#there’s just so much to unpack now that we’re doing CINEMA again

[imabillyami]

Oh man, look at Jeys' body language with Roman in the ring. There is so much healing that needs to be done

Most definitely. Buckle up, this is about to be a long one about all the nonverbal stuff that’s going on 😂

What I find extremely interesting/ have found extremely interesting in recent episodes is the blocking of the Bloodline scenes, especially the positioning of all the characters which I’ll get to in a minute.

Let’s focus on last night and start off with the entrances.

First of all Jey’s and also Sami’s entrances are a lot more demure and toned down as of right now. Barely any interaction with the crowd, no posturing, nothing.

But even Roman’s entrance is a lot more toned down from what it used to be. Plus he’s getting his own mic these days. That’s not something that’s done by accident. Of course Paul isn’t there, but even then he could make Jimmy do it. He doesn’t though.

Next: The timing of Jey’s entrance right as Roman was about to do the whole “acknowledge me” spiel. That speaks for itself too.

Sami’s entrance before Roman gets a chance to get a word in.

Then the fact that all their entrances except Jimmy’s and Roman’s are still separate from each other. It worked for this first segment on Smackdown perfectly obviously. And it worked on Monday for Sami, Jey & Jimmy too as a way to structure these segments. But I firmly believe it’s more than that. It’s very telling in terms of the lines that are still drawn and the separation that exists between all of them still, especially Jey and Roman, but also the twins.

I wouldn’t be surprised if that changed now that they’re all reunited (or if it changed progressively over the next few weeks as trust is regained between them and they become an actual team again. By the time WarGames rolls around I feel like they should make their entrance as a united front, just like Solo’s Bloodline does, even if it’s just for one night and they go back to their singles entrances after that.)

As for the blocking/ character positioning in the first segment:

Jimmy is always at Roman’s *left* flank, just like old times, positioned behind Roman at all times, with Roman comfortably having his back to him. There’s deep trust and a bond there and he knows Jimmy will have his back now that he’s proven his loyalty all over again and stuck with Roman through the worst. Jimmy has no problem acknowledging Roman as the leader still and following his command, hence why he’s always at his hip, but still always a step behind him.

He’s also the one who’s trying to make peace between Jey and Roman (though he’s still extremely protective of Roman when it comes to Sami. Sami might’ve proven his boundless loyalty in regard to Jey, but not in regard to Jimmy and Roman and that’s not lost on him), but he’s aware that it’s all very fragile hence why he’s staying at Roman’s flank to have his back if things go awry.

Roman doesn’t see him as Right Hand Man as he did with Jey though, cause again, Jimmy’s position is always still the left flank (except for when they’re watching Jacob’s promo, but by the end of the segment they are back to normal). This could have meaning in terms of how this time around he’s more willing to treat Jimmy (and ultimately Jey and Sami) as actual *family* and not as his lackeys or it could be cause they know they need Jey in that spot to be complete again and intentionally keep it open. Who knows.

Now. Roman and Jimmy are in the ring, Jimmy a step behind Roman at his left flank. Cue Jey’s entrance music and them looking into the audience. But no. Jey comes down the entrance ramp, tense shoulders and body language, none of his usual crowd interaction, laser focused on the task at hand. This is serious business.

Meanwhile Roman and Jimmy now stand with their backs turned to the commentary desk, arms in a similar position to each other in front of their bodies, still somewhat blocking Jey out.

Jey barely turns his back to them, only long enough to get a mic. When he does, Roman stays in position, but Jimmy turns around with Jey, providing both Roman and Jey with a sense of security that they don’t feel with each other yet.

Jey stands sideways, turned half to them, half to the entrance ramp, until he addresses Roman, but his body still doesn’t fully turn towards Roman and there’s still a good bit of distance between them in that ring. When Sami’s music hits he positions himself right back into that half/half position, arm outstretched towards Sami in invitation and encouragement.

Sami, tense and extremely reluctant of course, doesn’t step into the ring until Jey stands fully “by his side” and opposite Roman, blocking him off - physical reassurance that he has his back. And once Sami’s safely in the ring and Roman (or Jimmy) hasn’t done anything stupid he goes in for the hand clap - tummy pat - mic handover combo, before standing sideways between both parties, rubbing his hands, clearly extremely nervous and aware of how much this can blow up any second.

Meanwhile Jimmy has crossed his arms, making clear that he’s still not a big fan of this, but that he’ll let it play out for now.

Roman is just his usual picture of WHAT THE FUCK lol. That man’s facial expressions are everything 😭😭 He also hasn’t taken his eyes off of Sami once.

When Sami starts speaking, he’s hunched over and tense, but he’s looking straight into Roman’s eyes to tell him that he didn’t kick him on purpose. (Flashback to WarGames two years ago when Roman looked into Sami’s eyes for the truth. Roman is big on eye contact and Sami knows it.)

Roman’s barely noticeable nod. Jey’s very obvious shuffling around as Sami continues on. (Meanwhile Jimmy has given up the crossed arms - an off-camera reaction to Sami’s words?)

Sami grows taller, giving up his hunched over position the more he talks about the four of them together, meanwhile Jey is looking back and forth between them, unable to stay still.

Roman’s face is unreadable. Until Sami uses the word “FAMILY”. Then that little snarl is right back on his face. Funnily enough that’s when Jey crosses his arms (god they are so good at this game of nonverbal communication 😭 CINEMA!)

I can’t get over Jey’s little nodding along to “Jey felt it” 😭 (Like… “yup yup the hubby is telling no lies”). Also, notice how Sami’s slowly inching away from the ropes, closer to Jey and therefore closer to the others?

Another facial reaction from Roman at the “I think you love me.” - Blink, blink, look away, look anywhere but not at Sami - Jey saying something off-mic (thanks Carla!!) and looking amused, Jimmy trying not to smile.

“Jey in the backseat hater of the year” - now it’s just a contest of who’s gonna crack first 😭 Jimmy and Jey are smiling already, Roman is desperately trying to keep his composure lol. There’s that old magic again.

“I’m gonna put the ball in your court.” Aaaaand we’re back to serious. Jey’s crossing his arms again, closer to Sami than ever, almost ready to hold him back if he does - in fact - leave.

The crowd says “noooo” and Roman is confused by their reaction. ‘They want this fool with us?’ - But then the little knowing smirk again as the crowd pops. Flashbacks to the Honorary Uce. - The mistrusting eye-crunch as Sami says “I’ll do it.” By now Jey is basically standing by Sami’s side completely as Sami makes his one demand. He’s got Sami’s back on this, no matter what.

“Apologize.” And again, Roman’s face tells you everything you need to know. You see the exact moment where he goes from ‘that’s fucking ridiculous’ and ‘really, Jey? This is what you bring me?’ and ‘he can’t be serious, Jimmy’ to ‘NEVER GONNA FUCKING HAPPEN’

Sami’s surprise at Roman thinking that the apology is for *him* speaks volumes. So do Jey’s eyes and facial expression when Sami makes it clear the apology is for him. That man is SHOOK. He also knows it’s going downhill from here. And so does Jimmy in the background. Just look at their faces. They know their cousin.

You can see it right on Jey’s face that he doesn’t believe for a single second that he’s gonna get that apology from Roman. He knows it even as Roman utters the words “I’m sorry” and Sami smiles. Cause Jey knows Roman best.

“I’m sorry that I ever let you waste my time with this.” That’s not even disappointment on Jey’s face. That’s just plain resignation. He can deal with that. That’s Roman being Roman. He can also deal with rubbing his temples from stress until he reaches brain matter.

What he can’t deal with is Roman insulting Sami like that, turning his back and treating Sami like a waste of time now that Roman doesn’t perceive him as a threat anymore.

What he can deal with even less is Sami walking out on him. He understands and he supports his walking out after what just went down, their connection remains as strong as ever, but he’s not happy with Roman’s blatant dismissal of Sami.

Roman calls out Solo, but Jey doesn’t care. His first priority is making sure Sami is okay. Husbands indeed.

And then Jacob interrupts. At the right time honestly. Telling Roman that he’s no longer “that bitch”. And I do feel like Jey would’ve confronted Roman right there and then and walked out right after Sami if Jacob hadn’t interrupted (if the way he gripping the rope, looking wistfully at Sami who’s looking back, and the way he glowers at Roman in that final shot is any indication).

He’s very clearly not standing with them after this. And he’s royally pissed off.

And then that backstage segment. Roman clearly walked out on them first with Jimmy running after him, but Roman is too irritated to let him catch up. And then Jey steps up to him. And he’s still not willing to talk. His body language is so damn dismissive, he’s had enough.

But like hell if Jey’s giving him a choice on the matter. He’s no longer afraid to put hands on Roman and demand respect and attention, to Jimmy’s and Roman’s surprise. (Thinking back to another ask I answered a while ago about Jey not being the same person he was before he left and Roman & Jimmy needing to accept and acknowledge that or it’ll cause even more tension.)

Roman’s intimidation and entitlement don’t work on a pissed off Jey Uso anymore and the sooner he learns it, the better. Roman is in a position where he needs Jey more than Jey needs him and I think deep down he’s aware of that, even if his own trauma and his ego don’t allow him to accept it yet.

Jey calling Roman out like that was everything to me. I love how protective of Sami he gets, just like Sami gets protective of him. You hurt one, you hurt both. Sami is his ride or die now. (And I know the segment was mainly Jey and Roman, but we shouldn’t ignore Jimmy’s facial expressions either.)

But what I loved about this even more than Jey standing up for Sami? Jey standing up for himself and meaning it! “That’s your one pass, uce!” And then walks off to go find Sami. Not because Roman told him to, but because he *wants* to.

And then Jimmy, oh precious Jimmy tries to reason with him and fix things like he always does and Roman, stumped, irritated, overwhelmed, lashes out at him too, and Jimmy walks (but not in the same direction as his brother).

And Roman is all alone again with his ego.

So he ends up facing Solo alone once again.

Until that last beautiful segment. This is so long already, so I’m not gonna go line-by-line & frame-by-frame on that one, but even with that last shot, there’s still so much that’s unresolved and that needs fixing. These four need to TALK and really TALK.

And Jey needs to get that apology.

Anyways.

I feel like, pretty much as always, the stuff that isn’t said speaks so much louder than the actual words.

I know this wasn’t exactly the point of this ask, but you caught me in a rambling mood and I was just rewatching the show and so here we are 😂

The point: I completely agree. These four are not a unit yet and there’s a lot of healing left that needs to happen before they can truly be that unit again.

[grigori77]

2020 in Movies - My Top 30 Fave Movies (Part 1)

30.  BODY CAM – in the face of the ongoing pandemic, viral outbreak cinema has become worryingly prescient of late, but as COVID led to civil unrest in some quarters there were a couple of 2020 films that REALLY seemed to put their finger on the pulse of another particularly shitty zeitgeist.  Admittedly this first one highlights a problem that’s been around for a while now, but it came along at just the right time to gain particularly strong resonance, filtering its message into the most reliable form of allegorical social commentary – horror.  The vengeful ghost trope has become pretty familiar since the Millennium, but by marrying it with the corrupt cop thriller veteran horror screenwriter Nicholas McCarthy (The Pact) has given it a nice fresh spin, and the end result is a real winner.  Mary J. Blige plays troubled LAPD cop Renee Lomito-Smith, back on the beat after an extended hiatus following a particularly harrowing incident, just as fellow officers from her own precinct begin to die violent deaths under mysterious circumstances, and the only clues are weird, haunting camera footage that only Renee and her new partner, rookie Danny Holledge (Paper Towns and Death Note’s Nat Wolff), manage to see before it inexplicable wipes itself.  Something supernatural is stalking the City of Angels at night, and it’s got a serious grudge against local cops as the increasingly disturbing investigation slowly brings an act of horrific police brutality to light, until Renee no longer knows who in her department she can trust.  This is one of the most insidious scare-fests I enjoyed this past year, sophomore director Malik Vitthal (Imperial Dreams) weaving an effective atmosphere of pregnant dread and wire-taut suspense while delivering some impressively hair-raising shocks (the stunning minimart sequence is the film’s undeniable highlight), while the ghostly threat is cleverly thought-out and skilfully brought to “life”.  Blige delivers another top-drawer performance, giving Renee a winning combination of wounded fragility and steely resolve that makes for a particularly compelling hero, while Wolff invests Danny with skittish uncertainty and vulnerability in one of his strongest performances to date, and Dexter star David Zayas brings interesting moral complexity to the role of their put-upon superior, Sergeant Kesper.  In these times of heightened social awareness, when the police’s star has become particularly tarnished as unnecessary force, racial profiling and cover-ups have become major hot-button topics, the power and relevance of this particular slice of horror cinema cannot be denied.

29.  BLOOD QUANTUM – 2020 certainly was a great year for horror (even if most of the high profile stuff did get shunted into 2021), and this compellingly fresh take on the zombie outbreak genre was a strong standout with a killer hook.  Canadian writer-director Jeff Barnaby (Rhymes for Young Ghouls) has always clung close to his Native American roots, and he brings strong social relevance to the intriguing early 80s Canadian setting as a really nasty zombie virus wreaks havoc in the Red Crow Indian Reservation and its neighbouring town.  It soon becomes clear, however, that members of the local tribe are immune to the infection, a revelation with far-reaching consequences as the outbreak rages unchecked and society begins to crumble.  Barnaby pulls off some impressive world-building and creates a compellingly grungy post-apocalyptic vibe as the story progresses, while the zombies themselves are a visceral, scuzzy bunch, and there’s plenty of cracking set-pieces and suitably full-blooded kills to keep the gore-hounds happy, while the horror has real intelligence behind it, the script posing interesting questions and delivering some uncomfortable answers.  The characters, meanwhile, are a well-drawn, complex bunch, no black-and-white saviours among them, any one of them capable of some pretty inhuman horrors when the chips are down, and the cast, an interesting mix of seasoned talent and unknowns, all excel in their roles – Michael Greyeyes (Fear the Walking Dead) and Forrest Goodluck (The Revenant) are the closest things the film has to real heroes, the former a fallible everyman as Traylor, the small-town sheriff who’s just trying to do right by his family, the latter unsure of himself as his son, put-upon teenage father-to-be Joseph; Olivia Scriven, meanwhile is tough but vulnerable as his pregnant white girlfriend Charlie, Stonehorse Lone Goeman is a grizzled badass as tough-as-nails tribal elder Gisigu, and Kiowa Gordon (probably best known for playing a werewolf in the Twilight movies) really goes to the dark side as Joseph’s delinquent half-brother Lysol, while there’s another memorably subtle turn from Dead Man’s Gary Farmer as unpredictable loner Moon.  This was definitely one of the year’s darkest films – largely playing the horror straight, it tightens the screws as the situation grows steadily worse, and almost makes a virtue of wallowing in its hopeless tone – but there’s a fatalistic charm to all the bleakness, even in the downbeat yet tentatively hopeful climax, while it’s hard to deny the ruthless efficiency of the violence on display.  This definitely isn’t a horror movie for everyone, but those with a strong stomach and relatively hard heart will find much to enjoy here.  Jeff Barnaby is definitely gonna be one to watch in the future …

28.  THE MIDNIGHT SKY – Netflix’ big release for the festive season is a surprisingly understated and leisurely affair, a science fiction drama of big ideas which nonetheless doesn’t feel the need to shout about it.  The latest feature in the decidedly eclectic directorial career of actor George Clooney, this adaptation of Good Morning, Midnight, the debut novel of up-and-coming author Lily Brooks-Dalton, favours characterisation and emotion over big thrills and flashy sequences, but it’s certainly not lacking in spectacle, delivering a pleasingly ergonomically-designed view of the near future of space exploration that shares some DNA with The Martian but makes things far more sleek and user-friendly in the process.  Aether, a NASA mission to explore K-23, a newly-discovered, potentially habitable moon of Jupiter, is on its return journey, but is experiencing baffling total communications blackouts from Earth.  This is because a catastrophic global event has rendered life on the planet’s surface all but impossible, killing most of the population and driving the few survivors underground.  K-23’s discoverer, professor Augustine Lofthouse (Clooney), is now alone at a small research post in the extreme cold of the Arctic, one of the only zones left that have not yet been fully effected by the cataclysm, refusing to leave his post after having discovered he’s dying from a serious illness, but before he goes he’s determined to contact the crew of Aether so he can warn them of the conditions down on Earth.  Despite the ticking clock of the plot, Clooney has reigned the pace right in, allowing the story to unspool slowly as we’re introduced to the players who calmly unpack their troubles and work over the various individual crises with calm professionalism – that said, there are a few notable moments of sudden, fretful urgency, and these are executed with a palpable sense of chaotic tension that create interesting and exciting punctuation to the film’s usually stately momentum, reminding us that things could go suddenly, catastrophically wrong for these people at any moment.  Clooney delivers a gloriously understated performance that perfectly grounds the film, while there are equally strong, frequently DAMN POWERFUL turns from a uniformly excellent cast, notably Felicity Jones and David Oyelowo as pregnant astronaut Dr. “Sully” Sullivan and her partner, mission Commander Adewole, and a surprisingly subtle, nuanced performance from newcomer Caoilinn Springall as Iris, a young girl mistakenly left behind at the outpost during the hasty evacuation, with whom Lofthouse develops a deeply affecting bond.  The film has been criticised for its slowness, but I think in this age of BIGGER, LOUDER, MORE this is a refreshingly low-key escape from all the noise, and there’s a beautiful trade-off in the script’s palpable intelligence, strong character work and world-building (then again, the adaptation was by Mark L. Smith, who co-wrote The Revenant), while this is a visually stunning film, Clooney and cinematographer Martin Ruhe (Control, The Keeping Room) weaving an evocative visual tapestry that rewards the soul as much as the eye.  Unapologetically smart, engrossingly played and overflowing with raw, emotional power, this is science fiction cinema at its most cerebral, and another top mark for a somewhat overlooked filmmaking talent which deserves to be considered alongside career highs such as Good Night & Good Luck and The Ides of March.

27.  PALM SPRINGS – the summer’s comedy highlight kind of snuck in under the radar, becoming something of an on-demand secret weapon with all the cinemas closed, and it definitely deserves its swiftly growing cult status.  You certainly can’t believe it’s the feature debut of director Max Barbakow, who shows the kind of sharp-witted, steady-handed control of his craft that’s usually the province of far more experienced talents … then again, much of the credit must surely go to seasoned TV comedy writer Andy Siara (Lodge 49), for whom this has been a real labour of love he’s been tending since his film student days.  Certainly all that care, nurture and attention to detail is up there on the screen, the exceptional script singing its irresistible siren song from the start and providing fertile ground for its promising new director to spread his own creative wings.  The premise may be instantly familiar – playing like a latter-day Saturday Night Live take on Groundhog Day (Siara admits it was a major influence), it follows the misadventures of Sarah (How I Met Your Mother’s Cristin Miliota), the black sheep maid of honour at her sweet little sister Tala’s (Riverdale’s Camila Mendes) wedding to seemingly perfect hunk Abe (the Arrowverse’s Superman, Tyler Hoechlin), as she finds herself repeating the same high-stress day over and over again after becoming trapped in a mysterious cosmic time-loop along with slacker misanthrope Nyles (Brooklyn Nine Nine megastar Andy Samberg), who’s been stuck in this same situation for MUCH longer – but in Barbakow and Siara’s hands it feels fresh and intriguing, and goes in some surprising new directions before the well-worn central premise can outstay its welcome. It certainly doesn’t hurt that the cast are all excellent – Miliota is certainly the pounding emotional heart of the film, effortlessly lovable as she flounders against her lot, then learns to accept the unique possibilities it presents, before finally resolving to find a way out, while Samberg has rarely been THIS GOOD, truly endearing in his sardonic apathy as it becomes clear he’s been here for CENTURIES, and they make an enjoyably fiery couple with snipey chemistry to burn; meanwhile there’s top-notch support from Mendes and Hoechlin, The OC’s Peter Gallagher as Sarah and Tala’s straight-laced father, the ever-reliable Dale Dickey, a thoroughly adorable turn from Jena Freidman and, most notably, a full-blooded scene-stealing performance from the mighty J.K. Simmonds as Roy, Nyles’ nemesis, who he inadvertently trapped in the loop before Sarah and is, understandably, none too happy about it. This really is an absolute laugh-riot, today’s more post-modern sense of humour allowing the central pair (and their occasional enemy) to indulge in far more extreme consequence-free craziness than Bill Murray ever got away with back in the day, but like all the best comedies there’s also a strong emotional foundation under the humour, leading us to really care about these people and what happens to them, while the story throws moments of true heartfelt power at us, particularly in the deeply cathartic climax.  Ultimately this was one of the year’s biggest surprises, a solid gold gem that I can’t recommend enough.

26.  THE LAST DAYS OF AMERICAN CRIME – Body Cam’s fellow heavyweight Zeitgeist fondler is a deeply satirical chunk of speculative dystopian sci-fi clearly intended as a cinematic indictment of Trump’s broken America, but it became far more potent and prescient in these … ahem … troubled times.  Adapted by screenwriter Karl Gadjusek (Oblivion, Stranger Things, The King’s Man) from the graphic novel by Rick Remender and Greg Tocchini for underrated schlock-action cinema director Olivier Megaton (Transporter 3, Colombiana, the last two Taken films), this Netflix original feature seemed like a fun way to kill a cinema-deprived Saturday night in the middle of the First Lockdown, but ultimately proved to have a lot more substance than expected.  It’s powered by an intriguing premise – in a nearly lawless 2024, the US government is one week away from implementing a nationwide synaptic blocker signal called the API (American Peace Initiative) which will prevent the public from being able to commit any kind of crime – and focuses on a strikingly colourful bunch of outlaw antiheroes with an audacious agenda – prodigious Detroit bank robber Bricke (Édgar Ramiréz) is enlisted by Kevin Cash (Funny Games and Hannibal’s Michael Carmen Pitt), a wayward scion of local crime family the Dumois, and his hacker fiancée Shelby Dupree (Material Girl’s Anna Brewster) to pull off what’s destined to be the last great crime in American history, a daring raid on the first night of the signal to steal over a billion dollars from the Motor City’s “money factory” and then escape across the border into Canada.  From this deceptively simple premise a sprawling action epic was born, carried along by a razor sharp, twisty script and Megaton’s typically hyperbolic, showy auteur directing style and significant skill at crafting thrillingly explosive set-pieces, while the cast consistently deliver quality performances.  Ever since Domino, Ramiréz has long been one of those actors I really love to watch, a gruff, quietly intense alpha male whose subtle understatement hides deep reserves of emotional intensity, while Dupree takes a character who could have been a thinly-drawn femme fetale and invests her with strong personal drive and steely resolve, and there’s strong support from Neil Blomkampf regulars Sharlto Copley and Brandon Auret as, respectively, emasculated beat cop Sawyer and brutal Mob enforcer Lonnie French, as well as a nearly unrecognisable Patrick Bergin as local kingpin (and Kevin’s father) Rossi Dumois; the film is roundly stolen, however, by Pitt, a phenomenal actor I’ve always thought we just don’t see enough of, here portraying a spectacularly sleazy, unpredictable force of nature who clearly has his own dark agenda, but whom we ultimately can’t help rooting for even as he stabs us in the back.  This is a cracking film, a dark and dangerous thriller of rare style and compulsive verve that I happily consider to be Megaton’s best film to date BY FAR – needless to say it was a major hit for Netflix when it dropped, clearly resonating with its audience given what’s STILL going on in the real world, and while it may have been roundly panned in reviews I think, like some of the platform’s other glossier Original hits (Bright springs to mind), it’s destined for a major critical reappraisal and inevitable cult status before too long …

