#miraculous live action movie

[lorax-devito]

fan casting 2

update to my last post about fan casting ppl (mainly based off my obsessions not actual analysis’ of the actors lol)

I think (no offence to pippa I love her sm she’s one of my idols but she probably can’t play her now but maybe she could if she were younger) Phillipa Soo would be a great Marinette-she’s half Asian(no white washing here),is an amazing actor(and singer)and just looks like Marinette in general

(I will not stop making absurd suggestions about the fandoms I’m in😁)

[eggthew]

I know miraculous ladybug is mid but i love it so so much. theyre friends!!!!! and I will always be so angry at the movie, how did they fuck literally everyone's character up!!!!!

[itsawritblr]

Fanmade live-action Miraculous Ladybug movie trailer.

Not how I picture older Marinette or Adrien.

Jason Isaacs as Gabriel . . .  naaaaw.

I can see how this could be an MCU version of ML, since all the sweetness has been sucked out of it.

[lc-holy]

Thomas Astruc and Sébastien Thibaudeau were interviewed on Catboat's Twitch channel. A 5-hour interview in which they talk about their careers, the 5 seasons of miraculous and a little about the seasons to come. (There are no spoilers about season 6, only a few teasers).

The interview will probably be available with English subtitles.

In the meantime, here's a summary of what was said in the interview about season 6 and other Miraculous projects.

Thomas has always loved SAMG's work, and it was he who strongly suggested working with them on the series. But unfortunately, they will no longer be able to work with SAMG for future seasons of Miraculous. Episode production has changed and is no longer compatible with SAMG. However, he remains open to working with them on other projects.

Miraculous will be produced entirely in France from season 6 onwards.

The interviewer asked Thomas if an OVA project with Toei was still planned. But Thomas didn't want to answer the question.

Sébastien explains that they always plan the scenarios well in advance. For example, what happens in season 6 was already planned when season 3 was written. They've already written two pages of ideas for the Season 7 finale.

Thomas says they have ideas to go to a season 12 but it will all depend on the success of the series.

It's impossible for them to have one season too many, because their work is very emotionally demanding, and if they feel that what they're doing is no longer interesting, they stop.

Sébastien hopes that Season 6 will appeal to new viewers as well as those who have been following the series since the beginning.

Miraculous will never evolve into an adult series, it will remain a children's series. But they will always try to satisfy the fans who have been following the series for years.

They also wrote the series to appeal to parents who watch Miraculous with their children.

Sebastien teased us that there will be a song in season 6.

Thomas sincerely believes that season 6 is better than season 5, which was off to a bad start because he wondered how they were going to do better than season 5.

They had a lot of fun writing this new season, and the new writers who joined the series brought a lot of good ideas.

As season 6 begins a new arc, they consider it a season 1.

And with the new animation style, season 6 will bring a lot of new storytelling. It will be different. The stories won't be like the other seasons.

Some people will probably complain that it's different, that it's not like before. It's a question of adaptation.

Sebastien says we'll appreciate season 6 even more when season 7 comes out.

They don't know yet whether the theme song will change. Thomas would like to change, but he knows the fans love the theme song so they don't know yet.

Thomas hints that he didn't write the Shadybug and Claw noir universe to exploit it in a single special. But he remains very vague.

Thomas explains that there are many details in previous seasons that fans didn't understand, but which will make sense in later seasons.

There's a reason why Lila is a mythomaniac, and they'll tell it one day in the series. Thomas even says they've already told it in the series, but we haven't figured it out yet.

Thomas says that Chloe will remain an important character in the coming seasons, as she has always been in the series.

They have clarified that the new animation for the new seasons will have nothing in common with that of the Miraculous movie. Because the movie and the series are not linked.

They will soon be meeting to decide whether Miraculous will be made into a live-action series or not. It will be different from the series. Thomas mentions kwamis in particular, which are complicated to integrate into live action. Thomas has already written the concept. For the series to see the light of day, it will mainly be a question of budget.

[gentil-minou]

can't we do smth for palestine like we did for ukraine like miraculers for palestine? i just think it'd help.

Monetary aid is useless in Gaza right now because Israel has the entire area under siege. We could raise a million dollars for them, and in fact many have, but it will rot in trucks trapped at the border because Israel refuses to let them in. They don't even have fuel or medical supplies or electricity or water or anything, not because there isn't anyone donating but because Israel refuses to let it in.

Their goal is to slowly starve and kill them all, or push them out of their homeland forever and steal more land for themselves

BUT YOU CAN HELP

WE NEED A CEASEFIRE

The majority of countries and citizens all throughout the world agree that we need an immediate and permanent ceasefire. (Not a humanitarian pause the US keeps trying to push like letting them have 5 days to breathe before Israel slaughters them all).

The majority agrees but a handful of countries, primarily the USA, Canada, and the UK have refused. And because the UN is a joke because the US gets whatever it wants even when it's the only one who wants it, a ceasefire is impossible.

So what can you do?

Easy

Contact your representatives and government

Flood their lines. Call them everyday. Fax them. Email them. Send them written letters. Join a protest. Disrupt the system

Make it clear you will not vote for them if they do not listen to you. Make it clear you want a ceasefire

Here are a few sites to get you started (these are US based but there are plenty of resources for other countries around)

This is just the link I have on hand there are COUNTLESS ones there are ones that will make the call for you, like this one that I used

Physical mail is better. Faxzero is a website that let's you send faxes for free. There are even pdfs and premade letters

Let's say you're not from one of these evil countries, what can you do?

There are protests around the world. Find them and join. Show the world Gaza is bleeding and Palestinians are screaming and that their screams are being heard. Show the world that you refuse to plug your ears and lie silent. Be their voice.

Educate yourself

Read books by Palestinians watch movies and documentaries. Follow their journalists, give them a voice especially now when the rich and powerful are trying so desperately to smother them.

Israel and the western powers want you to be ignorant.

DONT LET THEM

And whatever you do: don't stay silent. Don't treat this like a trend. Do not stop fighting

Even after a ceasefire, we need to keep going. There needs to be a complete dismantling of the Israel terrorist state. We have to keep fighting so Palestinians can live in Palestine the way they have for centuries. We need to show the corrupt governments in this world that we are not going to live under their tyranny

So be LOUD

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 2

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. 

Two months have passed since your first time at the motel with Frankie. What has changed, what hasn't. Who are you now?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 PLEASE, see series masterlist for extensive trigger warnings.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 How are you all? Gentle reminder that our Reader is an OFC. In this chapter, we get to know her better, and there are indirect physical descriptions of her. Sincerest apologies to anyone who knows Tampa. I did a lot of research, but I'm afraid my ignorance will still show… I swear I did my best. Raul is real, though. He's a friend of a very dear friend and he lives in Paris.

@frannyzooey my love, as always, I am in your debt. Thank you for your help. I love you more than words 🧡

I hope you enjoy this one, Orange besties, it made me sweat blood, @dreamymyrrh and @pedrit0-pascalit0 had to listen to my constant whining to put me on life support. Ily 🧡

Word count: 8.6k

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Chapter 2: Closer

The traffic is dense, but you spot Ava’s red Toyota as soon as it turns into E 7th avenue. 

On any given Saturday, the upbeat neighborhood is bustling with cheerful crowds of leisured weekenders and hip thirty-something. On this particular Saturday, the first after Thanksgiving, the streets are a vision from hell. 

There’s a constant ballet of cars pulling in and out along the curbs. On each side of the avenue, the sidewalks are swarming with jittery shoppers, frenetically prospecting for good deals on potential Christmas gifts. You’re willing to bet that most of them will stretch their budget thin on useless, meaningless knickknacks. Generic trinkets without soul nor purpose but that will, for the first half hour of ownership at least, fill the void in their consumers’ existence. 

The traditional Christmas tree of unholy proportions is up and sparkling. Wrapped around the iron porch columns, electrical garlands blink in rapid sequences like luminescent spasmodic snakes. Storefronts are decorated with more or less taste. The temperature has dropped twice below 70. It’s that time of the year. 

The merry season usually finds you adding a generous helping of anxiolytics to your daily cocktail of little helpers. This year, however, you haven’t popped a pill in days, and everything feels… more. Louder, too vivid, more oppressive. Sensations magnified and emotions amplified. Which is, after all, what you were aiming at when you unilaterally decided to taper off your intake. 

Ava miraculously secures a free spot on the other side of the avenue, about a hundred yards in front of yours. You watch her parallel park, the maneuver surprisingly sloppy, given the parking assist technology the brand-new hybrid car is equipped with, and you wonder if you really needed to spend that much money on it.  

In front of your own parked car, pedestrians agglutinate at the crosswalk. When the light turns green, they move as one, like flocks of extras on a movie set, coming to life on cue when the director yells “action!” 

They’re not extras, however, each one of them is the main character in the movie of their life. Together they form a constellation of individual and interconnected stories, while you stand at the margin, forever exhausted, willfully forlorn. At best, a supporting part in Ava’s fantastic tale of eccentric adventures, but more likely a backdrop in your father’s gripping success story.

Although, your narrative has changed drastically over the past two months. You now got a part in your own right, unfolding in between takes. 

You wait until Ava gets out of her vehicle before you exit yours, reluctant to leave the hushed safety of your old sedan’s cab, even for the few minutes it’ll take you to meet with her and step into the coffee place. 

You wave at her from across the busy street until she sees you, but when she proceeds to jaywalk over to you, reckless and entirely indifferent to your pleading expression, you have to avert your eyes. There’s a crosswalk right in front of you, god dammit.

She levels up with you and pecks a kiss on your cheek, hitting your cheekbone with force, more headbutt than demonstration of affection. 

“Hey,” she says, barely stopping in her tracks before she pushes open the glass door to the coffee shop.

“Hello, pup,” you answer fondly, your words lost to the street’s bustle. 

