#and how lost fleabag feels and how she finds herself in others (for better or for worse)

[sonyapaxtonapologist]

fleabag, fleabag | “to love someone is to see the face of god” - les misérables, victor hugo

night so long, haim | dreams tonite, alvvays | girls against god, florence + the machine | to me (your face is love), donna missal | do you realize??, the flaming lips

[dngrs-untld-hrshps-unnmbrd]

My Heart Has Teeth

Priest AU | Vampire AU | Fated mates | Blood | Biting | Restraints | Smut | Fleabag Hot Priest has a lot to answer for | So does all the priest art in the fandom | and that one of Laura in Travis' arms with blood on her face | no summary priest x vampire that's the thing

Part One of Three

The church was dark and forbidding as Laura shivered among the gravestones.

Cold.

She was so cold.

Chill that bit into her bones and turned her blood to ice. Standing among the stone crosses and with the feel of hallowed ground beneath her bare feet, she felt as if a hundred fingers were pointing accusingly at her.

Unclean.

Unwelcome.

Unwanted.  

Mist flowed through the trees and among the graves, and past the heavy wooden door of the church. It was a building of grey stone with a tall, pointed tower, shrouded by dense trees. The stained-glass windows glowed ruby, sapphire and gold, lit from within by soft, dancing lights.

Laura had been camping in the woods with her boyfriend Max when she was awoken by a fierce ache in her belly and a sensation like her veins were on fire.

Hungry.

Again.

She’d stared at Max as he’d slept, but the sight of him didn’t bring her any comfort. In fact, his presence irritated her as she wondered first if he could soothe her, and then realized that he couldn’t.

Laura had suffered the inexplicable hunger since she was sixteen, but it had never been this bad before. It pounded on the inside of her skull and screamed at her until she was so restless and afraid, she burst out of the tent and ran.

At first, she’d had no direction in mind. She wanted only to draw cooling air into her lungs and stretch her aching muscles.

Then her hunger became purposeful. It was pushing her toward a place. A person.

A church?

Cold wind that whipped Laura's loose blonde hair around her face. When she pushed it back, she noticed that the heavy church door stood ajar. The darkness within beckoned her closer.

Laura glanced left and right. There was no one around and it was after midnight. Surely the priest or whatever he was called wouldn’t mind if she tucked herself into a corner and napped until the sun came up? She wasn’t sure. Going to church had never been on her family’s list of things to do on a Sunday morning and she’d never said so much as hello to a priest. From afar, they seemed austere and intimidating in their long black robes.

She would have to either go inside or try and find her way back to camp. The hunger had drained her strength, and it would drown out her other senses until she became hopelessly lost in the dark. Better to face the ire of a priest than accidentally wander off a cliff and smash herself to pieces in the quarry.

When Laura lifted her hand to push the door, it swung inward silently.

Laura could make out shadowy rows of pews and carved pillars rising up into darkness. From the inside, the beautiful stained glass was colourless and black.

At the far end of a long, dark aisle, candles were burning, illuminating an enormous golden crucifix.

She drew closer to the altar, and her heart beat faster and faster.

Something was in here.

Something that smelled…delicious.

She turned slowly on the spot, hunting the shadows with her eyes. Strange how if she concentrated very hard, the shadows gave up their secrets.

But there was nothing there.

No, something was there. She could sense it just out of reach. Frustration made her fists clench so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. Her breath was hissing harshly over her teeth.

“Young lady?”

Laura froze, and then whipped around.

A man stood a dozen feet away, backlit by the golden cross. Tall. Strong. Upright. The gold light created a halo in his dark hair, but his face was in shadow. The only thing she could make out apart from his height and the breadth of his shoulders was a square of white at his throat.

The priest.

He stood as still as stone and his gaze raked her body, from her wild hair to her short, thin nightdress to the smears of mud on her calves and bare feet.

Laura felt a compulsion to fall to her knees and beg for forgiveness.

“Have you come to pray, or to confess?” the priest asked. “It’s late, but I don’t sleep well at night. Come with me if you wish to confess.”

He brushed past her on the way to the back of the church, his flowing black garments rustling like raven’s feathers, and Laura gasped in shock.

His scent.

Delicious notes of plum and pepper over a rich, masculine musk that made her mouth water. It lingered in his wake.

Without thinking twice, Laura followed him, her footsteps dragging on the stone tiled floor as she moved in a daze.

The priest had disappeared into some kind of ... booth? He’d opened and closed a wooden door, but left a curtain pulled open on the other side that revealed a small wooden bench.

A small, dark space. That’s what she needed to calm her rioting heart. When she sat down on the bench and drew the curtain tightly closed, she found that she was separated from the priest by a decorative grille.

But she could still smell him. His scent was heavy in the air, and she inhaled him deep inside her.

The priest was facing forward and he had his hand up with his fingers touching his temple.

He didn’t look at her.

He didn’t speak.

It was so silent in the booth that if she listened very carefully, she could hear the beat of his heat and the warm rush of his blood.

Laura ran her tongue over her canines, which were suddenly, strangely, aching.

“You did come to confess, didn’t you?” the priest asked.

“What do I say?” she murmured, running her nails gently down the carved wooden grille.

Teach me.

“Have you never confessed before, child?”

How handsome he was. Even though she could barely see him she sensed his austere beauty and his strength. He was lonely, like her. Always around people, but he held himself apart from them, because they couldn’t give him what he needed. Laura didn’t know how she knew this. She could taste the truth of him on their air, and it matched her own.

“Well, no,” she admitted.

“You’re not Catholic,” he guessed, and Laura thought she detected disapproval in his voice.

“I…Maybe I’m interested.”

Laura glimpsed his lips press into a firm line.

“Can you please lower your hand? I want to see your face.”

“The point is not to see it. This is meant to be anonymous.”

“But you’ve already seen my face. I want to see yours.”

His chest rose and fell as if with an annoyed sigh, but he dropped his hand. Laura could make out his strong profile in the dim light. A stern brow and aquiline nose. She imagined her forefinger dancing teasingly down his nose. Touching those soft lips. Brushing over his cheekbones and curving around his slightly stick-out ears.

He was older than she was. Quite a bit older, but it didn’t make her admire him any less. She guessed that he’d looked sweet and puppyish as a young man, but the stern lines of his face suited him. His sombre air was comforting.

Delicious.

What strange thoughts she was having tonight.

“You’re handsome,” she murmured, her gaze lingering over the long, carved line of his jaw.

She half expected him to stand up and order her out of his church, but he stared straight ahead as if he hadn’t heard her.

“Maybe I should add that to my list of sins?” she asked, scooching a little closer to the grille. Laura licked her lips, a smile threatening to break over her face. She’d just remembered the joke about what you said to a priest in a confessional. Sorry daddy, I’ve been bad.

She’d never wanted to tease a man by saying that, but with her eyes fixed on his broad chest and his strong throat, she imagined all kinds of phrases spilling from her lips.

What would it be like to make this buttoned-down man blush? Maybe even stammer a little.

And then when he was off-guard—

Her mind presented her with the strange image of her lunging at the man with her teeth. She closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head, trying to rid herself of the bizarre thought.

When she opened her eyes, she remembered what she was supposed to say. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

The priest nodded slowly, still looking infuriatingly straight ahead. “Now I ask how long it’s been since your last confession, but as you’ve never confessed before, just tell me what’s weighing on your mind.”

“My mind?”

“What do you have to confess?” he prompted gently.

“I don’t know,” she replied, her voice choked up in her throat. “I haven’t done anything, I think? Or have I?”

“We all have memories that haunt us. Words we have spoken. Thoughts and deeds that are impure. Perhaps whatever has driven you here tonight?”

“I—I—”

“Child, there is no need to feel anxious.” He had a deep and reassuring voice.

“I have…a mark,” she blurted out suddenly.

The priest’s brows drew together, but he still didn’t look at her.

Laura rubbed her fingers slowly over the spot on her thigh beneath her nightdress. “It feels dangerous. I don’t know how to explain it.”

It had been burning all night.

Aching.

“Can I show you?” she whispered.

The priest finally turned to look at her. He had deep brown eyes with dark lashes, and his frown deepened. There was a touch of wariness in his gaze.

When he said nothing, Laura clenched her hand on her thigh and slowly drew the fabric back. The mark was very high on her leg.

The priest dropped his gaze to her lap.

On Laura’s right inner thigh was a vivid scarlet flower with tapered, lustrous petals. A clematis flower burned bright red into her flesh.

The priest’s eyes widened, the whites showing all the way around. “Holy mother of God.”

“What is it? Do you know what it means?”

“How long have you borne that mark?”

“I woke up with it on the morning of my sixteenth birthday.”

His eyes were suddenly dark and very stormy, and he snapped, “How old are you?”

Laura shrank back from the fury that was suddenly radiating from him. “Twenty-two.”

The priest stared at her for a long time with an unfathomable expression on his face. “Six years ago. Do you hunger…” He faltered, and there was tension in his frame.

“Father?”

“What do you hunger for?” he demanded. 

He knew. But how did he know? Laura had never told anyone. She shook her head. “Nothing. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do you hunger for blood?”

The moment he said the word blood, a chord sounded through her soul as if someone had struck a church organ with both hands.

Laura leapt to her feet with a strangled cry.

The priest lunged for something out of view and held it up to the grille.

A crucifix. Laura reeled back with a scream. The heavy curtain barred her way as she fought to get out of that claustrophobic space. Her skin felt like it was on fire. The priest was trying to burn her alive from the inside out with that cross.

Laura ripped the curtain back and ran, her bare feet slapping on the stone floor. She pushed open the church door and fled into the darkness.

Travis stood by the open door, his chest heaving as he stared after the young woman, the gold crucifix still clutched tightly in his hand.

That person…

That thing.

She didn’t belong in this place.

The mark she bore on her thigh marked her as a devil’s plaything. A devil in her own right. She was too young and untouched to understand what she was, but the mention of blood and a crucifix held close to her face was enough to confirm what he was dealing with.

But what was the shape of the mark exactly? He’d only glimpsed it, vivid red and undoubtedly painful.

If she came back, a closer inspection would confirm it. Or blood. Blood would make everything clear.

Dare he risk it?

By reflex, he glanced toward the vestry, where a trunk concealed a crossbow with silver-tipped wooden bolts. Strange creatures lurked in North Kill, especially this close to Hackett’s Quarry. It was a desolate stretch of woods that drew all manner of creatures. They sheltered in the depths of the forest, sport for hunters who craved a darker challenge than a rabbit or a deer.  

The girl wouldn’t come back, at least not tonight.

Travis rubbed his hand back and forth over his short hair and sighed, and then locked up the church and headed down the narrow stone path to his house.

There was a chill deep in his bones as he locked the front door of his cottage behind him, and so he drew a hot bath for himself, undressing slowly, his mind back in the booth with the blonde girl.

As he lay in the bath, her words came back to him.

I woke up with it on the morning of my sixteenth birthday.

Six years ago.

It had to be a coincidence, didn’t it?

And yet she was here in North Kill. Something had dragged her out of slumber in the middle of the night and sent her toward his church. He recalled the sight of her shivering in the church aisle, legs bare, nipples hard beneath the thin fabric of her nightdress.

A very pretty girl who’d whispered to him through the wooden grille. Had stroked it softly, lovingly, as if she were imagining touching him.