25.  BILL & TED FACE THE MUSIC – one of the year’s biggest surprise hits for me was also one I was really nervous about – the original Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure and its just-as-good sequel Bogus Journey have been personal favourites for years, pretty much part of my geeky developmental DNA during my youth, two gleefully dorky indulgences that have, against the odds, aged like fine wine for me over the years.  I love Bill and Ted SO MUCH, so like many of the fans I’ve always wanted a third film, but I knew full well how easy it would have been for it to turn out to be a turd (second sequels can be tricky things, and we’ve seen SO MANY fail over the years).  God bless Alex Winter and Keanu Reeves for never giving up on the possibilities, then, and for the original screenwriters, Chris Matheson and Ed Solomon, for writing something that does true justice and pays proper respect to what came before while fully realising how much times have changed in the TWENTY-NINE YEARS that have passed since Wyld Stallyns last graced our screens.  Certainly times have moved on for our irrepressible pair – in spite of their convictions, driven by news from the distant future that their music would unite the world and usher in a new era of peace and prosperity, Bill and Ted have spectacularly failed to achieve what was expected of them, and they’ve grown despondent even though they’re still happily married to the Princesses and now the fathers of two wonderful girls, Billie and Thea (Atypical’s Brigette Lundy-Paine and Ready Or Not’s Samara weaving).  Then an emissary from the future arrives to inform them that if they don’t write the song that unites the world TODAY, the whole of reality will cease to exist.  No pressure, then … it may have been almost three decades, but our boys are BACK in a riotous comedy adventure that delivers on all the promises the franchise ever made before.  Winter and particularly Reeves may have both gone onto other things since, but they step back into their roles with such ease it’s like Bill and Ted have never been away, perfectly realising not only their characters today but also various future incarnations as they resolve to go forward in time to take the song from themselves AFTER they’ve already written it (a most triumphant and fool-proof plan, surely); Lundy-Paine and Weaving, meanwhile, are both absolutely FANTASTIC throughout, creating a pair of wonderfully oddball, eccentric and thoroughly adorable characters who would be PERFECT to carry the franchise forward in the future, while it’s an absolute joy to see William Sadler return as Bogus Journey’s fantastically neurotic incarnation of Death himself, and there are quality supporting turns from Flight of the Conchords’ Kristen Schaal, Anthony Carrigan, Holland Taylor and of course Hal Landon Jr., once again returning as Ted’s grouchy cop father Captain Logan.  The plot is thoroughly bonkers and of course makes no logical sense, but then they’re never meant to in these movies – the whole point is just to have fun and GO WITH IT, and it’s unbelievably easy when the comedy hit rate is THIS HIGH – turns out third time really is the charm for Matheson and Solomon, who genuinely managed a hat trick with the whole trilogy, while there was no better choice of director to usher this into existence than Dean Parisot, the man who brought us Galaxy Quest.  This is the perfect climax to a trilogy we’ve been waiting YEARS to see finally completed, but it’s also shown a perfect way to forge ahead in new and interesting ways with the next generation – altogether, then, this is another most excellent adventure …

24.  TRUE HISTORY OF THE KELLY GANG – Justin Kurzel has been on my directors-to-watch list for a while now, each of his offerings impressing me more than the last (his home-grown Aussie debut, Snowtown, was a low key wallow in Outback nastiness, while his follow up, Macbeth, quickly became one of my favourite Shakespeare flicks, and I seem to be one of the frustrated few who actually genuinely loved his adaptation of Assassin’s Creed, considering it to be one the very best video game movies out there), and his latest is no exception – returning to his native Australia, he’s brought his trademark punky grit and fever-dream edginess to bear in his quest to bring his country’s most famous outlaw to the big screen in a biopic truly worthy of his name. Two actors bring infamous 19th Century bushranger Ned Kelly to life here, and they’re both exceptional – the first half of the film sees newcomer Orlando Schwerdt explode onto the screen as the child Ned, all righteous indignation and fiery stubbornness as he rails against the positions his family’s poverty continually put him in, then George MacKay (Sunshine On Leith, Captain Fantastic) delivers the best performance of his career in the second half, a barely restrained beast as Ned grown, his mercurial turn bringing the man’s inherent unpredictability to the fore.  The Babadook’s Essie Davis, meanwhile, frequently steals the film from both of them as Ellen, the fearsome matriarch of the Kelly clan, and Nicholas Hoult is similarly impressive as Constable Fitzpatrick, Ned’s slimily duplicitous friend/nemesis, while there are quality supporting turns from Charlie Hunnam and Russell Crowe as two of the most important men of Ned’s formative years. In Kurzel’s hands, this account of Australia’s greatest true-life crime saga becomes one of the ultimate marmite movies – its glacial pace, grubby intensity and frequent brutality will turn some viewers off, but fans of more “alternative” cinema will find much to enjoy here.  There’s a blasted beauty to its imagery (this is BY FAR the bleakest the Outback’s ever looked on film), while the screenplay from relative unknown Shaun Grant (adapting Peter Carey’s bestselling novel) is STRONG, delivering rich character development and sublime dialogue, and Kurzel delivers some brilliantly offbeat and inventive action beats in the latter half that are well worth the wait.  Evocative, intense and undeniable, this has just the kind of irreverent punk aesthetic that I’m sure the real life Ned Kelly would have approved of …

23.  MUST MERCY – more true-life cinema, this time presenting an altogether classier account of two idealists’ struggle to overturn horrific racial injustices in Alabama. Writer-director Destin Daniel Cretton (Short Term 12, The Glass Castle) brings heart, passion and honest nobility to the story of fresh-faced young lawyer Bryan Stevenson (Michael B. Jordan) and his personal crusade to free Walter “Johnny D” McMillan (Jamie Foxx), an African-American man wrongfully sentenced to death for the murder of a white woman.  His only ally is altruistic young paralegal Eva Ansley (Cretton’s regular screen muse Brie Larson), while the opposition arrayed against them is MAMMOTH – not only do they face the cruelly racist might of the Alabama legal system circa 1989, but a corrupt local police force determined to circumvent his efforts at every turn and a thoroughly disinterested prosecutor, Tommy Chapman (Rafe Spall), who’s far too concerned with his own personal political ambitions to be any help.  The cast are uniformly excellent, Jordan and Foxx particularly impressing with career best performances that sear themselves deep into the memory, while there’s a truly harrowing supporting turn from Rob Morgan as Johnny D’s fellow Death Row inmate Herbert, whose own execution date is fast approaching.  This is courtroom drama at its most gripping, Cretton keeping the inherent tension cranked up tight while tugging hard on our heartstrings for maximum effect, and the result is a timely, racially-charged throat-lumper of considerable power and emotional heft that guarantees there won’t be a single dry eye in the house by the time the credits roll.  Further proof, then, that Destin Daniel Cretton is one of those rare talents of his generation – next up is his tour of duty in the MCU with Shang-Chi & the Legend of the Ten Rings, and while this seems like a strange leftfield turn given his previous track record, I nevertheless have the utmost confidence in him after seeing this …

22.  UNDERWATER – at first glance, this probably seems like a strange choice for the year’s Top 30 – a much-maligned, commercially underperforming glorified B-movie creature-feature headlined by the former star of the Twilight franchise, there’s no way that could POSSIBLY be any good, surely? Well hold your horses, folks, because not only is this very much worth your time and a comprehensive suspension of your low expectations, but I can’t even consider this a guilty pleasure – as far as I’m concerned this is a GENUINELY GREAT FILM, without reservation. The man behind the camera is William Eubank, a director whose career I’ve been following with great interest since his feature debut Love (a decidedly odd but strangely beautiful little space movie) and its more high profile but still unapologetically INDIE follow-up The Signal, and this is the one where he finally delivers wholeheartedly on all that wonderful sci-fi potential.  The plot is deceptively simple – an industrial conglomerate has established an instillation drilling right down to the very bottom of the Marianas Trench, the deepest point in our Earth’s oceans, only for an unknown disaster to leave six survivors from the operation’s permanent crew stranded miles below the surface with very few escape options left – but Eubank and writers Brian Duffield (Spontaneous, Love & Monsters, Jane Got a Gun, Insurgent) and Adam Cozad (The Legend of Tarzan) wring all the possible suspense and fraught, claustrophobic terror out of the premise to deliver a piano wire-tense horror thriller that grips from its sudden start to a wonderfully cathartic climax.  The small but potent cast are all on top form, Vincent Cassel, Jessica Henwick (Netflix’ Iron Fist) and John Gallagher Jr. (Hush, 10 Cloverfield Lane) particularly impressing, and even the decidedly hit-and-miss T.J. Miller delivers a surprisingly likeable turn here, but it’s that Twilight alumnus who REALLY sticks in your memory here – Kristen Stewart’s been doing a pretty good job lately distancing herself from the role that, unfortunately, both made her name and turned her into an object of (very unfair) derision for many years, but in my opinion THIS is the performance that REALLY separates her from Bella effing-Swan.  Mechanical engineer Norah Price is tough, ingenious and fiercely determined, but with the right amount of vulnerability that we really root for her, and Stewart acts her little heart out in a turn sure to win over her strongest detractors.  The creature effects are impressive too, the ultimate threat proving some of the nastiest, most repulsively icky creations I’ve seen committed to film, and the inspired design work and strong visual effects easily belie the film’s B-movie leanings.  Those made uneasy by deep, dark open water or tight, enclosed spaces should take heed that this can be a tough watch, but anyone who likes being scared should find plenty to enjoy here.  Altogether a MUCH better film than its mediocre Rotten Tomatoes rating makes it out to be …

21.  PENINSULA – back in 2016, Korean director Yeon Sang-ho and writer Park Joo-suk took the tired old zombie outbreak trope and created something surprisingly fresh with their darkly satirical action horror Train to Busan.  The film was, deservedly, a massive international smash hit and a major shot in the arm for the sub-genre on the big screen, so a sequel was inevitable, but when the time came for them to follow it up they did the smart thing and went in a very different direction.  Jettisoning much of the humour to create something much darker and more intense, they also ramped the action quotient right up to eleven, creating a nightmarish post-apocalyptic version of Korea which has been quarantined from the rest of the world for the last four years, where the few uninfected survivors eke out a dangerous day-to-day existence amidst the burgeoning undead hordes, and the value of human life has plummeted dramatically.  Into this hell-on-earth must venture a small band of Korean refugees, sent by a Hong Kong crime boss to retrieve a multi-million dollar payday in stolen loot that got left behind in the evacuation, led by former ROK Marine Corps Captain Jung-seok (Secret Reunion’s Gang Don-won), a man with a tragic past he has to make up for.  Needless to say, nothing goes according to plan … Train to Busan was an unexpected masterpiece of the genre, but I was even more bowled over by this, particularly since I got to see this on the big screen on Halloween night itself, just before the UK cinemas closed down again for the Second Lockdown. This certainly is a film that NEEDS to be seen first on the big screen – the fully-realised hellscape of undead-overrun Seoul is spectacularly immersive, the perfect cinematic playground for the film’s most impressive set-pieces, two astounding, protracted high-speed chases with searchlight-and-flair-lit all-terrain vehicles racing through the dark streets pursued by tidal waves of feral zombies. Sure, the plot is predictable and the tone gets a little overblown and maudlin at times, while some of the characters are drawn in decidedly broad strokes, but the breathless pace rarely lets up throughout, and there are moments of genuine fiendish genius on offer here, particularly in a truly disturbing centrepiece sequence in which desperate human captives are set against slavering undead in a makeshift amphitheatre for sport, as well as a particularly ingenious use for radio-controlled cars.  And the cast are brilliant, with Don-won providing a suitably robust but also pleasingly fallible, wounded hero, while Hope’s Lee Re and newcomer Lee Ye-won are irrepressibly feisty and thoroughly adorable as the young girls who rescue him from certain death among the ruins.  Altogether, this is horror cinema writ large, played more for thrills than scares but knuckle-whitening and brutally effective nonetheless, and in a year where outbreak horror became all too real for us anyway it was nice to be able to enjoy something a little more escapist anyway – given the strength of its competition in 2020, this top-notch sequel to a true genre gem did very well indeed to place this high.  I’ll admit, I wouldn’t say no to thirds …

[britesparc]

Weekend Top Ten #514

Top Ten Things 2021

It’s that time of year again! That time when I look back over the last twelve months and analyse what I liked best about it, entirely from a cultural/entertainment point of view. And, once again, we’ve suffered through a year where many things outside of flickering screens or printed words were, well, utterly crap. Idiots are running the show, we’re still being ravaged by a pandemic, and the world is quite literally on fire. But things were a little better than 2020, weren’t they? A bit less pandemic-y, a lot less Trump-y. And as far as these end-of-year roundups go, it was very okay.

For a start, I actually got to go to the cinema. Yes, it’s true, I didn’t really go all that much. But all the same, just being able to go to the cinema was quite a thrill. I went in September, and I hadn’t been since March of the year before, which is probably the longest I’ve ever gone without seeing something on the big screen since I first went to see Bambiin 1986. That alone felt like we were limping back to normal, however slowly.

It was also a great year for games. I know a lot of games coverage at the end of the year was banging on about how few big titles there actually were – still no Zelda sequel, no news on anything from Rockstar, and Sony’s big follow-ups to Horizon and God of War ended up in 2022 – but for me there was a consistent stream of good games to play. But I’ll talk more about the whys and wherefores of that in a moment.

So I think the combination of being able to play more, and the fact that a lot of big movies remained easily accessible from home, combined to make 2021 feel a lot more friendly, entertainment-wise. I guess there weren’t that many huge events throughout the year, but a bunch of biggies in the last couple of months have helped kick off 2022 with a bang. And, yeah, I can’t really think of anything more to say without getting into specifics. So I might as well do that right now.

Here we are: the best bits of 2021. Woo and indeed hoo.

MCUTV: after a very dry 2020, the Marvel Cinematic Universe returned in a big way last year, with four movies (more on which later). But the really big thing for me was how successful their foray into TV was. WandaVision absolutely blew me away with its meta-mystery box setup, and sealed the deal with its beautifully sad central relationship. Although some of the other shows weren’t as superb, the intriguingly trippy Loki(another great relationship!) and the delightfully Shane Black-y Hawkeye(relationship triple-bill! Not a sexy one this time, tho). So, yeah: absolutely fantastic start for Marvel’s big TV trip.

Game Pass in general…:so when I first I first got Game Pass a year or so ago, I figured it wasn’t a forever kind of thing. I had a big backlog, it was quite expensive for a person who’s not mainlining games, I’d just stick with Gold for now. But dammit if Microsoft aren’t doing their level best to make it indispensable. It’s not so much the big games that I might have bought anyway (yer Halos and yer Horizons); it’s the games that I like the look of but wouldn’t have had time or money for: Flight Simulator, The Ascent, Outriders. It’s the much smaller games, too, the cool-looking indie games that I now have an incentive to try: Unpacking, for instance, which is one of my favourite games of the year. It’s an incredible service and I honestly think it’s a forever kind of thing.

…and Halo in particular: I’m a big Halo fan and I’ve been looking forward to this one for ages. Harking back to what made the first game so good, it’s like my memories of it brought to 4K life. Back in 2001 I marvelled the ground texture which featured the image of individual blades of grass; now we have actual three-dimensional waving fronds. But it’s the gameplay, that sublime perfect Halo gameplay, with the added frisson of a semi-open world and the amazing addition of a grappling hook that lets you Spider-Man your way across the environment. And the multiplayer is great too! Okay, so there’s a bit of dodginess in the package (I’m still not happy about the lack of customisation options) but this has been a joy, my game of the year.

Spider-Mans:how do I talk about this without it being a phenomenal spoiler? Is it still too early? Bugger it, stop reading if you’ve not seen No Way Home. What a joyous movie. I don’t care if it just tickles my nerve glands (erm, my David Tingle?); I honestly had tears in my eyes when Peter’s lawyer was revealed to be Charlie Cox’s Matt Murdock. Why? Why am I so happy to see these guys share a screen? I don’t know, but the way the film not only integrates past Spider-Manproperties but also deepens and adds to their pre-existing mythologies is an unbelievable triumph on a par with Infinity War and Endgame. It legitimately makes the Amazing Spider-Man 2 a better film. It just does such a great job, it makes me so happy. I wanna see it again.

All about Dick:my favourite fictional character is Dick Grayson, but if I’m honest I’ve not adored any of his solo outings as Nightwing. Sure, he’s had cracking storylines in the past, but I tend to love him as part of the ensemble in Teen Titans or Batman; or, especially, when he actually was Batman. But Tom Taylor’s take on the sexiest bum in comics does everything right: bringing back what worked best (Bludhaven, Blockbuster, and Barbera) and adding in an adorable three-legged dog. Bruno Redondo’s artwork is tremendous too, showing the gymnastic artistry of the acrobat-turned-crimefighter. Add in a couple of great villains, an intriguing femme fatale, and some delightful anti-billionaire rhetoric, and you’ve got the comic of the year.

Steepling: speaking of comics… is this a cheat, a comic that didn’t even start this year? But if I can talk about ongoing comics or TV shows, I can talk about this. Steeple is a webcomic by John Allison that follows macabre and spooky goings-on in the sleepy seaside town of Tredregyn, with the delightful twist of everyone seemingly being unfazed by the fact that a Satanic Church is rubbing shoulders with plain old C of E. Like a frothy, funny mix of Hot Fuzz and Lair of the White Worm, it’s hilarious both in its absurdity and its quaint, quiet Britishness, and also a fun and exciting action horror wotsit. Check it out!

Murders and Buildings oh my:here’s a fun fact. A year or two ago, I suggested to my wife that we go see Steve Martin and Martin Short when they were on tour. She said she didn’t fancy it, but it was all an act and she actually bought tickets anyway for my birthday. And then the bastards cancelled their Manchester dates. But they’re so damn good I forgave them! And a good thing too, because here we have a really bloody funny and also well-structured whodunnit, eking out its mystery, providing genuine thrills, and offering a surprisingly tense story. Martin and Martin are great and hilarious – obviously – but kudos to Selena Gomez for going toe-to-toe with these heavyweights. Mavis from Hotel Transylvaniadone good.

Machine-ations: there were two Disney films this year and they were both good, but the standout animation was undoubtedly The Mitchells vs the Machines. In a similar way to Into the Spider-Verse – also a Sony animation produced by Lord and Miller – it mixes engaging family drama with humour, action, and some truly inventive animation. Nearly thirty years after Toy Story, CG ‘toons are often pretty straightforward in their visuals, but here we have wackiness reminiscent of the best of Looney Tunes. It’s just great.

Cinematography: I alluded to it in my intro, but really one of the biggest joys of the year was just the sheer fact that I could go to the cinema. Kinda hoped I’d get to see more than I actually did, but all the same, fillums at the pitchers! Yes, I know, we’re still knee-deep in plague, and all things considered the country would probably be a slightly safer space if they’d shut the cinemas in November or something, but it’s been nice to, y’know, get to go. just experiencing the big screen, seeing stuff with an audience – albeit a tiny, fragmented audience, apart from Spider-Man, which was packed. I hope things continue to improve in 2022. Oh, and my film of the year is probably Dune, although Spidey runs it a close second.

I’m actually going to talk about music for once: I’m not much of a muso. I’ve got relatively broad taste in music, and there are certainly a fair few acts and artists that I like to follow. But I don’t seek out new music. I don’t really listen to the radio or anything. I just like what I like and every once in a while something new filters through somehow from the ether. The last time I genuinely remember feeling like I’d discovered something new was Arctic Monkeys about twenty years ago. But one of the weird things about having kids is it broadens your taste. Long story short, I ended up listening to new music for the first time in a long time, and then I find out about this girl from Bizaardvark. That’s a show that my youngest discovered on Disney+, and now one of the leads has gone solo. But what really impressed me is that her music is great – soulful pop ballads, a 21st century teenage version of the female singer-songwriter stuff that I liked from the nineties. And carrying on the Alanis Morissette vibes, Olivia Rodrigo – for that is she – has written an entire angst-fuelled album about brutal break-ups. Drivers License – my favourite song of ’21 – isn’t quite You Oughta Know but it carries that song’s passion and fury, and also has a similarly expert use of an F-bomb. For one so young, Rodrigo is very good at swearing. Might not show that part to the kids.

[har-rison-s]

lasagna evening

request: Could you write some domestic fluff with adult stan uris

A/N: (2020 edit: this was my first ever stanley writing :>) Man oh man do i love this concept. ajsndfjsdf i love, i just love. I apologise for the title lmao i dont have any other ideas alsdfsdjn. This is so fluffy and cliché that you're going to die :D Btw, gifs of Andy Bean are very hard to find and I'm mad about it. Hope this is what you were looking for. Happy reading!

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“Honey, I'm home!” Stan says in a louder voice so his loved one could hear him. For she's known to often leave music playing loudly through their apartment and go into another room to do something. He hears the smooth voice of Billie Holiday singing about autumn in New York and he smiles to himself, kicking off his shoes. The music is loud enough for her not to hear him at all. 

He walks into the kitchen, both hands holding a grocery bag tightly until he puts them both on the center counter. Her music is playing right in front of him, just a few feet between him and the sound system. 

“Baby!” He calls again. Stan leaves the bags be and they crinkle a bit, the products falling on top of one another. He walks over to the sound system and turns the song's volume down. And he hears her humming. It's coming from her study.

Stan jogs a little down the hallway to get to her and reaches the door frame of her study. He peaks his head in. “Babylove,” he says and smiles immediately upon seeing his girl sitting on her carpet, her back turned to him, still humming and obviously hunched over something. 

She whips her head around and smiles wide. There's a wicked glimmer in her eyes. “Honey!” She squeals and hurriedly gets up from her position, almost falling over her own legs, and tip-toes over to her one and only. 

He leans in to steal a kiss from her soft angel lips and she still has to stand on her tip-toes for him to succeed. She embraces him then, her arms around his neck, and smiles wide. Stan recieves a loving kiss on the cheek and smiles, too. His eyes are full of love for the woman in front of him. 

“What are you doing in here?” He asks, his hand going in slow circles over her back. 

“Before you turned my music down,” she says, pouting and pointing her index finger into the middle of his chest, “I was listening to Billie and making another small sculpture.” She smiles, proud of herself.

“You're getting inspired again?” Stan raises his eyebrows in happy surprise and his love nods, biting her bottom lip. “So, who's the muse?”

“You, silly.” She says and they both laugh. She notices Stan already glancing behind her shoulder to see what she's making. To not spoil the surprise, she brings his eyes back to her, holding his chin softly. “It's not finished yet. When it will be, you'll be the first to see. And you know that.”

“Of course. You know I'm impatient about seeing your art.” He tells her and tickles her sides a little, making her giggle in the most beautiful way. 

“So,” she claps her hands, “what are we making tonight?”

“Hmm, let's see...” Stan pretends to think, “seeing as I bought the ingredients for lasagna, I guess we're making... lasagna?” He squints, teasing his girl. She laughs and kisses him on the cheek again. And then all over his face, which makes Stanley laugh instead. 

When he's about to plead for breath, she stops and grabs his hand, closing her study door with the other. She drags them both back down the hallway and lets go of Stan's hand to turn the volume higher. Stan gives her a mock-annoyed look, but they both laugh.

One of the billion, trillion things he loves so much about his girl is her energy and youthfulness. They're only two years apart, but Stanley has always felt older than he actually is. And he wanted to enjoy his youth when it was happening, but a lot of things kept him from it. 

Her youthfulness and eagerness and sort-of hyperactivity brings joy in his life. Makes him happy about still being here, having a life. She's brighter than the sun to him in many ways. 

“Do you have the recipe?” Stan asks her as they're unpacking the groceries.

“Uh-huh, I printed it out. It should be next to the sink.” She replies, pulling tomato after tomato out of the bag.

“Terrible place for a paper to be, if you ask me.” He tells her, but she only laughs. Stan walks over to the sink and sure enough, there is a page with a recipe printed on it. And it's not wet. He quickly goes over the ingredients and steps. “So how was work today?”

She works as a museum manager/administrator in a pottery museum in town. Taking that she's an artist herself, she needs to be in an artistic place and area at all times. An administrator might not seem like the job to you, but to her it's the perfect one that pays the bills and takes her on holidays with her loved one. Many artists to meet, artworks to see and inspiration to suck in.

“Quite amazing. You know I met that one artist I've always wanted to host at my museum—”

“Emily Lacey?” Stan finishes instead of her. She nods.

“Yup. And she's even more lovely than I thought she'd be. She's got great sense of humor, a great sense of style, of course, and turns out we have a lot in common.” She tells him. Stan smiles, watching her rush around the kitchen and talk. “She likes to read books, go to the cinema, travelling, hiking.”

“Wow, you two are basically twins.” He states.

“I know, right?” She looks at him with wide eyes, clearly excited. Stanley chuckles. “How was your day?” She asks him. 

“It was good.” He says. “Better now that I'm home.” Stan states and they share a look of love and knowing. “The book is coming along well, there's not much left. And I had to teach a new class today! All the kids were sweethearts.”

“How old were they?” She asks and, while doing so, gives Stan a piece of dough to flatten out. They both start working on a piece.

“Uh, they're... I think second or third grade, so eight to nine.” Stan says in between grunts of pushing the wooden roll on the dough. “Why such a question?”

She shrugs. “Just wondering. Thought they'd put you in a college now.” She admits, and huffs.

“Huh.” He turns to her, puts the roll down and crosses his arms over his chest. “Don't you think I'm good enough for primary school?”

She laughs and huffs again. “No, I think you're more than good enough for primary school, and better than perfect for teaching college kids ornithology.” She tells him, honestly.

“Listen, it's nothing wrong with me.” Stan insists, pointing at his chest and raising his eyebrows. “Ornithology is not the most desired class in college, even for biology majors. So they have one professor in each college that isn't exactly an ornithologyst, but knows enough and can memorise texts from books. And they put that guy to teach ornithology if it's at all necessary.” He explains in detail.

“But that is so unfair! I bet you're not the only ornithologyst without a chance to teach in college, and they put some knock-offs in your place.” She justifies.

“You have a fair point.” Stanley agrees. She smiles wide. 

“I know. You gotta fight for your rights, hon.” She tells him. “We both know that your passion is ornithology and that you're an actual ornithologyst. They should let, whoever's in charge of it, the people who really know what they're talking about teach ornithology. It makes a huge difference for the kids.”

“Listen, if your artist carrier ever flakes, you should become an education politican.” Stan says upon restarting to flatten the dough. His love laughs out loud, holding her tummy. Stanley only smiles wide to himself.

