#oscar can be surprisingly hard to write for

[kannedia]

Relationship Chart - Oscar

Chart created by @7thastralera. Blank form here.

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Papalymo: Papalymo was surprisingly patient with him. In turn, Oscar looked up to him. He still misses him.

Moenbryda: She was incredible. They could have been best friends or at least close to it had she been around longer.

More info on Scions on the chart is below the cut if you're interested.

Tataru: He admires her creativity. Their friendship was strengthened by their time in Ishgard. He sometimes helps her with her work, just not the paperwork. She's the one who taught him to make drinkable tea.

Y'shtola: Oscar thinks highly of her though she confuses him at times. She sometimes gives him pointers on his magic.

Lyse: Fast friends. Like brother and sister, or so the two will claim. They get along well due to their similar energy levels and optimism.

Estinien: His first thought of Estinien was that he seemed nice. Rude, yes but he was very kind to Alphinaud so he couldn't be that bad. He wants to be good friends with Estinien but he has as much luck as Urianger does.

Thancred: Oscar had a brief crush on him, to be honest. It faded away as quickly as it formed. What was left was a solid friendship. They look out for each other.

Ryne: He is always kind to her. Tries to support her in her growth, even if he's not entirely sure of how to do so.

Minfilia: She was a dear friend and kind of a mentor to him. He does his best to honor her memory.

G'raha: Possible romantic relationship. They definitely have a strong bond. He wasn't sure of his feelings for G'raha when he sealed himself in the tower. This may change in Endwalker.

Alphinaud: Oscar saw the good in him even before a certain chain of events humbled Alphinaud's ego. At times he reminds Oscar of his younger stepbrother. He thinks they would be friends. Alphinaud sometimes helps Oscar understand the more academic topics discussed by the Archons.

Alisaie: They can get along pretty well though he sometimes frustrates her with his absentmindedness. Neither find politics to be all that interesting. Though she doesn't believe it, he thinks she's better at Red Magic than him.

Urianger: So cool! He's looked up to Urianger since he met him in the Waking Sands. Which if Urianger does know, likely baffles him.

Krile: They work well together. He hopes she sees him as a friend because she sees her as one.

[formulaaddict14]

Stuck flour bowl prank

( OP81, LN4, MV1, CL16, GR63, )

Summary : this is inspired by the tiktok trend where you pretend the bowl filled with flour is stuck on the counter and then you get someone to help you ( Usually the flour flies into their face 😋 )

Words : 1100+

Warnings : Some small yelling ( playful mainly )

Author note : I love love loveed writing this!

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OP81

Y/N set up the camera behind a cake mix box, trying not to burst out laughing. “ Oscar! “ she called, Oscar was too busy chilling on the couch as he yelled back “ Huh? “. She smiled at the camera then replied, “ The bowl is stuck! I was gluing something here before and I can’t get it off the counter! “ she pretended to struggle picking it up.

Oscar stood up and walked over, sceptical as he walked over, “ It’s stuck? “ he asked, as she moved over, “ Yeah can you try please? “ she asked, putting on her best sad face.

He pulled up his hoodies sleeves and picked it up gently, “ It wasn’t stuck? “ he said confused even looking under the bowl. She looked incredibly disappointed, “ You were supposed to throw the flour into your face “ she said, looking over at him with a forced sad face. He chuckled as he took the phone from the counter. “ hello… I knew something was fishy “ he said as he stopped the recording.

He put the phone down and she shook his shoulders, “ Why would you not fall for my amazing and wonderful prank “ she said, he chuckled and kissed her cheek,

“ I’m just far too intelligent”

LN4

Y/N carefully placed the phone behind the fruit bowl, but she and the glass bowl were both still in frame. She looked like she was having the time of her life as she breathed in and then said “ Lando! Come here! “ she covered her mouth with her hand to stop her from laughing. “ What? “ he muttered as he walked into the kitchen and into the frame.

She pretended to not be able to pick up the glass bowl, “ It’s “ she muttered, struggling “ Stuck “ she finally said, pretending to be out of breath. He looked confused then said, “ Watch me, the professional now “ he said, picking to bowl up with such force the flour flew onto his face, mouth and clothes,

She burst out laughing as Lando coughed, “ What was that for!? “ he yelled, also laughing as she fell to the floor laughing. “ I’m not cleaning this up, just so you know “ he said wiping his face, and looking down at his shirt “ You muppet “ he mumbled as she, giggling, ran to the camera and stopped the recording. “ oh the people will LOVE this “ she muttered as he looked shock offended, “ How dare you! “ he laughed, throwing flour at her as she yelped.