Travis slowly opened his eyes. And then glancced down at himself. He was hard. Six years a priest and he still wasn’t master of his own body.

She just needs guidance…

His fists tightened beneath the water.

A young woman came to you for help. Will you turn her away if she comes to you again?

These were the voices of temptation, not of God.

Make her kneel before you and beg for forgiveness for what she is.

Travis got out of the tub so fast that water cascaded from his body and onto the tile floor. He stood there naked, hands clenched, staring down at himself. Thick, and throbbing with need.

She was out there in the dark, alone. Blood had not yet touched her lips. That he was certain of.

She was still yet innocent.

But for how much longer?

Travis tipped his head back with a groan. It was taking all his willpower not to wrap his hand around his shaft and pump his fist up and down.

What if she came to him again and crawled between his knees? Begged him for release, her flesh smooth and hot as she stripped naked and pressed herself against his black robes? Hands tugging at his buttons. At his belt. Her mouth finding his fingers and sucking them with pleading in her eyes.

Whispering, Teach me. Show me. I’m yours.  

Still hard as a rock, Travis took himself to bed and slipped between the cool sheets, his body burning with frustration.

The night passed restlessly, and he awoke at dawn with a pounding headache. When he looked into the mirror, there were dark circles beneath his eyes. Darker than usual.

The memory of the blonde dogged his footsteps all day. He conducted a service. He read mass. His thoughts should have been with God, but they were instead lingering on the memory of a beautiful, blue-eyed girl. The scarlet mark on her thigh beckoned to him. As he pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he thought he could discern its outline.

If she came to him again, he had to be certain what he was dealing with. But how?

The mark?

Or blood?

Blood. That was safest because he could keep his distance.

At sunset when the church was empty, he poured wine into a ceremonial goblet, and with a short, sharp knife, he slashed his hand. Blood ran freely over his palm and dripped into the wine.

Then placed the cup out of sight, close to the confessional.

Night was closing in, and the trees were turning black against the sky.

He was ready for her.

Laura tried to ignore the restlessness in her legs and the frantic buzzing in her ears, but in the darkest hour of the night, she could no longer resist the tugging on her mind and soul.

Stumbling out of the tent, Laura walked unsteadily through the trees, treading the same path that she had the night before until the little stone church rose before her.

The priest stood on the threshold in his long robes, a sentinel of righteousness, his expression hard as granite and his gaze pitiless.

He didn’t like her.

He didn’t want her there.

And yet he’d been waiting for her.  

“Have you come again to confess, child?” he asked, gazing down at her.

Laura nearly fell to her knees and clung to his robes. She didn’t want to confess. She wanted to beg. Her life was in his hands. He could end it if he chose. This man was the only way out of her misery.

When she didn’t reply, he turned and disappeared into the church.

Laura followed him with a whimper, a desperate ache clawing at her chest. It was dark, but she could follow him by scent alone. It was even stronger tonight, that delicious aroma that was this man’s soul, distilled into fine liquor.

How she longed to feel it flowing over her tongue. Running down her body, slippery and hot. She wanted him sticky on her fingers so she could lick him off.  

The door to the confessional slammed behind the priest.

Laura stepped inside and pulled the velvet curtain closed and sat shivering on the narrow wooden bench. He hated her, but she didn’t care as long as he didn’t send her away.

“What do have to confess?” the priest asked. He was different tonight. Urgent, and wound almost as tight as she was.

“I don’t know.”

“You do. Search your heart. Search your soul.”

Laura felt angry tears well in her eyes. Weren’t men of the cloth supposed to hold all the answers? They acted as if they did, with their tight collars and their sermons. “I said I don’t know.”

“How will you ask for forgiveness if you don’t repent?”

“I’ll repent. I’ll do anything you want. Tell me what to do, Father.”

But the priest wouldn’t answer.

She beat her hand against the grille. “Just tell me what to do.”

Silence.

It went on and on. Empty, pitiless silence.

The priest spoke one word. “Kneel.”

Laura looked up sharply. “What?”

But the priest didn't say anything. He knew she had heard him. 

Laura slipped from the bench, her knees thudding against cold stone.

Suddenly, the curtain was ripped back, and the priest loomed over her in the darkness, looking impossibly tall from this sharp angle. There was a wild expression on his face, and he held a golden goblet in one hand.

The priest held the goblet to her lips. “Drink.”

“Shouldn’t I say some words, Father? Shouldn’t you?”

His eyes flashed. “Stop questioning everything I tell you to do, and drink.”

Laura opened her mouth. Cold metal touched her lips, and the priest tilted the goblet until wine flowed into her mouth.

Her eyes shot open.

Laura grabbed the goblet with both hands over his and opened her mouth wider, swallowing frantically. Wine poured over her face and down the front of her nightdress, soaking the fabric and dripping down her thighs.

The wine was tart, and heavy on her tongue. It was the most delicious thing she’d ever—

Another taste burst inside her mouth, rich and sweet. A man’s soul, distilled into its purest form.

This man’s soul.

His blood.  

Laura threw the goblet violently with a cry of horror and it clattered away into the shadows. Her chest was heaving, and she clung to the first thing within reach. The priest’s robes. “What was that? What did you just make me drink?”

“Wine. Mixed with blood.”

“You made me drink blood?” she cried. Pain exploded in her chest. It travelled down her body and between her thighs to her core. The mark on her leg erupted with fire. She ached. She needed…

“What do you feel?” he asked, breathing heavily.

“Pain,” she gasped.

“What else?” He was urgent, demanding that she answer.

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” she sobbed. “What’s happening to me?”

“You’re marked.” He knelt down before her and pushed her wet nightdress up her thigh, revealing the red flower on the smooth flesh of her inner thigh. He reached out as if to touch it, but then drew his hand away again and clenched his fist.

Frustrated?

Or afraid?

“You’re marked because you’re a vampire’s mate,” he said through clenched teeth. “If your mate finds you, the moment they sink their fangs into your neck you’ll be theirs forever. Destined to be a vampire. Damned for all eternity as a creature of the night.”

Laura stared at him. Even though the words he spoke should be impossible, she knew that they were not. “That’s it? That’s the only future I have?”

“There are hunters who would kill you for bearing that mark with bullets of silver. Arrows tipped with silver.”

“So I’m to choose between death, or undeath? What kind of choice is that?”

“It is no choice,” he snarled, sweat breaking out on his brow. “Your mate knows that blood has touched your lips. He aches for you this moment. You have to run. You have to—”

“But you’re a priest. You must know something that can help me.”

He shook his head urgently.

He was lying to her, Laura could feel it. There was something he could do, but he didn’t want to help her.

Laura put her hands on his shoulders, shifting closer on her knees. Such broad, sturdy shoulders and a strong throat. Blood was rushing through his flesh and her teeth were aching more than ever.

“What if my mate comes to bite me?” she whispered. “What if hunters come? You won’t let them hurt me, will you?”

The priest was breathing harshly. “You think I can keep you safe? If your mate finds you, he’ll lose his mind from longing until he has possessed you.”

“How do you know this?”

He turned his face away. “I can’t answer that.”

She pulled her dress up her thigh, exposing the red flower. “Please, you’re the only one who can help me. I’ve shown this mark to a dozen people over the years and none of them have believed me when I’ve told them it’s dangerous. Help me cut it out of my flesh.”

The priest shook his head, keeping his gaze averted from her. “That won’t work. The mark will heal itself.”

He stood, capturing her elbows and dragging her up with him. He stood over her by a foot. His hands were huge on her arms, and he gripped her tightly. “You must leave. You should never have come here.”

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“I'm no one. I'm just a priest.”

“I don’t believe you.”  

“Then you have a death wish. Would you like to see, is that what you're saying?” he snarled, and before she could answer he grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her through the church and into a side room.

There wasn’t much to see in the small, cold chamber. A bench seat. And a wooden chest.

“Look.” He flipped the lid back and Laura stared down at half a dozen crossbows and guns, silver tipped arrows and homemade silver bullets.

Laura felt the bottom fall out of her stomach. The priest was a hunter? She’d revealed her secret to a vampire hunter? She backed away from him, fear threading her veins. The open door was at her back, but he was already closing in on her.

Laura licked her lips, still moving backwards. “If I run, will you chase me?”

The priest nodded slowly, his gaze locked on her face.

He didn’t have a choice.

He was a hunter.

She was his quarry.

“Run,” he growled.

But still Laura only took tiny steps backward. His eyes were wild, and his hair was falling over his forehead. The moment she turned her back on him, he would be on her.

Her body was alive with the blood she had drunk, but he was strong. He was fast. He had hunted before. This was his church. He knew the fastest way to the door in the dark.

“You don’t have to do this,” she told him.

“I do.”

“No, you don’t!”

The priest reached up and tugged the white collar out of his shirt and threw it aside. Still glaring at her, he undid the buttons of his shirt and pulled it open. His chest was strong and muscled, and peppered with dark hairs. There was something on his chest, a little to the left. A small, red tattoo, right over his heart.

It was the mark.

Her mark.

The very same red flower that had appeared on her thigh six years ago was branded on his chest.

As Laura stared at the red flower, longing shot through her. Yearning so powerful that it stole the breath from her lungs. The mark burned so hard on her thigh that she nearly fell to her knees.

She was his.

He was hers.

But he was a priest and a vampire hunter. Was he going to kill her, or claim her?

The priest was gazing down at the mark on his chest. Suddenly, his head snapped up and drew his top lip back in a snarl, revealing two shiny white fangs, tapered to sharp points.

Not a hunter.

A vampire.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he snarled. “I don’t want you here. Run. Away.”

She hadn’t been able to resist the pull of the mark, just as he couldn’t prevent himself from crossing the room toward her.

His blood was on her tongue and burning through her veins. Her whole body was lit with need and there was a fierce pulsing between her thighs. Laura was torn between fleeing from this man and running into his arms.

She wanted him to bite her. She craved to feel his body against hers. He needed to sink his fangs into her neck at the same time he drove himself deep inside her. Claiming her completely.

Every second she wasn’t touching him was pure torture.

He felt the same way. She could see agony in his eyes. He didn’t want his mate, but his instincts to claim her were driving him out of his mind.

The priest’s body trembled, and then he lunged for her with both arms as if unable to help himself. Laura darted back and his hands snatched at empty air.

“I said run,” he shouted.

Whether it was out of fear or an inexorable compulsion to obey him, Laura turned on her heel and fled for her life.

Travis slammed the door closed and felt to his knees, gasping in agony as he felt the girl run out of the church and into the night. He only had a few minutes at most before his mark drove him out into the night to give chase. He wasn’t going to be able to resist hunting her down.

She was his mate.

The woman who was destined to be his.

The one who was bound to him. Meant for him. He belonged to her and she to him, and as long as he roamed this earth, he would long for her. An eternity of agony spread before him if he didn’t make her his.

But at a terrible cost. He would have to turn her. Kill what made her human and leave her vulnerable to those who hunted them for sport. The mark made her hungry and restless, but without her fangs she could pass as human and avoid the hunters.

With one bite, he would put a target on her back for the rest of her life.  

It was too late for him, and too late for his dead family, but she could be saved as long as he didn’t bite her. Never sank his fangs into her hot, yielding flesh and tasted her sweet blood as it bubbled up against his—

Travis groaned and beat his head against the solid wooden door.

