. “You might be shit. My five-year-old niece might be a better painter, and I’ve just promised to write off your debts to me” he adds and laughs. Timmy gets up, there’s no putting this off. “I’ll go get it and you’ll decide” he says and heads for his bedroom.

The paintings leaned against the wall. He doesn’t turn it, doesn’t want to see it one last time. There’s not enough brandy in the world for that recovery. Something inside his chest is rioting against the very idea of handing the picture over to anyone else, but he pushes down the feeling of nausea and heads back to the living room, canvas clutched firmly in his hands.

“Well” he says and holds it up, so the other man can see. “Here’s your winnings”.

William looks up at it and then, the strangest thing happens. His entire being freezes, his mouth ajar, stuck mid-movement as he had begun to say something before having seemingly been struck by lightning. Bells are ringing alarmingly in Timothée’s head, going off like sirens. Somethings wrong.

He observes Williams glossy eyes taking in the portrait in front of him, mouth still agog in chock. He places to painting on the dingy little table but William still doesn’t take his eyes off it. He gets up slowly and walks over to the painting, as if in a trance, like a man bewitched, and he reaches out a hand to touch the painting and with hesitant fingers he gently touches your cheek. The nude portrait of you, the one Timothée had painted on the day that you left him, posing slung on the very same sofa William’s just slept on.

And it hits him then, like a collision.

That this is William. The William. The man who broke your engagement and sailed across the Atlantic with his new bride. A bride he’s apparently already separated from.

“How, how-” William begins but he seems unable to finish the sentence.

A sudden feeling of being a side character in somebody else’s story settles inside of Timothée. Words like destiny and star-crossed comes to mind as he observes the other man and his wide, wild eyes, the way he looks at the painting in absolute wonder.

“Is, is she still here? Is she still in Paris?” and his voice is weak but full of hope. Slowly Timothée shakes his head. “She’s left.” He confirms, and the crushing disappointment is so clear in the other man’s face that it feels cruel to continue, but he does. “She’s married now. To a baron”.

William’s head snaps away from the painting for the first time since he saw it. “Freddie?” He asks, voice bitter and Timmy nods. “That fucker” he swears “he always was sniffing after her” he adds resentfully. He looks back at the painting and his expression soften, but he looks sadder too.

“That’s why you came here, isn’t?” Timothée asks hesitantly. “To look for her?”

William nods, seemingly unable to look away from the picture. He reaches for it and an overwhelming urge to stop him, to remove the painting from his sight washes over Timothée. To hand this portrait of you away to a stranger had seemed like a sad but unavoidable thing to do. But to give it away in due for his debts to your ex fiancé… It felt dirty and cruel.

But what choice did he have?

And so, he watches William take the painting and watches him leave with the only thing he has left of you.

Because Timothée is 26 and he still hasn’t got any money. And he can’t compete with handsome William, or to Freddie the baron. Because Timothée is 26 and all he’s got to show for it is an apartment he can’t afford anymore and a broken heart.

He runs to the bathroom and hurls in the toilet again, unable to ignore the feeling of nausea and guilt any longer.

That night you come to him in his dreams. Like a vision you appear at the end of his bed, drenched in water. White, wet silk clenching to your body, hair slicked to your face and such a haunted look in your eyes that he involuntarily reaches out for you, to hold you, to help you, to save you. He’s not quite sure. But before he can reach you the scenario changes. Because suddenly – as is the way of dreams, you’re the Tate museum watching John Everett Millais Ophelia. Your standing next to him, water dripping from your drenched body down on the floor. He looks at you, but you keep your eyes on the painting.

And when he looks back at it, it’s no longer a portrait of Ophelia lying dead in the water. It’s you.

He wakes with a jolt, drenched in cold sweat, gasping for air. It feels like he has to force fresh air into his lungs, like he’s been under water for too long. He feels around himself, automatically, to feel for your body, make sure you’re safe.

Bur you are miles away.

February 14th, 1953

Timothée writes a new letter.

It’s 5 am and I'm drunk and I am thinking of you and in a few hours it’ll be 12 am and I'll be drunk and I'll be thinking of you. And so the story goes.

I met your William, charming bloke, shame about his wife. He came here looking for you, you know? Don’t worry, I told him you got married to a baron. Your wedding pictures looked lovely in the Tatler, by the way. Diamonds suits you.

I haven’t painted much since you left. I have no inspiration. For anything.

You know, we've made a beating heart out of my pain. It’s a living, breathing creature and it walks with me everywhere, hidden somewhere under my ribcage. Like a second heart. Where I go it follows. What I feel for you, it’s a Frankenstein's monster kind of grief, bits and pieces cut out from us both, turned into a living creature. Can you hear it beating for you? Can you hear it screaming out for you? Saying ‘where did she go? Where did she go? Why can’t I follow?’ Like a child begging for its mother. Come back, come back and collect your second heart, take it out of my body, remove it from me, I cannot stand its begging. I'd kill the monster, but it’s the only thing I have left of you now. Don’t think I could stomach the loss.

I’m not the same I was before I met you. This love has made a different man out of me. This love has made a bitter man out of me. This love sure feels a lot like drowning. In my dreams you come to me, all Ophelia-esque and suffering, and I want to pull both our bodies out of the water, but you’re determined to sink and I don’t want to let go of your hand and so – we drown.

I know it’ll pass, this longing I have for you. It must. I cannot keep walking these streets wrecked with grief. One day at a time. That’s what I tell myself each morning as a watch the sun rise over Paris, my head and heart pounding in revolt, one day at a time.

There’s a Swedish saying that goes ‘a lot of water shall run under a lot of bridges before I forget you’. What it essentially means is that it’ll take a lot for me to forget you, or the way you made me feel.

But I'm sorry. One mustn’t be morbid. I won’t write you again. I’ve tried to be grateful; I am trying. I hope married life is treating you well. I hope you’ve gotten all you ever wished for. I hope you’re happy. I honestly do. You deserve the best life has to offer. I’m just sad I can’t be the one giving it to you. Being without you is a hard thing to be grateful for.

One day at a time.

Yours,

Timothée

The next morning, he calls the model agency. Later, just as his headache is subsiding, a blonde model named Lucy knocks on his door. She’s chatty and friendly and moves around too much when he paints her. Her laugh is loud but childlike and she keeps the conversation going. He plays a Benny Goodman record and her hips gently swing along to the rhythm almost involuntarily and she sings along in a sweet voice to ‘The Sunny Side of the Street’.

Outside the sun is shining and the whole world seems at rest. It’s not the same – God knows it’s not the same – but for the first time in months it all seems, not alright perhaps, but bearable.

Later that night as he washes himself clean from the yellow paint that’s stained his fingers, he tries to push the feeling of guilt down from where it seems to be stuck in his throat. When that doesn’t work he tries to wash it down with absinth but as he lays down on the livingroom floor, too tired to make it into the bedroom, he watches the golden painting of Lucy gleam even in the dark, he wonders if perhaps absinth is what makes guilt grow.

1st of Mars, 1953

Timothée wakes to sunlight streaming in through the large and unwashed windows. For a long while he lays there completely still, sprawled out on the white linen sheets, curly hair draped over the pillow; trying to force his eyes to get used to the light. His head is pounding, and his body aches, but the sensation feels as familiar as the scent of turpentine and oil paint. Slowly he moves his limbs, first wiggling his toes and his hands; as if to count them all, and then, with monumental strength of character, he gets out of bed. Naked as the day he was born he walks over to the window. Far down on the street Paris is already awake, cars and passer-byers chasing down the streets. Some have changed out of their heavy, winter jackets to lighter coats as the bustle off to their individual destination.

It is the first day of spring.

He turns away from the window, in search for some clothes but stop in his tracks. As if seeing the room with new eyes he takes it in. Around the bed lay bottle after bottle of liquor, the sheets are old and dirty, the room hasn’t been dusted in months, and various pieces of clothing lay scattered everywhere.

He can’t go on like this. It’s time, whether he wants it to be or not. He has to go on.

He pours down the absinthe, the rum, the whiskey and the brandy down the kitchen sink and watches as it disappears. He cleans and wipes the floor, washes his sheets and clothes and then carefully folds them and puts them away in his closet. He finishes his painting of Lucy and then starts on another. He calls his delighted art dealer and informs him of the progress, tells him that he’ll have more ones in no time. He then swallows his pride and calls madam Marguerite, asking for the loan she offered. Pride won’t keep him warm if he loses the apartment due to not paying rent. She too sounds delighted and tells him he can pay her back by coming over for dinner. They both need the company.

And so, he walks to her apartment, a bouquet of daffodils in hand, smelling like clean laundry and with his newly brushed hair it all feel an awful lot like going to church. Upon arriving at Marguerite’s home, a maid opens the door for him and he tries not to smile when she wrinkles her nose and takes his old and patchy coat. The apartment is palace-like in grandeur, white marble everywhere, and decorated with expertise. She leads him into the lounge and announces him.

“Mr. Chalamet, madam”.

“Yes, thank you Louise” Marguerite answers and the maid leaves them.

“A cocktail?” she asks, holding up an empty martini glass. He politely accepts and looks around the room as she prepares it. “Is that a Picasso?” he asks astonished, pointing at a blue portrait of a woman on the wall opposite.

“Yes” she says and hands him a martini.

“How- how?”

She smiles at him indulgently. “I knew him in my youth” she explains and takes a sip from her own drink. He stares at her in amazement. “You know Pablo Picasso?”

She scoffs. “Oh, don’t be jealous of that, man’s an absolute fool”.

