#that has to be more intuitive because every pose is so different
Text
I remember being told over and over in art school "push the pose, push the pose," and I don't remember being told how to do that, only that I was doing it wrong. If you watch character design portfolio critiques, it's often the same thing. The artist might even redraw a pose to make it more exaggerated, but they don't explain how to figure out which parts of the anatomy to stretch or squash or bend. It's like being told to "draw a circle, now draw the rest of the face" without any steps in between. And now, even though I try to "push poses" constantly in my comics, I'm still not sure I could explain it. If I had better words, I think I could do it better! So maybe that'll be my goal for the rest of January.
#drawing#making comics#learning to draw#art school#anyway if you can recommend any good videos or tutorials about this subject pls lemme know#obviously there's a logic to it but people seem to have trouble articulating it#i think a lot of us have gotten a sense about what to exaggerate through doing a lot of life drawing so maybe it's one of those things#that has to be more intuitive because every pose is so different#and the most helpful thing was identifying lines of actions and making them really clear but even then it feels like something is missing
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
more than anyone ✴︎ cl16
genre: childhood friends to enemies to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, angst
word count: 13.7k
You moved out of Monaco at fourteen with an unrepaired friendship hanging by a thread. Ten years and a whole lifetime later, you’re forced to work with him confront it all over again.
auds here… hi hi hi!!!! HAPPY 4k to us guys!!!!! i am so insanely thankful for all of u and i will make this a longer note when i wake up tomorrow because i have so much to say but have this for now. i hope u like it,i love love love u guys forever also i changed the banner because i wanted to
nsfw warnings under the cut!
18+ because... penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink (pretty tame smut in auds world)
You know it’s bad when your assistant-and-friend-aka-friendsistant (her vernacular) Rachel walks in with a free coffee without a quip about how dependent you are on this exact order of coffee (she’s a millennial, so caffeine and lack thereof are in her arsenal of Funny Jokes). You fear you didn’t correctly anticipate just how bad it was going to be when she stays instead of leaving to work on your schedule, combing a few fingers through her fringe and sitting herself on your couch stiffly. Maybe you’re intuitive, maybe you spend too much time with Rachel and you can spot the way she scratches at her eye, maybe both—but it’s bad.
You don’t take a sip from the Starbucks that sits idly on the coaster, opting to watch the latte sweat instead. You do stare, though, at Rachel’s stagnant posture, scrutinizing her every movement. She takes a few deep breaths and drops the bomb.
“David sent me to tell you he has good news. But there is, um. Bad news.” Dread writhes through you at the mention of your manager with bad news, and you clear your throat to compose yourself.
“What’s going on?”
She purses her lips. “He’s on his way over here. Just…” She cocks her head sharply to the glass door of your home office, expression antsy. “Sorry. Wait for him. I can’t tell you anything yet.”
You take a swig from the pity coffee. “Am I getting blacklisted?”
“God, you dumbass, no—” She makes an incredulous noise, but before she can open her mouth to elaborate, your manager walks in with an excited expression on his face, pocketing his Juul to take a seat by your table. His smile is the radiant one of a man over forty with a comical amount of Botox.
“Rachel told me you had”—you stifle the adjective—“news.”
“That I do, yes.” He hums, tracing the edge of your table. “Did you enjoy Paris Fashion Week?”
Beside the brash Frenchmen, God-awful timezone differences and consequent calls at half past three, hungover show attendances, posing for pictures until your ankles blistered, and a temporary diet of black coffee, cigarettes, and stale croissants—sure, it was fun. It was your job to attend anyway, your obligation to shake hands with important people and be photographed in designer clothing and benefit from the PR, but how often could people call work fun?
“Sure.” You take another gulp off your coffee. “It was… fun.”
“Well, since your movie’s doing well,” David pauses and hums, “how do you feel about another few weeks of fun?”
“Like Paris Fashion Week—weeks… this month?” You frown, eyebrows knitting together. Is this a new Vogue thing? You’re not sure how many updates they give the schedule, but you wouldn’t mind too much if you could travel again for a little bit. “So soon after spring? Did Anna want this?”
“Iiiit’s, er, Vogue’s new project. Capsule shows in Europe, coastal and summery. She wanted an exclusive guest list. She asked for you by name,” David says smugly. “Well, she called my office, granted. But to ask for you—”
“Are you fucking serious?” You stand up, and if you hadn’t had some fix of coffee you would’ve gotten dizzy. “David, tell me you’re serious.” Time seems to have suspended itself as you await his answer—which, if affirmative, would be a pretty big deal to you.
“Yeah, I am.” He plays off a grin. “She loved your movie with Greta, and would love to send you to Europe to do PR on a few shows and pair up with some guests on a couple features. Exclusive stuff.”
You sit back down, mouth slack. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe it.” Your eyes dart to Rachel, who’s caught between a smile and an awkward purse of her lips. “Fuck! This is huge, David.”
“Yeah—okay, yeah, it is.” David shifts in his seat and crosses, then uncrosses, his legs, then his arms. He stutters for a second. “Good and bad news, remember?”
You blink a few times. You’d nearly totally forgotten the fact that this good news—and it is overwhelmingly good—comes with a bout of bad news, so bad apparently that it’s noteworthy enough to state alongside this massive deal. But it’s. Fine. It’s whatever. Worst case scenario, you’re going to need to fucking swim to Europe sans oxygen canister.
“So… the shows? Events, and shit?” He watches, waiting for you to signal that you follow. When you nod, he continues, averting his gaze to the face of his Patek. “They’re all in Monaco.”
Wrong.
“Monaco.” You repeat, deadpanning your delivery. It’s not out of the ordinary, the glitz and coast of the city being a perfect venue for high fashion. But Monaco is different for you, vastly different, and you tend to avoid the place to the best of your abilities. “Monaco. Are—you’re sure?”
“Mmm,” he hums in affirmation. “I know, I know you’re not exactly privy to Monaco because, bleh, childhood shit, whatever. But this—like you said, this is huge! And I don’t think we should jeopardize that.” He pulls a piece of paper from the folders tucked in his arm and waves it around.
“Well—yeah, I suppose. I’ll deal with it.”
“Yeah.” He sucks his teeth, eyes gliding over the scenery of L.A. that your window offers. “Okay, that’s it, so. Byeandhaveagoodlunch.” He slams the paper onto your desk, jostling you a little, but as he makes his exeunt, Rachel raises her arm to stop him.
“Is that it, David?” She asks, an edge to her voice.
You pick up the paper as they make hushed, stifled conversation, and find that it’s a call sheet of sorts, listing all the collaborators traveling to Monaco and what or who they’re in charge of, or paired up with, there. Models, athletes, celebrities, influencers—all making TikToks, or appearances, or brand deals, or interviews, or YouTube videos, the whole shebang.
“Yeah,” says David dismissively—nervously? “That’s it.”
You search for your name. “Okay. Um, hey.” Rachel turns to you, trying to catch your eye, which is busy scanning the sheet. “Did, um—did David mention you’re paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature? Because you are. Paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature, I mean.”
David sucks his teeth. “Thank you very much for graciously reminding me of that, Rachel.”
Still half-distracted and growing increasingly worried with the exchange happening in front of you, you make haste in your search—eventually, you find your name, printed in plain letters beside one you’ve wished to never read over ever again.
“Wait, my Charles?” You pause and look up, suppressing a yell as your eyes widen, and you blunder over a pathetic self-correction. “I mean—no, sorry—Charles, as in Charles Leclerc? I can’t work with him, you know this!”
“Wh—well, Vogue apparently wanted a really good Monaco-born pair and they seriously lucked out on you two. Also,” Rachel says, adamantly defending herself, “you’re always saying you can work ‘with anyone’!” She raises two comically vigorous air quotes to further her (moot) point.
“I didn’t ev—I never say that,” you lie straight through your teeth, mouth dry. You definitely do. You can place all the exact moments. “I would’ve known if I did. Rach—David—I cannot, absolutely cannot work with Leclerc. He’s my… we…” You shut your eyes and sneak two fingers upward to massage your temple, slowly caving into defeat.
David makes an oh well face and shrugs passively. “Fine. Then it’s either Anna Wintour’s special job that will help the Academy campaign or not meeting the ex-bo—”
“—friend.” You look up to cut him off, eyes narrowed. “Ex-friend.”
“Alright, kid. Suuuure.” David leans against the back wall of your office as Rachel comes to comfort you, her eyes already sympathetic and droopy. It shouldn’t be so bad, right? She asks sweetly, nudging the latte closer to your catatonic figure. You have seen him since, anyway.
With a despondent gaze, you just remain silent, refusing to state the negative aloud, opting to stare at the latte. At your disagreeable silence, Rachel continues, tone anxious: You have seen him since. Right?
You moved out of Monaco at fourteen, right after the school year finished and your father had gotten the opportunity to transfer out. The whole thing would’ve—should’ve, even—been a sentimental affair, full of tears and dramatic caresses of your bedroom wall, whispering thank yous to the city air in French and Italian, but it wasn’t. Months prior, you’d been preparing yourself for this kind of goodbye; but when it came to it, you merely kissed your extended family goodbye and slept en route to the airport, silk sleeping mask pulled taut over your shut eyelids. The only thing you left in the city was a letter written only to Gi and Cha about how much you’d miss them, with your email address scribbled at the bottom for an added touch, in case they felt like sending you longer messages.
“Do you two at least get along?” David asks, noting how genuinely aghast you appear.
“It’s not that simple.” You tap a nail against your desk a few times. “But I think it’ll be fine. I hope, at least. We used to be… good friends? As teenagers.”
You feel like an alien hearing yourself talk about it, talk about him and the whole circumstance a decade later. Your friendship with Charles was the only thing that mattered to your adolescent self, all lemonade stands and long car rides and stealthy conversations about your futures (racing and acting, respectively). It was happiness, in what you consider to be its truest form, it was lovely and real. And it ended abruptly, no goodbyes, no nothing.
“So it’s a no.”
“I’m just saying it’s impossible for me to work with him, and in Monaco no less?!” Your eyes are wild with frustration and anxiety at the prospect of your past whipping you in the face, full-fledged. “I don’t even talk about the guy or the city, how can I spend time with him there?”
“Are you seriously going to junk this amazing fucking opportunity just because of some petty childhood fight?” David’s tone is comparable to that of a dad’s, scolding and horrified, almost. “Look. If you don’t take this, career-wise, it doesn’t mean much. You get paid a shit ton, you’ll survive—you’ll do well. But emotions-wise? Maturity-wise? Be the bigger person and do it—I mean it.”
You stare back at him because you know he’s right. “Maybe it won’t be a big, long feature?” Rachel offers as some advice, some comfort. “If you reject it, his team will know, and so will he.”
And yes, you were fourteen, and yes it was petty and unexplainable even for fourteen—but there was a catalyst to all of this, a reason why the move became easy and forgetting childhood memories became second nature. A reason why you’re selective with who you make contact with from home. A reason why Giada and Charlotte are selective with topics they choose to bring up with you.
So, fuck it, really. That’s how you end up in Monaco, booked for the next three weeks, sharing a studio and public appearances and a 24-hour shoot with the last person you’d ever want to be in a room with. Ten years later—the person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.
—
“MAMAN!” Charles’ voice was loud, loud, and so incredibly loud. You followed not far behind, legs running at full speed to try and leap onto his lanky figure and wrap an arm around his head to quiet him. It’d been futile: he ended up at the dining table facing his family with a victorious smile on his pink face. He breathed heavy, waiting for everyone to turn their attention to him.
“Charles,” you chimed in warningly, breathing even harder with the effort you had exerted to chase him from the sidewalk to here. “Don’t.”
“Guess who got the lead spot in the recital.” He slowly turned to point at to your angry face, and then bent, rifling through his already messy, grubby knapsack for something that he raised with glee: a headress that read…
“But-ter-cup.” Hervé sounded amused when he looked at your fuming expression. “You?”
“Yes, Papa! Maybe, just maybe,” he sing-songed, using the term wrong yet again, “she got the titular role!” He walked over to you and placed the headress square on your head, beaming.
“There is no titular role in a school recital,” you seethed, burning with embarrassment. Your stellar academic record had apparently granted you incentive to be centre stage during the routine year-end recital, where years were lumped into twos or threes (in your and Charles’ cases, Years 8 and 9) and the student body would dance or sing a variety of teacher-selected music.
In your case, it was Build Me Up, Buttercup, complete with choreography you’d be practicing over the next month and a half. Charles laughed at your pouting expression, didn’t stop laughing even when you’d both sat down and twirled through forkfuls of spaghetti, didn’t stop chuckling even when Lorenzo got the turn to speak and he started talking about how Bringing Up Baby was his movie of the month.
You allowed him to laugh—even laughed yourself at some point—because all day, you’d been absently wondering how you’d break the news about your moving away to him.
—
Charles is not okay. He’d gotten off a red-eye from a short vacation stint, and now he’s back in Monaco, sleepy and a bit jetlagged, being briefed on brand deals and press junkets he has to accomplish by three p.m. today. “On the dot, sharp,” said his assistant, like the two didn’t just mean the same fucking thing. He’s patient, though, smiling through the exhaustion, through the dressing room, the tape around his waist and legs to measure clothes for this fashion… thing.
“A meeting for Ferrari, two TikToks, a vlog for your personal YouTube channel, three stories by noon… oh, and in the next few weeks, you’re going to film a Vogue-sponsored 24 Hours With… with—”
“D’accord, thank you,” he cuts in, already exhausted from the spiel alone. He’s a professional; no matter what people believed or what gossip rags liked to say about him, he maintains a well-kept reputation of being polite and kind to people he works with. Maybe it’s the jetlag, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the heat outside, but today he just wants to close his eyes and sleep for days.
But the assistant follows, clipboard and Excel sheet and all, still spouting all his media obligations lest he forget (and mark his words, he definitely will). “Sorry,” he says. He’s new, probably assigned as a part of the Vogue team, lanky and tall and nervous looking. “I’m new. I’m Greg.”
Briefly, Charles is left alone to stare at his tired reflection while the assistants reconvene and connect. There’s several of them, each assigned or already committed to a different celebrity. Charles should know more details, but there’s only so much reading of a call sheet he can do before he’s conked out on Ambien; he trusts he’ll be around people much more famous than he is, probably American or English, actors and athletes alike. He’ll figure it out.
Yeah, she’s almost ready. Is Charles here? One of the assistants says, a bright-eyed American. They need to be introduced before 11. Her voice is quiet, quick and hushed, and Charles has to focus to hear what she’s saying. Greg chips in with something he can’t decipher; in response, the American whispers, Yeah, I’ll get her to sign it for you. Bring Charles out in five.
In five, he is indeed being brought out to the lobby of this hotel; the outdoor area is decked out with models, cocktail tables, Vogue signage and a carpet for pictures. It’s even busier inside, wait staff and event coordinators conversing in angry, aggressive French—table settings, mineral water, extra forks are needed. Greg keeps a steady pace transporting Charles through the indoor throng, and at 10:59, Charles is outside, by the pool.
“Um, right, yeah. Okay, uh—wait here. Your partner—not really partner, but like, mate? Fuck, definitely not. Um, partner. She’s on her way heeere…” He checks his phone. “Okay. You caught her name, right?” Charles nods to fend him off. “Okay. So, wait here.”
There are cameras taking pictures of him when Greg departs, some microphones waved his way; in the distance he spots fans waving crazily, sporting Ferrari merch. Charles is doing what he’s told (waiting, maybe posing a bit) when an even bigger crowd appears, surrounding one person; with their arrival, ameras click even faster, and an uproar follows. Greg waves him over, pointing at the person frantically, so Charles smiles, extends a hand, and when the crowd parts—
There you are, in all your glory. Pink dress, hair clipped into a bun, a tanline on your exposed skin, lithe hand coming up to shake his. Your eyes are flat but the lack of expression doesn’t inoculate them from beauty; they remain sparkling and pretty all the same. Cameras snap the interaction, seemingly innocent, seemingly the first.
He fights, he really does, to keep his hands shaking yours. He forces himself not to hug you, press a kiss to your cheek even if that might look friendly, caress a hand across your cheekbone, brush the tendrils of hair out of your eyes. It’s a valiant effort.
A valiant effort that pays off because, as soon as you’re ushered into a room by yourselves, your smile turns into a scoff; your hands are kept to yourself, slipping a pair of sunglasses on, and; underneath them, your eyes begin to roll. “I need a drink,” you huff, not even looking at him.
You’re on two couches opposite each other, in what he assumes to be a foyer to a hotel room that’s much bigger than the one he was in earlier. A-list fame and that. The girl he’d seen earlier scurries off, mumbling something about a martini. Greg, beside him, goes: “Do you need a drink, too?” But he shakes his head.
“Are you voluntarily working for this guy, Greg?” You refer to his assistant by name, offering a sarastic, honeyed smile. You adjust the strap of your dress and he blinks his gaze away.
“Oh, no. I mean—yeah. Kind of. I was assigned to him.”
“It’s okay, I don’t expect you to do it of your own will,” you joke, crossing your legs.
Charles laughs dryly. “Who asked?”
“So he speaks…” You ping off his retort without missing a beat, a sardonic smile playing at your lips.
“In the two minutes we’ve been around each other, you’ve insulted me and my assistant. I’d prefer silence, your highness.”
“Aww, did my joke and asking Greg a question piss you off?” You suck your teeth. “You must be fun at parties.”
“Do you two, um. I don’t want to, like, overstep, but do you know each other?” Charles notices that Greg’s forearm is signed by you and realizes he has no allies here, with an inward grimace. “Or if you don’t, like, are you two just… not in good moods or something?”
The girl comes in then, saying here’s the martini and catering you a sweaty glass with a smile. You offer up the empty space beside you, patting the white leather for her to sit down on. Your eyes meet his again briefly, catty and a bit challenging, before you turn back to the girl. “Sit.”
Maybe Charles spends too much time with Max, because he’s starting to become more and more inclined to getting the last word in lately. “Bossing people around, eh? Fame really does change you.” He offers a smile of his own.
“She’s my assistant, Rachel,” you say sweetly, but your smile is gritty. “We need to check my schedule.”
He wants to slap himself. “Too busy to open your calendar?” Nevermind, he’s a god.
Your sarcastic smile drops. “And what’s on yours? P6 this week, P7 next, DNF after?”
Fuck. The tension is so thick at this point, it’s almost steaming hot. Both the assistants stare at you, waiting for Charles to wedge something in, but he bites himself back. Thankfully, right as the silence just begins to settle like oil on water, the door swings open and one of the coordinators steps in, noisily rattling off the week’s plans and proclaiming you’re both free for the remainder of the day before things pick back up—Schiaparelli show at noon, both of you, front row—tomorrow.
The four of you filter out of the room, and you make a quip about your autograph on Greg’s arm, which grants your assistant some face time with Charles. She turns to him, combing a hand through her hair and furrowing her thick eyebrows. “Hey, I’m Rachel, by the way.”
“Charles.”
“I know,” she says sheepishly. “Listen. I know you two have history, she—we—she’s, um, told me about it before. I don’t know the whole story, and I’m not… like, I’m not saying I do, so I respect it, whatever it is. But I hope you can find it in you to work with her properly. It’s a huge gig for you both. So—yeah, uh. Great job, and good luck.”
She smiles with a nod before exiting the room, leaving Charles alone and stirring with thoughts and memories woken from wild unrest.
—
“Alors,” Charles had said, not turning from his position in front of your vanity mirror. He’d been picking at his face, stopping only when you tsked at him not to. “What is the problem?” His eyes flicked over to you, your lying figure on the bed exhaling little puffs of frustrated air to the ceiling. “Are you missing the recital?”
“Quoi? Non.” You gnawed at your lip, accepting your defeat. You couldn’t lie for much longer, not when you’d been keeping this under wraps for two months. “Listen. Charles.” He nodded, clearly preoccupied with something. “Charles.”
“Hmm?”
“Can you ple—look at me.” Your voice hardened.
He’d noticed it then, the curt cutoff of your voice, the absent look in your eyes. He knows you even through a mirror, even in the low light of your room. “Desolé. This pimple won’t go away.”
“Charles,” you said, groaning but allowing yourself to laugh. “Listen.”
“Okay.” He turned to face you, a spot on his chin red from how long he’d been scratching at it.
You shrugged then, suddenly scared to deal with the realness of it all. You didn’t understand why you felt so torn. “It’s something to do with me,” you said.
“Yeah.”
“I’m moving.” You rubbed at your nose, the cold draft coming in through the window causing you to sniffle. “Out of Monaco.”
A beat. “What?”
You closed your fingers around your necklace, scratching absently at the divots of the pendant. One, two, three little dips in the gold locket, tiny but comforting. “Yeah. In a few months, like, after school. It’s Papa—his job. It’s a whole thing.”
“Europe?” You shook your head. America.
“What… well, what does that mean, then?” His expression didn’t waver but if anything did, it was his eyes—desperate, seeking more answers, wanting them with a guttural, belly-deep desire. You’re his best friend, so if he has to let you go in this life, he at least needs to know everything about the move.
“We’ll keep in touch,” you reassured, kicking your leg to further your point. “You were bound to get busy with karting anyway, so it’s like. Ça revient au même.”
“It isn’t the same,” he said, his voice thin and cracking.
“You’ll be fine.”
“You have a very misguided idea of who I am.”
“Shut up. Come off it,” you laughed, sitting up straighter. “We’ll call everyday, and I’ll meet all the famous people who’ll get me a real acting job, and I’ll come for the holidays or summer or something. Things won’t change. Not that much, at least.”