Inside, the artificial air instantly pulls at your skin. The atmosphere is cool but dry, saturated with the smell of freshly grounded coffee beans and greasy-sweet pastries. The high-ceiling, cement floor, wide open-space is packed. The brick walls reverberate the ambient noises, and the late morning sun beams brightly through the large floor-to-ceiling windows, evenly spaced along the lateral walls. People sit in small parties around the white designer tables, sipping iced coffees from tall red paper cups with white snowflakes, large shopping bags at their feet. 

Trying your best not to shrink and shrivel from the multiple overwhelming stimuli, you focus on Ava’s back, walking behind her as she leads the way to a free table at the rear of the coffee shop, between the counter and one of the windows. There’s a regal quality to her gait and the way she carries herself, not unlike your father, the resemblance enhanced by her preference for masculine clothing, and you have to love the irony, given how much she hates the man. She has your mother’s beauty, though. The same luxurious dark hair, fair, flawless skin, and wide green eyes, her frame tall, her figure athletic. She’s the masterpiece. Next to her, you look like a clumsy first draft, with blurry edges and hesitant features.

She throws her jean jacket on the back of her chair and collapses on her seat with a theatrical sigh. 

Across from her, you sit down gingerly on the edge of the hard wooden chair, balancing your weight around the sore and delicious ghost sensation of Frankie between your hips. 

“You look good,” you start. 

“Yeah, you too!” she exclaims, like it’s unexpected, “tired but like, good. Are you getting any sleep?”

You smile, waving your hand dismissively. 

“Don’t we have to go to the counter to order?”

“No, it’s fine,” she answers, “they serve at the table. I’m having an oat milk matte, what do you want?”

“An espresso, I think.”

Right on cue, a young woman dressed in a black cropped top and black skinny jeans presents herself at your table and proceeds to tap in your order on a rectangular electronic device. Her long acrylic nails hit the screen with a rapid succession of click-click-click. The sound brings you back to your parents' dining-room, the large table standing like an angular island on the shiny square of reflective tiles, in the middle of a shag carpet ocean. Your mother’s nails, painted in Revlon Desirable #150, rattling impatiently over the lacquered surface of the dining table near her untouched plate and a glass of G&T sweating with condensation. She never ate her food. She drank even when she was pregnant. 

Your fingers find the back of your knee and pinch the thin skin there, so hard you flinch. 

The waitress waltzes off, and Ava returns her full attention to you. 

“I’m happy to see you,” she offers, and you smile softly at her uncustomary expression of affection. Your chest expends. “It’s been a while.”

There’s no reproach in her tone, but you are usually the one expressing ill-concealed concern over her long silences, and the reversal in your dynamic throws you off. Guilts gnaws at you. You choose defense. 

“You were away.”

“Yeah, but like, I came back three weeks ago.”

Three weeks. Your smile fades and you slump in your chair, running a quick mental calculation. 

Time has never been an easy concept for you to grasp, but until recently, you’ve managed to remain afloat and functioning, on a practical level at least, amidst a society that revolves around schedules and timetables. The watch on your wrist, yearly organizers, recently and reluctantly replaced by the iCal app on your phone, sticky notes, tin boxes filled with tickets stubs… All clutches to your failing memory, anything to keep you tethered against an overpowering and primal instinct to escape, let go, drift away. And perhaps, most of your exhaustion stems from this endless swimming-race against the current. 

Lately, your inability to remember appointments, to navigate time and hold an effective grasp on reality has reached a new high. For the past two months, your life has revolved around Friday nights and the sound of a red pickup truck pulling in and out of a decrepit motel’s parking, tires screeching on the gravel. Inside this timeframe, your entire life is contained. Around it, the days stretch, spiral, and blend. And you’ve lost all motivation and interest in any counter-current swimming. 

You frown slightly, scanning her face, but she doesn’t let on anything out of the ordinary. After all, if she genuinely worried, if she so badly needed to see you, she could have given you a call. You were the one to reach out and ask to see her this morning. 

Something’s different about her, in the way she holds herself straighter on her seat, with her legs crossed and her head tilted to the side, exposing the undercut she got before the summer. You’re still not entirely sure if this was the bold fashion statement she claimed it to be, rather than a dramatic reaction to her girlfriend moving back to New York. With Ava, it could be both. She’s not wearing any makeup today, her face looks disarmingly young, and the concern she’s expressed, however subtle, churns your insides with guilt and affection. 

You plaster a polite smile on your face. 

“Well, I’m here now. It’s good to see you, too. Tell me, how was New York? How’s Polly?”

The waitress returns with the pastries and beverages you ordered, and Ava begins to narrate her two-week trip to the big city. She speaks fast, punctuating her words with large gestures to describe the cultural buoyancy, the hip neighborhoods and her thrifts finds, the street food and the refined, cutting-edge restaurants, how everything is bigger there, faster and better, how she fell safe walking hand in hand with Polly, the clubs, the galleries, the weather, crisp air and chilly winds from the north, a refreshing, comforting seasonality to pace the existence. 

“I was fucking crying when I boarded the plane back, you have no idea.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” you sigh, shaking your head. “You don’t miss her too much?” 

She doesn’t answer, and something in the way she avoids your gaze makes you frown again. 

Polly and you have always gotten along well. You genuinely appreciate her solar personality and her worldly conversation. Their encounter four years ago had been the silver-lining in an otherwise horrendous year. The happy, coincidental consequence of a chain of events that had been years in the making. 

When Ava dropped out of college halfway through her freshman year, it provided your father with the excuse he had been waiting for to kick his own child out of his house. You had seen it coming. In fact, you had spent your entire adult life shielding Ava from the paternal discontent, investing all your strength into becoming the son and successor he had wished for, and that neither of you could ever be. 

Ava, however, had never put in the effort. She didn’t fit into the family portrait. She never had. You didn’t want her to, and she simply couldn’t. Too rebellious, decidedly unconventional, and, well, queer, to boot. Your father had spent years formatting you and there she was, standing proud, strengthened by your unconditional support, a glaring highlight of your diverging values, a breathing reminder of his failure with you both. 

In the aftermath of the fall-out, Adrian had refused to take her in, and she had spent days out of your sight, sleeping god knows where. Eventually, you’d dug your heels in, as you only ever did when Ava was concerned and her wellbeing on the line, and obtained that she move in with you. The cohabitation hadn’t gone smoothly in the least. As usual, Adrian was more concerned about potentially upsetting your father than making you happy. You were once again caught between crossed fires.  

The strained situation with your fiancé notwithstanding, Ava couldn't spend her time sitting idly at home. You had pleaded with her for weeks before she agreed to resume her studies. Only this time, it had to be with your funding. The realization that you didn’t have any consequential money of your own had been brutal, even though it shouldn’t have been a surprise: you lived in Adrian’s apartment, and were employed by your father, who refused point-blank to let you sell some of your company shares, knowing the money would go to his estranged daughter. 

All you could afford was Hillsborough Community College, but things had eventually taken a turn for the better when Ava and Polly had met. Polly was teaching psychology, waiting for a tenure that she would never be granted. Because of the 20-year age gap between them, she insisted Ava graduate with her BA before they started properly dating. And when they did, the improvement in your sister’s mental state and overall balance was immediately noticeable. 

Calm and collected, affectionate and thoughtful, Polly grounds your young sibling. She eases her anger and channels her energy into creative and fruitful endeavors, without snuffing her rebellious temper. 

And now, despite Ava being almost fully independent, with a job and a place of her own, you don’t know what you’d do if they were to break up. If one of them were to decide that a long-distance relationship is not what she wants. 

You lean forward, your hand coming to rest over hers, warm and smooth. “Hey pup, what’s up? Is everything ok between you two?”

“Oh yes,” she quickly assures you, withdrawing her hand, “and by the way, she sends you her best.”

Understanding downs on you like a bucket of ice. You suddenly feel stupid, pathetically naive, forever one step behind. Leaning back in your chair, you let out a short, soundless huff. What you’re facing is not a breakup, but the likely possibility that Ava will soon move out of town to follow Polly to New York. 

Ava is talking again, about New York you’re guessing, but you can’t focus on her words. Behind your impassive eyes and your attentive smile, your mind reels and wrestles with a downpour of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Pride flares in your chest at the prospect of your baby sister setting roots in a city as intimidating as New York, but it tugs at something else, something you’re too scared to consider, and an ugly feeling you’re reluctant to acknowledge.  

Would she hesitate before leaving you behind, after you’ve prioritized her freedom over yours? After you stayed so she could fly away? And wouldn’t it be the point? 

Your eyes travel up along the trail of small tattoos adorning her forearms. Dominos, tea cups, a white rabbit with round glasses, a flamingo, several thin arrows, a broken heart in flames. 

What’s your purpose, if she’s not here anymore? If someone else is looking after her? If your sacrifice is no longer necessary nor justified?

“How was Thanksgiving dinner? Did you have fun talking about politics with Richard?” 

You wince involuntarily at your father’s name. She never refers to them as “mom” and “dad.” She hasn’t for a long while. But today the sarcasm doesn’t fool you, no more than her feigned indifference. 

She’s not truly asking if you had to bite your tongue and smile through conversations that make you nauseous. She knows well enough you’ve got just enough political convictions to carry you to the voting poll, but hardly a step further. Listening to him is painful, but you get by, and your shameful silence buys you necessary peace. 

No, what she wants to know is if your family inquired about her. And you don’t have it in you to answer that no, no one has, not last Thursday, not for the past four years, not ever. Not your indifferent father, nor your inebriated mother. Not your bigot grandparents, not your egotistic aunt and her gold-digging husband, not even the housekeeping staff.  

You shrug noncommittally. 

“Who were the guests of honor, this year?”

The question makes you groan and briefly close your eyes at the memory. 

“Adrian’s parents.”

“No?! Fuck! They really want this marriage to happen, don’t they? Looks like you’re not gonna be able to dodge much longer.” 