MV1

She whispered to the camera “ So i’m doing the “ she looked over at Max who was playing with the cats, “ flour bowl prank “ she said placing the camera onto the counter, “ Maxie! “ she called, looking around.

He walked over, “ Yes liefde? “ he said, looking at the camera, “ You vlogging? “

he asked as she nodded and said, “ Yeah but this bowl got stuck and I can’t get it off the counter. “ He shook his head smirking and said “ You must be joking “

He asked looking over at her. “ I swear! I’m not, try it, but you have to use a lot of strength “

she did her best to look dead serious.

He shrugged and picked the bowl up so strongly that it flew out of his hands and landed on the other side of the kitchen. She burst out laughing, while he looked shocked, eyes wide. “ What was that? “ he asked worried, but surprisingly clean from the flour. She didn’t answer, well quite frankly she couldn’t because she was laughing too hard.

“ I’m not cleaning this up! “ she said, picking up the camera and running off. “ Oh you’re in big trouble! “ he yelled her as he chased after her.

CL16

“ mon amour, what are you doing there? “ Charles asked sliding into the kitchen, he looked around to see everything needed for a cake, including a bowl of flour she was struggling with.

“ I bought this… this bowl and it has a feature that locks it to the counter but I can’t pick it up anymore “ she said, fake struggling as the camera sat right in front of her. “ I was filming a bake with me video “ she muttered, as she stepped away from the bowl silently asking for help.

“ you need help, Y/N? “ Charles asked laughing, as he looked at her. “ You think? “ she asked, giving it her best Oscar worthy performance. He placed his hand on her back, looking very amused. “ where did you get this thing? Amazon? Tiktok shop “

She pulled away, scoffing. “ okay then pick it up! “ she said proudly, slightly glancing at the camera.

Charles shook his head laughing “ okay okay “ he said walking over. He picked it up and the flour flew all into his eyes, mouth and nose. “ Y/N! “ he said chuckling, brushing flour from his face as she looked very pleased with the situation. She rolled her eyes laughing as she picked up her phone and showed him struggling.

She laughed as she finally said “ Nice make up! “ Charles looked over at her and said “ Oh you are so dead “ laughing his heart out.

GR63

“ What now? “ George called from the couch, clearly not wanting to get up. “ I’m not joking! I can’t pick this stupid thing up! “ she yelled back, suppressing a laugh.

“ Bloody hell, “ he said shaking his head as he stood up slowly.

She was looking really smug as she said, “ I can’t pick it up and if you want the brownies you’ll have to help me “ George looked very sceptical as he inspected his surroundings and saw the camera. “ are you pranking me? “ he asked, smirking.

Y/N looked very offended, “ Excuse me! “ she said, stepping out of the way as he walked over to the bowl. He smirked as he picked it up and threw the flour at her instead. She yelped as the flour hit her, “ George! “ she yelled laughing as she picked up the entire flour package and threw a handful and him, then the entire package.

George screamed like a little girl as the flour hit him, “ My shirt is very pricey! “ he yelled as they threw flour at each other, laughing. She picked up the camera and closed the recording, “ Oh there is no way I’m posting that “ she laughed.

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[bonbonly]

i keep writing collegeau!f1 drivers, and honestly that has me thinking: (carlos, charles, max, lewis, daniel, lando and oscar! and this is sfw surprisingly lmfao)

→ carlos sainz is always out playing sports with his friends, but after a quick shower he will meet up with you in the library to study. he genuinely is really good about locking in, even if it's only for a few minutes and he manages to soak up all the information pretty fast. he's always willing to help you out, even if chooses to endlessly tease you if you get something wrong. he'll point out your mistakes, giving you more practice problems or drawing something on a board to visualize it for you. and while you do appreciate his help, it's hard to focus on the board when his hair shines like that under the light. you mutter some curses under your breath and get back to studying unaware that he secretly enjoys it when you get frustrated at him.

→ charles leclerc is awfully quiet at first and only shows up to piano rehearsals if you're there. he's very shy at first about his talent, but slowly opens up and let's you accompany him to classes and even recitals! he likes to laugh to himself if he messes up some notes, and loves when you'll lean forward to correct his fingers on the piano, his face just inches from yours. he just wishes you'd finally turn around to meet his expecting gaze, lips aching to be on yours. he plans on kissing you after his first major recital.