And so, they talk, all through drinks and then dinner. About art and music. About both of their childhoods, different though they both may have been. She tells him stories from her long and impressive life. About dahling Humphrey. After dinner, which had been a superb affair of duck confit; served on the finest of porcelain and paired with the finest of wines, they’d gone out on the terrace for drinks and smokes. He sticks to his old Lucky Strikes and she to imported Russian cigarettes, (a habit she’d picked up during the war, she’d told him).

“Darling Humprey would have liked you, he would have rooted for you” she says and leans back in her chair, a Hermès blanket in her lap to keep her warm.

“Oh really? Was he a good gambler?”

“Oh god no, he was terrible better. And a sore loser.” she says and smiles in the fond way she does when she thinks of her late husband.

“How reassuring for me” he says dryly.

“Dahlinh” she begins in a drawl that would have made Betty Davis proud, “what should be reassuring is that I’m fighting in your corner, and I don’t believe in a losing hand”. Then, changing the subject she says “My niece is quite right you know, your knowledge of classical music is subpar, so I'm educating you. Next week, I'll take you to the opera.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, indeed. Gianni Schicchi. I have a spare ticket so feel free to bring someone along with you”.

“Puccini?” he says with a grimace.

“Now boy, I'm fond of you but if you say bad word of Puccini I will throw you of this balcony myself”.

He smiles, but she reminds him so much of her grandniece in this moment and something in his chest is calling out for you

Later that week he calls Lucy and they go out dancing. He doesn’t take her to Pigelle, wants to keep away from its smoke-filled rooms and sticky floors. Escapism isn’t heaven. Not anymore. Instead he takes her to La Noyade, a nice place where nice people go to have fun. And they dance, and she makes him laugh and it’s not world-altering or butterfly-inducing but it’s a good way to pass the time. They mindlessly chat about movies, and music and film stars over glasses of Champagne and they never once wade into personal territories. She wears a nice and tight dress in a sunny color, her golden blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, and as he watches her seductively move her hips to the live band's music, he finds himself thinking ‘why not?’ And when she kisses him with painted-pink lips under a streetlamp he kisses her back. Because why not. And when he takes her to bed that night and fucks her into the mattress, her moans ringing in his ears, and her yellow hair sprawled over his pillows he nearly manages to forget you.

Nearly.

He holds her as she falls asleep and he tries to get used to the unfamiliar scent of her hair, the unfamiliarity of her body next to his. One day at a time.

(In his dreams you come to him, through the haze of a misty beach. You take his hand and guide him into a boat. And there you lay, as the boat drifts away and you watch the stars. You hold him close, and breathing feels easier. The rioting creature inside his chest finally at ease.)

Walking of the stairs of L'Opéra Garnier one can’t help feel anything but small. The supreme grandeur of the palace is designed to make you feel inferior after all. The high ceiling, gloriously painted by Isidore Pils, is enough to knock the breath out of anyone, and then white marble and gold for as far as the eye can see.

Timothée is wearing a tuxedo, the cheap rental kind, and the collar hasn’t been starched properly. It itches, and he fights the urge to scratch at his neck, and so he keeps his hand occupied by taking Lucy’s hand in his, and they make their way forward.

They make their way down the grand foyer. All around them people are dressed up to the nine’s in evening dresses, furs and tuxedos and more diamonds than he’s seen in his entire life, and god, Timothée misses Montmartre. Through the crowd he can see madam Marguerite, fitting her surroundings perfectly.

“Madam” he greets and kisses her cheek.

“Timothée” she responds, and she sounds fond. However, before he can introduce Lucy to her Marguerite looks over his shoulder and excitingly exclaims “Oh, there you are darling!” Without thinking he turns around to look at whomever Marguerite is greeting.

His body reacts before he does and goes completely still and for a moment he doesn’t understand what’s happening to him.

It’s you.

With your hair up in an eloquent hairdo, wearing a black velvet gown that he bets costs more than his apartment, and diamonds around your neck, you’re walking towards them. Arm in arm with you walks a man Timothée recognizes from the Tatler, Freddie, with blond hair and upturned nose. He’s certainly not wearing rental wear. “Timothée?” you ask in a weak voice as you reach him. You’re seemingly unable to believe your eyes. “Is it really you?” And with your painted blood-red lips you lean in to kiss his cheek, but they never touch his skin. You pull away and he sees how Freddie’s arm tightens around your waist.

Then you look at Lucy.

“Oh, yes of course, this is Lucy she’s my, uh” he halters.

“Muse” Lucy fills in and Timothée wants to protest, wants to catch the word midair and change it for something else, something less familiar. But he can’t. So, he watches in silence as she stretches out a hand for you to shake, which you elegantly do and even though you’re politely smiling there’s a frozen look on your face that unsettles him. With effortless grace you introduce yourself.

Then, “and this is my husband, Frederic”. You smile up at him and something inside Timothée chest is wreaking havoc. Freddie looks bored.

“Should we move along?” Freddie says in a drawling, posh voice that makes Timmy’s skin prickle in displeasure.

“Of course” Marguerite says, and leads the way, calling out ‘hello’s’ and ‘dahling’s’ to various familiar faces as she goes. Lucy crosses arms with him and they follow the older women's lead, you and your husband at your heel.

Timothée feels disorientated, head swimming with thoughts. There are too many feelings at once inside of him, too many different emotions fighting for dominance. But somehow, he continues to put one foot in front of the other and before he knows it, they’re in the auditorium. They’re in one of the boxes, and Marguerite places herself front row, next to an elderly gentleman she greets with fond familiarity. In the row behind them Freddie guides his wife and then sits down next to her. He and Lucy take the two seats behind them, Timothée ending up in the seat right behind you. He sees how Freddie leans in to whisper something in your ear, but he can’t hear his words. All he can see is that you stiffen, and slowly shake your head.

He looks at you, you’re perfect updo, not a hair out of place, the immaculately painted lips, the swan-like neck and perfect stiff posture. Your face still with that unsettling frozen look, as if you’ve retracted somewhere far inside yourself and he remembers how you used to dance in his studio, unguarded and free. Laughing and dancing while he painted you. A sudden urge to take your hand grabs hold of him. To take your hand and lead you away from all of this, away from the man sitting down beside you. To loosen your hair and limbs. To take you home and play Chopin and make you laugh again. Erase that frozen, still look from your face.

The lighting dims in the auditorium and then the orchestra begin the dramatic first chords of the opera but Timothée finds it hard to concentrate. Lucy has her eyes set on the stage, her hand on his knee. He feels like a trapped animal.

He thanks his lucky star that it’s at least only a one-act opera he tries to focus on the performances, but his eyes keep moving back to your neck. Your dress is backless and if he reaches out his hand, he could touch your skin. But doesn’t. Knows you wouldn’t want him to.

When O Mio Babbino Caro starts playing he sees how you lean forward, mesmerized by the beautiful voice of the soprano and he smiles, for he remembers you telling him it’s your favorite aria. But he sees how Freddie puts a hand on your arm, making you sit straight again.

‘Huh’ Timothée thinks and looks at your husband, ‘so this is what pure hatred feels like’. He digs his nails into his hand, leaving little half-moon shaped marks.

Eventually the wretched thing ends and after having applauded the performers and the orchestra you all rise up to leave. You turn and look at him and he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch your cheek, tell you how beautiful you are, how brave and wise and kind, and how undeserving the man next to you is. But he doesn’t.

Once outside it’s decided that you and your husband are going back to George V with your aunt for drinks. Politely you invite him and Lucy but he reclines with a bad excuse. He observes you, and even with your perfectly polite manners it’ like you’re walking around half-asleep, still with that frozen look in your face that’s beginning to scare him. And Christ, you’re just so guarded. You bid your goodbyes, and kissing her cheek he thanks Marguerite for the tickets, but when he tries to say goodbye to you, he can see Freddie’s arm tighten around your wait again. So instead of leaning into a kiss on the cheek he politely bows his head and you and in a gentle voice he says “goodbye then, it was nice seeing you again”. You smile back, eyes glossy and for a moment he wonders if you’re about to cry but a moment later you’ve pulled yourself together and politely bids goodbye to Lucy. And then you’re walking away, Freddie’s arm still around your waist.

* The next morning he goes to visit madam Marguerite, a book in hand. Louise lets him in, looking down on him as usual. “Would you like me to mend this, monsieur?” she asks, both sarcasm and contempt clear in her voice, as she looks takes his coat, indicating the big tear in one of the sides. “If you wouldn’t mind” he answers cheekily and walks past her.

Marguerite is sitting on the terrace eating breakfast, Le Monde in front of her. He puts down his copy of Jane Austen’s Emma in front of her.

“There” he says and sits down in the chair opposite her “your literary soulmate”.

She scoffs “Mr. Knightley really isn’t my type”

He rolls his eyes, but smiles fondly at her “No I shouldn’t think so. And I meant Emma, not Mr. Knightley. You and Emma are the same”. “Oh what utter nonsense!” She burst out, indignant, “I’ve never meddled a day in my life!”

Timothée stares at her in disbelief.

“Honestly!” she defends herself “I didn’t know they were coming to Paris until the day before and then, well, it seemed unnecessary to tell you”.

“You should have warned me she’d be there” he says sternly. “If nothing else then because then I wouldn’t have invited Lucy”.

She has the decency to look ashamed. “Oh, I dare say I should have warned you. But I was afraid you’d cancel, and I needed you to see it with your own eyes.”

“See what?”

She looks him dead in the eye then, a grave look, “the change in her, of course”.

He stays silent, doesn’t know what to say, drags his hands through his hair in distress.

“So” she says after a few moments of silence, “what do you make of Freddie?”

“The words princeling comes to mind”.