“Can you even imagine me dressed in formal clothes everyday, having that politician-lady haircut, wearing glasses and talking in a very serious voice about the issues of today?” She asks him, mimicking the way politicians speak in the last part. She even makes a funny face. “I could never. I mean, yeah, they pay you like, crazy money, but I'd never do that.” She shakes her head, still quietly laughing to herself. Stanley keeps smiling.

Merely two hours later, the couple have finished their lasagna. They had put on their food-making playlist, which is basically a playlist full of songs that they know all the lyrics to and sing together to at the top of their lungs. Includes ABBA, Queen, David Bowie, Journey, Elton John and many, many others. 

They're happily setting the coffee table in the living room, and they're almost finished. Stan is already turning on the TV, wrapped in a blanket and waiting for his one and only to join him. 

She's still getting them forks and spoons, and when she has, she turns off all the lights in the apartment. Except for the little light in the kitchen above the stove, that one always stays on.

She tip-toes—a habit of hers that is not entirely healthy for her feet—into the living room and puts the instruments down on the table. She collapses into Stan's open, waiting arms with a happy sigh. He wraps the blanket around her and keeps his arm around her, too. 

Her fingers push between his and they lock together. As if their hands were crafted just to be interlocked with the other's, no one else's. They feel like they're made for each other. 

Stanley presses a kiss into her hair. “What are we watching tonight?” He asks, his cheek now pressed where his lips just were.

“Hmm,” she thinks and watches Stan browsing through movies and tv-shows on the screen, “something funny. Don't you think?”

“Yeah, we always watch dramas.” He agrees. “I'm kinda sick of you making me cry every other evening.” Stan admits then, and they both laugh. Stan yawns.

“Do you have a favorite?” She questions, looking up at him. He looks down at her and almost gets hypnotised. Looking at her makes him go a bit weak, every and anytime. The years spent together either don't do anything to help it or even give more to the effect.

“I don't watch that many comedies, not my favorite genre.” He tells her as his hand caresses the side of her face. She closes her eyes to that. “You can choose. Show me your favorite!” He suggests and she smiles. “Just not anything dumb, okay? I know you like those a lot, but, please, spare me.”

She looks at him and rolls her eyes playfully. “Alright, alright.” She agrees and turns to lay on her stomach, over Stan's lap and takes the remote from his hand. “I'll spare your soul from the doom of dumb comedy movies, my prince.” She teases and Stan smiles. “Aha!” She exclaims upon finally finding the movie she was looking for. 

She pushes the 'play' button and reaches for their two plates of lasagna while the intro plays. She straightens her back, sitting normally just like Stan and giving him his lasagna piece.

“Hear ye, hear ye. Feast your eyes and ears with the wonder that is Bruce Almighty!” She theatrically introduces the movie. She likes Shakespeare and Old English, despite that she may not be the best at using it right. Stan smiles at her. 

They lean in to steal a few kisses from each other before indulging in their home-made (hopefully, well-made) lasagna and the world of Jim Carrey's comedy. 

Permanent taglist: @v0idbella @inlovewithmiddleagedcelebs @works-of-fanfiction @destiel-stucky4ever-loki-queen @stfxlou @ur-gunna-h8-ths@empressdreams @betweenloveandfire @but-legendsneverdie@deardeacy @thewinchesterchronicles @mavieesttriste16@mrsmazzello@benhardyseyes @langdonzvoid @intrrverted @the-freak-cassie-131

A/N: Tell me why everytime I look at a picture of Stanley Uris, I immediately want to cry. Oh my God. heurehuherufshfsdh. 

[amphtaminedreams]

J.K Rowling & The Echo Chamber of TERFs: Why Nobody Wants your Transphobic “Opinion”

TW// Discussion of Sexual Assault and Transphobia

SO...

I’ve seen the term “allyship fatigue” going round a lot lately on Twitter, since the issues of police brutality, institutional racism, and now transphobia have taken central stage.

And it’s weird. To be honest, hearing other white cis people calling themselves “allies” has always sounded kinda self-congratulatory. Taking this to the level of martyrdom that the phrase “allyship fatigue” evokes makes me want to heave. It’s shit that anyone even has to be saying Black Lives STILL Matter, but it does seem to unfortunately be the case that every time there is a highly publicised murder of a black individual by police, the explosion of us white people calling ourselves allies and retweeting and reblogging statements of solidarity only lasts so long before half revert back to being complacent with and uncritical of a world seeped with casual racism. Is that what “allyship fatigue” is? The excuse for that? Not only does the term take the focus off of the marginalised group the movement is centred around but it makes supporting equal rights sound like some kind of heroic burden we’ve chosen to take on rather than addressing a debt we owe and being not even good but just plain decent human beings. WE are not the ones shouldering the weight here, and if your mental health is suffering, that is not the fault of the people asking for their rights. Log off. We have the privilege to do that. It just doesn’t need to be a spectacle.

At the same time, this public onslaught of ignorance and hatred that the coverage of the Black Lives Matter movement has triggered (that let me again emphasise, black people have had to involuntarily be on the receiving end of their whole lives) and the frustration and anger that comes from seeing these absolute trash takes from people with no research into the subject who build their argument purely on “what about”isms is do-I-even-want-to-bring-children-into-this-fucking-world levels of miserable. In terms of earth beginning to look more and more like the prequel describing the events which lead up to a dystopian novel, the chaos of the last 4 weeks or so (2020 has not only shattered the illusion of time but also danced on the shards, I know) is the tip of the iceberg. I saw a thread about what’s going on in Yemen at the moment, which I had no idea about, and immediately felt consumed by guilt that I didn’t know. With the advent of social media, there’s been this sudden evolutionary shift where we’re almost required and expected to know about, have an opinion on, and be empathetic with every humanitarian crisis at once. I think young people feel this especially, which is why I say that sometimes it’s worth talking to an older person before you brush them off as a racist or a homophobe and see if they’re open to hearing different opinions-in general, I think we’re a generation that is used to being expected to consume a huge amount of information at once. They are not. For a lot (NOT all) of the older, middle-class, white population, ignorance isn’t a conscious choice, it is the natural way of life. The parameters of empathy until very recently have only had to extend just past your closest circle of friends to encompass people you “relate to”. That doesn’t mean they aren’t capable of caring about other things, and sometimes we owe them a chance to change their perspective first, if for no reason other than to advance the cause of, well, basic human rights for all.

So where does J.K Rowling come into all this? I hear you ask. Why doesn’t she just stop rambling? You potentially wonder. Well, I’m getting to it. 

J.K Rowling isn’t an unconsciously ignorant people. She is what I would call consciously ignorant. And of all weeks to flaunt this ignorance, she chose a time when people are already drowning in a cesspit of hatred. The woman whose whole book series supposedly revolves around the battle between good and evil didn’t even try to drain the swamp. She instead added a bucket of her transphobic vitriol into it. 

Let me preface this by saying that I wouldn’t wipe my arse with the Sun. What they did with the statement she made regarding her previous abusive relationship, seeking out said abusive partner for an interview and putting it on the front page with the headline “I slapped J.K”, whilst expected from the bunch of cretinous bottom feeders who work there, is disgusting. That being said, the pattern of behaviour J.K Rowling has exhibited since she first became an online presence is equally disgusting, and just because the Sun have been their usual shithead selves, doesn’t mean we should forget the issue at hand, that issue being her ongoing transphobia and erasure of trans women from women’s rights.

As I’m sure is the case for many people on Tumblr, J.K Rowling has always been such a huge inspiration for me, and Harry Potter was my entire childhood. My obsession with it continued until I was at least 16 and is what got me through the very shit years of being a teenager, and that will forever be the case. I’m not here to discuss the whole separation of the art from the artist thing because whilst I ordinarily don’t think that’s really possible, at this point the “Harry Potter universe” has become much bigger than J.K herself. I was so pleased to see Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson and Rupert Grint all affirm their support for trans rights-I was raised on the films up until the 4th one which I wasn’t old enough to see at the cinema, and the DVD was at the top of my Christmas list. They were always my Harry, Hermione and Ron. It was only between the fourth and fifth films that I started to read the books to fill that gaping in-between-movies hole, but as I grew up, I read them over and over and over again. Any of the subtext that people are talking about now in light of her antisemitism and transphobia went completely over my head, though who knows, whilst I can sit here and write that I’m certain I didn’t, maybe I did pick up some unconscious biases along the way? The art/artist discussion is a complex one and I don’t know if I’ll ever read the books again at this point.

There was absolutely no subtext, however, in the “think piece” on J.K’s website addressing the response to her transphobic tweets. There wasn’t all that much to unpack in the first tirade, they were quite openly dismissive-first that womanhood is defined by whether or not one experiences menstruation (I currently don’t due to health issues but I’m betting this wouldn’t make me any less woman in her eyes), and second, regurgitating an article which furthers the fallacy that trans women simply existing erases the existence of cisgender lesbian women. Rowling’s initial response to the backlash was to blame it on a glass of red wine, I think? Which is such a weird go-to excuse for celebrities because not once have I ever got drunk and completely changed my belief system. If you’re not transphobic sober, you don’t suddenly become transphobic drunk. What you are saying is that you’re not usually publicly transphobic (which isn’t even the case with Rowling because this is hardly her first flirtation with bigotry via social media) but that whoopsies! You drank some wine and suddenly thought it was acceptable!

Now what is her excuse for the formal response she wrote to the backlash, dripping with transphobic dog whistles and straight up misinformation (UPDATE: and as of yesterday, blocking Stephen King quite literally for replying to her with the tweet “trans women are women”, in case you thought that this whole thing was a case of her intentions being misconstrued)? Drunk tweets are one thing but if she managed to write a whole fucking essay whilst pissed I imagine there’s a lot of university students out there who’d pay her good money to learn that skill.

Here is the bottom line. TRANS WOMEN ARE WOMEN. There is no discussion around that. And if you don’t understand why, at the very least, you can be respectful of the way a person chooses to identify, especially when that person is an already targeted minority.

Obviously, sex and gender are complex things. Based on the fact that we don’t walk around with our nether-regions out, we generally navigate our way through the world using our gender and the way we present our gender. Gender of course means many different things to many different people; some see it as a sliding scale kind of thing whereas some people can’t see themselves on the scale at all, and choose to use terms other than man or woman to express how they identify. But, whatever gender one chooses to identify as, we live in a modern world-with all the scientific advancements we’ve made and all that we now know about the brain, using what is between people’s legs to define them is an ignorant, outdated copout. You’ll find that a lot of transphobes can live in harmony with trans women who conform, who have classically feminine features, maybe facial feminisation surgery, trans women who keep quiet about how they’re seen by cis women and don’t kick up “too much of a fuss” (which is in itself still a perfectly valid, brave and understandable way to live your life after years of feeling like you don’t fit in btw). The trans women that Joanne and her friends take the most issue with is the ones who want to expand what womanhood means and stretch the boundaries of what is and isn’t acceptable, destroying the confines of simplistic model that TERFs feel comfortable operating within. The ones who fight to be recognised as no “lesser” than cis women. Calling a person a TERF is quite literally just asserting that they are someone who wants to exclude trans women from their definition of womanhood, or in other words wants to cling to the old, obsolete model. If J.K Rowling cannot let the statement “trans women are women” go unchallenged (which we’ve seen from her response to Stephen King’s tweet she cannot), then she is by definition a TERF. It’s not a slur. It’s a descriptor indicating the movement she has chosen to associate herself with. Associating the descriptor of the position you so vehemently refuse to denounce in spite of all evidence and information offered to you with the concept of a “witch hunt” when trans women are ACTUALLY brutally murdered for an innate part of their identity is insulting, at the very least.

Let’s get this straight: despite transphobes trying to conflate sex with gender and arguing that sex is the only “real” identifier of the two, our existence on this planet and our perception of this world is a gendered experience. It is our brain, where the majority of researchers agree that gender lies, which decides and dictates not only who we are and how we feel but also how we interact with everyone around us. I don’t think it’s an outlandish statement to say that when it comes to who we are as people, that flesh machine protected by our skull is the key player.  PSA for transphobes everywhere: when people say penises have a mind of their own, they are NOT talking literally. The more you know. 

Gender is obviously a much newer concept than sex-it is both influenced by and interacts with every element of our lives. It’s also much more complex, in that there are still many gaps in our understanding. I assume these two factors combined with the familiarity of the (usually) binary model of biological sex are a part of why TERFS fundamentally reject the importance of gender in favour of the latter. Yes, most of the time, we feel our gender corresponds with our sex, but not always, and nor is there any concrete proof that this has to be the case. Most studies tend to agree that our brains start out as blank slates, that we grow into the gender we are assigned based on our bodies. In other words, our sex only defines our gender insofar as the historical assumption that they are the same thing, which in turn exposes us to certain cultural expectations. To any TERFs that have somehow ended up here-if you haven’t already, I suggest looking into the research of Gina Rippon, a neuroscientist whom has spent a large portion of her professional career analysing the data of sex differences in the brain. Whilst she originally set out to find some kind of consistent variance between the brains of the 2 prominent sexes to back up the idea that the brains of men and women are inherently different, she found nothing of significance-individual differences, yes, but no consistent similarities in the brains of one sex that were not present in the other. Once differences in brain size were accounted for, “well-known” sex differences in key structures disappeared-in terms of proportion, these structures take up the same amount of space in the brain regardless of sex. Her findings are best summed up by her response to the question: are there any significant differences in the brain based on sex alone? Her answer is no. To suggest otherwise is “neurofoolishness”. Not only does her research help put to bed the myth that our brains are sexed along with the rest of our bodies during development (this is now believed to happen separately, meaning the sex of our bodies and brains may not correspond), but also the idea propagated by the patriarchy for centuries that basically boils down to “boys will be boys”-a myth used to condone male sexual violence against women and even against each other on the basis that it is inherent and “can't be helped”. That they are just “built differently”. Maybe at one point in human evolution, men were conditioned to fight and women were conditioned to protect, but whilst the idea remains and continues to affect our societal structures (and thus said cultural expectations), we’ve moved on. I mean we evolved from fish for fuck’s sake but you don’t see us breathing underwater. 

Gender identity is based on many things and admittedly we don’t fully have the complete picture yet. The effects that socialisation and gender norms in particular, as much as we don’t want them to exist, have on our brain are huge; there’s evidence that they can leave epigenetic marks, or in other words cause structural changes in the brain which drive biological functions and features as diverse as memory, development and disease susceptibility. Socialisation alters the way our individual brains develop as we grow up, and as much as I’d love to see gender norms disappear, they’ll probably be around for a long time to come, as will their ramifications. The gap between explaining how socialisation affects the brain of cisgender individuals compared to the brains of transgender or non-binary individuals is not yet totally clear, but as with every supposed cause and effect psychology tries to uncover, there are outliers and individual differences. No, brains are not inherently male or female at birth but they are all different, and can be affected by socialisation differently. In one particularly groundbreaking study conducted by Dick Swaab of the Netherlands Institute for Neuroscience, postmortems of the brains of transgender women revealed that the structure of one of the areas in the brain most important to sexual behaviour more closely resembled the postmortem brains of cisgender women than those of cisgender men-it’s also important that these differences did not appear to be attributable to the influence of endogenous sex hormone fluctuations or hormone treatment in adulthood.

Maybe dysphoria is something that evolves organically and environmental factors don’t even come into it. Like I said, we don’t have the whole picture. What we DO know is that for some people, as soon as they become self-aware, that dysphoria is there, and the evidence for THAT, for there being common variations between the brains of cisgender individuals and transgender individuals, is overwhelming. You can be trapped in a body that does not correspond with how your brain functions, or how you wish to see yourself. Do individuals like J.K Rowling really believe it is ethical to reinforce the idea that we are defined by our sex and that our sex should decide the course of our lives, should decide how we are treated? That we should reduce people to genitals and chromosomes when our gender, the lens through which we see and interact with the world, could be completely different? Do they not see anything wrong with perpetuating the feelings of “otherness” and dysphoria in trans individuals that results from society’s refusal to see them as anything more than what body parts they have? In a collaboration between UCLA MA neuroscience student Jonathan Vanhoecke and Ivanka Savic at the Karolinska Institute in Sweden, the statistics collected pointed to what trans activists have always been trying to get at-the areas of the brain responsible for our sense of our identity showed far more neural activity in the brains of trans individuals when they were looking at depictions of their body that had been changed to match their gender identity than when this wasn’t the case; when they saw themselves with a body that corresponded with their gender identity, when they were “valid” by society’s definition, they felt more themselves. When J.K Rowling tells trans people that their “real identity” is the sex they were born with, she is denying them this right to be themselves and due to her large platform, encouraging others to do the same. YOU are doing that, J.K. And who knows why? Where does your transphobia come from? Peel back the bullshit layers of waffle about feeling silenced and threatened, which you know you are directing at the wrong group of people, and admit it’s for less noble reasons. Taking the time to unlearn the instinct embedded into your generation to see people according to the cultural status quo of biological determinism is effort, I know-but you wrote a 700+ page book. I’m sure you can manage it. Or is it an ego thing? You don’t want to admit that you may have been uneducated on gender and sex in the past, and now have to stick by your reductive position so your image as an “intellectual” isn’t compromised. I don’t know. Only you do. But your position is irresponsible and dangerous either way. You can make up bullshit reasons as to why the link between trans individuals and the incidence of suicide attempts and completions isn’t relevant or representative of the struggle that trans people face due to the hatred that people like you propagate but it is there, and you J.K Rowling, someone who has spoken in the past about the horror of depression, should know better. You should know better than to CLAIM you know better than the experienced researchers who have found the same pattern time and time again-that the likelihood of trans individuals committing suicide is significantly higher than that of cis people. 

No, Rowling’s transphobia has never been as upfront as saying “I don’t believe transgender people exist” but she continues to imply that when she makes claims such as womanhood being defined by whether or not one experiences menstruation, and the completely subjective concept of whether an individual has faced sex-based violence from cisgender men. I’m sure she’d be out here taking chromosome proof cards like Oysters if it wasn’t for intersex individuals throwing her whole binary jam into a tailspin. Yep, there’s even suggestions that the binary biological model might not be so binary these days-just because two people have, say, XY chromosomes, does not mean that these chromosomes are genetically identical between individuals-the genes they carry can, and do, vary and so their actions and expressions of sex vary. 

Ideally, what TERFs want to do with their language of “real womanhood” is create an exclusive club that trans women are left out of when they too suffer under the same patriarchal society that those who are born female do. Yes, they might not experience ALL the issues a person born with female genitalia do, but no two women’s life experiences are the same anyway. Trans women also have their own horrible experiences with the patriarchy, and are often victims of a specific kind of gendered violence that is purported by the idea of “real womanhood”. Don’t throw trans sisters under the bus because you’re angry about your experience as a woman on this planet-direct your anger at the fucking bus. Don’t claim that “many trans people regret their decision to transition” when the statistics overwhelmingly show that this is the EXACT FUCKING OPPOSITE of the truth (according to British charity organisation Mermaids, surgical regret is proportionately very low amongst gender affirmation outpatients and research suggesting otherwise has been broadly disproven) because you’ve spoken to a selective group of trans individuals probably handpicked by the TERFS you associate with to confirm their biases, and then have the nerve to claim that trans-activists live in echo chambers on top of that. Don’t use anecdotes and one-off incidences where “trans women” (I say trans women in quotation marks because we’re pretty much talking about a completely statistically insignificant group of perverted cis men who have, according to TERFs, somehow come to the conclusion that going through transition will make their already easy-to-get-away-with hobby of assaulting women even...easier to get away with?) have committed sexual crimes to demonise and paint as predatory group who are largely at risk and in 99.9% of situations, the ones being preyed on. It’s a point so disgusting that trans activists shouldn’t even have to respond to it, but the idea that an individual would go to the pains of legally changing their gender and potentially the hell of the harassment that trans people face, the multiple year long NHS waiting lists to see specialist doctors,  just so that they can gain access to women only spaces is ridiculous. It’s worth noting here just how sinister you repeatedly bringing up this phantom threat of cis men becoming trans women in order to assault women in “women only” spaces is. The implication here is that they should use the toilet corresponding to the sex they were born as, right? Because it’s all about safety? Well, statistically speaking, far more trans women are abused whilst having to use men’s toilets than when they use women’s ones and the same goes for trans men, and yet you don’t mention it once. Your suggestion also puts people born female who identify as women but maybe do not dress or present in a typically feminine way at risk of being ostracised when THEY need to use the women’s bathroom. The idea that by ceasing to uphold values like yours we are putting women at risk is quite simply, unsubstantiated; the legislation to allow individuals to use the bathroom corresponding to whichever gender they legally identify as has been around since 2010 in the UK and yet we’ve yet to see the sudden spike in the number of women being assaulted in bathrooms you imply will exist if we create looser rules around gender identity and let people use whichever toilet they feel the need to. Similarly, in a study of US school districts, Media Matters found that 17 around the country with protections for trans people, which collectively cover more than 600,000 students, had no problems with harassment in bathrooms or locker rooms after implementing their policies. If cis men want to assault women, they will. They don’t need to pretend to be trans to do so. Don’t pretend to be speaking as a concerned ally of LGBTQ+ individuals when you’re ignoring the thoughts of the majority of individuals who come under that category.

(Just Some of the Trans Women Murdered for Being Trans Over the Last Couple of Years, L-R: Serena Valzquez, Riah Milton, Bee Love Slater, Naomi Hersi, Layla Pelaez, and Dominique Fells)

Trans women are not the threat here. Bigots like you are the threat. HOW DARE you use your platform to reinforce this rhetoric that gets trans people killed when there are so many much MUCH more important things going on right now. Two black trans women had been murdered just for being black trans women in the week you wrote your essay defending those initial tweets. This is an ongoing issue. As a cis woman, my opinion should read as sacred texts to you right, Joanne? Because I’ll say with my whole chest that I feel far more threatened by bigots like you who do not care for the harmful impact of their words than I do by trans women. I do not feel threatened by trans women AT ALL. And yeah, to me, unless they tell me otherwise that they like to go out their way to affirm their trans-ness (which I completely respect-it takes a lot of courage to be proud about your past in a world that condemns you for it), they’re just WOMEN like any other. Yes their experience of “womanhood” may be different to mine but no two individuals experiences are the same anyway and our gender related suffering has the same cause. As a rich, white, cis woman, it’s wild that you are painting yourself as the victim in this debate when trans people can face life in prison and in some places a death sentence for openly identifying with a gender different to their sex in a lot of countries. Nobody is saying that you can’t talk about cis women. Nobody is saying you can’t talk about lesbian issues either, though it’s a bit of a piss-take that you like to throw that whole trans women erase lesbian existence argument out there as a kind of trump card to say “look, I can’t be a transphobe, I’m an LGBTQ+ ally!”, an argument akin to the racist’s age old “I can’t be racist, I have black friends!”. You know from the responses you get to your transphobia that majority of the LGBTQ+ community are very much adamant that trans women are “real women” and that the same goes for trans men being “real men”, so don’t claim to speak for them. You cannot simultaneously care about LGBTQ+ rights and deny trans people their right to live as who they are, however veiled your sentiments around that may be. The whole gay rights movement of the 60s and 70s exist partially BECAUSE of black trans women such as Martha P Johnson if you didn’t know, and though it’s kinda common knowledge I’m doubting that you do because very little of what you tout is backed up by any kind of research. The articles you retweet, echoing the views of lesbians who also happen to be TERFs do not count-the idea that trans people existing simultaneously erases the existence of lesbians only applies to individuals such as yourself who don’t see trans women as women in the first place. That is the problem! Most people don’t have an issue with the fact that you may have a preference for certain genitalia, but I would argue that ignoring exceptional circumstances related to trauma or some other complex issue, relationships are supposed to be with the person as a whole, not their “organic” penis or vagina and it’s kind of insulting to anyone in a same sex relationship to reduce their bond to that.

Back to my point though, of course there are issues that cis women and lesbians face that need talking about, but trans people are affected by the same patriarchal system. You don’t need to go out of your way to mention that they’re not included in whichever given specific issue when there are also cis women who may not have experienced some of the things TERFs reference. You especially don’t need to act as if trans women are the reason we need to have these discussions in the first place. As I’ve said, as MANY women have said, repeatedly-they are NOT the threat here. It is disgusting to see someone I once had so much admiration for constantly punch down at a group that is already marginalised.  It’s 2020, J.K, there’s so much info out there. YOU’RE A FULLY GROWN WOMAN. There’s no justification. We get it, you had a tomboy phase. You weren’t like “other girls”. You didn’t like living under a patriarchal system. So you think you understand the mindset of people who want to transition. You think you’re not doing anything wrong by helping to slow the advancement of trans rights because well, you turned out fine? But you clearly fundamentally misunderstand what being trans is. It’s not about your likes and dislikes and having issues with the experience of being a woman (god knows we all do but I doubt anyone truly thinks for one moment that being trans would be any easier), it’s about how you think and feel at your core. It’s such a complex issue, and all the majority of trans people are asking you to do is LISTEN to them. You may be determined to live in binaries, yet the bigger picture is always more complex and fluid and it’s ever-changing, so all we can do is keep an open mind and keep wanting to know more and gather more evidence. If you’re capable of the mental gymnastics required to retcon the piece of work you wrote in the 90s to make it seem as if you were “ahead of the diversity game”, to the extent that you are now claiming Voldermort’s snake has always actually been a Korean woman and see nothing wrong with that when paired with the fact that the only Asian character you originally included was called Cho Chang, then well…I’m sure you can put your ego aside and do the groundwork to understand what trans people are trying to tell you too. You inspired a lot of children and teenagers and even adults, and got them through some very difficult times, taught that the strength of one’s character matters far more than what anyone thinks of you. You claimed you wanted to stand up for the outcasts.