“Maybe, just maybe.” He pauses. “Will you be here for my birthday, at least?” He’d made a big deal all year of his turning sixteen on the sixteenth.
“Charles,” you sighed.
“No, yeah. I get it.” He looked down, rubbing his thumbs together, like he’s just been hit across the face. He will tell you one day it felt infinitely more painful than that. But at the time he shook his head and looked up at you, reached his pinky to yours, a thin slip of paper around the finger that matched your interlocked one, and didn’t say anything else.
Just: “We’ll be okay.”
—
You could pin a lot of adjectives on Monaco: picturesque, without a doubt; warm, glamorous, but you’d sooner die than pin the word home over it. The city is sprawling even with the little surface area it possesses, and only few things seem familiar. Your lodging is a hotel in Monte-Carlo, a penthouse suite that requires you to travel very little. It feels like a vacation.
And you embody the role of a vacationer very well—the first five, six days of your stay in Monaco went great, mainly appearances that lasted a few hours at most and several junkets to promote Vogue and your latest film, before you were free to do whatever you wished. You’d gone the touristy route already: shopping more times than you could count, trying your immense luck at the casinos, and eating at Michelin-starred restaurants; eventually all the fun blurred into each other and you found solace in naps instead.
Your troubles are not far behind, however, and they finally come after you on Day 7. The event coordinators had informed Rachel, who in turn informed you, that the first of next week’s agenda would be a photographed tour of the Musée Océanographique de Monaco, a grand seaside building right at the edge of the water. Today is, apparently, a day for you to “fraternize with” Charles, which meant you would once again need to put a façade over your less-than-kind appearance toward him.
Those are the concluding words of David’s very firm text, encouraging (read: coercing) you to settle things with Charles into some approximation of civility. You resolve things by calling him to skip over the awkwardness that comes with texting. It takes you all of twenty minutes and twice your body weight in courage to press the green telephone button.
“B’jour,” he goes, his voice quick. French people (he will hate that you called him French, even if it was just in your head; you relish in this) always talk rapidly. After some silence, he clears his throat: “Hello?”
Butterflies—some form of them, whatever—flutter in your stomach. “It’s me.”
He drops formalities and adopts a disinterested voice. “Huh. What do you want?” The butterflies have rotted to death.
“I need to talk to you.”
“To insult me again?” He sounds a little amused even over the phone, a breath of laughter landing in your ear. “Bah, I get it. We are enemies. You have no interest in reconnecting, et cetera. C’est tout ce que tu as à dire? I gotta go.”
Your face warms at his accusatory tone. “Wow, leave it to a guy to be charming, huh?”
“Why should I be charming with you?”
“At least be polite,” you taunt, but your voice lacks its usual edge. On the other line, Charles lets his own defiant tone ebb downward.
At least be polite. It’s the least he can owe you after ten years of forgetting. It wasn’t as if you two had a mutual agreement then, in 2013 when you moved away, to stop becoming friends. For months before you moved out, he completely stopped talking to you, like he’d forgotten you two were even connected, were even friends. What little words you two shared became petty and abrasive, and suddenly Monaco lost its color. The closeness you had with him, which for so long you’d convinced yourself was once-in-a-lifetime, was ripped from you, robbed from you—by him, no less, which hurt all the more. You’d given up on finding out why at some point. You waited for him to reach out. Maybe, you told yourself, just maybe, it would take a few months, a year.
Ten years of radio silence. He owes you that: politeness.
“It doesn’t matter,” you say to nobody in particular, in an effort to segue into the topic of your choosing. “Look, we’re supposed to be friends. In… on camera, at least. It’s disastrous if we look like we, you know, hate each other. We need to be professional.”
“For the cameras,” he says back, solemn.
“Yeah.” You wind a finger through your hair. “Just… for the sake of civility.”
You hear his little hums of consideration. “D’accord,” he says after a few minutes. “Truce, then.”
“Sure.” You smile a little. “I have to go.”
—
You were halfway through your mess of clothes when your mum peeked through your door, her hair held back by a headband. “Call you yet, poppet?”
“Non,” you said, decimating your voice to a monotonous murmur. You looked up from the dress you’d been folding and offer a half-hearted, sardonic smile. “Je t’ai dit qu’il ne le ferait pas.” You were right: he wouldn’t call. What difference did a month make, anyway? This time, though, the usual victory of being right settled into an ugly disappointment in the pit of your stomach.
You wanted so badly to be wrong. To clamber to the telephone, to your Skype, to your cellphone, any of the three, and see his name flashed across the helm or his voice in your ear. Maybe he was dialing your number now, to ask if you wanted to grab dinner after the year-end recital, or to update you on karting, or to tell you Pascale wanted lunch.
She could tell, as all mothers can, that you’d been upset. The knit in your brows that didn’t go away, the bottom lip being chewed, the tight clutch of your fingers over the already-folded dress. She sighed. “I’m sorry, baby.”
“It’s fine.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended and you have to roll it back, recede it, to sound more relaxed, more at ease. “It’s… fine. I’m fine.” She knew better than to pry, closing the door softly to continue packing up the living room.
You heaved a dry sigh to express the nausea that came with his absence. It began a month ago, two days after you first told him about it and poked at the zit on his chin. He’d buried his head in your shoulder until tears seeped into the cotton sleeve of your shirt, and you let him. You felt guilty, after all, for keeping it a secret for so long. You would leave in September, you told him. We have time.
Two days later he walked you home as always, on the “dangerous” side of the street, lanky legs skipping to the tree in front of your house. You pointed at the beginnings of clementines on its dewy branches, smiling, inviting him in, but he remained leaning against the trunk, playing with his mop of hair that covered his forehead.
“Bah, trop dramatique,” you said, poking fun. Lorenzo had showed you both some art house films he studied in class, and with the bout of French cinema, you and Charles had grown obsessed with making fun of overdramatic stills that often included the classic leaning-against-a-surface. “Come on, Mum made bouillabasse, I smell it.”
“We need to talk,” he eked out awkwardly. “I have something important to tell you.”
You dropped your knapsack, leather scratching against the concrete of the steps to the front door as you walked over to him. “Ouais?”
“I…” His lips moved, wobbled, but nothing left, so he shut them and his eyes, like he was considering something. His breathing slowed into one rhythm you find yourself unconsciously matching, just two kids looking at each other in the dusky breeze of Monaco, the orange sun casting shadows over the clementine tree. You closed your hand over his, a tight clamp over his knobby wrist with certainty. “I…”
“Say it.”
“I want to.” His eyes were shut. Exhale. Inhale, open. “I… I’m going… going home.”
You breathed out apprehensively and relaxed. “Oh.” You blinked. “That’s it?”
“Ye—ouais. Yeah. I gotta.” Already he was climbing to the gate, waving a half-hearted goodbye. “Save some for me, oui? Bye.”
“Charles,” you warned after him, voice tinged with concern. “That’s it, promise?” Your hand flexed around air.
“Cross my heart!” The last thing he ever said with any bit of something genuine.
—
You reunite with Charles at a meeting; under the guise of your truce, he makes the barely-necessary small talk. The rest of the staff file out of the restaurant in due time, but you both stay. You ask about Lorenzo and Arthur, leaving out questions you’d rather not listen to him answer, and he tells you they’re both alright. That his mum asks about you sometimes. That makes you smile. He asks if you’re still dating the guy you’d most recently been partnered with in Us Weekly.
“God, no. We never even dated, the… um, tabloids always make shit up.” You purse your lips. “Anyway. Is Lorenzo still in film?” You ask, turning your head a little. You don’t think you’ll ever forget his affinity for cinema.
“Not professionally, but I still sit through hours-long… you know, reviews, and stuff.” He laughs when he sees you laugh, eyes half-closed and meeting the ceiling.
“He introduced me to some of my favorite movies, especially when I got into acting and I was kind of… like, I wanted some inspiration, acting-wise. But not my actual favorite movie.”
“Which is?” He segues into a more personal topic. “Is it still Bambi?”
“Oh, it was, for the longest time!” You almost squeal with excitement. “Not anymore, though. It’s been dethroned, ha ha. I think it’s… I’d say it’s maybe Casablanca now.”
“How American.”
“Shut up.” Your face warms. “It’s so romantic. When he says—when he goes, um. We’ll always have Paris. And then, God—when Ilsa goes, I said I would never leave you—and Rick goes, And you never will… isn’t it so classic? Romance movies nowadays are—I, I, I… I get scripts sent to me that are just so bad, and they’re either too idealistic or too pessimistic, or too indie or too commercial, and.” You sigh. “It’s like nobody gets love right anymore.”
“Us Weekly disagrees,” he says weakly, after a period of silence.
“Stop,” you laugh warningly. “And don’t act like you’re not being paired up with different girls, too.”
For a minute you sit with the realization that you’ve both been keeping tabs on each other all these years, even just a little bit. It’s a bit jarring, it’s a bit warm, it’s a lot confusing. You make a move to ask for the bill but Charles is quicker, opens his mouth to implore your presence.
“Come see me tonight.” He says it like he didn’t mean to, like it escaped him on a whim, a blurted out confession born out of your memories and conversation. His voice is dreamy, faraway. “Earth to…?”
“Wh—sorry. Fuck.” You clear your throat and deduce your next words. “Where?”
“I’ll text you. A club, near your hotel.”
“Yeah… yeah, sure.” You hum an affirming noise.
—
Your name is on the list, though you’re sure it doesn’t matter whether or not it was. No ID is needed, and paps catch a bouncer being dispatched to guide you through the nightclub toward the elevated area with significantly less people. It’s low-lit, smoky, vaguely blue and purple, smelling of flows of alcohol and fresh ice. An Azealia Banks song is playing, pounding through your head.
Tabloids don’t care about nightclubs. They care if you come out drunk or with a smidge of snow under your nose, neither of which have happened to you; entering is fair game, a fun affair, especially in a district like Monte-Carlo. You don’t have any explaining to do, not even to questions like are you clubbing with your professional Vogue collaborator, Charles Leclerc?
The collaborator in question is the first to greet you, getting up and approaching you with a smile so obviously tense. The picture in front of him is like if he’d conjured up a forlorn fantasy of his to life—your hair fell loosely over black lace, a hand pinched around the hem of your dress. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“So.” He realizes he’s in charge of the socializing, and turns to properly introduce you. “Um, guys, this is my—friend—you already know”—he fusses over your name, which everyone in the world knows, anyway—“and these are my friends. Pierre, Alex, George, Lando, Daniel… you know Joris.” He points to each guy's face as he goes, eliciting a beam every time he gestures.
You wave with a polite smile before you station yourself beside the only one you know: Joris, with whom Charles shares a longtime friendship. He greets you first, with a side hug. “Long time.”
“Yeah, it’s been.” You watch him turn toward the low table, and back around with two shots, offering them to you with haste.
You thank the Lord that he makes quick, dextrous work of it, and before long you’ve downed a glass or three of some strawberry four seasons thing, socializing with the different people around the table. One of them, Lando, talks about your latest film for five whole minutes (“I rated it five stars on Letterboxd. I left a review, if you wanna see”) before he leans close and asks: “Are you his girlfriend?” His is obviously referencing Charles, and you pull back from the proximity to shake your head.
“No,” you holler to emphasize it. “We used to know each other. I grew up here.”
“Oh shit! Native!” He whoops, offering you another glass. This must be your fifth, maybe, fifth G&T or Cosmo or something or other of the night. You take it, drinking as you walk, planning to collect your bag to take with you to the bathroom—another hand takes yours, though, dragging you down the steps. Halfway through, you realize it’s Charles.
“How’s the drink?” He asks, brows straight.
“That’s all you wanted to ask?” You raise your voice above the bass. “Someone needs to teach you fucking… proper small talk.” A laugh involuntarily bubbles past your lips, eyes crinkling.
He laughs, too, despite himself. “Non, I was—I was just asking. We should—I brought you over here to—so we could…” He realizes he’s been talking too fast without getting to the point and pauses, resetting himself with a pinched sigh. “Dance.”
Your heart pulses. Dance? You hear yourself ask. For wh…Why?
“For the sake of the truce.” His voice is light. “We should try being closer.”
“We were close once,” you say, loose. “Did you forget?”
He’s looking right at you, and you’re warm all over. “How could I?”
It feels too real. Not the words—yes the words—but the alcohol, the alcohol is what you’re referring to, and all those shots and drinks suddenly seem not as harmless as they’d seemed earlier. You scan the periphery for the WC sign and try your best not to look deranged on your way there, offering the same pretty smile to recognizing passersby. Behind you, Charles calls out; but you wave him off, heaving dryly.
The restroom is clean because the nightclub is outrageously expensive; you push yourself into the available stall that’s in your direct path and crumple above it. You heave. Heave some more. Nothing comes. The nausea rises and recedes, so you decide to wait it out.
The bathroom door hauls open, bringing with it a few seconds of noise before it swings heavily onto the frame again, sealing the sterile silence. The momentary return of the bass from the dance floor sends your head spinning all over again and you freeze, willing yourself not to wind up hurling your guts into the toilet. It’s a futile effort, though, because you’re feeling nauseated beyond your limit again, and you need water and maybe a salve or something.
“This stall is open,” somebody says, a chipper American voice that grows in volume as it nears you. A gasp follows, and then: “Oh, my God. Are you okay?”
You turn, your face flushed and lips parted. “I’m so sorry. I just—I’ve been nauseous all night.”
“I have water,” she answers, reaching her arm outward, as if seeking it. “Carmen, the water!” A bottle of Evian is thrust into her hand by another girl (Carmen, you presume), and she doesn’t hesitate to bend next to you to feed it into your mouth. She stares for a second, then goes: “On the off chance I’m lucky, and you’re the famous actress, by the way, I just want to say I’m a huge fan of your work.”
Eyes wide, you lock eyes with her and pull away from the water. “Oh, God. Yeah, that’s me. I’m so sorry—this is so humiliating.”
“It’s not—it’s normal,” she assures, nodding. “We’ve all… y’know, puked into a club toilet before.” From the stall doorframe, Carmen nods. “What’d you drink?”
“Fruity stuff,” you recall, eyebrows knitting at the memory. “And shots.”
They both grimace at the same time, knowing the exact feeling, the exact taste, it seems. “Are you heartbroken or something?” Carmen asks; Lily shoots her a look that can only really mean don’t ask the world-famous actress if she’s heartbroken. But you laugh it off, shaking your head.
“No. There’s a guy, though, and he’s… we’re… it’s a lot. I think I thought alcohol would absorb all of it, but… clearly, it did not.” Your lips simmer into a straight line and you’re quiet for a few moments before remembering you’re on a dingy club floor being supported by two nice girls who are strangers. “Anyway! Sorry. I’m clearly, um, delirious.” You get up on semi-wobbly feet, swallowing the nausea as you go.
You walk to the sink, and behind your back, the girl and Carmen share a telepathic exchange (should we ask her to elaborate? Yes! Should we really? Fuck, no.) You rinse your mouth out, washing your hands and focusing on your reflection—your tired eyes, your smudged lip gloss, your fussed-up hair. You turn after rinsing, offering a small smile. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing,” says the first girl, offering her hand and a tube of lip gloss. “I’m Lily, by the way. And just so you know—I’m so sure that guy has nothing on you.” Carmen, beside her, nods in solidarity, and your heart blooms.
Your smile grows as your hand shakes hers, accepting the lip gloss. “You’re too kind. Thank y—”
“Lil? Baby, are you puking?” Comes a disembodied male voice from the door, ajar ever so slightly. Lily visibly cringes and walks over to the door, pulling it open further. On the other side—the detective of sorts—happens to be Alex, who you’d been introduced to a few hours ago. At the sight of you, his eyes widen with recognition.
“We’re fine. Leave us alone,” replies Lily in a conspiratorial whisper. “Carmen and I have a new friend.” She doesn’t even need to drop your name; your face alone is enough to make people recognize who you are.
Alex, however, refuses to admit defeat. “Try harder next time.” He pumps his eyebrows. “We were introduced earlier.” He looks up and waves to demonstrate his truth; when you smile back, Lily’s jaw drops as she turns to her boyfriend again, aghast.
“What the hell? How?” A pause. “No offense. It’s like. Two levels of fame, right there.”
He makes a pinched face. “She’s Charles’… friend? I don’t—coworker? Something, something. They were both vague about it. Actually, George and I were talking about it, and we both think something is up. With them.”
“Wait—you might be right.” Her eyes are hyperfocused, and her voice drops to a whisper for a second. “Let’s talk about it at the hotel.”
You and Carmen watch their hushed exchange, and eventually Alex leaves you three alone again with a loud goodbye, which allows Lily to rejoin your conversation. “Sorry,” she says with a smile. “That was my boyfriend, Alex. I didn’t know you two were introduced! He told me you knew Charles?”
“Oh.” Your shoulders relax. “Yeah, um. We knew each other as kids, but I moved away and we kind of—we drifted apart, so. I’m here on a business trip, and he’s just welcoming me.” You try to reduce the decade-long mess into a sentence.
“So you’re friends?”
“Yeah.” You feel like vomiting all over again.
—
The sky’s a searing blue at noon, silver clouds lining the horizon. Charles has to press a finger to the high point of his cheek to test if he’s sunburned from the heat, and the cameras catch it; he doesn’t doubt the fans will spin that into something cute later. You’re somewhere else on the property, this big, massive thing of a museum that’s crashed into by the waves.
He remembers Andrea first telling him about this whole arrangement. He and the team had deliberately left out any mention of you, like they could predict the immediate veto. He wonders if you knew, or if you, too, had been surprised when seeing him, a ghost of your past looking into your eyes. He wonders if you, too, are now in this endless emotional turmoil. Inside there’s a photoshoot ongoing, with you but also with some models in varying aquatic-related poses to convey the intent of the building; he’s done his share of pictures already, just needs to sit down with you for an interview.
“And a B-roll of you guys, um, like, walking, like—around?” Greg’s voice invades his head again, the nervous man beside him running through a to-do list like this is boot camp.
You’d left him hanging at the club—he couldn’t blame you though. A truce hardly called for the bringing forth of memories you two are now supposed to have buried beneath you. Memories he buried first. But alcohol had loosened him, and maybe you had, too, your eyes in the vaguely bluish light and your smile.
He wishes to apologize. He makes up some excuse and finds you nursing an Evian by a faraway corner, against a screen of stingrays. Your eyes widen when you see him, in recognition. He waves and then, with a thumb, gestures to the catering outside.
You end up by the water eating one of the caterer’s churros, a recommendation he deems “very special.” (“Have you worked with these caterers before?” “No.”) It’s also his excuse to cheat on his diet and eat a churro or three—chocolate dip included, always. You rave over the taste, smile, enjoy the view. Charles realizes this looks deceivingly like a date, and at the same time realizes he would not stop to correct someone if they assumed so.
“Our truce seems to be working.” You say in-between chews, voice flat but eyes bright.
“It seems so. I owe that to my personality.”
You really laugh at that. “I didn’t know you had one. It’s very fit for someone as unapproachable as I am.”
“Who said that?”
“No, noth—nobody.” You comb a lock of hair behind your ear. “Aw, putain. I’m ruining my lipstick. Pat’s going to kill me. I look awful.” There are no reflective surfaces around you to affirm your statement, but you sound so sure of yourself.
He smiles. He enjoys the illusion, the mask that you two seem to wear, albeit involuntarily. The chocolate syrup he squeezes on your little paper box of churros. The muttered back merci when he’s finished. Your flushed face, eyes darting from the delicacy to the ocean, eyelashes fluttering, lips smiling, curving into a laugh at some random realization. Briefly he imagines what he might tell somebody if they stopped to ask if you were dating.
Some old woman, French accent and short in stature. You two are so cute. Si mignon! And she would ask how you two met. Charles would tell her the story. But that is imagination. He blinks out of it and focuses on the beauty in front of him, so very real.
“No. You are very pretty, you know.” He says then, and it’s taken him all his nerves and then some just to wrangle it out of his mouth and past his lips. Anticipatory, he watches you, waits for your response.
You comb the hair out of your face messily, licking over the cinnamon sugar on your lips; then you smile up at him, turning your head in question. “Sorry,” you laugh, and his heart’s frozen because it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. “What did you say?”
The wind roars in his ears, so Charles barely hears himself when he says, stuttering, “What? Nothing, I said nothing.”
You make a face—confused, suspicious—but all your allegations quell once you bite into another churro, stepping yourself a path along the area. Having blocked off the building, production staff and models are all that populate your surroundings, big headphones and even bigger cameras, rolling around racks of monochrome and Hermés, Birkins to match Loro Pianas. It’s easy to get lost in a crowd—in a city—where everyone looks the same, and knows the other’s name. Perhaps that’s also why, even at fourteen, you were excited to leave, he thinks.
“The coast was always my favorite part about the city.”
He notices. The way your eyes have softened, become more fond than when you’re in the centre of it all, in the bustle. Here it’s busy, but less busy; the distinction, perhaps, matters. Your gaze is not one of distaste, of disdain. It’s nostalgic, homesick, yearning. He supposes he describes this gaze so well because it’s the way he catches himself looking at you over the week.
“I wanted to…” He trails off. “I wanted to talk to you because, ah. I’m sorry. It was foolish of me to put you on the spot last night. I should’ve been more… yeah. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay.”
You stare at the sea and nod quietly. Instead of responding, you launch a story: “I always…” You’re clearly lost in a different sphere of thought, and you have to fall quiet while finding the right words to say. “I remember, um. In Year 3, we—I came here with my mum. And I was super mad, because I got, like, three mistakes on my Maths paper?” You laugh and he does, too, but more because your storytelling is so effortlessly enthralling and funny and he needs to shut himself up.