She smacks her hand over her thigh, letting out a short staccato of a chuckle, as if the subject of your confinement through marriage was a laughing matter. You glare at her, crossing your legs and folding your arms over your chest, but the shifting in your demeanor goes unnoticed.  

Suddenly, her levity riles you up. She got away. You didn’t. And the only thing that carried you through this year’s Thanksgiving dinner is the perspective of being fucked senseless by a stranger on a dirty motel floor the following night. 

For a brief moment, you’re tempted to bite, and retort that, contrary to her, you didn't spend the holiday on your own. But the truth is that you envy her the privilege, and she knows it.

Taking a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to calm your growing nerves, you stir the conversation towards another topic, finding neutral ground with her job. You’re stalling, and you’re not even good at it. You sit restless on that damn hard chair, squirming uncomfortably, sweat prickling under your armpits in the chill artificial air, eyes flicking down to your watch every other second. 

“Do you have to be somewhere, or something?”

Your head shoots up. Again, you have no idea what she’s talking about, or how long she’s been rambling for. This is ridiculous. You are being ridiculous.

“Listen, Ava, I have to ask you something. A favor. I have to ask you a favor.”

Her eyes widen at your sudden change of tone but she nods. “Hit me.”

“I need you to… I need to be able to tell Adrian that I spend… that I spend Friday nights at your place. Actually, I’ve already been doing it for a while. He thinks we see each other on Friday evenings. I just… I need more time. I need the night.” You grip your shin with both hands and dig your nails in. “It really doesn’t matter anyway, he’s not home on Fridays, he plays poker and he never comes back until like, 3 or 4am, and I just need— I need to be able to come home after him. Not, like, every week. Or yes, maybe every week. Just in case. If ever. You know?”

She remains completely still and silent as you wrestle your words out of your throat. Her face hardens, her wide, green eyes strained on you. She gauges you in silence for another moment, while you rub your clammy palms on your jeans under the table. Above the table, you do your very best to maintain a casual air.

“And what exactly is it that you do, on Friday nights?”

You anticipated the question, of course you did. You swallow around the sharp stone stuck in your throat. Your eyes dart down to your espresso cup. It’s empty. 

“I’m just taking a bit of time off for myself.” 

More time, to commit his body and his face to your long-term memory after he’s left you, depriving you of his heat. The tiny bits of him that add up to form the formidable sum of the man he is. The locks that curl around his ears. The dip in his collarbone. The little target tattooed on his hand. You’re never sure which hand it’s on, you need more time, that’s all. And you won’t lie to her, not exactly. You set your mind on that early on. But you will not tell her the whole story.

A large shit-eating grin slowly parts her plump lips. 

“Are you telling me that Richard’s favorite daughter is getting some side dick on a weekly fucking basis?”

“Jesus, Ava, why do you always have to be so crude?”

“But you are? Right? You are getting dicked down, every fucking Friday night? Right? Are you on Tinder, or something?”

“I’m not—” you start, but her excitement is louder than your exasperation. She uncrosses her legs to lean toward you, propping her elbows on the table and threading her fingers together, talking over you. 

“Why didn’t you tell me? For once that something cool–”

“Because there’s nothing to tell,” you retort through clenched teeth, raising your voice. Her mouth hangs open in shock. You don’t give her time to recover. “And look, if you don’t want to do that for me, it’s fine, it’s not like anyone is going to call you to ask if I’m with you.”

She takes the blow, leaning back in her chair. “Wow. You really thought this through, didn’t you?”

You don’t answer, shame and anger burning your cheeks.  

“Why you’re telling me now, then?”

“Like I said. In case.”

“I case what? In case I find myself on a Friday evening in the same place Adrian takes his cuntsluts?”

You steel yourself and stare at her. 

“Something like that, yes.” 

—

Two months. 

Two months of lies and deception, shoving your bright secret deep down inside you, shrouded under a veil of routine and normalcy.

Nine weeks, split into six days of stretched out hours, swirling languid and excruciating, like smoke from a cigarette stub in a room without air, and one day of counting. The minutes, your steps, your breaths, your heartbeats.

Saturdays, worn-out, appeased, pleasantly aching. Sundays rising slow like a lurking threat. Mondays-Tuesdays-Wednesdays merging, dragging and useless. People talking to you, expecting words, when your mind is filled with two glistening bodies entwined in golden hues. A tremor on Thursdays, the nearing promise, and by Friday morning you’re all frayed nerves and aching want, tapping into your pent-up emptiness for focus and patience. 

Friday evenings sliced up into a ritualized sequence of actions. 

At 6pm, you leave your office and head toward the employees' underground parking. There are 37 steps from your desk to the two silver-doors elevators on the landing. Seventeen stories down, including 2 underground levels, and 58 steps from the elevators to your designated parking place. It is crucial that you don’t allow the pace of your steps to catch up with the racing thumps of your heart. 

From downtown Tampa, it’s an hour and thirty-six minutes drive north on the 589, before you reach the motel. An hour and fifty minutes, two hours top, if the traffic’s bad. There might be faster alternative routes, but you don’t use the GPS, so you don’t know about them. 

Once you’re there, you park in front of room number 7, the one with the missing brass  number. You stuff your phone into your purse, which you slide under your seat. 

You exit your car and walk towards the reception in short, hurried strides, cursing the tight skirt that hinders your steps and gives your posture a subdued aspect, which is probably why your father imposes the garment on his female employees. 

The reception is a square room with an old humming AC unit, dark-brown fabric wallpaper, yellowing popcorn ceiling and a counter behind which sits Raul, the night clerk. Raul is a short man in his mid-60s. His dark eyes are reshaped into tiny concentric boot buttons by the thick lenses of his small, round glasses. His light brown, straight hair is styled in a bowl cut. He only wears beige Henley’s with rolled-up sleeves and indigo painter overalls. You’ve never seen his shoes.

Every week, Raul hands you the key to room number 2 without lifting his boot-button eyes from the charcoal drawing he busies himself over behind the counter, and tells you in a thick accent that “everything has already been taken care of.” 

Every week, you thank Raul, grab the key from his stretched out left hand, and chance a glance over the counter to see what he’s drawing. Mountains, infallibly, week after week, the scenery only varying in shape and shades of anthracite. 

And every week, as you exit the reception, you feel Raul’s boot-button eyes strained on your back through his round glasses. 

When you step inside room number 2, you flick up the two toggle switches by the door, turning on the lights and the overhead fan, and you go to the bathroom to wash your hands and check your reflection in the antique black-edged mirror. 

Then, you return to the room and you sit on the bed. That’s where you wait for him. 

You don’t undress, you don’t lie down, you don’t undo the bed. 

You know what he’ll do to your clothes. Anticipation trickles down along your spine all the way to the ripe heat between your thighs, and it travels right back up to tug up at the corners of your lips, but you press them together, lips and thighs, as you wait.  

He comes in after dark, preceded by the sound of tires on gravel and that of his boots stomping on the porch and he’s here, Frankie’s here, the rush of night air from outside when he storms into the room wafting over your face. 

He greets you with a hoarse voice, like he hasn’t used it all week, and he takes a couple of long strides towards the desk, where he sets down his cap. You peer at his reflection in the framed mirror when he combs his fingers through his dark curls, tense jaw, creased brow. You study his broad shoulders, the rippling muscles of his strong back, when he takes off his jacket and drapes it on the back of the chair, swift, precise gestures. It’s his own ceremonial, you let him have it, his transition into this world that you share. The confine of this room. Brown carpet, yellow curtains. 

When he turns to face you, at last, it’s always with a heavy, grating sigh, a sound so rough and primitive to express his relief, his hunger, the limit of his patience. You stand up slowly, unfurling in slow motion from your sitting position on the edge of the bed, eyes on him, forever and always. His want radiates from him in colorful angry waves, like a tangible, virulent aura, black eyes boring into your skin and you welcome it as it pours out of him and creeps up to you like thick fumes. 

You stand tall in the charged stillness of the motel room, offered, but not quite yet within reach, waiting for him to come and seize you. 

“Take off your clothes,” he says as he comes closer, tilting up his chin. The command rumbles low and guttural from his throat, and those words are your cue. You clamber out of your statuesque stillness, twisting your ankles out of your pumps while he tugs at your blouse, as he crashes his lips onto yours. 

His first kiss is voracious, unescapable, your face trapped between his cupped hands, and you’re engulfed in the taste of him, drowning in the scent of him, leather and soap and musk. And something metallic you have no name for. It’s intoxicating, you’re floating, losing both bearings and balance, like when you were thirteen, and you’d sneak to the downstairs pantry to drink your mother’s gin before dinner. 

On some Friday nights, you’ve already made it back to your glass prison when you notice a tear in the seam of your shirt, or a missing button. “Take off those fucking clothes, I wanna feel your skin.” 

“Yes,” you answer with parted lips, parted heart, parted life, jaunty fingers working your skirt open.

Beyond that point, neither of you talks much. 

It’s his name –Frankie– falling from your lips, a long but quiet whimper when you come, a whine of pleasure-plain when he inches into you, a moan when you plead for more, a whisper when you promise you can take it all. 

It’s his clipped orders, sharp and short. 

Open up

Push back into it

Let me hear you

I want you to come on it

And two words, always the same since that first time in the parking lot. 

Stop me.

Stop me when he pins your hands above your head or folds your arms in the small of your back, his fingers like shackles around your wrists, and he lines himself up. Stop me before his saliva drips down his tongue in fat drops between your breasts, and he straddles your chest. Stop me, when he closes a fist in your hair and slides you down along his hard length, your chest caving in under your gag reflex, beads of tears like precious shiny diamonds clinging to your lashes. Stop me when he angles your spine backwards with a sudden tug on your hair, when he bands an arm across your belly and ragdolls you to the floor to fuck you harder and deeper. Stop me when he ties your wrists to your ankles with the black zip ties that bite into your flesh. 