“Stop.” Thud. “Thinking.” Thud. “About.” Thud. “Her.”

If she was scared enough, she would run right out of the woods and never look back. If she made it until dawn and kept going, she might be safe. His strength and speed and the urgency to hunt were lesser in the sunlight, though the light couldn’t hurt him. Neither could hallowed ground or crucifixes. The girl had shrunk back from the cross as all fledglings and lesser vampires did. The weak ones. If he made her his, the girl would no longer be weak.

She would be his. 

So what was he doing here grovelling on the floor in pain when he should be out in the night with his mate?

He didn’t even know her name …

She had tasted him, but he hadn’t yet felt her on his tongue …

If he took her in his arms, he would hear her panting in his ear with need …

Maybe even begging for him …

He could hear her in his mind. Kiss my mark. Feel how much I want you. Fill me up while I give you my blood.  

Travis felt himself getting to his feet.

Reaching for the door handle.

He fought it with everything he had, but the pounding in his blood was stronger. Mates weren’t meant to be resisted. Mates were a rare privilege that every coven vampire hoped to be granted. Six years ago, when he’d buried the corpses of his family and felt the mark flame to life on his chest, for a few seconds he had felt pure, unadulterated joy. For hundreds of years, he’d longed for this moment.

His mate had awoken. Somewhere in the world, a human had felt the flourishing of the mark on their flesh.

All he had to do was find them.

Then sheer horror overwhelmed him as he realized he would damn this unknown human to his parents’ fate. His brothers’ fate. His niece and nephew’s fate. 

He hid himself away in North Kill, disguised as a priest, and prayed that the girl would never find him.

A girl. He could taste that it was a girl. She came to him in dreams sometimes, a slender, shadowy figure with blonde hair. She was swift and strong. Brave. When he clasped this girl to his chest in his dreams, her warmth and laughter filled his heart.

Sometimes he was shocked awake in a burst of pleasure or suddenly fell to his knees while out walking, blinded as if by the sun, and he knew she was touching her mark. Touching herself. What did she look like in that moment? What did she taste like? Not her blood, but her sex. The warm liquid oozing between her thighs. Travis daydreamed about it for hours on end.

Sometimes she dug her nails into her mark when she came, and everything went white behind his eyes and he couldn’t breathe.

“Stop doing that, girl,” he would gasp, palms pressed against the floor of the church or the muddy track through the woods.

If it happened while he was giving a sermon, his congregation thought he was having a heart attack as he staggered and gripped his chest.

These goddamn marks. Their connection was doing its best to drive them together. Was she dreaming about him as often as he dreamed about her? Could she sense the shape of his body? Did she understand how much he craved her?

If she was suffering too, could she feel how much that sorrowed him?

As the years passed, Travis tortured himself with thoughts about her, wondering if she was happy. Hoping that she was. When she eventually grew old and died, would his mark fade away, or would it go on tormenting him with the eternity that they could have spent together?

He’d never met another vampire who had a fated mate, let alone one who refused to claim them. He was all alone, in every sense, but if him staying hidden away in these woods kept her alive, he would never step one foot beyond the trees.

They couldn’t meet if he didn’t go hunting for her.

At least, that's what he'd told himself.

Travis felt a surge of anger. Why did she have to come looking for him? How could a mere human track him down? 

Goddamn this girl. 

With the mark on his chest throbbing so hard that it felt like he was about to explode, Travis yanked the door open.

He had to chase.

He had to hunt.

If the girl hadn’t taken his warning seriously, she might have stopped running by now, but after what he’d shown her, she should be terrified.

As soon as he reached the main door to the church and took a lungful of night air and scented her on the wind. His mark was clamouring at him to give chase.

Run, child.

Because I’m coming for you.

Travis felt his fangs surge in his mouth, and he took off after her into the darkness.

***

In case you were wondering, there’s no dubcon in this story. Travis is being driven out of his mind to claim her because I love to see him absolutely feral and shattered to his core, but he wouldn’t lay a tooth or a finger on Laura without her consent. 

Thank you for reading! I hope you’re enjoying the story so far. Chapter Two is just about finished and will be posted in a day or two. Meanwhile, leave me a comment and let me know what you think!

PART TWO

[entertainment]

Entertainment Spotlight: Jordan Claire Robbins, The Umbrella Academy

If you’re a fan of The Umbrella Academy, you probably recognize Jordan Claire Robbins, who stars as Grace/Mom along with Ellen Page, Colm Feore, and Tom Hopper. Jordan's other tv credits include Netflix's Anon opposite Amanda Seyfried and Clive Owen, Supernatural, Man Seeking Woman, and SyFy's 12 Monkeys. Before she set her sights on acting, Jordan had a successful career in modeling. When she's not on our screens, she enjoys singing and playing the piano. Jordan hails from Bermuda and currently resides in Vancouver. She took a few minutes to chat with us about The Umbrella Academy, funny moments on set, and more. Check it out:

Despite the creepy Stepford Wife vibes, on balance, Grace has been a better parent than her maker. What is it that drew you to the role?

I love that there is more to Grace than meets the eye. The writers did a brilliant job of revealing Grace’s depth as the first season went on, while also constantly making you wonder what she was capable of – she’s such an enigmatic character. There were all these beautiful flashback scenes where she was the perfect mother figure she was programmed to be, but also moments when you see a dissonance of sorts when she can’t protect the children from pain inflicted by their father figure. And when the story starts off she’s a shadow of what she once was. She’s lost under this faulty programming and she has so much to fight against to find her own voice. Then when she is given another chance at life she’s this different version of herself, one that makes her own choices and has agency for once. It certainly kept me on my toes, getting to play these different versions of her and also finding a balance between perfectly programmed AI and a hidden humanity, a consciousness I believe she developed over her years with the children. I also really loved how Grace’s story, while being very distinctly non-human, mirrors the life women led not that long ago. I did a lot of research (one of which was Stepford Wives!) to have a better understanding of the template Grace was built in as a 1950’s housewife, and was just so struck by how trapped they were in the gender role of being the perfect wife and mother, to never push back against what society expected of them. There were so many obstacles to them feeling free and empowered, just like Grace. Her inability to leave the house, and totally losing the identity and purpose she was programmed to have when the kids left, felt like such a beautiful, heartbreaking parallel to what so many women have struggled with through history and I loved being able to tell that story.

You've successfully made the leap from modeling to acting. Do you think your experience as a model has helped you in your career change/expansion?

I think the more experience you have in life, the better an actor you can be. Modeling definitely gave me lots of practice getting comfortable being in front of the camera, not taking rejection personally, and being a part of telling a story. Modeling feels very collaborative, the same way acting is, and I think my years of physically transforming to contribute one part of a bigger picture at shoots really helped me understand the creative process that goes into every day on a film set. The biggest challenge for me coming from modeling to acting has been learning to embrace my imperfections, and be okay with letting the camera see them which felt very vulnerable and uncomfortable at first. In modeling there’s a ton of pressure to be this and that, essentially to be flawless, but playing a human being onscreen requires the opposite. Humans are complicated and messy, and the more you can embrace the unattractive parts of yourself the more depth there is to draw from.

In your free time, you like to sing and play the piano. If The Umbrella Academy were a musical, what would Grace's big number be?

Ooh, great question, music is such a huge part of the show, so a musical episode would have been amazing! I listened to a ton of music from the 40s and 50s to get into character, and in my audition tape for Grace I hummed Sinatra’s ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ - it’s a funny coincidence because the moon ended up being such a huge theme in Season One. I think it’s perfect for her since it’s so romantic and classy, and because she was always longing for her children, for an escape from being under Hargreeves’ eye so the lyrics are fitting.  

If you could play any other character in the show, who would you choose, and why?

I think Klaus would be a blast to play, he’s so free with no boundaries or self consciousness whatsoever, but he’s also tortured from a lifetime of numbing his pain. Recognizing that I would not be a good casting choice for Klaus (and since I can’t picture anyone playing Klaus besides Robert) I think it also would’ve also been fun to play Cha-Cha, with her dry sense of humor and all of those great stunts. Plus I love Cameron and would love the chance to have scenes with him!

Can you tell us about any funny fails/stories that happened on set?

There’s a scene in episode 3 of season one when Allison and Luther are questioning Grace while she cooks them breakfast. I was supposed to cook eggs and bacon, plate the food into smiley faces, and then bring the plates over to them while avoiding their questions. But I’m not a great multitasker when food is involved and it was the last scene up on a very long day of shooting, so I somehow plated them two really sad looking frown faces. The camera was on me through the middle of them and when they got the giggles it was near impossible to stay in character. For the rest of the night the three of us had a hard time keeping it together – it actually turned out to be one of my favorite scenes, probably because we had so much fun shooting it!

What advice would you give to young people looking to get into modeling and/or acting?

I would say to make sure you stay connected to your sense of self. Neither are particularly easy industries, and it can be hard not to take rejection to heart, but the most important thing is being really grounded in yourself and what makes you happy. There really is no way to do any of this “right” and the most successful people are always the ones who own who they are because that’s the most endearing quality, so if you keep honoring yourself you can’t go wrong. Other than that, be a “yes” person when it comes to taking opportunities to learn and grow! The more you push fear aside and make it your goal to get out of your comfort zone, the further you will go and greater your work will be. The world needs more brave voices to share their stories.

Who do you look up to as an actor?

Jordan Peele is so incredibly talented, he’s obviously a master at comedy and he’s making such original, intelligent projects that look at social issues like racism in a way that’s never been done before. I would love to work with him one day. I’m also really taken with Phoebe Waller-Bridge – I love the boldness she brings to her work. Fleabag is so beautiful, raw, hilarious, and Killing Eve is brilliant, we need more strong female driven stories and she has such a unique voice. And I have always looked up to Helen Mirren. She radiates this strength and classiness while also being so playful and irreverent - and she makes aging sexy in an industry where women can feel so much pressure to stay young.

Thanks for taking the time, Jordan! Season two of The Umbrella Academy is now streaming on Netflix.

[itsclydebitches]

Enola Holmes: A Not So Elementary Adaptation

It's cliché and a bit unfair to say that the book was better than the film, but I'm afraid that's precisely where I need to start. Nancy Springer's Enola Holmes: The Case of the Missing Marquess is leagues better than Netflix's adaptation of it. They did her work dirty and to say that I'm shocked at the accolades other reviewers are heaping on the film is an understatement. Before I dive into any critiques though, it's worth acknowledging that not every minute of the two hour film was painful to get through. So what worked in Enola Holmes?

The film is carried by the talent of its cast, Millie Bobby Brown being the obvious heavy-hitter. She helps breathe life into a pretty terrible script and it's only a shame her talent is wasted on such a subpar character.

The idea to have Enola continually break the fourth wall, though edging into the realm of Dora the Explorer at times—"Do you have any ideas?"— was nevertheless a fun way to keep the audience looped into her thought process. Young viewers in particular might enjoy it as a way to make them feel like a part of the action and older viewers will note the Fleabag influence. 

The cinematography is, perhaps, where most of my praise lies. The rapid cuts between past and present, rewinding as Enola thinks back to some pertinent detail, visualizing the cyphers with close ups on the letter tiles—all of it gave the film an upbeat, entertaining flair that almost made up for how bloated and meandering the plot was.