“Anyway.” You pace around again, and he follows. “So, I’m mad, and she’s trying to cheer me up, buys me glace and everything, but no. So I go sit myself on a random bench. It must’ve been around here, I think.” You look around and point at an empty area. “There. But it’s—they must’ve ripped it out. Whatever. So yeah, I’m sitting there, and moping, and all of a sudden All You Need is Love by The Beatles comes blaring into the entire area.”
Charles’ eyebrows knit confusedly. “What, the bench area?”
“No—the whole pier, I guess? Like, it was loud, I almost jumped. And then this guy comes in holding this huge—this, um, board? Sign? Poster? And he’s got half the pier in on his whole thing, and I’m totally… it was just… yeah.” You smile. It’s the biggest smile he’s seen on you since you got here and the fact that he’s even around to see it gets him all warm.
“So what happened?”
“It was a flash mob. You know those—yeah, they’re usually insufferable, but that one was a little calmer. Nobody was, you know, dancing and yelling. It was just a bunch of people cheering and all, and the guy was actually proposing to his girlfriend. It was so cute.” You sigh a little, a brief exhale of air, and it turns into a smile. “I’d love that.”
He raises his eyebrows and, despite himself, laughs. “Vraiment?”
You turn to him, ready to defend yourself, mid-laugh. “Heeey. Everyone says they find big, romantic gestures cheesy, but I think deep down, if you trust the person enough, you’ll like it. Maybe not a proposal, though—can you imagine the pressure?” You pause. “But I don’t know. There’s something so nice about just knowing that person loves you so much they think it’s worth it to share it to everyone around you. So even if it’s cheesy, I wouldn’t mind much. You?”
“It’s cheesy for me,” he disagrees, shrugging. “But I see your point.” Truth be told, he didn’t see you as a romantic type—but all he’s ever seen you do lately is work, and even back in childhood, all you ever did was study. He likes learning these little facts, ones you wouldn’t share in interviews—likes knowing you feel comfortable enough to share with him. “Dancing is a bit overboard.”
“Oh, definitely.” You throw your head back to laugh, eyes half-shut and crinkled and reflecting the sun. Would you look the same if he was dancing to The Beatles, proclaiming all the words he hasn’t had the courage to say?
—
Next question is who your first love was—we’re rolling in three…
“First love?” You laughed a little, facing the camera to continue your Screen Test interview with W. The questions had been candid and lovely, but they were about your career, which you answered with familiar ease. First love is different—uncharted, private territory. But you’d realized all this too late, and the director called go, and you let words spill out of you like a bag popped open.
“I want to be funny and witty and say acting, but that would be a lie. Um, my first love was a childhood friend. We lived near each other, our parents were friends, and I… I really did, I liked him a lot. But these—there were so many factors at tension with each other, like me moving away in 2013—that’s, what, six years ago now? And us being young and not really knowing how to communicate. When you’re a teenager, you’re kind of just like, oh, no worries, um, that’ll sort itself out, and then you grow up and look back and realize, these things never do. But I miss him a, a, a… a lot, and I think of him always.” Your smile didn’t reach your eyes when you looked at the camera again. “We learn a lot from childhood loves.”
Cut. Lovely. Just lovely.
“Thank you, Lynn,” you said with a small smile. A pause as silence creeps up onto the room, and then, quieter: “Could we omit that? I—sorry. I could answer anything else. First kiss, or something? I’m sorry, I just. Sorry.” For the first time in five years, you realize, you’ve conjured his memory again.
—
“Okay. What else do you remember?”
“I… do you remember the recital song?”
“Of course I do! The dance is… that’s a different story.” You’d been at Charles’ hotel room earlier to go over some video shoot regulations for a 24 Hours With video you’re doing in a few days. You stayed because—that’s beyond you at this point, and you’d rather not delve into the rationality of it all. You’re content with thinking about how nice this conversation is, a trip down memory lane.
“The dance, mon dieu, the dance.” He smothers a hand over his face, smiles fondly. “You were at the center!”
“Stop. Stop,” you protest, letting laughter settle into quiet. “It’s crazy, you know? How we… like, we share a life. Not—but like, we had a whole childhood together.”
“And nobody knows.” It’s not something you keep a secret on purpose—it’s just that neither of you feel like name-dropping the other. Some stories have surfaced, but none of you have fully commented. Somehow, that’s a good thing for you.
“Do people ask?”
“People ask, yes.” His accent is a reminder of your past—you’d once had the same thick wraparound, the loose reign over English you’ve now grown to master. Now your accent is a lot thinner, to the point where it’s barely perceptible, and if it is, your coworkers and fans call it cute, chic, use it as a jumping off point to ask where you grew up. But in this hotel room, legs folded underneath you and glass of wine in hand, you have no coworkers or fans, it feels like; no one to perceive you but Charles. Charles and his accent, nostalgic and so very his, which you wouldn’t describe as anything but home.
“What do you tell them, then?” Quickly, you add: “The truth, or…?”
“That we knew each other as kids,” he says, smiling absently. “That is the truth, no?”
You cover a smile with the rim of your wine glass, nodding. There’s no revisionist history in that statement, but it hides a lot of the truth, the nitty gritty of it. You know it, he knows it, you both know it. “What would you want me to say?” His voice is soft and thin and imploring, so different from the boisterous voice he uses in public, from the slurred voice you heard in the club. This sounds real. This sounds like a conversation you would’ve had years ago in your childhood bedroom before everything went—
“Nothing, that’s fine.” You cut your own reverie off, clearing your throat. You even laugh, to alleviate the tension, but he sees right through you so many years later. “Unless you’re privy to telling people how we didn’t talk for months before I left.”
He blinks, smothers a palm over his face again, and sighs, eyes meeting yours. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I… I’ve wanted to bring it up.”
“I’m not mad.” It’s a half-lie. “Okay, no—I am, a bit. It just—it would’ve been nice to hear it two weeks ago.”
“I know.” He doesn’t even need to say it, but him saying it sends a low thrum of reassurance in you. Charles has found, in the two weeks of being in your company, that he accomplishes a sense of self—a sense of quiet, a sense of privacy—when he’s alone with you. Perhaps it’s your natural ability to bring out the best in people, to talk and loosen tongues and make everyone around you feel safe. Or, and this is on a likely front, maybe he misses being one of those people.
He pretends he’s back to last week after another club rendezvous left you tipsier than the first time, dropping you off at your hotel room with two hands taut at your shoulders, one pinching a keycard. You’d been muttering something under your breath, stumbling as you went—you weren’t tripping too much, really; he didn’t need to hold you, but he told himself he had to—and leaning against the doorframe of your room, staring at him blankly. When he met your eyes, you said: maybe, just maybe. Just those three words. If he tries to remember right, you’d been smiling, but he was sufficiently tipsy, too, so he could just as well be wrong.
He does remember a few things right. The eyeliner smudged across your lower eye, lipstick smacked to a point where it looked like you wore none, beads of salt by your lip, your hand wrapped around your necklace.
The silence is anything but awkward; still, he resolves to break it. “When you were drunk last week.” He looks up. “You said—you kept saying, maybe, just maybe.”
A laugh escapes you, stilted and a bit nervous. “Oh. That was—yeah, okay.”
“What’s it mean?”
“You seriously don’t remember?” You’re laughing for real now, your hair bobbing with it, eyebrows furrowed to emphasize your confusion. “Oh, my God. Charles, it’s all you ever said in Year… what, 7? I don’t… anyway. But when we were maybe twelve, I…”
Momentarily, you’re stunned by the memories of him—you’d forgotten they were even there. You press a few fingers to your lips and clear your throat. “Sorry. Yeah, I, um—I think you heard it in a movie or read it somewhere, and for ages it was your favorite saying. Maybe, just maybe.”
“I don’t underst—”
“—You were always just saying it,” you cut in, laughing, your voices layering as you discuss the origin of his former favorite term. “No, you really—”
“I don’t—I do not ever remember say—”
“—Well,” you say, “I remember.” He stays silent for a few seconds, the intensity of your stare and the little smile on your face and everything beating down on him. For a split second he thinks of opening his mouth and getting on his knees and telling you everything, all the apologies, all the things unsaid in the months and years you became strangers. He seriously does. The pressure is almost physical, beyond overwhelming.
“I have to go.” You swallow the lump in your throat, disentangle your legs and clamber off the couch, setting the empty glass on his coffee table. “Good?”
“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “Yeah. Take care. Should I drive you?”
“God, no.” You laugh breathily. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He closes the door after you leave, stares at it, as if that will conjure you back to him. It occurs to him, jolts him almost, that he’d almost let slip a quiet utterance of love you as you slipped out. His stomach boils. With thankfulness over not having said it, he wonders—or with regret?
—
“Best friends now, are you?” Lily, Carmen, and Rachel look up to the sound of your voice, their serious faces breaking out into smiles. If you could chart the time you spent here, there are definitely people you’ve spent the most time with—these three are at the top of the list. You hang your coat and drop your Chanel bag on the entryway seat, already picking up on the British noises of Love Island UK from the telly.
“Wait, so she’s hooking up with him?” Lily asks, confused; her train of thought is cut off by your flopping onto the bed. “Hiiii. Where’ve you been?”
Muffled by the bedspread: Charles’ place.
Silence. The television switches off and you hear the precarious preparation of three girls readying themselves for a debrief-or-sobfest of a lifetime, a noise you’ve heard and partaken in countless times over your life. You suddenly feel too watched, too spectated; you break the quiet by looking up, displaying your tear-streaked face.
“Talk to us,” Rachel encourages, her voice raspy with unuse (Love Island will keep one occupied and quiet for hours on end). Three of them are touching you in some way or other, reassuring grips on your hair or shoulders. “Did you two fight?”
And, oh Christ, fight? It’s not like you’re dating. You aren’t even halfway to that (not that you want to be, but that’s a discussion for another time). The idea of a fight with him is so terribly juvenile, so horribly reminiscent of secondary school and Monaco and being together and being friends. You can’t fight with a guy who’s not your boyfriend. You can’t fight with a guy you’re not close to, for Chrissake. You squeeze your tears out of your eyes and breathe hiccups out.
“Do you want gelato?” No, no.
“Love Island?” In a minute.
The truth is, you want both, but you really just want to sort everything out with Charles. It was no use—hating each other was futile, but pretending everything was fine in some pathetic attempt at a “truce” seemed even worse. You just want to talk everything out, even if it excavates feelings you’d once been able to suppress.
“What kind of crush doesn’t disappear after ten years?” You ask through tears. It’s almost funny, but the question comes straight from the heart. “I’ve dated guys, lived across the world, started a whole new life pretending he never—pretending we were—fuck. Pretending he didn’t exist. It was—I’m not lying, it was easy, pretending. But one glimpse—I see him one time and suddenly it feels like all of it was in vain. It’s the same crush I had before, coming back, like it’s never going to leave me alone.”
“Maybe it’s not a crush,” says Lily, slowly.
“So what is it then?” You ask, hopelessly. What is this—this revival of memories? This little feeling, this sense that no matter where he is or what he’s doing, you’ll be just as in tune when you reunite even if it takes a decade? A decade spurred by months of being given the cold shoulder? What kind of magic is that?
She doesn’t answer, because you already know.
—
“Hey Vogue—I’m here with Charles Leclerc, and we’re here to take you along with us on all our little adventures here in Monaco.” Your smile is rehearsed, the perfectly-orchestrated blend of fun and serious, and when the cameraman calls cut, it falls into a more natural resting face. It’s the one Charles turns to and observes for any signs of a grudge.
The day is busy, which is precisely why it was chosen as the film day: three shows in the morning, press junkets for your movie and Charles’ season in the afternoon, and then a gala in the evening, hosted and attended by Anna Wintour herself.
The day’s business is only trumped by its tension, which reaches its crescendo in the janitor’s closet of the fourth floor of your hotel. It’d begun with a fight over the color palette, then a fight over last conversation you shared, then a fight over him fucking up the color palette, and then kissing against the door. Ironically enough, this floor houses a fair number of honeymoon suites.
It’s ironic beause hardly anything about this is or should be romantic—it’s a temporary fix, a pause from the turmoil, his hand squeezing your thigh. He’s gentle but you feel his possessiveness, lingering longer, higher and higher up until he’s playing with the high hem of your skirt. You knot your fingers in his hair, smell the shampoo and hairspray and cologne in the wispy curls there.
He kisses your jaw, then downward, until he’s licking, nipping at your throat. Charles.
“Yeah?” His voice is rough against your pulse point.
“Make it—we gotta—quicker.” Your hands tremble, heart hammering loud and bold in your chest. His voice is sure, gravelly, quiet, and you have to focus on something—so you centre on his hands, up your thighs and slipping under the lace of your skirt, bunching the fabric up around your hips. His hands, big and calloused, fingers resting on your hipbones, on your ass.
He’s hard against your thigh, straining against his jeans. You could cry. “I want more.”
“I know, baby. I know.” The pet name, so new but so natural, sends you into a dopamine rush.
You squirm when he doesn’t let up on his touches, over every inch of your body, groping you. He wants to take his time—he hates that he can’t—and counts on the possibility of a next time. You pull him in for a spit-slick kiss, needy and whimpering, sloppy and tongues knotted. It feels good—fuck, it feels like this was all you were ever made for, his touch.
You buck your hips into the air desperately. “We really—fuck. We don’t have time.” Cameras, a shoot, a video; reminders ring in your head like alarm bells. He nods, goes I know, and you pick up the strain in his voice as he tugs his jeans down just enough to rub his clothed cock under your entrance, hard and drooling through the fabric.
You moan softly. “Please, I can take it,” you breathe. You’ve never been this wet, this worked up, this teased. You need to feel him, be full of him; he presses you flush against the door with a hand at the small of your back to keep it from aching too much, and drops forward as he pushes into you. Your noses brush and he goes deeper, air thick and muffled with little moans and whimpers.
His mouth is against your jaw, thrusting slowly to get you used to the size of him. The angle gets you dizzy, draws a burst of wetness out and gets you clenching around him. You’re flushed and sweaty, moaning. Feels s’good. So good, Charles, so, so good. He fucks harder, the door rattling, dirty talk cooed from his lips to your ear: Yeah? Feels real good? You’re so good for me, baby, come on.
Your needy voice, needier movements, are driving him crazy, getting him to fuck you harder, licking over his lips as he watches you fall apart on his dick. Relax, he slurs. You squeeze around him and moan, wretched and raw. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re so big. You’re getting his dick wetter and wetter with every thrust, shiny and drooling with cum.
Yeah? He says it so well, the best kind of reassurance. Come on, we don’t have time, baby. Let me feel you cum.
I know— you whine. I’m cumming—it feels too good—
You cum first, thighs shaky around him and lip curling into your teeth. You lean forward, mouth to his shoulder, and bite at the cotton. Fuck, he grunts, and releases then, a groan spilled into your hair. You watch, laughing breathlessly, and feel the world click into something different.
You two will do anything, apparently, but talk this all through.
—
The gala is big and extravagant and you’re seated not with Charles this time, but with a roster of celebrities straight out of an LAX red-eye. Anna is at the table adjacent, andy you were able to talk to her about the experience, though not without leaving out bits with Charles in them.
You’re beside Florence and she’s talking about something, about a new movie she’s working on, and you chip in with jokes and laughs but your smile doesn’t really reach your eyes. You’re still caught in a web of fragile confusion. “I need to excuse myself for a moment,” you say after a while, after you’ve done nothing but smile and push broccoli puree around on your plate.
Consolation comes with isolation, at least tonight, at least right now. You find an empty balcony on the third floor, stare into the black sea. You try and try to remember what life was like three weeks ago, but it’s irrevocable now, the change that’s come since then. You tap the glass of your beer bottle against the marble banister, solid and probably expensive—a match for the rest of the hotel, you realize. It’s starkingly clean and smooth, and white, the kind of things you’d only say about a marble banister when you’re trying to avoid an adult introspection.
Behind you: “Are you okay?”
In response, you say, “We shouldn’t have had sex.”
Charles settles himself into a spot near you, not totally beside but not too far—he, too, holds onto a bottle of beer. There are fancier drinks around, but somehow the dry taste of ale is all that brings you comfort right now. Your gears turn and, without prompt or question, you spill yourself forth.
“It was hard, when you didn’t… when we didn’t talk, and you didn’t ever tell me why, so I didn’t know anything. I keep remembering it, even now, what—ten years later, ha ha, even after… I don’t know, after the fact. We’re supposed to have moved on from shit that happened to us when we were fifteen but I’m finding it to be the hardest thing in the world. It was so… like, I had no trouble saying goodbye to anything else but you. And I’m famous now, my life is a whole thing, a—this whole party, and I’m supposed to… fuck.” You shut your eyes, and you can feel, through the thick fog of embarrassment and delirium, the tears that stain your cheeks. “It’s like. You know when you’re a teenager and you see all of it in movies and TV, this, like, moment where you’re staring at someone from across a room, and you’re smiling and talking to other people and you’re happy because you know in a few hours, you’ll be with that person anyway? At home, rearranging furniture, feeding the dog, eating leftovers? That… I always thought you’d be that person for me. Maybe because you were the only—you know—the only love I ever knew, and now, what. Four? Boyfriends and ten years later, you might expect me to feel differently—hell I expect myself to feel differently, but, unfortunately for you and me, I don’t. Sorry. I’m not—I’m not drunk, or anything.”
He stares at you, his expression soft and unreadable. It feels like it’s just the two of you in the world today, twenty-somethings, ten years later, unearthing all you left buried. “I…” he says, before pausing. “I’m sorry for leaving.”
You nod in response.
“I always thought you would forgive me.” His face is sullen and handsome and your heart seizes. “I wanted to be your person.”
“How could I forgive you without an apology?” Your voice comes out fragile. “I leave in three days. You’ve fu—you’ve… you’ve kissed me, had sex with me, flirted with me. You’ve done everything but that.”
“I did apologize. I don’t think it was enough, but—”
“But you didn’t,” you reply, a jagged response. “You never said anything.”
“I wrote you.” His eyebrows knit. “I wrote you.”
“You wrote me.” You repeat, deadpan. Your head spins with it. “What, a letter?”
“An e-mail. Before your first film came out—2014? A year after you… yeah.” He’s quiet and timid and nervous. “I forced Gi to tell me your address.”
“I didn’t… I wasn’t using that e-mail anymore. I haven’t in years.” You pinch your nose and let the silence settle like fine dust onto the room, an unspoken bomb that explodes over the both of you, raining regret and unsaid words. “I have to go.” You push yourself off the banister, turning already to the doors of the balcony. He stops you before you can step any further, a hand closed over your wrist, rough and warm.
“If you find the message,” he says, “will you read it?”
“I don’t plan to,” you lie. “Goodnight.”
—
From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <[email protected]>
Date: 14 October 2014
To: You
Subject: Urgent!
hey buttercup, I asked Giada for this email address. my bday in 2 days. Will you be home for Xmas this year btw? ill show you some new places that open ed + we can bike around. mum misses u a lot too. parfois je souhaite que tu ne partes pas… not sometimes but always. i think i need to edit this a little let me try ag
From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <[email protected]>
Date: 14 October 2014
To: You
Subject: Buttercup
j’appellerais mais je ne pense pas que tu veuilles répondre. it’s been more than a year since you moved out, in two days i’ll be celebrating my second birthday w/o you. i’ve been karting a lot, things are looking up, just like we always said they would :) just want to say i miss you a lot, and i hope you’re doing good. i would say i hate radio silence but i know it’s my fault all this happened in the first place. i’m sorry i stopped talking to you last year when you were moving away. i was being childish, but the truth is it was the only way i could handle it - by pretending we werent friends at all… i don’t want to make you pity me or anything (ne pense pas que je suis) but yeah you’re my best friend and you always will be. i’m sorry for being a knot head.
i was always scared to tell you but it’s been there since forever: i love you. i should’ve enjoyed your months here instead of leaving you in the air. i know i ignored you but it’s the 1 thing i regret. should’ve done a lot more, i know.. but i didn’t. we have a lot of promises i broke because i was being selfish. i kept the paper ring to remind me. remember that? we had a “playground wedding” when we were 5/6?
tu ne me dois rien - i just want you to give me a chance to make you happy, even if it’s just in the way we’ve always been (as friends). if you write me back i’ll try and fly there. mum is always asking me if we’ve talked yet. if not, that’s ok. i love you all the same and i will love you as you reach your dreams. this will never change.
charles
p.s: est-ce que je te manque?
p.p.s: call me if you can and wish me a happy birthday?
—
“Rachel, I would sooner die than wait another two hours for the tarmac to clear again.” You try to up the firmness in your voice but it fails, only serving to make you sound less angry and more agitated. When all you get in response is a muffled I’m coming! you grumble and hang up the phone. Your plane was delayed all of three times, and the instant it arrives and is scheduled to take off on time, your friendsistant is nowhere to be found.
Lily and Carmen had thrown you a goodbye party the night prior, with sprinklers and music and cocktails, and promised to be on the next flight to L.A. Vogue and David had emailed you for a job done spectacularly, and to watch out for the videos and interviews’ release dates. Twitter is raving about your movie. Everything should be good, and yet, it’s not.
You check your inbox. IM COMJNG LILTIERALLY IM RUNNING THRU AJRPPRT!!!!!! You scoff again, hoping the plane doesn’t somehow take off for the fourth time, and take a seat on the VIP waiting area sofa again, shaking your now-empty chai latte. The room, sectioned off from economy and business, is fairly full.