→ max verstappen and you both game regularly on the basis. whether it's in the computer lab, or at each others' dorms. he sometimes wishes you didn't just come to his dorm to hop on a game, but he appreciates every second he gets to spend time with you. when it comes to studying, both of you start off trying to lock in but it quickly turns into the both of you talking about how awful your professors are, or some funny story that happened to his friends. he likes to see you laugh, because it's when you really are yourself.

→ lewis hamilton likes to tag along with you when you're at karaoke events with your friends. he insists he can't sing, choosing to shy away from the spotlight. but after a couple drinks, and the way your hand wraps around his arm, tugging him to your warm body, he eventually gives in. the two of you spend most of the night screaming lyrics at each other and giggling hysterically when either of you mess up a line or two while singing. lewis swears he would love to live the rest of his like this with you.

→ daniel ricciardo ends up in your cooking class that you took solely because you needed a free elective. most of the class however is spent with dealing with his antics. he's tossing the flour at you, cracking the most awful jokes while cracking eggs (don't even ask) and all you can do is sit there and groan out loud. however, after a few classes, you realize that the class genuinely was boring and daniel was the only good thing about it. you'd sometimes grab his finished dishes and munch on it, which only causes him to lunge at you and now the both of you are on the ground laughing trying to explain to your professor why your casserole is now on the ground.

→ lando norris unfortunately decided to work at the university's daycare since all his money was going down at the clubs, and you show up to help him because you knew he was going to get overwhelmed. he was currently tackling a 3 year old who refused to let go of his curls, and you laugh out loud before running over to help him. when you manage to calm down the toddler and sing a few lullabies, lando's gaze softens and he can't help but secretly dream of having kids with you after you both graduate, having a small lovely family.

→ oscar piastri sits in the front of the class besides you. it's a hobby for the both of you to listen to the answers your peers give you, and turn around to give the nastiest side-eye ever. outside of class, the two of you laugh about what some of the responses were and you sometimes ask him if he ever judges you like that. he shakes his head, and says no. deep down, he wants to tell you that he thinks the world of you, but he keeps his mouth shut for now. what if you end up judging him instead?

[cressidagrey]

I am taking deep breathes to cap myself. This chapter was sweet like candy. And I live candy. I love you.

Verstappen off season baby. It's perfect. I want to laugh and make jokes about the boys finally getting what they deserve but I am too happy about the pregnancy news and the lion plush to care.

But Jos and Emilie were so on brand I loved it. (I have to admit, the way you write Jos in this fic has made me want a Jos Verstappen fic now for some reason.)

But everyone coming to defend Belle against Charles? Magnificent. The one yelling over text being Oscar? Poetic justice. It's always the quiet ones.

I am laughing so hard that the brother thought she was on trouble. Like what? She got kidnapped? Hilarious. But also a valid fear if it wasn't their fault she went radio silent.

Lorenzo going to her apartment and then at her job to ask about her and they both tell him she's not there anymore? Beautiful. He deserves to run around like a headless chicken. He deserves to fear the worst. He deserves to suffer.

They all do.

But I am way to giddy about the pregnancy to care. Are we getting close to the big reveal? I can barely contain myself.

Also Lando X Emilie can absolutely be a spinoff. We can call it 'black cat'. If you ever wanted.

A question about possible future fics. You said that the new Charles fic is mostly a standalone with possible future added ones. But are you planning on writing something new and long after white Horse? And if so what drivers are you thinking about? (Surprisingly I consider Jos also an option for some reason now. - the reason being you made him into a fun yet realistic character.) I wasn't at for at an Oscar fan. Not in a way that would have me read fics about him but your writing in Mysterious Mrs piastry and the McLaren dating one made me love him. I think you can take any driver and make them an absolute lovable character.

As always you are the highlight of a difficult day. (Difficult in a good way though.)

I’m so glad you loved the chapter — your joy is infectious, and honestly, “sweet like candy” is the highest compliment.

The image of Oscar absolutely snapping in defense of Belle while Jos and Emilie remain peak themselves is just chef’s kiss to me too — and your reaction to Lorenzo running around like a headless chicken? DELICIOUS.

Also, the fact that you’re even entertaining the idea of a Jos Verstappen fic because of how he’s written here??? That is truly wild 😭

And thank you for the thoughtful question about future projects! I have a lot of ideas!

So, I have:

A half written fic for Max, which would be an one shot and came from me thinking what if the wag of one of the drivers doesn't actually fit the beauty ideals of this sport? it's kinda like The mysterious Mrs Piastri, but the Max version 😂 And he's unhinged about his wife.