Well, stand up for the outcasts. Now’s a better time than any. And once again: TRANS WOMEN ARE WOMEN AND TRANS MEN ARE MEN. They shouldn’t have to hear anything else.

Lauren x

[DISCLAIMER: shitty collages are mine but the background is not, let me know if you are aware of the artist so I can credit!]

[letterboxd]

The Package.

As the bonkers genre thrill-ride Shadow in the Cloud blasts into the new year, writer and director Roseanne Liang unpacks her love of Terminator 2, watching Chloë Grace Moretz’s face for hours, and the life lesson she learned from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon’s Cheng Pei-Pei.

Roseanne Liang’s TIFF Midnight Madness winner Shadow in the Cloud landed with a blast of fresh genre energy on VOD platforms on New Year’s Day. It’s A-class action in a B-grade body, cramming plenty into its taut 83 minutes, including: a top-secret package, a freakish gremlin, a hostile bunch of Air Force dudes, outrageous stunts, dogfights and a fake wartime PSA that feels remarkably real.

Throughout, the camera is focused mostly on one face—Chloë Grace Moretz’s, playing British flight officer Maude Garrett—as she tackles all of the above from a claustrophobic ball turret hanging under a B-17 Flying Fortress, on a classified mission over the Pacific Ocean during World War II.

While the film’s tonal swings are confusing to some, schlock enthusiasts and genre lovers on Letterboxd have embraced the film’s intentionally outlandish sensibility, which “makes excellent use of its genre mash to create an unpredictable, guilty pleasure,” says Mirza. Fajar writes that “it felt like the people involved in this project knew how ridiculous it is and gave a hundred and ten percent to make it work. Someday, it will become a cult classic.” Mawbey agrees: “It really goes off the rails in all the best ways during the final third, and the last couple of shots are just perfect.”

Chloë Grace Moretz and her top-secret package in ‘Shadow in the Cloud’.

To most of the world, Liang is a so-called “emerging” director, when in fact, the mother-of-two, born in New Zealand to Chinese parents, has been at this game for the past two decades. She has helmed a documentary and a romantic drama, both based on her own marriage; a 2008 short called Take 3, which preceded Hollywood’s current conversation about representation and harassment; and Do No Harm, the splatter-tastic 2017 short in which her technical chops and fluid feel for action were on full display, and, as recorded in multiple Letterboxd reviews, established her as one to watch.

Do No Harm scored Liang valuable Hollywood representation, whereupon producer Brian Kavanaugh-Jones brought Shadow in the Cloud to her, thinking she might connect with the material. “It did connect with me on a level that is very personal,” Liang tells me. “As a woman of color, as a mother who juggles a lot.” She says Kavanaugh-Jones then went through the process of removing original writer Max Landis from the project. “He felt that Max was not a good fit for this project, or for how we like to run things. We like to be respectful and courteous and kind to each other…”

In several interviews, Liang has said she’s comfortable with film lovers choosing not to watch Shadow in the Cloud based on Landis’s early involvement. What she’s not comfortable with is her own contribution—and that of her cast and crew—being erased. While WGA rules have his name attached firmly to the project, the credit belies the reality: his thin script, reportedly stretched out to 70 pages by using a larger-than-usual font, was expanded and deepened by Liang and her collaborators.

Writer-director Roseanne Liang. / Photo by Dean O’Gorman

That team includes editor Tom Eagles, Oscar nominated for Jojo Rabbit, actor Nick Robinson (the titular Simon in Love, Simon) and Beulah Koale, a star of the Hawaii Five-Oh series. The opening newsreel was created by award-winning New Zealand animation studio Mukpuddy, after a small test audience got weirded out by the sight of a gremlin in a war film, despite well-documented WWI and WWII gremlin mythology. It’s an unnecessary but happy addition. The cartoon style was inspired by Private Snafu, a series of WWII educational cartoons scripted by none other than Dr. Seuss and directed by Looney Tunes legend Chuck Jones.

But the film ultimately hangs on Chloë Grace Moretz, who overcame cabin fever to drive home an adrenaline rush of screen craft, in which the very limits of what’s humanly possible in mid-air are tested (in ways, it must be said, that wouldn’t be questioned if it were Tom Cruise in the role). Liang would often send directions to Moretz’s ball turret via text, while her cast members delivered live dialogue from an off-set shipping container rigged with microphones. “I just never got sick of Chloë’s face and I’ve watched her hundreds, if not thousands of times. You feel her, you are her, she just engages you in a way that a huge fighting scene might not, if it’s not designed well. Giant empty spectacle is less interesting than one person in one spot, sometimes.”

Ambitious and nerdy about film in equal measure, it’s clear there’s much more to come from Liang, and I’m interested in what her most valuable lesson has been so far. Turns out, it’s a great story involving Chinese veteran Cheng Pei-Pei (Come Drink With Me’s Golden Swallow, and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon’s Jade Fox), whose film training includes a tradition of remaining on set throughout filming.

Roseanne Liang on the set of ‘Shadow in the Cloud’.

That meant that, during filming of Liang’s My Wedding and Other Secrets, Cheng would stay on set when she wasn’t required. “In New Zealand, trailers are a luxury,” Liang explains. “I said ‘Don’t you want to go to the trailer that we arranged for you?’ ‘No, I just want to sit and watch.’ ‘Why do you want to watch it, you’ve seen it hundreds of times!’ And she said ‘I learn something new every time’. To Pei-Pei, the secret of life is constant education and curiosity and learning. Movies are her work and her craft and her life, and she never gets bored. If I can be like her, that’s the life, right?”

Speaking of which, it’s time we put Liang through our Life in Film interrogation.

What’s the film that made you want to become a filmmaker? Terminator 2: Judgment Day is the movie that is at the top of the mountain that I’m climbing. To me it’s the perfect blend of spectacle, action design, smarts and heart. It poses the theory that if a robot can learn the value of humanity then maybe there’s hope for the ships that are us. That’s perennial, and possibly even more pertinent today. It holds a very special place in my heart, along with Aliens, Mad Max: Fury Road, Die Hard, La Femme Nikita and Léon: The Professional.

What’s your earliest memory of watching a film? I have a cassette tape that my dad made for my grandma in 1981 (he’d send tapes back to his mother in Hong Kong). I was three years old and he had just taken us to see The Empire Strikes Back in the cinema. And he can’t talk to my grandma because I’m just going on and on about R2-D2. I will not shut up about R2-D2 and he’s like, “Yes, yes I’m trying to talk to your grandmother,” and I’m like, “But Dad! Dad! R2-D2!” So it’s actually an archive, but it’s become my memory.

What’s the most romantic film you’ve ever seen? Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. It’s not the sexiest, but it’s the most romantic. That last scene, those last words where she goes “But you’re gonna be like this forever and I’m gonna be like this forever…” and he just goes “okay”. That to me is one of the most romantic scenes I’ve ever seen. It is a perfect movie.

And the scariest? If it’s a horror movie, the most scared I’ve been is The Ring. I was watching it on a VHS and I was lying on a beanbag on the floor and I was paralyzed with fear. I couldn’t move, because I felt that if I moved she’d see me! Also, American Psycho just came to me this year. I caught the twentieth anniversary of that movie, which is a terrifying film, and again, possibly more relevant now than when it was made. The scariest film that’s not a horror is Joker. It scared me how much I liked it. When I came out of the movie, I was like, “I’m scared because I kind of love it, but it’s horrible. It’s so irresponsible. I don’t wanna like this movie but goddamn, I feel it.” Like, I wanted to go on the streets and rage. In a way we’re all the Joker, we’re all the Batman. That duality, that yin and yang, is inside everyone of us. It’s universal.

What is the film that slays you every time, leaving you in a heap of tears? This is a classic one, the opening sequence of Up. The first ten minutes of Up just destroy me every time. I also saw Soul a couple of days ago and I was with the whole family and I, just, if I wasn’t with the whole family I would have been ugly-sobbing. I had a real ache in my throat after the movie because I was trying to stop [myself] from sobbing.

Tell me your favorite coming-of-age film, the film that first gave you ‘teenage feelings’? Pump Up the Volume. Christian Slater! Off the back of Pump Up the Volume, I fancied myself as a prophet and wrote a theater piece called Lemmings. Obviously the main character was a person who could see through the façade, and everyone else was following norms. “No one understands me, I’m a prophet!” So clearly I have this shitty, Joker-style megalomaniac inside of me. It was the worst play, and I don’t know why my teachers agreed for us to do a staging of it!

Christian Slater and Samantha Mathis in ‘Pump Up the Volume’ (1990).

Is there a film that you and your family love to rewatch? We’ve tried to impose our taste on our children, but they’re too young. We showed them The Princess Bride—they didn’t get it. We literally showed our babies Star Wars in their cribs. That’s how obsessive Star Wars fans we were.

Name a director and/or writer that you deeply admire for their use of the artform. I have a slightly weird answer for this. Can I just give love to Every Frame a Painting by Tony Zhou and Taylor Ramos? They are my film school. I was thinking of my love of Edgar Wright, but then I thought of their video essay on Edgar Wright and how to film comedy, and his essay on Jackie Chan and the rhythm of action and then their essay on the Coen Brothers and Shot Reverse Shot. I must have watched that 30 times ahead of the TV show that I’m making now. I started out in editorial and Tony Zhou is an editor and he talks about when to make the cut: it’s an instinct, it’s a feeling, it’s a rhythm. I realized the one thing in common that I could mention about all the films I’ve loved is Every Frame a Painting. It’s their love of movies that comes bubbling out of every single essay that they made that I just wanna shout out at this part of my career.

Were there any crucial films that you turned to in your development for Shadow in the Cloud? Indiana Jones was something that Chloë brought up—she likes the spiffiness and the humor of Indiana Jones. Sarah Connor was our touchstone for the female character. For one-person-in-one-space type stories, I watched Locke quite a lot, to figure out how they shaped tension and story and [kept] us on the edge of our seats when it’s only one person in one space. In terms of superheroes, I came back to Aliens. Not Alien. Aliens. You know, there are two types of people in this world—people who prefer Alien over Aliens, and people who prefer Aliens over Alien. But actually I think I vacillate for different reasons.

Can there be a third type of person, who thinks they’re both great, but Alien³, just, no? Maybe that’s the best group to be in. We don’t need to fight about this, we can love both of them! I was having an argument with James Wan’s company about this, because there’s a rift inside the company of people who prefer Alien over Aliens.

Okay, program a triple feature with your film as one of the three. I don’t know. Ask Ant Timpson!

I’ll ask Ant Timpson. [We did, and he replied: “Well, one has to be the Twilight Zone episode with William Shatner: Nightmare at 20,000 Feet. And then either Life (2017) or Altitude (2010).”]

Thank you Ant! I used to go to his all-nighters as a university student. He is the king of programming things.

Jake Gyllenhaal in ‘Life’ (2017).

It’s strange that we never met at one of his events! Ant would make me dress up in strange outfits and do weird skits between films. (For those who don’t know, Timpson ran the Incredibly Strange Film Festival for many years—now part of the New Zealand International Film Festival—and still runs an annual 24-Hour Movie Marathon.) So what’s a film from those events that sticks in your head as the perfect genre experience with a crowd? It was a movie about a man protecting a woman who was the girlfriend of a mafia boss: A Bittersweet Life. Not only does it have one of the sexiest Korean actors, sorry, not to objectify, but also I actually screenshot a lot of that film for pitch documents. And, do you remember a crazy Japanese movie where someone’s sitting on the floor with a clear umbrella and a woman is lactating milk? Visitor Q by Takashi Miike. I remember just how fucking crazy that was.

Finally, what was the best film you saw in 2020? I haven’t seen Nomadland yet, so keep in mind that I haven’t seen all the films this year. I have three: The Invisible Man, which I thought was just amazing. I thought [writer-director] Leigh Whannell did such a great job. The Half of It by Alice Wu, a quiet movie that I simply just adored. And then the last movie I saw at the cinema was Promising Young Woman. The hype is real.

Related content

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Follow Gemma on Letterboxd

‘Shadow in the Cloud’ is available in select theaters and on video on demand now.

[desperationandgin]

Strawberry Wine (Part 1, Chapter 10)

Rating: Mature

Author: desperationandgin

Previous Chapter

Also Read On: AO3

Summary: Claire and Jamie settle in their separate locations and write to one another.

Chapter 10: Kisses With Dreams

September 1, 1938

Jamie,

I promised I would write the moment I moved into my dormitory, and I can assure you that my unpacked suitcase is at the foot of the bed. Thank you for the surprise photographs of us in my purse; I hadn’t realized your father took any at the gathering, though I’ve never been more grateful. I realized belatedly that while I had two wonderful photographs of you, I didn’t have any of us together. It caused a tearful moment on the train. Fortunately, there was a kind Reverend sitting beside me; he distracted me with his own recollection of Jacobite history. It was interesting, but only made me want to return to you more.

I’m no stranger to new beds in unfamiliar places, though this is the first time I can’t unloosen the knot that’s formed in the pit of my stomach. I’ve never missed someone before, with so much of myself. That last kiss at the station, in front of God and everyone no less, will have to get me through until December, won’t it? I think even Jenny blushed.

I hope you’re settling alright. Were you and Ian able to share an apartment as you’d wanted? Do you have a wonderful view? By the time you receive this, you’ll have started your classes; please tell me how you’re finding them, and I’ll let you know how school is here, as well, in my next letter. We begin on Monday, and I’m not sure if I’m worried or if it’s just nerves causing me to doubt myself. What if I’m not capable enough when it comes to real-life scenarios? What if I have the drive to help others, but am rubbish at nursing?

I already know you’re shaking your head in protest. It’s nerves, and by this time next month, I’ll be settled and things will be fine. That is what you were going to say, wasn’t it?

In half an hour, I’ll have to attend an informal dinner to meet my fellow classmates, so I suppose I should at least unpack a suitable outfit. I don’t want to stop writing; if I stop writing, then I’ll have to face the fact that you’re not really here, listening to everything I’m telling you.

Sorry for the smear of ink. I’m homesick, I suppose, only you are my home, and I already miss you desperately.

Please give my best to Ian. Write soon, and put me out of my misery.

Yours,

Claire

The weekend before I left for London, Brian hosted a two-day party of sorts for all the tenants he rented land to. It was grand and festive, with enough food to feed an army and no shortage of laughter. Old friends arrived, including a delightful man named Mr. Raymond whom I could remember cropping up throughout my childhood; someone who brought me rare toys and exotic candies when visiting. He hadn’t expected to see me, I knew, but still managed to gift me something unique: a dragonfly encased in amber. When I tried to find Jamie to show him, he was busy watching his father, gaining real-time experience as the future laird of Lallybroch. I was captivated by him, the way he drew people in. His eyes seemed to meet every single person’s in the room when he addressed the group at large, and he always seemed much wiser than his age suggested.

Privately between us, the things that could come out of Jamie Fraser’s mouth were like lines from old, romantic poems. Sonnets written in 19th-century fields of heather. The best part was that he always spoke true. He meant those fantastic things he said, and it made me love him all the more.

The first night of the festivities, we’d stolen away to a hayloft, drinking pilfered Drambuie straight from the bottle.

“Did you know this is the secret drink recipe of the Bonnie Prince Charlie?” I’d asked slowly, my speech a bit languid in my not-quite-drunkenness.

“Oh? I only ken my uncle Dougal enjoys the drink verra much, it’s why there’s so much of it for the weekend,” Jamie’d informed me before taking another swallow from the bottle.

“Well, when he escaped to the Isle of Skye, he was offered protection by – oh, which clan was it?” Pausing, I’d looked out at the sky, squinting before remembering. “Clan MacKinnon! Clan MacKinnon sheltered Prince Charles, and as thanks he gave them this very recipe.”

I had been given a kiss for my useless historical knowledge – and a bit more.

Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I sealed the envelope, fished a stamp out of my handbag, and neatly scrawled Jamie’s address, plus my own. It took a half-hour to settle on a suitable dress for supper, and I made my way downstairs, intending to keep to myself. Taking a seat at the far end of the dining room table, I listened as the rules of the dormitory were laid out (no non-familial men in our rooms unchaperoned, period. No alcohol except for one glass of wine with supper) and studied the other women. All of us seemed to be about the same age, and the one next to me leaned over to speak.

“What do ye think, could we sneak a flask in our brasseries and get away wi’ it?”

My eyes widened first at the accent, and then at the suggestion.

“You’re Scottish?” I asked somewhat dumbly.

“Aye. What gave it away, the accent or the flamin’ red hair?”

I couldn’t help but laugh, though I stifled it quickly to avoid the attention of Mistress Hildegarde.

“My name’s Gillian,” my new acquaintance introduced herself. “We’re roommates, you and I. I was down the hall when ye were comin’ out of the room earlier.”

She had hair not quite as red as Jamie’s, a fair complexion, and definite mischief in her eyes.

“Maybe down my knickers,” she mused, and I hid a laugh behind my napkin. While eating (an unfamiliar to me meat dish and potatoes), I decided if I was to live here for four years, perhaps befriending at least one person would be nice.

I was proven correct over the next few days; Gillian was smart and took good notes, but had a penchant for knowing when to throw down our study materials and go out for a drink. On a Friday evening after the third week of classes, we were planning to go to the cinema until the mail call happened.

“Ms. Beauchamp, one letter, one parcel.”

When Mistress Hildegarde said my name and I saw the handwriting on the envelope, I apologetically canceled my plans with Gillian and ate my supper in record time before racing upstairs. The package was a square box, and I put it aside in favor of reading Jamie’s letter first.

September 17, 1938

My own,

You are correct; I was shaking my head at what you said of yourself. And was I right? Was it nerves and are you settled? I know you can do anything, and I am eager to read all about your classwork. Your roommate as well, is she a nice lass?

Ian and I are faring well and do share a small apartment. He’s writing to Jenny now as I write to you. A few things are as I thought; the Latin exams will not be very easy to pass with top marks. I’m not sure speaking Latin will come up much in daily farm life, but I suppose for Mass it will be nice to know exactly what is being said. At least it may be something that could impress Father Bain.

Hopefully, the parcel I’ve sent along makes it as well. Inside is a wee bit more than chocolate, all things I thought you might enjoy. I had the idea, as well, to take a flight to London before Christmas, then together we could go to Scotland for the holidays, perhaps even spend a night in Edinburgh before going on to Lallybroch. We can work out the details a bit closer to the time, it is only that I’m eager to see you now. Being apart from you feels as though something is missing – even at Lallybroch I felt it, on the days we weren’t able to see one another save for breakfast and supper, only not as keenly. I miss you, Sassenach, down to the very marrow of me. I’m glad you have photographs; I have one of you in my back pocket always. Sometimes, I need to see you.

Do not weep, lass. Soon, it will only be the two of us.

The next few months will go by in record time, though perhaps I will be able to find a way to see you sooner. I love you, Claire, and you’ll do well to remember it. Write to me soon, a nighean.

Yours always,

Jamie

His name was a flourishing signature, and down in the very corner of the page, he’d drawn a small heart. Touching it with the tips of my fingers, I smiled softly and read the letter again. It was comforting to read something so normal, that everything was going perfectly well so far. Folding the letter and tucking it back into the envelope, I tore the parchment paper off of the box next, removing the lid. Inside was something wrapped in pale pink tissue, and when I unwrapped it, found four white handkerchiefs with lace, scented to smell faintly of roses. They were beautiful, and only after closer inspection did I realize my initials were embroidered in the corner, though not CB.

CF.

After taking a moment to whisper my name with his aloud, I tucked one into my purse, another into my coat pocket, and slipped the other two into my dresser. Digging through the rest of the contents had me finding all sorts of different chocolates, beautifully hand-painted postcards of Parisian landscapes, and a book: The Postman Always Rings Twice. There was another note, written on the inside of the cover.

Sassenach,

I wasn’t sure if you’d read it, but you mentioned wanting a good mystery novel to puzzle out. This one is controversial, if you’ll remember. I read it, and I can see why Boston went up in arms. Don’t go getting bawdy ideas.

–JAMMF

I laughed aloud at his last sentence and laid the book to rest on the nightstand. Looking at my bounty, I quelled the urge to write back for a mere twenty minutes before sitting down at my desk once more. I went on about my schoolwork, about the things I was learning and told him about Gillian, then reassured him all was well and I had indeed settled. I promised to write more once I’d finished the novel, then changed into my nightgown early, tucking into the book. Hours later and over half-way through, Gillian returned home, letting herself in and flopping down on my bed across my legs.

“Have fun?” I asked, putting down the book for now and stretching.

“When isn’t watching Fred Astaire a delight? Though, it wasna the best of his films, ” she informed in response, filling me in on the plot of Carefree. I half-listened, my thoughts on the book, which she called me out for.

“Where’s yer mind, Claire? Surely a book cannae be that good that ye–” Her gaze drifted toward the box, eyes wide by the time she looked back to me again. “Is that from yer fella, then? Let’s see, what did he send?”

As I proudly showed off my bounty, she touched the embroidery on one of the handkerchiefs. “Yer wee fox cub truly wants ye, I’m jealous. Does he have a brother, by any chance?”

Rolling my eyes, I shook my head. “Only a sister.”

“Is she available then?”

We laughed at the joke together before scrubbing our faces and turning in for the night, a picture of Jamie tucked under my pillow.

The weeks rolled by, my latest letter arriving on October twelfth. It was short, mostly about how hard he’d been studying and all of the places to eat he was eager to take me to. There was no parcel this time, but he promised something would arrive in time for my birthday.

On the twentieth, I could hardly sit still in my classes, eager to get home and see what had arrived for me. As soon as my day was over I raced to the dormitory, calling out even as I opened the front door.

“Mistress Hildegarde, have you got any parcels for me?”

Her voice rang out from the parlor. “Yes, I would say so, Ms. Beauchamp. Come, it is here, with me.”

Removing my hat and placing it on the hook near the front door, I was pulling off my gloves as I entered the room and paused in shock. “Wot?”

“Mind the rules, my dear,” Mistress Hildegarde reminded on her way out of the room, and I merely nodded, a slow smile spreading so wide it made my cheeks hurt.

“Happy birthday, Sassenach.”

NEXT CHAPTER

[capnjay21]

A House is Never Still 2/6

Five years ago, Emma Swan disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Killian Jones’ disappearance, well, not so mysterious – given the denizens of Storybrooke all but blamed him for her murder. Drawn back to town by a series of strange events, he soon realises the story of what really happened the night she vanished is beginning to unravel, and what’s more: it isn’t over.

A/N: And here is chapter two! Again, I have to heap innumerable amounts of praise and gratitude on @hollyethecurious​ without whose AMAZING aesthetic I would not have even come up with the bones for this fic. You can check out her post of the art here! I'd also like to thank everybody who's hopped on board so far, I'm so glad to have you! And finally, huge thanks to the @csrolereversal​ event chaps, I love all of you and your support. Happy @cshalloweek​!

This chapter is a day early as unfortunately I won't be able to post over the weekend as I've had some bad news in my family life, and muchos love to @carpedzem​ for being a true pal about that <3 as a result, the next chapter will be in two weeks, not one. I hope that's okay!

And that's enough of me rambling - enjoy!

Rating: T Warnings: mentions of suicide, canonical character death, and some Spooky Business™.

AO3 | one

-/-

2 - whispering in distant chambers

October 14th – 5 Years Ago

What were you supposed to take with you for trips to creepy old houses in the middle of the woods?

Rather unceremoniously, Emma dumped her textbooks onto the end of her bed and grabbed a rucksack from the corner. Better to be prepared. Unfortunately, most of what she knew about preparing for these sorts of expeditions had been ripped entirely from cinema, and as such the first object she could bring to mind was rope. Immediately she dismissed the idea. What the hell would she actually need rope for? After a beat of hesitation, Emma opened her bottom drawer and rummaged around for what she had hidden inside – a small fishing knife, one she had lifted from an unsuspecting dockworker when she was thirteen, for the delighted danger of it, and the way it had made her younger self feel powerful. It had moved with her to the Nolan house, although she had stuffed it out of sight to avoid Ruth or David seeing it.

Still, she didn’t know what they could expect in the woods that day. She was desperate to be helpful, especially given the gentle way that Killian had asked him to accompany her, as doubtful as she was about the legitimacy of the trip.

Brooke House did not exist. That was well documented.