A woman paces over to you, a bright grin on her face. “Hi. I’m a huge fan.”
“Thank you,” you smile, despite your tiredness.
“This is so embarrassing—but do you happen to have the time?”
“Sure”—you tap your phone open—“half past four.”
“Great,” she says. “Thanks, Buttercup.”
You’re opening your mouth to say you’re welcome, but it catches like cotton in your throat. You watch her depart like nothing happened, a strange feeling settling in your chest. You have barely any time to answer it, because a flight attendant is tapping you on the shoulder, addressing you by name, thankfully. She maintains a tone of professionalism all throughout her announcement that the aircraft under your name will have to evacuate the runway in ten minutes or less.
“I know, I know—I’m just, um. I’m waiting for somebody. She should be near now, though.”
“Tremendous. Merci, Buttercup.”
“Wh—” You stutter, blinking and watching her leave. “What?”
She doesn’t turn, walking to the kiosk to exchange information with her coworkers. You look around the airport, for a camera hidden somewhere maybe. Perhaps you’ve been unknowingly listed in some Impractical Jokers skit.
Rach hurry you text instead, leaning back and hoping you’re in some grandiose delusion. Your phone dings. Omw promise! It reads. Then: Look up buttercup
Your head snaps upward faster than you can register what you’ve just read, matching the opening notes of a song you’ve grown all too familiar with in your lifetime. The opening beat to Build Me Up, Buttercup flows like honey through the room’s intercom and floods it with life.
Mouth agape, you watch as the staff and guests perform the routine you’d learned at fourteen, complete with hops and turns you were too embarrassed to do even then. They’re smiling and whooping themselves and each other as they go, finishing the entire first verse before turning collectively to the entrance of the room. There, in all his glory: Charles, wearing an entirely too-small headdress that reads Buttercup, worn dusty from years of being stored away.
He’s dancing, too, closer to you. You refuse to budge for the express purpose that he dance some more, which he complies with, though not without an eyeroll and an exasperated sigh. Your heart beats with something irregular and warm. You’d told him about this before. He’d listened.
The music settles for a little and the dancers do, too, so he takes the time to raise his sign. Will you forgive me? It reads. No pressure. Except kind of. You laugh, throwing your head back at the gesture, at this entire affair that must have taken some amount of effort to prepare. As the lyric comes on, so does his sign: I need you… more than anyone, darling.
He drops the sign when you approach him, arms crossed over your torso. He removed the headdress and places it gingerly on yours. “I believe that belongs to you.”
And, hyperaware of all the eyes and yet the complete lack of cameras—you’re grateful for it—you finally, finally, finally pull him in for a kiss. You’ve kissed before, done your worst, but still means volumes to the both of you.
In-between kisses and cheers (from voices belonging to Lorenzo, Rachel, Lily—so many familiar ones), he says it again: “I’m sorry. I’ll make it all up to you.”
“You better,” you tease into his lips, smiling. “I know. I love you.” Ten years later—your person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.
#f1#charles leclerc#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc imagines#charles leclerc drabble#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc smut#f1 x reader
2K notes
·
View notes
Note
and how to banish demons and trickster spirits?? 🥲 please help thank you
How to spiritually protect your home from unfamiliar entities 👻
When faced with paranormal activity, it can be scary for anyone! We start to question ourselves and feeling silly thinking: "Did I really just see that?! No, no, it my must be my imagination..." but you still can't shake the feeling something is there in your room.
How to decipher between a high or low vibrational entity
Every spirit takes form in a different shape and color. I am unsure what it means but I have seen just about each one. So I will be giving each one a name for it. A fair warning though to use your intuition because my interaction with each spirit could be different from yours. Always use caution.
The in-between:
This spirit is mainly gray and fuzzy but has a rainbow outline. Similar to a broken TV. I believe these spirits are going through a period of healing and transformation. They are more neutral with their approach but overall have good intentions.
Holier than thou:
This spirit looks pure white. It's just a plain white or almost milky translucent color, they are typically friendly. If they are white, but look like it's sparkling or shining, it is a low vibrational entity or demon trying to pose as a angel.
Peekaboo:
The ones that appear in the corner of your eye or when you feel a presence randomly pass by. This is the most famous type of spirit that everyone has said they have come across. They come as shadows and are quick on their feet. They are black in color and their origins I am unsure, but they haven't bothered me per say. They startle me though, so because of how they sneak around. I mainly believe that they are trickster spirits.
Fairy lights (also known as orbs):
Orbs of light are considered to be a manifestation of energy present in your home. I have interacted with this type of spirit the least. When I first began doing deity worship with Aphrodite, I would see pink orbs, and that is how I knew she was present when I prayed to her or asked her for guidance. I have also seen orbs when interacting with archangels.
Faders:
These spirits fade in and disappear once they get what they want. They usually appear with a message and then leave once they're done. They can be pretty lonely, so sometimes they just like your company. I went to a garden memorial once and I had a spirit follow me home just so they could spend time with me. They left after two days.
Angels:
I feel that most of the time my interaction with an angel was presented as a human. You ever had someone that just was really sweet and kind to you in when you were having a really rough day? Yeah I mean that. Those feel like angels to me. Archangels I view them as orbs.
Demons:
*cracks knuckles* the moment you've all been waiting for. Now these are masters of disguise. Demons present themselves as anything or anyone just to get closer to you. Whether that's a living human being, an attractive person in your dream who sexually arouses you (incubus/succubus), or a monster who keep causing you to have nightmares in your sleep. Their main desire is to suck your life source and take over your soul at your weakest moment or make you do malicious things that are out of your character.
The different types of demons:
Before we touch upon this topic, if you are someone who struggles with a mental health condition such as anxiety, PTSD, BPD, etc. Be aware that some of your symptoms could align with some of the things I will mention down below. You have to understand the difference of just being anxious/paranoid and genuinely having an encounter with an entity that's dangerous.
Creepers:
Creepers are literally what they are. They creep up on you quite randomly. They mostly appear in your dreams to scare you and cause you to have nightmares. In most cases, these ones are just annoying because they scare you out of your sleep, but the more severe ones can physically harm you. One time in middle school I had a nightmare of a demon wanting to attack me in my sleep and I woke up with scratches on my back that were bright red. Nobody else was there in my room that night to have left scratches on me like that. Anyone of any age can deal with creepers but it is most common for children to come across them.
Hitmen:
A hitman is usually a demon that was sent by someone who has given you the evil eye or decided to hex you or wish malicious things onto you. This is scary for most people to experience because you can't tell if you're going crazy or genuinely feel an attack on your peace of mind. A sign of a spiritual attack is when you are around someone and suddenly that person gives you a bad vibe, you start to feel physically ill or energetically drained. Intuitively, you should know when you feel unsettled by a negative entity.
Inner demons:
You guessed it. Demons that come from you. We all have our own inner demons that manifest from a place of pain, envy, anger, bitterness, or hatred. They are the ones who stick with us through our darkest times. Inner demons have a codependent relationship with us. It's almost as if being with a narcissist. Instead of helping you, they enjoy that you are helpless so they can stay with you longer. They conveniently appear or come around during severe periods of depression. Since it is a inner demon and not a hitman demon, you have to learn to forgive yourself for the manifestation of this entity, since it has come from you. Instead of fighting them or being angry with them, allow them to be set free. Wish healing for them as well, since it was not their fault they were born out of agony. They may come and go, but they should know their place from now on. For witches, these demons could be at your service for more baneful magick if anyone decides to fuck with you 🤫
How to deal with negative entities and banish them from your sacred space:
Ultimately, it comes down to being brave and asserting your dominace. Let these entities know that they cannot and will not fuck with you from this day on. When they know you are a pushover, they will just keep messing with you. Scare them like how they scare you. Here are some different methods you could use to banish these entities from your home.
Clean up your act 🧹:
Have you ever felt the strong urge to clean your house after being in a funk? That's right! Cleaning is one of the most popular ways of getting rid of low vibrational energy and to invite new energy into your home. I mean what's a witch without her broom right?
Mainly dusting, sweeping, mopping, wiping windows/mirrors, and vacuuming could be done for banishing negative energy/entities
You can chant while sweeping away from yourself, you can make this up on your own so it can be more fitting for you and you can memorize it more easily
Florida Water is considered one of the holy grails and can be bought at any local botanica or even online. It is a cologne that is famous for its magical properties and multi-purposes. You can pour Florida Water into the bucket of water that you use for mopping 🪣
Cleaning products that have magical ingredients (I.E: Lemon / lemon scent is a popular tool for spiritual cleansing)
Pillow sprays, febreeze, essential oils, or room deodorizers are a cheap and easy way to cleanse your home (Lavender pillow spray can be sprayed around your house and on your bed sheets or curtains for peace and tranquility. It is also a refreshing scent and helps you sleep better 😊!)
Boiling a concoction is another method you can use (ever wondered what was in those witches' cauldrons?). Most people boil bay leaves, rosemary leaves, or cinnamon
If you are pregnant or someone sensitive to chemicals or smells, you can use crushed eggshells or pour salt in the corners of your home, window sills, and doors🚪
Plants and crystals can be used as protection wards for your home. You can put them anywhere that you prefer.
Other popular methods for protection spells are spell jars, mojo bags (hoodoo, closed practice), enchanting a necklace or piece of jewelry to wear as a tailsman/amulet, or egg cleanse (common method in Latin American culture).
Team up:
There's nobody who will be down to protect you more than yourself than your spirit guides. Simply calling upon your ancestors (who wish you good intentions ofc), guardian angels, animal guide, or deity should be enough to protect you in moments of fear and feeling unsafe. Remember to show appreciate to them and give them offerings for their assistance. They cannot consistently be there for you if their energy source is low (especially ancestors!).
Remember that you are loved 🤍:
Experiencing the evil eye or a spiritual attack can be scary for just about anybody 🥺! Just remember that the situation is temporary and there is always going to people out there who love you and wish for your happiness (including your higher self). Paranormal activity is a weird but interesting thing many people in their lifetime have come across, so you don't have to feel alone. I hope this was of help to you and that you feel better about being able to protect yourself 😇
#ask#anon#witchcraft#wicca#hoodoo#evil eye#protection spells#brujeria#closed practices#spirits#spirit guides#deity worship#deity work#spell jar#home witchcraft#witches of color#pac#pick a card#astrology#astro observations#astrology observations
127 notes
·
View notes
Note
Yeah, you captured my thoughts exactly on the previous Tarn/Smokescreen ask! Plus, Smokescreen will also disobey Optimus if his judgement screams at him to do otherwise, something that Tarn would never do because Megatron knows better than everyone. (See the base explosion in the end of season two.)
Point two is that Tarn cloaks himself in Decepticon ideology but doesn't really live by it or learn anything good from it. Smokescreen is devoted to the Autobot cause but also lives by the ideals behind it. Basically, Tarn is devoted to his cause because of Megatron, but Smokescreen is devoted to Optimus because he embodies everything good about the cause and so takes his leader's advice on improving to heart. It's why the two had different levels of trust placed in by their leaders.
Anywho, I was hoping you could write Smokey calling out Tarn and getting under his skin, thereby starting Tarn's hatred of this new enemy.
Getting cornered was rarely a good thing. Getting cornered by a decepticon was never a good thing. Getting cornered by Tarn was absolutely a real no good, absolutely terrible thing.
With his armor a dark purple shade, the leader of the DJD almost blended into the night, only his blazing red optics standing out like two stars. And despite the mask, Smokescreen just knew that the bastard was smirking. What he was so happy about, he didn't know, but it was bound to be something bad.
It wasn't the first time they'd crossed paths, however, for the first time it was just the two of them. Every time they met, they both had someone from their team with them. First time Smokescreen had seen Tarn he had been accompanied by that weird smelter guy with the freaky tongue. Man, just remembering it made his plating crawl. It had only been Optimus presence at the time that had kept him from totally freaking out.
Now, he was alone. This was supposed to be a sneaky mission after all. While the rest of the team attracted the attention elsewhere, Smokescreen were supposed to sneak inside, get what they needed and then get out. Easy peasy.
They just hadn't prepared for the fact that Tarn would be there.
"Now now, there's no need to be frightened," Tarn crooned, his deep voice making the air vibrate, "I just want to talk after all."
Unable to help himself, Smokescreen barked out a short, nervous laugh. "Talking. I can do talking. In fact, I love to talk, I talk almost all the time. Ratchet keeps telling me to shut up but I just can't help myself, I'm a guy that has a lot to say-"
"How about," Tarn interrupted, "I talk first, and you listen, hm?" Shutting his mouth, Smokescreen could do nothing but nod while secretly sending out a distress ping to his team. They had to know that something had gone wrong.
Taking on a slightly more relaxed pose, Tarn gestured at his captive audience off one. "I've read about you, you know? Sure, I've read about all the autobots on Earth but you? Your file specifically caught my attention."
"Neat," was all Smokescreen managed to squeak out between squeezed lips.
"You are young. Inexperienced but undoubtedly talented. You wouldn't have made it this far otherwise. Good intuition. A quick thinker. An adapter. But that wasn't what interested me. Can you guess what it was?"
Suddenly thrown a question, Smokescreen scrambled for an aswer that wouldn't get him killed.
"My great sense of humor?"
Nailed it.
Tarn chuckled, shaking his head. "Charming. But no. It was your loyalty, Smokescreen. You see, anyone can kill. Anyone can die for a cause. But only a select few have what it takes to be the perfect warrior. The perfect weapon. The first and most vital characteristic is loyalty. A weapon shouldn't turn on their master after all. Do you understand what I'm talking about, Smokescreen?"
Finally, his team responded to his emergency ping. A short messange, "we're on our way", and Smokescreen almost felt like he could shed tears of relief. But he was not yet out of danger. He had to keep Tarn occupied until backup arrived.
"I-I'm not sure. I mean, yeah, I trust in Optimus but what about it? What does it have to do with anything?"
Tarn clicked his tongue. "Like I said before; you're young. You have yet to reach your full potential and oh, what potential I see in you. And I just know, if you gave me the chance, I could shape you into something splendid."
Tarn's voice trembled at the last couple of words, as if in reverence of whatever fantasy he had playing out in his head. There was a brief, faraway look in his optics before he shook his head, breaking out of whatever trance he had found himself in. Once again, his optics met Smokescreen's and this time they stayed there.
"Your potential is wasted with the autobots, young one," he said in an almost mournful voice. "But I can make it right. You just have to follow me."
It took a couple of seconds for Smokescreen to say anything. "How can you be so sure?"
"Because, my dear Smokescreen," Tarn spoke as he offered his hand, "you and I are the same."
There was this sudden, bitter taste in Smokescreen's mouth and it made him want to purge. His mind, previously muddled by fear, now turned strikingly clear. Tarn was no longer a boogeyman or a terrifying phantom of evil.
He was just an idiot.
"I," Smokescreen spat out, "am nothing like you. I fight because I care about Cybertron, about my friends. I am loyal to Optimus because I believe in what he says, not because it's him saying it but because what he's saying is good and right. You," he points a finger at Tarn, "fight because you are so obsessed with Megatron that you don't care what he says or does as long as it's him doing it. You don't care about justice, or whatever the DJD is supposed to be, you just want Megatron to pay attention to you. Weapon? Yeah, you're right, you are one. But I am a mech and I'll be dead in the ground before I turn into someone even resembling what you are."
As Smokescreen finished talking, silence fell upon the two bots. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Four seconds.
Tarn heaved a massive sigh as he let his head roll back and stared into the ceiling. "Such a shame, really. And here I thought you had at least some brains." Rolling his shoulders, Tarn suddenly flexed his fists and took on a more aggressive stance. A low grow emitted from his chest. "You call yourself a mech. Let's see if you can die like one."
Preparing his weapons, Smokescreen flashed a toothy grin at the decepticon. "Ready when you are."
74 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hey I really love your art - I wanted to ask if you use references from anywhere specific.
Also, have you considered the idea of Reigan becoming Minori's Guardian Ad Litem? I agree that Reigans not exactly the kind of person to make the most responsible father (at least where we leave him in the show) but I could totally imagine him becoming her guardian for some legal reason.
He's really the only adult she'd know to trust outside her father.
I can imagine they're put a whole court case together with Reigan as her guardian just for legal reasons and they win, and then Minori's like. "Oh shit where do I go? Guess your my guardian for real now." And Reigan is like.
What?
Thank you 🫶💜 hmm well for pose references including clothing etc I just get them from google stock images, I generally try to avoid making the pose too similar to the images I see so I sometimes draw in different angles (honestly most of the time I struggle looking up references because I cant find a picture in a specific angle I want, so I go with my intuition even if it's wrong), honestly google is probably the place I rely on the most for this. Like if I forget what a shoe looks like then I'll just google it.
If you're talking about where I got inspiration for my art style (or what I look to get ideas for my art etc) I'd say the major ones for me are ONE's sketches on twitter (especially his shaky lineart and how he draws eyes), early episodes of Detective Conan (clothing folds, color choices sometimes, body proportions like the chest being pointed etc), Revolutionary Girl Utena (also clothing and body proportions), FLCL (I have no idea what parts of it influenced my art but I feel like it's an obligation to list it here)
Uhh for the fun drawings that require more effort I'd say music is inevitably the most important part of it. 99% of the time my drawings that arent plain sketches are modeled after a specific song I listen to (primarily from ZARD but other artists too although not as often) even then I think my sketches are still influenced by ZARD somehow. Wait I completely forgot to mention I also look up images of ZARD on Pinterest for poses or just... to draw anything honestly. Theres a good number of pictures of her in various angles (I remember one of her photographers said she was very photogenic so most of her pictures are very casual as if a camera wasn't present) I think it's good to look at them if you are looking for something natural. Just looking up "Izumi Sakai" there will give you results.
For text placement/colors/vibe/whatever I like to look at old media I grew up with like MADs, shitty websites made in the 90s/2000s, old anime subtitled in Arabic (I have plenty of DVDs with anime dubbed/subbed in Arabic that I have no idea where we got them from, I assume it's all pirated. Anime openings/endings in Arabic also have very poor aesthetics when it comes to logo placement/text color/text animation/etc but that's exactly why I like them) I also have a Pinterest board with outdated ZARD edits that I look at often while drawing. For image textures or backgrounds I use this website. If I struggle with art block or don't know how to draw a specific thing I also look at everything I previously listed and reference from there. Anyways I talked a Lot but hopefully I could help with that.
As for Reigen being a guardian .... I never considered it seriously but I think he could pull it off. He'll definitely make mistakes but he could succeed if he had a daughter. I just have to kill off Minori's real dad or something and it'll work. The only problem would be that Minori has to live with the fact that her new father is broke and unable to spend thousands of dollars for her every week.
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
Union
I feel almost happy, almost serene, mostly content. I knew it would come, it just hasn't felt possible.
In the last two weeks I have had five panic attacks, some not intense as others, but debilitating just the same. It was while I was crying for 6+ hours straight and only got roughly an hour's sleep on a Thursday night, either side panic attacks that I realised I wasn't going crazy, that it is actually PTSD. It is amazing, once the mind is able to grasp and make sense of something, it can relax and ease a little more.
I have been worried about my bipolar returning, having felt fully healed from it. I have not been on psych meds for years and it was interesting to notice how much louder my mind got without them. The difference is, with all the years of self-work, therapy, the support of meds and mostly my spiritual path led me to a place where I was liberated, empowered and not controlled by my diagnosis. I truly believe that my bipolar is a manifestation of my brain figuring out to cope in intense times of survival.
These last few months have been brutal. My somatic and nervous system work absolutely intense. At one point I was laying on the floor each day and immediately my body would convulse for an hour+. Yes, it was and has been utterly exhausting, my nervous system has just been in overdrive and it is so naturally used to regulating in this innate way now that suppression and bottling anything down is impossible. This is the power of healing.
I finally purchased the Activation Sequence to the Gene Keys a couple of days ago after having a difficult conversation with my best friend, who said she has noticed a decline in my mental health over the past year. I admitted to her that I have just been scared. Because I have been. Every part of me beginning to freeze in terror at the possibility of what might be happening to me. I am so proud that I have so many learned skills and tools that I can utilise to help support myself. It has been so hard, as I have wanted so much to start working with others and begin to bring some of this work to the world. But, with my state being the way it has, I have just needed such a deep pause and rest state.
Instead of going to a yoga class this evening I followed my intuition and was stayed home to do a restorative practice and reconnect my body, with my heart. I was reminded today through the gene keys teachings of the beauty of yoga, in bringing myself back to union, my natural state and my natural nature. I set the intention to connect with Mother Gaia and send all that extra electrical charge and anything that does not serve me back into the Earth. And to be breathe in grounding transmuted energy back into my body and connect with my heart. It was so interesting to witness and watch. Because my body moves so much, I have been holding back heaps in my practice so as not to disturb others, as it is not appropriate. What has happened is a disconnection with my heart. Through each intuitively guided pose, staying there for roughly 5 minutes and as my body unwound and let go, I allowed it to convulse, shake, move and heal as it needed.
Already in the first module. A glimpse and a glance to the art of contemplation I am already reconnected more deeply with my higher self and my ego has taken a very deep back seat.
What a blessing to be here now. x
#gene keys#the art of contemplation#union#yoga#somatics#healing#therapy#nervous system regulaton#release#embodiment#magick#earthing#connection
9 notes
·
View notes
Note
Why do I suffer so?
That's a broad question. A vague question. But an ever-relevant question.
