#the movie is trying to be A Commentary on Our Times. but it is not saying what it thinks it's saying

[secondwhisper]

I saw Alien Romulus this weekend and I have some complaints.

[orionsangel86]

I watched X-Men 2000 tonight. Yup the Deadpool and Wolverine brain worms got me - at least for a little while - so I figured I'd rewatch the old movies that I havent seen in over a decade and have basically forgotten entirely at this point.

You know what really stunned me? Even more than the slow pace, serious tone, actual dedication to telling a coherent and interesting story with layers of meaning and social commentary attached to it, as well as a sincerity that's been missing from most superhero films since the MCU was born (thanks Josh Whedon).

Nope, what shocked me most was this:

This is a perfect specimen of a man. Look at him. He's gorgeous. But look at his chest? His arms? He's muscular, he's pretty well toned, he's hairy. He's definitely got a six pack - but it's nicely covered by a healthy layer of fat. His skin is plump, he has a bit of squish to him. He'd probably be great to hug (Jean Grey certainly gives him a good squeeze lol).

When he sits down he looks like his stomach will roll just nicely. Like a stomach should.

I know my point here is obvious. It's just that scrolling the Deadpool and Wolvering tag is basically 50% "oh they definitely fucked in the Honda Odyssey" (yes lol) and the other 50% is just horny posting over Wolverine's topless scene like the entire site suddenly adopted Deadpools horny brain.

I gotta give props to Hugh Jackman for his dedication to turn himself into an actual comic book character - because that's what this new movie does. It gives us a comic accurate Wolverine in practically every way (except for his height lol) the suit is amazing, the cowl was a joy to see brought into live action. The body too though was straight out of a comic book artists male power fantasy.

What I wanted to emphasise was that this:

Is extremely tough on the human body. What I wanna know is how long he starved and dehydrated himself for before filming this scene? How long before they shot this did he last drink some water? Because damn that must have been tough. The oil and the lighting probably help further emphasise the muscle, vein, and sinew definition. It's probably similar to how body builders prepare before a show.

Nothing about body building is healthy though. So in the coming weeks as the whole entertainment industry rides on the coat tales of this movies success, and everyone goes crazy over Hugh Jackmans physique, please don't feel pressured into thinking that his 2024 physique in the movie is remotely realistic - or realistically attractive. Like I get the fantasy sure, but come on. I'd personally rather lie on a cushioned bed than a concrete floor.

Deadpool may disagree with me, but he's a masochist lol.

Oh and whilst I stand by the shade I threw at the MCU above, I think Wolverine's different physiques in the movies is a good standard of comparison for how much superhero movies have changed. Because when superhero comics first started getting adapted I think a lot of the choices made were about how to bring them to live action realistically and believably and the attitude was to try not to make them look ridiculous. The first X-Men movies definitely do this.

It was about bringing the comics to life in a way that fit in our world. But over the years, as audiences got more and more used to comic book movies the movies became more and more like comic books and less like a realistic adaptation of a comic book. Does that make sense? So as the movies attempted to bring the comics to life in a way that was less realistic and more comic accurate, the demands on the actors to sculpt their physiques to meet the standards of comic book art became normalised.

I think Deadpool and Wolverine is the MOST comic book accurate of all superhero movies made in the past 2 decades. Half the time the images from the movie look like they could be literally pulled from the pages of the comic books. The story is convoluted and stupid, the plot is barely there and is full of gaping plot holes and elements that don't fit any past stories. The action is ridiculous, extremely fast paced, gratuitous, and violent to a hilarious level. But it's so entertaining, joyful, exciting, and laugh out loud hilarious throughout.

It reminded me a LOT of my attempts at reading through the Deadpool comics (I've read a lot of them but no where near all of them).

To sum up this rambling message with multiple points, I'll say that Deadpool and Wolverine is a really fun movie that I thoroughly enjoyed, but make no mistake there is nothing real in it at all. It is almost literally a comic on screen. Don't expect anything more than that and you'll enjoy the experience.

[steampunkforever]

I think it's time to gush about Monkey Man.

From a practical standpoint, you can't not talk about this movie without mentioning John Wick. Monkey Man itself understands this, going so far as to itself namedrop the Wick films in the beginning of the movie. Yet the movies are very different.

John Wick is in essence a modern neo noir, minimalist in everything but number of sequels it greenlights. It's slick, well executed, and responsible for resurrecting a genre that previously belonged to Vin Diesel's lower quality projects. It fully deserves its flowers, but ten years on it's time to raise our standards for a good action film. By all metrics, Monkey Man should be that movie.

Monkey Man is John Wick but grittier. It's action elevated. It's downright gorgeous. It's Dev Patel's directorial debut. It's a social commentary on inequality and fascism. It's Dev Parel Shirtless because he knows exactly what we want. It's the best release of the year as of the time of this writing. It's a movie you should go see.

Monkey man is a movie that asks "what if modern action movies had pathos?" It's gritty, the tale of a kid fighting his way up from the gutter to the penthouse (literally) in his quest for revenge against Hindu Fascist leadership. And it rips. Not since Mandy have I seen a revenge film so beautifully and profoundly depict violence. This is an altogether beautiful film and it never misses a chance to try and make things as beautiful as Mr. Patel himself.

An important note is that the film focuses heavily on Hindu Fascism, and was almost denied release on account of this. As of the writing of this filmpost it still has not been approved for release in India by the state censors, and that with significant edits already having been made to the movie for its general release. Even yet, it's a poignant sociopolitical critique of the Indian government and the intersection between religion and government oppression. Also Dev Patel bites a guys nose off.

Amazing film. Must see. Highly suggest seeing it as soon as possible. Do it for Dev.

[ouchthathurts]

❝ 𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐨 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟-𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. ❞

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 (𝐬) ⋮ Daisuke x AFAB! Reader

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ⋮ 3.4k

𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ⋮ Your best friend from high school is working at the same internship as you!

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬 ⋮ Cross-Posted on AO3 | Second Person Point of View | Angst | References to sex | Series? | Marijuana Use | Alcohol Use

𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 ⋮ BINGO BANGO BABY!!!! I’ll be honest that I’m weighing on making this a series, I want o but I’m looking for the push

There’s a familiar warmness that breaks from the open window, you smack your lips as you feel your tongue roll against the roof of your mouth, the taste of fruity alcohol mixed with marijuana has nestled into your tastebuds.

You miss the tongue in your mouth that helped implant it, stirring around and you couldn’t be happier to have someone, you held in such high regard, mix with you. You clutch the blankets and pull them to your chest—

What is there left to hide from him?

You slowly pull yourself from under the blankets, your naked top now feels the sun beat onto your chest, you try to recollect last night and think about what your next actions should be. There’s familiarity in the room, the old scratched up records pinned to a wall with an acoustic guitar that was never played properly, work out bean bags, and a small round table with scratched up games' controllers on it. There’s a box of pizza, one slice left—

“You can have it, just heat it up in the morning.”

You don’t take it, no matter how much you feel the vibration in your stomach, you suck it up and began to collect your clothes scattered around the area. You see the familiar Sonic CD rug in the center of the room just before the bed, there you find your underwear, you see your shirt on top of the lava lamp next to his bed, and you find your bottoms next to your school bag.

Your shoes are downstairs, his parents always had slippers to offer at the door whenever you and/or his other friends would come over. It was the only thing they were really strict on when it came to him. You look inside your bag, nothing but schoolbooks and the binder you used for all your note taking, you throw it out the window and into one of the bushes in front of his house.

You look for your phone, on the dresser with some old DVDs of movies that his mother still had, none of them were really interesting except for this one you really enjoyed. ‘Your Name Engraved Herein’, it always made him cry, you had to comfort him after the movie but no matter how many times you tried to tell him that it’s okay, he just continued to bawl into your shoulder about how amazing this movie was.

Maybe it was because you didn’t pay attention to the movie, more focused on his expression as he experienced the movie, he’d tell you little tid bits and explained it to you afterwards when you told him you didn’t really understand. There was always commentary with him when it came to movies, you loved every second of his little movie watching sessions, friends would throw popcorn and hush him, but you eagerly leaned in to hear him whisper small facts about the movies he’d have you all watch.

Even when he finished explaining the movie you didn’t get it, but he told you: “I cried every time I’ve watched this movie without fail, ever since I was like in middle school, my mom would watch this movie, and it would be me and her crying our eyes out over it.”

You grabbed your phone, around the 20% mark it was mainly just texts from your mother about spending the night at his again, she would tell you that you were messing up the future she was perfectly crafting for you and that you needed to learn more discipline before college started. It was always grades, attendance, and extracurriculars with her.

You only did the bare minimum, average grades, average attendance, and chess club.

Your mother hated it.

“He's bringing you down! His parents don't even care about what he's up to! You think I'm gonna let you mess everything I have going for you for some low life boy who can't even follow something as simple as wearing a uniform to school?”

You defended him, like you always did, why wouldn't you? He was there for you when you were down, always there for you, like he was there for you this weekend. You kept scrolling through messages; besides your mother, it was only him who would text you daily.

You had people you studied with, your mother’s friends’ kids, and the family you were already distant with. You had to get home. You slid all your clothes on before you peeped your head through the door, the sound of the shower running and music coming from the speaker he took in the shower with him blaring through the empty house.

His father worked on weekends and his mother went grocery shopping Sunday, “Was it Sunday?” You thought out loud, you couldn’t think about the time you were last back at your house, you made your way down the stairs and towards the door when you found your shoes.

You slip them on and then make your way out; after closing the door you pick up the rock from the little pond, they had next his porch, you lock the door and place the key back where it belongs. You go through the bushes, searching for your bag and a huff out of frustration when you dust the dirt off of it.

There's another huff as you sling the bag over your shoulder and then silence, there's sounds of nature from his neighborhood and now her you were just walking down the street, hoping on the next bus and another back towards the apartment your mother and you shared.

As you unlock the door your mother sits on the couch, she's watching her programs with the same 4 speakers on the different channels she's gone through in the past

“At his place again?” And the way she can't even say his name, it melts off her tongue like a slur and you can't help but bite back a response before she gets up. “Well, how was it? His family feed you?” You shook your head, “No, ma'am. His parents weren't home.”

Why would you say that?

You see the anger in her face, “Oh?” The woman makes her way over to you, there's no hesitation in your stature as it's a routine check. The way she pulls down the collar of your shirt leaves your breath to hitch, you try to snatch her wrist only for her long and jagged nails to scratch at the skin of your palm leaving you to hiss in pain.

There's no surprise with the number of dark marks that were collected by the boy, it was his first time as much as it was yours. You feel the warmness in your cheeks before your mother's eyes burn into you, her stare boiling you alive as you do nothing but just stare at the ground.

“Look at me when I talk to you,” Your name is a bark of a command, called out like a show dog to those she wants to impress then kicked at like a mutt the rest of the time. You pull your head up, you don't want anymore imprints in your cheeks, your acne already fucking up your face as is.

“What did you two do?” You roll your eyes, mumbling ‘Nothing.’ before she snatches up your jaw, those nails now cut up the pimples on your face to leave the pus to pop out You want to whine, cry like a child, ‘Mommy! Stop! You're hurting me!’ You, unfortunately, allow this with your eyes creasing and a small frown rugging on your lips that seems don't only make her madder.

“Your breath reeks of weed and alcohol. I can't believe you'd go and mess around with that boy, after everything I told you!” The woman lets out a pained sigh, as if her coming to spit in your face and yell at you was somehow your puppeteering her to do so. “What if he got you pregnant? How could you do something so dumb! It doesn't even surprise me, he probably talked you into it–Knowing his little delinquent self and his little gang he's probably riddled with some type of disease.”

You want to tell her off, he would never do something like that, all his friends are different from him, they're all a bunch of party goers that just want to do narcotics and fuck each other silly.

“He's not like that.” You strained out of your pursed lips, your mother's tongue smacks against the roof of her mouth, “The boy is nothing but spoiled. His parents just give, give, give, give, and give to some little freeloader who's going to do nothing for his life besides leaching off his parents' money.” You can't hear this anymore.

“He's actually trying to get a job!” Your mother cackles, “Oh yeah? He's getting a job?” “Yes!” “Well, why doesn't he already have one like you do? You got your own job at the library when you were 14, you were obedient then, before you met that little…” There's a seething rage in the woman, she's sucking at her teeth, and she'll be grinding them into a fine powder if she continues.

You bite your tongue, he had definitely had an impact on you, like he always has. You wanted to try and dye your hair one day with him, layer your outfits, be outside of the uniform, wear make up, dress up on those days where you were allowed casual dress, and take your time with life in general.

Those nights he'd stare at stars on the roof with you, he'd point up and explain how sometimes he felt so small in this world. “This is really the one way I can try and be in impact on such a big world!” He gestures to his brightly colored outfit; you find yourself lost in his expression as it's just a nice mix of brightly colored acrylics that melded with his tanned skin.

You admire him.

Even as spit hits your face you're left with the same rant over and over again, “I work hard at my job so you have all the tools not to end up like me, slaving away for some ungrateful brat of a child, instead never having kids and being happy you don't have to waste your money on some freeloader until it's too late.”

Your mother took responsibility to raise you, even after your father was distant to the idea, it be some apparent that these two were working in separate directions that only pulled you apart.

Honestly, if it wasn't for him, you'd be on the ground with a full bottle of pills being guzzled down your throat.

Your mother notices your expression and she huff, “Stop being around, hanging around him, being around him, he'll do nothing but drag you down and he won't be doing you any good in the future other than a book up for narcotics.” The woman gets all in your face, “You wanna end up like me? I only stopped doing all those things once I found out I was pregnant with you! Do you really want to end up like me?”

Strikes a nerve.

You never wanted to be like your mother, her sad life with a child who could only resent their mother, her boyfriend who abandoned her to go do more drugs, and no one to fall on. It's sad, you feel for her, you see where she's coming from you, and you sigh upon seeing her fall to her knees to grab at yours.

The woman sobs into your thighs, wincing at the familiar grip from the night before most definitely bruising them from such harsh treatment, “Pl-ease!” The squeak in her voice as she says your name, she is begging and all you can do is try to comfort a woman who has never taught you how to comfort someone. You rub her head, and she sighs, sniffling a bit before she continues, “I don't want you to end up like me! Don't love someone who's only going to bring you down! I know you can do better!”

Your mother wouldn't tell you it now, but you were now stuck with this. Your mother always knew if you were around him, she worked there as the librarian. You were called to stay later helping your mother, doing more on campus, and a demand for straight as after a C in an AP course came up.

It wasn't surprising since the both of you took the same class.

You couldn't let your mother win but here you were, letting her win, and you could do nothing as you found her beginning to bring the hammer down. “I can't let ever you make a mistake that big again.” You were tested for everything; she kept track of your periods and was around you whenever you had free time.

“You've been summoned to the library,” The dreaded phone call before you left class, it killed something in you when you and he could barely talk most days. You guys didn't really share class, even when he went out his way to take APs it became apparent to him how much harder it was for him to really keep up with you.

Those daily ‘Good morning!’ messages fell into weekly ‘Have a good week!” texts. Not because of him, but because of you. You couldn't even keep up with everything, once your mother pinpointed the college you needed to get into or she'd kick you out, simply if you applied yourself the way your mother wanted.

But it meant you'd have to leave him behind…

D-S ▼⁠・⁠ᴥ⁠・⁠▼

Hey! I know last night was a lot. I'm sorry if I messed up, I know I wasn't going to be the best but I’m sure you'll have other people do it way better than me!

1:30 PM 9/05

Good morning! Good morning! Good morning!

9:45 AM 9/06

When do you get off work today?

4:30 PM 9/06

I'm getting pizza, do you want me to get you a box???

2:49 PM 9/14

Y'know one for now, one for when you're depressed! I finally got the reference!

2:58 PM 9/14

Are you okay?

3:24 AM 9/30

Did I do something wrong?

3:25 AM 9/30

I'm sorry if I did anything wrong

3:29 AM 9/30

I mean that, I'm really sorry

3:33 AM 9/30

Can we talk?

3:34 AM 9/30

We haven't like sleep called in forever, and it would give us time to talk stuff out, whatever I did wrong you can tell me.

3:45 AM 9/30

Please?

3:48 AM 9/30

I didn't know you and Ange became friends I always thought you both hated each other.

12:39 PM 10/19

I didn't do our matching costumes it felt like a disservice if it wasn't with you.

4:29 PM 10/30

Happy Holidays, I got you something! Do you know when I can come over and give it to you?

Dude, family's being weird, wish you were here!

7:38 PM 11/28

11:29 AM 12/25

Hey, I'm having this new year party! Y'know like new year new me! I plan on trying out for stuff like sports and getting on my academics!

9:28 AM 12/31

My parents asked about you today, they were like ‘When are you coming over?’ and ‘What are you up to these days?’

I'm tryna get like you!

9:40 AM 12/31

10:02PM 1/17

Happy Valentine's Day, I know you got a lot of stuff cause you're just cool like that

10:38AM 2/14

Even I got you something!

10:38 AM 2/14

I'm sorry for being annoying this year, I really am sorry for anything I did to you. Have a good time in college!

Lmk when I can give it to you!