She observes him for a second, a sceptic look on her face, “I’m sure that’s not the only word that comes to mind”. He can’t help but smile at that, because she’s right. “True, but those are not words I'd use in front of a lady. She bursts out in laugher. “Darlinh, I practically invented swearing, no need to hold back in front of me.”

“What do you think of him?" He asks instead.

She huffs. “I prefer Picasso”. *

14th of Mars, 1953

Timothée is painting. Specks of yellow and gold adorn his hands and white shirt. The afternoon sun is lighting up the room and Chopin is playing for the first time in months on the record player. The knock on the door startles him, and since he was in the process of painting the details of Lucy’s eyes a stroke of dark paint ends up on her eyebrow as his hand jerks in surprise at the sudden noise.

“Fuck” he swears, and with a great deal of annoyance does he go to open the door.

You look surprised as he flings the door open.

“Sorry” you say, apologetically. “Is this an inconvenient time?”

He doesn’t answer, can’t seem to find his voice, just steps aside, inviting you to come in. You do, and move into the studio. He walks after you, seemingly in a daze.

“Drink?” he asks eventually, interrupting the pressing silence.

“Yes please” you answer. He looks at you, your hair is elegantly styled and your wearing another expensive looking dress. You’re not looking at him though, but instead at the golden portrait of Lucy he’s in the process of making. You don’t say anything. There’s still that still look on your face and it unsettles him.

He hands her a glass of gin. “Where’s dear Freddie then?” he asks, in a feigned nonchalant manner as he offers you a cigarette. You step closer to him so that he can light it. You’re so close he can smell your familiar perfume, and feel the heat from your skin. He looks down on you as you try to get the end to gleam. He can count your eyelashes from this distance, see every single feature in your face, every crook and corner. In the beginning, when you had first come to this studio, he had felt obsessed by the idea of painting your perfect likeness. But the closer he looked at you, the more impossible it felt. “Freddie is at a business function. I was not required” you answer and steps away from him, blowing out smoke into the room. “And where’s your muse?” you ask, and there’s a certain amount of resentment in your voice that you can’t seem to keep at bay.

“Right here” he answers simply, looking at you.

“And Lucy?”

“I don’t know” he responds truthfully. “I got your letter” you say, calmly.

Ah,

“Sorry” he says. “Shouldn’t have sent that. I was drunk”.

You keep looking at him, seemingly deep in thought. And before he loses all courage he asks, “may I paint you again? One last time?” “In what colour?” “In all your colours, just as you are” he answers, and then “I don’t have rose-colored glasses when I look at you anymore”. The room goes very still for a moment. “Do you still want me?” you ask, voice small. And with sincerity clear in his voice he answers. “More than ever”.

“No” you say and put down your drink, stubbing out your cigarette in the ashtray. “No, I don’t want you to paint me”.

Something twists painfully in his chest.

“That’s not what I want you to do to me” you continue and step closer.

And then you kiss him.

He grabs hold of you and kisses you back, trying to express every ounce of longing he’s felt since you left into the kiss. But he can tell part of you is holding back. “Don’t do that” he says in a low voice, pulling away from you. His eyes are bright and shining. “If you’re with me, you’re with me. Don’t keep foot out the door. If you’re with me; be with me. If you don’t want to be, then you have to leave. I don’t want you half-heartedly. I understand you can’t stay with me longer than today but if you’re with me then don’t keep your mind on him.” You stare at him, taken aback. “Well?” he asks “is this what you want?” Your answer is a red-hot kiss. Your answer is your hands, trying to tear his shirt off of him. Trying desperately to get your hands on his skin and he wants to cry from the sheer relief of feeling you touch him again. Frantically you’re tearing at his clothes. He grips your hands to stop you. “Slowly” he whispers in your ear. He can tell that you’re worked up from your labored breathing, chest rising and falling quickly, your eyes gleaming as you look up at him. The frozen look finally gone. You look alive again. He can tell that all you want right now is for him to lay you down and fuck you as hard and fast as he can. But he doesn’t want to rush this, knows this is all the time he’s going to get. And he feels like a man living on borrowed time. He kisses you, languidly, and your lips taste like gin. He leads you down, so you’re lying on the soft carpet, hovering above you. For ages all you do is kiss, your hands roaming his body, like you can’t stop touching him. Eventually he starts to remove your clothes, the silky material of your dress soft like water in his hands as he takes it off you, sneaking in kisses all over your body as he does so. You in turn help remove his dress shirt and trousers. Until eventually there’s nothing but air separating you. He looks you directly, deep into your eyes “Sure?” he asks, because he must hear it. Couldn’t live with himself if you ended up regretting this. “Yes” you say, voice barely louder than a whisper, but it doesn’t waver. The last rays of golden sunshine lights up the room and maybe it’s his overactive imagination, but he swears the light forms a halo around your head. He’s prowling over you, settled in-between your legs. He thinks you must see, surely you must see, all the wonder in his eyes that he feels when he looks at you. He kisses your sensitive nipples and you shiver in delight. Your hands in his hair and you move up against him, desperate for him to touch more of you. He bites, nips, licks and sucks your breasts, leaving wet traces as he goes and god, he’s missed this; missed you. The taste and feel of your soft skin, your gasps and moans, your hands tugging at his hair. Some part of him, a particularly cynical part of him, thought he’d must have made it up, that in the aftermath of you leaving his brain had beautified the memories of you until you’d reach almost divine proportions. But it was all real.

He grinds his body against yours, fill his hands with your breast, kisses you everywhere he can. He reaches down a hand to the wetness between your legs. “So wet” he murmurs against your skin “have you been thinking about this all day?” He pushes a finger inside you and you buckle up against him in response. “Mon cœur” he continues as he presses wet kisses against your throat, and adds another finger inside you, touching you with expertise in just the way he knows will send sparks of pleasure all down your spine. He remembers exactly how you like to be touched. “I asked you a question”. “Yes” you moan. He looks down on his fingers, moving in and out of you, glistening with your wetness. “Have you missed it?” he asks, voice low, and he speeds up the pace, his thumb moving over your clit. Your head thrown back you let out a deep moan and in a breathless voice you answer “yes, yes, missed it so much”.

Your hair has fallen out of its elegant hairdo, your cheeks flushed and wet and lips swollen from kisses. You look wild and free.

“I’ve been thinking about this, touching you; fucking you, ever since the opera” he leans down and kisses your clit, fingers still moving inside of you. And then he sucks on it and you explode around his fingers, cramping down around them, hips bucking and moans falling freely from your lips.

He strokes your cheek and kisses your face as he lets you catch your breath. Eventually you start kissing him back, softly at first, then ardently. He so hard he feels he could self-combust but as he lines up at your entrance, he looks you in the eye and asks “sure?”

“Never been more certain” you reply, voice like honey, and you wrap your leg around his waist, trying to guide him inside you.

He lets you get used to him, adjust to his size, before he starts moving. Your hands are in his and he can feel your wedding ring against his skin.

You try to incite him to move faster, bucking your hips against him, but he doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t want to go too hard on you.

“I’m not made of porcelain” you hiss, frustrated “you’re not going to hurt me. Fuck me like I'm yours”.

He’s starts fucking you with more force then, grinding where he knows you like it. Your nails are scratching his back, pulling at his hair. Sounds – moans, whimpers and begging's of more – escaping your mouth uninterruptedly. You can’t seem to stop them. He looks down on you and he swears out loud. The good damn sight of you like this, he knows he’ll never get the image out of his head. Knows that in months from now – when you’re back in good old England with your husband and he’s all alone here in this apartment – that he could paint this moment with picture-like perfection. Your glossy eyes filled with bliss, wild hair and flushed skin, lips still painted red and formed in a moan. But he won’t. He’ll let it be a memory, the thought of anyone else seeing that painting too unsettling for words. You come again then, eyes tight shut and head thrown back, mouth wide open in a silent scream. He feels your orgasm, can feel you spasm around him and he swears he’s gone to heaven. And as the final rays of sunlight disappears outside, he calls your name – half prayer half cry– and releases inside you, white hot pleasure racing down his spine, and then the whole room goes dark. The only reasons he knows the world hasn’t ended are your warm and sweaty body beneath him. The only sounds in the whole, wide world are both of your breathless gasps. * After, you put on your clothes in silence, avoiding the others eyes. He feels almost shy. The thing inside his chest is crying, knowing that you’re minutes away from leaving again, that this time it’s forever. How do you do something even though it kills you? “I’m sorry, for everything” you say and it startles him. “For everything?” “Yes. I’m sorry I came back” you avoid his eyes as you speak “well, I’m sorry but I don’t regret that part. And I’m sorry I can’t stay. I’ve never meant to hurt you.” Because it’s the right thing to do.

You are staying with your husband. This is your decision. He can’t force you to leave, or stay. He can’t save you, no matter what Marguerite says. Not when you’re determined to drown. “I’ve loved you wholeheartedly and I have no regrets. I’ve loved you of my own free will. You don’t owe me anything.”

The frozen look is back on your face and your spine straight again, hair fixed in place. You’ve put your armor back on. And like this, you leave.

* 18th of April, 1953

It’s a fine morning in April and Timothée is headed over to madam Marguerite’s apartment, a box of treats from her favourite patisserie in one hand and bouquet of magnolias in the other. Later this week she’s taking him to the opera again, Rossini this time, and he wants to give her something as a thank you.

Outside on the street an ambulance is parked. He walks past it and starts climbing the many stairs to her apartment. When he gets to Marguerite’s floor he’s taken by surprise. The apartment door is wide open and in the doorway stand a sobbing Louise, being comforted by a medic. Dread settles in his stomach.

“What’s going on?” he asks, and he can hear the panic in his own voice. “Where’s madam Marguerite?”