Have you brought it upon yourself or has it manifested upon you in an unsolicited and unwarranted manner? In my experience, it's been a mixture of both. Often the suffering we bring upon ourselves is the most unnecessary aside from that which we bring onto others which is the most regrettable.
Suffering is relative.
We should examine suffering in the same way we would differentiate between absolute and relative poverty. We should first consider the sort of suffering that those who, for example, were raised in the global north in the western hemisphere on either side of the Atlantic in the late 20th century - Present as compared to every other human who has ever existed before us or is currently living elsewhere and enduring different struggles. COVID was but a taste of the struggles others deal with every day, all the time. It cannot be understated how sheltered and spoiled we are compared to those who came before us and those whose location and experiences today are not that of our own. See the average lifespan expectancy of humans in 1900 compared to those in 1950, and again with those in Present-day in the United States alone for a bit of perspective.
Some suffering is a necessary and a part of life. Sometimes personal, self-inflicted, suffering makes us stronger and conditions us to bend but not break. Sometimes it's unnecessary and we suffer from things outside of our control at the hands of others. Sometimes that makes us stronger as well but the unnecessary and unwarranted suffering through abuse and violence brought onto ourselves and others by others, or that which we bring onto others, is the most intolerable and unforgivable. And this type of suffering is the kind that should keep us up at night.
The Black Mirror anthology (BBC/Netflix) does an amazing job of exploring the potential nightmares of what sort of suffering is possible via cloning and artificial intelligence in three episodes "White Christmas", "U.S.S Callister", and "Black Museum" (which I wouldn't recommend watching until you’ve watched all of the others). The social commentary and ethical questions posed in those episodes were sometimes overlooked or not always taken seriously as they should be. They are, again, ever-relevant. And I've thought about them quite a bit.
I bring this up to emphasize how the ability and capacity to experience suffering is arguably the most intuitive and compelling power we have for gaging what it is real. You may hear people say that time and space or our reality at large, for example, is an illusion - and you might even hear them expand on this with some salient points to demonstrate the soundness and deepness of these arguments. And maybe in some sense, these are true statements.
And yet there is nothing more real, no greater proof of reality, than the pain endured in the moment of suffering. Time is never more eternal than it is within the moment of suffering. And because anyone who has truly suffered, intuitively understands this to be true - we should give a bazillion fucks about the suffering of others and for the suffering of any and all sentient beings.
The Turing test is used to gage the capacity of a machine to exhibit equivalent to, or indistinguishable, intelligence of that of a human. "The Enduring Test", as I would have it, would measure a digital clone or replicants, capacity for suffering to an equal or indistinguishable extent as humans or biological lifeforms generally speaking.
At that point, we should give as many fucks about the suffering of artificial intelligence as we do for our own and should for that of others - the thought of crossing this technological Rubicon and for that possibility to be crystallized into reality should be absolutely terrifying to anyone with a pulse and a spine.
What good comes from, for what purpose is there, suffering? The only utility I can offer you is the idea that enduring suffering and seeking to avoid future suffering triggers what Colin Wilson refers to as "the peak experience". In these moments, we become most alive and are awoken out of the "robot" programming and cultural sedation that comes with a life where the core elements of survival are in many ways taken care of for us.
The generations preceding us had less and less time to suffer from the worries that plague us today. They had to find food, water, and shelter and avoid rival tribes and empires coming to sack their cities and forcing them to submit to worshiping a new God, renouncing their old ones, or be burned at a stake - or forcing them into slavery or killing the men and raping the women and eventually wiping them off the face of the earth. Conquests didn't begin with Colonialism. Colonialism was Conquests plus Ships. This happened everywhere. Our ancestors had different problems. At the very least, those individuals knew what it was to be fully alive at all times.
#suffering#just my thoughts#whatever i was feeling at the time#writing#turing test#the turing test#turing machine#enduring test#the enduring test#artificial intelligence#human rights#abuse#perspective#black mirror#ai#a.i#technology#dystopia
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
Poser 7 content free
#Poser 7 content free for mac
#Poser 7 content free install
#Poser 7 content free serial
#Poser 7 content free for android
#Poser 7 content free install
Let’s find out the prerequisites to install Magic Poser on Windows PC or MAC without much delay.
#Poser 7 content free for mac
So, are you designing your pose yet? Poser 7 For Mac
#Poser 7 content free serial
Poser 7 Serial Macįor your next grand masterpiece, you don’t need to wait around, you can get anything you want and design any kind of pose with Magic Poser. The virtual currency, Wombat coins can help you buy anything and everything you want. The app also gives you access to props like shields, classrooms, and anything you want. You can also choose from realistic and anime-style models. You can choose various styles, genders, and even head-to-body ratios. Magic Poser has such an interactive design that it’ll let you do almost any kind of pose and design that you want. Even if you’re doing a simple pose with just one person or a complex scene with all different kinds of poses, you can do everything if you can just shape it on the app. You can have access to unlimited models and props for free. You can also manipulate the doll to mimic real-life movements and dynamic poses to help you get the pose you want to design or draw. It’s not only intuitive but it’ll be super easy by control points and by dragging them. The app has an easy-to-use design that lets you use it any way you want. You can use working models and various styles that can help you paint and do all kinds of artwork and designing. Let your imagination fly with your app and thousands of 3D models and poses. You don’t need to stay limited to your wooden dolls for poses. This app can be useful for all kinds of drawing, comics, storyboards, characters, and even manga. You can use the Magic Poser app to get 3D human art models in any way you want. Get started today and find out what our team can do to be a part. Grow your organization and remove the hassle out of licensing, Smith Micro Poser 7 Crack + Serial Key(mac) because nothing is more valuable than your time. Smith Micro Poser 7 Crack + Serial Key(mac) Utilize our team of specialists to get you what you need at the prices you want. You can now quit searching or asking around for a perfect pose because you can now have every pose that you want from this ground-breaking app. Other interesting Mac alternatives to DAZ 3D are MakeHuman (Free, Open Source), Poser (Paid), VRoid Studio (Free) and Sensei Format (Paid).Īre you an avid artist? Do you ever ask your friends or loved ones to come and pose for your artwork? Have you ever had difficulty in getting someone to pose for you? Look no further, Magic Poser is the ultimate app for all your artwork needs.
If that doesn’t suit you, our users have ranked 19 alternatives to DAZ 3D and eight of them are available for Mac so hopefully you can find a suitable replacement.
Smith Micro Poser 7 Crack + Serial Key(mac) Utilize our team of specialists to get you what you need at the prices you want.
At the end of this article you will find our how-to steps which you can follow to install and run Magic Poser on PC or MAC. However if you ever wanted to run Magic Poser on Windows PC or MAC you can do so using Android emulator.
#Poser 7 content free for android
published Magic Poser for Android operating system(os) mobile devices. freeload Magic Poser for PC Windows or MAC from BrowserCam.
0 notes
Text
Blog Post #21
Feeling: Depressed
Weather: Cloudy
Last thing I ate: Sugar-free toffee chocolate bar
Last thing I drank: Gatorade
I have an apartment. I’ve a job. Paying my own bills. I’ve a little crawfish who probably kinda loves me.
My now former therapist said things would be so much better for me “now that everything is falling into place.” He’s the worst therapist I’ve ever had. No intuition, very selfish, very stupid. He’s one of the ones who just says things that sound good, but they have no meaning because he just doesn’t think about the shit he’s saying. I think he thinks good intentions are good enough, and then “the rest will fall into place.” I got a new therapist. He’s leagues better, and I can tell he’s good because I think he has a better understanding that he likely can’t help me. I don’t need machismo and insecurity in my sessions, I need realism. This new guy is realistic. He contemplates what he says to me. He knows when to be quiet and let me vent, and he knows when to interject to guide me in a more productive direction. For all the good it’ll do.
I’m watching Yellowjackets. Rewatching, I saw it all once through before. I’m just glad it’s not like my other favorite show Miracles; this one is actually getting a second season. Yellowjackets and Joker are important to me because of how accurately they portray cPTSD. I’ll never find any media that shows people like me... I’m both too different and too average in all the ways that make it impossible to be considered by anyone. I’m deformed... but no one really notices unless I put it in their face, or flex a certain way that shows I’m missing entire muscles. I’m trans... but I look and sound like a stereotypical cis/het guy. I’m on the spectrum... but I mask well. I’m traumatized... but I’m high-functioning. I’m poly and kinky... but I’ve zero partners for people to judge. I’ve a genius-level IQ... but my TBI makes me sound like a moron. I’m white, not facially disfigured, and I’m bipedal. I can cover up most of my suicide attempts with a wristwarmer. When characters who’re queer, deformed, so on are written about... it’s either the only “weird” thing about them, or they’re the token for all of the most marginalized demographics in one.
So I watch Pose to get my trans fix... but I’m not a Black femme. I watch Yellowjackets to get my cPTSD fix... but I’m not a girl. I watch Hunchback of Notre Dame to get my deformity fix... but I’m not facially deformed. I watch Love and Leashes to get my kink fix... but I’m not Asian, or a newbie. If there’s gonna be a good trans character, it’s not gonna be a binary trans man. If there’s gonna be a deformed character, it’s not gonna be the nearly-hidden kind of deformity. If there’s gonna be a character with cPTSD... it’s gonna be the psychopathic, cannibalistic serial killer, not the kind that only tears themselves up until there’s nothing left. And even if there was... it would be the one, single “weird” thing about ‘em. I’m never gonna see ME on screen. And that does matter. ‘Cause I’m never gonna find someone like me either. Even if they do exist, we wouldn’t get along. That’d be too much to ask.
I feel... done. I think I shot myself in the foot by making myself this smart. I see things months ahead before they happen, now. Every... single... relationship. It doesn’t matter if I sit back and do nothing, let it unfold... or if I do everything in my power to make it skew somewhere else. It’s all... the fucking... same. It’s sickening how people who’re so different do the same fucking shit. The same mistakes, ignoring advice, spitting at helpful resources. No one wants to progress in a way that takes effort and dedication. And if they do, they don’t like me. I think I just need to try harder not to want people in my life. I think of all the things I could suppress, that’s the one to suppress. It just takes one more switch in my brain, to re-condition. I just need to reroute the desire I have for people, put it toward my hobbies again. I miss my hobbies. And I need to not need people anymore. At least if I have any hope of surviving. Because this is unsustainable.
But also, maybe that’s alright. I asked my new therapist yesterday if he thinks there are some people who shouldn’t be alive. Like if they legitimately can’t be happy, when there’s no one and nowhere they can turn to... SHOULD they not be alive anymore? I mean of course he said no, that everyone deserves to live. What else could I expect from a therapist, it’s his job. I just have no one else to ask these questions. And maybe no one else SHOULD be asked these questions. I’m just... done. My former therapist said that he wouldn’t want me to kill myself... BUT... if I really wanted to, there’s no stopping it. Like I said, he really just doesn’t give a flying fuck what comes out of his mouth. He thinks that simply being literal is what appeals to me. No, it’s being literal with purpose. It’d be like telling someone, who’s crying about their dead mother, “She’s dead now and forever, it’s healthier to not cry all the time and instead get back to what you’re doing in life.” Thank you Dr. Sociopath, how many decades of studying gifted you such healing powers?
I guess sometimes it’s just good to yell into the void. Idk, I might be fired next week. Which is fine, I can’t put this job on my resume anyway, my boss is a control freak (as stated by HER boss) and otherwise a manipulative piece of shit. AND also I’m never believed or chosen above someone else, regardless of who’s right or wrong. I’m never believed unless I pay someone to listen without judgement. That’s what therapists are for. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to not be believed if it didn’t come hand-in-hand with shit treatment. I really don’t care what people think, but o fuck do I care about what people do. I’ll never get a break. Never. So why keep going, when it’ll be just more of this, but for several decades? A broken record. It’ll feel like an eternity. Why not dissipate in cremation, where some of me lands in the water and gets ingested by all kinds of animals... some of me drifts around the world as dust in the wind... and some of me may even make it out of the atmosphere into outer space itself? It’s not like I could enjoy it, in that state. And maybe that’s okay. ‘Cause I’m not enjoying anything in this state either.
0 notes
Note
Are you a serious cockles shipper, or do you just do it for fun? No hate either way lol just wondering
okay i’m putting this under a readmore because it’s embarrassing to talk about in front of 20k people. this is my cockles manifesto:
i am, as a rule, not into rpf shipping. i have no problem with people who are, it just feels kind of weird and invasive to me so i generally avoid it.
however, i have been here since 2012, and the sheer level of unabashed shenanigans that have been beamed into my eyeballs, paired with my intuitive understanding of body language, have convinced me that misha and jensen do in fact have a private romantic/sexual relationship.
BUT i have to make it clear that i don’t mean that in a “cheating on their wives” way, but in a polyamory way - which isn’t much of a stretch, considering that we know misha and his wife are poly, and vicki literally wrote ‘the threesome’s handbook’. almost every single cockles shipper loves vicki and danneel, we are not about disrespecting or hating them whatsoever.
now, i KNOW that saying that i believe the actors who portray my otp are in a secret relationship makes me sound insane, believe me i’m aware of that, but i’m not saying it lightly or without evidence. those of us who’ve been around a while know that it’s treated as basically an open secret in the spn fandom and among the spn cast, who very frequently make comments and allusions to them being together. jared has made SO many comments that people make posts collecting them, like this one and this one. like i said, it’s basically an open secret (like that time the show said “they’re a couple in real life”). here’s some Highly Suspicious Stuff: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14/15, 16, 17, 18, 19/20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43
i mean...
but it’s important to make clear that if either of them EVER seemed uncomfortable with us shipping them and making jokes and comments, i would absolutely stop. i respect them and i don’t ever want to make them feel creeped out or like their privacy is violated. but the thing is, they not just ‘not uncomfortable’, they very deliberately egg us on. misha loves to make ‘cockles’ puns, they happily do silly photo ops implying they’re together, and they both love to post photos of themselves together, knowing quite well how we go crazy for it.��
like the above selfie, where they posed chest to chest, and this actual ‘anniversary’ photo jensen posted, celebrating ten years of the first time he took misha out to dinner, actually tracking down the same restaurant and the same table.
or these really adorable photos of the boat trip they took with both their families:
and of course the beloved sunset photo:
every time they have a panel together (which usually only happens at the yearly roman convention known as jibcon), their antics get wilder. the first time i went “wait...” was in 2013, when they dry-humped onstage.
and by 2019, we have jensen eagerly throwing himself down on the stage (to reenact a scene between castiel and sam) so misha could get on top of him and mime choking him, and then pretty obviously getting a boner because of it (video). oh and i can’t possibly leave out the kissing (bonus gifs, and more), or the panel where jensen got drunk and opened his pants to show misha his underwear.
their body language around each other is so different from how they are around anyone else (except their wives). like, you can see how jensen and jared love each other and what good friends they are by how they play off each other and have an easy camaraderie, but as soon as jensen gets around misha, he can’t take his eyes off him. he stares, he giggles like a fool over not-that-funny jokes (we call it his unicorn laugh), he looks absolutely besotted, and they’re constantly gravitating to each other and touching each other in really intimate ways: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20
honestly, there have been so many Shenanigans over the last 12 years that i can’t even remember them all, or find them all in my archives. there’s been clothes sharing/swapping, there’s jensen’s inexplicable kink for misha’s bad accents, the time misha reenacted the fake orgasm scene from when harry met sally and jensen, um, liked it (bonus), their matching bracelets and rings (and another ring), how very enthusiastic jensen is about calling misha “dmitri”, how jensen grumpily insists he can’t remember last week but jumps at the chance to tell the story of how he met misha and the first time he went to dinner with misha and misha told the server to bring them “the three least ordered dishes on the menu” (seriously, they tell the story of how they met all the time), the number of times they’ve been suspiciously late to their autograph and photo op sessions...
here’s some more adorable:
gag reel compilation
resume battle
“i love you”
best moments compilation
really bad dancing
gently bullying
jensen praising misha
jensen gushing over misha
lowkey hand-holding
“i’d take jensen home”
bickering
the time misha tried to sneak up but jensen could see him in the monitor
knock knock
supportive jensen
“you drew the black penis?”
destiel or cockles??
bowtie adjusting
jensen losing his fucking mind over meeting a dog named misha
whatever this is??
some sdcc shenanigans
shenanigans
“aloha, cowboy”
when jensen pied misha
“dapper as always”
the way jensen likes being bossed around... (bonus angle)
that time jensen tried to facetime misha so he could participate in a panel
“who said it” game
misha gazing at jensen
stuck in the space pants together
2011 jibcon highlights
blowing a kiss
jensen straddling misha on set
that time misha accidentally (?) tweeted out a cockles post,
jensen elbowing jared because he wants to play foosball opposite misha
the mirroring compilation
“who doesn’t love freckles?”
jensen falls over laughing because misha is wearing socks
the infamous reverse french mistake edit
jensen asked misha to autograph his sign
that time they showed up wearing the same suit
cute whispering and giggling
jensen calling misha his ‘pebble’
“how are you?” compilation
jensen brought a shirt to give to misha
“he’s like a little puppy”/”he’s like a little teddy bear”
jensen’s accent kink reappears / and again
"jensen’s the horse”/”my kids have seen jensen having sex many times”
“so it’s like football...”
jensen reminiscing on when they met
and look, despite all that, it’s honestly not about fantasizing about two hot guys fucking, or anything sexual at all. whatever they actually are, they love each other, they make each other happy, and getting to see it makes me happy. it’s something good in the world, these two sweet idiots loving each other and letting us see the fact that they love each other.
so, uh, i guess to answer your question, i’m serious. but i do try not to cross the line between what happens publicly and what’s private. from what’s shown in public, i draw these conclusions, because, well,
#*tugs collar*#this is a normal thing to spend a few hours doing right? sure why not#whenever people try to shame me i'm just like 'i know more than you'#cockles#anonymous#ask#cockles manifesto
3K notes
·
View notes
Note
ever since you said ‘autistic Byakuya’ I’ve been thinking about it nonstop so now I have to ask, do you think he used to have like. rocking/stimming-type stuff that he learned to suppress? because I’m getting legit emotional thinking about babykuya painstakingly training himself into Correct Noble Deportment. he can’t be expected to make facial expressions! it’s already taking all his energy to prevent himself from doing that weird thing with his hands!
Arright, I guess it's time to talk about my autistic Byakuya headcanon. First off, I want to clarify, it's not that I sat down and said, "I think my man Byakuya has the autism." I had reached a point in my fanfiction where I needed to write about Byakuya's transition from rigid, unfeeling antagonist in the Soul Society Arc to the stilted, but caring Nii-sama and Taichou we see in the later acts, and for some reason, I feel like writing Byakuya perspective sections was the way to do that.
One thing I did not want to do, which I see in fanfiction a lot is to dilute his character. Byakuya being Byakuya--posing, making insane claims about his own greatness, lecturing people on their own arrogance is one of my favorite thing in the world, I just wanted to create an internal narration that would sort of... justify this behavior and evoke some (but not too much) sympathy for the guy.
The first character trait that I hit on was the idea that B absolutely does not understand other people's motivations, but he makes wild guesses based on his own (extremely non-universal) experience, which often leads to him saying things that seem extremely rude or callous, but it's because you can't see all the internal convolutions that led to such a conclusion.
Around this time, I happened to learn that ���cognitive rigidity” is a thing, whereby a person is caused great distress by the idea of acting outside of what their brain tells them is the correct way to do a thing. This might be a fourth grader who cannot bring himself to put a spelling word in a sentence if the sentence isn’t true, or it might be a man who cannot choose between a promise he made to his dead parents and a promise he made to his dead wife, even though one of them involves a person being unjustly executed. Again, from the outside, these problems may look trivial and easy to resolve, but they are very, very real and feel insurmountable to the person experiencing them.
Oh, and then a friend of mine was talking about “masking” which is very common among autistic adults (especially women) who were not diagnosed as children. Basically, one puts on a fake persona to face the world because you’ve spent your childhood learning that all your thoughts and feelings are bad and wrong and weird. Oddly enough, it turns out this is really bad for you, and will mess you up really bad in the long term??
Anyway, at this point, I had a big, personal oh moment, but I also had a big oh moment about Byakuya, which is, what if you take a kid who doesn’t intuit social interactions naturally at all, and who thrives on a clear-cut set of rules, and lay out a system of expectations and etiquette, with himself at the top? You get Byakuya, basically.
On one hand, he has never grappled with the common autistic anxieties of “why do people have these weird social rules I don’t know about?” or “what’s wrong with me?” He does know the social rules and he’s 💯 at them. He is a perfect Kuchiki. Of course, he doesn’t really connect with people, he’s the Kuchiki Heir (and later) Clan Head. He’s on a different level from other people, where he is more powerful and more important, but also has certain duties and obligations. This is how he is able to say things like “the difference between us is class” to Renji and mean every word of it. All of this fits perfectly within his worldview.
Sensory sensitivity is another thing that I think he experiences, except that when you’re the Head Kuchiki you can just demand silence during your poetry writing time and you can insist on only wearing a certain kind of silk and be very picky about the odors that are present in your home and that’s just normal. Furthermore, it perfectly fits in with my conception of Byakuya that he experiences sensory euphoria, where he’ll hear a piece of music played perfectly, or bite into a delicious piece of fruit, or feel the cool air on his face as he walks though his garden in the middle of the night and just quietly lose his mind over it.