I sat through 2 hours of a Dax Shephard podcast because of a George Russell x Toto Wolff's daughter idea I have. I think I deserve a medal for that, because that guy is annoying as anything 😂

More in the Mysterious Mrs Piastri Universe will also be coming.

[strawberrybasilsorbet]

Jilytober Day 11

Missed yesterday, but I'm hoping to go back when I have time! In the meantime, here's my try at today's @jilytoberfest prompt:

October 11th Prompt: 🎶“Uncovering feelings unfound”🎶 - Out of the Blue by Katie Pruitt

Lily peeked out from behind the corner of the cricket shed before surreptitiously lighting her cigarette. Smoking wasn't prohibited, but her break wasn't officially supposed to start for another twenty minutes; it had only been thanks to some fairly pitiable wrangling — and a promise to take on her Friday shift — that Anne had agreed to cover the last hour so that Lily could decompress.

Closing her eyes, Lily leaned her head back against the shed and sunk to the ground, taking a long drag. It was only half-past noon, but some blokes had made a mess of one of her tables at the pub last night, and she hadn't finished closing until after one in the morning. She was already looking forward to sinking into bed.

In the distance, she heard a splash and a shout. It sounded like some kid had flipped his canoe again. She snickered a little; Anne would definitely be more annoyed about switching shifts now that she needed to get her hair wet.

It had been a long summer. Seventh year was going to be expensive — she'd need money to pay the application fees if she wanted to try for a Healing apprenticeship, to pick up a set of dress robes for the Leavers' Ball, to make a deposit on a flat rental after she finished Hogwarts — and Lily was trying to save as much as she could. Most mornings, she got on the bus for her day job at the nearest holiday camp, only to take the 5pm back to Cokeworth, eat a quick supper, and start her evening shift at Oscar's pub. Lily didn't mind hard work, but after six weeks of both jobs, she was beginning to feel run down.

At least she didn't have to spend much time at her own place. Between Tuney's sniping at home and Sev's lurking around the park, hoping she'd forget his horrible behavior at school now that his pack of Death Eater-wannabes wasn't around, it was hard to get a moment's peace.

She took another drag. Maybe she could talk Oscar into putting her on the early side tonight. He owed her, after the amount of mopping up she'd done yesterday...

"There you are, Evans!"

Lily jumped and opened her eyes. She thought she'd heard...but that made no sense...

"Potter?" She blinked. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Improbably, James Potter — wearing a fairly convincing set of Muggle clothes, although his orange checkered polo shirt clashed horrendously with a pair of short, salmon-pink trousers — was striding toward her from the nearby woods, looking far too cheerful for the August heat. "Looking for you!" he said affably. "It seemed a nice day for a visit, and we'd been getting on well this summer, so I thought—"

"Potter, I'm at work." She stared in surprise.

He had the grace to turn a bit sheepish. "Oh, I'm sorry, Evans," he said, looking around. "Is now is a bad time?"

"No, I just—." Lily blushed. She'd given Potter her address earlier this summer — only so he could practice with the Muggle post, of course — and suddenly, she realized that she'd been writing him rather a lot.

Potter made a surprisingly charming pen friend. His letters, full of witty jokes and updates about his summer with his mates, were a welcome connection to the magical world and a relief from her tense avoidance of Sev and Tuney. More than once, she'd found herself looking forward to reading them as she came home from the pub, or scribbling quick replies by wandlight so she could get them in the mail before she caught the morning bus to camp.

"I just — how did you get here, anyway?"

"I stopped by your house," said James, shrugging. "Remember, you gave me your address? Someone — I think your mum? — answered the door and said that you were here." He still looked abashed. "I guess she might not have expected me to come by, but she said you might not be home until quite late, so I thought—"

"That's alright—"

"I can visit another day—"

"No, it's really okay, Potter," said Lily, who by now was quite red. Somehow, it wasn't the fact that Potter had showed up at her job, but the unflattering color of her uniform swimsuit that was on Lily's mind. She hadn't brushed her hair this morning, and she'd been sweating in the heat... "They're not too fussy here, and I'm basically on my break, anyway. It's nice to see you." She took another drag on her snuck cigarette, trying to look a bit less flustered. "You just showed up a bit out of the blue, that's all."

"Literally," said Potter, with a playful smile. He gestured toward the cloudless sky. "Stashed my broomstick in the trees back there."