Stop me with the flat of his hand pressing down between your shoulder blades, Stop me with his thumb teasing your tight ring, Stop me with your legs around his neck. 

Those two words, a beacon guiding you through the week that precedes. 

Sometimes, when you’re alone, you repeat them to yourself. 

“Stop me,” you say, low and quiet, facing the mirror when you're applying makeup, staring straight into your eyes, so intently it twists your reflection. 

“Stop me.” A whisper, and a slow-spreading, carnivorous smile that splits your face in two because someone, at last, wants you beyond reason. 

Stop me. You will never stop him. 

He fucks you twice, three times a night, before he leaves you covered in him, sated and sprawled on the rumpled bed around 2am, with a nod and a husked, “I’ll see you next Friday.” He sounds calm at last. Drained. 

Once he’s gone, in the rumbling of the pickup’s engine and the screeching of the tires, your mental countdown to the next Friday is reset. You crouch into the narrow bathtub of dubious cleanliness, and ruefully wash him away in the trickle of hot water. You try to hold on to the thought of him, even more so than to the feeling of his touch. That’s what the soreness is for. It will stay with you until Monday at least. 

But in your memory, his face is blurred. Only his sad angry eyes stand out, dreamlike, entrancing.

There's a conflicting distance beyond his hunger. An underlying restraint beyond his roughness. Withheld intimacy. A reluctance to give into your softest touches, when his forehead briefly rests on the plane of your chest, and you circle his neck, or carefully run your fingers through his sweat-soaked curls. 

It doesn’t take a PhD in psychology to understand that if he wasn’t in here with you, he’d be somewhere else, doing something worse. 

Some weeks, you go through strings of sleepless nights and restless days of anguish, your mind spiraling to the agonizing thought that you are nothing more to him than an empty and interchangeable vessel into which he can fuck his rage. 

With masochistic thoroughness, you pull taut a red woolen thread to connect the clues of your insignificance. 

He doesn’t name you. There are no sweet names, no terms of endearment, and he certainly never calls you Marion. The sounds he produces when he’s inside you, that’s your reward. Deep guttural grunts, and if you’re lucky enough, they resonate through your whole body when he holds you tight and close. 

He never comes inside you. Where do you want it? he pants, when his hips start to fall out of pace. “Mouth,” you quickly answer, always, a greedy match for his gritty ways. And most times, he obliges. Flips you around or scoot over you and shoves his pulsating cock into your warm, wanton mouth. 

But sometimes, he doesn’t. The thick pearly white ropes of his spend spurt over your back, your belly, your chest. That’s when he’s got a mind to rub it into your skin. That’s when you want to believe he might have chosen you to be here with him. 

In those scarce instances, you are tempted to rely on your instinctual understanding of your relationship. Far from the toxic codependency that, according to Ava, you feed into with Adrian, what you share with Frankie is elsewhere entirely. Week after week, he presents himself before you, visibly wounded, willing to offer exactly as much as he needs to receive. The balance is perfect. No travesty, complete equality. The purest form of interaction. The most honest transaction you’ve ever taken part in. 

And thus, no matter how remote he may seem on some nights, no matter how dark his eyes, how clouded his gaze, or how brutal his hold, you can’t help but feel safe. 

The feeling thrums underneath your skin and finds an echo in his bloodstream. You hear it in your shared silence, when you lie side by side on the bed and stare emptily at the ceiling, chests heaving, bodies cooling off. When a shiver rakes through you, he gets up and turns off the overhead fan. Walks over to the bathroom to bring you a glass of water. 

He’s given you everything you wanted and didn’t know how to ask for. 

And when he looks you in the eyes, he doesn’t blink. 

Stop me, he says, and what you hear is, Trust me. 

He’s been quick to learn your body, and he’s greedy with your highs. He keeps you pinned down onto the threadbare linen with his mouth fastened around your cunt until your legs tremble and your throat is hoarse with your repeated high-pitched moans, the stubble on his cheeks scraping the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. Bestowing pleasure, drinking it right back. 

Your body expands into new sensations, after years of a dormant existence, curled up within your outer shell into the tightest ball, the smallest possible shape. You’re spreading, stretching into your limbs, filling them in. Growing nerve endings that shoot farther along your extremities with each fiery kiss, each starving touch, each orgasm, like trees rooting in beautiful, intricate ramifications. 

The wild creature nestled between your lungs has a mind of its own. You’re developing emotions unknown to you until now. 

The tranquil contentment he leaves you with when he steps back into the night and closes the door behind him rapidly fades over the following days. By Sunday evening, there’s nothing left of it, and you find yourself shivering, deprived of his heat, unsettled, agitated. 

Your mind wanders to her. The faceless, nameless woman he drives back to after you’ve fucked each other free of your pain. 

Envy, tinged with hatred, pours ugly inside your chest, pressing against your rib cage, hindering your breathing, its heavy particles tainting your oxygen. 

Does he handle her with reverence? Does he use sweet names to beckon her into his embrace? Does he spit in her mouth, does she beg him to? Does he rub his spend into her skin, or does he stuff her pussy full of his seed?

Whenever you loosen the grip on your thoughts, you’re brought back to a large reception room on the last floor of another glass prison, stilettos wounding your feet, strangers with empty smiles and cruel eyes drinking from crystal champagne glasses. The excruciating misery of having to interact with Adrian’s colleagues, laughing at golf jokes you did not understand, desperate to fit in. Fighting your survival instinct, to tether yourself and not present a blank stare to those people you were supposed to impress. As Adrian’s fiancée. As your father’s daughter.

The effort seemed worth it, then. You were in love. Or so you thought. In hindsight, you’re not certain anymore. Reinterpreting your past is a temptation you try not to succumb to. In more then one way, you still love him.

There was a hushed tremor in the faceless assembly of tuxedos and cocktail dresses, and you saw her entering the room, parting the crowd. Slender, swaying, lush honey blonde locks and incandescent hazel eyes. Junior partner at Adrian’s firm, quickly climbing the ranks, flawless makeup and oozing self-confidence, she smoked Vogue cigarettes and when your gaze returned to Adrian, everything fell into place. You knew with a chilling certainty that this formidable young woman was fucking your boyfriend. 

Adrian had had a couple of flings in the past, but this one was different. He fell for her hard, a grown man in a teenage-like trance. Your blood left your face when you realized everyone else in the penthouse, and most likely in the firm, could see what you were seeing. 

You decided then and there that you were never going to marry him, regardless of what he or your father would threaten you with.

But even then, what you had experienced wasn’t jealousy. You’d felt trapped, and yes, betrayed. Wounded, in what little self-esteem you possessed. Thoroughly defeated. But you did not feel jealous. 

You understand it now, and every time you think of Frankie’s touch grazing the faceless woman. Every time you torture yourself into considering the nature of their bond and the depth of their attachment.

Would Frankie look at you the way Adrian looked at her? With blunt desire, unabashed, irrepressible thirst? With belonging? Would people around you know? Would they identify you as lovers? 

After all, a single glance had been enough for him to take you from a bar, to a parking lot, to a motel. To make you desperate to mean something to him. 

Does he miss you outside your shared time? Does he think of you? Does his mind wander to your skin in the blue morning hours, does he try to name your scent?

Deep down, you are no fool. If there’s one thing you’ve always known in this life, it’s your place. 

But some Friday nights are more dangerous. They give you too much hope. Prompting you to call your sister, for instance, and risk your little secret so you can spend more time in the small room with the yellow curtains. Wrap yourself in the dirty sheets that bear his musky scent, instead of jumping into the shower. Linger into that breach of your life’s continuum. Extend the delusion.

Last Friday, he buried his face into your core and drew violent waves of release that he kissed back into you, swirling his tongue into your mouth to coat it with your taste. 

His face was shiny with your slick and his body glistening with sweat in the soft yellow hues from the bedside lamps, when he got up to the desk and slid his belt out of the loops of his pants.  

Your eyes grew wide, but not with fear. 

He placed you face down on the bed, with your arms along your chest, and he trapped your body with the belt. You accompanied his movements, docile, curious, without apprehension. The metal buckle was cool on your feverish skin, and the leather smelled like him. 

Stop me. He was hard and thick, and he fucked into you in long, thorough strokes, dragging the round tip of his cock along your clenching walls, slamming his hips into the swell of your ass. With his thumb pushing into your asshole and his hand around the belt to keep you where he needed you to lie still. 

You came in seismic tides that quaked along your body in concentric ripples, from your wrung out core to the extremities of your fingers and toes. The sound that came out of your throat was unrecognizable, and perhaps it was his. Your mind tipped over into unconsciousness. When you resurfaced, his cock was rubbing in the cleft of your cheeks, his come leaking down the curve of your back, mixing in with your combined sweat, his chest pressing down onto your shoulder blades. 

You felt his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, hot breath searing his choked up words into your soul. 

“You’re a good girl. Say it. Say you’re a good girl.”

“I’m— I’m—“

“That’s it, say it for me.”

He was lying heavy on top of you, sinking you into the mattress, his belt buckle digging into your side. This was going to leave a mark. 

“I’m a good girl.”

“You’re my good girl.”

You will never stop him. 

—

Sitting on the edge of the bed, with your back straight and your ankles crossed, you wait. Eyes on the yellow curtains, darting beyond the dusty fabric into the warm December night. It’s yours. All of it. Yours until morning.

There’s the faintest hint of a bad taste sitting on the back of your tongue. Coppery, bloodlike. It comes in waves every time you remember how you twisted your baby sister’s arm into covering for you. But the night is yours. You swallow hard, force a smile. You want to be guiltless, for once. 

“Polly says you’re overly secretive. That you like to live ‘hidden between the folds of life’, as she puts it. Something about culpability being a coping mechanism…”

The words, delivered flatly after you’d stubbornly diverted and defused all her questions, had cut through the most tender parts of your flesh. 