We got an equally upbeat soundtrack that helped to sell the action. 

The overall experience was... fine. In the way a cobbled together, candy-coated, meant to be seen on a Friday night but we watched it Wednesday and then promptly forgot about it film is fine. I doubt Enola Holmes will be winning any awards, but it was a decently entertaining romp and really, does a Netflix film need to be anything more? If Enola was her own thing made entirely by Netflix's hands I wouldn't be writing this review. As it stands though, Enola is both an adaptation and the latest addition to one of the world’s most popular franchises. That's where the film fails: not as a fun diversion to take your mind off Covid-19, but as an adaptation of Springer's work and as a Sherlock Holmes story.

In short, Enola Holmes, though pretty to look at and entertaining in a predictable manner, still fails in five crucial areas: 

1. Mycroft is Now a Mustache-Twirling Villain and Sherlock is No Longer Sherlock Holmes

This aspect is the least egregious because admittedly the film didn't pull this version of Mycroft out of thin air. As the head of the household he is indeed Enola's primary antagonist (outside of some kidnappers) and though he insists that he's doing all this for Enola's own good, he does get downright cruel at times:

He rolled his eyes. “Just like her mother,” he declared to the ceiling, and then he fixed upon me a stare so martyred, so condescending, that I froze rigid. In tones of sweetest reason he told me, “Enola, legally I hold complete charge over both your mother and you. I can, if I wish, lock you in your room until you become sensible, or take whatever other measures are necessary in order to achieve that desired result... You will do as I say" (Springer 69).

Mycroft's part is clear. He's the white, rich, powerful, able-bodied man who benefits from society's structure and thus would never think to change it. He does legally have charge over both Enola and Eudoria. He can do whatever he pleases to make them "sensible"... and that right there is the horror of it. Mycroft is a law-abiding man whose antagonism stems from doing precisely what he's allowed to do in a broken world. There are certainly elements of this in the Netflix adaptation, but that antagonism becomes so exaggerated that it's nearly laughable. Enola's governess (appointed by Mycroft) slaps her across the face the moment she speaks up. Mycroft screams at her in a carriage until she's cowering against the window. He takes her and throws her into a boarding school where everything is bleak and all the women dutifully follow instructions like hypnotized dolls. Enola Holmes ensures that we've lost all of Springer's nuance, notably the criticism of otherwise decent people who fall into the trap of doing the "right" (read: expected) thing. Despite her desire for freedom, in the novel Enola quickly realizes that she is not immune to society's standards:

"I thought he was younger.” Much younger, in his curled tresses and storybook suit. Twelve! Why, the boy should be wearing a sturdy woollen jacket and knickers, an Eton collar with a tie, and a decent manly haircut—

Thoughts, I realised, all too similar to those of my brother Sherlock upon meeting me (113-14).

She is precisely like her brothers, judging a boy for not looking and acting enough like a man just as they judged her for not looking and acting enough like a lady. The difference is that Enola has chaffed enough against those expectations to realize when she's falling prey to them, but the sympathetic link to her brothers remains. In the film, however, the conflict is no longer driven by fallible people doing what they think is best. Rather, it's made clear (in no uncertain terms) that these are just objectively bad people. Only villains hit someone like that. Only villains will scream at the top of their lungs until a young girl cries. Only villains roll their eyes at women's rights (a subplot that never existed in the novel). Springer writes Mycroft as a person, Netflix writes him as a cartoon, and the result is the loss of a nuanced message about what it means to enact change in a complicated world.  

Which leaves us with Sherlock. Note that in the above passage he is the one who casts harsh judgement on Enola's outfit. Originally Mycroft took an interest in making Enola "sensible" and Sherlock— in true Holmes fashion—straddles a fine line between comfort and insult:

"Mycroft,” Sherlock intervened, “the girl's head, you'll observe, is rather small in proportion to her remarkably tall body. Let her alone. There is no use confusing and upsetting her when you'll find out for yourself soon enough'" (38).

***

"Could mean that she left impulsively and in haste, or it could reflect the innate untidiness of a woman's mind,” interrupted Sherlock. “Of what use is reason when it comes to the dealings of a woman, and very likely one in her dotage?" (43).

A large part of Enola's drive stems from proving to Sherlock, the world, and even herself that a small head does not mean lack of intelligence. His insults, couched in a misguided attempt to sooth, is what makes Sherlock a complex character and his broader sexism is what makes him a flawed character, not Superman in a tweed suit. Yet in the film Mycroft becomes the villain and Sherlock is his good brother foil. Rather than needing to acknowledge that Enola has a knack for deduction by reading the excellent questions she's asked about the case—because why give your characters any development?—he already adores and has complete faith in her, laughing that he too likes to draw caricatures to think. By the tree Sherlock remanences fondly about Enola's childhood where she demonstrated appropriately quirky preferences for a genius, things like not wearing trousers and keeping a pinecone for a pet. They have a clear connection that Mycroft could never understand, one based both in deduction and, it seems, being a halfway decent human being. We are told that Enola has Sherlock's wits, but poor Mycroft lucked out, despite the fact that up until this point the film has done nothing to demonstrate this supposed intelligence. (To say nothing of how canonically Mycroft's intellect rivals his brother's.) Enola falls to her knees and begs for Sherlock's help, saying that "For [Mycroft] I'm a nuisance, to you—" implying that they have a deep bond despite not having seen one another since Enola was a toddler. Indeed, at one point Enola challenges Lestrade to a Sherlock quiz filled with information presumably not found in the newspaper clippings she's saved of him, which begs the question of how she knows her brother so well when she hasn't seen him in a decade and he, in turn, walked right by her with no recognition. Truthfully, Lestrade should know Sherlock better. Through all this the sibling bond is used as a heavy-handed insistence that Enola is Sherlock's protégé, him leaving her with the advice that "Those kinds of mysteries are always the best to unpick” and straight up asking at one point if she’s solved the case. The plot has Enola gearing up to outwit her genius brother, which did not happen in the novel and is precisely why I loved it. Enola isn't out to be a master of deduction in her teens, she's a finder of lost people who uses a similar, but ultimately unique set of skills. She does things Sherlock can't because she is isn't Sherlock. They're not in competition, they're peers, yet the film fails to understand that, using Sherlock's good brother bonding to emphasize Enola's place as his protégé turned superior. He exists, peppered throughout the film, so that she can surpass him in the end. 

You know what happens in the novel? Sherlock walks away from her, dismissive, and that's that.

That's also Sherlock Holmes. I won't bore you with complaints about Cavill being too handsome and Claflin being too thin for their respective parts, but I will draw the line at complete character assassination. Part of Sherlock's charm is that he's far more compassionate than he first appears, but that doesn't mean he would, at the drop of a telegram, become a doting older brother to a sister of all things. Despite the absurdity of the Doyle Estate's lawsuit against Netflix for making Sherlock an emotional man who respects women... they're right that this isn't their character. Oh, Sherlock is emotive, but it's in the form of excited exclamations over clues, or the occasional warm word towards Watson—someone he has known and lived with for many years. Sherlock respects women, though it's through those societal expectations. He'll offer them a seat, an ear, a handkerchief if they need one, and always the promise of help, but he then dismisses them with, "The fairer sex is your department, Watson." Springer successfully wrote Sherlock Holmes with a little sister, a man who will bark out a laugh at her caricature but still leave her to Mycroft's whims because he has his own life to tend to. This is a man who insists that the mind of a woman is inscrutable and thus must grapple with his shock at Enola's ability to cover the "salient points" of the case (58). Cavill's Sherlock is no Sherlock at all and though there's nothing wrong with updating a character for a modern audience (see: Elementary), I do question why Netflix strayed so far from Springer's work. The novel is, after all, their blueprint. She already managed the difficult task of writing an in-character Sherlock Holmes who remains approachable to both a modern audience and Enola herself, yet for some reason Netflix tossed that work aside.  

2. Enola is "Special,” Not At All Like Other Girls 

Allow me to paint you a picture. Enola Holmes is an empathetic, fourteen-year-old girl who, while bright, does not possess an intelligence worthy of note. No one is gasping as she deduces seemingly impossible things from the age of four, or admiring her knowledge of some obscure, appropriately impressive topic. Rather, Enola is a fairly normal girl with an abnormal upbringing, characterized by her patience and willingness to work. Deciphering the many hiding places where her mother stashed cash takes her weeks, requiring that Enola work through the night in secrecy while maintaining appearances during the day. She manages to hatch a plan of escape that demonstrates the thought she's put into it without testing the reader's suspension of disbelief. More than that, she uses the feminine tools at her disposal to give herself an edge: hiding her face behind a widow's veil and storing luggage in the bustle of her dress. Upon achieving freedom, her understanding of another lonely boy leads her to try and help him, resulting in a dangerous kidnapping wherein Enola acts as most fourteen-year-olds would, scared out of her mind with a few moments of bravery born of pure survival instinct. She and Tewksbury escape together, as friends, before Enola sets out on becoming the first scientific perditorian, a finder of lost people.

Sadly, this new Enola shares little resemblance with her novel counterpart. What Netflix seemingly fails to understand is that giving a character flaws makes them relatable and that someone who looks more like us is someone we can connect with. This Enola, simply put, is extraordinary. She's read all the books in the library, knows science, tennis, painting, archery, and a deadly form of Jujitsu (more on that below). In the novel Enola bemoans that she was never particularly good at cyphers and now must improve if she has any hope of reading what her mother left her. In the film she simply knows the answers, near instantaneously. Enola masters her travels, her disguises, and her deductions, all with barely a hitch. Though Enola doesn't have impressive detective skills yet, her memory is apparently photographic, allowing her to look back on a single glance into a room, years ago, and untangle precisely what her mother was planning. It's a BBC Sherlock-esque form of 'deduction' wherein there's no real thought involved, just an innate ability to recall a newspaper across the room with perfect clarity. The one thing Enola can't do well is ride a bike which, considering that in the novel she quite enjoys the activity, feels like a tacked on "flaw" that the film never has to have her grapple with.

More than simply expanding upon her skillset—because let’s be real, it’s not like Sherlock himself doesn’t have an impressive list of accomplishments. Even if Enola’s feelings of inadequacy are part of the point Springer was working to make—the film changes the core of her personality. I cannot stress enough that Enola is a sheltered fourteen-year-old who is devastated by the disappearance of her mother and terrified by the new world she's entered. That fear, uncertainty, and the numerous mistakes that come out of it is what allowed me to connect with Enola and go, "Yeah. I can see myself in her." Meanwhile, this new Enola is overwhelmingly confident, to the point where I felt like I was watching a child's fantasy of a strong woman rather than one who actually demonstrates strength by overcoming challenges. For example, contrast her meeting with Sherlock and Mycroft on the train platform with what we got in the film:

"And to my annoyance, I found myself trembling as I hopped off my bicycle. A strip of lace from my pantalets, confounded flimsy things, caught on the chain, tore loose, and dangled over my left boot.

Trying to tuck it up, I dropped my shawl.

This would not do. Taking a deep breath, leaving my shawl on my bicycle and my bicycle leaning against the station wall, I straightened and approached the two Londoners, not quite succeeding in holding my head high" (31-32).