She had asked Archie about it once, when she could contain her curiosity no longer. Apparently when the Jones brothers had moved to Storybrooke, Killian eleven and Liam eighteen, the elder had supported them and joined the community as a promising labourer. He made his living as a home restorer, but quickly gained a reputation for his work completing odd carpentry jobs around town. And through it all, he had often discussed the work he was completing on a small house in the north woods. Brooke House, he had called it.

After he had died, the sheriff’s department had gone looking for the property Liam Jones had spent much of his time in for any clues as to why he might have wished to end his own life.

They hadn’t found a thing.

When word got out, the entire town had gone wild. Apparently the Storybrooke Mirror had sensationalised it, painted all the talk of Brooke House as the ramblings of a disturbed man, and all had wanted to take a crack at finding it – the phantom of the forest. Not least of all Killian. Killian, who had searched for that house a thousand times, desperate to believe it wasn’t so. Emma’s heart had broken when Archie had recounted the tale, and advised her gently to keep it to herself.

It hadn’t stopped her knocking on the door to his room at the group home; she had found him staring miserably at his unpacked suitcase, knees tucked up to his chest.

Another banner year, right?

What?

We’ve all got ghosts here.

“Emma?”

A gentle knock at her door revealed David hovering on the threshold. He was just beginning to come into his broad shoulders now, shirking the lanky boy she had known as just another classmate for so long.

“Hey. Do we have rope?”

“I thought you were studying.” David took one look at the rucksack she was holding, the boots she had pulled on with the laces still undone, and the torch she was stuffing into the pack. “When you’re obviously… going caving?”

Emma laughed, shaking her head. “Close. Killian and I are going hiking.”

That had seemed like a more reasonable explanation to her, but apparently David disagreed.

“Hiking? You?”

She rolled her eyes, but had to suppress a snort. “I think we should all go hiking more. The complete surprise we’re met with when any of us suggest we’re planning to is not flattering.” 

“You know it says be wary of bears, not bear claws.”

He looked altogether far too pleased with himself, so she ignored him and continued to peruse the bedroom for items she might like to take. It was mostly devoid of belongings, over the years she had learnt it was preferable to be able to pack light, but she had accumulated a few things over her time with Ruth and David which might be of value.

“How come?” David asked.

“Killian,” Emma offered, by way of answer, “he thinks he’s… oh, I don’t know.” At the last moment she decided not to elaborate. No doubt David would have his own thoughts about the rationalisation of the expedition. “Rope?”

David arched an eyebrow. “Do I look like a mountaineer?”

Emma took one look at him, the plaid shirt and the sturdy boots he wore, perfect for the volunteering he often did for the farms outside of town.

“A little,” she smirked.

David chose to ignore the jibe, and instead wandered over to where she was packing. “Why would you need rope?” Emma realised at the same moment he did that the backpack was hanging quite far open, far enough for him to take a peek at the contents, and although she rushed to close it he was quicker than her. David snatched the bag and stuck an arm inside it, before lifting out the knife with an indignant look on his face. “What’s really going on, Emma?”

She bit her lip, weighing her options – but the irked stare he was giving her, combined with the fierce protective streak she knew he nurtured and his often uncanny ability to sense her in a lie, she decided to tell him the truth.

“Killian thinks he’s found Brooke House,” she admitted, “I’m just going for moral support.”

While he blustered for a response, Emma made a grab for the bag and the knife, decidedly shoving one back into the other.

“And you think you’ll need – that?”

“You did say there were bears,” she muttered.

David was not impressed by the jest. “I love Killian, you know I do, but this… it’s crazy, you know that, right?”

“Of course I know that!” The fact he would even suggest that she wasn’t the one with all of her faculties in this situation was frustrating enough, but they both knew once Killian had set his mind on something he couldn’t be diverted. “It’s all the more reason he shouldn’t be doing this alone.”

Better they went together, that somebody was with him while he explored all the tenets this road might take him down, so someone could pick up the pieces if he couldn’t stop from shattering. That was what they had always done for each other, what they would always do. And she refused to apologise for it.

“His brother died, David.” She knew she didn’t need to remind him, but felt she should. “And it was awful. So if there’s a chance any of this is going to get him a little closer to being okay with it then I have to try.”

For a long moment David was silent, arms folded and a frown creasing his brow, and eventually Emma stopped waiting for him to reply. She didn’t need his approval, she’d gotten this far in her life without worrying what another person thought and she wasn’t about to start now – she also thought she remembered seeing some rope out in Ruth’s garage with all of her gardening equipment. She reached for her coat; Killian would be waiting.

“Fine,” David said resolutely, “then I’m coming too.”

Emma scowled. “No, you’re not.”

“This isn’t negotiable,” he insisted, and hastened to continue before she could retort, “and I know you can take care of yourself, it’s not for you – it’s for me, and Mom. Because, tough, you have people that worry about you now, and it’s important to me that you’re safe.”

I just thought you’d want somewhere quiet to study, he had said, the afternoon he and Ruth had arrived at the group home and asked if she wanted to spend the weekend in their house. It had followed a rather terse encounter between the pair of them at the library, in which she’d asked the nice but lanky boy from school in no uncertain terms to fuck off, and let her get on with her damn calculus.

Would you like that, Ruth had asked, kindly; somewhere quiet to study?

That was a year ago now. She still felt something warm and soft in her gut when she thought of the bed as hers, of the desk as hers, of the little room at the top of the Nolan house hers. She’d given up on such notions a long, long time ago – and yet it had crept up on her when she was least expecting it, in the form of Ruth and David Nolan asking her politely what colour wallpaper she would prefer for the bedroom. Her bedroom.

It meant all she could do was smile when she thought of David wanting to protect her. She didn’t need protecting, but she liked that he wanted to try.

“Does that big strong attitude work on Mary Margaret?”

David immediately flushed beet red, and Emma felt she’d disguised her own pleasure well enough with the tease.

He recovered quickly. “I’m not sure – why, does yours work on Killian?”  

Immediately, she fixed him with an unimpressed look, before shrugging on her coat and lifting what she’d already gathered.

“Why are you doing this?” David asked, as he followed her across the landing. “Indulging this – fantasy?”

We’ve all got ghosts here.

Yeah? Guess that makes me just as haunted as you, then.

He’d been there for her long before she ever thought she’d find a place like the Nolan house.

He deserved her time, and her kindness; and more than anything else, she was happy to give it.

-/-

Present Day

The path leading up to the manor had become completely overgrown, the hedges on either side wild and unruly, reaching for each passerby with clinging, thorny limbs. The usual lush greenery of the entrance had become discoloured and frail, and the pure white exterior of the house had been stained by years of age and negligence. Ivy crawled up the pillars by the front door, creeping out across the brickwork like a slowly spreading sickness, and as Killian mounted the steps at the entrance he almost tripped, a tile underneath his right foot ripping clean away the moment he placed some weight on it.

He was beginning to think Regina didn’t even live there anymore – the Regina he knew would never have let the house that brought so much pride to her family fall into such disrepair, but the waitress at Granny’s had been clear enough. Regina Mills had remained at that address for the last five years, even after the passing of her father.

Killian would have liked to have been a better support for her at the time, or at least offered some condolences; nineteen was far too young to lose a parent. Unfortunately, the fact of the matter was he didn’t find out until several months after the fact, and felt then to drag her back to the moment of its happening just so he could pay his respects would be selfish, and unkind. It had been done enough times to him up to almost two years after Liam’s passing, and he would have hated to wish that kind of prolonged sadness upon Regina. Especially since she had always been prone to such periods of dysphoria on her own.

He raised a hand to the brass knocker and rapped it loudly three times.

At first, he was met with only stillness. Nothing stirred inside the house, at least not that he could hear, and not that he could make out through the frosted glass panes on either side of the door. He decided to knock again.

Just when he was about to lift the brass a third time, the door was suddenly wrenched open with force and he darted backwards instinctively – only to be met with the fierce glare of an intensely irate Regina Mills. She looked much as he remembered, tucked into a dark purple blouse and a black skirt, dark hair framing her face with her characteristic perfect precision. Older, but just as vibrant as she had been the last time, and just as poised.

As soon as it appeared the fury melted away, to be replaced with what Killian could only describe as mild interest, flavoured with a dash of displeasure.

“Oh,” she said, with a decided amount of disappointment. “It’s you.”

Killian’s eyebrows climbed up to his hairline.

“Expecting the Queen, were we?”                            

“Somebody with a greater propensity for courtesy, certainly,” she scoffed, drumming her sharp fingernails on the doorframe. “Most visitors call ahead these days.”

At this Killian merely spread his hands, and Regina stared at him for a few long moments. He had the distinct impression that he was being sized up, as her gaze drifted from his boots up to his hair, then flickered out into the street behind him, almost – almost warily. Her attention was back on him before he could question her on it.

“You better come inside.”

Regina disappeared through the doorway and left it open for him to follow, so after a split-second to gather his wits Killian followed her inside.

The inside of the manor, if possible, looked to be in even greater disarray than the outside.

The wallpaper inside the foyer was beginning to peel from the corners, curling sadly away and baring damp plaster out into the air. Dust and mothballs were starting to amass in the corners of the room, and the flowers that had once stood in symmetry atop the end tables on either side of the entryway to the next room had long since dropped and wilted. Killian could see through to the dining table, stacked with cartons of takeout, juice boxes, and from what he could tell, a baking tray of – apple turnovers?

The clicking of Regina’s heels led him to the left so he didn’t linger to find out, instead stepping through into what once had been the sitting room. The sofas remained, but the old television had been taken out and a large, wooden desk had been brought to the centre of the room; Killian’s jaw almost dropped at what lay atop it.

Vials and vials of strange coloured liquids, stacks of spices, herbs and greenery herded into neat little piles, and mountains of equipment covered every inch. He could make out measuring cylinders, Erlenmeyer flasks (some bubbling, some still), and a boiling flask sat poised above the flame from a blood red candle near the edge of the desk. The steam from whatever fizzled inside that flask was being captured by yet another vessel, spilling into a long, metal tube which emptied into an inky black flagon. An ancient, yellowed tome lay open at the centre, its pages marked with age and stains of various shades, and Killian could spot a crude diagram which matched the skeleton of equipment gathering materials for the vessel at the end.

Regina had gone immediately to the receptacle boiling above the candle, leaning in closer to inspect its contents with a critical eye. The liquid hissed loudly, spitting a few droplets out of the top and Regina scowled, immediately blowing out the candle.

“You made me lose my concentration.”

“I take it,” Killian mused, as he flicked a fingernail against a sour, yellow coloured bottle, which had what he could only compare to three bulging eyeballs floating in its contents staring back at him, “that you started believing in magic?”

“You and I are cut from the same cloth, Killian Jones. That much was always clear.” She dropped a perfectly manicured nail down onto the open page of the book, skimming its contents with a sigh. “We aren’t like David and Mary Margaret. Blithering, diffident clowns. I know what I saw that night, I don’t have to think twice.”

Killian – Killian, don’t –!

“Sometimes I wish I could forget.”

“I don’t.” She shot him a sharp look. “Our memories are our gift. Someone has to carry the truth.”

The truth, Killian decided, did not need carrying. It had enough power on its own.

“It’s put you on quite the path,” he observed, gesturing to her equipment. “I didn’t realise you’d become a practitioner.”

“I… dabble,” Regina demurred, but Killian could see she did more than that. She was far from the supernatural sceptic she had been while they were at school. Once she noticed his gaze lingering on the open book with the worn, heavy pages, her expression lit up – something akin to smugness overtook her then, pride in a discovery. There was a twinkle in her eye he had scarce seen outside of her pleasure at an exceedingly good takedown of a bully that had deserved it.

“After my father passed away, I found some unexpected treasures in the family mausoleum,” she supplied, running her finger down the edge of one page, but angling her body so he might lean in closer and take a look. Regina had always liked to show off her toys. “From what I could surmise, my own mother didn’t even realise it was there. It’s a book of spells, of sorts, of wicca practices. It –”

“It’s a book of shadows,” Killian realised, as he caught a look at a marking scratched into the corner of the page.

Regina blinked, surprised. “How did you know that?”

It was amazing – he’d never been able to take a look at one up close, in his experience he’d found witches to be exceedingly secretive about what was decidedly a personal journey through spirituality. He had spent some time with a coven in Pennsylvania not too long ago, but they had soon grown tired of his unending curiosity and politely asked that he observe them no longer.

The page Regina had open was to an awareness potion, designed to broaden the senses and open the mind to greater influences than it could ordinarily perceive. Whether it worked or not remained to be seen; he had found that much of what purported to be ‘witchcraft’ was as much placebo as it was genuine mysticism. The turquoise liquid she had removed from above the candle appeared to be an attempt at brewing the potion – the first or the last of many, he could not tell.

“I thought a book of shadows needed to be burnt once its witch passed on?”

“Traditionally, yes,” she mused, eyes narrowing as she surveyed him. “That’s… what my research has indicated.”

Killian skimmed the plants and herbs she had strewn around on her desk, spotting what he was looking for quickly. After removing two needle thin leaves of rosemary, he dropped them inside the flask and set it back on its place on the stand. Then, he lit the crimson candle underneath. The liquid began to bubble, slowly changing in colour from a teal shade to something far duller, and bluer. The steam began to drift into the tube above it, and when Killian heard the flagon begin to let out a satisfying hiss he knew he had achieved the correct consistency.

Regina had watched all of this with interest. A flicker of her dark eyes to the crude diagram in the book suggested she realised a beat later than he had that he had given her the desired outcome for the brew.

“Just what have you been doing with yourself for the past five years?”

Killian merely lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “There’s never enough rosemary.”

She let the comment slide with an arched eyebrow that suggested she would soon worm the truth out of him.

“I suppose you’re back in town because of David’s deluded ramblings.”

This surprised him, especially given her clear status as a believer. “You think he imagined it?”

Regina scoffed. “I know, for a fact, that he’s spent five years roiling in guilt over what happened to Emma. I’m surprised it took this long to materialise into a phantom at the end of his bed.” She hesitated, and Killian waited; people always felt more compelled to fill silence with what they knew. “But there is something happening. Look at this.”

With a wave that was more of confidence that he would follow than invitation, she marched across the sitting room to a writing desk wedged into the corner. It was covered with what Killian quickly realised was a map, mostly depicting the east coast. Scarlet lines ran across it in circular motions, tracing shapes into the continent.

“These markings, here –” she traced one with a fingertip, “are ley lines. Spirit roads. They’re often considered areas of great spiritual alignment, even –”

“I know what ley lines are, Regina.”

She pursed her lips. “Then you’ll know that Storybrooke sits at a convergence of two lines.” Her finger landed with a tap on the marker for the town. “Which means only one thing – an abundance of paranormal energy. I often observe and measure the trends in the surrounding area, spikes in electromagnetic readings, irradiated areas, the like.”

Killian grinned. “Like a ghost cartographer.”

Despite herself, a similar smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Something like that, yes. They’re fascinating to document, and a key to me unlocking the secrets in my book.” Her expression turned more serious. “But recently, my readings have been incredibly unusual. Far greater than I’ve observed before. The only thing I can surmise is something is coming – or changing. Something big.”

It couldn’t be a coincidence. David’s reports of the strange goings on that Ruby had corroborated, and a spike in some kind of supernatural energy around town? It all pointed to one thing, it had to. The only true ghost story that Storybrooke didn’t even know it had.

“And Brooke House?” The excitement in Regina’s expression slowly faded away, and she averted her eyes. Something far more sobering overcame her, but he had to know. She spent enough time in the woods. “Have you seen it?”

“No.” Killian tried to mask his disappointment, and on noticing this, she hastened to continue. “But then… I haven’t gone looking.”

He nodded mutely; the day already felt so long. As he paused for a moment to check his phone he realised he had two missed calls from David, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to talk to the man now – he was thinking about ley lines, and curses, and objects you had no sense losing and sounds you had no right hearing. Everything felt so different and yet so paralyzingly the same, and he wasn’t sure what to do with himself next.

Well, he knew what he should do.

Regina had walked back to her workstation and shut the book with a heavy thud, and it hauled him back to the present. He then found himself considering mountains of takeout containers and the dilapidated foyer he had walked through of the once grand Mills mansion. Regina neatened up all of her ingredients with an eager hand, and he recognised in an instant that they had all changed the night Emma disappeared – it had just taken a little longer to manifest itself in her.

Mary Margaret had run away; Regina, apparently, had run right into it.

“When was the last time you ate a proper meal?”

Regina dismissed him with a wave of a hand. “I eat.”

“Something that didn’t come out of a box?”

“I bake,” she insisted hotly, and at his blank look she straightened her blouse and tried to look nonchalant. Killian remembered the tray of apple turnovers he had spied through the hallway. “It helps me relax.”

Killian gritted his teeth; this was no way to live.

(Although he deigned not to own up to the amount of chow mein that had been consumed under blankets in the back of his car over the years.)

“I’ll come back round tomorrow, if that’s alright.” He framed it like he was asking permission, though they both knew he wasn’t. “And I’m bringing a broom.”

Regina seethed with indignance, but Killian shot her a glare that left little room for argument.

It was time they both stopped avoiding what came next.

Which meant only one thing for him: a visit to Brooke House.

-/-

October 14th 2014 – 5 Years Ago

In order to help him retrace his steps through the north woods, Killian had used whatever he had to hand as markers to ensure he returned the correct way. In this case, ‘to hand’ referred to a roll of bright orange string they had been using at school to help decorate for Halloween, which he had been offhandedly aiding in due to Mary Margaret’s fervent request. He had objected enough to Emma in private, arguing why on earth were they still celebrating the end of October in such a way now they were already seventeen, but he begrudgingly admitted that the work had proven its worth as he remembered the string he had hastily shoved in his pocket last Friday.

The trio – she, Killian and David – trudged through the brush, copper and gold leaves crunching loudly underfoot, pausing only for Killian to quickly search for the next marker to inform them which direction they should head in. Against the vermilion palette of the forest in the throes of the New England fall, they weren’t always the easiest to spot.

They stayed mostly in a ponderous, companionable quiet; Killian kept his keen focus on the path ahead, and David and Emma occasionally exchanged uneasy glances. Neither were quite sure what they would find once they reached the end of the proverbial trail. It was easy to fall into a rhythm of their boot prints upon the ground, and it gave Emma enough time to truly consider the kind of support she wanted to offer to their friend if it didn’t quite go his way.

“Have you thought about what you’d like to do for your birthday?”

Jerked out of her reverie, Emma shot David a reproachful look.

“You know what I’d like to do. Nothing.”

David spread his hands. “You’re turning eighteen – that’s a big deal. An adult. Finally legally able to play the lottery, and I know how much that’s been killing you to wait for.”

“Please.”

“Or vote? Mary Margaret loves to vote. After the sheriff election last month she kept her ‘I Voted’ sticker on for two weeks.”

“Is that what that was?” Killian remarked over his shoulder, hesitating to touch the tip of his finger to a piece of string wound around a nearby branch.

“You can also get married,” David continued, “file a lawsuit.”

“Join the army,” Killian offered.

“Get a tattoo.”

“Legally have sex in every state.”

This, Killian offered with a wink, and David thumped him heavily on the arm. “Hey.”

“Guys, forget it,” Emma laughed, “you know how I feel about birthdays, I don’t want to do anything. Maybe grab some popcorn and watch a film with you guys and Ruth – maybe Mary Margaret, Regina.”

“So, the same thing we do every week?” David sighed.

She shrugged. “Suits me.”

“Wait.”

Killian raised a hand and they halted obediently, only for Emma’s gaze to land on exactly what had caught his just moments before. Through the trees, around fifty or so yards away, a house could be spotted amongst the pines – if the way Killian had tensed was any indication, it was the one he believed to be Brooke House.

Emma and David broke into a jog to keep up with Killian, dashing rapidly closer to the old structure, and as they drew up to the front she took a moment to observe just what they had been led to.

The house was hugely run down, dilapidated and crooked, the white brick in the bulk of most of the structure long since dirtied by the clutches of nature, and its wooden fascia rotting in places as it oozed damp and sap. It was small, just two stories with an attic window protruding from the gable, with notable portions of the roof visible where branches had grown in between the tiles and, in some cases, pushed them free – the ground was littered with a few shattered slates on either side. Most of the windows were either cracked or missing panes altogether, and the ivy scaling the walls gave it the air of something reclaimed by the earth. The build was distinctly Victorian in style, like a townhouse, almost; and that very fact made its standing there deeply incongruous with the miles of wood surrounding them. She had been expecting a cabin or something far more rustic, a holidaymaker’s home fit for an unfair prank, but this – this was something different.

An entrance on the left-hand side hung with a wooden arch, perfectly circular and its edges reaching almost to the ground, providing a canopy over the stern, chestnut door. It was already open.

As Killian had said, a sign hung above the doorway underneath the canopy, yellowed with age, but the writing still clear enough to make out. Brooke House.

She could see why Killian hadn’t wanted to enter alone.

After a moment just to take it all in, she felt him reach for her hand. Squeezing just once, she tried to make her smile as encouraging as possible.

David led the way, a sense of trepidation gripping Killian, but after she tugged on their connected hands his boots spurred into motion and they began mounting the steps. They trod carefully, the wood mostly rotted away and creaking ominously underfoot, and the door let out a deep, yawning groan as David pushed it open wider. 

The entrance opened to reveal a dark hallway, the air thick and musty and immediately scratched the back of Emma’s throat, so much so that she made sure her mouth was clamped shut even as it wanted to slacken with wonder. On their immediate left was a narrow staircase, crooked and tired with a few steps crumbling away to reveal a gaping blackness underneath. In the dim light she could just about see through to the rear of the house, and spotted what looked to be an old kitchenette and table, but Killian was switching on his torch and leading her out through another door on the right which had fallen from its hinges and now dangled dangerously into the next room. It was clearly an old sitting room, several large but indeterminate items of furniture covered with large, white sheeting, and an antique coffee table resting in the centre. The curtains were of a delicate white lace material which had dulled with age, now moth-eaten and draping miserably in front of the windows. Emma could see out into the woods, but the trees looked far more sinister from this angle - she wasn’t sure what to make of it. 

She was certainly wrong about one thing; this was no holidaymaker’s getaway. Clearly nobody had lived in this house for years. 

While Emma found her attention drawn to the more barren features of the house, a few moments after they entered the sitting room Killian abruptly released her hand with a cry, and darted towards the back of the room. There, hidden behind a large piece she could only assume was a sofa of some kind, was a large toolbox sat beside two long planks of wood. The fading wallpaper had also been peeled off from that corner of the room pulling outwards, baring the wood paneling underneath. Some of the dirt had been scrubbed away with clear intent, and an abandoned bucket, sponge and pair of gloves had been left underneath it. 

Killian immediately scrambled for the lock on the toolbox, wrenching it open. 

“This is Liam’s,” he confirmed what Emma had already suspected, as she exchanged a surprised look with David. “Look. See?” He ripped off a battered photograph that had been taped just inside the lid, thrusting it up to show her. As Emma peered closer she could just about make out the image of two young boys and an older woman with her arm around each. From the photos she had seen of Liam Jones the taller boy could just as easily be him, and the lines of Killian’s dimpled grin could be traced in the smaller of the two. 

“He was here. He was right - about all of it. He’d been working on Brooke House just like he said.” 

Exaggerated, deluded, fiction; that was what she had been told. The ramblings of an unfortunate young man who believed in ghosts, yet the evidence was unmistakable. At least at some stage, Liam Jones had been in this house - he had brought his tools, he had started his work, and he had just as soon abandoned it without a word. 

And then his car had been found at the bottom of a ravine. 

“If you’ll forgive me for saying, Killian,” David began slowly, taking it all in with caution, “it doesn’t look like Liam got much work done.” 

Aside from that one, tiny corner, it didn’t look like much of the room (nay, the house) had been touched at all. 

“But how could they have missed this?” Emma frowned, stepping back over to the window again to look out. She thought she could spot one of Killian’s orange strings tied to a nearby trunk. “Everyone was looking for Brooke House after he died. You can’t tell me almost every resident of Storybrooke, which includes you, Killian, just so happened to skip right past a place that fit the exact description he’d given to anyone who cared to listen?” She shook her head, doubtful. “This has to be some sort of trick, or - prank.” 

“Anybody could have gotten hold of Liam’s toolbox,” David added. “Then left it here for you to find.”

In a manner that slightly irked her at first, Killian didn’t bother acknowledging their speculations; he was rifling through the toolbox instead and once she noticed, Emma immediately felt a small wave of guilt wash over her. How it got there or not, Killian unequivocally believed this toolbox belonged to the brother he had lost over four years ago. He didn’t need their suppositions at the moment, just a little time to process. 

“Hey,” she said quietly, after crossing over to the corner and kneeling beside him, “are you okay?”

Killian let out a long breath, a hard crease in his brow. “I didn’t think I’d see any of this stuff again. Lost, I’d assumed, when I was moved out of our apartment. I was only twelve.” This, he offered her with a wry smile, patting a hand on her wrist to show he knew she was there. “I didn’t know what I’d want to keep or throw away back then when all I wanted was Liam home again.” 