10:38 AM 2/14

11:00 AM 6/30

You began to avoid him, he'd go to the library to rent out a book and watch as you restock, he'd text you and you'd have the read receipt there just to think about responding to him only to put the phone down, you walk around campus without a care, cordial whenever faced with head on confrontation, and that's how it was until you graduated.

You went off, pursued your own interest in space your mother said it was your choice to study nut it needed to make enough money for you and her. Now you were just as excited to get on and do things outside of your mother now that you were finally free from the woman. You decided to take all your classes online, you'd had this internship lined up for you and nothing could bring you more joy than joining the manpower in space.

There's a big smile on your face as you meet your comrades, Curly, your pilot and Jimmy, the Co-Pilot, you'd be shadowing the two for tour duration of their trip on the Pony Express. Anya, the nurse, who would be the only woman on the ship, you loved to be around her and her little jokes. Then there was Swansea, he wouldn’t stop complaining about having some intern, “They better pull their weight.” The man grumbled out.

You weren’t shocked to find out you guys were waiting on another guy, the two of you added last minute on behalf of the Pony Express, finally a guy popped through the door, explaining that he was at a party the night before celebrating Earth before he had to leave. Your eyes crease as you examine the man’s features, ‘No fucking way.’

That lovingly sun kissed complexion that had the contrast of his brighter highlights against his already chestnut colored hair. There, on his face, stood the markers for where you kissed on him that night, a mole under his right eye and the left mole lower down his round cheeks.

The fact that he couldn't even wear the uniform alone almost made you fall before him, he hadn't changed in ways you thought he would, and it tore at your heartstrings to realize how much you missed him. The familiar sound of the two bangles on his wrist that contrasted the red wrist band he wore that you also had from the first party he took you to.

There's a plethora of excuses that rush out of his mouth, and you just listen to now his voice only be one softer to your ears. Earning its way into your eardrums to nestle in your memory in order to haunt you for the rest of your stay.

While the group continues to get everything on the ship there's a silence that falls between the two of you when his eyes finally land on you. Your friend was a day you could never forget, the morning after your happiest night alive, you'd coo into his ear that you loved him, and he'd do the same with a chaste kiss on your forehead.

Yet, here you were, reliving those memories and wondering how the fuck do you even start the conversation. You watch as he makes his way over, your rib cage encased around your organs before crushing them like a corset.

With each step your breath hitches, your eyes faltering between looking him in the eyes only for your nostrils to fill with disgustingly sweet peach cologne he had to have. Why wear something like that for all these years? You're grateful he would even wear something like this to this day.

There's a hand on front of you, wide open with some rings on his fingers, his fingers spread a bit and when you take one last inhale of his cologne you pull your head up to look him in the eyes. There's a warmness in his face, it hasn't worn down and has only brightened since you last saw him, you feel your heart clench as you hear his voice.

“Heya! I'm Daisuke, I’m psyched to be working with someone as new as me!”

©ouchthathurts please don't translate, claim as yours, redistribute and/or plagiarize in any way. likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[ktempestbradford]

A Story for Star Trek Day

I've told this story on Twitter before. I tell it every Star Trek Day and whenever a Deep Space 9 anniversary rolls around. It's about me and Avery Brooks (aka Best ST Captain Benjamin Sisko).

The college my mother went to specifically started recruiting top Black students in the 60s. Due to this, the Black kids all mostly knew each other as they were in that same program. Avery Brooks went to the same college and they were good friends.

(She once told me he had a huge crush on her and I was like MOM. MOTHER. WHAT. HOW COULD YOU HE COULD HAVE BEEN MY DAD.)

Anyway, many of the students in this program remained friends long after college. So over the years as Avery was getting TV gigs & such we would all watch cuz he was my mom's friend & I thought that was the coolest. There was one particularly fun night when my best friend's uncle, Frankie Faison, guest starred on A Man Called Hawk. TWO people we know on TV!

When I was in middle school Avery was touring his production of "Paul Robeson" and it came through our town, so I got to see him perform in person (awesooooome) and meet him for the first time since I was a baby (which I did not remember, of course).

Now, backing up a little bit: I am a Star Trek fan because of my mom. She loved the original series and I remember being a wee Tempest in front of the TV watching The Wrath of Khan and us excitedly going to see Star Trek IV together.

I watched TNG from the instant it appeared on TV because of her. I watched all of The Animated Series even though everyone looked "wrong". (Man... it took me 4 months to realize that dude in the red shirt was Scotty cuz I'd only ever seen movie Scotty.)

Then... they announced Deep Space 9.

We heard Avery Brooks would be the commander and there was MUCH rejoicing around our house. DS9 turned out to be the best Trek ever and, of course, Avery was awesome. This was around the time my mom dropped that "he had a crush on me but I wasn't interested" bombshell.

I'm still bitter.

I mean, I love my dad he's great. But SISKO COULD HAVE BEEN MY DAD.

I lost my mom in 1999. She was--and I'm not exaggerating--an extraordinary woman and beloved by many. I received so many beautiful messages of condolence from her friends all the way back to those college years, including Avery. So many people remembered her fondly. <3

I kept watching Star Trek and often talked to her as if she was there during episodes. She would have LOVED Discovery. Especially since she took me to RENT the year I started college. I'm sure she would have shared my opinion of Enterprise as well. But she loved her some Scott Bakula, so she would have watched, anyway.

I got the chance to interview Avery Brooks at DragonCon back in 2013 (jeez, it's been almost 10 years omg). Before the interview, I went up to him on the Walk of Fame and I said:

Hi, I'm (name K stands for) Bradford, I don't know if you remember me...

And he looked up and said: Of course I remember you.

We talked for a bit and I asked if I could come back and interview him later and he said yes (he wasn't supposed to; his handler had A LOOK). I didn't want to hold up his line, so I said I'd see him later.

Before I could go, he reached out for my hand and squeezed it before saying: I loved your mama, you know.

And we just stayed like that for a few seconds, missing her together.

...I might have been trying very hard not to burst into tears.

That DragonCon was the last time I saw Avery. Barring an extraordinary circumstance, that's probably the last time I'll see him in person. I'm glad we got to have that moment together. And we had a great conversation!

His contribution to Trek has meant so much to me. SISKO4EVA

And I'm glad that it's another tie between me, my mom, and Trek. I can't watch DS9 without hearing her voice giving color commentary. Even the episodes she didn't live to see.

I think Star Trek is part of what gave her hope for the future. She passed that on to me. ❤️🖖🏾❤️

Happy Star Trek Day to all who celebrate.

[fudgelling-away]

Dating Start!

The visual novel fan game.

I watched the gameplay on YouTube.

All possible choices...

The writing under the cut starts with exclamations of my distress, and ends with a coherent commentary on how experiencing such virtual scenarios can benefit the player.

I don't think there are spoilers... Other than the fact that you can go multiple ways through the game.

The genocide route plus the attempted pacifist route afterwards.

HORRIBLE.

OMG.

And when you try to do the pacifist route again? Did you see how it ends?

MY GOD, NO. No. no. no no no.

What a sickening turn of events. This is... Ugh, I am nauseaus even thinking back to it.

No. No.

Ewwww noooo what the f-

I have been upset for DAYS after watching it. And the pictures and the dialogue is still burned into my mind.

TERRIFYING.

DISGUSTING.

EVIL.

Congratulations to the creators - and I mean it.

That is... so well made. Just... perfect punch after punch after punch to your heart. The creators ripped me apart into pieces.

Great job - again, not ironically.

That is a very, very well made game.

They knew exactly what to do to make it as painful as possible. To get all tears out of the player and to traumatize them for some time.

It's not brutal or cruel in a mindless way, no. No, no. It's way more intelligent than that. It creates such a horrific scenario, paired with the horrific pictures, that I don't think I'll ever forget it. And I only saw a YouTube video.

In comparison to Dating Start!, the normal UT Sans fight is like a happy picnic in the park.

"But it's just a game, aren't you overreacting?", you could ask. Well, no. I am enjoying artwork like pictures, movies, games to get immersed into it and experience it all. If I keep my shield up and do not allow myself to feel what the characters are feeling... then what's the point?

What's the point of even approaching art if I refuse to feel any of it?

So Dating Start! is obviously a game, but if you imagine it being a reality, imagine yourself holding that knife, it gets so painful that I want to wail and scream my lungs out.

That being said, I appreciate artists who create these kinds of difficult works so much.

I believe we choose a variety of art for ourselves because we need different stimuli. If our life was 100% fluff, we'd drown in it and become numb.

So we consume angst, tragedies, horror and other unpleasant works.

We consider those scenarios.

We think of the possible choices.

We come to terms with our worldview, or challenge it.

We grow.

We process those real emotions and learn so many things about ourselves and problem solving.

We keep developing our sense of conscience.

--------

And, to sum up I will say something to make sure I am understood correctly:

Let people explore all sides of humanity within the safety of their fantasies.

It is NOT possible to judge a person by what they create and what art they enjoy. Human mind is not black and white.

Choosing to perceive it like that: "violent art = violent person" is INCREDIBLY IMMATURE. Ridiculously childlish and small-minded.

So I am absolutely NOT judging anyone who for one reason or another enjoys doing the genocide routes in games. I enjoy to be the "bad guy" in games as well.

No judgement from my side. That should be... obvious, but I think it's not, so I am making sure to include that in my post.

[f14fun]

lay all your love on me - op81 (C5)

synopsis: in which oscar piastri and a university student begging for her euro summer vacation collide in a steamy, abba-inspired romance

prose (6.7K words) ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ profile | masterlist | series index ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

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05: Caffeine, Clem, and Capital-L Crushes

I was running on exactly four hours of sleep, and every yawn felt like my body’s way of scolding me for staying up way too late dissecting every little detail of my night with Oscar. Two hours on FaceTime with Clementine had somehow turned into a caffeine-fueled debriefing session, complete with dramatic reenactments, wild theories, and far too much giggling for someone who was supposed to be getting some rest.

Clementine had demanded every detail, leaning into the camera with wide, eager eyes, dissecting each word, each touch, like she was decoding the plot of a blockbuster rom-com. I’d found myself animatedly recounting every flirty remark and lingering glance, my voice climbing higher with each retelling, only for Clem to gasp and fan herself like we were living in some Victorian romance.

The more we talked, the more the night felt surreal—a blur of sun-soaked moments and teasing exchanges that played on a loop in my mind. I’d lost track of how many times Clem had paused to remind me, “Babe, he’s into you. Like, capital-L into you.” Each time, I’d try to protest, but the undeniable flutter in my chest always betrayed me. By the time we’d finally hung up, my cheeks were aching from smiling, and the adrenaline from our impromptu therapy session had me buzzing long after I’d collapsed into bed.

I could still hear Clem’s voice echoing in my head:

“I’m telling you, this is a Hallmark movie in the making, and you’re the main character. The Oscar Romance Special is about to hit season two.”

I’d rolled my eyes at the time, but now, dragging myself out of bed with a sleepy groan, I couldn’t stop replaying every flirty line, every shared smile, every moment that had made the night feel like something more.

The minute I’d crawled under the covers last night, I should have fallen straight into a blissful, uninterrupted sleep. But instead, I’d tossed and turned, Oscar’s voice running laps in my head, every cheeky grin and lingering touch replaying like my brain had hit the “rewind” button on the best parts of the day. And once Clem got wind of it, there was no way she was going to let me sleep without a full-blown breakdown of every micro-detail.

“It’s the way he looked at you when you were talking about chicken fights,” Clem had mused, eyes wide as if she were watching a thriller unfold. “Like you were the only person who’d ever said something even remotely interesting.”

I’d laughed, brushing it off, but the truth was, I’d noticed it too. The way Oscar’s gaze would linger, how his playful teasing had just the slightest undercurrent of something deeper.

We’d joked, sure—but every joke felt like it was skirting around something bigger, something neither of us were quite ready to name. And when I’d finally tried to put it into words, Clem had been ready with her own dramatic commentary, as usual.

“So he’s a Formula One driver, he’s charming, and he looks at you like you hung the moon with the flick of a finger. Babe, if you don’t lock in right now and lock that down, I’m coming over there myself to knock some sense into you.” She’d laughed with such glee and enthusiasm, but the teasing was laced with genuine excitement, and it had fueled my own sleepless spiral long after we’d said goodnight.

I’d tossed and turned for hours, replaying every moment in my head like it was some kind of twisted highlight reel. The way Oscar’s voice had dropped when he talked about his life on the track, the lingering touches that made my heart race, and that look—God, that look—like I was the only person in the world who mattered. Clem was right; it was hard not to get swept up in it, to not feel like the universe had handed me some ridiculous, too-good-to-be-true script of a romance movie. But as much as my heart was screaming at me to dive headfirst, my mind was busy throwing up every possible reason to pump the brakes.

Now, sunlight was streaming through my window, mercilessly bright, as I trudged to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face in a vain attempt to wake up. My reflection stared back at me, hair sticking out in every direction, dark circles under my eyes that practically screamed, You should have gone to bed sooner. But my mind was still buzzing, caught somewhere between the thrill of last night and the anxiety of what came next.

I brushed my teeth absentmindedly, trying to scrub away the exhaustion and the lingering taste of late-night anxiety. But every time I closed my eyes, I was back on that beach, Oscar’s teasing grin etched into my memory like a permanent fixture. It wasn’t just the flirting or the way he’d pulled me close; it was the way he’d made me feel seen, like all the walls I’d put up to protect myself had been effortlessly dismantled in a single night.

I leaned against the sink, sighing heavily. “Get it together,” I mumbled to my reflection. “He’s just a guy.” But even as I said it, the words felt hollow, lacking the conviction I so desperately needed. Because deep down, I knew Oscar was not just any guy. There was something undeniably magnetic about him, something that made it impossible to stick to the safety of denial.

My phone buzzed on the counter, snapping me out of my thoughts. It was a text from Clem, her timing impeccable as always:

Clem: morning, lovebird! dream of your racer boy? 😘

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at my lips.

Me: morning. and no, i dreamt of sleep deprivation, thanks.

Clem: liesss girl liesss, i can see you RIGHT now in my mind. you’re probably blushing just thinking about him right now.

I glanced at my reflection in the mirror and, sure enough, the telltale warmth was already creeping up my cheeks. Damn it, Clem. She knew me too well.

Me: oh my god, clem. you’re like a psychic stalker. can’t a girl have some peace?

Clem: peace? honey, you signed up for the drama package the moment you met him. so spill, what’s the plan? are you gonna ride this love rollercoaster or what?

And, damn her, she was right. I tossed my phone onto the wooden dresser, groaning. Everything felt too raw, too immediate. It wasn’t like me to get this twisted up over a guy, but there was something about Oscar—something I couldn’t quite put my finger on—that made my usual cool detachment completely useless.

I splashed my face one more time, hoping the cold water would snap me out of my reverie, but it was no use. The memory of Oscar’s easy laugh, his warm touch, and that sincere, almost vulnerable side he’d let slip through lingered like a song I couldn’t get out of my head. And the worst part? A small, stubborn part of me didn’t want it to go away.

As I ran a brush through my tangled hair, I caught myself staring at the mirror, silently wishing for answers. What was I supposed to do now? Lean in and see where this crazy, unexpected thing with Oscar could go, or protect myself and pull back before things got messy? Either way, I was in uncharted territory, and the thought of navigating it without screwing everything up seemed both exhilarating and terrifying.

“Guess I’m in it now,” I muttered to my reflection, feeling the weight of the decision resting heavily on my shoulders. Because whatever happened next, there was no going back to before.

Clem: you better not chicken out now. i swear, if you start overthinking this, i’ll fly over there myself and push you into his arms.

Me: so violent, hehe.

Me: but thanks for the pep talk, dr. phil. ilysmmm

Clem: ilysm booo! you know it. and hey, you’ve got this. worst case? you get a story to laugh about later. best case? you get a hot f1 boyfriend. seems like a win-win to me.

I laughed, shaking my head as I set my phone down. Clem’s relentless optimism was a lifeline, even when she was half-joking. I wasn’t sure which possibility scared me more—letting this thing with Oscar fizzle out into a ‘remember when’ or diving in headfirst and risking everything.

I threw on my seafoam green strapless dress, the one with the ruched bodice that hugged my waist just right and flowed into a ruffled hem. It was the perfect mix of casual and effortlessly chic, capturing that laid-back Mediterranean vibe I’d always admired but never quite pulled off until now. The soft pastel green felt fresh and summery, and as I adjusted the fabric, I couldn’t help but feel a little more put together than usual.

To complete the look, I fastened my chunky gold chain necklace, adorned with oversized sea-themed charms—starfish, shells, and other ocean treasures that jingled softly with every movement. It was bold, a little gaudy maybe, but it felt right, like an unapologetic nod to the seaside setting we were in. Matching gold earrings dangled from my ears, catching the morning light, and I stacked a few gold bangles on my wrists for good measure. The jewelry was heavy, warm against my skin, but it grounded me, giving me a little boost of confidence as I prepared to face whatever this day would bring.

I took one last glance in the mirror, adjusting the loose waves in my hair and making sure the necklace lay just right. There was something about the way the outfit came together that made me feel a little bolder, like I was dressing not just for breakfast, but for the possibility of whatever—or whoever—came next.