***

"Well, if they did not desire the pleasure of my conversation, it was a good thing, as I stood mute and stupid... 'I don't know where she's gone,' I said, and to my own surprise—for I had not wept until that moment—I burst into tears" (34).

I'd ask where this frightened, fumbling Enola has gone, but it's clear that she never existed in the script to begin with. The film is chock-full of her being, to be frank, a badass. She gleefully beats up the bad guys in perfect form, no, "I froze, cowering, like a rabbit in a thicket" (164). This Enola always gets the last word in and never falters in her confident demeanor, no, "I wish I could say I swept with cold dignity out of the room, but the truth is, I tripped over my skirt and stumbled up the stairs" (70). Enola is the one, special girl in an entire school who can see how rigid and horrible these social expectations are, straining against them while all her lesser peers roll their eyes. That's how she's characterized: as "special," right from the get-go, and that eliminates any growth she might have experienced over the course of the film. More than that, it feels like a slap in the face to Springer's otherwise likeable, well-rounded character.

3. A Focus on Hollywood Action and Those Strong Female Characters

It never fails to amaze me how often Sherlock Holmes adaptations fail to remember that he is, at his core, an intellectual. Sure, there's the occasional story where Sherlock puts his boxing or singlestick skills to good use, and he did survive his encounter with Moriarty thanks to his own martial arts, but these moments are rarities across the canon. Pick up any Sherlock Holmes story, open to a random page, and you will find him sitting fireside to mule over a case, donning a disguise to observe the suspects, or combing through his many papers to find that one, necessary scrap of information. Sherlock Holmes is about deduction, a series of observations and conclusions based on logic. He's not an action hero. Nor is Enola, yet Netflix seems to be under the impression that no audience can survive a two hour film without something exploding.

I'd like to present a concise list of things that happened in the film that were, in my opinion, unnecessary:

Enola and Tewksbury throw themselves out of a moving train to miraculously land unharmed on the grass below.

Enola uses the science knowledge her mother gave her to ignite a whole room of gunpowder and explosives, resulting in a spectacle that somehow doesn't kill her pursuer.

Enola engages in a long shootout with her attacker, Tewksbury takes a shot straight to the chest, but survives because of a breastplate he only had a few seconds to put on and hide beneath his shirt. Then Enola succeeds in killing Burn Gorman's slimy character.

Enola beats up her attackers many, many times.

This right here is the worst change to her character. Enola is, plainly put, a "strong woman." Literally. She was trained from a young age to kick ass and now that's precisely what she'll do. Gone is the unprepared but brave girl who heads out onto the dangerous London streets in the hope of helping her mother and a young boy. What does this Enola have to fear? There's only one martial arts move she hasn't mastered yet and, don't worry, she gets it by the end of the film. Enola suffers from the Hollywood belief that strong women are defined solely as physically capable women and though there's nothing wrong with that on the surface, the archetype has become so prevalent that any deviation is seen as too weak—too princess-y—to be considered feminist. If you're not kicking ass and taking names then you can only be passive, right? Stuck in a tower somewhere and awaiting your prince. But what about me? I have no ability to flip someone over my shoulder and throw them into a wall. What about pacifists? What about the disabled? By continually claiming that this is what a "strong" woman looks like you eliminate a huge number of women from this pool. The women we are meant to uphold in this film—Enola, her Mother, and her Mother's friend from the teahouse—are all fighters of the physical variety, whereas the bad women like Mrs. Harris and her pupils are too cultured for self-defense. They're too feminine to be feminist. But feminism isn't about your ability to throw a punch.  Enola's success now derives from being the most talented and the most violent in the room, rather than the most determined, smart, and empathetic. She threatens people and lunges at them, reminding others that she's perfectly capable of tying up a guy is she so chooses because "I know Jujitsu." Enola possesses a power that is just as fantastical as kissing a frog into a prince. In sixteen short years she has achieved what no real life woman ever will: the ability to go wherever she pleases and do whatever she wants without the threat of violence. Because Enola is the violence. While her attacker is attempting to drown her with somewhat horrific realism, Enola takes the time to wink at the audience before rearing back and bloodying his nose. After all, why would you think she was in any danger? Masters of Jujitsu with an uncanny ability to dodge bullets don't have anything to fear... unlike every woman watching this film.

It's certainly some kind of wish fulfillment, a fantasy to indulge in, but I personally preferred the original Enola who never had any Hollywood skills at her disposal yet still managed to come out on top. That's a character I can see myself in and want to see myself in given that the concept of non-violent strength is continually pushed to the wayside. Not to mention... that's a Sherlock Holmes story. Coming out on top through intellect and bravery alone is the entire point of the genre, so why Netflix felt the need to turn Enola into an action hero is beyond me.  

4. Aging Up the Protagonists (and Giving Them an Eye-Rolling Romance)

The choice to age up our heroes is, arguably, the worst decision here. In the original novel Enola has just turned fourteen and Tewksbury is a child, twelve-years-old, though he looks even younger. It's a story for a younger audience staring appropriately young heroes, with the protagonists' status as children crucial to one of the overarching themes of the story: what does it really mean to strike out on your own and when are you ready for it? Adding two years to Enola's age is something I'm perfectly fine with. After all, the difference between fourteen and sixteen isn't that great and Brown herself is sixteen until February of 2021, so why not aim for realism and make her character the same? That's all reasonable and this is, indeed, an adaptation. No need to adhere to every detail of the text. What puzzles me though is why in the world they would take a terrified, sassy, compassionate twelve-year-old and turn him into a bumbling seventeen-year-old instead?

Ah yes. The romance.

In the same way that I fail to understand the assumption that a film needs over-the-top action to be entertaining, I likewise fail to understand the assumption that it needs a romance—and a heterosexual one to boot. There's something incredibly discomforting in watching a film that so loudly proclaim itself as feminist, yet it takes the strong friendship between two children and turns it into an incredibly awkward, hetero True Love story. Remember when Enola loudly proclaims that she doesn't want a husband? The film didn't, because an hour later she's stroking her hand over Tewksbury's while twirling her hair. Which isn't to say that women can't fall in love, or change their minds, just that it's disheartening to see a supposedly feminist film so completely fall into one of the biggest expectations for women, even today. Forget Enola running up to men and paying them for their clothes as an expression of freedom, is anyone going to acknowledge that narratively she’s still stuck living the life the men around her want? Find yourself a husband, Enola. The heavy implication is she did, just with Jujitsu rather than embroidery. Different method, same message, and that’s incredibly frustrating when this didn’t exist in the original story. “It's about freedom!” the film insists. So why didn't you give Enola the freedom to have a platonic adventure? 

It's not even a good romance. Rather painful, really. When Tewksbury, after meeting her just once before, passionately says "I don't want to leave you, Enola" because her company is apparently more important than him staying alive, I literally laughed out loud. It's ridiculous and it's ridiculously precisely because it was shoe-horned into a story that didn't need it. More than simply saddling Enola with a bland love interest though, this leads to a number of unfortunate changes in the story's plot, both unnecessary additions and disappointing exclusions. Enola no longer meets Tewksbury after they've both been kidnapped (him for ransom and her for snooping into his case), but rather watches him cut himself out of a carpetbag on the train. I hope I don't have to explain which of these scenarios is more likely and, thus, more satisfying. Meeting Tewksbury on the train means that Enola gets to have a nighttime chat with him about precisely why he ran away. Thus, when she goes to his estate she no longer needs to deduce his hiding spot based on her own desires to have a place of her own, she just needs to recall that a very big branch nearly fell on him and behold, there that branch is. (The fact that the branch is a would-be murder weapon makes its convenient placement all the more eye-rolling.) Rather than involving herself in the case out of empathy for the family, Enola loudly proclaims that she wants nothing to do with Tewksbury and only reluctantly gets involved when it's clear his life is on the line. And that right there is another issue. In the novel there is no murderous plot in an attempt to keep reform bills from passing. Tewksbury is a child who, like Enola, ran away and quickly discovers that life with an overbearing mother isn't so bad when you've experienced London's dangerous streets. That's the emotional blow: Enola has no mother to go home to anymore and must press out onto those streets whether she's ready for it or not.

Perhaps the only redeeming change is giving Tewksbury an interest in flowers instead of ships. Regardless of how overly simplistic the feminist message is, it is a nice touch to give the guy a traditionally feminine hobby while Enola sharpens her knife. The fact that Enola learned that from her mother and Tewksbury learned botany from his father feels like a nudge at a far better film than Enola Holmes managed to be. For every shining moment of insight—the constraints of gendered hobbies, a black working class woman informing Sherlock that he can never understand what it means to lack power—the film gives us twenty minutes worth of frustrating stupidity. Such as how Enola doesn't seem to conceive of escaping from boarding school until Tewksbury appears to rescue her. She then proceeds to get carried around in a basket for a few minutes before going out the window... which she could have done on her own at any point, locked doors or no. But it seems that narrative consistency isn't worth more than Enola (somehow) leaving a caricature of Mrs. Harris and Mycroft behind. The film is clearly trying to promote a "Rah, rah, go, women, go!" message, but fails to understand that having Enola find a way out of the school herself would be more emotionally fulfilling than having her send a generic 'You're mean' message after the two men in her life—Sherlock and Tewksbury—remind her that she can, in fact, take action.

Which brings me to my biggest criticism and what I would argue is the film's greatest flaw. Reviewers and fans alike are hailing Enola Holmes as a feminist masterpiece and yes, to a certain extent it is. Feminist, that is, not a masterpiece. (5) But it's a hollow feminism. A fantasy feminism. A simple, exaggerated feminism that came out of a Feminism 101 PowerPoint. To quote Sherlock, let's review the salient points:

A woman cannot be the star of her own film without having a male love interest, even if this goes against everything the original novel stood for.

A feminist woman cannot also be selfish. Instead she must have a selfless drive to change the world with bombs. 

The best kind of women are those who reject femininity as much as they can. They will wear boy's clothes whenever possible and snub their nose at something as useless as embroidery. Any woman who enjoys such skills or desires to become lady-like just hasn't realized the sort of prison she's in yet.

The best women also embody other masculine traits, like being able to take down men twice their size. Passive women will titter behind their hands. Active women will kick you in the balls. If you really want to be a strong woman, learn how to throw a decent punch.

Women are, above all, superior to men.

Yes, yes, I joke about it just as much as the next woman, but seeing it played fairly straight was a bit of an uncomfortable experience, even more-so during a gender revolution where stories like this leave trans, nonbinary, and genderqueer viewers out of the ideological loop. Enola goes on and on about what a "useless boy" Tewksbury is (though of course she must still be attracted to him) and her mother's teachings are filled with lessons about not listening to men. As established, Mycroft—and Lestrade—are the simplistically evil men Enola must circumvent, whereas Sherlock exists for her to gain victory over: "How did your sister get there first?" Enola supposedly has a strength that Tewksbury lacks— he's just "foolish"—and she shouts out such cringe-worthy lines as, "You're a man when I tell you you're a man!"