She groaned theatrically at the terrible wordplay, knocking him with her shoulder. "Too scared to take the bus, Potter?"

"Oh, certainly. Petrol is too advanced for me, I'm still grasping bicycles."

She grinned. She knew perfectly well that Potter had likely passed his Muggle Studies exam with flying colors, as he did most of his others. "If you stick around until 5 o'clock, I'm happy to show you the ropes on my way back to Cokeworth."

"Gladly," said James. He peered curiously around the shed, taking in the archery setup, large lake, and row of cabins just beyond the cricket field. "What do you do here, anyway?"

"It's a holiday camp," Lily explained. "Families come to play games and get away from home for a bit during the summer."

"They don't holiday abroad?"

"God, you're posh." Lily rolled her eyes. "Why go to France, honestly, when you could stay at camp and win the donkey derby?"

"The what?"

"Exactly what it sounds like," said Lily.

"I have to see this. You run a donkey derby?"

"Not me personally," Lily said, giggling. "I'm hopeless with animals. I mostly serve lunch or take shifts dragging the little kids out of the lake."

"Why are the kids in the lake?"

"Oh, we do canoeing on one half and swimming on the other. Except sometimes the canoeing turns into swimming, because there's always some troublemakers flipping their boat on purpose."

James grinned. "Good for them."

"I'm appalled," Lily replied. "Are you trying to make my job harder, Potter?"

"In this weather?" said James. "Nah. I'm giving you an excuse to cool off, I expect."

James's eyes flickered to her swimsuit and quickly away. Lily swallowed, suddenly wishing she'd finished her shift after all. "I'm tied up tonight," she said, "but if you were to come back another day...if I took a night off from my evening job, I mean, and you wanted to go for a dip?"

James looked up. "Yeah," he said, a bit too eagerly. "Just because it's so hot, I mean," he said, smoothing out his tone. Lily noticed, amused, that his voice had suddenly got a bit deeper. She put out her cigarette, noticing that her earlier exhaustion had vanished.

"Well, alright then," she said. "It's a date." James gave her a dimpled smile. She hadn't noticed how sweet his smile was, before.

Where had it come from, this strange new fondness between them? Was it a fleeting thing, driven by Lily's exhaustion and James's boredom — destined to fall off with the autumn leaves when they returned to school, and to the old habits of their old stomping grounds? Or, maybe, could their letters be turning into something, well...a little bit more, maybe, lasting, or...

"Can anyone come to these holiday camps?" James asked, interrupting Lily's train of thought. "Because if donkey derbying is allowed, I want to kick Sirius's arse."

Lily threw her head back with a laugh. "With a day pass," she told him, "but if you've got a connection on the staff, she can probably sneak you in for free."

[captainnameless]

How's your day been? If you are up to it, could you do something cute with Daniel, little oscar, and little lando? Maybe with wintery themes? Maybe cuddled up under a blanket watching a film, and one or both (lando and/or oscar) of them falls asleep?

it’s been alright, thanks for asking <3

It comes together easy enough. Lando’s getting better with asking for things, wants to have a day with Daniel before he flies off to a 10 hour difference timezone for a big chunk of the winter break.

Oscar’s added with no fuss, that way they can fly home to Australia together.

“Share, please. Lando.” Daniel says when the bag of animal crackers is snatched up immediately. It’s the ones with the chocolate bottom so Daniel can’t really blame him, but still.

“I am.” Lando huffs, sticking his hand in the bag and hold out exactly two. Oscar, bless him, takes them and even says thank you and Lando’s about to settle down with the rest of the bag but Daniel snatches it from him.

“Mine!” Lando screeches, much like those birds from Finding Nemo. “Danny, nooo!”

“If you can’t share fair, then I’ll share for you.” Daniel says simply and sticks his hand in the bag to scoop some more out for Oscar.

“That’s ok-” Oscar starts to say, already pressing himself further into the couch but Daniel holds his hand out.

“Nu uh, take them Bud. You only take two? Lando only gets two.”

“Take more!” Lando screeches again, and Daniel has to bite back his smirk.

Obediently, Oscar cups both of his hands together and lets Daniel dump the snacks into them.

The rest of their afternoon goes surprisingly smooth, Lando’s bribed into taking a nap and Oscar, the angel, agrees to lay down too to appease his teammate. He does come back down 15 minutes later, cheeks flushed and socked feet scuffing into the carpet with a “Lando’s asleep, I’m not tired.”