Even if I felt nervous as hell and quite possibly so very close to the edge, I would make sure no one could see it (telling myself lies again but I digress).

I needed to look hot. Fucking impeccable.

Taking a deep breath, I grabbed my phone again, typing out a final message to Clem:

Me: okay, okay. i’m going. no more hiding. and if i trip over my words like a fool, that’s on you.

Clem: that’s my girl! go get your man.

With Clem’s words echoing in my head, I shoved my phone into my pocket and headed downstairs, nerves fluttering in my stomach like restless butterflies. The scent of breakfast hit me as soon as I reached the bottom step—freshly brewed coffee, the crisp aroma of toast, and something sweet, like cinnamon and sugar. It was a comforting mix, and it tugged at the edges of my anxiety, coaxing me forward.

The kitchen was bathed in soft morning light, casting a golden glow over the bustling scene. Mae, with her short hair tousled in that effortlessly cool way only she could pull off, was dressed in an oversized graphic tee and a pair of tiny denim shorts, her legs stretched out as she lounged on the stool, half-distracted by whatever was on her screen. A few bracelets jingled on her wrist as she absentmindedly scrolled, occasionally chiming in with a sarcastic comment that made the others laugh.

Hattie, ever the organized one, was moving around with purpose, her damp curls pulled back into a messy bun that still somehow looked put-together. She wore a light blue tank top that matched her eyes and high-waisted linen pants that billowed slightly as she moved, the kind of outfit that screamed effortless summer chic. She balanced a stack of mismatched plates on one hip, arranging them on the table with precision, her expression a mix of focus and amusement as she chimed in on Mae’s snarky commentary.

Edie, the youngest but certainly not the quietest, was manning the stove with the confidence of someone who had taken on the role of breakfast chef many times before. Her hair was pulled into two loose braids, little wisps escaping around her face as she flipped pancakes with practiced ease. She wore a sunflower-yellow sundress that brightened the room even more, the fabric swishing around her knees as she moved. A slight dusting of flour clung to her hands, and there was a faint smear of batter on her cheek, giving her an endearing, carefree look.

The kitchen smelled heavenly—warm, sweet, and buttery—with the faintest hint of vanilla wafting from Edie’s pancake masterpiece. Mae’s playlist was faintly audible, playing some indie pop tune that filled the gaps in their conversation and set an upbeat mood. It was the kind of scene that felt both chaotic and comforting, each of the sisters contributing to the lively morning energy in their own way.

“Morning!” Mae chirped, barely glancing up from her screen but still managing to sound chipper. “You’re up early. Couldn’t stay away from us, huh?”

“Morning,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light and casual. “Smells amazing in here.”

“Edie’s specialty,” Hattie said with a grin, sliding a stack of pancakes onto the table. “She’s got this whole breakfast chef thing down to an art.”

Edie turned, waving the spatula in a mock bow. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all week. Literally.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, taking a seat across from Mae. “Well, lucky us. I’m definitely not complaining.”

Mae finally looked up, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “So, did you sleep well? You know, after your little moonlit stroll last night?”

I felt my cheeks heat up instantly, and I reached for a mug to hide my flustered expression. “Yeah, fine. Just… normal.” I took a sip, hoping the coffee would ground me, but all it did was make me more aware of how on edge I was.

Hattie exchanged a knowing look with Mae, then turned to me with a playful smile. “You guys were out there for a while. I half expected to hear the soundtrack of a rom-com playing in the background.”

I rolled my eyes, but there was no malice in it—just the familiar tug of embarrassment. “You guys are impossible, you know that?”

Edie laughed, flipping another pancake. “Oh, we know. But you love it.”

“Sure, let’s go with that,” I said, trying to keep my voice light as I picked at a piece of toast. The truth was, I didn’t mind their teasing. In fact, their relentless ribbing was almost comforting, like being folded into a dynamic I didn’t know I needed.

“Anyway,” Mae continued, dragging out the word as if savoring the moment, “Oscar’s still asleep. Guess all that romantic strolling wore him out.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, and I choked on my coffee, trying to keep my composure.

“Mae, please,” I said, laughing despite myself. “I don’t need a play-by-play of his morning routine.”

Edie set down the last plate of pancakes and took a seat, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, come on. It’s just so fun watching you squirm.”

“Yeah, and you’re kind of the only normal one here,” Hattie added, piling syrup onto her plate. “Oscar’s always either being overly confident or sulking about something. It’s refreshing to have someone who’s, you know, sane.”

I smiled, feeling that familiar warmth of being welcomed, even if it came wrapped in layers of teasing. “Well, thanks, I guess? I’ll take being the sane one if it means I get pancakes.”

Hattie passed me the syrup, her grin wide. “Deal. But don’t think that gets you off the hook. We’re all dying to know—what’s really going on with you and Oscar?”

I hesitated, suddenly aware of how much their playful scrutiny meant to me. I didn’t want to let them down, but I also wasn’t ready to admit to anything that I hadn’t even figured out myself. “Honestly?” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m not sure. But I think that’s okay. We’re just… figuring it out.”

Mae nodded, surprisingly earnest. “Hey, no pressure. Just enjoy it. Life’s too short to overthink everything.”

I glanced at her, surprised by the sudden shift from teasing to sincerity. “Yeah, you’re right,” I said, feeling a little more settled. “I think I will.”

Mae’s expression softened, and she set her phone down, propping her chin on her hand as she watched me. “Seriously, though, don’t stress about it. If anyone can handle the chaos that is Oscar, it’s you. Plus, he’s not so bad once you get used to the terrible jokes and the occasional bouts of bravado.”

Hattie chuckled, sliding into her seat and pouring herself a glass of orange juice. “And the dramatic speeches,” she added, winking at me. “He’s got a flair for making everything sound like it’s life or death, but really, he’s just a softie at heart.”

Edie finally turned off the stove, setting a towering plate of pancakes on the table with a triumphant grin. “You’ll get used to it,” she said, giving me a conspiratorial smile as she sat down. “Just roll with it. That’s what we do.”

Their encouragement warmed me more than I expected, and for a moment, I felt like I was being let in on a secret, one that went beyond the lighthearted teasing and easy banter. It was clear that beneath all the jokes, there was a genuine care for their brother—a kind of protective, loving acceptance that made me feel a little less alone in navigating this new territory with him.

I sat down, reaching for a pancake and letting their words sink in. The idea of just enjoying the moment, of not overanalyzing every tiny interaction, felt both freeing and slightly terrifying. But sitting here, surrounded by this noisy, welcoming group, it felt like maybe, just maybe, I could let go a little. I could let myself lean into the unexpected without the weight of expectations dragging me down.

Mae poured herself another cup of coffee, her smile turning back into her usual mischievous smirk. “And hey, if it doesn’t work out, at least you’ll have some great stories. Like, ‘Remember that summer I got tangled up with a race car driver and his three crazy sisters?’ It’s all part of the adventure.”

I laughed, shaking my head at Mae’s dramatics. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, taking a bite of my pancake, the sweetness filling my senses. “But for now, I think I’ll just enjoy breakfast and see where the day takes me.”

Hattie raised her glass in a mock toast. “To not overthinking and just going with the flow,” she declared, her eyes sparkling with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly how to live in the moment.

Edie joined in, clinking her glass with Hattie’s and then mine. “And to great company,” she added, beaming as she dug into her stack of pancakes.

Edie took a sip of her juice, then leaned forward, curiosity sparking in her eyes. “So, we got all wrapped up in Oscar’s big secret yesterday, but what about you? We didn’t really get to know much about the mystery girl who’s apparently brave enough to keep up with our brother.”

I smiled, feeling the spotlight shift to me as all three sisters turned their attention my way. “Oh, nothing too dramatic,” I started, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m twenty-one, a senior at George Washington University in DC.”

Hattie’s eyes widened with recognition. “Ooh, DC! The nation’s capital, right? I’ve always wanted to go. It’s like, politics central, isn’t it?”

I nodded, laughing at her enthusiasm. “Yeah, it’s a pretty unique place. It’s not a state, but it likes to think it’s important enough to be one. You know, home of the White House, Congress, and a whole lot of people in suits pretending they know how to run the country.”

Mae snorted into her coffee. “So basically, it’s one giant power trip?”

“Pretty much,” I grinned. “But it’s also got this amazing mix of history and culture. There are monuments and museums on every corner, and sometimes it feels like you can’t throw a rock without hitting some important landmark. It’s kind of like living in a history book—except with more Starbucks.”

Hattie laughed. “And you’re majoring in what? Political stuff, I’m guessing?”

“Close,” I said, feeling a bit more comfortable now. “I’m majoring in International Relations. It’s like political science, but with more foreign countries, diplomacy, and trying to figure out why world leaders can’t just get along. Basically, I’m training to be the world’s most overqualified peacekeeper or, you know, a very stressed-out diplomat.”

Edie nodded, clearly impressed. “That sounds really cool, though. And probably way over my head. So what do you do for fun in a city full of politicians?”

“Well,” I said, a little shy but pleased they were interested, “when I’m not drowning in textbooks, I actually love to photograph the city. There’s something about the mix of old architecture and modern chaos that just... speaks to me, I guess. Plus, it’s an easy way to escape all the academic stuff and just focus on something beautiful.”

Mae’s ears perked up. “Wait, so you’re a photographer? That’s awesome! Do you post your stuff anywhere?”

I hesitated, suddenly feeling a bit bashful. “Yeah, I have an Instagram account where I share my photos. It’s kind of taken off a little bit.”

Hattie immediately pulled out her phone, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “What’s your handle? I wanna see!”

I told them my Instagram username, and within seconds, they were scrolling through my feed, their faces lighting up with interest as they took in my shots of cityscapes, moody portraits, and candid street moments.

“Whoa, you’ve got 32.9K followers?” Edie exclaimed, holding up her phone to show the impressive number. “You’re basically Instagram famous! And these photos are gorgeous.”

Mae looked up, clearly impressed. “I’m not even surprised. You’ve got an eye, girl. These shots are like... magazine-level good. I feel like I’m seeing DC through a totally different lens.”

I blushed, feeling a mix of pride and humility. “Thanks, it’s kind of my little escape. I just love capturing the city’s vibe—the people, the little hidden corners, the chaos and calm all mixed together. I never expected it to turn into something people would actually follow.”

Hattie scrolled through a few more pictures, pausing on one of a sunlit Washington Monument framed by cherry blossoms. “I get it. This is art, seriously. And now I’m kind of jealous of your life. You get to live in this cool place, study fascinating stuff, and take amazing photos on the side. That’s like, triple threat territory.”

Hattie leaned back in her chair, shaking her head in disbelief. “You know, I’ve never even been to DC. I mean, we’ve talked about going, but somehow we always end up at the beach or stuck on some last-minute road trip that Dad plans.”

Mae laughed, nodding. “Yeah, because why visit the nation’s capital when you can get lost in the middle of nowhere and argue over gas station snacks, right?”

Edie snorted. “Honestly, the closest we’ve been to DC is watching reruns of House of Cards and pretending we understand politics.”

Mae threw her hands up dramatically. “I swear, we’re missing out. I mean, we’ve got to see all those marble buildings and secret government stuff, right? What’s it like, just casually living near a bunch of old guys in suits who make all the rules?”

I laughed, enjoying their banter. “Honestly? It’s a mix. On one hand, you’ve got all these important people running around pretending they’re changing the world. On the other, it’s just a bunch of monuments, overpriced coffee shops, and tourists blocking the sidewalks with selfie sticks.”

Hattie giggled. “Wow, it sounds like such a glamorous place. Like New York, but with more government scandals and fewer Broadway shows.”

Edie nodded, trying to look serious but failing miserably. “I feel like we’d be kicked out of DC within a day. One of us would probably start an argument with a senator over parking spaces, and Mae would definitely try to sneak into the Capitol just to see if it’s as dramatic as the movies.”

Mae pointed at Edie, pretending to be offended. “Hey, I’m not that reckless. But, like, if we do go, I’m definitely hitting up those underground tunnels. You know they’ve got to be hiding some cool spy stuff down there.”

I shook my head, laughing at the absurdity. “Yeah, I’m not sure you guys would last. You’d probably spend the whole trip critiquing the statues or getting lost in the Smithsonian.”

Mae shrugged, grinning. “Hey, we’re up for the challenge. Just promise to be our tour guide when we eventually decide to grace DC with our presence. We’ll bring the chaos, and you bring the camera.”

“Deal,” I said, raising my glass in mock seriousness. “Just don’t blame me when you get kicked out of a museum for climbing on the exhibits.”

Mae nodded in agreement, setting her phone down. “Yeah, honestly, I’m just glad we finally got to hear your side. And hey, now we know that if you ever get sick of Oscar, you’ve got a whole city full of potential new admirers.”

I laughed, feeling a warm sense of belonging settle over me. “Thanks, but I think I’ll stick around for a bit. I’m kind of liking where I am right now.”

The girls laughed, and Hattie leaned in, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Wait wait wait I still have a few questions. You must have some wild stories. I mean, it’s DC—you’re right in the middle of all the action!”

I smiled, settling into the moment. “It’s a lot of things—hectic, beautiful, sometimes frustrating, but never boring. I love how there’s always something happening, whether it’s a protest down on the National Mall or a pop-up art exhibit in some random alley. There’s this constant energy, like everyone’s in a rush but also living in this incredible historic moment all the time.”

Edie nodded, fascinated. “And the photography thing—how do you even capture all of that? Like, do you just walk around with your camera 24/7?”

I laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Pretty much. I like to just wander around and see where the day takes me. You’d be surprised how many hidden gems there are—little parks tucked between office buildings, street musicians who are just as talented as anyone on stage. Plus, it’s fun capturing the contrasts—the shiny government buildings and the raw, gritty parts that make the city feel real.”

Mae smiled, clearly impressed. “Okay, so now you’re officially our go-to when we make it to DC. We’ll get the full insider experience—no boring tourist traps.”

I opened my mouth to agree when suddenly, a familiar arm draped around my shoulder, pulling me into a warm side hug. “Speaking of insider experiences,” Oscar’s voice broke in, far too close to my ear. “Are you telling them about your little secret photo spots? Or do I get to be the first one you show around?”

Startled, I jumped and let out a sharp yelp, my heart leaping into my throat. Without thinking, my elbow shot backward, driven by pure instinct and a jolt of adrenaline. The impact was immediate—I felt my elbow connect with something firm and unyielding. It wasn’t the soft thud of bumping into furniture or the awkward smack of knocking into someone’s arm. No, this was solid, unmistakably muscular. My elbow sank briefly against the defined ridges of Oscar’s abs, and I could feel the tension of his muscles bracing under the sudden, unexpected blow.

Oscar let out a strangled, surprised grunt, the sound half-laugh, half-pained exhale, as he stumbled backward. His expression morphed from shock to mock agony as he clutched his side dramatically, doubling over with a theatrical gasp.

“Ow! Holy—” he managed between strained breaths, his free hand pressed firmly against his stomach as if he’d just taken a punch straight out of a boxing ring. He staggered back a step, his body curling protectively around the spot where my elbow had connected, and for a split second, I worried I might’ve actually hurt him.

But Oscar’s over-the-top reaction was more comedic than anything else. He leaned against the counter, groaning with exaggerated flair, squeezing his eyes shut as if he were the star of his own melodramatic performance. His dark hair fell messily over his forehead, and even in his mock pain, he couldn’t quite hide the playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“You’ve got some serious power in that elbow,” he wheezed, still clutching his side but peeking up at me with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “What have you been eating? Steel oats? Protein shakes? Because, damn, you’ve got a weapon there.”

“Oh my god!” I gasped, half mortified, half laughing as Oscar pretended to lurch dramatically against the counter. “You scared the hell out of me! Why are you sneaking up on people?”

Oscar winced playfully, rubbing his abs where I’d jabbed him. “Damn, remind me never to surprise you again. You’ve got an elbow like a linebacker.” He laughed, but his eyes were twinkling, clearly enjoying the chaos he’d caused.

I sat there, caught between concern and stifled laughter, my face flushed with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed, half-panicked, half-giggling as I reached out, instinctively trying to pat his shoulder as if that would somehow ease the pain. “I didn’t mean to! You just—scared me, and I—I panicked!”

Oscar straightened slightly, still rubbing his abs where I’d jabbed him, his expression teetering between pain and mischief. “I thought I was gonna end up on the floor.” He let out a breathless laugh, eyes sparkling despite his over-the-top suffering. “You’ve got some serious reflexes.”

I glanced down, my gaze lingering on the spot where I’d made contact. Even through his t-shirt, I could feel the distinct firmness of his abs—hard as a rock, like something carved from stone rather than skin and muscle. It was like hitting a brick wall disguised as a human. My cheeks heated as the realization sunk in, and I quickly pulled my hand away, trying to mask my flustered reaction with an awkward laugh.

“Next time, announce yourself!” I shot back, still breathless from the sudden surge of adrenaline. “Or, you know, maybe just don’t sneak up on me when I’m in the middle of a conversation.”