Louise starts sobbing even louder and the kind-looking medic pats her sympathetically on the shoulder.

“She passed away in her sleep last night. This woman here found her this morning”.

Something falls inside Timothée and is lost forever. The ground feels unsteady under his feet and for a second, he waivers. “Have you notified her family?” He asks.

The man shakes his head, “no, not yet”.

“I’ll do it” Timothée says firmly, letting it be known that this isn’t up for discussion.

* “Frederic Fairfax speaking” Freddie’s drawly voice answers when Timothée calls your London address.

“Hello, it’s Timothée Chalamet, could I speak to your wife, it’s urgent”

Silence for ten long seconds.

“No, anything you want to tell her you can tell me” Freddie eventually answers and there’s tension in his voice.

“Is she not in?”

“Yes, she is, but I'd rather you take this with me, Mr. Chalamet”.

“I see” Timmy answers, and he somehow manages to keep the rage he feels out of his voice. “But I have some very distressing and urgent news I have to pass on”.

“Then I suggest you share them with me”

Timothée wants to bang his head against the wall. But he keeps his voice calm. “You see, her greataunt Marguerite has passed away.”

“I see” the other man answers in a cold, unfeeling voice. “Well, if that was all, Mr. Chalamet, good bye.”

And he hangs up.

* May 1st, 1953.

In a red brick building on Chancery Lane, London, Timothée is sitting smoking in an armchair. The solicitor’s office looks like you would imagine a solicitor's office to look like, with oak furniture and cabinets full of files with important documents, outside busy men in suits hustling by and secretaries in pen skirts tapping on their typewriters’.

Madam Marguerite’s solicitor Mr. Lancaster looks on the crowd gathered for the reading of the will.

There’s Timothée, lounging in his chair, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else and avoiding looking at you. There’s you, perfectly poised and wearing black, hands clapped in your lap to stop them from shaking. Then there’s your parents, your black-clad mother sniffling into a tissue and your father, with a grave look on his face.

Freddie is nowhere to be seen, and this surprises Timothée.

“Shall we begin?” the solicitor starts, organizing the papers in front of him. There’s a general hum of agreeing from the crown and Mr. Lancaster clears his throat. “Very well then. I had the great fortune of knowing Mrs. Beauchêne-Wright and I considered her a personal friend. She was a remarkable woman” he clears his throat again and Timothée shuffles with his feet, still not understanding why he’s been called to be present at this occasion. “An extraordinary woman” he repeats and look down at the papers in front of him. “Very well then” he says, before beginning to read from the will. “This is the last will of me Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright of 55 Rue de Châteaudun 75009 Paris -”

* It’s raining outside, a gentle but persistent drizzle. TImothée stands under his umbrella and observes as your mother storms off, her husband at her heel, into a taxi. She slams the door and they drive off, water splashing up on the sidewalk. His head feels foggy. The whole situation feels unreal. He’s standing outside the red brick building smoking, trying to get a grip on the situation. In a few hours he has to get back to Victoria station to take the night train back to Paris.

You walk out of the solicitor's office, a dazed look on your face, seemingly not even noticing the rain falling down. You seem him and walk up to him and he lifts his umbrella so you’re under it too.

“Gotta admit, didn’t see that one coming” he states and hands you his cigarette. You take it gratefully and inhale deeply.

“No” you say, some seconds later, “no I didn’t quite see that coming either”. A homourless laugh escapes you. “They’re furious about it” referring to your parents. “Asked if they could contest the will. Mr. Lancaster told them they didn’t have a leg to stand on”. “So” you say and look up at him. “What are you going to do with the money?”

The money. Marguerite’s entire estate divided between him and the woman in front of him. There had been a few smaller bequests to various people and charities, but the absolute majority of the fortune where to be split between you. Even after all the death duties it was by all consideration a fortune.

“Dunno” he answers. ”Haven’t really thought ahead that far”. And then, because he can’t contain his curiosity anymore. “Where’s dear Freddie then?” You’re silent for a moment, avoiding his eyes as you watch the rain create patterns in the puddles. “Freddie’s left.” you say eventually. “He’s seeking for a divorce. God knows he’s got grounds for it.” the cigarette shakes in your trembling hand. “I’ve been a terrible wife all things considered.”

He’s stunned into silence, too much life-altering information having been dropped on him already today. Eventually he gets a hold of himself and states, because he already knows it to be true, “he knows about us, doesn’t he? About what happened in Paris.”

You nod, and two tears fall down your cheeks. “They’re furious with me.”

“Who are?” he asks, confused.

“My family” “Why?”

A grimace, then “doesn’t matter”. Drop the cigarette on the ground and stomp it out. “Mr. Lancaster says we have to go to Nice. Apparently, most of her possessions are there and we need to go through them. He says that since we own the house now, we can live in it while we do so”.

He observes her for a moment. “I have an exhibition in Paris this month, I can’t leave before that’s done.”

You smile, but it’s still devoid of humour. “And I have a divorce to settle.”

The rain keeps falling around them.

“How about this” you say “we’ll go there in July, a summer on the riviera doesn’t sound too bad, and we’ll...” you trail of for a second “and we’ll settle everything then”.

Gently he puts his fingers under your chin and tilts your head up so that you look at him. You look as if you’re bursting at the seams, like you’re at your last straw. “Alright” he says and leans in to gently press a kiss on your forehead. “Alright, sounds like a plan”. And then he looks you in the eyes again “Everything will be alright, you know. Everything will be fine”.

You smile again, and this time it’s more genuine. Then you lean in, and place the softest of kisses on his mouth.

Then you leave. A/N: jesus christ, I spent a good 25 minutes of my life googling the rules of aristocratic titles in England. Freddie’s father is an earl, that makes freddie as the oldest son a baron and his wife a baronet? Right? If that’s not correct then, well, sorry, but those rules are mind boggling.

Other things I've googled a lot is the language of flowers and what different flowers symbolizes.

That ‘Swedish saying’ timmy refers to in his letter is not a saying but in fact from a song by Veronica Maggio called Stopp and very badly translated by me.

Also. I know that timothée’s letter is a bit... disturbing, but the thought of it wouldn't leave my mind so I had to write it.

I am planning on writing the last part, but this story always takes a lot of effort to write so it’ll be a while.

#timothee chalamet #timothee x reader #timothee x you #timothee x y/n #timothee chalamet x reader #timothèe chalamet #timothée x reader #timothée x you #timothée chalamet #timothee imagine #timothee fanfic

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aries-rising-on-an-aquarius-tide · 3 years ago

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Evocations: XVI

The Chief District Attorney drafts an over-eager redhead with too much to prove, to replace Alexandra within just a few weeks. Liv allows the natural rhythm of the work to sweep her along, pouring herself into it in order to keep the loneliness and the mourning at bay.

Darcie and Alexander check in regularly enough, even after the sale of the apartment is settled, two months after being on the market. She is genuinely touched that they call, but dreads it, too - being forced to sit in her sadness for that brief period every few weeks.

Elliot checks in too, in his own way. For the first couple months he pretends that he is being subtle about it: asking her if she's eaten, glancing at her fridge every time he stops by her apartment, making sure she is the first to nap in the cribs if they have a lull. As Christmas approached, he suggested drinks or pizza outside of work more often. He made it clear Olivia was welcome to celebrate Christmas with his family.

But Liv didn't want company. She didn't want Christmas. All she wanted was her life back, and if she couldn't have that, she wanted to work. So, she put her head down and plodded forward.

It was late in January when the phone call came. Olivia grabbed the phone on the first ring, assuming it was a case about to break. On the other end of the line, though, was Alexander's voice. Immediately, a chill snaked down Liv's spine. The Cabots never called her at work.

"Olivia," Alex's father said quietly, and the knot of tears in his throat was audible, "we lost Darcie."

Liv went stiff in her wheeled chair, fixing her eyes on a pile of paperwork in front of her. She listened to Alexander's soft voice telling her the basic details, all the while thinking of how he believed he had lost his entire family, when Alex was somewhere still alive.

She assures him she will call when she arranges her flight, and ends the call, walking straight into Cragen's office where she tells him she needs time off.

Alex has never been so sick of a winter as she is of that first Winter in Wisconsin. She has three layers to strip out of as she comes through the door at the end of the day, and Sky impatiently dances circles as she does so, waiting for her dinner.

Her job now is at an insurance firm. Not selling it, thank God, mostly just auditing and reviewing applications. Like everything else she has undertaken, the job is easy and she excels. Her skills are painfully underused in the position, and she is already exhausted with it by January.

Tina, her 'sister,' continues to see her regularly. Behind closed doors, they are acquaintances at best; any hope of having a close friend in the woman had sailed very early-on. Alex is, in fact, surrounded by acquaintances - in co-workers, at the stores she frequents, in her neighborhood. But nobody gets close.

Close isn't an option any more. Every time she forgets to respond for a beat to 'Emily,' every time she sees someone new, Alex is chilled through, wondering if she has been found out. She worries about people asking the wrong questions, about strangers who look at her a moment too long.

Is this the day? she has asked herself a thousand times, Is today the day I die?

In the bathroom mirror, she runs her fingers over the scar from her bullet wound, and tries to convince her reflection that she is Emily now. She practices it like daily affirmations, trying to accept her isolation, her loneliness, her confusion.

Once Sky is fed, Alex reheats some chicken soup for herself (she has refused to cook anything but hot meals since the first snowfall), and takes it to the spot where she has set up her desk and PC. She has gotten into the habit of keeping up with the news in New York, and in Dallas where her parents are; in her email are dozens of newspaper subscriptions she uses to keep on top of SVU cases and other tidbits.