I get the message, I really do. As a teenager I probably would have loved it, but now I have to ask: aren't we past the image of men-hating feminists? Granted, the film never goes quite that far, but it gets close. We’ve got one woman who is ready to start blowing things up to achieve equality and another who revels in looking down on the men in her life. That’s been the framing for years, that feminists are cruel, dangerous people and Tewksbury making heart-eyes at Enola doesn’t instantly fix the echoes of that. There's a certain amount of justification for both characterizations—we have reached points in history where peaceful protests are no longer enough and Tewksbury is indeed a fool at times—but that nuance is entirely lost among the film's overall message of "Women rule, men drool." It feels like there’s a smart film hidden somewhere between the grandmother murdering to keep the status quo and Enola’s mother bombing for change, that balance existing in Enola herself who does the most for women by protecting Tewkesbury... but Enola Holmes is too busy juggling all the different films it wants to be to really hit on that message. It certainly doesn’t have time to say anything worthwhile about the fight it’s using as a backdrop. Enola gasps that "Mycroft is right. You are dangerous" when she finds her mother's bombs, but does she ever grapple with whether she supports violence on a large scale in the name of creating a better world? Does she work through this sudden revelation that she agrees with Mycroft about something crucial? Of course not. Enola just hugs her mom, asks Sherlock not to go after her, and the film leaves it at that. 

The takeaway is less one of empowerment and more, ironically, of restriction. You can fight, but only via bombs and punches. It's okay to be a woman, provided you don't like too many feminine things. You can save the day, so long as there's a man at your side poised to marry you in the future. I felt like I was watching a pre-2000s script where "equality" means embracing the idea that you're "not like other girls" so that men will finally take you seriously. Because then you don't really feel like a woman to them anymore, do you? You're a martial arts loving, trouser-wearing, loud and brilliant individual who just happens to have long hair. You’re unique and, therefore, worthy of attention, unlike all those other girls.

That's some women's experiences, but far from all, and crucially I don't think this is the woman that Springer wrote in her novel. 

The Case of the Missing Marquess is a feminist book. It gives us a flawed, brave, intelligent woman who sets out to help people and achieves just that, mostly through her own strength, but also with some help from the young boy she befriends. Her brothers are privileged, misguided men who she nevertheless cares for deeply and her mother finally puts herself first, leaving Enola to go and live with the Romani people. Everyone in Springer's book feels human, the women especially. Enola gets to tremble her way through scary decisions while still remaining brave. Her mother gets to be selfish while still remaining loving. They're far more than just women blessed with extraordinary talents who will take what they want by force. Springer's women? They don't have that Hollywood glamour. They're pretty ordinary, actually, despite the surface quirks. They’re like us and thus they must make use of what tools they have in order to change their own situations as well as the world. The fact that they still succeed feels very feminist to me, far more-so than granting your character the ability to flip a man into the ground and calling it a day.  

Know that I watched Enola Holmes with a friend over Netflix Party and the repeated comment from us both was, "I'd rather be watching The Great Mouse Detective." Enola Holmes is by no means a horrible film. It has beauty, comedy, and a whole lot of heart, but it could have been leagues better given its source material and the talent of its cast. It’s a film that tries to do too much without having a firm grasp of its own message and, as a result, becomes a film mostly about missed potential. Which leads me right back to where I began: The book is better. Go read the book.

Images

Enola Holmes

Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock Holmes

Enola and her Mother Doing Archery

Enola and her Mother Fighting

Tewkesbury and Enola

[nleeowens]

How Fleabag Made Me Hopeful for the Future

Wrote this essay soon after binging Fleabag on Amazon Prime when the second season came out. It is such an amazing show, and Phoebe Waller-Bridge deserves all of the awards because she is brilliant.

I did everything that was expected from me. In high school, I was constantly on the A-B honor roll (even on the A honor roll a handful of times), studied hard for my AP and IB classes and graduated with an IB diploma and college credits. Straight from high school I went to college where I decided to major in computer engineering despite the fact that my previous experience with tech was limited to troubleshooting my video game console and making websites using wordpress with my friends. (Maybe it was to spite my teacher who said I would end up being an English major. Though she wasn’t entirely offbase.)

I would admit, I fell off the wagon at first. Had to retake a couple classes because I got a C. (Oh, the horror!) There was even a semester I considered to drop out of computer engineering and major in creative writing with a focus on screenwriting. But the fear of becoming a starving artist, disappointing my parents, and being passive-aggresively belittled by friends and extended family put me back on track. I reentered the College of Engineering as a computer science student.

This brief lapse of judgment put me back a semester, but I was still able to graduate in December four years later. And, without giving myself any break, I moved out of the university apartment I shared with three other people, rented a one bedroom apartment with a rent that’s way too high, and started my first full-time job.

I should be happy. I should feel fulfilled. I should be eager to spend the rest of my years working my nine to five job. Everyone has patted me on the back, told me I’m making good choices. So why do I still dread the future? I’ve only turned twenty-four almost half a year ago and I already feel as if I have somehow royally fucked up my life.

Somewhere along the way, I must have made an irreversible error. An error that will lead me to live the rest of my life in misery. Constantly promising myself I’d make some dramatic change, but never seeing it through. Until one day I slip in the shower and crack my head. (A reminder to myself to invest in bathtub mat.) It would be days until anybody finds my nude corpse because I am a terrible daughter, sister, and friend and I am known to go long periods of time not responding to anyone.

The other me that is not prone to dramatics recognizes that I have time to truly grow into myself. To fall in love, to travel, to find my passion. Because despite what teen dramas try to sell you, life does not peak in high school or even college. But, in times where depression and anxiety hits its hardest, it’s easy to ignore my rational self and believe in a future where my neighbors are going to have to call the police concerning a suspicious smell coming from my apartment.

So watching Fleabag felt like the reminder that my dramatic self needed. While I’m more similar to the titular character's older sister, Claire, (we are both a bit neurotic, and worry about our little sisters) I found myself relating to Fleabag more than I first thought I would. While I am far from being as quick-witted and weirdly charming as Fleabag, I can recognize the emotional struggles that she goes through as my own. We both feel cast aside by our emotionally neglectful fathers, and constantly grapple with feelings of inadequacy when compared to others. And like Fleabag, I lost my best friend who meant everything to me. Though a year has passed, a part of me is still in mourning and probably always will be. While Fleabag ignores her problems by sleeping around, I ignore my problems by just sleeping.

Though to be blunt, Fleabag is a walking talking disaster for most of the first season, and though we share some emotional baggage I have never cheated on anyone or stolen from my dad’s girlfriend (though I admit I have considered it). I even find some smug solace in knowing that I’m not that much of a hot mess.

By the end of the first season, Fleabag had reached her lowest point yet. She had been humiliated by her dad’s girlfriend, awkwardly ran into her ex, and ostracized by her family. She was alone, and had no one to talk to, almost walked into a busy street similar to how her friend died. It isn’t until a bank manager that she accidentally flashed at the start of the season comes by that she addresses her feelings of despair. And it’s the bank manager, someone who had no real relation to her, who tells her the simple indistuable fact that “people make mistakes”, and he gave her the opprutinity to get better.

Suprisingly enough, Fleabag takes that opprutinity. And even more suprising she does get better. She takes steps to take better care for herself, emotionally and physically, and is able to save her dying cafe. While she is not perfect in the second season (but who can be?) and is still trying to figure some things out, she astonishes her sister and the audience by being okay. Even when she gets rejected by her love interest, she is still okay.

Fleabag was in her early thirties when she hit rock bottom, the age where I assumed all adults have truly figured out how to be an emotionally balanced and fulfilled adult. As my own thirties inch closer and closer, I feared that I was going to miss the deadline. So watching Fleabag take the initiative to be better, even experiencing true love for the first time (as well as the heartbreak that comes with it), reminded me that I still have time to do the same. I have time to heal. I have time to grow. I have time to love and be loved.

[oliveam]

hiya  loves  !   i’m  so  pumped  to  be  here  ,  truly  can’t  believe  my  eyes  w  the  surplus  of  talent  all  around  me  !   unfortunately  capitalism  literally  has  me  in  a  chokehold  &  the  life  of  a  retail  worker  trudges  on  even  with  the  virus  rampant  ,  so  i’m  actually  at  work  ,  soz  ,  but  i’m  eager  to  spend  the  hours  between  shifts  eagerly  making  up  for  lost  time  (  &  for  once  i  actually  did  something  in  advance  to  ensure  i  wouldn’t  get  stuck  behind  the  current  . . .  clearly  i’m  love  struck  )  !  so  here  this  baby  is  ,  &  here  eye  am  (  amie  ,  9teen  ,  pst  )  to  love  &  be  loved  back   ;_;

full   name   :        olive   penelope   black nicknames   :        o   ,   olly   if   you’re   prepared   to   be   glared   into   an   early   grave birthdate   :        october   31 hometown   :        portland   ,   maine current   location   :        cape     coral     international   school      ,      maine languages   spoken   :        english    ,    latin    ,    some   italian distinguishing   features   :        pearly   white   smile   ,   runway   ready   hair   at   all   times physical   ailments   :        asthma sexuality   :        bisexual   but   in   the   closet likes   :        morning   crossword   puzzles   with   her   dad   ,   mint   chocolate   ice   cream   ,   amazon   prime   (  fleabag   &   the   marvelous   mrs.   maisel   in   particular  )   ,   the   comfort   of   her   room   ,   math   class   with   her   favorite   professor   ,   sibling   outings   where   she   can   force   them   to   pay   attention   wholly   to   her   ,   rock   music   ,   being   a   nosy   lil   witch   ,   pouting   ,   a   racket   in   her   hand   ,   pride   &   prejudice   (  2005  ,  obvs  ) dislikes   :        church   on   sunday   mornings   ,   the   radio   ,   facebook   (  the   social   network   on   the   other   hand   .  .  .  )   ,   feeling  /  being   out   of   the   loop   ,   martinis   ,   being   alone   with   her   mother character    trope   :        the   maiden   .    the   main   draw   to   this   particular   trope   was   the   analogy   to   fiona   from   shrek   ,   who   can   be   likened    to   olive   quite   meaningfully   ,   with   the   parallels   between   each   girl’s   youth   coming   to   mind   (  save  for  the  whole  ogre  business  ,  though  she  does  have  queen  of  the  swamp  noted  in  her  future  plans  )   ,   such   as   being   raised   in   a   coddled   ,   spoiled   home   ,   but   lacking   any   true   relationship   with   the   bearers   of   her   gilded   childhood   (  more  so  her  mother  in  olive’s  case  )   .   if   her   parents   could   have   stuck   her   up   in   a   tower   during   her   teenage   years   ,   they   would   have   signed   straight   up   as   a   clause   in   the   adoption   papers   .   moreover   ,   olive   believes   she   knows   best   ,   when   really   she   doesn’t   know   much   at   all   ⏤⏤⏤   about   the   important   things   ,   at   least   .   she   is   currently   unaware   about   her   family’s   involvement   with   the   collapse   ,   &   is   far   from   suspecting   a   thing   ,   though   she   is   nosy   beyond   all  else   ,   which   won’t   bode   well   in  her   future   ⏤⏤⏤   she   might   have   overlooked   the   whole   scandal   as   nothing   more   than   an   interesting   change   in   school   dynamics   at   first   ,   but   if   there’s   even   an   inkling   that   tickles   her   radar   ,   it’ll   be   tough   to   distract  &  throw   her   off   the   trail   .  

‘      .      ⋆        ❬        🎶      !