Oscar straightened fully, his grin widening, and he offered me a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. Lesson learned. I’ll approach with caution—and maybe a helmet—next time.”

The girls burst into laughter, Mae doubling over as she clapped her hands. “Nice one, Oscar. Just try not to get yourself KO’d next time.”

Edie was practically crying with laughter, holding her stomach. “I’ve never seen anyone get taken out by a breakfast elbow before. That was amazing.”

Hattie chimed in, wiping a tear from her eye. “Oscar, you’ve got to work on your stealth skills. Or at least your reflexes. She got you good.”

I was still blushing, torn between embarrassment and pride at my unintentional takedown. “Maybe don’t sneak up on people who are talking about their city adventures,” I said, giving him a playful glare. “I almost knocked the wind out of you.”

Oscar straightened up, still rubbing his side but grinning like he’d just won a game he didn’t know he was playing. “Noted. I’ll keep my distance when you’re in storytelling mode—didn’t realize I’d need a bulletproof vest just to get your attention,” he teased, his voice laced with that familiar playful confidence. He gave me a mock bow, adding, “But hey, it’s not every day I get nearly floored by someone half my size. Impressive, really.”

Mae, who had been watching the whole scene unfold with wide-eyed amusement, chimed in, barely able to contain her laughter. “Honestly, I think you got off easy. If she can take you down with an elbow, just imagine what she could do with a roundhouse kick. You better stay on her good side.”

Hattie snorted, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, Oscar, if she’d been holding a frying pan, you’d be out cold right now. I’d pay to see that fight.” She shot me a wink, clearly enjoying her brother’s over-the-top reaction. “Nice job, by the way. Most people just tell him to buzz off, but you? You went straight for the kill.”

I was still blushing, torn between embarrassment and a tiny bit of pride at my unintentional takedown. “Maybe don’t sneak up on people who are talking about their city adventures,” I said, giving him a playful glare.

Oscar chuckled, his grin never faltering. “Lesson learned. I’ll approach with a white flag next time.” He rubbed his abs one last time, his expression softening as he glanced at me. “But hey, consider me officially intrigued by DC and whatever other hidden skills you’ve got. Might have to keep my distance, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Edie was wiping away tears of laughter, her cheeks flushed from the hilarity. “This is officially the best breakfast we’ve had in ages. Who knew we’d get a free Oscar takedown with our pancakes?” She raised her glass in mock celebration. “To the unexpected and unintentional, but very satisfying, smackdown of the day!”

Oscar shot her a look of mock offense but couldn’t keep from laughing himself. “Alright, alright, I get it. I’m the morning entertainment. But just you wait, I’ll get my revenge—when you least expect it.”

I smirked, still feeling the lingering tingle in my elbow and the rush of adrenaline from the whole absurd encounter. “I’ll be ready. But remember, sneak attacks don’t end well around here.”

Oscar held up his hands in surrender, the playful banter still dancing in his eyes. “Point taken. No more stealth moves—at least not without a warning. But hey,” he added, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper as he leaned in just a bit closer, “I guess that means I’ll just have to find new ways to get under your skin.”

His words sent a small thrill down my spine, the challenge hanging between us like an unspoken promise. It was impossible not to smile, the line between annoyance and attraction blurring further with every quip and every lingering look.

We all settled back around the table, the remnants of breakfast spread out like the aftermath of a lively party. Mae was still giggling into her juice, and Hattie was busy piling pancakes onto her plate, but the atmosphere was lighter now, filled with an easy camaraderie that made the whole morning feel like a scene out of a feel-good movie. I scooped up some scrambled eggs, trying to act casual, but every now and then, I’d catch Oscar sneaking a glance my way, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Pass the syrup?” Oscar asked, leaning in closer than necessary, his arm brushing against mine as he reached for the bottle. It was a small touch, barely noticeable, but it sent a little jolt through me, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes playfully.

“Careful,” I said, handing it over with a smirk. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself with this dangerous syrup. It’s a real menace.”

Oscar grinned, pouring a generous amount onto his pancakes. “Yeah, well, I’ll try to handle it without getting taken out by a rogue condiment. But thanks for the concern.”

Hattie snorted, shaking her head as she munched on her toast. “You two are like a sitcom. Seriously, how are we supposed to eat when it’s all banter and sneak attacks?”

Mae nodded in agreement, waving her fork in the air for emphasis. “Exactly. We need a warning before you two start up again. I almost choked on my juice.”

I laughed, grabbing another slice of fruit. “Don’t worry, we’ll try to keep the drama to a minimum. Breakfast is a sacred time, after all.”

Edie set down her fork, glancing at the clock on her phone. “Speaking of time, it’s still early enough that we could hit the market before it gets too hot. We need to grab some stuff for tonight anyway.”

Oscar perked up, leaning back in his chair. “The market sounds good. It’s not far, and we can get there before the sun decides to fry us alive. Plus, we can stock up on snacks. I’m thinking... fresh pastries, some local olives, maybe something sweet?”

Mae grinned, tapping her fingers on the table. “Count me in. I want to see what kind of cool stuff they have. And maybe pick up something to annoy Hattie. It’s like, a sibling rite of passage.”

Hattie rolled her eyes but smiled, taking a sip of her coffee. “Sure, Mae. I’ll make sure to keep you far away from anything that looks remotely like a musical instrument. I don’t need another round of impromptu concert performances.”

I glanced around the table, feeling a swell of excitement at the idea of exploring the local market with them. It was the kind of spontaneous plan that felt like the perfect way to spend the morning—just wandering around, sampling local food, and maybe picking up a few souvenirs. And, of course, the thought of more time spent with Oscar, in and out of playful jabs, wasn’t exactly unappealing.

“Sounds like a plan,” I said, pushing back my plate and stretching my arms. “But we better go soon before it really heats up out there. I’m not trying to become a melted puddle on the sidewalk.”

Mae let out a dramatic groan, fanning herself with a napkin. “Seriously, I already feel like I’m halfway to becoming a human popsicle. Let’s move before I turn into a puddle of regrets.”

Oscar chuckled, leaning back in his chair as he finished the last of his juice. “Don’t worry, Mae. We’ll keep you hydrated. And who knows? Maybe you’ll find a portable fan to add to your collection of weird market finds.”

Mae shot him a playful glare. “I’m not the one who bought that weird wooden frog last time, Oscar. That was all you. But if I find a fan, I’m buying it. Consider it an investment in my survival.”

Oscar held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, but if anyone finds a fan that also doubles as a weapon, I call dibs. You know, just in case I need to defend myself from any more surprise attacks.” He shot me a teasing look, and I couldn’t help but smile.

Edie laughed, wiping her hands on a napkin as she pushed her chair back. “Oscar, the day you need to defend yourself from anything other than your own bad decisions is the day we all need to start worrying.” She grabbed her sunglasses from the table, slipping them on with a flourish. “But I’ll keep an eye out for a fan-weapon hybrid. Seems like something that could really elevate your whole ‘I’m constantly under attack’ vibe.”

Oscar feigned offense, clutching his chest dramatically. “You wound me, Edie. But you know what? I’ll take the fan and the survival bragging rights. And when we’re all sweating buckets, just remember who thought ahead.”

Hattie shook her head, tossing her empty juice cup in the trash. “Let’s just get to the market before you guys end up buying the weirdest stuff just for the sake of it. We’re here for essentials, remember?”

Mae snorted, throwing her arm around Hattie’s shoulders as they headed toward the door. “Speak for yourself, Hattie. Some of us are here for the thrill of the hunt. And maybe a sun hat that screams ‘I’m on vacation and I don’t care.’”

Oscar turned to me, his eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief. “What about you? Got any market goals today? Weird trinkets, secret weapon fans, or just here to keep me out of trouble?”

I pretended to consider it, tapping my chin thoughtfully. “I think my goal is to keep you in just the right amount of trouble. Can’t have you getting too comfortable.” I winked, enjoying the easy flow of our banter, the way it felt like slipping into a well-worn routine despite how new it all was.

Oscar laughed, a low, warm sound that sent a flutter through my chest. “Deal. I’ll keep it interesting. And if I find anything particularly ridiculous, you’ll be the first to know.”

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author's note: a double update for my lovelies, so sorry i didn't update on sunday <3, i hope you enjoy chapters 5 and 6!!

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taglist! @mingyusbigrighttoe @theblueblub @demandealalune @linnygirl09 @fix5idiots

[hotvintagepoll]

If I can defend Knives Out as being actually not that boring of a pick: Maybe genre wise it’s referencing classic detective stories, but! There’s still things about it that would be fun to reimagine in a vintage setting

Casting is the big one; because for me it’s not just that the all star cast, it’s the mix of types of actors. A few younger actors who aren’t really household names; a few people who are currently enjoying a big wave of popularity/are in other really big projects; extremely well respected actors who most people know; and extremely well respected veteran actors who also aren’t necessarily household names. Like you cover pretty much the whole range with the film. So it presents a fun challenge of not only having to cast for character type, but seeing if you can’t match actor type, too.

And then there’s Blanc specifically- for me, it’s not just about picking someone who would be a fun classic PI character, but trying to find someone who matches Daniel Craig’s specific relationship to the character- is there an equivalent person who is just coming out of/about to come out of being a bit type cast in a somewhat serious, not all that emotive, action-star role who gets a chance through this to loosen up, have fun, and show they also have great comedic chops and character-work abilities?

The other big component for me is that Knives Out and Glass Onion both have some relevant social commentary/issue running as an undercurrent to the murder mystery. Both deal with issues of class, but then KO has Marta’s status as an undocumented immigrant be an important theme throughout, and GO has its take on an Elon Musk type (among other modern archetypes). So what specific contemporary issue(s) are we picking for vintage Knives Out? And how will that affect what our hypothetical movie’s plot and cast looks like?

this ask is making me weep because a movie with “a few younger actors [and] a few people who are currently enjoying a big wave of popularity/are in other really big projects; extremely well respected actors who most people know; and extremely well respected veteran actors who also aren’t necessarily household names” and a lead actor playing the detective who gets to “have fun, and show they also have great comedic chops and character-work abilities” already exists—Murder on the Orient Express from 1974 is one of my favorite movies ever and is apparently now required viewing for this blog. It’s got Lauren Bacall! Ingrid Bergman! Wendy Hiller! John Gielgud! Anthony Perkins! Michael York! Jacqueline Bisset! And Albert Finney eating the shit out of the scenery as Hercule Poirot. It is SUCH a good time and will hit so many of the Knives Out buttons for so many of you. (Admittedly it does not have the same style of social commentary as a Knives Out film, though just like in Christie’s novel it is crucial that the travelers on the train represent diverse intersections of class, and a major touchstone is how justice is meted out based on wealth, class, and who makes those choices.)

Anyway please watch Murder on the Orient Express (1974).

[fauxnotice]

ALIEN SKINCARE. v! blue lock/male! reader. originally posted on quotev. masterlist.

CHAPTER I. YOU JUST LOVE BEING NOTHING, RIGHT?

Your daily routine is a terribly ordinary, if not a rather dull one. 

That’s fine, however. Its normalcy comes from predictability, and with predictability comes a sense of control. Every and each new possible variant is easily molded to fit into what is already established. 

Days come and go, much like clouds in the sky, and you’re content. You love your painfully droll, boring routine.

Which would be a lie by definition, so to deny your restlessness would be the same as trying to deny that humans need air to survive. Or to deny that the Japanese football team will never win the World Cup. 

But alas, you live. 

One of your classmates, Hamada, you think pensively, since you make a passable effort at remembering names of the people you have to spend considerable hours of the day with, is acting rather friendly today.

You think he wants something from you. That’s probably why he’s asking you to go somewhere with him after school. Sadly, it seems he’s unaware of the few universal truths of life.

That is that you’re never free after classes. 

Everyone in your immediate vicinity is aware of this, so you’re led to believe that Hamada is extraordinarily out of the loop. Or maybe he’s being a contrarian just to appear unique in your eyes. 

Which is not working, by the way.

“Sorry, but I’m busy today.” You say, an apologetical smile creasing your face in a familiar way. 

“Oh.” He recoils, losing confidence at your rejection. “Maybe some other day, then?”

Whatever. He should just steal all of your money and fill your shoes with nails at this point. He should spit at you and kick you until you’re a stain on the floor. Unfortunately, you’re [L/n] [Y/n], so you nod. Kindly. With all the positive hidden implications in the world.

Hamada regains some of his previous enthusiasm. Thankfully, the teacher enters the room before he could take your politeness as an invitation to further communication.

Like a good student, you listen and take notes carefully. This teacher in particular talks very slowly and often loses track of his thoughts, which greatly gets on your nerves. 

That’s okay. You’ll live.

School time passes by comfortably. You demonstrate your gracefulness and virtue at every chance. Some students swoon. Plenty of girls, and curiously, a good chunk of boys as well. Some scoff at your supposed imitation of perfection. Talk about how you’re probably a faker, eager for attention and praise and whatnot. Not that you mind. They must think about you a lot, enough to start making theories on the topic of you and the nuances of your character. 

Not that they'll ever get any confirmation. You let the invested have fun. Do the divine throw bricks at the religious? No. 

Your school’s football team is having a game tomorrow. Obviously, you make your way to practice. Though, ultimately, you believe you’d be making a better use of your time by trying to fold a thousand origami cranes with just your feet and then wishing for a better team. Yet, here you are.

You move across the field like a corpse. Metaphorically, of course. To the other’s untrained eye, it looks like you’re giving it your all. However, in your head, you’re trying to to remember at least the first ten digits of pi (you’re failing), so you switch to creating a satirical retelling of some subpar movie you and Bachira watched at the premiere some time ago (you got reasonably angry at the mediocrity of the so-called social commentary that was flaunted around as “never seen before” and “a heart clenching story that dives into the complexities of our society”, and Bachira got bored, so you both ditched it, wasted money be damned). 

All that, and yet nothing of worth is happening before you. For shame, since you do think your teammates are decent people, in the same way drivers who stop their cars before they hit you are decent people. Except the probably forty something father of two who let you safely cross the street this morning probably had more ball expertise than these frankly appalling clowns throwing themselves around do. 

Of course, you pride yourself on your ever persisting decorum, so you keep your mouth shut as you pass the ball to the guy a bit to your left, since you’re a good teammate and teamwork makes the dreamwork and yadda yadda. Even with your absent minded play, he just needs to push the ball with some semblance of force and boom, it’s a simple and clean goal. 

But as if by some otherworldly intervention, the boy trips. Genuinely gets sent sprawling over the central object of the game. 

It takes you every drop of self control to not lunge at him with the intent of questioning just how does this happen a day! A day! Before the match. Now, keep in mind, this strange specimen is known for his blunders. At least to you, but the rest of the team and the coach seem to hold this guy in some type of high regard. Which is crazy, since you don’t think he’d be able to score a goal without you specifically holding his hand, making the whole predicament even more baffling since you’re the actual ace of the team. 

Now, you think this team could go places, if you had the time to score more, but you have to spend it making sure your companions don’t sabotage the game by playing like it’s their first time seeing a football. You surely have grinded quite a bit of your teeth mass down by pretending to be content with this charade, just so the court jester of a coach wouldn’t call you uncooperative or something similarly humiliating again. God forbid he sends you to meet the bench. 

The comically incapable guy turns to you, after all the shock and laughter has faded from the group. “Ah, I’m sorry for ruining your pass, [L/n]-kun. I guess my nerves have been getting to me, haha.” 

You wish it was “the nerves”. 

“Don’t worry about it.” You respond, channeling every bit of kindness you could find remaining within yourself. “I’m sure you’ll do fine tomorrow.”

Well, he doesn’t do fine, that’s for sure.

The morning of the next day came quickly. As usual, you woke up early, got out of bed, and went through your usual routine with the goal of looking the best you possibly could, which did turn out to be a rather lengthy process, although that was nothing new. You still thought it was an insanely long and dumb.

What meets you next is the sight of your legal guardian, sprawled across the couch, still clad in her work clothes. You conclude that last night was a busy one, so you sneak past her quietly. Making things worse for her is the last thing you want, after all. 

Next is making a nutritious breakfast. As a product of meticulous repetition, you’re quickly done with it, making sure to leave a portion for Sayaka as well, along with a note about your plans for today.

It’s a nice, sunny Saturday. So, like you always do, you set out on a morning jog. Chiba has quite a few pleasing sights, especially when there are no hideous eyesores scrambling around in the form of people. You specifically pick a time when the crowd’s minimal, right after the early workers leave for their job. Beautiful. The fresh air stirs up every fiber of your lungs. 

All this joy and wonder, you almost forgot about the match that’s supposed to be held in the afternoon. In fact, the memory of that shitshow of a football practice from yesterday almost entirely left your mind. From your increasing frustration, you don’t notice how your pleasant jog turned into a full blown sprint. After a good hour or so of this, you notice just how sweaty you were. 

Gross. You’d have to shower again.

Right as you’re about to open the gate of your residence, a weight slams against your back at full force. You remain entirely unbothered, however, as you’re already very well versed in such occurrences. 

Bachira Meguru has his arms wrapped around your back, clinging onto you much like an eccentrically colored koala. It seems like the fabric soggy with your sweat doesn’t bother him at all. He’s always been a bit strange like that. 