You asked about stimming, and here is a big downside of Noble Neurodiversity. I do not think Byakuya was a major stimmer, but he definitely got harshly reprimanded for “unseemly behavior” and “fidgeting too much” as a young boy. I imagine that Ginrei had very little patience for this and was concerned that “there was something wrong with the boy,” which I am sure Byakuya picked up on, and did his best to stay still so that Grandfather would know he was a good grandson. As he got older, the ideals of sitting still and being in control of one’s body at all times and closing one’s heart (yikes) were drilled into him. It was not easy for him and I bet he got his knuckles slapped a lot, and also it has not been good for his relationship with his own body or his mental health. I read a fairly comprehensively researched headcanon once that Byakuya was originally left handed and had it trained out of him, and it’s not necessarily something that I’ve adopted, but I certainly can see it.
Conversely! I headcanon our boy Renji as being mildly ADHD, which he deals with very effectively by taking his Soul Ritalin and breaking up his paperwork sessions with trips to the gym and tapping on things constantly. Byakuya tries to make him stop and Renji is like, “Actually sir, you can’t, I got an Accommodation from Squad 4, you gotta let me tap” and Byakuya is like “I have to w h a t” and Renji is like “yeah I got an interest-based nervous system and small repetitive movements and white noise actually help me focus” and Byakuya is like “that is nonsense Lieutenant but I am afraid of Captain Unohana so I will let you have your Accommodation” and then after Renji goes home, he tries tapping a spare brush on his cup while he works and Damn that man!!
Here’s some other autistic habits I think Byakuya has:
When he makes friends he goes deep. I mentioned earlier that he’s a solitary guy, and he thinks that’s his natural state. He is the 28th Head of the Kuchiki Clan. There is no one else like him. That is just a fact. He *is* lonely, but he doesn't identify as lonely. There have been brief periods of time where he bonded strongly with another person and delighted in sharing his life and interests with them (his grandmother, his dad to some degree, Hisana). The reason he is so cold and distant at the beginning of Bleach is because he has intentionally cut himself off from forming relationships with others because he feels such deep pain when he loses them. Fortunately, he does go on to form close relationships with Rukia, Hitsugaya, and Renji-but-he-doesn't-like-to-admit-it (and probably also Ichika).
He hyperfixates, but on, like distinguished things, so no one calls it hyperfixating. Like, I don’t think you can be into chess without being at least a little neurodiverse, but that’s not commonly recognized because “chess is a smart people activity”, unlike, say, knowing far to much about a grim reaper manga for teen boys. In any case, Byakuya is a huge nerd about the history of Soul Society, but I think he’s also really into kidou esoterica and swordfighting theory and all stuff that’s really integrated into his life, so it’s useful, but just because an Interest is useful does not mean it is not also Special. Also, he has an OC.
He has an incredible sense of humor, but all his jokes are extremely niche and require enormous amounts of context. Like, if you accidentally said "grink" instead of "grinch" he would change the group chat name to "was the grink there?" but he would wait 75 years to do so, when all the people who were there originally have moved to Discord. He does not care. His jokes are for him. Rukia thinks he is hilarious. Is this a neurodiverse tendency? I don’t know. I do know that autistic people are some of the funniest people alive (or... not alive. as the case may be)
#byakuya kuchiki#the reason renji manages his adhd so well is because shuuhei is VERY adhd and was like 'listen buddy'#lol the idea of the gotei having disability accommodations is hilarious to me#if you try to quit we'll throw you in jail but also if you need brain meds or like a fake arm or something you should get to have it#have you ever *seen* two neurodiverse kids hanging out?#that's byakuya listening to toushirou talk about the east rukongai limited railway i made up once#they say fanfiction is better than therapy#and i came up with a lot of this during roughly the two-year-long period of my son getting diagnosed#and i was also learning that a lot of my own life experiences are not. as they say. neurotypical#i won't say i love this journey for me but we all gotta process things in our own way#a lot of this is based on my exp but if other autistic people have additional traits they want to slap on him i am very down with that#i really hope nobody gets mad at me for this i wrote this with all the love in my heart
93 notes
·
View notes
Text
Simon Snow Trilogy Tarot Cards...
Ok so, a little while ago I saw this frankly stunning artwork by @vkelleyart and I started thinking about the Major Arcana archetypes and how characters from my favourite book series could fit into them.
So I made this list. It took a lot of thought and I’m still not 100% sure on some of them but I have explained my thought process for each card.
I don’t know how much crossover there is in the Venn diagram of “Simon Snow fans” and “tarot readers” but I’d love to hear your opinions and/or alternative suggestions (be respectful though, obviously). I’ve left “visual prompts” for most of the cards explaining what they looked like in my imagination and if anyone wants to draw any of these (or their own alternative version!) please tag me; it would make my day! I can’t draw for toffee so I am 1000% never gonna try to illustrate any of them myself.
List under the cut because it is loooong.
Spoilers ahead for the whole series!
0 The Fool - Shepard - Shepard just follows magickal creatures around and says “yes” to everything... he is the pure embodiment of the Fool archetype to me; care-free, innocent... prepared for everything and yet totally clueless. Visual prompt: Shepard about to (attempt to) step into the fog as he follows a fairy into the forest.
1 The Magician - Penelope - “Penelope Bunce is a fierce magician, I don’t mind saying” Baz, at least once in each book. Penny never worries about not having the power or words available to do whatever she wants; she is comfortable in her power and it is always there, ready to be wielded however she sees fit. Visual prompt: Penny wearing her Stevie Nicks cape, standing by a chalkboard in the classic “Magician” pose, ring clearly held aloft.
2 The High Priestess - Dr Mitali Bunce - Dr Bunce is possibly a more formidable magician than her daughter. Highly intelligent, straightforward and, let’s be honest, judgemental. But she does have all the answers. Visual prompt: Dr Bunce carrying around her laptop, phone sandwiched between her ear and her shoulder.
3 The Empress - Lucy Salisbury - Lucy exudes the nurturing, Earth Mother vibes that are central to the Empress archetype. She saw the best in everyone and all she wanted was to love Davy and live with him in their cottage with her chickens and their child. Visual prompt: Lucy, barefoot and pregnant, feeding the chickens outside of their cottage.
4 The Emperor - Lamb - This is one of the ones I’m not totally sure about. I went through a few different ideas but ultimately settled on Lamb as the “Vampire King of Las Vegas”. He is an imposing figure, ruling his city with an iron fist; if you are in his favour, Vegas is your playground, but cross him and you will suffer the consequences. Visual prompt: Lamb sits on an antique chair in his opulent suite at the Katherine, the lights of night time Vegas visible through the window behind him.
5 The Hierophant - The Mage - Again, this one took some thought and I’m sure some people will disagree with this interpretation... I’m not completely sold on it myself. The Mage was all about reforming the old traditions of the World of Mages and he amassed a following by doing so. But he turned out to be somewhat of a false prophet; abusing his power to oppress those he deemed “the enemy”. Visual prompt: The Mage in his Robin Hood costume, sitting at his desk at the top of the Weeping Tower, surrounded by his piles of banned books.
6 The Lovers - Simon and Baz - Obviously. As stated at the top of this post, I love @vkelleyart’s version of this card, but there are a lot of scenes across the series that could be used to illustrate this archetype. I personally always love to see the original “and then he kisses me” scene.
7 The Chariot - Fiona Pitch - I struggled with this one a bit and I don’t really think that this is the ideal version. But the image of Fiona, rolling up to Blackfriars bridge in her vintage sports car to rescue Baz from the Numpties really stuck with me so that’s what I went with, for lack of a better idea.
8 Strength - Ebb - Ebb is often dismissed and underestimated by other magicians but she is wicked powerful. But more than that, the Strength card is about inner strength, self control and the wisdom to know when to fight, and when to rest. Ebb is highly intuitive about the people - and goats - around her and is always careful not to talk about her twin brother, only conceding that she knows of his presence once a year and never giving in to the temptation to talk directly to him. Ebb saw the war coming and knew that she could probably end it all by herself with the power she had; but she also knew that she didn’t want that and she had the strength to say no, to eschew the expectations the rest of the World of Mages placed upon her and live quietly, instead. Visual prompt: Ebb in the hills behind the school with the goats, she wears a flower crown that the Dryad made her.
9 The Hermit - Agatha - the Hermit eschews the outside world in order to take an inner journey of self discovery, knowing that this is the only way to find real answers and achieve real growth. Agatha, jaded by the World of Mages, took herself off to California, leaving her wand at home. She didn’t know what she wanted but she knew it wasn’t magic. Visual prompt: Agatha sits on the beach at twilight by a small campfire, Lucy the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel by her side.
10 The Wheel of Fortune - The Crucible - The Crucible’s decisions, like the Wheel’s, are unpredictable and inevitable. Once it’s happened, you’re stuck with the consequences - sometimes bad (being stuck with a toff vampire who hates you) and sometimes good (getting the best room in Mummers house).
11 Justice - Natasha Grimm-Pitch - Natasha needed justice to find peace; her whole story is about justice. She was swift to act when the vampires attacked Watford, dispatching them without hesitation. When she came through the veil to find Baz and ask him to bring her murderer to justice, she knew that would also provide some closure for him, too, both for her death, and for his. Visual prompt: Natasha Grimm-Pitch appearing from beyond the veil, looking for Baz and finding Simon.
12 The Hanged One - Nicodemus - The Hanged One is about feeling stuck, but also about finding peace where you are when there’s nothing you can do about it. Nicodemus chose to cross over for eternal life, but he was stricken from the book; his (considerable) magic effectively taken from him and his fangs removed. He was stuck in between - not a full vampire, not a magician; he exists on the fringes of both communities. He got himself there and then he had to figure out how to get by, carve out a place for himself in order to survive. Visual prompt: Nicodemus sits in the tree in the garden of his mother’s house in South London, waiting for Ebb to come and sit on the empty bench beneath him.
13 Death - [scene on the Great Lawn] - Ok, so.. this might need some explaining. My immediate thought for this card was that it should be the Humdrum but Death is all about clearing out the old junk in your life that doesn’t serve you in order to make space for the new. And the Humdrum isn’t making space for anything. So I was thinking about times that has happened in the story and I thought about how the death of the Mage made room for real progress and an end to the war with the old families. Visual prompt: Penny and Baz (literally) run into a fleeing Agatha on the Great Lawn; the Weeping Tower looms in the background, the Mage and Simon visible through the blown-out stained glass windows.
14 Temperance - Simon and the Humdrum - Temperance is, as you might expect, about balance and harmony. Simon used so much magic at once that he couldn’t control it and it tore holes in the magickal atmosphere. Simon had to fill the Simon-shaped hole to restore equalibrium and stop the magickal firmament from collapsing altogether. Visual prompt: Simon kneeling in the Weeping Tower, pouring his magic into the Humdrum as he fades away.
15 The Devil - Smith Smith-Richards - The Devil is about feeling trapped by temptations in your life, often because we’re afraid of what we would do with the freedom we’d have if we let them go. Which got me thinking about Smith-Richards (that name never gets any less ridiculous) and all the magicians who were taken in by the temptation of “fixing” their magic. But it was a false promise and those magicians who narrowly escaped taking Smith-Richards’ spell were all freed from the idea of their magic being “broken” in the first place. Visual prompt: Smith-Richards (looking like the guy who would be cast to play Simon in the Netflix series) standing on a stage in the packed-out White Chapel, rapt audience hanging on his every word.
16 The Tower - The Humdrum - Originally I wanted to use the Weeping Tower for this card because the imagery is on point but the meaning doesn’t match. The Tower is about absolute destruction, the crumbling of something you thought core to your being. The Humdrum steals magic and renders magicians homeless because of it. The Tower is about having to start again from the ground up - just as the Grimms did when all the magic was drained from Hampshire. Visual prompt: The Humdrum, wearing Simon’s face, stands in the grounds of Pitch Manor, laughing. (I have always thought of the holes looking like a burn in a piece of paper - sort of glowing and smouldering at the edges as it eats away the atmosphere. I know the holes can’t actually be seen - the Normals would freak out - but that is imagery I would use here)
17 The Star - Lady Ruth’s candles - The Star is about hope and healing after the devastation of the Tower. Lady Ruth’s candles were a symbol of hope that kept her going when she thought she had lost her children. They provided comfort and, at the end when it became clear the Lucy was gone, the healing of knowing that her child had finally found his way home to his family. Visual prompt: Lady Ruth’s candles in front of a window, a bright star can be seen through the window.
18 The Moon - Agatha and Simon - So, the Moon is all about examining blurred lines between illusion and reality - nothing looks totally clear in the moonlight. It reminded me of how Simon never really seemed to have a clear view of his feelings for Agatha and what their relationship was. When he properly examined his feelings, he found that he didn’t love Agatha and was going through the motions because he thought it was what other people expected of him. Agatha was doing the same. It also brought to mind Simon, going out of his mind worrying about Baz when he was missing - as well as basically every other thought Simon ever has about Baz before Christmas Eve 2015 - and somehow mistaking it for hating him?? Simon is not stupid but sometimes he’s real dumb. Visual prompt: Agatha and Simon meet on the ramparts, both looking for Baz, and break up.
19 The Sun - Simon - This card is all about innocence, optimism and joy. Nothing about this series personifies this more than Simon flying above Shepard’s truck in America, feeling free and hopeful about the future for the first time in over a year. Visual prompt: Shepard’s truck drives through the vast empty desert, the sun beating down. Simon flies above the truck, joy on his face.
20 Judgement - Niamh and Agatha - Ok, this one was hard to figure out and this is maybe not the right solution, but I was very stuck. Judgement is about self improvement through self reflection. As a small twist on that theme; Niamh and Agatha challenge each other’s view of themselves and their interactions with the world around them. Visual prompt: Agatha and Niamh, sweating to death in Niamh’s “shitty Ford Fiesta” (I’m very salty about that line; my Ford Fiesta is lovely and it has aircon). Niamh is frowning, obviously.
21 The World - Simon, Baz, Penny and Shepard - The World is about completeness, the ending of a story, fulfilment and belonging. At the end of AWTWB, Simon has finally found his biological family, he is starting to accept that his boyfriend and his found family love him for who he is, magic or no, and he can finally start to imagine a future for himself. Baz has learned new information about his vampirism, Penny has found new confidence and Shepard is finally fully accepted into the group. Visual prompt: Baz, Penny and Shepard sit on Simon’s sofa (possibly still pink from Baz’s spell, possibly he spelled it navy blue again) Simon sits on the floor. They’re all eating leftover sandwiches and cake from Lady Ruth’s.
#carry on#carry on rainbow rowell#rainbow rowell#simon snow#simon snow trilogy#wayward son#any way the wind blows#awtwb#tarot#tarot cards#major arcana#baz pitch#Penelope Bunce#shepard love#snowbaz
40 notes
·
View notes
Text
MVA In Memoriam (2/5)
The Comprehensive Account of the Butchering of My Villain Academia
(Introduction and Part One, Episode 108: My Villain Academia)
Part Two, Episode 109: Revival Party
Chapter 224 – Revival Party
• Mr. Compress’s side comment about how the distance Re-Destro wants them to travel means he must know they have warp capabilities. Also shortens his subsequent line, removing the bit about how their position has been locked onto, leaving only the marveling about the dude on the phone being the kind of person who has access to a satellite camera. Not a major cut, but it did strip out a bit of reiteration on how very Seen the League is. The warp line is another nod to how the MLA’s been doing their research—in particular, it ties in nicely with RD’s observations about the Noumu. He talks, there, about something Dabi said after the High End fight, which means he must also know that Dabi was warped out by an “Ujiko-san.”
• Also Mr. C’s observation that they haven’t broken Machia yet, and his posed question about what to do. Mr. Compress, I’m so sorry that you’re so wordy and lose so many quips and asides because the anime was set on brutally scything out every line of non-essential dialogue it could find.
• Ujiko’s extremely hilarious, “Listening to Villain Radio is my new favorite hobby,” line. Why would you cut this; this line is hysterical.
• The bit where Mr. Compress has the bright idea to use a High End Noumu like the one Dabi used, Ujiko rejects the suggestion out of hand, citing production woes, and Shigaraki says that he wasn’t going to ask for one of them anyway. Aside from being more cut Compress content (or “Comptent,” for short), it helps center the timeline somewhat at a point where the manga is jerking it around all over; it also shows that the League has been keeping up with news from the outside world. It also shows that at least one of them thought about using the Noumu—and since we know Re-Destro did some rationalizing on that scenario too, it’s good to see that it is at least briefly on the table.
Further, Ujiko provides a few rare details about the Noumu creation process. Firstly, that AFO is normally involved, so his absence makes the procedure much more difficult (though not, apparently, impossible). Secondly, that Hood-chan was the only Noumu who’d actually reached the testing stage. This will be important later, for Ujiko’s agonizing about unleashing them early/Mirko having to fight four of them at once.
Also, I just miss Mr. C’s funny little head wilt when Ujiko immediately turns down his “use some Noumu” idea. Ditto Shigaraki’s blasé shrug and little grin. Again, not to harp on the art too much, but man I wish the anime had kept all the fierce little grins and tight, incensed smirks Shigaraki has through the majority of this and the phone call sequence.
• Spinner’s line, “Without knowing squat about what we’re up against?!” A minor cut, as these things go, but it reiterates that there’s a chance RD is bluffing and the League has no way to know one way or the other, and demonstrates that the League can give Shigaraki some pushback on his decisions without having to worry about getting dusted for the temerity.[1]
• Takes one of Spinner’s lines—“Wait. I get it. Wherever you go, Shigaraki, he’ll sniff you out and hunt you down.”—and gives it to Shigaraki instead. Because fuck Spinner’s growing understanding of Shigaraki and the way his mind works, I guess! It’s especially notable that Spinner figures this out when Mr. C had completely the wrong idea about Shigaraki’s intentions—it demonstrates the way Spinner is gradually aligning himself with Shigaraki’s way of thinking, which we’ll see even more clearly during the War Arc. Also, again, it’s good to see the moments where the League weighs in on Shigaraki’s plans.
• The visual of Twice lashing out at Dabi with his razor-edged tape measure over Dabi’s dismissal of Giran, though all the relevant dialogue was there. Possibly this is because, having cut the CRC bit, the audience has no way of knowing that Twice’s tape measure is razor-edged, so why bother raising the question, “Why is Twice trying to attack Dabi with a tape measure..?” Possibly it’s because showing that attack would require animating movement, and MAN ALIVE, did Episode 109 ever want to do everything it could to avoid animating movement.
• Slidin’ Go’s line about how Deika isn’t usually his turf, but today is a big exception. This makes the hearty affirmative with which Trumpet announces himself a response to Shigaraki’s half-phrased observation about the reason behind the city’s emptiness, rather than a response to Slidin’ Go. It works, more or less, and probably even flows more clearly, all things considered. I’m always sad to lose lines from the vanishingly few named/characterized MLA members we have, though. I like, too, that it hints at the machinations that have to have been involved with setting things up for the Revival Party, and the way those plans were carried out with confidence that Re-Destro’s “bait the League into coming for their broker” plan would work despite the total absence of a response from the League in any of the time Giran was missing/his fingers were cropping up on the nightly news reports.
• A few shots of cameras in the city, which foreshadow Skeptic’s watchful eyes and ability to track the League through the city. In retrospect, this isn’t surprising, since the anime went on to cut basically any indication of Skeptic’s entire plan re: the footage of the League attacking, so why bother keeping the cameras? (Oh, right. Skeptic’s whole thing is cameras and information/disinformation. Skeptic for second-most screwed-by-the-anime MLA member.)
Additions
• Showed Toga having stood back up somewhere during Shigaraki’s explanation of their throw-Machia-against-the-MLA plan. A simply appalling choice. In the manga, she stays crouched down by Twice the entire time Shigaraki has his mask pulled off, because Toga cares about reassuring Jin-kun when he’s in a bad way.
• Rephrased Compress’s dialogue somewhat, also giving him a new line about the MLA’s forces in Deika when the League was still in the hills looking down at the city: “The so-called Meta Liberation Army has a force of 110,000 here.” I assume it was because the scene falls in a different episode than the tactical discussion did (in the manga, they’re the same chapter), so the anime was reminding the viewer of the stakes, but it’s potentially awkward because, er, no, the MLA categorically did not bring their entire army to Deika. We’ll find out as much for sure later, with the note that the regiment advisors weren’t in attendance because they were occupied at the bases they command, but even with only the knowledge we have here, Re-Destro’s statement about his numbers is that they’re scattered all over the country—hence the shot of Japan with a bunch of lights scattered across it to represent said numbers.
That said, to be (briefly) charitable, there’s no particular reason for the League to assume that, and they did discuss the possibility that there were going to have to fight 110,000 people. So it makes sense that Mr. C might state as much when recapping for the audience.
Chapter 225 – Interview with a Vampire
• Re-Destro talking about Deika’s geography and why they chose it strategically. The anime dropped so much about the MLA’s planning and information-gathering beforehand; it really made the MLA look ludicrously overconfident. And while they don’t lack for that trait, certainly,[2] this is also an organization that has meticulously grown its membership for generations right under Hero Society’s collective nose; you don’t get to where they are by being unduly foolhardy. Erasing so many scenes demonstrating their caution and forward-planning undercuts the threat they represent to both the League and society at large.