001.    stay    (    i    missed    you    )    by    lisa    loeb    .        while  olive  may  not  have  experienced  the  events  depicted  in  the  song  herself  (  nor  ever  been  in  a  relationship  )  ,  the  voice  of  the  narrator  speaks  strongly  to  her  ,  &  if  a  break - up  like  that  ever  would  happen  to  olive  ,  this  is  how  she’d  react  ,  but  more  so  than  the  lyrics  are  the  annotations  &  notes  on  the  song’s  genius  page  ,  which  if  anything  served  as  inspiration  for  olive  .  the  thing  that  really  cemented  this  song  for  me  though  was  this  :  “  you said that i was naive and i thought that i was strong  ”  .  a  perfect  way  to  sum  her  up  !  

002.    you    sexy    thing    by    zella    day    .        lmfao  ,  she’s  a  romantic  babey  !!!  but  fr  ,  this  is  how  she’d  act  if  she  ever  got  loved  up  .

003.    creme    de    la    creme    by    evalyn    .        this  song  just  . . .  gets  her  .  literally  every  lyric  is  a  tidbit  i  can  go  on  about  ,  but  even  the  general  i  don’t  know  what  my  life  is  ,  but  i  know  this  vibe  of  it  all  is  just  chef’s  kiss  . 

‘      .      ⋆        ❬        🕶      !

olive  was  adopted  as  a  newborn  under  circumstances  unknown  to  her  ,  but  her  dad  liked  to  joke  she  came  to  them  by  way  of  a  stork  .  she  thought  this  was  true  until  the  age  of  nine  .

introduces  herself  as  olive  ,  immediately  followed  by  “  my mom love’s a martini  ”  .  most  people  take  it  as  a  joke  .  it’s  not  :/

a  lot  of  people  like  to  throw  the  word  ‘ prude ’  around  ,  enough  so  that  it’s  basically  synonymous  with  olive’s  name  at  this  point  .  safe  to  say  ,  that’s  a  typical  schoolyard  insult  that  stuck  six  years  too  long  .  she’s  not  picky  ,  or  even  obsessed  with  finding  the  RiGhT  oNe  .  if  anything  ,  she’s  almost  desperate  for  love  ,  but  in  a  way  that  she  doesn’t  actually  want  it  .  or  is  too  scared  of  its  enormity  .  take  the  heralded  richard  siken  quote  for  example  :   actually  ,  you  said  love  ,  for  you  ,  is  larger  than  the  usual  romantic  love  .  it’s  like  a  religion  .  it’s  terrifying  .  no  one  will  ever  want  to  sleep  with  you  .  i  mean  ??  that  quote  just  strips  this  bitch  down  to  her  core  !  &  if  i  loved  you  less  ,  i  might  be  able  to  talk  about  it  more  !!!!!!!!!!  (  she  doesn’t  currently  love  anyone  ,  but  y’all  get  the  gist  )  .  it’s  overwhelming  in  a  way  that  she’s  scared  to  be  so  wholly  overtaken  by  something  she  doesn’t  understand  ,  yet  yearns  .  i  could  continue  to  yap  about  this  particular  subject  forever  ,  but  i’ll  save  your  eyes  .  

olive’s  got  a  head  on  her  shoulders  ,  a  sharp  one  at  that .  her  grades  aren’t  the  highest  in  her  year  ,  nor  even  in  the  top  ten  ,  but  that’s  more  down  to  her  general  lack  of  passion  for  school  than  might  of  mind  .  she’s  got  a  keen  eye  &  an  even  keener  mind  when  she  wills  it  ,  shedding  the  role  of  spoiled  brat  imprinted  upon  her  by  fortune  without  issue  if  the  situation  appropriately  deems  it  .

olive  is  a  sweetheart  at  her  core  ,  but  she  can  be  quite  callous  .  not  in  a  cruel  way  ,  a  la  a  regina  george  ,  but  in  a  harsh  way  she  can’t  quite  control  ,  when  her  filter  gets  screwed  &  she’s  not  prone  to  sensitivity  ,  or  is  moody  &  prone  to  a  swift  mood  shift  .  that  said  ,  she’s  as  warm  as  a  hug  from  your  nana  to  most  ,  while  being  unafraid  to  make  her  favorites  clear  ,  generally  paying  so  much  attention  to  particular  people  that  others  feel  iced  out  ,  when  really  they’re  just  not  on  her  radar  ,  as  brutal  as  that  sounds  .  for  her  friends  ,  she’s  genuinely  ride  or  die  ;  think  mike  from  stranger  things  (  she’d  jump  off  that  cliff  for  dustin’s  baby  teeth  any  day  !  )  .  she  was  also  raised  a  certain  way  ,  with  luxuries  at  her  fingertips  ,  &  may  unintentionally  be  tone  deaf  at  times  ,  though  that’d  probably  be  from  coming  on  too  hard  rather  than  being  ignorant  .  

if  you  lie  to  her  ,  she  won’t  ever  forget  it  ,  nor  truly  forgive  .  i  wouldn’t  test  it  .

seriously  .  she’s  been  coding  /  hacking  since  she  was  eight  as  a  playtime  &  since  excelling  in  math  courses  &  generally  sharpening  the  skill  through  hours  wasted  on  gaming  sites  &  html  that  positively  drys  the  eyes  right  out  a  la  spongebob  ,  she’s  gotten  better  than  she  can  even  objectively  note  .  she’ll  browse  the  school  system  for  fun  or  on  a  dare  ,  but  she’s  never  been  invested  enough  in  a  certain  grade  to  change  it  for  herself  ,  so  browsing  is  all  it  was  .  that  is  ,  unless  a  friend  asks  for  a  favor  ⏤⏤⏤  that  ride  or  die  life  baby  .  

she’s  a  fighter  !  she’s  a  lover  !  she  will  kick  ass  &  kiss  cheeks  !  

‘      .      ⋆        ❬        👯      !

i  like  to  really  delve  into  personally  forged  connections  between  muns  ,  so  unfortunately  no  wanted  cons  as  of  yet  ,  but  here  is  where  all  of  olive’s  established  connections  will  sit  !  for  now  ,  i  do  have  this  tag  :~)

⋆     connection    /     tba     .        blah  blah  !   

[ofeliaslullaby]

Fleabag Season 2: A Discourse on Love

Finally caved and watched season 2 of Fleabag. And I say caved as if I haven't been waiting for this show to come back for a solid 2 years...but I was saving it for a day when I truly needed something to rival my own stuff. I knew Fleabag would, because it had when the first season premiered in the US. The poetry of the show really has a way of putting some things into perspective. Season 1 seemed like a discourse on friendship, grief, guilt and self-worth. Season 2 felt like a discourse on love. There will be spoilers.

Firstly:

This season was a love story. Not the storybook, happily-ever-after love (There are no happily-ever-afters in Fleabagland, just there-will-be-pain-but-it-will-get-better-afters), but love in all it's grotesque complexity. After watching the season I took the "this is a love story" opener to not just be about Fleabag's ironic love for the Catholic Priest, but loving yourself (Belinda's monologue, Claire's haircut, Fleabag's new care for herself), familial love (Fleabag's relationship with her sister and father), Martin's love for Claire, and Claire's love for her work and Klare (Claire/Klare will never not be funny and cute). And the Godmother "loves" the Father and art but really I think she just loves attention and the idea of eccentrism.

The first episode hits you hard. It takes place over a year after we leave Fleabag at the end of season 1, and she's doing well, as is the guinea pig café. She is seemingly no longer blaming herself for Boo's death, no longer using sex as a form of escapism, and genuinely valuing herself. We once again get to voyeur through some of Fleabag's life moments. When it all kicks off we go from insufferable family dinner/engagement party for the Dad and the Godmother (who I didn't even remember were not married) with the Catholic Priest they got to marry them, brother-in-law Martin who we despise and the sister we haven't spoken to in over a year; to a tragic and intimate scene in the restaurant bathroom between the two sisters, and almost immediately back to the awkward dinner table where all hilarious hell breaks loose. This formula continues, as it did in the first. If you're not laughing, you're wanting to cry. Such is life, I suppose.

You get a little more context this season behind Claire and Fleabag's relationship. Like all relationships its complex (I feel like there were times when it felt like my relationship with my older sister), but there is love there. So much love. In the bathroom scene in the first episode it is obvious Fleabag is concerned for her sister, while her Claire is distraught, embarrassed, and eventually we come to find out relieved. When they get back to the table and Martin makes remarks that are clearly only hurting the Claire's feelings, Fleabag intervenes because she loves her sister and doesn't want to see her suffer anymore that night. Championing Claire to leave Martin (was rooting for this), that was love. It was obvious Martin loved Claire, he says as much in the scene, but they were not right for each other. Just because you love someone doesn't mean you're meant to be (something we get shown more than once in the finale). A defining moment in their onscreen relationship is when Claire says to Fleabag that the only person she'd run through an airport for is her. A few episodes before this scene we'd learned that what always looked like disdain on Claire's part was jealously and resentment stemming from her own feelings of inadequacy. By the finale I feel like Claire had gotten over some of those issues. When she leaves the wedding for the airport (guess there was someone else she would run through an airport for), I was cheering for her. Phoebe and Sian have so many dynamic scenes together that wouldn't work if the two didn't have amazing chemistry. I love them as sisters, and I love the characters' relationship.

Speaking of chemistry:

Of course, Fleabag would fall in love with the emotionally unavailable. Phoebe and Andrew's chemistry is so good. They played easily off each other's quirks and The Priest sees Fleabag in a way the other characters aren't able to (he notices her zoning out/fourth wall breaks). I could've watched this relationship play out for years. But alas, some things aren't meant to be.

It was obvious the two would end up together, just as obvious as it was that they were never going to last, as friends or a couple. When Fleabag breaks the fourth wall early on she says "we'll last a week". They're both a little dysfunctional, and we never fully get to hear why The Priest is the way he is (he always gets cut off when he tries to explain his past, only getting as far as "When I was a child..." and that he wasn't close to his mother). Through their relationship though, we see that even though it's been some time Fleabag is in fact still coping with the death of her mom and Boo. I feel like part of what she was looking for in their relationship was reassurance, as she turned to the Bible and prayer (something she would never have done previously, as an atheist), where she would normally have only turned to sex and alcohol or other ways to harm herself. When she and The Priest finally do have sex, we the invisible friend have our view almost immediately cut off. Has Fleabag ever done this? She usually narrated her sexual exploits. I feel that adds to the fact that this intimacy with the Priest was love, not a means of escape like the other times.

What I said earlier about the Godmother I say with a tiny grain of salt because I do realize that it's all subjective. We only see Fleabag's point of view. However, she's still the worst. She collects "friendships" like commodities and talks about them in terms of listen descriptors, most clearly shown when she introduced people in the finale. There is no real redeeming of the Godmother for Fleabag after she went from being the Mother's "best friend" to the Father's special someone. And it's hard to tell if the Father really loves her or if he's afraid of her/afraid of being on his own. Fleabag has a lovely heart to heart with her Dad (which acted also as a callback to a scene a few episodes earlier at the mother's funeral) in the finale where in a foreboding moment he says to her "I think you know how to love better than any of us. That's why you find it all so painful." Fleabag replies to us voyeurs tersely, "I don't find it painful". She definitely did. Look at the way she dealt with Boo's death. Yes, there was guilt, but she loved her. She loved her mother and having to see her Godmother with her Father, and being told snyly says she modeled the bust after her mom, her reaction...that's pain from love. We know Fleabag's love and grief for her mother were just as strong as the love and grief she had for Boo. In a flashback scene to after her mother's death, she tells Boo she doesn't know what to do with all the love she felt for her mom and how painful it is. Boo says to give it to her, she'll take it. Boo was a real one. I don't remember Fleabag breaking the fourth wall in these flashback moments (maybe I need to watch it again), but that got me thinking that we're probably taking the place of Boo. The person she lost who shared her laughter, her love, and her grief. We're her echo.