Daniel doesn’t push it, he’s not entirely sure Oscar regresses, sometimes he just floats somewhere in between, otherwise it’s clear he does. It’s okay for Oscar to still be figuring that out.

When Lando wakes up they decide to make Christmas cards, they’re all dipping their hands in paint to make little Santa hats and trees that Daniel takes a sharpie to after they’ve dried to write names and add a string of lights.

Daniel orders take out for dinner, and because they’ve been very good they get to eat it on the couch with a movie.

Oscar’s still in the “somewhere in between” when they sit down, Daniel can tell from the way he looks a little bit like an awkward teenager, trying very hard to not let their legs touch. Lando’s oblivious to it, leaning over Daniel to get to Oscar and actually get his opinion on what to watch. That gets Oscar to relax a little, and slowly their legs touch.

Daniel’s still surprised when, when they’ve added a blanket and Lando’s pressed himself up into Daniel’s side that Oscar’s head starts slowly falling to his shoulder, until it rests there.

Daniel peeks over and sees Oscar’s fallen asleep, his hair falling into his face, almost covering his eyes. There’s soft little breaths that leave him and when Daniel moves his free hand to brush the hair out of his face it scrunches together adorable, lips pressed together in a pout.

Daniel cannot help the coo that leaves him, getting Lando’s attention who’s now also looking over.

“He’s asleep?” He states, more than asks.

“Yea, so we gotta be quiet.” Daniel says, voice hushed, the arm that’s around Lando squeezing his shoulder.

“That’s what you get when you don’t nap.” Lando says matter of factly, face serious, shoulders shrugging.

Daniel snorts. “Please, says you.”

“I napped!” Lando says, eyebrows furrowing together and Daniel quickly soothes him with a chuckle.

“Shh. You did, you did buddy. I’m very proud of you.”

It settles Lando back into Daniel’s chest for a moment before he moves again, leaning over to press a kiss to Oscar’s forehead.

“Na night.” He whispers, then turns to Daniel again. “Do you think he wants my Yoda?”

Daniel’s face fills with a smile. “No, I think he’s got all the cuddles he needs.”

[ghilliedubh]

Vrinda: The Ivy Queen

Exploring the connections between the Norse goddess Rindr/Vrinda and ivy folklore

I am writing this with my mind swathed in a dark emerald green. Last Yule night I drew the rune Gebo, the Ivy card from my Ogham deck and the Queen of Swords. This painted an interesting picture in my head, of a green lady wandering amongst ivy-clad ruins. I dived into ivy folklore and mythology, researching who this might be. I visited Hebe, the Maenads and the various Green Ladies of Britain, but one particular solemn figure was sitting and waiting for me.

Very little is known of the Goddess Rindr and her name’s origin is obscure, but it is thought to be connected to a Gotlandic word for ivy, rind. A variation of her name, Vrindr, Wrinda or Vrinda (the name I prefer), can possibly be found in the Ostergotland place name Vrinnevi, the meaning of which would in that case be Vrindar-Vé (Vrindr’s Shrine). Oscar Lundberg proposed that she was therefore a fertility goddess represented by ivy or perhaps even made of it. The theory of her being connected to Vrinnevi has been debated, and some argue that the place name simply means “Ivy forest”. Even so, the similarity between the name Rindr and the word rind is hard to ignore and I strongly feel that she is represented by ivy as Lundberg suggests. Previously I had only known her as some kind of winter goddess and as the unwilling bearer of Óðinn’s son, Váli. This connection to the ivy plant opened up a whole new dimension of her.

I want to start by criticizing Patricia Telesco’s interpretation of Vrinda being a goddess of accepting uncomfortable changes. That just as winter yields to spring, so does Vrinda yield to the advances of Óðinn and become warm and fertile. Whether or not Vrinda’s myth is a metaphor for the changing of seasons, I find it appalling that someone would look at a story about sexual assault and draw from it the lesson that one should not fight “positive change”. Change can be good, but that attitude in this context is disgusting and disrespectful to all that have had to go through such a horrible experience. Now, moving on…

First there is the madness. The maenads were wild, ecstatic worshipers of Dionysus who wore ivy. Often willing participants of the frenzy, but sometimes forced. In Gesta Danorum the tale is told of how Óðinn, when thrice rejected by Vrinda, uses magic to drive her mad and then ill. Disguised as a medicine woman called Wecha, Óðinn tells her father that he can cure her but it would cause a violent reaction. Vrinda is tied to her bed and Óðinn proceeds to commit one of his ugliest crimes. I connect these two instances of forced madness with certain properties of the ivy; ingesting the leaves can cause delirium, convulsions and even hallucinations. Surprisingly, wearing crowns of ivy was believed to prevent drunkenness. To me, all of the above makes Vrinda a goddess of madness, but as a sufferer. We who may have bouts of bad mental health may find comfort in her.