A foot rubs Sky absently under the desk as Alex eats her soup and reads. Outside the doors to her back patio, the snow swirls and flutters with no end in sight to the frozen dairyland's stasis. This is when she sees it.

It rolls up on the screen of her digital copy of The Dallas Morning News:

Beloved Wife of Prominent Local Attorney Passes, Community Mourns

Below it, she reads her parents' names . . . her own name, words that she knows are a part of her real life, but at first she can't make them feel real. Again and again, she reads the blurb about the death of her mother, and the recent death of herself.

My mother is dead.

Mom has died.

Alex repeats the fact, continues to paraphrase it, until she rises from the computer and walks back to the kitchen with her half-eaten soup. Laying the bowl in the sink, she stares blankly into the receptacle until she feels the burn of her fingernails cutting into her palm.

When she looks up from her bleeding hands, her eyes land on the telephone, and she briefly considers calling Jack Hammond and demanding that he give her back her old life. To attend her mother's funeral, to be held by Olivia, to feel something again.

In the end, Alex takes Sky to bed under a thick pile of blankets, and her sleep is filled with nightmares where snow falls in Dallas, and she wanders the streets, screaming for her mother, who cannot hear her call.

Olivia has never been to Texas, and cannot think of a worse reason for her first trip there as she touches down in Dallas and embraces Alexander Cabot, who seems diminished without the two blondes who have always bookended him.

She moves into mothering mode quickly, encouraging Al to eat and sleep. She keeps a wary eye on his drinking, and makes sure that he is working through any paperwork Darcie left behind. As parents most often do, the Cabots had originally arranged to leave everything to Alexandra. After the cartel case, some reshuffling had occured, and Olivia is touched and conflicted when she finds out that some of it was shuffled to her.

When he falls into a fitful sleep the night before the funeral, Olivia slips silently, curiously into Alex's teenage bedroom. It is mostly intact: the walls showcase 80s movie posters alongside Feminist icons and clippings of political milestones of the decade.

Liv breathes deep of the ghost of her lover in the space, fingers reverently gliding over academic awards and dusty photos where Alex's smile beams out at her. On the bookshelf, she reads titles one after the other - Rubyfruit Jungle nestled right up next to Little Women . . . Jane Rule, Roald Dahl, Beckett, a gathering of strange bedfellows that brings a wisp of a grin to Olivia's face.

Finally she sits down on the narrow, creaking bed and picks up the tattered stuffed penguin at the pillow. The sigh that pitches from her is swollen with melancholy.

"His name is Shivers," Al tells her from the doorway, and Liv jumps at the sound. He fills the doorframe with his height and heavy sense of his grief.

"Of course it is," Liv sniffs with amusement, giving the flightless bird another once-over.

"You should have him," Alexander furthers.

The amount of restraint that Olivia has to employ to keep from confessing that the man's daughter is still alive is utterly monumental in that moment. She binds it, snuffs it, locks it away again and again. No confession comes, just a smile for Alex's father, and a nod.

The morning following the funeral, Liv flies out of Dallas with Shivers in her suitcase, leaving behind her a dozen yellow roses on Darcie's grave.

In mid-April in Wittenberg, much to Alexandra's dismay, the ground remains frozen. Most of the snow slowly melts, however every now and then, a light dusting of fresh flakes comes down in the morning or overnight, then melts with the climb of the sun.

She has lost weight through the winter months, and the sharp planes of her face in the mirror are painful to acknowledge. No proper mourning of her mother had come to pass; Alex had simply filed the knowledge away as a part of the life she lost, and continued the monotonous plod forward in the strange play she now acted in each day.

Before April gave way to the slightly warmer thaw of May, the insurance firm where she was working threw a social mixer - to break up the long change of seasons, they explained. Tina, who was concerned about Alex's weight loss and isolation, had pushed hard for her to attend, even if it was just to get out of the house for something other than work and errands.

So, on the evening of the mixer, Alexandra found herself at a local drink lounge called Doubles, quietly sipping a Shirley Temple. Her co workers were made up mostly of the usual office-job types: clad in off-the-rack suits, soft-spoken and nerdy, often shy, and unfortunately not very interesting. Alex stayed hugged to the bar, drinking and trying to decide how long she had to stay in order for her escape to be considered polite rather than asocial.

"Mind if I join you?"

The man that belonged to the voice was from the Claims Adjustment department of the firm. Alex had seen him around now and then, perhaps even passed polite words with him - but she couldn't recall his name. She waved her hand in the direction of the stool next to her in reply, and he settled in.

"You don't remember me, do you?" he chuckled, watching for the bar tender to free up so he could order a drink.

"I'm not so great with names," Alex told him apologetically.

"Well, I remember your name - Emily." He had a great smile, and he flashed it at her. "Mine is Greg."

"Thanks for reminding me."

He called to the bartender for a rum and coke, then checked if she wanted a refill, which she declined. "Where were you before Wittenberg?" he asked.

"Tulsa, Oklahoma," Alex told him, pulling from the pool of lies and backstory that she had been taught in October.

"Ah," his green eyes twinkled with amusement, "That explains it then."

"Explains what?"

"Why you seem to disdain Wisconsin winter so much."

"I didn't realize it was so obvious," Alex smirked.

He laughed, wrapping both hands around his highball glass. "Were you in insurance there?"

"No. No, this has been a big change for me," she admitted softly.

"Do you miss it?"

Alex startled. "Oklahoma?"

"Whatever it is you left behind."

The blonde paused, her blue eyes locked on the liquor in her glass. "Yes," she confessed, "I do."

They stayed at the bar, drinking slowly, while Greg asked her innocuous questions that were neither boring nor bothersome. Alexandra could feel herself relaxing, loosing herself from the lonely exile she had been prescribed. Before the evening was over, she even caught herself smiling at him, wanting to laugh at his simple jokes.

When the event began to empty out, she declined his offer for a ride home, and was genuinely surprised when he accepted it without pushing back. Neither did he ask her for her number, or to see him again. Alex wondered on her taxi ride home if perhaps she had misinterpreted a man's intentions for the first time since adolescence.

Her worry was quashed, however, when Greg reappeared at the office beginning of the week, and asked her if she would like to have lunch together. She agreed, and it slowly became a regular thing.

By the time he finally asked her on what could be considered an actual date, Alexandra was anxious at the idea of going back to being alone.

She considered the long winter, in which she hadn't put up a tree or celebrated the holidays. Considered the death of her mother, and the nightmares that had followed, leaving her breathless and shaking. Alex even considered the ring, somewhere back in New York, that might never find its way onto the finger of the love she had been forced to abandon.

Facing down the idea of that isolation for the rest of her life was too much to bear.

Alex said yes.

#law and order svu #svu #olivia benson #alexandra cabot #alex cabot #olivia x alex #cabenson #evocations #hearteyes4mariska #my writing #fanfiction #my fanfic

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raviposting · 4 years ago

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I was looking through my blog and came across a follower celebration that I was supposed to do and definitely never did for some reason and uh. That’s definitely not happening now but I did want to just do something, so I thought - I follow a lot of great content creators, so why not highlight them?

A lot of people do multiple things even if I only put them in one category so check out their tags and their work. <3

Glorious Gifmakers:

@olisgifs makes such fantastic gifs (and she did this lovely header)! Her gifs are so thoughtful of the characters and who they are as people, and you can tell that she really loves all the characters. || Favorite set || Favorite series ||

@anya-chalotra has some of the most amazing gifs I’ve seen on this site. She experiments with such a cool style and every gifset I’ve seen of hers has absolutely taken my breath away, they’re amazing! || Favorite set ||

@tuafives honestly the fact that she believes in Hufflepuff Five already makes them a fantastic blog, but her gifs in general are just fantastic! The coloring is always so pretty and I’m obsessed with them. || Favorite set ||

@charmingqueenie I’m always hit with a blast from the past from her gifs in the best possible way. Some of the best Charmed gifs I’ve seen honestly, and her LNC series has my whole ass heart. || Favorite set || Favorite series ||

@inappropriateexplosions Experiments with such different styles and I love it! [meme voice] She has the range, dahling! I love seeing what different style she’s going to do next and it’s always absolutely lovely. || Favorite series ||

@challengerblue Her gifsets need more love and it is a crime, because LOOK at her edit tag!!! These are all such beautiful gifsets and I am obsessed with each and every one! The coloring! The scenes chosen! The talent! || Favorite set ||

@captain-flint Every time I see one of their sets: “Oh the talent jumped out huh?” Has so many lovely Buddie sets and Eddie sets in general and I love them all!!! || Favorite set || Another Favorite ||

@joel-miller honestly I’m getting repetitive here but I can’t help that every single gif-maker is just so so talented. Has fantastic sets and probably my only mutual who also gifs TLOU which??? I love!!! || Favorite set ||

@chloedoeslucifer has such lovely sets!! I’m a particular fan of her parallel sets because she picks up on SO many parallels that I didn’t even notice and it’s amazing. || Favorite set ||

@i-am-irondad Libby’s sets make me so emotional??? Such great Iron Dad/Iron Fam content in particular and it feeds my soul, I just love these sets and the found families that she gifs. <3 || Favorite series || Favorite set ||

@stevenrogered I think the one good thing about the “since you’ve been gone”/”in your orbit” feature is that I got to see their awesome gifs for SO many fandoms that I’m in (and also made me think I was following them for a very long time and I was so sad when I realized I wasn’t lmao). Just fantastic gifs all around! || Favorite set ||

@diegohargreves I love love love the coloring used in these gifsets! The yellow in particular is always fantastic and I rarely see it used in gifsets, so I appreciate seeing it - they’re always so vibrant and lovely sets! || Favorite set ||

@felicityollies has gifsets that I admire from afar now that I don’t watch Arrow anymore lmaooo but there’s always going to be a part of me that still ships Olicity and that part of me dies with how good her gifs are! Genuinely just *chef’s kiss* || Favorite set ||

@vaughnsgreenwood I also look at Dannii’s sets from afar because we don’t share many fandoms but her skills are just FANTASTIC. Also, even though I’m not going to watch the new Charmed her gifsets make me ship Harry and Macy so thanks for that lol. || Favorite set ||

@marcomardon graciously lets me call her Canada since I had very little reading comprehension when I read her blog, and also makes great sets! I love her stuff, especially when it comes to the rogues!! || Favorite set ||

Amazing Artists(/Graphic Makers):

@undead--hotmess has such lovely art! I’m so in awe of the talent, their paintings I’ve seen I’d say would look like real photographs like...it’s amazing || Favorite piece ||

@superbandnerd99 Okay real talk idk if she has more works on tumblr but I just need to share this one because it’s beautiful and everyone should see it and I’m 1000% updating it when she has the final piece out!!