“Is that her professional opinion?” you had retorted, your chin tilted up as if you were not bleeding inside. 

You swallow hard again. If you close your eyes, if you concentrate, you can almost hear it. The pickup’s engine, bolting down the asphalt, bringing him into your needy arms. You can feel the heat radiating from his solid chest and seeping into your body through your palms, resting empty and upwards on your lap. Your tongue tingles with his tangy taste, a trail of goosebumps breaks across your skin, anticipating his caress.

Frankie.

The daydream that carries you through the week, carries you through that very last stretch.   

Until the man himself storms into the room like bad weather. Dark, electric, a standing threat. 

One look at his face and you know. It’s going to be one of these nights that make you doubt everything. 

At first, the change in the script is barely perceptible. There is no gentle acclimatization, no ceremonial, no tacitly shared ritual. He doesn’t face away to let you observe his reflection in the mirror. But he looks like he hasn’t slept since last Friday. The crease in his brow is forbidding, his eyes are too bright, too clouded, circled in black and you’re dizzy with the distance you find there. Tension rolls out from his taut muscles underneath his clothes and you stand up, alert, if not entirely ready. 

“Get naked,” he growls, tugging his gray t-shirt over his head, his trucker hat falling to the floor and tonight, you miss your cue. 

Instead, you come closer, extending your hands towards him. You call him in a murmur, Frankie, but the wild thumping of his heart under your trembling palms cuts you short. 

The light flickers in his eyes, so you hang in brave, hang onto the thread of your touch, sliding your hands up his burning chest. He stills. His gaze focuses on you for the first time since he came in. Your fingertips brush lightly along his collarbone, to the dip at the base of his neck, where they linger, underlining the hollow shape of it, skating around his neck to his nape. His brow shifts, his jaw ticks, and you draw him in for a kiss.  

He jolts when your lips meet his. His hands grip your hips, rough and desperate. This is the part where you melt into him, surrender to his touch, but tonight the balance is tipped off. He licks into your mouth with a pained, muffled whimper, and your eyes remain open. 

You’re powerless, powerless to get to him and bring him back to you from wherever the hell he may be. And his distance settles between your two bodies, an invisible partition. It stands erect and opaque, projecting its shadow over you when he lies you down on the synthetic quilt and dives between your hips. His ministrations are detached, performative, mechanical. There’s no contained urgency in his handling of you. Empty touches, empty silence, and you orgasm weakly, the sensation floating on the surface of you. 

You can sense him, trapped behind his black eyes and this damn crease that splits his face above them, only you can’t reach him. He won’t let you. For every one of your attempts at a caress, at tenderness, is rejected by a shrug, a push of his hand, a shake of his head. 

Sweat breaks on his forehead and dampens his curls as he becomes restless, showing none of the familiar signs of the relief he finds in your release, when he hums softly into you, lapping at your entrance to capture what you offer him, what he drew from you. Impatience and desperation roughen his grip on you. He shoves you to the head of the bed and you scramble, sliding on the slippery quilt, curled on your side, until you’re caged between his rigid body and the headboard. 

There’s no warning, no Stop me, when he lines himself up with a stifled groan. You bury your face into the pillow and bite down on it to muffle the pain when he splits you open. He starts rutting into you with unrestrained strength, forcing through the vice grip of your tight cunt around his hard length. You try to relax into it. That’s all you ever want, for him to fill you up, to be inside you and around you, but that’s the thing: he’s not touching you. Not really. 

Instead of gripping the curve of your hips, or kneading your breast, or lying between your shoulder blades, his hands are clenched on the headboard, white knuckled. His bent knee doesn’t quite touch your folded legs, his hips don’t even slap against the swell of your cheeks.  

“Frankie,” you try, but your voice comes out thin as a ripping thread. It’s immediately drowned under the sounds filling the room, the creaking of the bed, his strained breathing.  

“Frankie,” you call again, louder this time, reaching to the side to grab his thigh. 

He jerks at the contact, sliding out of you with a hiss like you just burned him with a red-hot iron. You grab the side of the headboard to haul yourself up. Behind you, you feel him falling back on his knees. For a few seconds, you can’t bring yourself to move. You remain hunched over, fingers wrapped so tightly on the hardboard, your nails digging into the cheap, tender wood. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, and you turn around to face him. 

Your heart sinks and chatters at the sight of him, of his glassy, pleading eyes that won’t meet yours. His chest heaves with exertion, and the weight of something else. He grazes a palm over his face, tilting his head down. 

“I hurt you. I fucking hurt you, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Tonight, this is it. These words are your cue. 

“No,” you start, scooting closer to him as he shakes his head, exhausted, isolated. The gesture no longer carries the warning it did as he was about to succumb. It’s a measure of his failure, of the depth of his defeat, and it chills you to the bones.  

“No,” you repeat, stronger, and you offer him the only lifeline you know. 

Closing the physical distance, you straddle his lap and wrap your arms around his shoulders. When his body stiffens, you harden your hold.

“Frankie… Frankie…” you coo, again and again, like his name holds the solution, and all of your devotion. You say it as you press your forehead to his, as you rub your cheek against his stubble, as you nuzzle the sharp edge of his nose, and trace his plush lips with yours. 

Until his shoulders sag under your embrace, until you feel the choked up breath that quakes his chest, you keep repeating his name. A few minutes, or an infinity of seconds, time doesn’t matter anymore. The night is yours, your skins are glued together in the soft yellow light. 

His arms circle your waist, hesitant at first, but you encourage him, raking your fingers through his hair, twining them into his soft curls. He lets you, he gives in, tucking his face in the crook of your neck. He inhales you there, raising the soft hair on your nape. His voice is broken when he speaks.

“I’m not–” 

“Frankie don’t, please don’t,” you cut in. 

You know the words that are piling bitter and desperate on his tongue, know them on an instinctual level. You feel them swirling, black and hopeless inside his head, you’ve known them from the very beginning, recognized them in the sadness of his angry stare. And you won’t let him pronounce them inside this room you share, you won’t let him give them any kind of substantiality. Not between your arms, not against your skin. 

“I’m not hurt,” you begin, pulling back to see his face, to look into his eyes and sink your words of hope and faith into him, past the barrier of remorse and regret, “I want everything you–” but his brow furrows deeper as he clenches his eyes shut, and you trail off. 

Panic briefly floods your brain. You’re acutely aware of your shortcomings and limitations, of all the things you’ve never been taught growing up. How to translate feelings into words, how to express compassion, how to care for others. How to be heard. 

You take a deep, shaky breath, your breasts pushing into his chest. 

“Look at me, Frankie baby. Look at me. Let me–”

Let me in. Let me be yours. Let me mean something. 

Your plea dies on your tongue when his eyes shoot open. They shine with unshed tears, pierced by a ray of light from the bedside table, and for the first time, you see that they’re not black. They were never black. His eyes are brown, a deep, rich, precious mahogany brown. The color paints your vision, it flows into your bloodstream and courses along your veins. It spreads into your heart, gets tangled in your soul. Around you, the whole world disappears, along with everyone in it. There is only him, his mahogany eyes brimming with tears, and the feeling of his hot, damp skin against yours. 

His arms wrap tighter around your back, his warmth seeps into your bones. His hands find purchase on your curves, drawing you closer. 

“I want you so badly to be real,” he whispers, quiet and pained, like he can’t ask you this much, but you know that, for him, you’re willing to be. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says again. 

Swallowing down the tremor in your throat, you give him a tender smile, tinted with gratitude, colored with praise. You cup his face, fingernails scratching at the heart-shaped patch on his jawline. His eyes flicker down to your lips, and you give him what he needs, leaning in to press them to his. 

Underneath you, his length throbs with unreleased hunger, and you sway your hips over it. He moans against your lips, the vibration trails down to your core like hot, liquid amber. His tongue peaks out, and you open up for him, like you always have, like you always will. A grating sound comes out of his throat, an echo of your gratitude, a mirror of your pain, a reflection of your loneliness. 

He breaks the kiss to lift you up gently, helping you find friction with his cock sliding between your folds, where it pulsates hard and thick against your clit. Your limbs turn to molasses, toffee soft and sticky, but your hips lock into a slow, languid rhythm, slick pooling down on him as you stroke him between your two bodies. His right hand skates up flat along your spine, to settle on your nape. 

He draws you in closer, closer than you’ve ever been. His heart beats inside your chest, enveloping the purring wild creature you still can’t name or tame. 

“Make us come, baby.”

A dry sob undulates up to your throat. Your eyes fill with hot tears, they spill against his temple. Mahogany explodes inside your brain. The night is yours. 

“Yes, Frankie.”

“Make us come together.”