“Bachira-kun.” You smile. It comes easier to you. “Good morning.”

“Good morning!” He grins, lips pulling back to reveal the full expanse of teeth. “You didn’t invite me to go jogging! Again!”

Having a conversation in this position, with your posture being as straight as a tree and Bachira acting as some type of a humanoid backpack or a large parasite, would be inconvenient to most, but the two of you have long made this a part of your “normalcy”. 

“That’s because you’re never awake that early.” You retort easily, with a light teasing tone. “I’m surprised you’re even up right now.” 

“My monster got restless, so I wanted to play football.” He says, like that’s a totally normal thing to say. Like pointing out how the weather is nice or such. 

Listen, you genuinely do like Bachira (as far as someone like you is capable of liking), and you suppose he shares the same sentiment to some degree, because his whole “Monster” thing isn’t something that you talk about with just anyone, unless you want to be wheeled off to the nearest institution and shunned forever. You pride yourself on your patience and understanding, so you tend to brush this topic off whenever it comes up in a conversation. Mostly because you have no idea what to say that wouldn’t be extremely harsh. You want to honor Bachira’s companionship and trust in you, which means that him getting upset over something you stupidly spat out without thinking is not on your to-do list.

You do think that seeing a professional sometime in the future would do him some good, though.

Putting that aside, you nod in understanding. “I see. But-” You poke at his leg. “-Can you get off, please? I want to take a shower.”

Bachira hums a long tune, but he makes no move to do what you’ve requested of him. After a passage of silence, he asks a question, even if he knows the answer already. 

“Hey, can we play together? Just for a bit?” 

He can’t see your face, but he can clearly visualize the apologetic expression that graces it. It looks the same, every time he asks. “Sorry, but I need to save energy for later. Maybe next time?” 

There it is again. Despite it being a few years since you two met, both lovers of football and everything football related, you’ve rejected his proposal again and again. You always have an excuse, something about being busy, or not feeling well, or this and that. 

Bachira has been resigned to it. Yet, he still repeats the inquiry, like you’ll change your mind someday. Maybe next time? As if that will ever come.

He lets it go, as he always does.

Finally stepping down, he leans onto your side. He’s rather sweaty too, you notice. “Right! You have a match today! Make sure to score lots of goals, ‘kay? I’ll be there to cheer for you!” 

Bachira thinks you’re not aware of the fondness you let slip into your gaze. It’s for the best, though, since if you knew you’d probably try to mask it with some form of artificial politeness. He likes you the most when you’re honest, in these small tidbits of time, after all.

“Sure.” You say, simply, as some things are.

The tensions are high before the match. For what reason, you don’t know. The match is purely for practice, although you’re curious on how a low tier school such as Kagayaku High managed to schedule a match against some bigshot from Kanagawa. You’d think they’d consider it a waste of time, but you guess not. 

A notification lights up the screen of your phone just as you’re finishing putting your jersey on. 

Sayaka

I’m so sorry that I won’t be able to make it to your game!!!! Work is hell today 𖦹 ´ ᯅ ` 𖦹

But I hope your team does well! Do your best ৻(  •̀ ᗜ •́  ৻)

You snort at the woman’s usage of kaomojis. It was hard to imagine that she was nearly forty years old. Keeping your eye on the clock, you quickly type a response.

You

Please don’t worry about it! 

Take care of yourself!

Sayaka

You’re too nice to me, haha

The breakfast was delicious, by the way! It really made my day Ｏ(≧∇≦)Ｏ

I’m gonna make us something to eat later, as a celebration and payback! ᕙ(  •̀ ᗜ •́  )ᕗ

You gnawed at your lip worrieldy. While you truly did appreciate the sentiment, Sayaka’s cooking skills … weren’t something you’d write home about. Her message truly left you worried for the safety of the stove. Before you could try to change her mind (and save the neighborhood from a possible fire), one of your teammates gestures for you to move.

Ah. It’s time.

You

The game is starting, ttyl

The match goes just as well as you thought it would. 

The opponent’s defense tears through the clumsy guy like a knife through butter within the first few minutes of the game. They’re not too shabby, you have to admit. But the more you watch them, the more holes ripe for exploatation you notice.

The rush of excitement still evades you, as you circle an opposing player who is attempting to take the ball from you. Your mind is still in its autopilot mode, where you make boring, yet entirely rational plays that have carried your team to where it is now. Move your leg and lean to the right, and when the guy is still thinking of his next move, kick the ball between his legs. A safe and classic nutmeg. After that-

A movement leaves you startled; someone dashes past you with unforseen speed and snatches the football right from your possession. You’re forced to be wide awake, left feeling like a bucket of icy water was thrown over your head.

Huh?

For what seems to be the first time in years, your heartbeat echoes loudly in your ears and shakes your very core.

You gape at the distancing back of the player who had just turned your world around. In bold letters, the name Itoshi acts as a mockery of you. Helpless in your shock, you can do nothing but watch as your newest adversary scores a clean goal into the net, while Kagayaku High’s goalkeeper does nothing.

For once, you don’t blame him.

The clowns of your circus are talking amongst themselves. You think they’re trying to include you as well, but you’re too busy rebooting your brain to care.

You wanted Itoshi gone. An irritation so strong its frightening festers under your skin as you stare, long and hard, at the intruder who had come to ruin everything for you.

But was he truly ruining anything? 

When a teammate of yours moves with the ball, you abandon all uniform strategy. This stupid team could go to hell. Both yours and the enemy’s. This game should be just between you and him. 

Much to the shock of your team, who had probably gotten too comfortable with your usually passive way of playing, you pick up the pace, with the speed and technique built up through many regular torturous sessions of trying to polish yourself to your extremes.

It’s something you had to do, lest you want to be left in the dust when the real threat appears.

Is Itoshi a real threat?

A wispy smile still hangs from your lips. It looks … out of place, possibly, as it’s no longer a carefully planned tool of deceit.

Astonished shouts of your team as you steal the ball from your own comrade is nothing but background noise.

There he comes. His gaze is glacier cold as he weaves between the humanoid obstacles in his path. Surely, he’s wholy confident in his domination of this match. You wait.

Itoshi moves with clear intent of making you crumble under his might. That won’t do. Who does he think he is? Who does he think you are? Does he think you’re a mere bug, a speck of dust on his road to victory? That doesn’t make sense at all.

“Pass to me!” Someone yells at you, as if you weren’t the damned ace, as if you weren’t the one who gave this shitty team the ability to get off the ground in the first place. 

You’re nowhere near the penalty area. The other team’s defense is scattered around, trying to cut off all your routes. Now aware of the possible danger you represent, Itoshi is right by your side, with his eyelash rimmed eyes watching you like he might tear you apart. At least he’s fast on the uptake, you muse, as you almost carelessly roll the ball across the grass.

The angle is terribly narrow, but it’ll do. 

Avoiding Itoshi’s attempt at ridding you of the ball, you raise your leg and deliver a swift kick to it, sending it flying in a rather flimsy arc (your brows furrow slightly at that), which manages to slam into the net at a spot left open.

1-1.

You stop and take a long look at the goal. That was a five out of ten. Hell, maybe even four. But it seemed like it was enough to make your current “rival” appear like he wants to explode you with his mind.

That makes you … giddy? Edges of your lips wobble as you attempt to keep your expression under control. Even if you just single handedly destroyed the foundation of your team as well as the way its members saw you, you still had appearances to keep. From the corner of your eye, you spot Bachira watching, with a grin so manic it bordered on deranged.

In the end, you lose the game. And yet, to you, it feels like a victory, sweeter than any other. You managed to keep Itoshi from scoring another goal (well, you didn’t score another one either, but that was fine), and you got the front seat to the slow unraveling of his stoic disposition.

His team manages to secure a victory with their goal. But their ace, visibly pissed, makes his way to you. His tone is biting, befitting of an untouchable beauty such as himself.

“Next time, I’ll crush you.”

And then he leaves. One for dramatics, that’s for sure. Mommy’s little edgelord. Deciding to play along, you wave at his retreating back, signature smile set in place. “If you say so, Itoshi.”

Pointedly ignoring the troupe of mongrels, you collect your belongings and make a swift departure. Of course, nothing is that simple for you, because Bachira is waiting for you outside. Predictably, he lunges at you, but is considerate enough to take note of your possible exhaustion and not jump on your back like he usually does, instead opting to sling an arm around your shoulders. 

“That was pretty insane, you know.” He begins, although you note the sharpness of his grin that was unknown to you, up until now. “I never knew you could play like that.”

Then, he goes on to speak more, but you’re already ensnared within your own mind. A familiar thing; anger, ire, all-consuming, starts to ignite your entire being. A combination of many factors give way to its rise, both from Bachira’s subtle and probably unintentional downplaying of your perceived capability, and from … well, everything about the game. Especially Itoshi. What, did they all think you were some insignificant ant? A poser, perhaps? Maybe a-

You pause all thought. Suddenly, your legs feel weak. Not from tiredness, of course not. Embarrassingly, the weight of emotions was always a bigger burden than anything of physical kind. 

That was your weakness. A flaw that you needed to demolish. 

“Bachira,” you gasp out, voice small and uneven. “Bachira-”

The boy in question tilts his head. “Huh? What is it?” 

“Hold me.” You say, just before you collapse.

[starnervefan]

what does our best guy detective fear like to do for fun? owo

aw! Thank you for the question 🥺💜 Nobody ever asks me things about my AU gdfsfh 🥹😭 /pos

But anyways-

He probably plays a lot of chess and card games given the chance and a worthy opponent. He'd join tournaments, he's not exactly competitive but still likes the feeling of outsmarting his opponents. He reads a lot (horror and thrillers despite his overactive imagination, and… sometimes, trashy romance). He'll happily critique or pick apart trashy movies and admittedly, he's fond of cartoons and silent films.

Even though some "scary" movies amuse him more than scare him, he's interested in criminal psychology in an almost morbid way, keeping himself up late at night reading about horrific crimes.

Socializing heavily isn't really his thing, he's shy, easily overstimulated and keeps to himself. Contrasting with his partner Anger, who's always dragging Fear to noisy gatherings where there's a lot of booze, smoke and jazz music. It's ok though, Fear gets to drag Anger to the theater (where Anger will usually wind up falling asleep from the boredom, if Fear's commentary doesn't keep him awake).

Lately a certain thief lady is on Inspector Fear's mind and he spends an awful lot of time thinking about her and trying to find her, even and especially during his off-hours, though whether it's "fun" is up for debate.

[4ln-stay8]

Disney movie marathon

>summary: its a cold day and you and Lando have a disney movie marathon

>author’s note: I was watching some disney movies and I thought it would be a cute idea

>warnings: fluff, cute nicknames

It was a cold day today. You and Lando, your lovely boyfriend enjoyed the winter break in the comfort of your shared apartment. You missed him so much during all those times of the year when he was away and you just couldn't join him.

As the weather outside was perfect for a lazy day inside, cuddled in bed with a good movie playing, you thought about asking Lando to join you for a movie marathon.

"Babe, do you have plans today?" you softly asked your boyfriend

"Not really love, I was thinking of streaming a little today but I don't know, why you asking?" said Lando raising his eyes from his phone

"I was thinking, maybe you would like to join me for a Disney movie marathon?" You asked shyly

Lando grinned as he watched you. "A Disney marathon, seriously babe?" he chuckled, teasing you.

You shot him a playful glare. "What's wrong with reliving some childhood magic? Plus, Disney movies are timeless!"

Lando raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming on his lips. "How old are you again?"

You huffed, feigning annoyance. "Age is just a number, Lando. You're never too old for Disney magic."

He couldn't contain his laughter, prompting you to pout. "Fine, laugh all you want. You can go do something else if you don't want to join." You said leaving him alone in the living room.

Undeterred, you retreated to your bedroom, determined to start the marathon alone. As you scrolled through the movie options, Lando felt a pang of guilt. Realizing he might have hurt your feelings, he decided to make amends.

Entering the room with a tray of snacks and drinks, Lando wore a mischievous grin. "So, what are we watching first?"

You looked up, surprised. "You're joining?"

He nodded, handing you a bowl of popcorn. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. Now, what's our first movie?"

"I was thinking about starting with The Beauty and the Beast." you said grinning at him and kissing his cheek.

"The Beauty and the Beast it is then" said Lando making himself comfortable, pulling you closer to him.

As the movie began, you couldn't resist the urge to sing along with the characters. Your voice, filled with passion and joy, echoed through the room, captivating Lando's attention. He sat there, stunned and amused, watching the animated expressions on your face as you belted out every lyric flawlessly.

Lando couldn't help but tease you, a playful grin forming on his face. "Well, aren't you the Disney maestro? Didn't know I was dating a singing sensation." he said trying to contain his laughter

You laughed, your eyes sparkling with delight. "What can I say? Disney songs are irresistible. Don't act like you're not secretly enjoying it." you said giving him a big smile

Lando winked, playfully nudging you. "Maybe a little. But you, my love, are stealing the show. I didn't know I signed up for a private concert."

Throughout the movie, you exchanged banter, sharing laughter and commentary on the characters and plot. You occasionally stole glances at Lando, reveling in the shared experience. As the credits rolled, you turned to him, a mischievous twinkle in your eyes.

"So, what did you think of my musical performance babe?" you asked, a teasing smile playing on your lips.

Lando chuckled, pulling you even closer. "I must admit love, it was quite the show. Maybe we should have a Disney karaoke night sometime."

You grinned, leaning in for a sweet kiss. "Deal. But only if you promise not to make fun of my singing too much."

As you cuddled on the bed, the room still filled with animated characters and nostalgic tunes you couldn't be more happier. Between movies, you shared stories of your favorite childhood memories and debated which Disney character you related to the most.

"Admit it babe, you're secretly a Disney fan," you teased, nudging Lando.

He smirked. "Maybe I am. Only because you make it look so much fun."

The marathon continued late into the night, with both of you immersed in the magic of Disney. Lando couldn't believe how much he was enjoying himself, realizing that age was indeed just a number when it came to reliving childhood joy with someone you cared about.

As the credits rolled on the final movie, you yawned, feeling a sense of contentment. Lando wrapped his arm around you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Thanks for showing me that Disney magic doesn't have an age limit."

You smiled sleepily. "Anytime, my love. Now, let's get some rest and dream of fairy tales."

“I don’t need to dream fairy tales, I’m already living in one with you!” he said softly giving you a kiss

“I love you so much!” you said kissing him again

“I love you more!” he said kissing your forehead

You got more comfortable in bed, holding each other tight, grateful for the shared laughter, snacks, and a newfound appreciation for the timeless enchantment of Disney movies.

Even if Lando disagreed at first you knew that he really enjoyed the movie marathon. Maybe he just enjoyed the time he spent with you and maybe he enjoyed the movies as well, but he definitely enjoyed the memories he made with you today.

[veryferaldistributions]

My Favorite Quotes from the “Bride of ReAnimator” Commentary (Not Included in the “Gay” Compilation):

Herbert: “Go. Home.”

Bruce: “Oh yeah, lot waiting for me there. How ‘bout that front room? Pet the dog! Find the finger eye puppet. Have some leftover spaghetti!”

Jeffrey: (about the Bride) “So she’s Meg. She’s Gloria-“

Bruce: “She’s the virgin-hooker with the twinkle toes.”

(Herbert and Francesca are barricading the lab door.)

Bruce: “Why is she helping you?”

Jeffrey: “Because she knows there are creatures out there (laughs) puking Cream of Wheat!”

Herbert: “You’re better off without her.”

Bruce: “Thanks for the advice, Dear Abby!”

(Herbert is talking about the feet of the ballet dancer.)

Bruce: “Y’know, Herbert’s parents made him take ballet for five years…”

(Over the course of the film commentary, they make several jokes about how Chapham is always seen with food.)

Herbert: (at Chapham) “What are you doing in here?”

Bruce: “Eating!”

(EDITED POST TO ADD MORE QUOTES/FIX ERRORS IN FIRST BATCH UPON REWATCH)

(Dan gets stabbed in Peru.)

Jeffrey: “Your kidney’s been lacerated, but you’ll be alright!”

Bruce: (sees his own name in the credits) “Who’s that?”

Bruce: “How did they get down there (Peru)?”

Jeffrey: (dryly) “By a plane, Bruce.”

Jeffrey: (singing to credits music) “Oh MEEEEG, my loooove, where did you goooo my deaaaar?”

(Movie cuts from Peru to Miskatonic.)

Bruce: “Oh yeah, like those two would be let back in the States!”

Bruce: “(Bride) is the ‘Frankenstein’ of the series. If the second is ‘Frankenstein,��� what’s the first?”

Jeffrey: “…Re-Animator.”

Bruce: “What is with my HAIR?”

Jeffrey: “Well, that was your choice!”

Dan: “Herbert, I have something to tell you.”

Bruce: “I’ve found a new hairdresser.”

Dr. Graves: “Who’d want to steal body parts?”

Jeffrey: “Ohhhhh, I think we knoooow.”

(Herbert is stealing Meg’s heart.)

Bruce: “Like Dan wouldn’t have enshrined that already.”