David shuffled awkwardly by the doorway. “I’m gonna go check out the kitchen.”

As if that was the first statement to properly penetrate his reverie, Killian shook his head and straightened. He stuffed the photograph into the pocket of his jacket and was about to close the toolbox again when Emma suddenly spotted something underneath the haphazard placement of the tools. She halted his movements, before carefully moving the dusty implements out of the way. Folded neatly underneath all of them was a single sheet of paper, worn along its edges as if it had been opened and re-folded many times, and Emma slipped it out. 

In the wild moment of its discovery Emma had thought it might be something significant; a letter for Killian, a note about the house, a cry for help, but she sternly admonished herself when it was revealed to be a couple of simple doodles etched in pencil onto the paper. This wasn’t a movie, this was Killian’s life. In the real world you didn’t find suicide notes four years too late buried in toolboxes in creepy old houses. 

She threw Killian an apologetic look, but he took the paper from her anyway and slipped it into his pocket with the photograph. It was still a piece of Liam - Emma had never known the elder Jones, but he clung to every inch of this room like a spectre. She could scarcely imagine why Killian could even bear to walk among it. 

As one they decided to stand and try to catch up with David, but when they peeked inside the old kitchen he was nowhere to be found. Killian cast a doubtful glance at the rickety staircase with the splintered bannister, but Emma shrugged; he could have easily grown bored and wanted to rise to the second storey of the house. With an overly flamboyant bow, Killian gestured for her to go first, to which she rolled her eyes and obliged, albeit slowly. 

The stairway creaked rather ominously beneath her, and she eyed the steps rotted away with an air of unease - it would be just her luck for one of them to give way underneath her and leave her leg hanging amongst whatever wildlife had likely chosen to take up residence under the staircase until the boys could haul her back up again. As a result she made every effort to test her weight on each step before committing to it, growing in confidence the higher she ascended. 

One of Killian’s hands rested near the small of her back, gently, as if ready to catch her if she lost her balance. Despite the circumstances the thought shot a little thrill right through her.

If possible, the second floor was narrower than the first, and they had to move single file as they began taking slow steps deeper into the house. A discomfiting stillness had settled, like the farther they walked from the entrance, the more disconnected they became from the forest they had travelled through to reach it. Emma could scarcely hear the distant rustle of nature now, only the grinds and groans of the old structure, of the wind whistling through shattered panes and withered, rotting wood. 

Killian walked closely behind her and she felt his sharp intake of breath, as if readying himself to speak, when a loud creak rang out from one of the bedrooms just off the hallway. Their eyes instantly snapped in that direction.

“David?” Emma called out. 

There was no response, from David or otherwise, other than a second groan of old wood, like smart shoes upon dusty floorboards - at least, that was the mirage that her mind had instantly conjured, although she did not know from where it had arisen. With startling clarity she could picture the exact shade of the worn leather, pacing back and forth between the walls of the bedroom. Almost unbidden, her pulse began to quick as she kept her gaze fixed on the closed door. 

“That was the noise,” Killian murmured, and she distantly registered he was speaking from close to her ear, “that was the noise that made me leave the trail, and find the house.” 

Another rasp. 

It did prompt the image of the old sign of Gold’s Pawnbrokers, swaying back, and forth, like an ancient metronome of Main Street.

There was something, some feeling or sensation that lingered near the place she drew breath that told her it wasn’t David, that brought the vision of soles on boards, that had her heart fluttering with each iteration of the noise, groaning, scraping, tugging her towards it like it had a fist at her breast as she inched steadily closer –

Only when Killian squeezed her hand in one quick, reassuring motion did she realise she must’ve reached for his unconsciously. 

It broke the spell.

Heat rose from her collarbone and instantly she dropped it, throwing a grateful look over the shoulder. This was ridiculous. Again, she felt a mild irritation for her tendency to fall back on the conventions that cinema had spent her whole life convincing her were truth, and instead decided, hell, and marched headfirst to the source of the sound. 

“Emma, wait -” Killian gaped, alarmed, but she had already thrown open the door. 

Only later did she consider that doing anything in Brooke House with a show of force would be unwise, if not just as a result of the aged skeleton that the structure was built on, but luckily other than the handle clanging noisily against the wall of the bedroom, no great calamity occurred. 

Instead, the door had swung open to reveal a completely bare room, other than a spinning wheel turning slowly in the corner, creaking with each full rotation it completed. For a moment Emma watched, astounded, as it seemed to move on its own, an ancient pedal rising and falling off the ground in time with its soft and measured pace; but the explanation surely lay in the missing glass panes of the window, and the gentle breeze drifting in from the outside. 

Eerie as it was, there was nothing supernatural about it. 

“Gods, that’s creepy,” Killian muttered, and Emma resisted the urge to laugh. 

She crossed over to it and stopped the mechanism with one hand on the wheel, the pedal halting in midair as she did so. Much like the rest of the house, it was made of an old, dusty wood, and could do with a polish, but otherwise the apparatus remained largely in act. In sporadic piles beneath it, small strands of what looked like straw had been scattered about. 

After Killian pointed it out, Emma raised her shoulder in an amused shrug. “Maybe they were trying to make -” 

A flurry of movement in front of her face cut her off, and with a cry of fright she fell back from the window, limbs flailing reflexively against the sudden onslaught and she stumbled straight into Killian, who instantly tried to steady her with two firm hands on her upper arms. Hidden in the dark beside the wheel, a single crow had been nesting and, disturbed by her movements, had shot into the air with an indignant squawk and fluttered to the window. It hopped there for barely a second before disappearing out into the open air. 

“Are you alright?” Killian tugged her round to look him in the eye, searching hers for any signs of injury. 

Emma willed her racing heart to slow, immediately letting out a breathy laugh of embarrassment; she’d been a wreck ever since they entered the damn house, and she felt completely spun off her normal axis. She was supposed to be the one with the level-head, her toes curled into the ground beneath them, rooting them. It had always been her job to catch Killian when his mind was wandering away with him, not the other way round. Instead his steady presence felt like the only thing keeping her from floating away from herself. 

She let out a shaky breath. “I bet you’re regretting asking me to be the one to come with you at this point.” 

Killian only shook his head. “No,” he said, with a soft smile. “But we should find David.”

David, right. The third member of their party apparently still wandering the dark halls of the house. 

Although the thundering of footsteps from the hallway behind them appeared to somewhat account for him. 

“Was someone yelling?” David called, alarmed. After he poked his head around the door and found the pair of them a little shaken, but fine, he let out a noise of relief. “Jeesh. I was convinced the roof had come down on you or something. This place is seconds from collapsing.” 

“Nothing like that,” Emma said, noticing she was still clinging tightly to the front of Killian’s coat, and instantly releasing it. “But maybe we should go.”

The statement was directed mostly at Killian, this was his journey from the off - but she wasn’t sure what else he was expecting to find. Whether this was the house Liam had spoken about or not, it seemed clear that most of his time within it had been spent in the room with the most evidence of his work, the sitting room at the front of the ground floor. There were only two other rooms that she could see on the landing, and David informed them they were just another bedroom and what looked like a study or library. 

Killian seemed to weigh up his options, a tic jumping in his jaw as he looked between them. 

After a few quiet moments he let out a long, agitated sigh; she could sense the source of his frustration. Needing to let something go and not being ready to was an emotion she was more than familiar with.

“Maybe we should.”

“I did find something else we could try and take a peek at,” David suggested, perhaps detecting his reluctance, “looked like the door to an attic or something.”

At the look of relief that flashed across Killian’s features, Emma immediately agreed for them and followed David out of the room. At the end of the landing, near the back of the house, he pointed out a square wooden panel in the ceiling that looked like it could be removed, with a metal ring barely wider than a finger attached to it. With some difficulty, the two taller boys scrabbled at the edges of the panel and managed to tug it out of its slot. As it fell, a rickety ladder slid down to the floor.

In an overt show of faux gentlemanliness, they both suggested Emma go first. 

Rolling her eyes, she began to climb as gingerly as she could, reasonably assured in the knowledge that if something of it collapsed or she fell back, she would probably have her fall cushioned by either or both of them.

She needn’t have worried. After reaching the top safely, she could barely spot anything through the darkness; the only light dappled in from one single window at the other end of the attic, and quickly pulled her torch out to have a look around. 

“Oh,” David said, once he’d climbed up to join her, “I was kinda convinced this would be something a little more exciting.” 

Like the bedroom, the attic was mostly bare, save for some odd pieces of furniture scattered about, most covered in sheets. A chaise longue, a few crates and a dusty bookcase stuffed to the brim, with volumes toppling out of its edges and accumulating in piles around it, and onto a large writing desk next to it. Also atop the desk sat a selection of vials, some with contents of rather startling shades, a few candles, and several sheets of yellowed paper curling at the edges. 

In pieces on the floor, a glass photo frame had shattered. The shards crunched underfoot as Emma crossed the room to the bookcase, lifting a finger to brush the spines of some of the old covers. Most were nondescript, no titles to speak of, and the rest had faded too lightly for her to make them out. 

An audible clink sounded behind her, and Emma turned to watch Killian lifting the faded photograph from underneath the glass, the fragments falling back onto the floor. It was an old sepia image of a young woman with a heart shaped face, gazing warmly into the lens.

“Who is she?” she peered a little closer at the image. 

Killian shrugged. “Maybe she lived here. Somebody had to have lived here, at some stage.” It certainly seemed that way. Houses didn’t just sprout from the earth, they had to be built, their foundations pressed into the ground. A spinning wheel didn’t appear from nothing, and neither did the other small effects they had found in its halls. “‘Beauty’,” Killian read aloud from the back of the photo, written in long, cursive script. 

“Got that right,” David mused. 

There wasn’t much else to see; the boys turned to go. 

Only Emma hesitated, something catching her eye on the opposite side of the ladder; it was hidden deep in the slope of the roof, so tucked away that she almost hadn’t spotted it, but now her eyes were adjusting she could easily make out the outline of two small doors for what looked to be some kind of armoire. The doors were intricately decorated, with dark and curved painted strokes, twisting around the two handles like vines about a tree trunk.

Something in the depths of her gut stirred; like she had just heard an achingly familiar song and was overcome with a desire to move to it, the pull of something paralysingly sweet and sad beckoning for her to move closer.

She wanted to know what was inside. 

Or whatever was inside wanted to know her.

Emma took just two halting steps towards it –

Before Killian called her name from the ladder, softly, and broke the enchantment. 

She blinked back at him. “Uh, sorry?”

“I said we’re going,” he repeated, “You were right - and it’s getting late. We can always come back tomorrow.” 

Emma hesitated, her attention still captured by the wardrobe in the corner of the attic. Killian misinterpreted her pause for a different kind of uncertainty. 

“If you want to, that is.” 

“Of course,” she replied immediately, the willing of her legs to start moving towards the ladder taking an unusual amount of effort. “As often as you want.” 

Even as they finally departed the house to head back through the woods, the dimness outside heralding the approach of dusk and a brisk warning that soon they would run out of daylight, Emma could still feel her heart hammering when she thought of that wardrobe, shut behind the attic door that the boys had carefully lifted closed. 

Something remarkable laid in wait inside it; she could feel it in her bones.

And she was desperate to find out what. 

-/-

Present Day

The orange string had by now turned a murky brown against the surge of time, but Killian was still able to retrace the skeleton of the path he had taken the others down, veering off from the White Pine Trail in the north woods toward where Brooke House had stood. Dusk was rapidly approaching, and the further he walked, the more he considered that he should have waited until morning – should have returned David’s calls – should have left the ghosts that had haunted Liam Jones alone a long, long time ago.

The sky was beginning to turn from a pastel pink to midnight blue, and he had brought just two things with him for protection against the dark; the torch lit at his side, and the dagger. Its intricate, curved edges glittered dangerously with every touch of light.

Brooke House stood, as he had imagined it would, exactly where he had left it. Cracked brickwork, shattered windows and empty hallways.

Silence lay steadily at its feet.

Killian was done playing games.

He marched up the rotted steps and pushed the front door open, allowing the torch to flicker around to catch any unexpected surprises. Conceding that the hallway was clear, he entered the sitting room - there, lying untouched on the floor as if he had walked straight into the past, lay the spirit board that Regina had volunteered all those years ago. The planchette sat a few feet away, beside two discarded plastic bottles of water. An old scarlet scarf, an Apollo chocolate bar wrapper. Everything, exactly as they had left it. 

Killian turned to the remainder of the room; dark and vast, he did his best to bring himself up to his full height, even as his heart began to thump a steady beat against his chest. 

He brandished the dagger in front of him. 

“Alright,” he announced to the empty walls, “I’m here. You’ve got my full attention.” He swallowed. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

To bring him back to Storybrooke, to drag him right back under again. There were no questions as to motive; ever since he had received that voicemail from David he had known the purpose of it all like he had known the way his soul had yearned for home. Adjusting his grip, he stayed alert for any sign of movement. He could feel his hand beginning to sweat where it grasped tightly onto the metal handle.

“So all of this nonsense can end,” he continued with vehemence, “Ruby, David, the town - you leave them out of this. D’you hear me?” 

For a beat, his words turned to ghosts. Fell on the dead ears of phantom listeners, but then - something changed in the room, an almost atmospheric shift. He felt the hair at the nape of his neck begin to flutter, warm air brushing it away and he froze. Something moved along the curve of his shoulder, like a fingernail, lightly scratching against his leather jacket. The scent of wildflowers and old pines assaulted him, the forest pressing a gentle kiss to the side of his neck and after a moment he thought he heard her laugh, falling like raindrops from a great distance. 

He closed his eyes, willed it into truth. 

Don’t tell me - it’s hot cocoa, with cinnamon, and you’re about to hand it over.

A voice came from behind him, and it felt like the slow draw of a fingertip up his spine; velvet, intimate, but soft enough to make him want to squirm away.

“Hello, Killian.” 

The otherness of it slammed into him with the force of a freight train. It was too deep, too slow, too much.

Killian - Killian, don’t -!

Gathering all the courage he could muster, he whirled around.

And the sight of her stole the breath from his lungs. 

There, in a white gown that had been dirtied by the muddied forest floor, her blonde tresses crowned by a circlet of dark, withering petals, and her eyes a storm of jade and gentle fury, stood Emma Swan.

The corner of her lip curled upwards, so familiar and so alien, and she began to take slow, elegant steps towards him. A predator stalking her prey. 

Killian forgot how to breathe. 

“So good of you to finally come and see me.”

[myhahnestopinion]

THE AARONS 2019 - Best Film

Once again setting a personal record and winning a friendly competition, I watched 105 films from the year 2019. That’s more films than there are seconds of screen-time for Rose Tico in The Rise of Skywalker! That one won’t be found here, but after ranking all 105 movies, here are the ones that did rise to the top of my list. Here are the Aarons for Best Film:

#10. Marriage Story

Marriage Story twists a knife we never even saw go in; its tragedy is a fully formed snowball of once seemingly-insignificant bad decisions that the viewer is powerless to reverse, only observe. Director Noah Baumbach, however, makes only great decisions in his tale of the difficulties and distractions of divorce (in the context of the film, that is. The infusion of Baumbach’s informed personal experiences is unmissable here). The film splits its focus between the perspectives of the two former spouses, but not evenly. Through both, we understand the effects of unintentional harm of other being; in the unbalance, we empathize with people reaching that realization at different times. Marriage is a story about learning that, no matter the effort to relate to another, there will always be unknowns, but in trust, there is peace.

#9. Little Women

The best adaptations play to the strengths of the screen. The kinetic timeline shifting of director Greta Gerwig’s new version of Little Women is a feat only manageable in cinematic form. The shake-up to the traditional script enlivens the familiar story; the bits of happiness and heartbreak all feel a little bit bigger. Backed by an exceptional cast, Gerwig illustrates that the importance of retelling stories is the same as the importance in telling them to begin with. The movie is undoubtedly the superior cinematic version of the story; if it’s not too blasphemous to say, it’s the best version on the big-screen or off. 

#8. The Farewell

Secret secrets are no fun, but can shared secrets spare someone? It’s the question at the heart of director Lulu Wang’s The Farewell, in which a family decides not to tell their grandmother she only has a short while to live, and stage a wedding as an excuse to gather the family together before she dies. Such a heavy burden seems unbearable alone; the cycle of shame and fear when trying to find the best way to love someone is inexorable. Sharing has never been a strong suit of the Western world; the culture clash of the understated film ends up a surprising source of comfort. Yet there will always come a point where one must face such uncertainty alone, and choose whether to say goodbye to the guilt or not. The Farewell is a comfort there as well.

#7. Parasite

It’s not what you know, it’s who you know; survival depends on sticking together. Like The Farewell, Parasite’s premise unearths questions of solidarity; unlike The Farewell, its execution is not understated. Director Bong Joon-ho’s lampooning of late-stage capitalism is as unmissable as a big dumb rock, and he lampshades it as such. Parasite is the most unexpected of heist films, but one that cuts to the heart of the genre: the world as-is is a mad scrabble for a good job, and morality need not apply. The insidious ploy of the film is an insightful exploration of class conflict. The two families at its center may not have a single person between them who’s not hungry for more, but only one is deciding how many seats are at the table. It’s not our world, we’re just living in it. 

#6. Knives Out

After the dregs of the internet came for him with knives out, director Rian Johnson decided to kill them with kindness… and gift everyone with another masterful work of cinema. There’s no foul play made in Johnson’s new murder mystery; the cast is stacked with talent and the screenplay stacked with twists. The story subverts genre expectations in revolutionary ways, keeping viewers guessing and engrossed. The additional emotional undercurrent is similarly revelatory; even when killers are caught and loose ends are tied up, questions of justice remain. Pointed, poignant, and uproarious, Johnson has carved up an excellent mystery. Considering his debut feature Brick, it’s no surprise the director’s dunnit again. 

#5. Shazam!

After shifting its focus from an overambitious shared universe to its lesser known characters, DC Comics has captured lightning in a bottle once again. The selling-point of Shazam! is, in a word, magical: a young boy given the power to transform into a full-grown superhero (play with infectious charm by Zachary Levi) boils down the appeal of the genre to its base wish-fulfillment elements. With superpowers dominating the cinemas right now, Shazam!’s recentering of their collective narrative is more powerful than Zeus. Zack Snyder sought to bring maturity to the Superman story by questioning the burden of possessing power. Made for kids but holding the wisdom of Solomon, Shazam! combats Snyder’s misguided notions: with great power comes great responsibility, but responsibility is sharing power. 

#4. One Cut of the Dead

While there are many films shot in one-take, including one vying for Best Picture at the Oscars this year, One Cut of the Dead’s pure commitment to its craft makes it a cut above the rest. In the film, things go haywire for a small filmmaking crew on the set of a zombie movie when real zombies attack; what happens next is best left unspoken (to preserve its wonderful surprises). The tightly-crafted horror-comedy is a bloody beast; its multi-limbed nature reaches every mark its aiming for, tearing at one’s heart, brain, and stomach in equal measure. It deconstructs its own movie magic only to build up an even more fantastic monument to cinema and the cooperation demanded by its creation. Within One Cut of the Dead’s endless inventiveness, the art-form’s rarely felt so alive.

#3. Midsommar

Midsommar is an honoring of tradition, but it quickly evolves into something all its own. Its most obvious influence is The Wicker Man, yet while that film’s pagan horror turned a twist of fate and a twist of faith into its punchline, Midsommar lets viewers in on the joke. Director Ari Aster lets events unfold at a meticulous pace in the closed-off community, but dread never sets in. The film is perhaps entirely miscategorized as horror; any screams crescendo into a potent catharsis. Midsommar is a banquet of visual treats that leaves viewers to chew on a shocking ending. With both, Midsommar is nothing but fulfilling.

#2. Us

Many directors can’t escape the shadow of such a successful debut, but luckily for us and for Us, Jordan Peele was no less effective at holding up a mirror to society’s sins in his sophomore feature. Like Get Out, Us rips the ineffectual bandage off this country’s festering wounds, demanding they be properly addressed lest they be allowed to kill us. The effect is once again deeply uncomfortable, gnawing at the viewer long after it’s over, as all proper horror films should. Peele, however, is entirely comfortable, further solidifying himself as an unmissable auteur through an assured handling of tone. The movie is both a crowd-pleaser and entirely uncompromising; we have met both friend and enemy, and it is Us.

AND THE BEST FILM OF 2019 IS...

#1. It: Chapter Two

It is inexplicable. The first half of the new adaption of Stephen King’s monstrous book was #8 on this same list back in 2017, yet while Chapter Two is much more uneven and unwieldly, it floated all the way to the top as my favorite film of 2019. It’s victory certainly owes a debt to its origins; the second part is a reflection on the first, as the adult version of the Loser’s Club must remember their past to battle the child-eating clown one last time. With this intent in mind, the film’s ungainly composition shifts into a new form. Chapter Two is an eerie and eerily-accurate encapsulation of the sensation of unpacking past trauma. It’s confusing, frustrating, disheartening, scary, and often unexpectedly funny trying to control such a narrative. Sometimes, all one can do is scream at the cyclical cruelty. In those moments, the greatest thing is to have someone screaming with you. Perhaps the It sequel suggests that there is no such thing as good movies or bad movies - maybe there are just movies that you need. Chapter Two is a cinematic barbaric yalp, indulgent in its runtime and its special effects because that is how it can and chooses to be heard. I needed it.

NEXT UP: THE 2019 AARONS FOR WORST FILM!

[hellolittleogre]

Idiots in Love, chapter 2

Technically, first part of the second chapter because its loooong. This chapter features Goodnight matchmaking, references to the film Delicatessen, a cameo from Horne and the reappearance of Sam!

If Billy had a time machine he would go back in time and kick himself in the head for saying he had a crush on Vasquez. Then he would go back even further in time to kick himself in the head for not having a crush on Vasquez, because really, Vas is a dreamboat.

But this is besides the point. The point is that Billy is unfortunately stuck with his crush on Goodnight, and Goodnight seems to have lost his everloving mind since Billy told him about his crush.

(On Vasquez. Which he didn’t have.)

And now Goodnight is matchmaking with the maniacal zeal of a violin player at a third rate Italian restaurant working late on Valentines day. 

He’s not even trying to be subtle about it, throwing them together every chance he gets. Elbows his way to sit down next to Vas and then as soon as he sees Billy hollers “I saved you a seat!” and disappears like a red streak, leaving Billy to sit awkwardly sandwiched between Vasquez and whatever girl he’s hitting on at the moment.Goodnight will make study dates and then clumsily offer a transparent excuse when only the two of them show up and pretend that he has to study in a different section of the library. He lures Billy down to the coffee shop and just “stumble” on Vasquez, before he remembers he had urgent business on the other side of campus. Goody borrows books of Vasquez and then asks Billy to return them. As the final straw, he mentioned to Billy that he had cinema tickets for the student cinema club and on the evening tragically something came up very suddenly and he couldn’t go but oh, hey I gave the other ticket to Vasquez, so I guess have a nice evening?

Billy spends an excruciating two hours watching a French romantic comedy about cannibalism and playing the cello in a dystopian future. He might love Goody but he’ll never get his taste in movies.

“Why do I get the feeling we’re dating?” Vas ask him on the way home and Billy pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache. 

“I might have fucked up,” he concedes and Vas nodded in response.

“I figured it might have been something like that.” he says sagely. “Do you think you could unfuck it please? It’s just that at some point I’d like to get laid and you know, I’m not exactly feeling the chemistry here.”

(“Excuse you, we have plenty of chemistry!” Billy says, stung. Vasquez looks down at him, and then slowly raises his eyebrows.

“Do you want to date me?” he asks, supremely unimpressed and Billy takes him in, the curly brown hair, the dimples, the smile, and the accent and really Billy might have been kicked in the head once too many because he doesn’t. He want some scrawny fuck with dishwater hair who thinks two hours of dystopian French cannibalism is a good time.)

Billy puts in a considerable amount of time over the next couple of weeks thinking about how to clear up this stupid mess, before Goody strains something. Maybe he can have a pretend heart to heart with Goodnight, and he is still carefully staging this scenario in his head and deciding on the exact phrasing when one Friday he opens the door to their dorm only to find  Goody and Sam in bed. 

OK so he doesn’t really get an eyeful of anything, thank God, clothes are still on and hands are not in any too bad places but it still feels too private, too intimate. Sam’s sitting on the bed, leaning up against the wall with his arm around Goodnight, who’s practically curled in his lap, head resting against his shoulder. They both startle when Billy opens the door, Goodnight getting up quickly turning away to face the windows. He’s not sure but it looks like Goody is wiping his hands across his face repeatedly.

“Just uh, put a sock on the door or something,” he mutters, and turns right back around to sit in the library and stare at cat videos for an hour and trying not to grind his teeth. 

There is nothing to be upset about. He had known about Sam and Goodnight but he'd also forgotten.