****

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I Wish I Could Forget About You| g. clarkey (Part 2)

synopsis ★ george and y/n have been on 'break' for a while, leaving them both miserable and reflective. when they finally meet again the heart finally gets what it wants.

pairing ★ fem!reader x george clarkey

author's notes ★ hi! hope you're having an amazing day/night! sorry for the long wait life's been pretty hectic but I hope you enjoy!! <33

it had been a month since you sat in your living room and watched george drag his stuff out of your apartment. you had to be honest with yourself, the first two weeks were hell. of course you had partially become accustomed to george not being around but, back then there was the tiny thought in the back of your mind that he would return to you. now as the days kept moving you started to think that maybe he never would be back. your time was made even worse as george hadn't stopped texting and calling the entire time and you were stupid enough to listen to his voicemails which left you in absolute shambles.

he begged you to take him back, he begged for you to atleast let him hear your voice or to atleast look at him. the day he left he returned to his shared apartment where he walked past his friends without as much as a hello and holed himself up in his room. the boys could feel the sadness emanating from him as his door slammed shut and they could only imagine what he had went through. george sat on the floor infront of his bed and cried, for the first time in years he let tears flow down his cheeks. he hadn't realised how badly he fucked up. how his actions towards you had hurt you so much. he didn't blame you for leaving, he couldn't blame you for leaving. but god, the two weeks were the worst he had ever had in his life. not being able to see your face, to touch your skin, to even just smell your perfume was driving him mad. coupled with the immense bullying he faced from all his friends after he relayed the events from the night before, his life was horrible.

both arthur's were your biggest advocates when george started ranting to them about your decision. they both had been big in reminding him that he needed to make sure that he was giving you adequate love and attention because you were amazing to him. now it was them drilling it into his head that in this case he was absolutely in the wrong and that all they could advise him was to apologise to you and try to take accountability. but it was hard to apologise when you refused to even read his texts. he needed to try though because without you it felt pointless living. after the second week he decided that he would give you space to think and process what was happening and honestly, he hated it even more than just being away from you.

from your perspective, you were equally or even more miserable. you were second guessing your decision, wishing only to kiss and make up with george. the voice in the back of your head reminding you that you need to stand your ground and get a decent relationship. putting aside your morals now, wasn't going to help the situation or get george to miraculously change his ways.

you spent your days wandering around your apartment rearranging everything, hoping it would erase the memories. but it only ended up being a sick joke as everything you touched made you remember george. the couch where he would lay in your lap whilst you watched your favourite movies or the kitchen where he would place you on the counter and kiss you senseless. you missed his you touch, his scent, his presence, you missed everything about him.

a knock sounded on your door and you turned your head to stare at it. a groan escapes your lips as you stand, sulking towards the door. leaning forward you look through the peephole and your eyes are met with a familiar head of blonde hair.

"y/n, please. I know you're there. I just....." he trails off taking a breath, "I just need to talk to you. please, I can't take it anymore."

his voice through the door was muffled but you could hear the hesitation in his voice. through the peephole you watched as his shoulders slumped and ran a hand through his hair.

before you have the time to register what you were doing, your hand reaches forward to unlock the door. outside george's head perks up and comes face to face with you. his eyes are bloodshot and puffy, his skin blotchy and red. your heart felt heavy as you stared at his disheveled appearance, regretting every decision she had made leading up to this moment.

he opened his mouth to speak but before he could say a word you put up your hand to stop him. "george?" was all she could muster before you felt tears threatening to fall again.

"sorry for showing up unannounced. I just really needed to see you, honestly life's been horrid without you. and I know that you leaving was all my doing but all I need is a minute of your time to apologise. if after that you don't want to take me back then that's fine but please just listen." he sputters out, eyes burning into yours.

you give him a simple nod of your head and he continues. "I've spent the past few weeks listening to arthur giving me shit about how I acted towards you and I can tell you now that the way I acted towards you was absolutely disgusting. you have every right to hate me but I just need you to know that I'm sorry. and I know that sorry can't even begin to fix what we had but i just need you to know that I understand what I did and I promise to you that I will never ever let you become a second place in my life. I promise that if you forgive me that I will never ever take you for granted again because being without you has been the worst experience of my life and I never wish to experience.."

then your resolve snapped and all you could do was lean forward to press your lips to his, effectively cutting off his rant. his arms snacked around your waist and your arms found their way to his shoulders. you'd missed moments like these, moments where it felt like you were the only two people in the world, where you felt like wanted and needed.

pulling away you stared into his eyes for a brief moment. "I missed you too george. But, if you think for a moment that I will ever let you hurt me again and be as forgiving as I am now then you're sorely mistaken."

he gazed at her, nodding quickly, "thank you for giving me another chance. you have nothing to worry about and If you ever believe that I'm not loving you enough then you can leave, no questions asked."

[kanzuus]

APRIL IN WONDERLAND

I finally have some designs!

You already know April's design, to make it I was guided a lot by the clothes of the time, and it has some details like the black and white pattern and Alice's necklace from American Mcgee games

April meets the Queen of Hearts, I wanted to do the same as in Tim Burton's Live Action movie, this is the dress that April has when she meets the Queen of Hearts, I also guided myself a little with the dress that Alice had when she met to the queen in that same movie

April meets the White Queen. Same as above, the dress she wears when she meets the White Queen, I wanted to do it with a musical theme, since I felt it would be boring just white.

Chesire Cat Donnie. I was guided a lot by Kitty Cheshire from Ever After High and the smiling cat from Twisted Wonderland. For example, the rings in his ears with arrows and "Up" and "Down" as well as the tail with the clock

So, I had a stroke while making Leo. I took the mad hatter from the Tim Burton movie as a reference. In his sleeve he has a small sewing kit since, since he is a hatter, he has to be prepared, right? And I found it interesting that the ribbon on Leo's mask comes from the hat instead of his head. He also has 11/6 in his hat but in poker cards. I also felt that, being a mad hatter, not even the tie would have to make any sense.

The white rabbit definitely had to be Usagi. I found it funny that he had the old man's glasses that the white rabbit in the Disney animated movie had. At the same time, the small umbrella pin he has refers to the umbrella that the white rabbit carried in the movie

The White Queen. At first I thought it could be Sunita, but miraculously I had the idea that it was Karai, anyway, I put all my effort into the dress

Queen of hearts. In the same case, at first I thought it could be Cassandra, but I clearly ended up with the great Big Mama

I'm still missing Mikey as the March Hare and Raph as a card from the Queen of Hearts. But that will go in a next post, thanks for waiting!

[aviradasa]

Welcome to my masterlist

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

{Picture from Pinterest}

Shows:

The umbrella Academy

Supernatural

The walking dead

Miraculous ladybug

How to train your dragon (all spin-off shows)

The dragon Prince mysterys of Aaravos

Movies

Once upon a time

Anime:

Tokyo ghoul

Death note

Van helsing 2004

Hellboy 1 and 2

Labyrinth 1986

The MCU as a whole (Marvel cinematic universe)

Same with the DC universe

Avatar 1 and 2

Pirates of the Caribbean (all movies)

Lord of the rings (lotr)

Games

Sally face

Call of duty

Skyrim

Legend of Zelda breath of the wild/ tears of the kingdom

Assassins creed 2

Stardew valley

Books

Creepypasta

(Work in progress I’m reading a lot more recently so give it time any book suggestions are welcome.I’m a huge fantasy fan!!!)

Bands:

Ghost

David Bowie

Mcr

(I’ll add more here once my will to live dies again.)

Characters I will write for:

The umbrella academy:

Luther

Diego

Allison

Five

Klaus

Ben

Viktor

Lila

Marcus

Fei

Alphonso

Sloane

Jayme

Supernatural:

Sam

Different characters react to you stoned/couch logged

Dean

Different characters react to you stoned/couch logged

Castiel

Different characters react to you stoned/couch logged

Lucifer

Different characters react to you stoned/couch logged

(I'm only on season 5 so if you want more characters let me know and I'll do my best!)

The walking dead:

Rick

Daryl

Different characters react to you stoned/couch logged

Glenn

Maggie

Michonne

Negan

Carl

Rosita

Abraham

Ezekiel

Carol

Miraculous ladybug:

Marinette

Adrian

Luka

Julika

Nino

Alya

Chloé

Kim

Sabrina

Jagged stone

Meeting the kids jagged stone x fem!reader HC

Rose

Nathalie

How to train your dragon:

Hiccup

Astrid

Ruffnut

Tuffnut

Snotlout

Fishlegs

Heather

Eret

Dagur

The dragon Prince, mystery of Aaravos:

Aaravos

Love long lost Aaravos x Fem!reader pt 1

Love long lost Aaravos x Fem!reader pt 2

Love long lost Aaravos x Fem!reader pt3

Love long lost Aaravos x Fem!reader pt4

The sight of two stars Aaravos x Startouched elf! Reader

Aaravos introducing you to his daughter pt 1

Aaravos getting ready to propose to you with the help of leola Pt 2

Teenage!leolas first partner is human! How do you and Aaravos react?

You and Teenage!leola sync up during that time of month. Aaravos is done

Callum

Rayla

Claudia

Viren

Soren

Janai

Nyx

Ibis

Amaya

Corvus

Gren

Terry

Once upon a time:

Mr.Gold ( Rumpelstiltskin )

Captain Killian ‘Hook’ Jones ( Captain hook)

Emma Swan

Regina Mills (the ‘Evil’ queen)

Mary Margaret Blanchard (Snow white)

David Nolan (Prince charming)

(work in progress)

Van Helsing (2004):

Dracula

Aleera

Marishka

Verona

Gabriel Van helsing

Anna valerious

Velkan valerious

Carl

Hellboy 1 and 2 (live action 2004-2008 movies)

Hellboy

Different characters react to you stoned/couch logged

Abe

Liz

John

Prince Nuada

Different characters react to you stoned/couch logged

Princess nuala

Labrynth 1986

Jareth the goblin king

Marvel:

Peter Parker

Thor

Loki

Tony Stark

Dr, Stephan strange

Wanda

Bucky

Natasha

Nick Fury

Bruce banner

Steven Rodger

DC:

Bruce Wayne

Barry allen

Oliver Queen

Clark kent

Robin

Starfire

Raven

Cyborg

Beastboy

Joker

Harley

Poison Ivy

Catwoman

Avatar 1 and 2

Jake sulley

Naytiri

Neteyam

Lo’ak

Kiri

Miles Quaritch

Javier “spider”

Aonung

Grace

Pirates of the Caribbean:

Captain jack sparrow

Captain Hector Barbossa

Will Turner

Elizabeth Swan

James Norrington

Bootstrap bill turner

Davey jones

Lord Cutler Beckett

Calypso ( Tia Dalma)

Lord of the rings/the hobbit (lotr)

Legolas

Aragorn

Sam

Frodo

Pippin

Merry

Boromir

Faramir

Arwen

Gimli

Éowyn

Elrond

Sally face:

sal fisher

Sal,Larry,ash (separately) x reader Makeout hc

Larry and sal (separately) x Chubby!fem!Reader Hcs

Larry johnson

Sal,Larry,ash (separately) x reader Makeout hc

Larry Johnson general hcs

Larry and sal (separately) x Chubby!fem!reader hcs

Ash

Sal,Larry,ash (separately) x reader Makeout hc

Call of duty:

Ghost Mw2 and 2009

König

Soap

Price

Graves

Skyrim:

Cicero

Astrid

Arnbjorn

Farkus

Vilkas

Aela

Balgruuf the greater

Legend of Zelda Botw/totk:

Link

Zelda

Mipha

Daruk

Revali

Sidon

Urbosa

Kass

ganon

Assassins creed 2:

Ezio

Stardew valley (Sdv):

Alex

Elliot

Harvey

Sam

Sebastian

Shane

Abigail

Emily

Haley

Leah

Maru

Penny

The wizard

Caroline

Dwarf

Jodi

Kent

Krobus

Robin

Pierre

Sandy

Ghost:

Papa Emeritus 1 (primo)

Papa Emeritus 2 (secondo

Papa emeritus 3 (terzo)

Papa emeritus 4/cardinal copia

Swiss

Aether

Mountin

Phantom

Aurora (we have the same name irl lol)

Rain

Cirrus

Sunshine

Cumulus

Sodo

Dewdrop

David bowie(going by era current stage persona):

Ziggy stardust

Aladdin sane

The thin white duke

Major tom

David bowie

My chemical romance

Gerard way

Party poison

Mikey way

Kobra kid

Frank iero

Fun ghoul

Ray toro

Jet star

I will add Other characters to any of these lists if you would like to request a character go on ahead!

What I will write/Rules:

Rules:

No bullying or harrassment to anyone or groups of people in the comments. BE NICE TO OTHERS

No homophobia

No racism

No hatred

What I will write:

Fluff

Angst

No self harm. I've struggled with it in the past and still sometimes do so I won't write for it

Smut

(FOR SMUT I WILL NEVER EVER ERITE ANYTHING LISTED BELOW)

No Pe*o*hili* (this includes age play)

No R@pe

No Necro

No poop or pee shit

If there is anything else I find out exists that I don't like I will add to this list.

IF YOU REQUEST THESE THINGS YOU WILL BE BLOCKED AND REPORTED.

Lemon

Anything you want I will add

I don't write for Male readers anymore. Due to some uncomfortable and unnessasary comments and requests. I apologize for this. I will write for trans folks though

PS. When requesting please be specific to what fandom/character you want(I will do crossovers.) just so I can make sure to get everything right for ya!

[meshaamem-li]

content I CONSUMED

idk this is just a list of shit I watched or played and stuff, ignore this I just like making lists.

rankings (my rankings are subjective and based on how much impact that thing had on my psyche, don't take it too seriously):

S A B C D F

(explanation about the rankings: B is good, C is fine, D is meh and F is bad, A is for "wow I really like this" and S is for "absolutely obsessed")

ANIME:

a silent voice

aggretsuko

assassination classroom

attack on titan

BNA: brand new animal

carole and teusday

darling in the franxx

death note

death parade

dungeon meshi

evangelion

full metal alchemist

full metal alchemist brotherhood

free

haikyuu

high-rise invasion

hunter x hunter

jujutsu kaisen

Komi can't communicate

kotaro lives alone

kuroko no basuke

Magical Girl Raising Project

my hero academia

noragami

ouran highschool host club

scott pilgrim takes off

soul eater

spy x family

stars align

summertime rendering

the disastrous life of saiki k

BOOKS:

percy jackson

CARTOONS:

avatar

back in the barnyard

bee and puppycat

big hero 6 the series

bojack horseman

carmen sandiego

danny phantom

ducktales 2017

fairly OddParents

glitch techs

gravity falls

hazbin hotel

helluva boss

hilda

how to train your dragon (the tv series)

infinity train

inside job

kim possible

kipo

miraculous ladybug

murder robots

my little pony

Phineas and Ferb

rick and morty

rise of the tmnt

scooby doo mystery incorporated

She-Ra

steven universe

tangled the series

teenage mutant ninja turtles 2012

the amazing digital circus

the legend of korra

the owl house

the penguins of Madagascar

velma

wander over yonder

GAMES:

ace attorney

deltarune

genshin impact

hollow knight

mystic messenger

omori

project sekai

undertale

underworld office (small mobile game)

LIVE ACTION SHOWS:

BBC sherlock

merlin

the good place

queen's gambit

הפיג'מות

MOVIES:

101 dalmatians

a goofy movie

aladin

arrietty

atlantis

bambi

beauty and the beast

bee movie

big hero 6

bolt

brave

captain underpants

cars

cinderella

coco

cruella (I'm mad at how good it was)

deadpool

encanto

everything everywhere all at once

finding nemo

frozen

hercules

Howl's moving castle

how to train your dragon

inside out

kiki's delivery service

klaus

kong fu panda

lilo & stitch

marvel movies till endgame

meet the Robinsons

megamind

moana

monsters inc

mr. peabody & sherman

mulan

my neighbor totoro

nimona

onward

peter pan

pinocchio

princess mononoke

puss in boots

puss in boots the last wish

ratatouille

rise of the guardians

road to el dorado

robots

scary movie

scott pilgrim vs the world

shrek

sleeping beauty

snow white

spider man into/across the spiderverse

spirited away

tangled

the emperor's new groove

the fox and the hound

the hunchback of notre dame

the incredibles

the lion king

the little mermaid

the mitchells vs the machines

the nightmare before Christmas

the prince of Egypt

the princess and the frog

the sword in the stone

toy story

treasure planet

up

wall-e

whisper of the heart

wreck it Ralph

zootopia

here's my watchlist, feel free to suggest me stuff!

[newts-frogs-toads]

Things I hate about my fandoms

(I will probably make posts about each of them later going more in depth)

⚠️These DO NOT apply to ALL members of these fandoms⚠️

Cartoons:

Miraculous: mischaracterisation of Kagami as a bad person who just want to ruin the love square. But at the same time they love luka because he's just a sweet little baby boy 🥺👉👈

The owl house: Hunter and Ed interacted once and people started shipping them while they complain about Hunter and Willow for having a 1 year age gap. Also people acting like everyone is siblings

Amphibia: they care about the main trio too much to care about any other character at all

Gravity falls: where do i even start

Steven universe: The Su!c!de incident (dont worry she survived)

The ghost and molly mcgee: they hate Ollie for no reason even after his redemption arc for getting in the way of Molly x Libby or Andrea. They say he and molly look like siblings but their eye colors, skin colors and hair colors are different. (Tbh they cant take it when both characters in a pairing are Asian).

Dwampyverse: Too many NSFW art of children

Ducktales: I like them. Nothing bad about them other than they just ignore canon sometimes but hey, so do I.

Hilda: same as the Dwampyverse

Tangled: pretty chill but please dont ship Varian who's 16 with Cass who's 25.

Infinity train: Saying Lake, Ryan and Min aren't queer coded. Like are you blind? Its fine if you don't ship Rymin or use She/her for Lake but remember cartoon network Stopped the creator from putting those in.

Lego monkie kid: pretty ok fandom. Nothing bad to say about them.

She ra: im pretty late to this fandom so I haven't seen anything bad but as a DT megafan the fandom doesn't give them enough attention to them lol

Dead end: too small

Kipo: WAY too small

Live action movies:

Heathers: (see Musicals)

Dead poets society: ITS DYING WE NEED MORE FANWORKS

Games:

Undertale: the needle cookie incident (they're ok now don't worry. Dont take food from strangers kids)

Stardew Valley: Toxic arguing over the Bachelors and Bachelorettes. Acting like Haley and Alex are some irredeemable monsters. like, have you tried befriending them?

Musicals:

Heathers: Acting like Heather McNamara is some sweet little angel. Like no. She is sad and deserves better but that doesn't mean shes nice. (In other words: she is damaged, far to damaged, but that does not make her wise)

Hamilton: the HIV incident (just search Hamilton HIV to know the context). Also harassing anyone who isn't the OG cast.

Ride the cyclone: Acting like the characters are so pure and innocent. Like, im against NSFW of the kids too, but the whole point of Ricky is that hes not so sweet and innocent as a disabled person. Or the whole point of Noel is that he wants to be "fucked up". The tiktok fandom is also super biased to the original cast (meanwhile tumblr loves it)

Six: Saying Jane isn't a powerful woman because she wants to get married and have kids

[vintagegeekculture]

50 Years of Kung Fu Movies

There’s an overlooked anniversary that hasn’t been widely reported much yet: as of March 2023, it’s been 50 years of Kung Fu movies in the United States. 

Bruce Lee was not the first big international Kung Fu movie star. Rather, the first English-dubbed breakout Chinese martial arts movie to become a hit in the greater US (apart from Hawaii) was “5 Fingers of Death” (also called “King Boxer”) in 1973 starring Lo Lieh, six months before Bruce Lee’s “Enter the Dragon” and posthumous fame, making Lo Lieh the first true international Kung Fu star. There were lines halfway around the block at Times Square to see “5 Fingers of Death,” thanks to a radio giveaway in the New York area, and to those who first saw the movie, they remember the very first scene when the 63 year old Kung Fu master started backflipping and kicking out of nowhere and everyone watching this started losing their minds. “Five Fingers of Death” was like “Star Wars” in that it was a movie people saw over and over, minds blown, never having seen a film like this before. 

Because Kung Fu movies were shown in less expensive grindhouse cinemas in urban areas, like seedy, pre-gentrification Times Square in New York, the audience for these films was disproportionately black, and to this day, the black community has a strong connection to 70s Kung Fu movies. Every middle aged black dad today loves this stuff. It isn’t just due to them being shown in inner city theaters, however, or on UHF stations where they were replayed cheaply on Saturdays. Rather, the success of Kung Fu movies in the black community is based on the themes of the movies. Most Kung Fu movies are about poor dishwashing working class underdogs in an unjust system, usually either Japanese Imperial Occupied China, or during the Manchu Dynasty, where China was ruled by despotic foreign conquerors. The heroes bow in humiliation at first, but who secretly take the power back through intensive personal training, blood and sweat and a montage, that lets them stand up to oppressors. As RZA of the Wu-Tang Clan explained: “when we saw these movies about opposing the Manchu Dynasty, it made us think we weren’t the only people in world history that ever went through this.”