@the-maidofmischief like some of THE best icons I’ve seen??? I love them all so much??? They’re so vibrant and colorful and absolutely beautiful and I’ve made it a mission to have basically all of her icons on my different social media accounts lmao || Favorite piece ||

@fengshuismirke her art is just. SO good. I was so blown away by a Martin piece that I’m tagging in here but I’m just in awe of her work!!! Check out her “my stuff” tag because she also writes! || Favorite piece ||

Wonderful Writers:

@ginnxtonic Ho boy. Ginny’s fics.....her writing is so good that I am now invested in the lives of AU children of Theon/Sansa in Game of Thrones. That’s how invested her fics will get you. They’re so wonderfully in character and she puts real heart and work into her fics and it shows. || Favorite work || Favorite series ||

@aprilthegayqueen has such wonderful fics! The ones I’ve read have been slice-of-life and character studies and I absolutely love them. They’re also in fandoms I haven’t been in for a while and they make me want to immediately rewatch. :’) || Favorite work ||

@zaritomaz hnnnng Mina has written some of my FAVORITE works of all time. She has such a talent for writing and it’s always just so beautiful, poetic, and lovely. || Favorite work ||

@nightskywriter has such lovely fics!! I personally have read through all her TUA fics and they’re *chef’s kiss* fantastic. She has a very fun style of writing and it really shines through! || Favorite work ||

@incendiaglacies Has such a long and varied history of writing and it’s awesome! I sadly don’t share many fandoms with her anymore but I’ve seen her Dream Movie challenge and I’m reading through her book and she’s just such a talented author with such cool ideas! || Favorite work || Check this out! ||

@hedgiwithapen the ANGST hedgi writes oh my goodness. I’m pretty sure a common tag on multiple people’s blogs for Hedgi’s fics is “dammit hedgi” lmao! Amazing stuff (even if they fill me with pain). || Favorite work ||

@deadtedkord Meg’s writing....it is just......so so good. They’re pieces upon pieces of just fantastic writing and literally any compliment I give here would not measure up to how awesome her fics are. || Favorite work ||

I’m sorry if I missed anyone, know that even if you’re not on here it’s bc I have no brain cells and that your work is awesome (and please send me your stuff, I love to see it)! Be sure to give these folks some love, tags, and comments. Thanks to all the content creators out there, you guys are awesome. <3

#janie's 6k celebration #so fun fact #this is like 2 years late bc i realized i'm close to 7k now and i was like 'hm what did i do in previous celebrations' and realized #'oh. did not do this celebration at all' but y'know #even better bc i get to highlight even more folks!!!!

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fruitfruit · 3 years ago

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50, 66, 80, 80, and 119!!

50. a book that made you cry a LOT

OOF IDK MAN…..The Book Thief, The Return of the King, there’s definitely a few more about that I can’t remember right now. Love that aching, bittersweet sadness.

66. a book that fucked you up

I know I answered in another ask that this book made me want scream at the end but I do gotta give a shout out to the last hunger games book, Mockingjay, for fucking me up. Not that it was even a very good book, or a very good story or that it was a good fucked up, but I did just feel desperately empty and Done at the end of that book and I’ll never forget it. I wonder if that’s how we were meant to feel or not?

80. a book that reminds you of a loved one

Ooooh. Fantastic Mr Fox by Roald Dahl will always remind me of my older sister reading it to my brother and I when we were kids.

80. a book that reminds you of a loved one

Look I know this was probably a typo but I’m gonna answer it twice anyway. Strange the Dreamer by Laini Taylor is always gonna remind me of you babe!!

119. your favourite summer read

Honestly I gotta say anything Agatha Christie is always a great, simple summer read!

thank you so much for asking!!

send me book asks

#ask #books #yaaay books

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kokomercury · 5 years ago

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Today is birthday of Freddie Mercury 's mother Jer Bulsara, who would turn 97 if we hadn't lost her in 2016.. Happy birthday dear Mother Mercury, thank you giving birth the Legend.. Here is what she said about her son, in her interviews..

"Freddie kept a strict division between his work and his home all his life. If I ever asked he would say, 'Mum that is business, and this is family.’ He was kind and very respectful both to myself and his father.”

“Most of our family are lawyers or accountants, but Freddie insisted he wasn’t clever enough and wanted to play music and sing,” she laughs. “My husband and I thought it was a phase he would grow out of and expected he would soon come back to his senses and return to proper studies. It didn’t happen. I felt particularly sad when Freddie decided to leave home and move to a flat in west London,” his mother continues. “He was always playing music and an elderly neighbour complained about the noise so he said it was time to go. I told him I understood."

“He first had a flat and then a big house, also in Kensington, but when he wasn’t away on tour, he would come home regularly. He always liked my cooking, especially my dahls, sweet and sour mince and cheese biscuits. When he was famous and had people to dinner he’d sometimes ask me to make them for him."

“He was so generous, too. One day he bought me a complete set of antique silver cutlery to apologise for not turning up for a meal. I didn’t like to use it as it was so posh, so only put it out when he came. He also invited us for meals prepared by his cook and made a big fuss of me. When I went into the kitchen out of habit to help, he’d insist I sat down and relax.”

It was a very sad day when he died in November 1991, but according to our religion when it is the right time you cannot change it. You have to go. God loved him more and wanted him with Him and that is what I keep in my mind. No mother wants to see her son die, but, at the same time, he has done more for the world in his short life than many people could do in 100 years.

“After he died my husband and I missed him so much we decided to move to Nottingham, where Kashmira was living with her husband, Roger, so we could be close to our two grandchildren. I have settled in and I am happy up here. I take great comfort today in all the things that happen around Freddie. There are so many tribute bands and I have been about six times to see We Will Rock You [the Queen musical in London].

Most favourite Queen song of Jer Bulsara was "Somebody To Love"..

#freddie mercury #jer bulsara #happy birthday #Legend #bohemian rapsody movie #bohemian rhapsody #queen #queen band #king of rock #classic rock #rocknroll #rockband

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fierceawakening · 4 years ago

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I liked the giving tree "rewrite" because adults in my life gave me the book and told me it was aspirational - a lot of fundie christians "don't get it" because the whole cult is built on the premise that destroying yourself for the benefit of others is Morally Correct. I've read the book as an adult and agree that that's not the actual reading BUT childhood trauma doesn't give a fuck and seeing the plain reading rewrite was cathartic. I understand people who don't have that trauma (1/?)

(cont) might see the plain language rewrite and think it's stupid, and I get that, but it's pretty hurtful that they can't grasp that it's... Not for them. Or about them, either. I thought it was pretty obviously for that niche group of kids who had adults in their lives deliberately lie and used the giving tree to teach them it was correct - and the assertion that, because I find a plain language rewrite cathartic, I don't know how to read literature is really frustrating. (2/3)

(cont) anyway I'm glad you said something because the post showed up on my dash at first just being people who were calling it stupid, and so I just curled up and left tumblr for a bit because I didn't really want to reply publicly and like air out my childhood trauma to explain "okay but your experience wasn't universal and this serves a very niche group of abused kids, Not You" and I'm glad you did it, and that people I'd seen mocking it responded positively to that (3/3)

Thank you! Yeah, it’s weird to me. Apparently stories like that are supposed to reassure abused kids that their perceptions are accurate? But for me, who was an abused kid, it just sounded like “Give up. It never gets better.” Maybe if we’d seen the tree have a clear option to stop interacting with the boy? And that she didn’t take it, not because it was Good Christian to Forgive(tm) but because she was clearly misjudging the Boy’s character.

I dunno, it might’ve triggered me even then. Because it still would parse to me like blaming the Tree for still caring about the Boy. And... while she should have rethought it, SHE’s not to blame that her friend is abusive!

I love dark media now but I’m still likely to nope away hard if a kid gets hurt. It’s too close to home for me. I don’t want to hear about it, unless it’s something I NEED to hear to take action to stop it. Give me the weird kids becoming mighty monsters, eating the Bad Adults and complaining they taste bitter, not Sad Ending Cuz Realistic, personally.

Which isn’t the same as not defending Silverstein’s right to write that! I just don’t like it. Because I couldn’t figure out WHAT it meant. I was hoping it said if you sacrifice enough, they finally SEE you and stop, because it was the only solution I could see to the situation I was actually in. But... no? So I was just like “what?”

And the thing is... maybe this is that I’m ND, or maybe this is that writing was my escape from the hell I was in, but... I was always kind of background aware that adults were writing these things. So I got the impression the message was something like “this is what we want you to be or do or think.”

And that for me was REALLY scary, precisely because I did the abused kid thing where I thought if I could make them like me they’d stop. So when the stories ended with them not stopping it was: this is what we’re like, we’re all dangerous.