 It’s easy to forget with Goody's sly smile and gratifying attention. Sam sort of became theoretical knowledge the moment Goody slipped his hand into his, their socked feet resting on each other. Billy realized to his horror that even in spite of knowing about Sam, he'd still stupidly started believing that Goodnight might be into him, that if Billy ever managed to get his words in order and clear up that idiotic misunderstanding about Vasquez and ask Goody out he might say yes. He is going to hit something so hard the next time he’s at the gym for being so fucking stupid. 

Several cat videos later and in a foul mood he trudged back to the dorm, knocking before he opened the door. 

“C’mon in,” Goody hollered and Billy cautiously stuck his head in. Goody is still on the bed, this time lying flat with his hands neatly crossed on his chest, Sam’s bag is on the floor, half unpacked and  the shower is running in the bathroom. 

“Sorry about that,” Goody says apologetically, raising his head from the pillow, his eyes suspiciously red and his face blotchy. 

“Are you okay?” Billy asks, temporarily forgetting to be mad, seeing Goody all laid out flat. 

“Yeah, sure I'm fine,” Goody says rubbing his face, and scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I just…” he sighs.” You know how Sam can be, he’ll just give it to you straight. It can get a bit overwhelming, you know?”

Billy opened his mouth and closed it again. The words echoing through his mind, jealousy and want exploding like twin solar flares in his chest. How could he ever have been so stupid to think he had a chance here?

“Yeah well maybe you can learn to keep it between you and Sam? he heard himself say, frustration making his words short. Goody cut his eyes to him for a second and then looked away, hands starting to pluck for a cigarette

“Yeah, uh sure, of course,” he says, and fiddled with the carton, flipping the lid open and closed. 

“So next time Sam decides to “ just give it to you” maybe you could give me a heads up or something?” The black tar-like jealousy made his tone harsh and Goody twitched a little but nodded guiltily. 

Billy felt like an elephant, every movement unnaturally loud, closing cupboards and putting away his stuff unnecessary force until Sam comes out of the shower, thankfully blessedly clothed, even if his feet are bare. 

“Are you ready?” he asks Goody. 

“Yeah, in a minute,” Goodnight answers,holding up his cigarette, waving towards the window. He kept glancing between Sam and Billy, reminiscent of a dog which could sense it was in trouble, without any idea of what it had done wrong. Its odd that he is the one discomfited because now that he thinks about it Sam is definitely being somewhat short towards Billy, and he has no idea what that is about at all.

While Goody smoked Sam rifled through his clothes and Billy watches him from his bed with jealousy so sharp in his chest if felt like acid reflux. 

It wasn't, he realized not actually jealousy. It’s something else, something more…complicated.

 If Sam made Goody happy then Billy was all for it. He recognized that if kissing Sam was what Goody wanted, he should have it. If Sam was good to him and made him feel good, making Goody's back arch, throwing his head back and gasping, choking out air and praise, toes curling hands opening and closing like cats carding, then Billy wanted that for him. He was envious of Sam. He wanted it too, not instead. It was a curious little realization, and didn’t actually help with his foul mood, or the way his jaw couldn’t seem to unclench, or how he wanted to snarl at them both like a hurt animal. The memory of Goody shyly and carefully reaching out to hold his hand kept intruding, that little voice kept pointing out that Goody was the one to call him, to come running with him, who kept instigating touching like he couldn't help himself. 

“Here, there you go.” Sam says, emerging from one of the drawers and throwing a t-shirt at Goody. “Put that on.”

“Ah no, Sam, really?” Good eyed the item dispiritedly and Sam nods. 

“Oh yes.”

And Goody sighs and peel out of his t-shirt and puts on the one Sam had thrown at him. Billy could see why he doesn't wear it that often, it's too small and the color is a faded washed-out blue but, oh. Oh, it brought out the light blue of Goody's eyes and fitted tight around his sinewy arms and narrow hips,it even made his shoulders look a little broader. He looked delectable. He looked like a twink. 

Billy immediately became very occupied with his phone because he if he stared at Goody for much longer he'd actually start drooling

“Uh, so we’re heading out,” Goody says and Billy is so used to him extending a friendly invitation to come along that it actually surprised him when it didn't come. Sam and Goody were going out alone. And Goody looks good enough to eat. 

Goody kept glancing between him and Sam awkwardly, clearly noticing the lack of invitation himself, not knowing how to smooth out the situation. 

After they had clattered through the door Billy felt jittery and shaky, anxiety prickling up and down his spine and in an effort to quell it he went for a short run. He sped past the campus, focused on making himself run as fast as he could, feet flying almost like an explosion every time he hit the ground. It felt for a moment like he could outrun his problems, the perpetual feeling of strangeness, this unexpected snag in the road that just added more fucking otherness to him.

Coming back he took advantage of the empty dorm room to pleasure himself in the shower, hard and fast, almost viciously thinking of nothing, his mind aggressively blank and stood under shower spray subdued and panting afterwards, watching the water and milky residue swirl around his feet. 

In spite of the run and the post-orgasm lassitude he still felt antsy, the room too empty and the vivid idea of Sam and Goodnight making busy felt haunting. He could go to the library but he felt too restless to study and it was a Saturday night anyway. Under normal circumstances he and Goody would be out playing pool and drinking dark beer, or there would be food and movies in the house Emma, Josh and Vasquez shared. For all that Billy felt lonely he hadn't been alone in a long time. 

The silence in the room seemed to swell and grow and suddenly it’s making  Billy annoyed. It’s Saturday night, why should he sit and stare at the wall? 

It wasn't until he came down to the student bar and saw the gigantic rainbow banner that he hesitated. He remembered Goodnight saying something about how the Gay-Straight alliance arranged bi-monthly student pubs but he hadn't realized it would be one on tonight. Billy hadn't been to the GSA yet, he’d walked past the door a couple of times and once even turned the handle but he'd never managed to go. Goody went every now and then and came back with leaflets and invitations for Billy to come to board game night or sex workshops (called “fuckshops” and just the leaflet made Billy blush and spend half an hour in the bathroom imagining going to one of them with Goody, and being paired up by an enthusiastic workshop teacher and just one thing leading to another…) He always declined. Just because he was gay didn’t mean he’d have to do any of that.

When Billy was fourteen he’d been cornered in the changing room after PE by one of the guys on the football team, who had for one moment touched his chin with a hand both rough and soft and said “If you’d do it for me I’d do it for you?” with a crude and unmistakable gesture and Billy had nailed his eyes to the floor and sidled away like a crab, holding on the strap of his backpack as if it were a life line. His legs felt like water, trying to walk down the corridor and look normal. How could he know? How could he know? Could anyone know just by looking at him? A week later he’d been standing in line at the cafeteria when a hard shove from behind made him fall over and he had scrambled to his feel to see the back of the same guy walking away, the message silent but unmistakable. 

 And now the otherwise normal student pub seemed surrounded by a force field, an invisible barrier that once Billy crossed would proclaim him GAY to everyone in there, not just something that was between him and Goodnight but something Billy was on his own, independently. Something Billy would still be once he’d gotten over this particular crush. 

But then again there is nothing for it. Billy knows, intellectually, that he won’t be in love with Goodnight for the rest of his life, that he’ll have partners and hook ups and boyfriends and if he’s going to be gay he has to get himself out there and actually start being gay. However the fear clings to his legs like an anxious cat, he’s spent so long trying not to let it show on him that the thought of letting people know, deliberately, feels like those dreams where he walk into an exam without any pants on, only a 100 times more exposed.

He’s saved from standing there indefinitely by two young women coming out of the bar, one of them holding the door for him, raising her eyebrows and there is nothing for it but to go through.

Billy wasn’t quite sure what he had expected, possibly strobing lights reflecting off undulating bodies, hard bodies and glitter, not tables set out in neat rows and Horne, the great hulking Religious Studies professor to come shambling towards him. Horne looked like a bear and was president over the College Egalitarian Hiking Club. He was also one of the most embarrassingly religious people Billy had ever met. 

Before Christmas Goody had dragged Billy to his “non-denominational Solstice service”, one of the strangest fucking experiences of Billy’s life, where Horne had started with saying that while he was obviously Christian, anyone else were welcome to dedicate this spiritual moment to any deity they felt they were connected to, and then had rambled a lot about “As how the lengthening days light triumphs over dark so may peace triumph over war etc.” before leading them all in a round of “Here comes the Sun.” Billy had wanted to die of second hand embarrassment, but he had to admit that when Horne came in to do a guest lecture in his Anthropology course he was pretty cool. He was unconventional and soft spoken in a way which was belied both by his build and his academic writing style, which according to some were like being kicked in the head. His feud with Marcel and Jean Pigéon was legendary.

“Rocks, isn’t it?” Horne says in his high reedy voice. “Welcome in,and come sit here, its providence that you came just now, we were one person short and just about to start and it’s so depressing to have an empty spot. I was going to fill in but I imagine everyone here already knows me pretty well. Ha ha ha.”

 And then he quickly deposited Billy in a chair and lumbered off towards the bar, leaving Billy with the sinking feeling of just having agreed to speed date.

[nikatyler]

Felt like doing some replies the ~ old fashioned ~ way. I should be packing, but I don’t wanna. One good thing about this semester is that I don’t have classes on Monday morning, which means I don’t have to go to Prague on Sunday. But I’ll be once again going home late on Friday -_- Oh well. Maybe I could skip the lecture every once in a while to go home on Thursday afternoon.

I’m scared. Not really of what I’ll have to learn because I know that even if it’s difficult, I’ll probably get it in my brain in the end. Somehow. I’m more scared that once again, I’ll be left alone. I haven’t really found a stable friend group. I mean, I talk to some people sometimes, but I wouldn’t call it a friendship. One friend that I thought I could rely on doesn’t even bother saying hello to me anymore. I don’t know what I did to him, he just stopped talking to me. But maybe it’s for the best. Even when we still talked, I couldn’t believe how judgemental he was, and I often wondered if he talks about me like that too when I can’t hear it. He probably did. Oh well, I’ll see what I can do. I hope I’ll run into someone who is kinda like my best friend from high school.

As for sims stuff, I know I still owe some things to some people and I feel bad about it. You’ll get it eventually. I’m actually looking forward to doing it too. Makeovers are fun. I’d also like to release some more sims, I have one more sim dump and then some old legacy characters I want to share, plus some BC contestants that didn’t make it. They like to get eliminated in the first rounds.

Also, thanks for the comments on my mental health update post. I’ll see how this turns out and if it doesn’t get any better (I’m kinda hoping that better weather brings better mood, it worked before), I’ll start looking for a therapist or something. No offense to my parents but talking to them about this didn’t help in a slightest. They just don’t get it. And I swear I’m not reverting back to the “I’m an edgy misunderstood teenager” phase. Even though “edgy misunderstood teenager” is an aesthetic I still live for. Whatever that means.

And thanks for the tips on the laptop post. I’ll keep them in mind and I’ll probably ask again when the time comes and I actually buy a new one.

Ahh...I guess that’s it? Replies under the cut. As per usual, they’ll probably be the shorter part of this post, but oh well.

abysims  replied to your photoset  “Let’s find Lilith Vatore some love! In my game, I’ve had Lilith in a...”

Honestly Cassandra and Lilith would be amazing (... In my Glimmerbrook Academy story Cass is actually gonna have a huge crush on Lilith so I'm voting for that, yas!)

Ooooh that sounds great! Also, I’ll have a post announcing the results of the post coming up later, either today or tomorrow, but...spoiler alert: Cassandra might have won ;)

tiny-tany-thaanos replied to your post “Simmer - Get to Know”

Lol this thing with Mermaids made me remember that when my friend and I were like 12 years old, a 6-year-old made her a "proposal" and we answered him that she'll marry him when he buys her a house by the sea in Prague

Omg sea in Prague sounds kinda cool, my faculty would be so close to the beach *-* Haha but at the same time it’s kinda terrifying, where would the sea come from? From the north? From the south? Would that mean my home doesn’t exist? Or, actually, considering my town was built on a big hill, would that mean I live on an island? And which part of Prague would be under the sea and which one would stay?

Sorry, I got distracted thinking of this AU where my country actually has access to the sea :D But we used to have it, back in like I think 12th or 13th century. We’re wayyyy smaller now.

amuhav replied to your post “Me, looking up some specs of my current laptop: you're...you're...”

If it's anything like me with my first 'gaming' laptop, the store clerk basically straight up lied to me about how good it was, and I was too young and naive to know better �� sims 3 almost burnt that thing to a crisp ������

Lmao I have a similar story with my first laptop, we were told that it has this super amazing graphic card...and it wasn’t amazing at all, as I later learned when my laptop broke.

amuhav replied to your photoset “Sims Moodboard Challenge I was tagged by @blurrypxls,...”

Oh no... don't make me want to go back to pinterest and do more of these �� They're ADDICTIVE

THEY ARE! I haven’t done much today, but I’ve spent a lot of time there all through this last week.

amuhav replied to your photo “I need to stop. This is more addictive than scrolling through memes....”

Pssst, not to enable or anything, but Picasa 3 has this nice feature where you can take a bunch of pics and it makes them into a nice collage. That's how I made mine, and then used them as my desktop backgrounds ��

I think I’ll use Photoshop, like I do for everything else, but thanks for giving me an idea for my new background! I used to have my sims or some other characters set as a background, but now that I take my laptop to school I feel a bit uncomfortable with that, so since October I’ve had this kinda boring background and I’ve been meaning to change it into something nicer, I just didn’t know what to put there. Now I do.

fataleromeo replied to your photoset “Sunset: “How dare you pretend you’re Father Winter?” Father Winter:...”

Holy crap, Sunset is a lot more buff than I ever realized. Those arms! ��

Yup. That’s because she has to get her Athletic skill higher for work. I think her muscle slider might be at max, actually!

fataleromeo replied to your photoset “Father Winter: “That’s it! You’re going on my Naughty List. Your...”

How could she not with with muscles like that?? Damn his Christmas magic!

Next time we should just call Caleb. I mean, he defeated Grim Reaper with no problem, surely Father Winter won’t be any more difficult for him!

fataleromeo replied to your photoset “Sunset: “Okay, cool. You won’t give us gifts but I have a special one...”

Lmaoooooo, get him, Sunset! ������

He deserves it

asplashofsims replied to your photo “~ daylight”

Cute picture! ♡ I hope you feel better soon and omgg winx club, it's my guilty pleasure for sure hahah all the childhood memories��

I love Winx Club so much. It’s a little ridiculous and the plot holes are terrible (and don’t let me talk about anything after season 4, those are not my Winx D:), but I can’t let it go.

blubrich replied to your post “I forgot how traumatizing Toy Story 3 was ��”

Especially the ending! ��

YES. I remember the whole cinema was crying.

Also, Toy Story always unpacks this weird guilt in me haha. Because as a child, naturally I was like “I would NEVER abandon my toys, I’ll keep them forever!”. And now...they’re in boxes...under my bed and in the basement...some of them I gave away or to my younger sister, who then also gave some away because she’s fifteen now. I still have my plushies and teddy bears in my bed though, it would be too empty without them :D

silverspringsimmer replied to your audio post “(via...”

I love Within Temptation and they got me into heavier music later, too!

I don’t even remember how I found them. I was just bored of the music I was listening to all the time back then, so I clicked through playlists and stuff on Spotify and somehow I landed on their page, I guess. And I immediately fell in love.

tiny-tany-thaanos replied to your audio post “(via...”

Oh this song was the first song of this bad which I heard! It was also 5-6 years ago.though I do not listen to them often these days.

I think the first song I heard was What Have You Done, which I liked and still like very much, but then I heard this one and went kinda crazy because it just sounded so epic and exactly what my poor slightly depressed fifteen years old soul needed. In one day, I completely switched from pop to metal and it took me a few years to appreciate my old favourite music again. (I know that I say all the time that I’m a Taylor Swift stan, but actually I only really started LOVING her music again last year.)

I’ve always thought that it’s kinda funny that in my Music class, for the first semester I prepared a project about Taylor Swift. In the second semester, that changed, the old pop loving Ronnie was dead, and my new project was about Within Temptation :D But I remember that I was actually upset that day, I chose to show my classmates the video of What About Us and they didn’t appreciate it. And then after me, my other classmate had a project about some singer who had this weird song about getting high. They wanted to replay it. I was so bitter, in my head I was like “this song that I showed you has an interesting meaningful message and you’d rather listen to a song about drugs, how dare you?! You’re absolutely terrible!”

Yeah. I mean, I get it today, but I was so, so bitter.

amuhav replied to your audio post “(via...”

I recently found out they had a new album out (and Nightwish had a new single out too ��) and early 2000s emo teenage me immediately surfaced and threw money at my screen!

Ahhhh I’ve basically had Noise on repeat since it came out, I love it so much! And the video is cool too. I can’t wait to hear the whole album. Nightwish never disappoints, I hope I’ll one day get to see them live. I’ve had a few chances but then it never worked out.

[avengerscompound]

Playing House

Playing House:  A Black Widow Fanfic

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader

Word Count:  1226

Rating:  M

Square filled:  @marvelfluffbingo - Buying a House

Warnings:  Some mentions of sex

Synopsis:  Natasha and you have plans for a home and family but neither of you ever really expect to get them to come true.

Playing House

It was one of those things that you never quite believe that would actually happen.  Natasha Romanoff wasn’t the kind to settle down.  She wasn’t the kind who would ever retire.  She had her thing.  It was Avenging.  Clearing that red from her ledger as she liked to say.

Yet, you would still sit in bed sharing a tablet looking at homes and make these big plans about the life you were going to have together.

Of course, there was never a limit to the budget you would spend.  This was your pipe dreams here.  You couldn’t put a dollar value on those.

There were the party condos in the heart of the city.  Three or four bedrooms.  That way you could have Clint and the kids sleep over and room for an office and a craft room.  They were in complexes in midtown or Hell’s Kitchen above hip restaurants and close enough to theatres or clubs or bars that you could go out together every night and just stagger home in each other’s arms.  The complexes always had gyms and pools and views of the Chrysler Building.  It didn’t matter if they cost 19 million dollars.  By then you were both rich and nothing was too good for two women who were now taking the time to just appreciate their freedom.  Two women who were living life and throwing parties and just enjoying each other.

Sometimes you looked at large brownstones on Park Avenue.  Just across from Central Park with views of the playground that you would walk your kids and maybe Cooper and Lila and Nate too.  A big extended family when the Barton’s were in town.  They’d be huge homes with seven bedrooms and a pool and a cinema and a library.  Where you only left if you wanted to.  Where decorating and getting ready to have your kids would be just as fun as when they were there.  Maybe Clint would agree to offer up the biology you needed to make them.  If not him, you’d find a way to make it happen, because it was your daydream together.  Sometimes you would have just one kid.  A daughter.  Her name would always be Clinton, even though it did make you break down in giggles when Natasha went on her little comedy routine about talking to the girl Clint and the boy Clint places.  Even though you weren’t even sure if you’d want to name a kid that in real life.  In the fantasy where you and Natasha just stopped fighting and had a normal person’s life, she named her daughter after Clint the way he named his son after her.

Sometimes it was more than one.  Twins were common.  Clint and Nikita.  Or there would be four that were all different ages and you bought them all the cutest clothes and they were all well behaved but also somehow complete troublemakers.

Sometimes you decided that you didn’t want to raise your kids in the city.  You looked at large farmhouses.  Sometimes upstate, sometimes so close to Clint that you’d be able to walk over and your kids could all grow up together and be good friends too.   Sometimes it would be beachside.  Somewhere between Santa Cruz and San Francisco.  Where the ocean was as wild and terrible as Natasha and Sea Lions came onto the beach while you were there playing.  Where you had a little land and grew strawberries which you made jam from and sold on the side of the road as a pay what you want kind of deal.

Sometimes the kids would disappear again and you would find an apartment in France with views of the Eiffel Tower and the Seine.  You would go downstairs every morning in berets and Natasha would order you coffee and a pastry in her perfect French so you’d never get confused with tourists.  You’d party and have the Avengers come and visit and eventually someone would invite you to join some exclusive sex club and then the real fun would start.  Natasha always said that bit with such a growl in her voice and then toss the tablet aside unconcerned of whether or not it broke.  You would then make deep, passionate love for hours until you had both come so many times that your muscles felt like jelly and you were dehydrated.

You looked at huge mansions with pools that looked like they ran right off the edges of cliffs and cute houses in the suburbs near good schools with yards large enough to have a dog.  You looked at castles in France and tiny English cottages.  Each house had a different version of your perfect lives.  You would lie curled up with each other, playing with her red hair as she concocted elaborate stories about all the different lives you’d have once she was ready to settle down.  Once the red had been turned to black.

They were just dreams though.  Just the hopeful stories you told yourselves to make getting through the dark shit you had to do easier.  That was more so for her than you.  She had more darkness in her past and was willing to go much further to right what she saw as wrongs.  So you never expected to actually buy any of these houses.  Even the small houses in the suburbs were as an impossible dream as the huge New York mansions.  It just was never going to be your life.

Clint might be able to juggle Avenging and family.  You and Nat were different stories.

Except…

Except for the fact that slowly they started getting more reasonable.  Avenging made pretty good money.  You had a nest egg.  The houses you browsed stopped being over the top mansions and started being actual homes where you could commute into the compound or close to Clint’s farm.  They were just homes too.  No cinemas or bars.  Just a home.  Something big enough that it had room for children but small enough that it was still cozy.

Then …

Well, then you started really talking about having kids.  Exploring this as something you could have together.  Talking about what the Red Room took from her.  How she’d stopped letting herself actually want that, yet she did actually want that.

So you spoke to Clint and Laura.  You asked if there was a chance Clint might offer up some genetics.  Neither you nor Natasha had expected them to say yes.

Only…

They had said yes.  You had gone through IVF and it only took two before you were pregnant.  When you got that positive pregnancy test back, Natasha had hugged you so tightly and for so long you started to wonder if she’d ever let you go.  You weren’t sure you wanted her to.

So…

Now you were here.  Natasha’s hand linked with yours standing in the driveway as the removalists started unpacking their truck.

“We’re home,”  Natasha says and you turn and smile at her.

“Yeah.  We are.”

She ran her fingers over the swell of your stomach.  “Do I really get to have this?”

You nodded and leaned in and kissed her softly.  “You sure do, Tasha.  Shall we go tell them where to unpack?”

She kissed you softly and nodded.  “Yeah.  This has to be perfect.”

You chuckled and put your arm around her waist.  “It already is.”

[probably-writing-x]

Further.

~Kind of like the idea of this becoming a series?? Thoughts??~

~~~~~~

"Alright I'll be there in five minutes," You comment hurriedly down the phone to your brother as you step quickly onto the awaiting tube.

"Did you remember everything?" Tom asks as he instantly makes the assumption that your forgetfulness had got the better of you.

"Yes I remembered it all. Your list was, and I quote, get shit for a barbeque and some ice creams," You shake your head, sitting down onto one of the free seats on the vehicle, "And yes I remembered Fab lollies for Haz,"

"Alright alright," Tom laughs, "See you in a minute then,"

You hang up and welcome your music returning into your headphones, settling your head back and blocking out the rest of the public as you await your stop.

~~~

When you get off the tube, the station is in a state of hustle and bustle as the heat begins to overwhelm London once again.

"(Y/n) Holland?" An unknown voice calls and you pull out your earphone to turn around and acknowledge the voice, "Oh my god hi! I'm such a huge fan of Tom and your family!"

"Aw thank you," You smile politely, giving the young girl a hug, "It's lovely to meet you,"

She takes a photo of the two of you and as her phone locks, you notice her lockscreen is full of photos of you and Harrison. It wasn't particularly surprising. Plenty of Tom's fans felt as though the two of you should be together and they already practically treated you like a couple. But still, it sent a little pain through your heart.

Nevertheless, you bid her farewell and dismiss yourself, ascending the escalator before beginning your walk back to the house.

~~~

"That was definitely longer than five minutes," Harry states simply as he opens the door, appearing alongside your other younger brother, Paddy.

"Well then you can go shopping next time you lazy ass," You roll your eyes, handing him one of the shopping bags.

"Public transport makes you cranky," Harry jokes, carrying the bag into the kitchen where the rest of the boys - Tom, Sam and Harrison - all wait.

"Finally!! Harrison's been in a foul mood, like full on hanger," Sam shakes his head, nudging Haz's shoulder.

"Somebody grumpy?" You pout as you reach behind him to put something in the cupboard, "Is it your time of the month?"

Harrison rolls his eyes and leans down so his face is inches from yours, "Must be, I guess we're synced!"

You hit his chest and push him away, busying yourself by starting to unpack the other bags.

"Alright how do we actually make a barbeque?" Tom clasps his hands together, lugging in a big bag of charcoal.

"I've been gone all afternoon and you guys still didn't figure out how to make a fucking barbeque?" You laugh, "I have to do everything in this family!"

"We were busy," Paddy retorts, "Harrison wanting to fill up the pool,"

"That pool we had when we were about five?!" You exclaim, running your hands through your hair to pull it out of your face.

"Well we couldn't find the pump so we had to take turns blowing it up," Sam admits and it makes you laugh even more.

"Something funny?" Harrison raises his brows, tickling your sides as you double over to avoid him.

"Come on! I'm fucking starving!" Harry encourages, all of them oblivious to Harrison's actions being anything more than brotherly.

And before you know it, all of your brothers have left to go into the garden and somehow work out how to make up tthis barbeque.

You and Harrison settle into a silence and it is only then that you can notice the lack of brightness in his eyes.

"Everything okay over there?" You frown, folding your arms as you stand opposite him in the kitchen.

"Um, yeah, yeah," He nods reassuringly, "Can we maybe just find some time to talk later?"

Your face doesn't falter from it's frown, "Yeah, of course. But for now can you somehow help me keep these boys under control?"

He laughs and it seems like he lets his worries slip away temporarily as he follows you outside, hand somehow subconsciously settling on your back as the two of you join the boys in huddling around their project.