Herbert: (at Hill’s head in the morgue) “How did you get in here?”

Jeffrey: (mumbling) “…I hate this scene.”

(They both laugh at the puns anyway.)

Jeffrey: “Nice wheels, Dan.”

Bruce: “You bet. All in eight months. Got through customs. Now I’m driving a Dodge Swinger.”

Bruce: “I can’t get over my BeeGees haircut.”

Jeffrey: “Barry Gibb lives!”

(Later in the movie.)

Jeffrey: (singing) “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Stayin’ alive! Stayin’ alive!”

Bruce: “Of course this house has a basement.”

Jeffrey: “It was one of our requirements.”

Bruce: “One of your requirements.”

Jeffrey: “Well…”

Herbert: “Security.”

Dan: “From what?”

Herbert: …

Jeffrey: “From what?!”

Bruce: “Do I merit an answer?!”

(Herbert is showing Dan the reagent.)

Jeffrey: “DRINK IT! DRINK IT!”

Bruce: “Y’know, Herbert has this nasty habit of shoving things in Dan’s face. Iguanas, reagent, amniotic fluid-“

Jeffrey: “Dead cats.”

Dan: “I’m moving out!”

Jeffrey: “Why?”

Bruce: “Because, I like this heart patient in the hospital MUCH more than you!”

Jeffrey: (laughs) “What, you gonna move in with HER?”

Bruce: “No one will ever get rich overestimating Dan’s bad taste.”

(Herbert is trying to convince Dan to reanimate Chapham, next to the boiling pot.)

Bruce: “Sure…why not?”

Jeffrey: “Lemme have some tea first!”

(Cuts from the basement to Francesca, in Dan’s bed.)

Francesca: “Daniel?”

Bruce: “Why am I down there? WHY? What am I thinking about?”

Jeffrey: “You needed to get another prophylactic from the lab.”

Dan: “Herbert!”

Bruce: “I’d like to have a nickel for every time I’ve said ‘Herbert’ in these two movies.”

Dan: “It helps me to think of you as Meg.”

Bruce: “Betcha that makes her feel good. No wonder she dies!”

(Gloria flatlines.)

Jeffrey: “And that made her die.”

(Herbert and Dan are reanimating the Bride.)

Bruce: “Don’t try this at home.”

(Herbert puts on the gun holster.)

Bruce: “Wild, wild West. Herbie, get your gun.”

Herbert: “There is my creation!”

Jeffrey: “So put THAT in your pipe and smoke it!”

Bruce: (singing Rick Springfield) “I wish I was Herbie’s girl!”

(The Bride is trying to seduce Dan.)

Bruce: “Oh boy. I certainly wasn’t paid enough for this.”

Bride: (to Dan) “You made me?”

Herbert: “I made you!”

Jeffrey: “Yeah! Get that straight, babe!”

Dan: “You’re not Meg. Meg’s dead.”

Bruce: (flatly) “Wow. What a revelation. How edifying.”

Herbert: “Make a note of it, Dan! Tissue rejection!”

Bruce: “You write it down, ya little squirt! I’m tired of taking your notes!”

Dan: “You’re alive.”

(Falls to his knees.)

Jeffrey: “And I worship you!”

[corleonies]

Kay's abortion is what cemented her as a great character because even though maybe there was no intention behind it and the overwhelming male response to that scene is anger, it gives a female character agency for the first time in those movies and it's a great commentary on what it meant to be a woman in that context and time.

Everything leading up to that scene: Kay being frustrated with Michael not keeping up the promise of legitimizing the business, the shooting that put her and her kids in danger, (deleted scenes of Anthony trying to get close to mobsters his father received at home and Kay being distressed and taking him away), Michael concerned about the gender of a fetus when hearing his wife had a miscarriage because what is a baby girl worth in this world?, not talking to his wife when arriving home, taking her to court with him expecting her to be dumb or submissive enough to not care about how things went and what happened behind the scenes.

Then, the abortion scene when she tells him she got a SON killed because she would not put more children into the world to be turned into monsters. "Look what happened to our son" because that's what is meant to happen to boys in that world. Girls are expandable and boys are conditioned.

Kay was right. Kay got herself out and gave her children a real childhood, real chances to be something they wanted, away from the horrors of the life their father lived in. Kay saved herself and her children, but Michael pulls them back into danger anyway because that's the life.

He says he was a lot like Anthony, because once he wanted nothing to do with the family business. In a way, Mary was a lot like her mother too, because she remains close to that world out of love. But Michael never gets away like Tony did, Mary never leaves like Kay.

Mary takes a bullet meant for her father. She pays for her father's sins. What is a baby girl worth in this world?

[charliewinter60]

Charlie and Elle's identity arc - Heartstopper Season 3

Both characters have conversations with people who "don't mean any harm or ill intent", but say things that are very ignorant or offensive towards Charlie and Elle. Elle has that fucking interviewer going on about the "trans debate" (And like Elle said, trans people aren't a debate, they are human beings), reducing her whole person to just being "the trans girl", completely ignoring the fact they were gonna talk about Elle's art and rise to fame: and Charlie has a conversation with his uncle at Christmas, and while Charlie has had a shit ton of things going on in his life (His new boyfriend, him playing the drums, Uni being soon, his french trip, etc.), the only thing his uncle asked him was him going to the psych ward and nothing else (And then the cousins chiming in and the unnecessary comments early that day about his weight from his grandparents.)

First of all, this does amazing commentary and presents how people who don't even have bad intentions, can still cause harm to others even if they don't mean it. Not meaning to do something doesn't mean you didn't do anything. That fucking interviewer may have just wanted to be an Ally and try to defend trans people, and Charlie's family may have just wanted to get to know Charlie and genuinely ask how he is doing, but there's a time, place and language for that.

And if you don't know some things about certain topics, there's this cool thing called Google, because the other (ex. Charlie and Elle) don't have to numb their pains so you (ex. Charlie's family, that fucking interviewer.) can understand a topic. Only if they are okay with it, they are not mandated to be your encyclopedia's in topics you don't understand just because they do.

If you really love or care about someone, you would do the effort to be respectful. Isaac literally told Charlie he didn't want to give a vocab lessons about aromanticism to all his friends and when Charlie asked what aromanticism was, Isaac told him to google it and he did. It's a very tiny scene, but Charlie researching what aromanticism is shows how much he loves and cares for his friend. Isaac showed his boundaries and Charlie respected them. Charlie's family should've asked if it was okay for him to talk about it. (Especially since they keep asking if there were straight jackets and all that? Like? They are all shits and giggles about that, but wouldn't Charlie be traumatized if he did have an experience as they describe it? Why would he talk about it like it's the gossip of the week? Fucking hell.) And well, that fucking interviewer is just evil. Why would this 16 year old be pleased to talk about her sole existence making bigots pissed, wishing she didn't exist? Huuuh? Manipulative fuck.

Charlie is not just "a boy with anoxeria and OCD.". He is a very smart boy who loves astronomy, Greek literature, plays the drums and Mario Kart, loves scary movies and dislikes Marvel movies, and more.

Elle is not just "a trans girl." She is a very creative girl who loves to paint and draw, as it lets her express feelings she can't really put into words; a girl who can make her own clothes, a girl who wants to see the world and see what's out there, a girl who deep down is a very silly and goofy but still stylish and loves to party and more.

And yes, Elle is trans and Charlie does have anorexia and OCD, but you don't just simply ignore those facts, but you also don't reduce them to that. People are so much more than the one thing they are "known" for. if we loved and care for those people, we will do our research and respect their boundaries. 🍂

[rovingotter]

Expanding on my thoughts from this post:  https://www.tumblr.com/rovingotter/763436728814075904/heavy-spoilers-for-joker-folie-%C3%A0-deux-beneath-the?source=share

More spoilers for Joker: Folie à Deux beneath the cut.

The original Joker left it sort of ambiguous as to whether Arthur becoming the Joker was a good or a bad thing.  I mean, obviously it was bad for the people he killed and the people affected by the in-movie violence he inspired, but there was some indication that this was actually a positive thing for Arthur’s mental health.  He started the movie miserable and powerless and ended it smiling and surrounded by admirers.  In the final scene, he seemed at peace with his new self, even if he was behind bars.

Folie quickly dismantles the idea that this represented a positive shift for Arthur.  In fact it’s one of the first things the movie does.

The opening cartoon shows Arthur’s shadow coming to life, committing crimes in his name and then Arthur being blamed and beaten up as a result.  When we see Arthur himself, he’s regressed back into his meek, quiet persona.  He is, if anything, in worse shape than he was at the beginning of the first movie.  He’s lost many of his endearing quirks, like his offbeat sense of humor.  It’s hard to imagine this Arthur playing peek-a-boo with a random baby on the bus.  He seems almost robotic.  And this isn’t surprising, considering he’s spent two years being abused in the hellhole that is Arkham.

Some viewers were disappointed with this character regression, but it seems kind of inevitable.  Like, he’s in a place where he’s locked in a room most of the time and is not even allowed to shave himself.  He’s completely at the mercy of his handlers, and when he misbehaves he gets thrown into solitary confinement.  He’s heavily medicated, on top of that.  Of course being the Joker is not sustainable in this environment.  It’s a reality check:  the catharsis was temporary.  Now he’s just trapped in hell, utterly alone.

(Though, still, they give us a moment where a fellow inmate asks for a kiss from Joker and Arthur just gently, nonchalantly kisses him on the lips.  Kinda surprised no one else has talked about that?)

Enter Lee.  From the beginning there are signs that she’s probably going to be a bad influence on him, but of course he latches onto her when she shows interest because for one thing she may very well be the first person to ever show romantic interest in him (Folie pretty much confirms many viewers’ headcanons that Arthur is a virgin who’s never had a romantic relationship) and for another, she’s a small ray of sunshine in a very dark place.  But of course she’s specifically obsessed with the version of him from the TV movie…which is one of the many elements that makes this movie feel like meta commentary, because even though it’s probably not identical to the Joker that exists in our world, it’s a movie called Joker, about this Joker, which has inspired an obsessed fan who thinks it’s pretty cool that he killed those assholes and hopes that he’ll engage in more mayhem.

The movie also introduces Arthur’s lawyer, who from the beginning is pulling him in the opposite direction.  She’s trying to get him actual medical help and reintegrate him into society, but first they have to convince the jury that it was the Joker personality, not Arthur, who did that stuff.  Does she really believe that Arthur has DID?  Who knows?  But she’s working within an imperfect system, she knows that he is genuinely ill and wasn’t fully responsible for his actions, and she also recognizes that this is his best chance for avoiding the electric chair, so she tries to coach him on the right things to say to the press and the jury.  Which Arthur is clearly not comfortable with, because it involves lying, presenting himself as weak and helpless, and also cooperating with a system that’s been fucking him over his entire life.

Soon enough, Lee is telling him to stop taking his meds, she’s setting stuff on fire and encouraging him to get into trouble, she’s bribing the guards so she can sneak into solitary confinement and fuck him, she’s telling him to wear his clown makeup to the trial and to fire his lawyer.  Arthur’s lawyer, meanwhile, is like, “Listen I know she’s cute and all but this bitch is insane and you need to stop listening to her” and Arthur is like, “BUT DADDY, I LOVE HER.”  Even after he finds out that Lee basically lied about her entire sad backstory in order to manipulate him, HE DOESN’T CARE.  Because she makes him feel good.  She’s the only person who makes him feel good. Even if she's probably going to get him killed.

Which—again, I think is a really interesting central dilemma for a movie!  People say stuff like “nothing happens in this” but this is a shit ton of material to work with.

So I guess the question is, how did it go so wrong?  Obviously, this movie did not work for most people. The reviews are abysmal. While there were aspects I liked, I left the theater feeling like I’d just been kicked repeatedly in the balls and the soul by a cackling Todd Phillips marionette. And not in a good way, in a “fuck you, I already have your money” kind of way.  Is it just the ending?  I mean, that’s definitely part of it. 

I guess it’s the overriding sense that this movie is not pro-Joker but also not pro-Arthur.  He makes the choice to be true to himself—and himself is Arthur—and then the movie viciously punishes him for that, even though it’s set this up as the right choice.  Is the movie pro-anything?  Is the message just “fuck everyone”?

I know people made the same complaints about the first movie—that it was nihilistic, that it didn’t have a message—but to me the first movie was a pretty straightforward exploration of how violence creates more violence.  I did not think Joker was pro-Joker or pro vigilante murder, but the first movie did paint Arthur as a sympathetic figure who had snapped under pressure and made the wrong choices, and yet now, here—in Folie—he makes the final choice to reject his violent persona and reclaim his humanity, or at least take the first step towards that, even knowing it will probably cost him the love of the only person who cares about him.

And what happens as a result?  More violence.  Buildings explode, Lee abandons him, Arthur gets stabbed, the end.

Violence creates violence, and nonviolence also creates violence. Apparently.

In the end it just felt like the movie was delighting in its own sadism toward a character who'd already suffered tremendously, and not for any real purpose. I don't know what happened behind the scenes here. Artistically, I can still respect the chances this movie took. But I also fully understand the anger and frustration with it.

[from-memphis-with-love]

Songbird - Chapter 6 - Nobody's Fool

Summary: In the aftermath of Elvis' last day in his 1969 Vegas residency, Valerie and Elvis get caught in a compromising position. A decision is made, and a plan is formulated. Late at night, Valerie and Elvis almost cross the point of no return.

There are moments when one wakes up, and everything seems okay. That blessed space between sleep and memory, before the brain catches up with your body? 

I had about three seconds of that peace before I opened my eyes and saw Elvis' jacket draped over my chair like a question mark.

The gin-stained dress I'd fallen asleep in clung to me like shame. My mouth tasted like I'd been gargling with Dean Martin's martini shaker. And somewhere in the building's guts, that damn dove was cooing its morning commentary.

The Colonel's note lay where I'd dropped it last night: "Meeting tomorrow, 2 PM sharp. Re: Memphis arrangements."

I looked at the clock. 1:07.

"Well, shit."

The phone rang before I could make it to the shower. For a moment, I considered letting it ring. But in Vegas, you learn quick that ignored calls have a way of turning into bigger problems.

"Hello?"

"Val? Thank God." my best friend’s voice carried all the manic energy of a Chicago morning. "I've been trying to reach you for hours! Have you seen the papers?"

I hadn't. Didn't want to.

"Listen, Dee, I can't really talk right now. I have a meeting—"

"About Memphis?"

The question hit like a slap. I sank onto the bed, still wearing last night's mistakes.

"How did you..."

"There's a blind item in the Tribune. 'Which Chicago music teacher has caught the King's eye? Sources say she's trading the Windy City for Graceland...'" Deena paused. "Val? Please tell me this isn't what I think it is."

I practically felt whiplash from how fast the news got out. Through the wall, I could hear the Memphis Mafia stirring - boots on carpet, voices carrying through the International's expensive but thin walls. Red's laugh. Jerry's drawl. The sound of Elvis' world waking up.

"It's exactly what you think it is," I said finally. "And it's going to come out now anyway. His manager’s already planning how to 'handle' it."

The silence on the other end stretched like taffy.

"Holy shit," Deena whispered finally. "Holy actual shit. You and Elvis Presley? All this time? The mystery man you wouldn't tell me about... that was Elvis fucking Presley?"

"Dee—"

"But he's married! To that gorgeous wife who was in all the photos last night, kissing him like—" She stopped. "Oh honey. Those photos. Did you... were you there?"

The memory of that kiss, perfectly timed for the cameras, hit fresh. Elvis's hand on Priscilla's waist. The crowd's approving applause. Ann-Margret's knowing look.

"When I told you to ride that stallion till you break the saddle, I didn't mean steal someone else's horse!" Deena's voice cracked between humor and horror. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Elvis. Actually Elvis."

"I have to go," I said. "Meeting in, like, five minutes. Call me later." I lied. 

"Val, wait—"

I hung up. Stood there for a moment, looking at my reflection in the mirror. Last night's mascara made me look like a raccoon who'd lost a bar fight.

Time to face the music. Or in this case, the Colonel.

*

The Colonel's suite was a shrine to his greatest creation. Elvis stared down at me from every wall - movie posters, concert bills, gold records, photographs spanning from that first Sun Records publicity shot to last night's show. Young Elvis, GI Elvis, Hollywood Elvis, Comeback Elvis, Vegas Elvis. A hundred different versions of the same man, watching our little drama play out beneath their frozen gazes.

The irony wasn't lost on me. We were here to talk about Elvis, but the only Elvis present was made of paper and celluloid.

Red and Sonny flanked the door like bookends. Jerry lounged against a wall between "Love Me Tender" and "Blue Hawaii" posters, trying to look casual and failing. The Colonel himself sat behind a desk (flown in specially) that had probably witnessed a thousand deals, smoking a cigar that put out enough smoke to rival a carnival cotton candy machine.

"Ah, Miss Pedretti." The Colonel's eyes twitched with what might have been amusement. Or annoyance. "Right on time. Coffee?"