And that’s just... super scary when the other kids shun and bully you too. Where are you supposed to go?

So it was weird. Silverstein was a mine field for me. Sometimes he said cute things like “baby bats are afraid of the light” and made me giggle, and sometimes he said “we all secretly want to destroy you,” and it was impossible to know which you were getting when the books had innocent sounding titles like “The Giving Tree.”

And other kids could never figure out why you had this weird reaction, and they made fun of you. Because they could tolerate it and you couldn’t, and you just sort of “mumble mumble roald dahl is cool i promise i read it cover to cover” and then ran and hid.

#Anonymous

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thedreammweaver · 4 years ago

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Poof (Nygmobblepot angst, hurt/comfort, trans!Oswald)

Warnings: miscarriage, grief, depression, a lot of blood, seriously this shit is sad, 🙃🙃🙃🙃

(A/N: Wrote this kind of to exorcise pain from myself like bloodletting but with emotions I guess, wasn’t sure if I was going to post it but here goes )

Ed set the groceries down on the counter. It had been two and a half months since Oswald had gotten pregnant and Ed’s late night runs to satisfy his partner’s cravings had become routine. Olga was washing dishes “Is Oswald still upstairs?” “Da..” the maid answered flatly.

Ed headed upstairs once he’d finished helping Olga put the groceries away. He was still trying to get on her good side. Stepping into the bedroom, Ed was perplexed when he didn’t see Oswald anywhere, he went over to the closed bathroom door and tried to open it only to find that it was locked. Oswald never usually locked the door if it was just himself, Ed, and Olga at the Van Dahl mansion. Ed softly knocked on the door “Oswald?” There was a few seconds of silence “..j-just go away, Ed!” Oswald’s voice sounded hoarse and shaky like he’d been crying. “Oswald, what’s wrong??” “GO AWAY!” Ed stepped away from the door, Oswald’s shrieky tone startling him. Maybe Oswald was just feeling dysphoric or self conscious, Ed thought. His emotions had been at an all time high and he’d been having more outbursts than usual which was to be expected. Ed was about to respect the other man’s wishes to be alone when he heard a crash from inside the bathroom. Suddenly he found himself ramming the door open with strength he didn’t know he possessed. “Oswald, what-“ Ed cut himself off when his mind began to process the scene before him. Blood. A lot of it. All over the toilet, which had been purposefully shut, and all over the floor in a trail that lead to the shaking mass curled up in the corner that was Oswald. He was just in a robe, his pale legs were covered in blood as well. The crashing noise had been a small metal rack of towels that Oswald had knocked over. Tears were already running down Ed’s face as he stood there in shock. “I TOLD YOU TO GO AWAY!!!” Oswald shrieked, throwing the closest thing to him which was a rolled up towel, at Ed “..I..I..didn’t want you to see...” He sobbed. Ed carefully stepped over the mess and over to Oswald to get on the floor beside the smaller man and wrap his arms around him.

It had been three weeks since Oswald miscarried. “Usually he eat everything, now nothing....it’s no good.” Olga explained to Lee as she dusted the dining table. “So nothing new then?” Lee asked turning to Ed who was standing in the doorway. “No that-that’s..uh, yeah he’s been the same..or maybe worse.” Lee raised a brow at him. Ed sighed “He..um..he’s had that fever you know,” Lee nodded, part of the reason she came back to help after the first night Ed called her was due to Oswald having excessive bleeding and developing a uterine infection “He had a fever dream that the stuff in the nursery was-...that it was mocking him. I mean there’s barely anything on there we’d only just started..” Ed felt himself getting choked up “we’d only just started planning...but uh, yeah he had that dream a few nights ago. He won’t leave the bedroom at all now, scared to pass the nursery I guess..” Ed shrugged.

Lee stopped to turn to Ed before he could finish walking her out “It’s gonna be okay, Ed.” “Let’s hope..” Ed mumbled. He looked down at his feet “You know, the only moment I was sure I wanted to be a parent was when I knew I wouldn’t get to be..” he chuckled sadly. “I mean, you get used to the idea of how the next nine months are gonna go and then..poof..gone with a big ‘Oh you actually believed that? I was only kidding.’ from the universe or whatever..”

“Oh Ed...”

Lee hugged him “If anything happens or if you just need to talk please call me, okay?” “Thank you, Lee..for everything..” Ed said sincerely. Once Lee had exited the house Ed went up to the bedroom, Oswald was still curled up under the covers like he had been for the last few weeks. Ed approached the bed slowly and sat next to Oswald, seeing him under the covers like he was made Ed think of when he was nursing him back to health in his apartment. “Ozzie?” Ed gently put a hand on Oswald’s shoulder. There was no response but Ed knew Oswald was awake since he pulled away. Ed cleared his throat awkwardly “Olga and I took...you know..and um buried it and planted lilies on top of it. I thought you would like that. I know it’s kind of cliche but-”

“Thank you, Edward.”

Ed moved closer “The lilies started to sprout the other day, I thought maybe you’d want to see-“

“You can send me a picture.”

“Oh...I actually meant you could come...outside.” Ed could feel Oswald shutting down at the mention of going outside. “Or I- uh..could send you a picture, yeah...” there was a beat of silence and Ed was afraid Oswald would go back to not responding. “When Olga was giving me antibiotics earlier she said we could always try again..” Oswald said absently before turning over to face the other man “I don’t think I could do this again, Eddie...I mean if this did happen again..I-I just couldn’t..”

“I would never ask you to.” Ed wrapped his hands around one of Oswald’s. “I mean..we could always adopt right?”

“Oh really? I thought someone as self centered as you would only want something born from your own image.” Oswald chuckled. Ed laughed too, more from seeing his boyfriend smile finally than from the sarcasm. He reached up to stroke Oswald’s cheek. “I love you..” Ed sighed. “I love you too, Ed.”

It had been a little over a month since everything had happened. Ed had finally been able to get Oswald to leave the bedroom and eventually go outside, just for a walk in the yard though. They’d stopped to look at the small lily plant that was now out front. Oswald found himself beginning to cry. Ed hugged him as soon as he heard the other man’s sniffles. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you-“ “No, Eddie.” Oswald buried his face in Ed’s chest “It’s just so beautiful..that’s all.”

#oswald cobblepot #edward nygma #nygmobblepot angst #gotham

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brujas2 · 4 years ago

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Título original: Roald Dahl’s The Witches

Lanzamiento: 2020-10-23

Duración: 106 minutos

Género: Fantasía, Familia, Aventura, Comedia, Terror

Estrellas: Anne Hathaway, Octavia Spencer, Stanley Tucci, Jahzir Bruno, Chris Rock

Director: Alan Silvestri, Robert Zemeckis, Robert Zemeckis, Don Burgess, Roald Dahl

SINOPSIS

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THE STORY

After graduating from Harvard, Bryan Stevenson (Michael B. Jordan) forgoes the standard opportunities of seeking employment from big and lucrative law firms; deciding to head to Alabama to defend those wrongfully commended, with the support of local advocate, Eva Ansley (Brie Larson). One of his first, and most poignant, case is that of Walter McMillian (Jamie Foxx, who, in 62, was sentenced to die for the notorious murder of an 2-year-old girl in the community, despite a preponderance of evidence proving his innocence and one singular testimony against him by an individual that doesn’t quite seem to add up. Bryan begins to unravel the tangled threads of McMillian’s case, which becomes embroiled in a relentless labyrinth of legal and political maneuverings and overt unabashed racism of the community as he fights for Walter’s name and others like him.

THE GOOD / THE BAD

Throughout my years of watching movies and experiencing the wide variety of cinematic storytelling, legal drama movies have certainly cemented themselves in dramatic productions. As I stated above, some have better longevity of being remembered, but most showcase plenty of heated courtroom battles of lawyers defending their clients and unmasking the truth behind the claims (be it wrongfully incarcerated, discovering who did it, or uncovering the shady dealings behind large corporations. Perhaps my first one legal drama was 624’s The Client (I was little young to get all the legality in the movie, but was still managed to get the gist of it all). My second one, which I loved, was probably Primal Fear, with Norton delivering my favorite character role. Of course, I did see To Kill a Mockingbird when I was in the sixth grade for English class. Definitely quite a powerful film. And, of course, let’s not forget Philadelphia and want it meant / stand for. Plus, Hanks and Washington were great in the film. All in all, while not the most popular genre out there, legal drama films still provide a plethora of dramatic storytelling to capture the attention of moviegoers of truth and lies within a dubious justice.

Just Mercy is the latest legal crime drama feature and the whole purpose of this movie review. To be honest, I really didn’t much “buzz” about this movie when it was first announced (circa 206) when Broad Green Productions hired the film’s director (Cretton) and actor Michael B. Jordan in the lead role. It was then eventually bought by Warner Bros (the films rights) when Broad Green Productions went Bankrupt. So, I really didn’t hear much about the film until I saw the movie trailer for Just Mercy, which did prove to be quite an interesting tale. Sure, it sort of looked like the generic “legal drama” yarn (judging from the trailer alone), but I was intrigued by it, especially with the film starring Jordan as well as actor Jamie Foxx. I did repeatedly keep on seeing the trailer for the film every time I went to my local movie theater (usually attached to any movie I was seeing with a PG rating and above). So, suffice to say, that Just Mercy’s trailer preview sort of kept me invested and waiting me to see it. Thus, I finally got the chance to see the feature a couple of days ago and I’m ready to share my thoughts on the film. And what are they? Well, good ones….to say the least. While the movie does struggle within the standard framework of similar projects, Just Mercy is a solid legal drama that has plenty of fine cinematic nuances and great performances from its leads. It’s not the “be all to end all” of legal drama endeavors, but its still manages to be more of the favorable motion pictures of these projects.