When it comes to introducing the genre, “Five Fingers of Death” is a great “first movie,” a pure, emblematic example of what these movies look like. In the very first scene, in Japanese occupied China, an old Kung Fu Master who is our hero’s teacher is pursued by Japanese karate killers, enforcers of the occupation. His student, Lo Lieh, has to learn the iron palm technique in a brutal, bloody, visceral series of training montages to harden his palms to iron, which involve him excruciatingly breaking every finger in them. The themes of vengeance, pursuing justice under occupation, training montages that are as important as the action, and the theme of failing brutally over and over until it “clicks” and you have a miraculous “Eureka!” moment that every teacher recognizes and lives for. It helped it started with the Kung Fu right away....imagine seeing flips and flying kicks for the first time when you’re used to western bar brawls. 

It’s worth noting that, despite being a hugely important moment in pop culture, 5 Fingers of Death was not a hit in Hong Kong, and was not even in the top 10 highest grossing movies of the year. It reminds me of Voltron, which is absolutely unknown and completely obscure in Japan, when elsewhere, it is THE giant robot show. The fact 5 Fingers was a big hit in the US absolutely baffled the Shaw Brothers, who were convinced to part with the rights for their movies for cheap, leading to a flood of Kung Fu movies. Notably, Lo Lieh, though he was the first Kung Fu movie star and a reliable martial arts leading man, did not have much of a career after this in lead roles. His character skills were best served playing villains in Shaw Films, notably as the evil Kung Fu eunuch supervillain, Pai Mei, in “Executioners from Shaolin” and “Clan of the White Lotus.” Tarantino wanted Lo Lieh to reprise his role of Pai Mei in Kill Bill Part 2, only to discover that he died just before filming. 

[olderthannetfic]

Haha. Yeah, a lot of these are from similar parts of fandom, so if you don't hang out there, they'd sound very unfamiliar.

Here's a quick attempt at a breakdown. Some of these have multiple media types.

Anime/Manga:

Bakugou Katsuki/Midoriya Izuku - BNHA

Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead/Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic - BNHA

Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijirou - BNHA

Bakugou Katsuki & Midoriya Izuku - BNHA

Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Midoriya Izuku - BNHA

Midoriya Izuku/Todoroki Shouto - BNHA

Dabi | Todoroki Touya/Takami Keigo | Hawks - BNHA

Bakugou Katsuki/Todoroki Shouto - BNHA

Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya - Bungou Stray Dogs

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke/Nakajima Atsushi - Bungou Stray Dogs

Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi - Haikyuu!!

Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou - Haikyuu!!

Mikage Reo/Nagi Seishirou - Blue Lock

Getou Suguru/Gojo Satoru - Jujutsu Kaisen

Uchiha Sasuke/Uzumaki Naruto - Naruto

Roronoa Zoro/Sanji - One Piece

Mitsui Hisashi/Miyagi Ryota - Slam Dunk

Other Animation:

Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak - South Park

Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh - South Park

Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug - Miraculous Ladybug

Amity Blight/Luz Noceda - The Owl House

Donatello & Leonardo & Michelangelo & Raphael - Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Books:

Sirius Black/Remus Lupin - HP

Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter - HP

Regulus Black/James Potter - HP

Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy - HP

James Potter/Lily Evans Potter - HP

Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley - HP

Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley - HP

Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort - HP

Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson - Percy Jackson

Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard - All For The Game - Nora Sakavic

Jesper Fahey/Wylan Van Eck - Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo

Kim Dokja/Yoo Joonghyuk - Omniscient Reader - Sing-Shong

BL/Danmei:

Huā Chéng/Xiè Lián (Tiān Guān Cì Fú) - Heaven Official's Blessing

Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn - MDZS/The Untamed

Porchay Pichaya Kittisawat/Kim Khimhant Theerapanyakun - KinnPorsche

Pete Phongsakorn Saengtham/Vegas Kornwit Theerapanyakun - KinnPorsche

RPF:

k-pop:

Jeon Jungkook/Kim Taehyung | V - BTS

Jeon Jungkook/Park Jimin - BTS

Min Yoongi | Suga/Park Jimin - BTS

Kim Namjoon | RM/Kim Seokjin | Jin - BTS

Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know - Stray Kids

Bang Chan/Lee Felix (Stray Kids) - Stray Kids

Choi Soobin/Choi Yeonjun - TXT

other music:

Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson - 1D

minecraft streamers:

Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit

Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson | Philza

Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)

Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF)

Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit

Technoblade & Phil Watson | Philza

Video games:

John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley - CoD

Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader - CoD

Sans/Sans (Undertale) - Undertale

Astarion/Tav (Baldur's Gate) - Baldur's Gate 3

Alhaitham/Kaveh (Genshin Impact) - Genshin Impact

Tartaglia | Childe/Zhongli (Genshin Impact) - Genshin Impact

Cyno/Tighnari (Genshin Impact) - Genshin Impact

Blade/Dan Heng (Honkai: Star Rail) - Honkai: Star Rail

Link/Zelda (Legend of Zelda) - Legend of Zelda

Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist - Persona 5

Kamishiro Rui/Tenma Tsukasa - Project SEKAI COLORFUL STAGE!

Western superheroes:

Dick Grayson & Jason Todd - Batman

Tim Drake & Jason Todd - Batman

Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne - Batman

James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers - MCU

Peter Parker & Tony Stark - MCU

Steve Rogers/Tony Stark - MCU

James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader - MCU

Miguel O'Hara/Reader - Spiderverse movies

Western live action:

Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV) - 9-1-1

Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) - Good Omens

Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens) - Good Omens

Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter - Hannibal

Nicholas "Nick" Nelson/Charles "Charlie" Spring - Heartstopper

Daemon Targaryen/Rhaenyra Targaryen - House of the Dragon

Aemond "One-Eye" Targaryen/Lucerys Velaryon (Son of Rhaenyra) - House of the Dragon

Lucy Carlyle/Anthony Lockwood - Lockwood & Co.

Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin) - Merlin

Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet - Our Flag Means Death

Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Israel Hands - Our Flag Means Death

Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor - Red, White & Royal Blue

Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling - The Sandman

Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Sherlock

Castiel/Dean Winchester - Supernatural

Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester - Supernatural

Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester - Supernatural

Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren - Star Wars

Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker - Star Wars

Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson - Stranger Things

Robin Buckley/Nancy Wheeler - Stranger Things

Will Byers/Mike Wheeler - Stranger Things

Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington - Stranger Things

Olivia Benson/Elliot Stabler - Law & Order: SVU

Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski - Teen Wolf

Ellie & Joel (The Last of Us) - The Last of Us

Tim Bradford/Lucy Chen - The Rookie

Wednesday Addams/Enid Sinclair - Wednesday

Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion - The Witcher

[hardylettuce]

Who's up for a crackpot Metalocalypse theory?

Brendon Small said in an interview, "there's one song on the record that I think kind of embodies what the future would be. I don't know if it would be as mystical or as crazy, but it would be funny."

I believe the song is Gardener of Vengeance.

The thing that sticks out to me most about the quote is that he thinks the future is "funny," which is saying something in a comedy series. I assume that means it's something that contrasts the show we've seen thus far. Brendon has another quote about Metalocalypse and AOTD where he said, "part of why I really had to finish this is because that to me was the arc from the beginning— selfish to selfless. Alone to together. That’s the big arc in the series." So if we assume the next chapter would continue that arc, it has to be something that continues the theme of growth and togetherness.

Let's think about where the series ended. Dethklok has stopped the apocalypse, but they haven't really saved the world. Metal rained from the sky, a lot of cities were destroyed. Even before that, it's probably it's safe to assume climate change existed in the show, but think of all the ways Dethklok themselves have made it worse: The environmental destruction caused by the liquid recording technology, raising the sea level in Doublebookedclock, destroying a chunk of the rainforest in Dethcarraldo, etc. The world is trashed, and a lot of that is Dethklok's doing.

So then we look at Gardener of Vengeance's lyrics. It's a song about the planet and nature, which is already notable for the "go into the water" band to be writing a song about the land. It describes the "punisher of industry" who is doling out "retribution for the toxic station." The earth is getting revenge on the people who abused it, either literally (some sort of nature spirit hunting people down) or figuratively (the planet no longer supporting human life).

Remember how the last song on Galaktikon II was called Rebuilding a Planet? My theory is that a season 5 or another movie would be about how Dethklok, being the most respected figures in the world, now has to do just that. And it's not metal to try to convince the world to lower their carbon emissions, or plant more trees, or even give up some of the things they think are fun because they realize how harmful they are. But it's what has to happen for the planet to have a future, and Dethklok's finally mature enough to care about the future.

This is even more speculative, but I think that could also be a theme: Living past the point where you thought it would be over. For the characters, that's having survived the Metalocalypse. But the show itself overcame death by getting a movie ten years after a very brutal cancellation. And I think it's a very human emotion a lot of adults deal with. Maybe you have a health condition or struggle with your mental health, and assumed you wouldn't live past a certain age. Or maybe you're just a teenager who can't imagine being 30. But then miraculously, one day you wake up, and it's your 40th birthday. Now what? What do you do with this time you never really thought you'd get?

In any case, I think the future of Dethklok would involve reconciling being both a death metal band and a symbol of hope for the world. It would be about taking responsibility for their past actions, and having to keep showing up and doing the right thing every day, instead of having short-term objectives like in Requiem or AOTD. It's not glamorous, but maybe it's fulfilling to be … Givin' Back? To the environment this time?