"No, thank you." I remained standing, though there was an empty chair positioned precisely in front of his desk - red velvet with gold tassels. The power play was obvious - him elevated, me lower. I wasn't playing. Behind him, a young Elvis smiled down at me. From the very early days. Had there been a girl standing in my spot that day too? Someone else who thought she was different, special?

“Suit yourself." The Colonel gestured at a stack of newspapers spread across his desk, right beneath a photo of Elvis signing his first RCA contract. His mom and dad were in the photo. Her eyes were sad. My eyes were sad looking at her. "I assume you've seen the morning editions?"

I hadn't, but I could see the headlines from where I stood. ELVIS ENDS VEGAS RUN WITH A KISS. KING AND QUEEN OF ROCK REUNITED. And smaller, in the gossip columns: MYSTERY WOMAN IN ELVIS' INNER CIRCLE?

"The paper’s been particularly... creative with their speculation," the Colonel continued. "Something about a Chicago singer-slash-music teacher?"

A distant coo echoed through the ventilation system. Even Tom's dove was eavesdropping.

"Now," the Colonel leaned forward, his head briefly blocking out Army Elvis's crisp salute in the frame behind him, "we need to discuss how we're going to handle your transition to Memphis. I've taken the liberty of arranging—"

"Where’s Elvis?"

The question landed like a grenade in church. Jerry straightened slightly. Red and Sonny suddenly found the ceiling fascinating - specifically, the spot where a massive photograph showed Elvis and the Colonel shaking hands on that first Vegas contract.

"Mr. Presley is... indisposed." The Colonel's voice could have frosted glass. "Mrs. Presley's flight leaves shortly, and certain... appearances must be maintained."

Of course. The real Elvis was playing the devoted husband one last time, seeing Priscilla off. Probably at this very moment they were posing for photographers at the airport, adding one more perfect image to the collection.

I looked at movie star Elvis smoldering down at me from the "Viva Las Vegas" poster. Had Ann-Margret stood in a room like this too? Had the Colonel tried to manage her the same way?

"As I was saying," the Colonel continued, "I've arranged for a house—"

"No."

His eyebrows climbed toward what was left of his hairline. "I beg your pardon?"

"No thank you?"

The silence that followed could have choked a carnival strongman. A hundred Elvises watched the standoff - jumpsuit Elvis, leather Elvis, clean-cut Elvis, rebel Elvis. All of them waiting to see what happened when someone said no to the Colonel.

"Miss Pedretti." He said it like he was explaining physics to a child. "Perhaps you don't understand how things work in Memphis. Mr. Presley's... companions require certain... accommodations."

"I'm not his companion." The words came out harder than I meant them. "I'm not his anything. I'm just going to Memphis."

The Colonel's laugh had all the warmth of a snake's belly. "My dear girl, nobody 'just' goes to Memphis. Not in Elvis' world." He pushed a folder across the desk, right past a framed photo of Elvis handing him a gold watch. "Now, I've had my people draw up some papers. Simple things - non-disclosure agreements, property arrangements, a modest monthly allow—"

"No." I didn't touch the folder. "I don't want your house or your money or your papers."

"Then what exactly do you want?"

The question hung in the air like smoke. What did I want? Elvis, obviously. But which one? I looked around the room at all his faces. Which one was real? The one who sang hymns with me? The one who kissed his wife for the cameras? The one who...

A knock at the door saved me from answering. Joe stuck his head in, looking harried.

"Colonel? Sorry to interrupt, but we got a situation. Seems Dean Martin's passed out in the fountain again, and he's telling everyone who'll listen about Elvis and the towel incident..."

The Colonel's face went through several interesting color changes. "Christ on a cracker. Red, Sonny - go handle that. Jerry, get the car ready. Mrs. Presley can't be late for her flight." He turned back to me. "This conversation isn't over, Miss Pedretti."

"Yes," I said quietly. "It is."

I walked out before he could respond, passing under the watchful eyes of a dozen paper Elvises. Behind me, I heard Jerry whistle low.

"Girl's got stones," he murmured to someone.

"Girl's got a death wish," came the response.

Maybe they were both right. I glanced back one last time as the door closed. The Colonel sat fuming beneath his gallery of conquests - every image a reminder of his control over Elvis's destiny.

But I wasn't going to be just another picture on his wall.

*

I found Elvis in his suite, standing at the window in an emerald green suit that hung perfectly on his tall, lithe frame. He was watching something in the distance - maybe the desert, maybe nothing. The real thing was somehow both more and less than all those images in the Colonel's room.

Our reflections caught in the window glass - him in that perfect suit, me still wearing yesterday's mascara and this morning's doubts. Despite myself, I let my eyes linger on the picture we made together. We looked good, in a way that had nothing to do with staging or the Colonel's careful arrangements. Where Priscilla was all porcelain perfection and carefully coiffed hair, I was warmer, earthier. My olive skin glowed next to Elvis's golden tan. My long dark hair fell in natural waves, untamed by hairspray and hot rollers. Where Priscilla's baby doll lips seemed perpetually pursed in careful consideration, my wider mouth was made for laughter, for singing, for other things I tried not to think about.

Different kinds of beautiful, maybe. But standing there next to Elvis, I couldn't help but notice how well we fit.

The sound of my heels on the carpet made him turn. His eyes were hidden behind blue-tinted glasses. 

"Heard you had a meeting with the Colonel," he said softly.

"Gee. Word travels fast ‘round here."

His laugh was hollow. "Everything travels fast here. Except time." He glanced at his watch. "Speaking of which..."

"You have to take her to the airport."

"Back to Memphis," he nodded. "At least for now. She'll head back to California soon enough." Something flickered across his face - relief? Regret? "Just needs to..." He trailed off.

"Needs to what?"

"Settle some things. At Graceland." His voice was carefully neutral, but I caught the implication. Priscilla would be there, in Memphis, when I arrived. On her turf. Or what used to be her turf.

"The Colonel had some interesting ideas about my living arrangements," I said, watching our reflections shift as Elvis moved closer.

His jaw tightened. "I told him to leave that alone."

"Did you really think he would?"

"No." He stepped behind me, his hands hovering near my shoulders but not quite touching. In the glass, we looked like a photograph waiting to be taken - the kind the Colonel would never allow. "But I hoped. Kind of like I hope you didn’t mean what you said. About finding your own place."

"I did."

"Even though I really want you to stay with me?"

"Even though."

In the window's reflection, I watched him study the contrast of us - his emerald suit against my rumpled red dress, his calculated (and rare) stillness against my untamed energy. When Priscilla stood next to him, they looked like matching dolls in a shop window. But this... we looked the part of the real couple. With real differences.

He nodded slowly. "You know what she said to me last night? After all the cameras were gone?"

I waited, watching his reflection's lips form the words.

"Said I better not turn you into another version of her." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Like I would even want that." His hands finally landed on my shoulders, warm through the thin fabric. "Look at you. Telling the Colonel no. Standing here looking like... like..."

"Like what?"

"Like the answer to my prayers."

I turned to face him then, breaking the spell of our reflection. Without the glass between us, he was more real, more dangerous. His hands slid down my arms, leaving heat in their wake.

"Elvis—"

A knock at the door made us both jump. Jerry's voice carried through: "Boss? Car's ready."

"Be right there." Elvis' hands tightened briefly on my arms before letting go. When he finally faced me, his eyes were tired behind those blue-tinted glasses. Human. "I have to..."

"I know."

He crossed the space between us in one fluid movement, caught my face between his hands. For a moment, I thought he might kiss me. Instead, he pressed his forehead to mine. He smelled of mint and promises.

"Wait for me?" he whispered. "I'll be back after..."

"After you play the dutiful husband one last time?"

His hands tightened slightly. "That ain’t fair."

"None of this is fair." 

I could be detached. I could deal with the casual dalliances and the pills, as long as it didn’t get out of hand. But Priscilla’s presence somehow still made my stomach queasy. I think it was the title. Wife had a certain ring to it. A certain authority, an outward declaration. I wanted that role. 

"No." He pulled back, slipped his glasses into place. Just like that, he was Elvis Presley again. "But it's what we've got."

The door opened and Red stuck his head in. "Boss? Mrs. Presley's ready."

Elvis straightened his jacket, checked his reflection one last time. Perfect again. Camera-ready. But just before he turned away, I caught him looking at our reflection once more - that impossible, imperfect picture of what could be.

"See you when I get back?" he asked.

I thought about all those images in the Colonel's room. All those different versions of Elvis, frozen in time. Which one would come back to me?

"Yeah," I said. "I'll be here."

He paused at the door, looking back. For a second, I could see him wanting to say something more. Then Jerry appeared with a reminder about airport traffic, and the moment was gone.

I watched from the window as they loaded into the waiting cars - Elvis in the lead car with Priscilla, the Memphis Mafia spread through the others like an honor guard. Even from so many floors up, I could see the photographers waiting. One last photo op of the perfect couple before reality set in.

*

I stayed at the window long after the cars disappeared, watching Vegas shimmer in the morning heat. Behind me, Elvis's suite felt different without him in it - bigger, emptier, more obviously a stage set than a home. His books were still scattered around, they hadn’t been packed up yet. A half-empty glass of water sat on the bedside table, aspirin dissolving forgotten at the bottom.

The phone rang, making me jump. Probably the Colonel, ready for round two.

But it was Lamar's voice that came through the line. "Valerie? You might want to come down to the lobby."

"Why?"

"Press got wind of something. They're asking about a Chicago music teacher."

My stomach dropped. "How many?"

"Enough." He paused. "Bring sunglasses. And maybe a scarf."

The lobby had transformed into a circus since I'd passed through it earlier. Photographers clustered around the entrance like hungry wolves, their cameras ready. Someone had leaked something. It didn't matter now.

What mattered was protecting Elvis.

I thought about Ann-Margret, about how she'd lost him partly because she'd talked to the press. About how fiercely he guarded his private world, even while living in the spotlight. About how trust, once broken, never quite mended the same way.

The Colonel stood near the reception desk, watching me with calculating eyes. For once, we wanted the same thing - to control this story. Just for very different reasons.

"Miss Pedretti." His voice carried across the lobby. "A word?"

Every head turned. I felt the cameras swivel, seeking their new target. Someone whispered "That's her." Another voice: "The teacher." A third: “I heard she’s a bar singer.”

I touched the scarf at my throat - one of Elvis's, smelling faintly of his cologne. Beneath it, my pulse hammered against my neck.

I had two choices: run back to the elevator, or face this head-on. But there was really only one choice. Because whatever happened next, I wouldn't be the one to betray Elvis's trust.

I dropped the scarf and sunglasses in my purse - hiding would only make it worse - and walked through the lobby like I had every right to be there. Like I was exactly what I'd tell them I was: a music teacher and a studio session musician (okay, so I stretched the truth a little) who'd found herself in an extraordinary situation, nothing more.

The cameras went crazy, questions flying like bullets: "Miss Pedretti, what's your relationship with Elvis?" 

"Are you moving to Memphis?" 

"What about Mrs. Presley?"

I stopped, turned, met their hungry gazes with a calm I didn't feel. When I spoke, my voice was steady.

"Mr. Presley has been very kind to a fellow musician. We share an interest in rhythm and blues. And gospel." A truth, if not the whole truth. "Beyond that, I don't discuss my friendships. If you have questions about Mr. Presley, I suggest you speak to his management."

The Colonel's eyebrows rose slightly - surprise? approval? - as I walked past him toward the exit. The cameras kept firing, but I didn't stop again.

I'd protected what mattered. Everything else was just noise.

*

A short while later, the Colonel caught up with me at the elevator on my walk back from lunch. "Interesting performance this afternoon."

"Not a performance."

"No?" His mustache twitched. "Could've fooled me. Very neat, very clean. 'Fellow musician.' 'Gospel music.' Almost like you'd rehearsed it."

The elevator doors opened. I stepped in, but he caught the door before it could close.

"Maybe," he said slowly, "we got off on the wrong foot this morning."

"Maybe."

"A girl who knows how to handle the press... that's valuable." He studied me with new interest. "Very valuable. Perhaps we could discuss those arrangements again—"

"No." But I softened it with a small smile. "Though I do appreciate the offer, Mr. Parker."

The doors started to close. This time he let them.

Back in my room, the phone was ringing again. Deena, probably, having had time to stew on it all. But when I picked up, it was Jerry.

"Boss wanted you to know he saw what you did down there earlier. Says to tell you..." 

Word traveled fast in this crew. I filed that bit of information away for later use. 

He paused, and could hear him smiling somehow. He was choosing his words carefully, aware of who might be listening. "Says you did good."

My throat tightened. "He's still at the airport?"

"On his way back, I think. Photographers were everywhere, of course." Jerry's voice dropped lower. "Listen, about Memphis..." I heard other voices behind him. “Listen, I’ll call you back.”

*

Lamar materialized at my door. "Boss is here. Wants you to meet him out back. Service entrance. Less cameras."

Less cameras, but not no cameras. There were always cameras now.

I found Elvis leaning against his Cadillac in the service alley, still in that perfect green suit but somehow looking more rumpled. His glasses were off, and his eyes were red-rimmed. The pills had worn off again. I made a mental note to watch his use a little more carefully. Just in case.

"Hey," he said softly.

"How was the airport?"

"Like a damn circus." He rubbed his face. "We played it perfect, of course. Always do. All smiles and waves, right up until she got on that plane." He paused. "Heard you had your own circus down here."

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

"Yeah." Something flickered in his expression. "Jerry told me what you said. About the gospel music."

"It's true, isn't it? We do share an interest."

"That all we share?"

The question hung between us like smoke. I thought about all those photographers, hungry for any hint of scandal. About the Colonel's calculating eyes. About Priscilla, perfect to the last moment.

"That's all they need to know," I said finally.

He studied me for a long moment, then pushed off from the car. In two strides he was there, his hands framing my face like he had in the suite. But this time he didn't stop.

The kiss was different than any we'd shared before - desperate, almost angry. Like he was trying to prove something. To me, to himself, to the whole damn world. His hands slid into my hair, messing it up.

When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.

"Inside," he muttered. "Now."

But before we could move, a flash went off at the end of the alley.

"Shit." Elvis turned, putting himself between me and the photographer. "Red! Sonny!"

The Memphis Mafia materialized from nowhere, intercepting the photographer who was already running. But we all knew it was too late.

Elvis's hands were shaking worse now. "Val, I—"

"Don't." I straightened my hair, tried to calm my racing heart. "We knew this would happen eventually."

"The Colonel's gonna—"

"Let me handle the Colonel."

He laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "Handle the Colonel? Baby, nobody handles the Colonel."

"I dunno.” I giggled like I knew something Elvis didn’t. “I kinda think he’s starting to like me.”

Another flash, this one from a different angle. Elvis swore under his breath.

"Get inside," he said. "I'll deal with this."

"Elvis—"

"Please." His voice cracked slightly. "Just... let me fix this. I can fix this."

But as I watched him stride toward the gathering photographers, all controlled power and perfect posture again, I wondered which version of "fixed" we were about to get.

*

Back in the hotel, everything moved fast. The Memphis Mafia scattered like pool balls after a break, each man with his own mission. Jerry was on the phone with newspapers, his voice smooth as silk: "No comment at this time." Red had the photographer's camera - though we all knew there had to be more photos out there. Lamar was coordinating with hotel security to lock down the service entrances. Sonny and Marty were watching the elevators on our floor.

And somewhere, the Colonel was planning.

I made it to the elevator before he found me.

"Inside." He didn't wait for my response, just steered me into the car with surprising strength for a man his age. The doors closed on us, and he hit the button for his floor.

"Mr. Parker—"

"Not one word." His voice was deadly quiet. "Not until we're in my office." So much for him starting to like me. 

The elevator seemed to crawl. Somewhere above us, that damn dove cooed - even it knew we were in trouble.

His office felt different now. All those Elvis images on the walls weren't just pictures anymore - they were warnings. See what I built? See what I can destroy?

"Sit."

This time, I sat.

"Now then." He lit a cigar with deliberate calm. "Let's discuss what happens next."

"Nothing happens next. It was just a kiss."

His laugh could have stripped paint. "Just a kiss? With a married man? In broad daylight? After you so carefully told those reporters you were 'just friends'?" He blew a perfect smoke ring. "No, my dear. This is what happens next: You're going to take a generous settlement and disappear. Back to Chicago, preferably. We'll spin it as a brief friendship, nothing more. Elvis was being kind to a fellow musician, just like you said. End of story."

"No." 

"No?" His eyebrows climbed. "Perhaps you didn't understand. This isn't a negotiation."

"You're right." I met his gaze. "It's not. Because there's nothing to negotiate. I’m not disappearing unless—"

"Then let me be clearer." He leaned forward. "Elvis Presley is more than a man. He's an industry. An empire. And that empire is built on certain... understandings. With his public. With his wife."

"His wife who lives in California?"

His mustache twitched. "A temporary arrangement."

"Like I'm supposed to be? Another 'temporary arrangement'?"

"Now you're beginning to understand."

“I’ll only go away if Elvis wants me to. I’d like to hear it from him, please.”

As if on cue, the phone on his desk rang. He answered it, listened, then held it out to me.

"For you. It's Elvis." His smile hadn't wavered. "He's going to tell you he's fixed everything. That there's a plan. A story we're going to tell." He paused. "The question is: are you going to play along?"