The final scene is heartbreaking to watch play out. You kind of know it's coming especially during his wedding speech, which he seemingly recited to her. The whole season spanned such a short period, but there is an immediate investment in what could be between these characters, and for the Priest this was the only real way this could end. There was no way he was leaving the priesthood. He warned her and thus we were warned, but we don't listen when it comes to the things we want. I was sad for her and him, but as Brittany Howard sings out to the credits (and The Priest's fox-foe pursues him); with a shake of the head that says "you don't need to follow me" and a wave goodbye we, the invisible friend, are reassured she's going to be alright. This was a wonderfully poignant way to end the series. It basically ended as the pilot ended, Fleabag on her way with the stolen bust of her mother in hand. I don't think it could've ended any better.

*I've had this in my drafts for maybe six months, started a new blog, decided to finally edit and post it. If you're reading this I hope you enjoyed it. -S*

[jamlocked]

Fleabag 2x06

Hokay, so brief (heh) ramblings on the Fleabag finale. Please don’t read until after you’ve seen it, I wouldn’t want to spoil anything.

 S;ldfsaflksdjf PERFECTION.

I mean, okay, I’m D: she and the priest didn’t end up together but it was still the correct conclusion. I will get to that in a minute, but first have to scream about other stuff.

THE FINAL PAYOFF OF THE ‘KNEEL’ SCENE. It bears out what I was saying before, I think. FB kneeling before something greater than herself (her desire to be open and honest with someone). The priest kneeling with her as a man, not a symbol of something else. And now Claire kneeling to open herself to what she really wants…to be free of Martin. (YES. GO CLAIRE.) I think – hope – this makes it clear to everyone that the priest asking FB to kneel wasn’t about an abuse of power, it was about honesty.

But FUCK, I ALMOST FELT SORRY FOR MARTIN. His speech about how he did good things, he did what he was supposed to, but just…isn’t a person someone likes. I mean, that’s kind of relatable? What if you do just have a personality that people don’t like? Does that mean you’re doomed to be alone?

I mean, in Martin’s case, it really is. He’s a bastard, and ultimately making excuses for not trying to not be a bastard most of the time. Nothing actually excuses hitting on your wife’s sister on your wife’s birthday. Still, that whole thing encapsulates the theme of this show as well – the messiness of being human, and how you can do the right things and still not be a good husband. If you don’t work on your flaws (as FB has tried to do for the last year), then you can’t expect to coast through life and make others put up with your bad behaviour. There is payback when you behave like a shit.

FUCK YEAH CLAIRE, RUNNING FOR HER MAN. And even more so, FUCK YEAH CLAIRE for ‘the only person I’d run through an airport for, is you’ – because oh my GOD, I have wanted these sisters to admit and show that they love each other. And FB really has most of the way through, and I’m SO happy Claire has finally unwound. She’s so perfect, and Sian Clifford is perfect, and that is all.

The dad, though. Augh, I was so hoping he was going to call it off. But he went through with it even though he’s the suffocating mouse, and maybe that’s just what some people need, you know? I’ve always thought that the thing about relationships is, you never get to see what the people are like when they’re alone with each other. Maybe the evil stepmum is actually what he needs, now.

But there were some glorious, honest, beautiful moments in that conversation with FB in the attic (wtf was he DOING THERE???). Hell, I’ve told my mother that I love her but don’t like her before, I get it. It’s honest, if not the sort of thing parents/children are supposed to say to each other. And if that’s not this series all the way through, I don’t know what is.

I am so happy Creepy Jake played the bassoon, and is actually quite good at it. ‘Where’s Claire?’ – I DIED. :D :D :D

So… Fuck, there were other things I wanted to say, but I’m sure I’ll remember later and add them on.

Let’s talk about the priest.

…asdfkja

Okay, it was just perfect writing. The way he kissed her before the ceremony, the way he was the morning after, it all looked good. And then her face through his speech – ‘love is awful!’ – you could see her thinking, ‘fuck, this isn’t looking good’. But of course by the end of it, it all seemed like it was going better, love being about hope, love being for those strong enough to take it. I was genuinely thinking he was going to choose her at the end of it.

But of course, he couldn’t. God, religion – they’re his hope for a peaceful future. Without it, as he said himself, his life is fucked. And this is a show about Fleabag, and her finding her way back to hope after all the stuff that happened. She had lost her faith in love, and her ability to love and be loved. That’s the important thing, I think. That she could openly say, ‘I love you’ and, especially, accept it as true when he said, ‘I love you too’. He was there to put her back together, and that’s why, at the end, she walked off and left us behind. She didn’t need to hide her true thoughts and speak them only to the invisible audience out there, anymore. She can be honest in her life, and with how she thinks and feels. And he can go and give himself to God, having tasted what it would be like to be a man again, and know that the path he’s on is ultimately right for him.

God, it was so beautiful. And perfect that the conversation also took place in the bus stop – they were travelling in different directions, the journey metaphor…and apparently, the graffiti on the bus stop glass means, ‘O, life’ in the Cyrillic alphabet, which…lol, PWB really doesn’t miss a trick.

And the statue. What a perfect, perfect thing. Back with her mother, the grief for whom was the beginning of this whole journey. Walking off, her and her mum, not needing us anymore. I am just….yeah. *tear*

 Okay, this was probably not all that coherent in the end, and I might add more once I watch it again in half an hour. But I’ve been thinking about it all day, and it’s just made me so happy. A glorious, wonderful piece of television. <3

[theskyexists]

Fleabag

ok that sweater pull is just

that got me 

the way that was set up

i can't really stop laughing

but what comes after is just aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa too knife edge for me really

my favourite relationship is already the one with her sister

fleabag wow she is a disaster. i always used to think - at least im not dysfunctional in that way. then i used to think, yeah but there's big advantages to it because you can lash shit out and away from you and idk fake it until you make it - coping for independence babey. but now im like nope. being that ragged and defensive and incapable of yielding at the right time or fix things sucks.

this rabbit teeth man apparently can hold a conversation all on his own.

this is fascinating because this woman i so extremely different from me it's insane. she just - what a dick oh my god hahahaha. she feels like she fucked up at being closer with her sister, hangs out with some dude she doesn't really like, has a horrible time, steals money, feels guilty over rejecting him and stealing from him, so tries to blame him and project on him for being a dick and get it all over with fakely. not to say that he isn't a dick. financial insecurity is a TRIP of mental bandwidth going narrower and narrower i imagine. (edit: oh and yeah grief)

no good deed goes unpunished lol

woah she can't be vulnerable with anyone? oh she did it. but then her dad is an idiot who deflects her one attempt with humour. wow this dude. well she instantly does payback. omg it's olivia colman. this dialogue is searing. it's not even that they were sleeping, it's just that they dont fuckin want her there. 'look after yourself' - yeah the point is that she came here for somebody to look after HER.

this is fucking DRAMA

makes perfect sense to me that she'd steal that statue though. by that time it's like why the fuck not nobody fuckin cares about me anyway im beholden to no one hey

so the one person she had a good relationship with ACCIDENTALLY killed herself. yikes. YIKES

im liking the bi vibes

damn all the men in this series are.........awful. lol

she really lives on the edge doesn't she. why seek out a confrontation with olivia colman that just seems like punching above your weight.

every single of her romantic options are SHIT. except possibly the girl in the sex shop but i guess that one's not real.

what the fuck.

allllll the men in this series are awful??? so far. fuckin FUCK!!!

so what im getting from this is that the whole series spins on the thwarted potential for fleabag to connect with her sister be vulnerable, and gain a smithereen of acknowledgement?

WHY.

god woman love yourself and kick the guy in the nuts again verbally like he deserves. like, make him fuck off oh my god. stop playing nice!!!!!

though i am kind of liking how this show has so many sex scenes but they're played pretty realistically but none of em make me feel disgusted. guess it's cos of the subjectivity that goes into it.

she pet the guinea pig! first step in recovery??

god i love her and claire's relationship but like. they're both totally not okay lol.

but they do seem to be the only ones who consistently get the truth out of each other

well wow this series does go There.

why is it that everytime she makes claire laugh she cries?? what is going on??? ah god i LOVE THESE TWO

why is every single fuckin man in this show pretty much awful (except possibly i suppose the man trying genuinely to be better at better man camp)

at end of the season: can't believe he was the one good man in this goddamn show. 

---- intermission ----

im just so fucking angry about this last episode of fleabag

so goddamn fucking furious

by how every single fucking person in her life abandons and betrays her!!!

but most of all her goddamn fucking DAD - he KNOWS that he wronged them for  fucking hooking up with their GODMOTHER, he KNOWS that his fucking wife is a monster to them - he’s right THERE when she says these horrible things to her, he SEES her SLAP HER, and he won’t fucking support her in ANY way - not emotionally, not financially (when he should know and DOES know that that cafe is all she has left of her friend), and then he has the AUDACITY to blame HER!!! HER!!!! for ‘fucking him up’??!??!!

when he basically JUST told her to FUCK OFF out of his life?? and then she’s nice to him??? she apologises to him??? he deserves to get punched out! he deserves to get screamed at

her sister betrays her and blames her for her best friend’s death?? leaves her humiliated and completely alone in the world when she’s just looking out for her?

AFTER she’s lost her best friend in the world with intense guilt issues?

she cannot rely on anyone - ANYONE. she’s right about that - and that’s the most devastating thing. but i feel like she needs to scream at them - stop pushing it down, stop keeping up appearances, stop stop stop.

show your pain.

makes me think her childhood was also one where she could never count on support, or a listening ear, or trust, or belief, after their mother died.

i can barely continue. this is the LAST episode. she’s clearly valued by fucking no one. are they trying to recreate - like, show how Boo felt? that maybe if you hurt yourself, then they may finally fucking CARE?

wow i was right.

well i suppose he did save her life

and…this total stranger….did more for her than any of the people that were supposed to care for her.

-------end

anyway. when love is scarce, you take anything you get. that's fleabag.

i wish she could cut out every motherfucker that betrayed her in that last episode. i know her sister is going to be a big character next season - but i will find it enormously hard to forgive her. BECAUSE she was the one person who cared for her, supported her, was real with her, appreciated her - and the other way round. that betrayal is worse than anything (apart from the dad's betrayal - he deserves to burn in hell, not get apologised to)  im sure fleabag will just let it go. like she seems to let everything go - every single goddamn insult and humiliation and hurt that other people put her through.

she never addresses any of it outright - never. never does she call people out. she internalises everything. she internalises even! 'i fucked up my family' NO YOU FUCKING DIDN'T

she cleans up the things she shattered? the most frustrating thing. they hurt her but she never dares to hurt them back - not really. she doesn't even dare show her pain or anger.

but the end is life-affirming af. and phoebe waller bridge did that very right.