Also too, the descriptor of Deika as a nice, quiet, isolated little town in the mountains gives us some hints about how the MLA has avoided notice for so long, when you consider how the Hero business works: because so many people who get into heroism want to make it big, like celebrities, they don’t want to stick around small-town beats, and so the rural areas are understaffed.[3] That’s presumably why groups like the CRC and the MLA grow their numbers out in the boonies: much less attention from the Powers That Be. You can guess at some of that from how Spinner describes the place—“not too small, not too big”—and what Trumpet says about the percentage of the population that’s MLA, but RD adds that key “isolated” descriptor, and says that it’s a place where they “lay low.” That gives us some potential insight into how many—likely the majority—of the MLA came to their beliefs: by being raised to them, because their hometown was infiltrated by the MLA generations ago and they have literally never known anything else.
• RD’s phrasing, “Counter to point one,” when he makes his second point about the Noumu. He acknowledges that it’s counter-intuitive to his first argument, that he knows it would normally be an argument against that opening point, not in support. It’s just conversational padding, really, but “conversational padding” like that does a lot to distinguish character voice, so that not everyone talks the same way.
• A panel showing a trio of unnamed MLA warriors strategizing about how to divide their forces now that the League has split up. It’s the little cuts like this that gradually remove the agency of unnamed characters, such that they’re left looking like unthinking puppets instead of real people with the ability to register and respond to their circumstances. It also points towards the truth of what the MLA warriors are and one reason they’re so dangerous (for all that the manga itself will neglect this most egregiously later on): they’re trained in regiment tactics and accustomed to working in groups. This contrasts them both with villains, who might group together, but certainly don’t usually fight that way, and heroes, who are so unaccustomed to working in groups that it’s cited as part of the reason to have named super moves.
• Curious’s little pageboy-cut middle school kid line telling Toga to back off when Miss Curious is on the job. This is an early example of how defensive the MLA are of people above them in the hierarchy, an important thing Spinner will pick up on and attempt to use against Trumpet. Again, it’s little moments like this that both add some welcome notes of individuality to the MLA warriors (if only by virtue of Horikoshi and his assistants’ traditional talent for distinctive character design) while also fleshing out who the MLA are as a group, and contrasting them with the League.
• Deleted Toga’s line IDing her “on-the-go suck-suck mask,” but did insert a nice little bit of her expression shifting when she whipped it out. It lost a bit of the self-conscious silliness of her support item name in exchange for a cool little animation beat. I don’t dislike it, particularly, but I am, as previously stated, very leery of edits that make the League more polished in their villainy at the cost of their human foibles.
• Curious’s line about having come prepared to counter Toga’s moves, which was supposed to further reiterate that the MLA has done their research on the League; they didn’t just decide out of the blue to target the most notorious Villains in the country without studying up on them first and planning accordingly!
• Curious’s line about how she’s going to get started with some background info while her people use their meta-abilities to keep Toga and her buddies on the ropes. A marvelously characterful line! It speaks especially to that edge of formality the MLA brass observe that even as she’s ringleading this attack, Miss Curious is still set on going through her interview process step by established step.
Framing Shifts
• Made some of Curious’s lines spoken dialogue instead of internal monologue. That’s probably fine for when she’s waxing enthusiastic about Toga’s lack of hesitation in committing murder or how she’ll use Toga’s story to further the MLA’s agenda. It’s less fine when she’s rattling out the entire name, brand and patent status of her support item for no particular reason when Toga is already halfway through trying to knife her (that’ll be next chapter).
• The anime implied pretty firmly that Curious’s bombers died. And like, yeah, that’s always made more sense than the idea that anyone could survive something like that, but I hate it anyway. For one thing, it makes it even harder to credit the idea that Toga’s still on her feet afterward if Curious’s supposedly not-very-lethal explosions merk all her own people. People in this series survive ludicrous amounts of damage, and these random MLA devotees are no exception! For another, it leans into the narrative that the MLA higher-ups throw away the lives of their minions without the slightest care. It’s a lot harder to make that case when it’s explicit in the manga that Curious’s people survive the blood explosions—the blonde in the tracksuit is unharmed enough to snicker about it, and the noodle chef is even doing well enough to continue attacking! I’ve always been of the opinion that the MLA are, yes, willing to spend the lives of their underlings on attaining goals, if that’s what they think is necessary, but that is not at all the same as gleefully throwing them onto the pyre to watch them burn.
Additions
• Some individual shots of Mr. Compress, Dabi and Twice fending off or fleeing from various MLA types. A nice try on getting the group split up, but it feels kind of budget save-y, when we could have gotten actual animation of those fights instead.
• Inserted a quick shot of a headline about Toga’s first attack as Curious was rambling on about why she’s interested in Toga but not the League in general. Actually a fairly reasonable insertion, given how much text is crammed into her talk bubble in the manga while the dude standing next to her is already getting a knife in the neck.
Chapter 226 – Bloody Love
• A panel of interviewees talking about Toga’s first victim being sociable and popular. It gives a bit of context on what he was like, what people thought of him, but given that we know enough about Toga at this point to know that his popularity was entirely incidental to what she liked about him, it’s not a huge loss.
• The detail of the broadcasted interviews censoring Toga’s name. Considering how Japanese media normally treats minors accused of crimes, this is an eyebrow-raising change—the manga censors it because Japanese media outlets would have done the same. No idea why the anime didn’t, unless it’s another of those places where it would feel too “real,” to have something that so closely mirrors real life treatment of criminals?
• Everything about quirk counseling, and whoo boy, that is a loaded cut. There is exactly one other mention of quirk counseling anywhere in the manga, and, curiously enough, it also comes up in relation to a villain: in the U.A. faculty meeting after the USJ attack, Midnight muses that maybe Shigaraki never received quirk counseling in elementary school. It’s a weird little non sequitur there—exactly what sort of program did she expect could single-handedly make the difference between a well-adjusted adult and a gleefully murderous manchild with aims on killing Japan’s Number 1 Hero? Just over two hundred chapters later, we get a hint: a program designed to fit people “neatly into society’s little boxes.”
Quirk counseling, then, is not about helping children find healthy ways to process their quirks, but rather, about teaching children what is and is not acceptable in terms of quirk use—and as Curious says, Toga’s admiration of blood was never going to be acceptable.[4] This explanation doesn’t just tell us a lot about Toga—that she wasn’t only failed by the hysterical condemnation of her parents, but also by a society that had no interest in helping her if it didn’t see a use for her—but also provides some insight on the viewpoint of the Meta Liberation Army vis-à-vis mandatory state-funded programs that dictate what “normalcy” looks like to impressionable children.
Curious is, of course, not a particularly trustworthy narrator in this, as one might expect of someone who uses language like “society’s little boxes,” but it does track with Midnight’s earlier musing of, “Maybe the anti-social dude never took the program intended to make sure he was a functioning member of society.” That kind of statement—“State-sponsored educational programs are there to program children into becoming unthinking cogs of society, actually.”—is one that it’s all too easy to imagine the people with an eye on broadcast standards taking issue with, even coming as it does from the mouth of a villain.
• Curious’s line, “Let’s turn your death into a legendary tragedy, shall we?” and its accompanying visual of two different papers with imagined headlines. The dialogue doesn’t strike me as crucial—Curious’s fervent belief in Toga’s story is amply demonstrated elsewhere and her intent to turn that story into a legend reiterated in the line immediately following—but it is a shame to lose the headlines. They tell us, in Curious’s own words, exactly the tack she was planning to take in telling Toga’s story to the general public, without the constant namedropping of the Liberation Army that she does when talking about it in person. One headline in particular—The Price of Suppression: A String of Bloody Murders—is an especially useful reference for discussing whether the MLA actually wants, as is popularly claimed, completely unhindered quirk use, even for people like e.g. Muscular who want nothing more than to murder people with their quirks.[5]
• Curious’s initial wait what response to getting Floated, and her people’s focus shifting away from Toga and onto Curious instead. On a surface level, that focus shift helps explain why Toga’s able to zip around the ground and touch nearly twenty people before they even react: because they’re afraid for Curious. It also hurts the ongoing characterization of the MLA rank and file as being fanatically devoted to their higher-ups which, again, is something Spinner is supposed to notice later. It’s the worst kind of plot device if that devotion is completely told to us rather than consistently shown!
• Toga’s internal reflection that she’s seen Ochaco use her quirk, and knows how to use it. It’s obvious from the panel that she knows how to use it, but the manga implies that Toga transforming doesn’t automatically grant her an understanding of peoples’ quirks; it’s only in observation (and possibly love) that she can reach this particular unlock. Leaving out that information leaves open the possibility that she can just do this all the time now, with anybody she transforms into.
• The reaction from the surviving crowd to Curious’s death. See above re: STOP FUCKING ERASING HOW MUCH THE MLA CARES FOR EACH OTHER.
Framing Shifts
• When Toga bolts, Curious in the anime sounded serious, her expression alarmed, like she was actually worried that Toga might escape, even though her dialogue said just the opposite. Maybe you could say that she was afraid Toga would die before she got her statement, but given that she tried to kill the girl herself moments later, I’m skeptical of that claim. Regardless, in the manga, she never loses her smile, and she flashes a Liberation salute as she stands up to give chase. It’s a characterization note, that she’s so wildly confident about this that she never stops being completely enthralled with whatever Toga has to show her.
Chapter 227 – Sleepy
• The last of Toga’s conscious dialogue, about how she’s lost a lot of blood, is fading out, can’t move—but more notably, the way that this state of things makes her feel closer to “them,” that it’s “the same sensation.” And who is “they” here—her victims? The people she loves? More alarmingly, why does the line sound like she’s been this beat-up before, and remembers the sensation? Does that tie into e.g. her comment during the training camp that she doesn’t want to fight too many hero students at once because she doesn’t want to die? Has she actually been subject to this kind of violence before in the past? Does that tie into her still-unexplained ability to erase her presence? It’s an interestingly loaded little line, for being so vague, and illustrative of Toga’s mentality on becoming the people she loves. Which also lets the scene segue nicely into Re-Destro’s observation that, in Toga Himiko’s world, there’s no such thing as “other people.”
On which note, guess what else the anime cut?
• The entire fucking scene where Re-Destro actually reacts to Curious’ death, the motherfuckers. This lost:
1. RD’s talk about the way Toga sees the world and how that led to society casting her out, which he points to as evidence of said society clinging to old ideals even though the nature of humanity itself has changed. It calls back to his methodology with Detnerat, marrying his lines from the commercial to his overarching ideals; it also shows that he understood very well what Curious saw in Toga, and demonstrates that he can express that understanding and empathy even in the face of losing one of his closest allies.
2. Skeptic’s reaction to Curious’s death, which is pretty sparse, but at least present. He says she never should have been on the front lines—an excellent reminder to the people who’re always going on about how the MLA brass thinks themselves so above their followers: Curious was on the front lines, against the wishes of some of her peers!—and calls her a valuable resource.[6] You can theorize about Skeptic not caring for her beyond her usefulness to the cause, or just that Skeptic is a huge autist who processes his emotions differently than most, and isn’t going to stop to do that when there’s still a battle going on, but either way, you need this scene to do it accurately.
3. Speaking of people who process their emotions in unusual ways, as I said above, this scene also shows Re-Destro openly crying over the deaths of Curious and each and every warrior diving into battle with their hopes for the future. They’re not crocodile tears, either. As was the case with Miyashita, there’s no one in this room that Re-Destro would need to perform grief for: Skeptic clearly doesn’t see a use for tears right now, so I don’t see him expecting them from Re-Destro, and the only other person in the room is Giran, a hostage who the MLA—very probably Re-Destro himself—maimed! It’s not like RD’s tears are going to change Giran’s mind about him (indeed, Giran gets a comedic reaction beat at the absurdity of the dude who started all this up here crying about it)! But RD says life is precious and he cries anyway, briefly, before he ruthlessly turns it off.
RD’s valuing of human life—especially his own peoples’ lives—crops up in roundabout ways twice more, both leading the fight with Shigaraki (“It angers me.”) and ending it (“Any more would bring about meaningless death.”). This, though, is when he’s most open about it, to the degree that—as with Machia’s grief—it’s kind of off-putting and strange. Cutting it makes it that much easier for people to get entirely the wrong impression of RD as a character.
4. The delightful scene where Skeptic berates Giran about asking brainless questions and then answers his question anyway. Fuckin’ hell, why cut this?? So much of Skeptic’s character is in this scene! You get moments of his neuroticism later on, but never in so concentrated a burst as this (there’s one other sequence that could compete, but—spoilers—the anime cut that one, too). The exchange also explains the cameras placed throughout the city—which are visually referenced early on—and what the MLA is planning to do with their footage. Without that explanation, the audience has no idea how, exactly, the MLA was planning to use wiping out the League as a springboard for their grand return to the spotlight. That footage is the crucial part of how the rest of the country reacts to Deika in the Endeavor Agency Arc, and the anime never even mentioned it! The audience was just left to assume that all the media came in afterward, not that there was the slightest whiff of footage from the battle itself.
5. Once again brings up Re-Destro’s belief in the power of the heart to move other hearts. We get a bit of that in Curious’s flashback, but here he says it in his own words—as he will also bring it up to Shigaraki. Once again, Shigaraki is going to be challenged about his conviction, which ties back into what Spinner and Ujiko demanded from him earlier in the arc. With so
many people set to be grilling Shigaraki on this front, it tells us again what the arc is for: Shigaraki’s conviction, and him demonstrating it to the people who think he lacks it.
• The panel of Spinner asking how long they’ve been at it and Mr. Compress responding. This line helps manage the pacing, giving the audience an idea how much time is passing as we cut around to different places. It’s also, you know, more cut Spinner dialogue, and shows the beginnings of Shigaraki and Spinner getting split off from the rest by Shigaraki’s sleep-drunk staggering angling him off in a different direction. The rest of the scene is moved to after Toga’s fight with Curious, but not otherwise tampered with.
• The other big reaction to Curious’s death, which is Trumpet using it to rile up the crowd. The group that attacks Shigaraki isn’t just some free-roaming mob—they’re coming at him in a grief-stricken frenzy, which they’ve been goaded into by one of their leaders.
This sequence also introduces the campaign van—a vehicle that will have several more appearances—to events, and hints at Trumpet’s meta-ability. Further, it’s one of the scenes that outright states that the MLA is less an army than a religion, in Mr. Compress’s line about how Trumpet is like a preacher rallying his flock. That understanding—that the MLA may style themselves as an army, but what they really are is a cult—is key to the way the MLA members act, from the very bottom to the very top.
• Trimmed Shigaraki’s flashback down, cutting—among other things—the very first lines Hana speaks, and her namedrop. This moment is the first one Tomura gets back, and the very first thing we find out is that he was doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. The anime also failed to identify Shimura Nana’s relation to Tenko/Tomura and Hana—helpful to remind the audience of a plot thread they haven’t heard about since Kamino. It also cut out the silhouette of chubby baby Tenko and Tenko’s first line, asking why Hana’s showing him this, a line which clues us in that Hana was the impetus here, not Shigaraki as he was back then. Still not satisfied, it also cut the phrase, “Daddy said all that stuff,” which is a clear and ominous warning that there was some conflict going on between young Shigaraki and the Father whose dismembered hand he now wears on his face.
• Left the dialogue but cut the silhouette of an airborne Geten with his enormous ice fists coming in hot behind Dabi when he was smarming about it not being his style to take the pacifist route. It’s not crucial, since we see the fists again shortly (it’s the end of the chapter page, whereas the anime rolls right on into the continuation of the scene), but it’s a shame, since framing Dabi from below with this sudden presence behind him is a much more fun, dynamic angle than the dead-boring medium shot the anime used. Also too, it’s good foreshadowing for the fact that Geten can fly, since he certainly didn’t get that kind of air by jumping off the roof of the mini-mart across the street.
Framing Shifts
• The crowd attacking Tomura came at him from the back of the shot, whereas in the manga, they’re surging forth from the front; that is, the anime had Shigaraki between the crowd and the POV of the viewer, whereas the manga has the crowd interposing between the viewer and Shigaraki. It makes a huge difference in the impact! Running up from a nebulous background distance, the crowd looked small and futile. Crossing directly in front of the viewer as they attack Shigaraki makes them look like the crashing human wave that they are. But, you know, coming in from the front would mean they’d have to be animated with more detail, and again, Episode 109, more than any other episode in the arc, clearly didn’t have the budget to spare on such things.
• The moment Shigaraki first uses the spreading Decay is horrifically clear in the manga. It’s full of speed lines, Shigaraki moving so fast he decays a dude mid-word, but the impact itself is spread over two pages. We watch his hand literally cleaving through the leading attacker’s face, and then are encouraged to linger on the oversized panel below, the intricately drawn crowd, full of individual faces, still intact on the left, scattering to dust on the right, all fully lit, with Shigaraki—still drawn with speedlines to emphasize his movement—the focal figure in black at the center.
The anime rendered this moment in two stills—Shigaraki’s hand about to hit the lead attacker’s face, and then the crowd already decaying. There was virtually no movement to it, the crowd was so heavily silhouetted against a glare of daylight that it was difficult to tell what was going on, and the moment stayed on screen for only two seconds before Shigaraki landed and threw up, both actions favored with more animation than one of the signature moments of the entire arc. Hell, it even left the walls on either side of the alley intact, when the manga shows them dissolving into ash as well, decay traveling through the ground in a deadly, destructive radius around Shigaraki’s attack.
The anime ever-so-graciously allowed Spinner his line to explain to the audience what just happened, but I think that’s mostly because it would be genuinely difficult to parse if he didn’t. It also gave him a flashback to what we had literally just seen, except this time it wasn’t silhouetted for some reason, so at least the audience got another chance to look at it, I guess?
“Am I seeing things? Just now, his decay effect spread to people he wasn’t even touching!” Well, I guess we’ll have to take your word for it, Spinner.
Additions
• A quick shot of a camera, there and gone almost too fast to register. I want to compliment the anime for adding a camera back in, since it removed the shot of the cameras earlier, but honestly, given that it cut all the scenes about how and why the MLA was gathering footage, I really don’t know why it even bothered. Also too, the camera was gone so fast it felt more like a marker for a scene change—which it also was, segueing the scene from Toga collapsing (only to cut back to her later staggering down an alley) to Spinner and the rest still trying to hold their own—than it did something the audience was supposed to really notice.
Chapter 228 – Wounded Soul
• Twice in the opening pages left out scattered members of the MLA that were around for the start of the Dabi/Geten fight. Leaving them out raises the question of where all the people attacking went, but it’s also the first demonstration that Geten is a danger to his own allies. We don’t see any of them dying on-panel or anything, but we do see them having to dive frantically out of the way because Geten demonstrates no care to the collateral damage of his attacks.
• Cut a small flashback, presumably from Twice’s perspective, of finding the site where Toga and Curious’s fight concluded. You can see the ground covered in blood, and a body that looks a bit like Curious if you squint (distinguishable by the sleeves of her jacket), as well as a small group of people kneeling on the ground in various poses suggesting mourning and a paying of respects. Yet another shot demonstrating the depths of care these people have for their leaders, that they’ve completely let the battle fall by the wayside in favor of their grief.
• Drops the “those zealots” phrase from Twice’s, “I’ll rip those zealots limb from limb for this!” line. Damn, the anime really was determined to erase everything that even hints at the Liberation Army being something much creepier and more damaging than just an underground militia, huh?
Framing Shifts
• For all my complaints about the material, I generally like the voice acting quite a bit. I don’t love the first exchange between Dabi and Geten, though. It’s not a fault of the voice actors themselves, but rather the delivery. Geten was very cool and level-headed throughout, which is all right to a point, but he’s a gremlin under that troll parka, and this fight is where we hear him as close as we ever will to how he is before the multi-layered humbling he’s subject to over the course of this fight. It’s a bit of a shame to play him totally straight, without any of the snark he’s so clearly capable of—and without the tick upwards in vehemence his talk bubbles indicate in his last lines.
Meanwhile, it’s fine for Dabi to get more heated as the scene goes along, and indeed he does, but he also plays it pretty cool at first. You can tell in the shape of his talk bubbles that he’s completely unruffled during his delivery of that, “Consider this a freebie, just for you: ice melts,” line. The anime had him raising his voice for it, and it just loses a lot of the humor of Dabi’s own snark to have him yelling it instead of just laughingly stating it, voice barely raising enough to give his talk bubbles some straighter lines instead of being all undisturbed curves. (For comparison’s sake, it’s about the same level of angular as Geten’s, “You’d best not think your little campfire can melt my ice!” line, but the anime had Dabi shout his line, while Geten continued at the same unperturbed volume he’d maintained since the beginning.)
• As with Shigaraki’s first mass decay, the shot of Geten’s ice dragon did not make the impact on me in the anime that the manga did. I think it’s mostly the way the ice was colored? The claw’s pretty good, but the head looks blobby and indistinct, more like blue soft-serve than the shifting, sharp-edged, brilliantly bright sculpture-in-motion of the manga.
• Twice’s voice actor did his best to sell the scene of him finding Toga, but I wish they’d kept that tight close-up on his mouth when he says, “Give it up. The girl’s dead.” They animated him leaning closer to the camera, but that doesn’t have the sharpness of that sudden cut to being right there on his lips, like some malevolent thing is using them to speak words so terrible that they can’t even be associated with the rest of his face.
---
Come back next time (and hopefully in less time) for Part Three, Episode 110: Sad Man's Parade.
FOOTNOTES
[1] We would, of course, have an even clearer idea of that had the anime not cut the scene of Spinner shouting in Shigaraki’s face.
[2] It seems particularly strange to me that Curious and RD both mention quirk evolution as a thing they know can happen in extreme circumstances, but didn’t predict that backing the League into a life-or-death corner might provoke one or two members to undergo exactly that evolution.