I took the phone, my hand steady despite everything.

"Elvis?"

"Baby, listen..." His voice was tight. "I know what to do. But you're not going to like it."

Behind his desk, the Colonel watched me like a snake watching a mouse. Some choices, I was learning, weren't really choices at all. But how you played them - that was everything.

"The story's simple," Elvis said, his voice tight with something between exhaustion and resignation. "You're my new backup singer. Been rehearsing in secret. That's why you're coming to Memphis. Professional opportunity, nothing more."

​​I watched the Colonel's satisfied smile grow behind his cigar smoke. Of course this was his idea - neat, clean, controllable. A story that would explain everything while revealing nothing.

"The kiss..." Elvis continued.

"Was gratitude," I finished, seeing the shape of it. "Excitement over the opportunity. A momentary celebration caught at an unfortunate angle."

"Yeah." He sounded tired. So tired. "Colonel's already got the contracts drawn up. Real ones, not just for show. You'll actually have to..."

"Sing backup?" I almost laughed. "Elvis, I've been singing my whole life."

"Yeah, but this is different. This is..."

"Playing a part?"

The silence on the line spoke volumes.

"It's a good solution," the Colonel cut in, clearly having heard every word on his extension. "Clean. Professional. Gives you a legitimate reason to be in Memphis, access to Graceland for rehearsals, everything you want. Just with... proper boundaries."

Proper boundaries. Right. Like the ones he'd established for all those other girls, the ones whose pictures didn't make it onto his wall of fame.

"There's one condition," Elvis said suddenly. "My condition, not the Colonel's."

I waited.

"You keep your own place. Like you wanted. No arrangements, no settlements. You do this as a professional, not as..."

Not as what? His mistress? His kept woman? Another Ann-Margret who got too close to the sun?

"Okay," I said.

The Colonel's eyebrows rose slightly. He'd expected more fight, more negotiation. But he didn't understand - I wasn't negotiating. I was playing chess.

"Just like that?" Elvis sounded surprised too.

"Just like that." I kept my voice level, professional. "When do we start rehearsals?"

What followed was a blur of activity. Contracts appeared as if by magic - the Colonel had probably had them ready since that first elevator ride. Throughout it all, I signed where I was told, smiled when expected, played the part of the grateful unknown singer getting her big break. 

Statements were prepared for the press. A schedule materialized for rehearsals, appearances, recordings. Something flickered in the old man’s eyes - recognition, maybe. Of what, I wasn't sure yet. 

It was late afternoon by the time everything was "handled." The photos from the alley had mysteriously vanished, though we all knew copies existed somewhere. The press had their official story. Even that damn dove seemed to have finally found somewhere else to roost.

"Perhaps," the Colonel said softly, "I underestimated you."

I smiled and headed back to my room.

*

Packing shouldn't have been hard. I hadn't brought much to Vegas in the first place. But somehow my belongings had multiplied, scattered across the suite like evidence of a life I hadn't planned on living.

"You'll want to pack light," Jerry said from the doorway. He'd appeared with coffee and what he called "Memphis wisdom," though I suspected he just didn't want me to be alone after the alley incident. "Graceland's got its own weather system. Nothing you bring is gonna make sense there anyway."

"Helpful, Jer. Real helpful." I held up two dresses - one Elvis had sent up last week, one I'd brought from Chicago. The difference in quality was almost embarrassing.

"Take both," he advised. "You'll need the fancy one for show, the real one to feel like yourself." He paused. "That's the trick, you know. For when everything else gets crazy."

I folded both dresses carefully, thinking about Elvis's books scattered across my bed, their margins filled with his handwritten notes. Questions, observations, searches for meaning in scientific formulas and ancient wisdom. I'd been packing them when Jerry arrived.

"Speaking of crazy," Red's voice came from the hall, "wait'll you meet the Memphis ladies." He joined Jerry in the doorway, looking oddly formal. "Got a whole briefing prepared for you about that."

"A briefing?"

"Those women are sharks in southern belle clothing," he said seriously. "Especially the ones who've had their eye on Elvis since high school. They're gonna hate you on principle."

"Thanks for the pep talk, Red."

"Just trying to prepare you." But his eyes were kind. "Though something tells me you can handle them just fine."

I picked up Elvis's jacket from the chair - the one I'd been wearing this morning when everything changed. His cologne still clung to it faintly, mixing with the gin stains from last night's party. Had that really been less than 24 hours ago?

"Leave the jacket," Jerry said quietly. "Trust me on that one."

Before I could respond, Lamar appeared behind Red and Jerry, making the doorway look like a Memphis Mafia convention.

"Y'all telling stories about Memphis?" He squeezed past them into the room. "Let me tell you about Elvis's first day at Graceland. There he is, king of the world, right? And he can't figure out how to work the dang intercom system. Kept accidentally broadcasting everything to the whole house. And I mean everything." He winked. "Including some very private conversations with very private guests, if you know what I mean."

"Lamar," Jerry warned.

"What? She should know what she's getting into! Place is like a funhouse sometimes. Secret passages, hidden doors, two-way windows - Elvis had them put in during renovations. Says it's for security, but really he just likes playing hide and seek."

I tried to picture it - Elvis Presley, the king of rock and roll, playing hide and seek in his mansion. What would he need a two-way window for? Yet, somehow it wasn't hard to imagine at all.

The phone rang, making us all jump. The Memphis Mafia exchanged glances.

"That'll be your pal again," Jerry said. "She's called four times."

I stared at the phone. "How do you know?"

"We know everything, honey." Red smiled. "Part of the job."

I picked up the receiver. Sure enough: "Val? Finally! I've been trying to call you back all day!"

The Memphis Mafia made themselves scarce, but not before Jerry mouthed "be careful" and tapped his ear - reminding me that in Vegas, walls had ears and phones had extensions.

"Dee." I cut her off, gentle but firm. "I need you to listen very carefully. Can you do that?"

A pause. Then, quieter: "Yeah."

"I can't tell you everything. Not yet. But I need you to trust me when I say that what's in those papers... it's not the whole story. And I need you to not tell anyone anything beyond what's already out there. Can you do that for me?"

The silence stretched so long I thought we'd been disconnected. Finally: "This is really serious, isn't it?"

"Yeah." I twisted the phone cord around my finger. "It really is."

"But you're okay? You're being careful?"

I thought about the Colonel's offer, about Elvis's message through Jerry, about all the delicate threads I was trying to navigate.

"I'm trying to be."

"Val, a backup singer? Really? That's the story they're going with?"

I started folding a sweater, phone cradled against my shoulder. "That's the truth they're going with."

She caught the emphasis. "Oh. Oh." A pause. "So we're not talking about the real truth yet?"

"Not yet."

Another pause. Then: "Okay. But Valerie?"

"Yeah?"

"When you can tell me... when it's safe... you'll tell me everything?"

"Everything I can," I promised. "Just... not yet."

After I hung up, I found Elvis's books again. Opening one at random, I found a passage underlined: "The truth is rarely pure and never simple." In the margin, his handwriting asked: "But what if you're living multiple truths?"

*

A knock at the door made me look up. Elvis stood there, looking somehow both perfect and wrecked. His hair was immaculate but his eyes were tired behind his glasses.

"Hey," he said softly. He took in the scene - the half-packed suitcases, the scattered books, his jacket still draped over the chair.

"Need help packing?"

"I’m almost done. Just trying to figure out what belongs in Memphis and what should stay in Vegas."

He understood the real question. Moving into the room, he picked up one of his books. "Take ‘em all," he said. "We can read them together at Graceland. When things are... quiet."

"Does it get quiet there?"

"Sometimes. Late at night, or early morning. When everyone else is asleep." He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb my packing. "It's different than here. Better in some ways, harder in others."

"Because of Priscilla?"

"Because of everything." He rubbed his face. "You know she redecorated the whole place when we got married? Made it exactly what she thought it should be."

"Nothing wrong with that, Elvis. That’s what women do." I chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

"Yeah but now it's like living in a museum sometimes. Even the air feels..." He trailed off.

"Curated?"

"Yeah." He looked at me then, really looked at me. "That's what I love about you, you know? You always find the right words."

"That why you kissed me? In the alley?"

His hands tightened on the book he was holding. "I kissed you because I couldn't not kiss you anymore."

The air between us felt electric, dangerous.

"Baby—"

"I know." He stood up abruptly. "I know we can't. Not now. Not with everything..." He gestured vaguely. "But in Memphis. When things settle… God, Valley Cat, I can’t wait to…”

A knock at the door interrupted whatever he might have said next. Joe stuck his head in.

"Boss? Car's ready whenever you are. And the Colonel wants—"

"Tell the Colonel I'll be there when I'm there." For once, Elvis's voice held an edge of real authority. I liked it.

Joe disappeared. Elvis turned back to me.

"I have to go. More appearances, more pictures, more..." He shrugged. "You know."

"I know."

He moved to the door, then stopped. "The backup singer story... I'm sorry about that. I know it's not what you wanted."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not. But it's what we've got." He smiled slightly. "For now."

After he left, I continued packing. The books went in first - all of them, even the ones I hadn't read yet. Then the dresses, both fancy and plain. But the jacket... Jerry was right. The jacket stayed behind.

The sun was setting over Vegas, painting the desert in shades of pink and gold. From my window, I could see photographers still lingering near the hotel entrance. Four weeks ago, I'd stood at this same window, watching Elvis's world from the outside. Now I was part of it, for better or worse.

A familiar coo made me look up. That damn dove was perched on my windowsill, looking remarkably pleased with itself.

"You're not coming to Memphis," I told it firmly.

It just cooed again, like it knew something I didn't.

Maybe it did.

*

I was deep in dreamless sleep when the knock came. So faint I almost missed it. For a moment I thought it was part of the dream, until it came again. Soft, uncertain, not like Elvis's usual confident rap.

When I opened the door, he was leaning against the frame, pajama shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes unfocused behind his glasses. His hair, usually perfect, fell across his forehead in a way that made him look impossibly young.

"Hey songbird," he slurred slightly. "Can I... can I come in?"

I hesitated. I'd never seen him this far gone before.

He swayed a little, caught himself. "Please?" His voice cracked on the word. "Just need... need somewhere quiet. Need you."

Something in my chest twisted at the naked vulnerability in his voice. I stepped aside to let him in. He made it three steps before stumbling. I caught him, guided him to the nearest chair.

"Everything's spinning," he mumbled, letting his head fall back. "Doctor Nick gave me something new. Said it would help with the... with the..." He gestured vaguely at his head. "But it's not... I can't..."

"Shh," I smoothed his hair back from his forehead. "It's okay."

"No." He caught my hand, pressed it to his cheek. "Not okay."

He pulled me down onto his lap, hands clumsy but insistent as they found the zipper of my nightgown. "Need you," he mumbled against my neck. "Been needing you so long..."

For a moment, I let myself feel it - the weight of him, the heat of his mouth, everything I'd been dreaming about since that first elevator ride. But his hands were shaking so badly he couldn't manage the zipper. His words slurred together as he tried to kiss me and missed.

"Not like this," I said softly, catching his hands. "Not when you're not yourself."

"But I am myself," he insisted, eyes struggling to focus. "Love you. I love you."

My heart stopped. "Elvis, you're not—"

"No." He pressed his forehead to mine, suddenly intense. "This is right. I love you. Been trying not to but I do."

His voice broke on the last word and suddenly he was crying - silent tears sliding down his perfect face. Without thinking, I gathered him to me, cradling his head against my chest. He curled into me like a child, all that powerful frame somehow becoming small and lost.

"It's okay," I whispered, rocking him slowly. "I've got you."

I held him like that for what felt like hours, studying his face in the dim light. The thick fan of his lashes wet with tears. The vulnerable curve of his mouth. The slight tremor in his jaw that betrayed how hard he was fighting for control.

Something shifted in my chest - a fierce protectiveness mixing with a love so deep it almost scared me. I wanted to be needed by him. Wanted to be the one who could hold him like this, who could see him at his most vulnerable and love him more for it, not less.

"M'sorry," he mumbled eventually. "Didn't mean to... to fall apart like that."

"Don't be sorry." I wiped his cheeks gently. "Ever."

He caught my hand, pressed a clumsy kiss to my palm. "Still coming to Memphis? Even after seeing me like this?"

"Especially after seeing you like this."

We made our slow way to his suite, him leaning heavily on my shoulder. The halls were empty - the Memphis Mafia mysteriously absent. Maybe they knew to give him this privacy. This moment of absolute vulnerability.

At his door, he turned to me. For a second, his eyes cleared.

"Meant it," he said softly. "About loving you."

"I know." I touched his cheek. "But tell me again tomorrow when you're you."

"Promise you'll still be here tomorrow?"

"Promise."

I waited until his door closed before letting out the breath I'd been holding. The empty hallway suddenly felt very long, very quiet. We'd have to talk about the pills eventually. About limits and boundaries and all the things that could go wrong. But not tonight.

Tonight, I just wanted to remember the weight of him in my arms. The trust it took for him to let me see him like this. The way my heart had cracked and mended and grown when he'd said he loved me, even through the chemical haze.

Because somewhere between that first elevator ride and this moment, between Vegas glamour and raw need, I'd fallen completely, irrevocably in love with him. Not Elvis Presley the star, but this complicated, brilliant, troubled man who read numerology and cried in my arms and trusted me to get him home safe.

I wasn't going anywhere.

*

Morning came too soon. The hotel staff who'd barely noticed me four weeks ago now watched my every move, their eyes following me with a mix of curiosity and calculation. The maids whispered in corners. The bellhops suddenly knew my name. Even the woman who'd cleaned my room every day, Marie, looked at me differently as she helped pack my final items.

"You take care," she said softly, folding my last dress. "It's not like Vegas there."

The front desk clerk who'd checked me in that first day - Brenda, still blizzard-cold - handed me my final bill with a knowing smile. "So. Backup singer?"

I just smiled, remembering how she'd dismissed me a month ago. How I'd been nobody then - just another hopeful in a city full of them. Now I was somebody. Or at least, I was somebody's somebody.

Elvis had left earlier, his departure orchestrated by the Colonel down to the last detail. Priscilla was already in Memphis, preparing Graceland. I would fly commercial, arrive hours after them. Keep up appearances. Play the part.

I wasn't to go near Graceland, not yet. Not while Priscilla was there. The Colonel had made that crystal clear - I was to find an apartment far away from Graceland until... until what? Until Priscilla left? Until some arbitrary waiting period passed? Until the scandal died down? I felt caught in limbo, neither here nor there.

My stomach churned with guilt as I thought about her. How must she feel, knowing her husband's... what was I exactly? Mistress seemed too tawdry, girlfriend too simple for whatever this complex thing between Elvis and me was becoming. But whatever I was, I was coming to her town, into her world. Sure, Elvis swore their marriage was over, that she had her own life in California now. But she was still his wife. Still the woman whose home I was effectively invading, even if I wouldn't be living under her roof.

My cheeks burned with shame. Part of me wanted to do right by her - maybe even eventually talk to her, explain... what? That I loved her husband? That I couldn't help myself? That I believed him when he said they were done?

But another part of me bristled at feeling guilty at all. If they really were separated, if she really was building a new life in California, why shouldn't I be with Elvis? Why shouldn't I take this chance with him?

I made a mental note to find out the truth about their marriage - not from Elvis, whose view was complicated by pills and promises, but from someone who would know. Maybe Jerry. Maybe Red. Someone who could tell me if divorce was really on the horizon or if I was just another chapter in Elvis' story of extramarital adventures.

The press lingered outside despite the early hour, their cameras ready. I spotted the one who'd caught us in the alley - he had the decency to look slightly ashamed when our eyes met.

Red appeared at my elbow as I headed for the cab. "Ready?"

"No."

He laughed. "Nobody ever is."

Looking up at the International's gleaming façade, I remembered that first day. How overwhelming it had all seemed. How impossible. I'd been so naive then, thinking talent and determination were enough. Now I knew better. Now I knew about pills and promises, about public faces and private truths, about loving someone so completely that even their broken pieces felt precious.

A familiar coo made me look up one last time. That damn dove sat on the hotel awning, watching my departure like it had watched everything else.

"Still here?" I called up to it.

Red followed my gaze. "Tom's trying to catch it, you know. Says it's his responsibility."

"Tell him to let it be." I smiled. "Some things aren't meant to be caught."

The cab pulled up. Red loaded my bags while I took one last look at the Strip, already shimmering in the heat. Somewhere up there was the elevator where it all began. The suite where Elvis had cried in my arms last night. The lobby where I'd first heard him laugh.

"Miss?" The driver was waiting.

I slid into the back seat, letting Vegas fall away behind me. In a few hours, I'd be in Memphis. In Graceland. In Elvis's world for real.

The morning sun caught my reflection in the cab window. I looked different somehow. Older, maybe. Or just... more. More aware. More certain. More myself.

"Airport," I told the driver. Then, softer, more to myself than anyone: "Time to see what Memphis has in store."

As we pulled away, I could have sworn I heard one last coo from above. A goodbye, maybe. Or a warning.

Either way, there was no turning back now.

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