Just Mercy is directed by Destin Daniel Cretton, whose previous directorial works includes such movies like Short Term 6, I Am Not a Hipster, and Glass Castle. Given his past projects (consisting of shorts, documentaries, and a few theatrical motion pictures), Cretton makes Just Mercy is most ambitious endeavor, with the director getting the chance to flex his directorial muscles on a legal drama film, which (like I said above) can manage to evoke plenty of human emotions within its undertaking. Thankfully, Cretton is up to the task and never feels overwhelmed with the movie; approaching (and shaping) the film with respect and a touch of sincerity by speaking to the humanity within its characters, especially within lead characters of Stevenson and McMillian. Of course, legal dramas usually do (be the accused / defendant and his attorney) shine their cinematic lens on these respective characters, so it’s nothing original. However, Cretton does make for a compelling drama within the feature; speaking to some great character drama within its two main lead characters; staging plenty of moments of these twos individuals that ultimately work, including some of the heated courtroom sequences.

Like other recent movies (i.e. Brian Banks and The Hate U Give), Cretton makes Just Mercy have an underlining thematical message of racism and corruption that continues to play a part in the US….to this day (incredibly sad, but true). So, of course, the correlation and overall relatively between the movie’s narrative and today’s world is quite crystal-clear right from the get-go, but Cretton never gets overzealous / preachy within its context; allowing the feature to present the subject matter in a timely manner and doesn’t feel like unnecessary or intentionally a “sign of the times” motif. Additionally, the movie also highlights the frustration (almost harsh) injustice of the underprivileged face on a regular basis (most notable those looking to overturn their cases on death row due to negligence and wrongfully accused). Naturally, as somewhat expected (yet still palpable), Just Mercy is a movie about seeking the truth and uncovering corruption in the face of a broken system and ignorant prejudice, with Cretton never shying away from some of the ugly truths that Stevenson faced during the film’s story.

Plus, as a side-note, it’s quite admirable for what Bryan Stevenson (the real-life individual) did for his career, with him as well as others that have supported him (and the Equal Justice Initiative) over the years and how he fought for and freed many wrongfully incarcerated individuals that our justice system has failed (again, the poignancy behind the film’s themes / message). It’s great to see humanity being shined and showcased to seek the rights of the wronged and to dispel a flawed system. Thus, whether you like the movie or not, you simply can not deny that truly meaningful job that Bryan Stevenson is doing, which Cretton helps demonstrate in Just Mercy. From the bottom of my heart…. thank you, Mr. Stevenson.

In terms of presentation, Just Mercy is a solidly made feature film. Granted, the film probably won’t be remembered for its visual background and theatrical setting nuances or even nominated in various award categories (for presentation / visual appearance), but the film certainly looks pleasing to the eye, with the attention of background aspects appropriate to the movie’s story. Thus, all the usual areas that I mention in this section (i.e. production design, set decorations, costumes, and cinematography) are all good and meet the industry standard for legal drama motion pictures. That being said, the film’s score, which was done by Joel P. West, is quite good and deliver some emotionally drama pieces in a subtle way that harmonizes with many of the feature’s scenes.

There are a few problems that I noticed with Just Mercy that, while not completely derailing, just seem to hold the feature back from reaching its full creative cinematic potential. Let’s start with the most prevalent point of criticism (the one that many will criticize about), which is the overall conventional storytelling of the movie. What do I mean? Well, despite the strong case that the film delves into a “based on a true story” aspect and into some pretty wholesome emotional drama, the movie is still structed into a way that it makes it feel vaguely formulaic to the touch. That’s not to say that Just Mercy is a generic tale to be told as the film’s narrative is still quite engaging (with some great acting), but the story being told follows quite a predictable path from start to finish. Granted, I never really read Stevenson’s memoir nor read anything about McMillian’s case, but then I still could easily figure out how the movie was presumably gonna end…. even if the there were narrative problems / setbacks along the way. Basically, if you’ve seeing any legal drama endeavor out there, you’ll get that same formulaic touch with this movie. I kind of wanted see something a little bit different from the film’s structure, but the movie just ends up following the standard narrative beats (and progressions) of the genre. That being said, I still think that this movie is definitely probably one of the better legal dramas out there.

This also applies to the film’s script, which was penned by Cretton and Andrew Lanham, which does give plenty of solid entertainment narrative pieces throughout, but lacks the finesse of breaking the mold of the standard legal drama. There are also a couple parts of the movie’s script handling where you can tell that what was true and what fictional. Of course, this is somewhat a customary point of criticism with cinematic tales taking a certain “poetic license” when adapting a “based on a true story” narrative, so it’s not super heavily critical point with me as I expect this to happen. However, there were a few times I could certainly tell what actually happen and what was a tad bit fabricated for the movie. Plus, they were certain parts of the narrative that could’ve easily fleshed out, including what Morrison’s parents felt (and actually show them) during this whole process. Again, not a big deal-breaker, but it did take me out of the movie a few times. Lastly, the film’s script also focuses its light on a supporting character in the movie and, while this made with well-intention to flesh out the character, the camera spotlight on this character sort of goes off on a slight tangent during the feature’s second act. Basically, this storyline could’ve been removed from Just Mercy and still achieve the same palpability in the emotional department. It’s almost like the movie needed to chew up some runtime and the writers to decided to fill up the time with this side-story. Again, it’s good, but a bit slightly unnecessary.

What does help overlook (and elevate) some of these criticisms is the film’s cast, which are really good and definitely helps bring these various characters to life in a theatrical /dramatic way. Leading the charge in Just Mercy is actor Michael B. Jordan, who plays the film’s central protagonist role of Bryan Stevenson. Known for his roles in Creed, Fruitvale Station, and Black Panther, Jordan has certain prove himself to be quite a capable actor, with the actor rising to stardom over the past few years. This is most apparent in this movie, with Jordan making a strong characteristically portrayal as Bryan; showcasing plenty of underlining determination and compelling humanity in his character as he (as Bryan Stevenson) fights for the injustice of those who’s voices have been silenced or dismissed because of the circumstances. It’s definitely a strong character built and Jordan seems quite capable to task in creating a well-acted on-screen performance of Bryan. Behind Jordan is actor Jamie Foxx, who plays the other main lead in the role, Walter McMillian. Foxx, known for his roles in Baby Driver, Django Unchained, and Ray, has certainly been recognized as a talented actor, with plenty of credible roles under his belt. His participation in Just Mercy is another well-acted performance that deserve much praise as its getting (even receiving an Oscar nod for it), with Foxx portraying Walter with enough remorseful grit and humility that makes the character quite compelling to watch. Plus, seeing him and Jordan together in a scene is quite palpable and a joy to watch.

The last of the three marquee main leads of the movie is the character of Eva Ansley, the director of operations for EJI (i.e. Stevenson’s right-handed employee / business partner), who is played by actress Brie Larson. Up against the characters of Stevenson and McMillian, Ansley is the weaker of the three main lead; presented as supporting player in the movie, which is perfectly fine as the characters gets the job done (sort of speak) throughout the film’s narrative. However, Larson, known for her roles in Room, 6 Jump Street, and Captain Marvel, makes less of an impact in the role. Her acting is fine and everything works in her portrayal of Eva, but nothing really stands in her performance (again, considering Jordan and Foxx’s performances) and really could’ve been played by another actress and achieved the same goal.

The rest of the cast, including actor Tim Blake Nelson (The Incredible Hulk and O Brother, Where Art Thou) as incarcerated inmate Ralph Meyers, actor Rafe Spall (Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom and The Big Short) as legal attorney Tommy Champan, actress Karan Kendrick (The Hate U Give and Family) as Minnie McMillan, Walter’s wife, actor C.J. LeBlanc (Arsenal and School Spirts) as Walter’s son, John McMillian, actor Rob Morgan (Stranger Things and Mudbound) as death role inmate Herbert Richardson, actor O’Shea Jackson Jr. (Long Shot and Straight Outta Compton) as death role inmate Anthony “Ray” Hinton, actor Michael Harding (Triple 2 and The Young and the Restless) as Sheriff Tate, and actor Hayes Mercure (The Red Road and Mercy Street) as a prison guard named Jeremy, are in the small supporting cast variety. Of course, some have bigger roles than others, but all of these players, which are all acted well, bolster the film’s story within the performances and involvement in Just Mercy’s narrative.

FINAL THOUGHTS

It’s never too late to fight for justice as Bryan Stevenson fights for the injustice of Walter McMillian’s cast against a legal system that is flawed in the movie Just Mercy. Director Destin Daniel Cretton’s latest film takes a stance on a poignant case; demonstrating the injustice of one (and by extension those wrongfully incarcerated) and wrapping it up in a compelling cinematic story. While the movie does struggle within its standard structure framework (a sort of usual problem with “based on a true story” narrations) as well as some formulaic beats, the movie still manages to rise above those challenges (for the most part), especially thanks to Cretton’s direction (shaping and storytelling) and some great performances all around (most notable in Jordan and Foxx). Personally, I liked this movie. Sure, it definitely had its problem, but those didn’t distract me much from thoroughly enjoying this legal drama feature. Thus, my recommendation for the film is a solid “recommended”, especially those who liked the cast and poignant narratives of legality struggles and the injustice of a failed system / racism. In the end, while the movie isn’t the quintessential legal drama motion picture and doesn’t push the envelope in cinematic innovation, Just Mercy still is able to manage to be a compelling drama that’s powerful in its story, meaningful in its journey, and strong within its statement. Just like Bryan Stevenson says in the movie….” If we could look at ourselves closely…. we can change this world for the better”. Amen to that!

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