[3] Mount Lady is the obvious example, but you can look to places like the island in Heroes Rising, too: one hero, and when they retired, a group of high school kids had to go sub in for a while until a replacement could be arranged. It’s not like retirements just happen overnight; the Commission had to have known it was coming. Still, they had to scramble to find someone. It doesn’t suggest they had anybody just champing at the bit to take the post, you know?
[4] In Chapter 140, we see a young Tamaki Amajiki in a class called “quirk training.” It’s uncertain how connected this P.E.-like class is to quirk counseling, but Toga wouldn’t have been getting much help there, either, seeing as it’s all about figuring out how to use one’s quirk in a way that’s “useful to society.” I can think of some ways, but nothing that I expect would be very popular or liable to be explained to a grade schooler in a country with as long a history with ritual cleanliness as Japan. To a Shinto mindset, Transformation isn’t just off-putting or unhygienic; it’s spiritually unclean.
[5] The answer there being, no, obviously not, or Curious wouldn’t, in all apparent sincerity, be trying to characterize Toga using her quirk to murder people as an undesirable outcome, a cost society is paying for its current stance on quirk use. Yes, you can gather that much from her calling Toga a tragic girl, and Re-Destro concurring later, but listen, I will take every line I can get that I can use to push back against the wretchedly widespread idea that the kid whose name means Apocrypha is the be-all-end-all source on MLA ideology, somehow more reliable and trustworthy than every other MLA character combined, including Destro himself. I would very much like it if the anime had not deleted a bunch of my talking points while making good and sure to leave all Geten’s most damning lines intact.
[6] Not that an anime-only person would fully understand why some random reporter was all that valuable a resource, since the anime cut the explanation of what Curious actually does for a living.
#my villain academia#bnha#bnha meta#boku no hero academia#my hero academia#my writing#stillness has salt
39 notes
·
View notes
Note
So uh that essay about how Wei Ying takes after Yu Ziyuan? I am LISTENING
There were two things that really made me start to think about this, one was this tweet which says, "You know what we don't talk about? Wei Wuxian getting his cry-laughing from Madam Yu" and this incredible ChengXian video which sets their relationship to the tune of When Doves Cry and wrecks me every time I watch it (I just watched it now when I went to get the link and I'm whimpering).
As to the first matter:
seems fairly conclusive.
The second matter:
maybe I'm just like my father, too bold
maybe you're just like my mother--
she's never satisfied
Was there this much meta thought put into one line of lyrics in a video set to When Doves Cry? Hard to say. There is now, though! Because dang, what a line. Essay under the cut.
There's a (valid) tendency to pull out the ways Jiang Cheng is more like his mother, and the ways Wei Wuxian is more like Jiang Fengmian, especially where their relationship is concerned.
Jiang Cheng wants proof of care through passion, through a willingness to fight. He will provoke and poke at things better left lying, with no shame and no regard to who else is around, dredge up old hurts and old grudges and old matters even if they're long buried or long forgiven, so long as he thinks it will get him the reaction he's looking for.
He wants Wei Wuxian to fix things by rising to the bait, rising to the challenge, giving him pushback when he says blatant lies, showing him that his shige still thinks he's worth it.
This is terribly unhealthy, of course, don't do this at home kids, but it's one of my core Jiang Cheng Truths.
Jiang Cheng shows that he cares in turn by being willing to fight, by pouring his emotion out even if those often end up as negative expressions. He's messy and unrestrained when he feels things, not all of which is from his mother--a lot of that is just Jiang Cheng--however, you can see the way he tries to rein in his emotions when he's embarrassed about caring or is trying to pretend that he doesn't care. Whether it's pretending to shrug off Wei Wuxian and walk away when they have a problem, or trying to rein in his temper at Lan Wangji on Dafan Mountain. Because from his mother, he's internalised the message that to engage in the fight is proof of care, so the opposite is also true.
And oh, when he hurts, he seeks to hurt back. That's very Yu Ziyuan of him.
Wei Wuxian, meanwhile, frequently defaults to calming and placating with Jiang Cheng. Not as much as Jiang Yanli does--but more on her, momentarily. We see Wei Wuxian complain at Jiang Cheng to not get riled up, tell him he's being stubborn and just to accept the peace offering, etc. The difference is that, at first, with Jiang Cheng, a lot of that is just general pouty childishness and Wei Ying-ing, general sibling shit.
Plus, he was still willing to fight/express himself fully. They fought a lot. He always ran after Jiang Cheng, always roped him into expressing himself, always let Jiang Cheng fight it out. He understood, at least intuitively, and he didn't back down. The benefits of having grown up together, and of being an older one/middle sibling in the dynamic.
But when things really started to break down between him and Jiang Cheng, when the conflict was much bigger, much more grown up, much more real, Wei Wuxian started modeling his behaviour even more on Jiang Fengmian in regards to Jiang Cheng, possibly seeing more of Yu-furen in Jiang Cheng and responding the way that felt natural.
(Also, a lot of his own guilt and depression/apathy/intent to die and assorted other issues came into play at roughly the same time.)
Thus, we see Wei Wuxian start to turn down Jiang Cheng more often, and back off. He shrugs it off or rejects it when Jiang Cheng reaches out, and he stops reaching out himself. He tries to placate Jiang Cheng, tries to defuse him, tries to send him away. Some of this is because he cares and is trying to show he cares by taking himself out of the situation; some because he's trying to maintain his lies; some because he just doesn't have the energy to deal with this anymore.
After Wei Wuxian is resurrected, by which point he's done what he perceives as the worst things to Jiang Cheng, this intensifies. Jiang Cheng provokes him beyond reason, lashes out, starts fights, sneers, and Wei Wuxian almost rises to the bait but he stops himself. He lets Jiang Cheng be angry and he shrinks himself down, he backs away, he disengages. A decent portion of this is Wei Wuxian himself, and his faulty perspective on the situation and on Jiang Cheng's anger and complexity of emotion and intent. Some of it is lingering relationship modeling off of Jiang-shushu and Yu-furen's relationship. Either way, he's definitely "being the Jiang Fengmian" in the situation.
Additionally, Wei Wuxian tries quite actively to model himself off of Jiang-shushu's good qualities, which is understandable given that this was his primary benevolent adult figure and liked him quite a lot. We see it in the way Wei Wuxian teaches, the way he instructs with archery, the fact he prioritises archery to begin with, the way he expresses kindness the way it was expressed to him, through encouragement or noticing people who are down and out. Things that Wei Wuxian, at least, attributes to Jiang Fengmian's character (I'm trying so hard not to make this a Jiang Fengmian salt post) even if a lot of that is just his own outlook on life at the end of the day.
But all of these kids were around both of these parental figures/people of authority. This is most clear in Jiang Yanli. We see the way she's become a mediator figure between her parents when they're upset with each other and understands them both.
She takes all the kind intent and patience and willingness to placate and calm from her father, and adds in the knowledge and understanding needed to actually use it interpersonally. She's more open with communication, can identify the heart of an issue, and effectively diffuse a lot of tension. She has middling success with this with regards to her parents, but a lot more success with her brothers. It helps her see eye to eye with Wei Wuxian, and share that spark of playfulness between them too. It helps her understand why Jiang Cheng says things the way he does, and what he means.
We also see Jiang Yanli reveal herself to be the steely, fiery daughter of Zi Zhizhu when someone attacks what is hers. She is just as much her mother's child.
So, too, Jiang Cheng is his father's son. I think this is true much more when he grows up and inherits the sect and has held it for some time in the wake of tragedy. We see evidence that he's become a well-regarded leader, and for all we see cool, flashing, calculating glares and bitten-back sneers, we see worried disciples fussing over his health. We see a mild manner that was learned, and an authority that has accrued with time, and a self-assuredness when dealing with his peers that seems more modeled off what we see of Jiang Fengmian than of Yu Ziyuan.
Jiang Cheng is a match for Zidian, through and through, but he is also steady and determined and bold, good at making and keeping allies, or else how could he have achieved the impossible in rebuilding his sect? He learned to take some of his mother, some of his father, find something left over of himself out of the wreckage of his life, and meld it all together.
That brings us to Wei Wuxian. I had, at the time of first seeing that tweet, showed it to a friend who said:
Are we gonna talk about how Wei Ying gets his cry-laugh from her? Are we gonna talk about how he learned that intense glare from her, too? Or his tendency to act swiftly and decisively even when it might not be the actual best course of action? Or his violent protectiveness of his siblings?
Inspired. And yes, we are.
Yu-furen was a figure of absolute strength in Wei Wuxian's life. Uncompromising, unyielding, impressive as hell. She had the capacity to inspire deep loyalty and was fiercely protective over things that were hers. Her son, her daughter, her family's reputation, her sect, her home, her disciple. (Yes, even Wei Wuxian was hers, too, she made quite the point about that.)
Wei Wuxian is very easygoing. But when he decides something is his, whether that's a duty or a person or whatever, it's his to protect, it's his to do anything for, even cause a scene, even start a war, even lose allies or his own life. It's one surefire way to get him to fight no matter what headspace he's in.
You can see Jiang Cheng realise/remember this in real time in the Ancestral Hall, when he can't get a rise out of Wei Wuxian by talking about himself and his family, and that stings, but he's desperate to get a rise out of him somehow, and immediately he sets in on Lan Wangji. And it fucking works. That's what gets Wei Wuxian to almost fight him. If he'd posed a real threat, and if a whole bunch of other complicated psychological shit wasn't part of the mix for everyone involved, there would absolutely have been a fight.
Wei Wuxian latched onto the Wens, yes, and they were his, too, but they weren't the only ones. Lotus Pier was his, as was Jiang Cheng. Yunmeng Shuangjie was not just a pipe dream, and Wei Wuxian's loyalty was not simply easy to sway. Yunmeng Jiang's strength, their reputation, their future, and Jiang Cheng's along with it were always on his mind.
He lied, and fought, and even left and took himself out of the picture to that end. For Jiang Cheng, and for his ability to carry on. In so many ways, Wei Wuxian absolutely took so much of his perspectives on that from Yu Ziyuan, for better or worse.
Uncompromising, unyielding, even when turned on himself. Never satisfied, always pushing for more, for answers, for solutions, for the right path, even in his own frequently easygoing and curious ways. Unhesitating, across the board. Even if it meant his own life, or his core.
There is nothing wrong with hesitating. Hesitating, worrying, being uncertain, trying to think first, trying to find the right path, and then being able to find it, or choose it anyway, is such an act of courage. That's a quality Jiang Cheng has in droves. He hesitated, when he saw the Wen soldiers coming for Wei Wuxian. And then he chose to sacrifice himself. For Wei Wuxian, there was no hesitation whatsoever. No forethought. No choice, really. Just go. I think that's very Yu Ziyuan of him.
I had to go digging to find that message my friend sent me, and I'll conclude with my response:
If we're going to talk about how Wei Wuxian is like Yu-furen, then we'll have to talk about how Yu-furen knew that. Or at least, the only parts that she ever had cause to see in him while she still lived. How he was hers even if he wasn't her son. How Fengmian's lazy favouritism was intolerable in this way, too, in the way it sowed discord where there didn't need to be any, and was a barrier between her and the things that should have been more fully hers. How the farewell at Lotus Pier was more of a betrayal than she intended. How she thought she and Wei Ying met over more even ground at that moment, because she knew he loved Jiang Cheng as much as she did, in the way she did. How she expected more from him than for him to give parts himself up in such a horrifying way. How she underestimated the actual damage that had been done. And if she'd survived to see it, she just might have been truly horrified.
#a rambling essay but an essay nonetheless#the untamed meta#my meta#character analysis#i'm sure i missed some stuff but the essay was getting so long#and it's long past the due date#like i didn't even really talk too much about any potential influences on other relationships in their lives#but meh#these are just my takes on the characters#not some hard and fast rule or universal truth i'm trying to claim#i just love them#yu ziyuan#zi zhizhu#jiang fengmian#jiang cheng#jiang wanyin#wei wuxian#wei ying#jiang yanli
79 notes
·
View notes
Text
I was going to do these at random but then i got it in my head to stage these as an alternative first round of fights like in the manga, even though we really didn't get to see most of those play out...
To start i feel like the most obvious match up that we missed out on would've been Zaraki fighting Driscoll: For one Zaraki works around the bankai theft by not having one, and his whole made for battle/blood knight character type plays directly with The Overkill. Kind of like in his fight with Nnoitra, it'd make for a great emphasis on what Zaraki's actual strengths are; not that he simply fights and kills people, but that his supposed infinite potential comes from being pushed to his limits and learning to adapt and overcome new opponents. By contrast Overkill only gives Driscoll more power based on killcount, even if the people he slaughters are weak and he doesn't learn anything from fighting them.
So, the fight could start with the two of them both hacking their way through waves of faceless low rank goons to draw a parallel, but in the fight itself Zaraki's emphasis would be on drawing on meaningful fighting experience even with no bankai, while Driscoll would rely on a stolen bankai and a superficial killcount. There could be a fun moment where in a fit of desperation Driscoll tries to boost his power by squeezing in extra kills, targeting more weaklings, and lashes out at Yachiru, but she deflects his attack all on her own, he's shocked and confused, and in the moment of hesitation Zaraki lands the finishing blow.
Much less thematic, but I feel like Bambietta, with The Explode, would've made for a better counter measure to Byakuya's Senbonzakura. She could've opened the fight with her projectiles and Byakuya would got through his usual routine of fighting at a distance and being dodgy and precise with his blocks and counters, until suddenly he'd realize there were less petals than before, and Bambi could explain how every time he "blocked" her Explode projectiles they turned some of his thousands of blades into bombs and blew up. And she'd taunt him about how many blades does he have left and how long can he keep up defending himself while sacrificing his petals. He'd smugly use his bankai to summon up its crazy number of petals and ask if her explosions can keep up with so many petals, but then we'd get the reveal and she'd seal it away. Then Byakuya would have the moment of stark realization where he has zero petals to fight with. And then he'd get blown to hell and back before ending up in basically the same situation he was in with As Nodt in the actual manga shoved into the back of a bloody crater.
Similarly I don't think there's too much thematic resonance in this match up but I like some of the kind of obtuse dynamic they could have. it's never properly addressed, but we do know that Candice is technically one of the newer Sternritter, as she's said to have less control over her Vollstandig when hers is involuntarily prompted. Giving her lightning theme I like the idea that maybe she's something of a prodigy herself. Obviously not as young as Hitsugaya, proportionally speaking, but a fast learner and someone who rocketed up the ranks of the Wandenreich as a genius technician of Quincy skills. Hitsugaya could have a little back and forth about what it means to be a genius, and the difference between instantaneous intuition and carefully practiced talent. It would prompt his bankai and how real power comes from sober self reflection and not self aggrandizement, but then she'd take advantage of his weather gathering, like he used with Tier, and use it to amplify her lightning, get one good hit in, Hitsugaya would brush it off and ready a counter attack, and she'd seal his bankai.
Also room for some kind of banter with Rangiku, I'm sure. Probably with her calling Rangiku old and starting a whole cliche back and forth over that.
Meninas deserved more love, and screen time, and a real fight to herself. I feel like the best way to really illustrate her schift as The Power would've been to have her, and not the early unrevealed PePe, be the one to fight Jidanbou. Not that the gate guardians even make much sense being involved when the Quincy didn't invade through the four gates, but still... I'd love to see little Mini just arm wrestle Jidanbou and/or the other gigantic gate guardians into submission effortlessly. Have Komamura show up with his bankai as the one thing even bigger than the gate guardians. And then Mini steals it, instead of Bambietta, and gets into a raw strength beatdown with Komamura himself as the biggest of the captains.
I'm still mad she never hulked out properly. We only ever got the one panel of her with a buff arm going after Liltotto when she got lovestruck. Unrelated to this iteration of alternate fights, but it also would've been neat to see her fight Kira; he'd try and utilize his shikai the usual way, but Meninas would just get bulkier the heavier Wabisuke made her to carry the additional weight. And then Kira would end up baffled and terrified in the shadow of a fully hulked out Meninas.
Maybe a little too obvious, but I feel like a proper wushu fight between Sui-Feng and Cang Du was stolen from us. It also would've been a perfect set up for the bankai theft because Sui-Feng could go full assassin but immediately run into the problem that if Cang Du's Iron skin can't be pierced, then she can't leave any marks to hit twice. So obviously that makes her only option the bankai, and he can swipe it from there. I feel like unlike most of the other captains Sui-Feng would get to have a cool moment where she still fights Cang Du to a standstill even without her bankai, but then of course he just sinks back into the shadows at the end of the first raid.
This one feels like a stretch, but for all the weirdness of PePe and the creative choices that went into him, I liked the little bit of his explanation of his powers where it wasn't just a romantic or erotic kind of Love that his power controlled, but that he compared it to the instinctive need to protect an innocent baby. And with Jizo being the patron deity of dead children, it would have been really cool to see him have some thematic play with Mayuri. I know it's not how his powers worked in canon, but I actually would've really liked if his power wasn't as directly focused on himself. So that he could provoke people to act on their strong desires to the detriment of logic, but without a lot of direct control over it. So he'd hit Mayuri, and Mayuri would shrug it off because he doesn't care about anyone and then without warning Nemu would be put in danger in the course of the fight and Mayuri would be compelled to protect her. And he wouldn't know what happened as he threw himself in the way of an attack. Then like everyone else he'd pull bankai and PePe could steal it, so that weird creepy cupid man could have a giant creepy baby. but more importantly Mayuri could quietly and furiously ruminate on his feelings during the interim training arc
I know Mayuri didn't actually lose his bankai with the rest during the first attack in the manga, but it felt like he should have since his was part of that batch of SS arc bankai we saw earliest and got kind of accustomed to throughout the rest of the Arrancar arc. (more so than Sui-Feng's at least) Actually in regards to that same sentiment, I feel like renji should have lost his bankai too, even though his ostensibly posed less of a threat than some of the more well honed captains'. It's a shame that so many of the lieutenants just kinda got lost in the background of this arc. It would've been really cool to see the gotei compensate the loss of their bankai by doing more tagteams and group fights
#Bleach#i dunno#do i tag this as AU?#i dont really do this sort of thing normally#shinigami#sternritter#quincy#bankai
47 notes
·
View notes
Note
hi !! do you have any advice on how to improve/grow your yoga practice ? rn I'm mainly doing yoga by watching yoga with Adrienne but I feel stuck ? ig i want to try new things and push myself more but I'm a little bit lost on how to do it. so if you have any advice, that would be great !! thank you ❤️
yes i absolutely have some advice!!!! sorry this ended up being kind of long lol
i think adriene is great, but she does stay within a kind of limited range & style of movement which can get boring & uninspired after a while. what i did at the beginning of covid when i was trying to form a home practice was skim a lot of other youtube yoga classes for ideas & take screen recordings of things i wanted to try later. i hate to recommend anyone venture into the instagram yoga world, but i did that on instagram as well lol. it is definitely possible to find people on instagram who have reasonable, normal yoga practices and don't just do crazy inversions and stuff, and i've definitely drawn a lot of inspiration from them this past year. if you're into following videos, maybe find a yoga instructor you like who has a paid app or service and try that (i don't really enjoy following videos so i wasted some money doing this, but everyone is different!!). i understand because of covid or other reasons this might not be possible for you (right now at least), but truly nothing is better in my opinion than an in person yoga class. if that's accessible & safe for you, i would really recommend it!!! if not, check to see if your local yoga studios have any video classes on their website. they often will be better than what you can find on youtube
also, listen to your body & move in whatever ways feel good!! it doesn't have to be in a sequence & doesn't have to be an actual asana, just stretch & move around your mat & figure out what feels good. closing your eyes & breathing through different parts of your body will help you with this. just learning to move intuitively in ways that work for you will really open up your yoga practice in a big way.
i use a progress tracker app (the one i use is called done if anyone is interested) & having a way to track my practices was super motivating to me, and it might be for you as well!! setting a small goal for yourself could be very helpful (but don't put too much pressure on it either). for me when i started using the app i didn't necessarily have a specific goal in mind, but it did force me to get on the mat every single day even on low energy days or days when my mental health wasn't great, and i learned how to move & care for myself in those moments & i wouldn't have done that if i hadn't made myself practice every day. for me at least, i was only really motivated to practice on days where i had high energy & was in a really good mood, and i think having a steady home practice means you have to get on the mat more than just when you feel like it (especially bc when you DON'T feel like it is probably when it will help you the most). also, getting a nice non-slippery mat was a game changer for me
try keeping a yoga journal!! this is something i've personally failed at (but i do keep trying at least), but maybe try keeping a journal near your mat to just write about how you felt during practice, how you feel after, anything new you tried, emotions or feelings that came up in your practice, etc etc. if you aren't already meditating, trying some meditation can really help you connect with your body, especially body scanning meditation & breathwork meditations. incorporating breathwork into your yoga practice also will help with that.
my favorite thing about home practice personally is how playful they can be!! your time on the mat should be fun. for me personally that means putting on music & dancing/singing to it while i flow. it also means that when i fall out of balances or other poses i'm not strong at, i laugh about it & keep going. having a practice that's playful & fun & joyful is like, the whole point!!
if you're comfortable with it, take some videos from time to time!! this is helpful partially to check your form & alignment & making sure you're doing things safely, but partially bc it's so cool to be able to physically see all the progress you've made!! i found that super super motivating to keep practicing.
i hope this was helpful, best of luck to you!!! 💖💖💖
29 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
limavoveqe
Untitled
muffledcries
your heartbeat on the high line
limavoveqe
Untitled
devitalization
⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙
fadinggardentragedy
Makar