Next I want to talk about the Green Ladies of Britain, specifically the melancholy yet usually benevolent ghosts that haunt castles. The Green Ladies are dead but are still kind, often protecting living residents of their haunts. The Green Lady of Huntingtower Castle in Perthshire (known as Lady Greensleeves) is said to have healed a young boy who lived in a house on the estate. Ivy was also seen as a protective plant in Britain.This protective element also be a domain of Vrinda, John McKinnell writes about a kenning for a warrior in the saga of Guðmundur Arason, serkja Rindar Sannr. Sannr is a name of Óðinn meaning “truth”, Rindar serkur would be “Rindur’s serk”. According to McKinnell this hints that she may have been able to enchant clothing to work as a protective charm. But back to the Green Ladies. Most of them are thought to be the ghosts of particular women of noble lineage that lived in the castles and were usually killed in horrible ways. The Green Lady of Caerphilly Castle is the ghost of Alice de la Marche of France who died of shock when she learned of her husband’s men killing her lover. I mention her specifically because of her ability to blend into the ivy that grows on the castle walls. The ivy in this story feels like a very appropriate symbol and I feel it could be extended to the rest of the Green Ladies. Ivy clings to ruins, it clings to trees long after they die. I want to quote the first stanza of Henry Kendall’s The Ivy on the Wall:

The verdant ivy clings around

Yon moss be-mantled wall,

As if it sought to hide the stones,

That crumbling soon must fall:

That relic of a bygone age

Now tottering to decay,

Has but one friend—the ivy—left.

The rest have passed away.

I believe this sentiment lives with Vrinda. In this aspect, she is a goddess of mourning and trauma, of yearning for the irretrievable past. But at the same time she is a goddess of protection and overcoming hardships and devastation. As ivy holds together and decorates the weathered stones of an old castle, so too can Vrinda help hold together our broken hearts and shattered selves.

Then there is winter. I have read many articles and blogs online written by pagans associating Vrinda with winter and almost nothing else. I never actually saw mentioned any concrete reason for it, but now that I have become aware of her ivy realm it has become obvious. Most people are familiar with the carol The Holly and the Ivy. Both plants are evergreen and are part of a family of yule plants alongside mistletoe and yew. Ivy and Holly historically represented the feminine vs masculine, in parts of England there are still dances between the Holly boy and the Ivy girl. It was supposedly custom once for men and women to light-heartedly taunt each other through song. Sadly it seems mostly the songs praising Holly have been preserved, an example is the following verse:

Nay, Ivy, nay; it shall not be i-wys ;

Let Holly hafe the maystery, as the manner is.

Holly stond in the Halle fayre to behold;

Ivy stond without the dore; she is full sore acold.

Holly and his merry men they dancyn and they sing.

Ivy and hur maidens they wepyn and they wryng.

(Ballad from the time of Henry VI)

In a more positive light, holly and ivy feature in a poem by Henry VIII called Green Groweth the Holly. Here ivy's steadfast color throughout winter symbolizes fidelity. It is a charming poem if a bit ironic, since Henry himself wasn’t exactly a paragon of fidelity. I’ll let you read the third and fourth verse:

As the holly groweth green

With ivy all alone

When flowers cannot be seen

And greenwood leaves be gone,

Now unto my lady

Promise to her I make,

From all other only

To her I me betake.

It is not strange that Henry made this connection. In the language of flowers ivy represents fidelity, wedded love and friendship. Ancient Greek brides would carry ivy as a symbol of undying love and sprigs of it are often found in wedding bouquets today. I think ivy being an evergreen as well as it’s ability to cling tightly are good reasons for it being a symbol for faithful love. We also see generosity and kindness as ivy provides berries for birds in winter. These aspects all together give me the feeling that, yes, Vrinda is a winter goddess. However, I feel she is more a goddess of persevering winter, rather than a goddess of the frost and cold itself. She stays living, green and fruitful when other plants lie dead. Her love persists through hardships. Winter or summer, it holds on.