~~~

In a while, after the barbeque took far too long to set up, you're all relaxing on the grass as Tom gets up occasionally to check on the cooking.

"Here you go boys," You call, carrying out four beers and a lemonade for Paddy and handing them out to each of them.

You hand Harrison's to him last as you sit down beside him.

"You even got my favourite," He comments, nudging your shoulder, "Thanks love,"

"What can I say?" You joke, "I'm just an all round ten out of ten,"

"You really are," He mumbles but its completely inaudible to you.

And its completely hidden to you how much his eyes focus on you.

~~~

"Ooh call me Gordon Ramsey boys, I am the Antoni Porowski of this group and you cannot tell me otherwise," Tom grins as he starts to plate up burgers and hot dogs for everyone.

They were slightly burnt and some of the burgers were strange shapes from his failed attempts to flip them but nonetheless, they were worth the wait.

"Did you seriously forget to buy ketchup?" Harrison sighs, his hand settling low on your back as he pokes his head over your shoulder to look at all of the food.

"On top of everything else, yes I may have forgotten ketchup," You admit, turning to face him and finding yourself a little too close to him. It provokes a blush to appear on your face and the words to fall away from your lips, no longer being important enough to break this moment.

Harrison swallows the lump in his throat and lets his eyes fall to solely focus on you, dancing across your face like they were terrified to be so close. He envied everything that had ever been closer than this. Every drop of rain, every kiss on the cheek from your brothers, every ex - he envied them all for being closer than it was possible for him to ever be.

"Harry fuck off!" Sam hits his twin over the head as Harry tries to flip the paper plate out of his hands.

It snaps you and Haz away from each other as you reside to your seats on the grass, still gravitating to sit beside each other.

~~~

When the evening begins to draw to a quiet close, your brothers have resided to sitting indoors to watch a match on the TV - leaving only you and Harrison outside after both of you offered to tidy away.

"Are you okay to talk now?" You ask into the quiet air as Harrison stops in his tracks.

"Oh no you don't have to-" He begins nervously but stops as soon as you take his hand.

"Come here," Fingers locking with his, you lead him over to the sofa chair that furnished the patio.

You both sit down and, instinctively, your legs lift up to go over his, one of his hands settling on your thigh whilst the other still plays with your hand.

"So, what's been on your mind?" You ask quietly, looking up to try and focus on his crisp blue eyes as much as possible.

"(Y/n) I don't know how I say this in the right way or how I say it without it seeming like I'm making things worse or I-" He sighs, running a hand through his hair, "But I'm just going to say it because you overthink just as much as I do anyway,"

You can't help but smile a little.

"I think you know how I feel about you,"

"And I think you know the same for me," You mention, watching as he focuses solely on the dance between yours and his hands.

"But I also know that you know where we stand," He admits, "You see, a number of years ago I knocked on the door to your house and it was the first time I'd ever been invited for dinner. And I remember your Mum ordered us pizzas and we played on Tom's old-ass PlayStation. And from that point on, I started treating that household like it was my second family. I confided in your parents like they were my own, I relied on your brothers like we were related and I started to love Tessa just as much as Monty," Harrison chuckles, "And Tom became my best friend. But bit by bit I found myself falling in love with his sister,"

You're silent because the lump in your throat is too prominent to overpower.

"She was this know-it-all that intimidated me and she was so sure of herself and she'd more than likely debate her opinions with me for hours. Sometimes, I'd just pretend to disagree with her just to let her talk," He chuckles deeply, "And I found myself wanting to see her every time I went round. She'd come back from a date with a guy and we'd critique what he'd ordered at the restaurant or which sweets he chose at the cinema. We'd stay up to finish the movie when everyone had gone to bed and we'd eventually watch the next one because we couldn't resist. In all ways she's way way too good for me but I fell for her,"

You finally manage to speaks as he falls into a silence, "And she fell for you,"

"But there are four boys behind that wall that I care very much about and so do you," Harrison gestures towards the house, "And thats the only reason that I can't act upon those feelings,"

"Haz, if we even tried to start anything between us, we both know the repercussions. We know Tom wouldn't handle things well and who knows about the others. If it goes well between us, we could risk losing what we have with the boys," You explain, "And if it doesn't go well between us, we lose us. And we definitely don't want that,"

"I really do like you (Y/n) but we can't do that to your brothers,"

You shake your head quickly, "So, I say we just keep things as they are. I'm sure we can handle that. Over time it will grow to be normal anyway, right?"

Harrison pauses, lifting up one hand and tucking your hair behind your ear, letting his fingers ghost across your jaw and brush past your neck, "Right,"

You're both interrupted by the boys yelling angrily at the game on TV and you take it as opportunity to snap out of the labyrinth that you'd got lost in in Harrison's eyes.

"We should probably head back in," You comment quickly, hopping up and outstretching your hands to him.

He stays silent and follows you back into the house, welcoming the typical sight of all of the boys crowding around the TV screen.

"What took you two so long?" Paddy asks, eyes not once leaving their focus from the blue lit screen.

"We uh-" You turn and glance once more at Haz, "Just had a bit of a debate,"

"Oh god," Tom laughs, "Just like the old days. Did you lose again, buddy?" He turns to glance at his best friend as Harrison takes the empty seat beside him.

"Always," He mutters, eyes watching only you as you take the other empty seat beside Sam, on the complete opposite side to the boy of focus.

~~~~~~

Tags: @imarypayne @sunshine112 @bringmethehorizonandpizza @supernatural-girl97 @vibhati123 @butithasntkilledyouyet @faefictions @carisi-sonny @trap-house-homiecide @spiderrpcrker @tommydaspidey @oneblckcoffee @darlingtholland @fanficparker @xxtomxo @httpfandxms @jackiehollanderr

[ceasarslegion]

Alright. I’ve been studying film history all day in preparation for an exam tomorrow, and I’m sick of it. Time to talk about movies the way I Want To Talk About Movies

Those of y’all who’ve been around for the entire scope of my run on this hellsite know that the one hyperfixation that has been a constant for me is Marvel. It’s always there, waiting, watching... My favourite team is the X-Men, my favourite heroes: Wolverine, Quicksilver, Spider-Man, and Iron Man... name a Marvel movie and I’ve definitely seen it at least twice, and that was just in cinemas. I dare say Marvel is my special interest (Endgame doesn’t exist though)

Except for one. I never saw Logan again after the premiere I attended with some high school friends (gap years are a normal thing outside of North America you guys like what are y’all on going to uni straight out I fucking hate the American dream) and I don’t want to.

It was the best Marvel movie I ever saw. Hands down. Absolutely incredible. And I don’t ever want to see it again, because it fucking destroyed me. And in my opinion, that’s what made it perfect.

Buckle up, y’all, we’re getting into deep lore

When you think of a superhero movie, what do you think of? Actually, let’s narrow that down. When you think of an X-Men movie, what do you think of? Probably something like this, if not this exact scene:

Okay, let’s unpack: Apocalypse was by no metric the best team-up X-Men movie (I’d argue Days of Future Past for that title) but this scene kind of encapsulates the entire tone and storytelling style of the X-Men Cinematic Universe so far. And it’s just REALLY satisfying.

There’s danger. There’s so much danger. But it’s not really in the forefront of your mind, is it? The entire Xavier school’s about to blow up with every student, teacher, admin, and X-Man in it, and what do we get for playback but Pietro’s headphones playing Sweet Dreams from his walkman. We get spectacle as the entire world slows to a screeching halt to show how a mutant speedster as powerful as himself experiences the world. And we’ve already seen him in action in Days of Future Past, so we know he’s capable of saving everyone and absolutely will. That effectively eliminates all tension, because as the mansion explodes around him, it feels less like he’s running out of time and more like he’s moving along at a brisk pace. It feels like the explosion moves at his will, and we’re free to gawk at Pietro’s cocky antics once again.

Isn’t that what the X-Men movies are all about? An unapologetic embrace of how wacky and odd the comicverse is with a storytelling style to match? Danger feels far away, even the more serious plotlines like DoFP have this understanding that good always triumphs, the heroes are always good, and therefore the heroes will always triumph, no matter how great the adversity is. Jesus, even with Deadpool movies, you get this shit. I mean, remember the opening of Deadpool?

God, what a brilliant opening. This song is my go-to drunk karaoke song because of this, and I am a tenor. I didn’t say I cared about vocal matching.

Clearly, there’s a lot of violent shit going on here. And we know that Wade Wilson plays by his own rules in the comicverse, so it makes sense that he’d play by his own rules in his movies. But still, with all the filthy, uncensored danger in these movies it’s all lighthearted superhero wackiness. They always triumph, even though Wade Wilson is a total schmuck. But he’s a lovable schmuck, so we let that go. Wade always wins. That’s the superhero formula, as much as he makes fun of it.

Logan, though? Logan didn’t do that. With those two scenes in mind, I now implore you to watch the opening scene of Logan:

I... um. Holy shit. Directed by Martin Scorsese?? No, mans wouldn’t work on a Marvel movie if it made him a billionaire, that’s... just how it is. It feels like fucking whiplash. 

Logan isn’t necessarily a hero from this opening. We’re no stranger to the Wolverine berserker rage from past movies, but it’s always been directed righteously before. Now it had him carry out an execution because they damaged his car. He’s not heroic, he’s... old, and slow, and really hasn’t aged well. The tone here is brutal, and gritty, and altogether bleak. It feels more like a mob film than a wacky X-Men movie. I remember being in the cinema just slack-jawed and wide-eyed because what the FUCK

And it didn’t end there, because this film just got darker, and darker, and DARKER as it went on. Charles Xavier died a terrible death after a stint with dementia that completely broke him as the powerful psychic he was, Logan is broken from all the trauma of his life piled onto itself and then even more being shoved on top of that. Mutants are pretty much being hunted for sport, because the X-Men LOST. They LOST. It’s a superhero movie where the heroes lost, and that is the ultimate broken rule you can pull within this genre. Infinty War only teased at it, and boy howdy, did they do it badly. I walked out of Infinity War to a chorus of scoffed “yeah they’re not dead they’re a money-maker”s. I walked out of Logan a shell of a man.

It doesn’t end well, either. Logan doesn’t win. He gets the mutant children across the border, but there’s this sense that if the world is hunting mutants down then he’s only bought them a little more time. The violence is hauntingly realistic within the confines of the XCU, the hope that you’d expect from a big blockbuster superhero movie just isn’t there because Logan’s lost it, and maybe he was right to lose it. Because otherwise he’d be kidding himself.

I don’t wanna see Logan again because it made me too sad and hopeless. And I think that made it brilliant. I think that made Logan something great that was uniquely its own. This is a genre known for hope and resilience, and it gave us none of that. You go in expecting it subconsciously, even when you’ve seen the trailers, and you at least expect him to win, right? Logan’s not gonna lose, he’s Wolverine. Everything about this film is what I think the superhero genre could really use more of. I really like the wacky, out-there, scripted formulaic adventures because I get enough bullshit in real life and it’s nice to just have the fun misadventures of Peter Parker scaling the Washington Monument in Spider-Man: Homecoming sometimes. But those don’t really stick with me the way Logan did, even though I only saw it once when I was 18.

I love how Iron Man 3 explored and normalized PTSD in mainstream media. I love the father-son relationship between Peter and Tony: two characters who both lost father-figures, and one who never wanted to become his abusive father. I love how Thor: Ragnarok felt like a norse mythology fanfiction comedy adventure in space. I love how Black Panther gave an unrepresented group a hero who’s not just a lackey, but a powerful king worth like 200 trillion dollars who protects his people through a cultural tradition. But Logan really felt like it challenged every established convention of the superhero genre and pulled a “no, you move” on it. A lot of people cite The Dark Knight to be the most brilliant superhero movie, but in my opinion, that spot belongs to Logan.

I’d call it cinematic art, but Martin Scorsese might put me on his hit list.

[tinalbion]

Well then I am asking for some evening fluff for Stuart and his s/o, cuddling in the bed and spending some quality time, I am comfortable with headcanons or a whole scenario, it's up to you!

You better believe I'm willing to deliver this for you, anon! He's been my new fixation, couldn't you tell?

Also, song recommendation! I listened to 'Ribcage- MaHi Remix' by Crywolf, Ianborg while writing this and I am in love.

When it came down to it, you had been incredibly stressed with the large move you had done. Beginning a new life in another country was already enough to deal with in itself, but already getting a call back about being the new assistant manager at the cinema you moved close to, there was even more stress on you now that you needed to unpack a large number of things to make the new place livable. Day after day, it was hard work on your end and it had almost driven you to your breaking point. But you did it, you overcame many obstacles and somehow everything had gone smoothly with the transition. Your new job was rather amazing, and you've met so many new and friendly people by being the smiling face you always were, you got extremely lucky.

It had been months since you established your new management position and learned the ropes as best as you could with the time given to you, and it had been a few months since you had taken a fancy to one of the employees that occupied the projection booths. He was older than you, there was a definite age gap, but it had never bothered you before so it wouldn't do so now. Of course, though, you couldn't establish relationships with your employees, that was one of the first rules of the handbook.

But after speaking with your head manager about how you felt, you left the office feeling rather excited about your talk. You both had gotten along wonderfully, your interests mirroring each others', yet there was always something new to talk about. He had even taken a liking to you, wondering where you had come from, as if you were brought here just for him.

'Silly, I know,' he said after confiding in you about when you had met.

Since that moment when he had finally somehow conveyed his feelings for you, it was all uphill from there. You and Stuart had happily begun dating, much to everyone's apparent disapproval, but it was hard to care when he was around you. Stuart kept things interesting and made you experience the world in a new way. He was the one who made you feel most welcome in your new life, and you were more thankful for him than he'd ever know.

Today it was dreadful outside and you were off of work, and you had figured it wouldn't hurt to sleep in just for once as you yanked the thick comforter up to your shoulder, snuggling your face comfortably in the pillow. Moments later, you felt a hand slide gently around your waist and anchor itself there, the warmth of his skin tickling your bare skin as you moved to face him with half-sleepy eyes.

"Good morning, love," he greeted quietly, his mustache tickling your nose as he planted a soft kiss on you.

You let out a satisfied yet exhausted groan then had proceeded to push yourself forward, snuggling your body against his. It felt amazing to be held by someone who truly felt a connection to you, it was unlike anything in the world. The sun was hidden behind thick, dark stormclouds as you opened your eyes, which easily adjusted to the lack of light filtering in the room. It was the perfect setting; just you and he snuggled up together in his room, not caring about anything outside of those walls.

"I suppose you don't want to get up just yet, hmm?"

"Not yet," you replied in a gravelly voice. You rested your head against his chest, your hand instinctively running across it and traveling all over. "Good thing we're both off today."

You felt Stuart shiver against your feather-light touch and give a low chuckle, his eyes already on you, memorizing each curve and marking on your beautiful face. It was difficult to tear his gaze away from you, but even under the dim light of the storm, you looked like a glowing angel, and he couldn't help but be enraptured by you. Stuart grabbed a handful of the covers and placed them over you both, wrapping you up against him and cuddling against you as he smiled. If you didn't want to move for the rest of the day, he would happily oblige and make sure you were comfortable.

Your eyes finally fluttered open again and immediately looked at your boyfriends' face, noticing that his mind was elsewhere right now, and you debated whether or not you should pull him from his thoughts. Before you even decided, it was as if he felt your gaze fixed on him and his eyes met yours. His smile was so soft that you needed to lift yourself up and place a gentle kiss on them. When you pulled away, he sighed dreamily and pushed himself forward to steal one of his own.

It ended up with you two giggling like children as your hands ended up entwined with his, not wanting to be away from him for a second as you had moved yourself closer to him. The sound of the rain relaxed you while you lay there, enjoying the feeling of Stuart's hand gently stroking your hair which was lulling you back into a sleep state. You didn't mind, because there was nowhere else you would rather be than asleep in his arms.  

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

Bad Blood - Chapter 15

Read it here on AO3, or you can find the Tumblr Chapter Index here. 

______________

The books in Gerard’s study have all been unpacked, and are standing in serried leather ranks on the painted white shelves. Stiles has always loved the books—he can spend hours lost in them if he’s given the chance—but he’s a soldier, not a researcher. The Argents are matrilineal, though both Gerard and Kate buck that trend a little because Gerard is without question the leader, whereas Kate, who should be directing strategies from behind the front lines, is a soldier first and foremost. The latitude doesn’t extend to Stiles, tough. He’s a soldier and, until he can raise the Stilinski name from the mud, that’s all he’ll ever be.

It’s just after dawn. Stiles didn’t sleep well. He cut a slit in his mattress protector and slid the photograph of him and his mother inside, and then lay there with his fingers curled over the place it was hidden. He thought of his mom and tried not to think of her at the same time, because it’s impossible to divorce his memories of her from his memories of his father, and thinking about his father, thinking about seeing his face again after all these years, is too much. It’s confusing, and chaotic, a brainstorm of conflicting emotions, and Stiles hateshim, but the little boy locked away in the back of his head still cries for his daddy.

“I love you, kiddo. Please remember that.”

Stiles wonders if those words were intentionally crafted to cut the way they did, sharper than a werewolf’s claws at his throat.

Stiles fixes his gaze on the spines of the books on the shelf, and waits for Gerard to speak. It’s a little past dawn, and Stiles is hungry. He hasn’t eaten since Victoria’splacki ziemniaczane last night, and his body’s been through hell since. He got fuck all sleep, so he at least needs fuel, but he knows better than to ask.

Gerard is seated behind his desk, tapping away at his laptop as he makes Stiles wait. Kate is leaning on the edge of the desk. She’s the picture of relaxation. Her arms are folded over her chest, and her boots are crossed at the ankle. Kate’s always had the knack of looking totally put together and in control, whatever the hell is being thrown at her. Stiles has always envied her that.

Gerard taps at his keyboard a moment longer, and then closes his laptop. He looks up, and Stiles can’t read his expression. That’s the thing with Gerard though. He wears that same half smile whether he’s about to praise Stiles for a job well done, or beat the living shit out of him.

“Stiles,” he says. “Last night. Talk me through it.”

Stiles resists the urge to press his fingers to his bandage on his beck. “One of them came at me. Slashed me. I got away.” He worries, the longer he talks, that Gerard doesn’t believe a damn word but is content to let him dig his own grave here. “I was bleeding pretty bad, and I flagged down a car and they took me to the hospital.”

“Did you give them your name?” Kate asks.

“At the hospital?” Stiles shakes his head. “I was bleeding enough that they saw me right away. I didn’t have to wait or sign anything. Then I said I needed to go to the bathroom, and I left before they could call the police.”

It’d be a textbook move, if it wasn’t a lie.

And Stiles still doesn’t know why he’s telling the lie, exactly. He’s scared, he thinks. Scared of how Gerard will react if he knows the werewolves let him go, and that his father was there. Stiles didn’t do anything wrong, but Gerard won’t see it that way. He’ll see betrayal. Of course he will, because right now Stiles is looking into his own heart and even he can’t tell what he sees there.

A thread of hot panic twists through his gut.

He’s lying. He’s lying to Gerard, and it benefits him, but what if it also benefits the Hales pack and his father? And it must, because otherwise why would Derek have told him to lie? There’s a wall of leather-bound books behind Gerard that contain monsters, and Stiles can’t allow himself to forget that. He can’t, and yet he’s already told the lie.

Gerard’s gaze slides over him. “Hmm.”

Stiles fights the urge to fidget.

Gerard grunts. “And how the hell did a dog get its claws on you in the first place?”

Stiles blinks. “I tripped.”

“You tripped?” Gerard asks archly, exchanging a glance with Kate like Stiles is some kind of pathetic joke.

It was dark, Stiles wants to tell him. It was dark, and he didn’t have his night vision, and he wasn’t wearing his proper boots, and they were surrounded by werewolves, and Gerard had yelled at them to get back to the car and Stiles hadn’t even known where the fucking car was since he’d come in on foot from the other direction. This isn’t his fuck up. But he knows better than to say that, or even let it show on his face.

“I tripped,” he repeats.

There’s a moment of tension in the air so thick that Stiles can feel it vibrating between them like a guitar string.

Stiles tries to remember how to breathe.  

And then Gerard barks out a laugh, and the tension shatters.

“Take him into the basement, Kate,” the old man says at last. “Don’t let him come up again until he’s proved to you he knows how to lift his feet.”

***

Stiles’s whole body is aching and his lungs are burning by the time Kate is finished with him. Kate’s a fucking tyrant with a jump rope, but she puts her hand on his lower back to keep him from stumbling as he climbs the basement stairs. He’s light-headed.

“Want some eggs, string bean?” Kate asks him as she ushers him into the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, going to the sink to get some water. “You cooking them for me?”

“Oh, baby’s got sass!” Kate laughs, loud and brash.

Stiles wonders how that’s even possible. Was she the one who shot Scott McCall, or was it Gerard? Jesus. He has to stop thinking shit like this. He has to, or they’ll look at him and know he’s weak, and a liar, and maybe even a traitor like his father. And Stiles is a Stilinski, but he’s a better man than his father.

This is where he belongs, isn’t it?

“If I’m cooking, we’re having cereal,” he says, forcing a smile.

Kate laughs again.

She cooks the eggs.

***

Allison bursts into the house just before nine, distraught and tear-stained, and she pushes past Kate and goes straight for Stiles instead. Stiles hears a buzzing in his skull as Allison tearfully tells him the news she heard when she got to school—Scott McCall is dead.

Stiles hugs her, and stares at Kate over her shoulder.

There’s a warning in her gaze that he knows exactly how to read: say nothing. There’s shock as well, because Kate couldn’t have known whose heart she was breaking when she hunted Scott last night. Stiles hopes that Kate thinks she sees that same shock reflected in his face.

“Hey,” he says to Allison, his voice cracking. “Come on. Come upstairs.”

Kate flashes him an approving look, and Stiles is halfway up the stairs before he realises why: she thinks Stiles is taking Allison away so Kate has a chance to fill Gerard in on the werewolf’s true identity—and on the fact Allison knew him. Except Stiles isn’t doing this for Kate and Gerard. He’s doing this for Ally, and maybe—selfishly—for him. Maybe he’s afraid his mask will slip for real, and Kate will see him for who he really is. And she’ll remember the way he hesitated, remember the way he faltered when the werewolf’s face transformed into the goofy boy’s, and she’ll know, and then she’ll make him pay like he deserves.

He clutches Allison’s hand and leads her up the steps to his sparse bedroom.

“I don’t know what happened,” she says, her dark eyes swimming with tears. She’s caught between grief and outrage, her expression wavering uncertainly between them.  “How could someone do this?”

Stiles thinks of all the monsters in Gerard’s leather-bound books, and doesn’t know how to reconcile that with the boy who did the happy dance in the parking lot of the cinema.

“I don’t know,” he says, his voice hollow.

Allison grabs the comforter off his bed and wraps it around herself before sinking down onto the floor. Stiles follows her down onto his knees, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

She stares at Stiles from behind tendrils of her dark hair. “The only reason he was out last night was because I asked him to sneak over to my house!” She covers her mouth with her hands in a vain attempt to stop another sob from breaking free. “Why would anyone hurt him like that?”

Stiles shakes his head, his eyes burning. He tries to swallow, and it hurts.

Allison’s grief is like a storm that must be weathered, and if every squall rips into him anew then it’s Stiles duty to suffer it. Allison is hurting, so Stiles wants to hurt too.

“I’m sorry, Ally,” he whispers to her, his voice hoarse, and he tells himself that’s a thing that people say. He tells himself it’s a platitude, and that can’t be guilt, hot and slick, twisting in his gut and rising like bile in his throat.

Because if the monsters aren’t really monsters, then…

Stiles shudders, and squeezes his eyes shut. He thinks of the little boy in the photograph hidden in his mattress protector. That little boy untouched by fear and darkness and horror, and untroubled by anything just as long as he was safe in his mom’s arms. Stiles thinks that little boy was happy.

“I don’t understand,” Allison murmurs. “Stiles, I don’t understand how anyone could do this!”

If the monsters aren’t really monsters, Stiles thinks, then they’re a lot closer than he’s ever suspected.

“I don’t know,” he lies, smoothing a shaking hand over Allison’s hair. “I don’t know either.”  

He sits on the floor on his bedroom and stares at his reflection in the window. His reflection’s dark, hollow eyes stare back at him.