Just before I conclude I’d like to touch upon animal associations. There is not a lot to work with, but the color and winding tendencies of ivy invoke the spirit of a serpent. Perhaps an adder, with its ivy-like pattern and ability to hibernate. The adder, like the ivy, is also toxic. The maenads wore serpents as well as ivy so it's not entirely far-fetched to see snakes as a favorite of Vrinda, but I’m not sure how well it fits. Perhaps the wren, a bird often seen darting through ivy bushes and has connections to winter. The word “wren” is of obscure origin but the words wren, rind (the Gotland word for ivy) and rindill (the Icelandic word for wren) sound curiously similar to Wrinda and Rindur.

Then there are owls. In Britain ivy has a special relationship with the tawny owl, which is sometimes even called an ivy-owl. Most people are familiar with owls being traditionally associated with death, but it may surprise some that ivy is so as well. This seems contradictory to it’s tolerance of winter, the death of the year, but this association likely stems again from fidelity as well as ivy’s tendency to grow over tombstones. Ivy was also a frequent motif on headstones and there it likely represents immortality and eternal life. Both snakes and owls are carved on headstones too. Ivy was also used to foretell death.

This association with death ties well in with the aforementioned Green Ladies. Owls and ivy are paired together in the idiom “like an owl in an ivy-bush”, which is used to describe a person with a vacant stare (usually due to drunkenness) or in some cases those with a frightened and dishevelled appearance. I almost forgot to mention that tawny owls usually mate for life, fidelity again. Finally, the carol I mentioned earlier has a couple of verses mentioning owls:

Ivy hath berries black as any sloe;

There come the owl and eat him as she go

…

Good ivy, what birds hast thou?

None but the owlet that cries how, how.

That brings us to the end. It’s quite bold of me, I know, to just give Vrinda all these associations purely based on ivy folklore and mythology. However, I feel so uncomfortable just leaving her bound to that one, grisly story of her impregnation. It’s unfair. I really do feel she may have shown herself to me that Yule night, or at least an aspect of herself, and I’d rather she lived in my mind as a lush and complex entity. Maybe I am getting lost in a thick forest of wishful thinking but maybe, like the Green Lady of Caerphilly Castle, she has indeed been hiding in the ivy.

Vrinda the broken, Vrinda the crazed,

Vrinda the wanderer of ruins and graves.

Vrinda the devoted, Vrinda the evergeen.

Vrinda the beautiful, unwavering Ivy Queen

Hrafnsunna Ross

Sources and further reading:

On English ivy folklore and mythology:

http://khkeeler.blogspot.com/2021/10/plant-story-folklore-of-english-ivy.html

https://interestingliterature.com/2021/05/ivy-symbolism-in-literature-religion-mythology-analysis-meaning/

https://from-bedroom-to-study.blogspot.com/2012/12/the-hedonistic-history-of-interesting.html?m=1&fbclid=IwAR3kerXYa_Nud94rzbCuhPlv-qH8Dah2R2jibqFLPYV4d8GmGTP87GJgVBQ

https://books.google.is/books?id=eOvyDwAAQBAJ&pg=PA118&lpg=PA118&dq=ivy+drunkenness+folklore&source=bl&ots=n3L6TNUO9e&sig=ACfU3U1PGGIezufv-sZbxklBhjBdNuqwKw&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjDi6SxgYT1AhWTEMAKHcEyBN4Q6AF6BAg0EAM#v=onepage&q=iv

y%20drunkenness%20folklore&f=false

https://speakingofwitchwands.net/2017/11/16/the-magick-of-ivy/

https://www.woodland-ways.co.uk/blog/hedgerow-medicines/ivy/

Properties of English ivy:

https://plants.ces.ncsu.edu/plants/hedera-helix/

On Maenads:

https://www.thecollector.com/maenads-women-bacchus/ On Green Ladies: https://www.spookyisles.com/scottish-green-lady-stories/

Wedding flower customs:

https://www.theknot.com/content/wedding-flowers-customs-traditions

Wren:

https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=rindill

https://www.bardsinthewoods.com/2012/12/the-wren-wren.html

Tawny Owl:

https://www.peakdistrictonline.co.uk/birds-of-prey-the-tawny-owl/

Evidence pointing to Rindr being a worker of protective magic:

https://secureservercdn.net/198.71.233.138/16i.962.myftpupload.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/07/John_McKinnell_Meeting_the_Other_in_Norse_Myth_ab-ok.cc.pdf

https://norse.ulver.com/src/biskup/gudmunda/index.html

Gesta Danorum book 3, where the story of her assault is written:

https://www.gutenberg.org/files/1150/1150-h/1150-h.htm

Possible etymology of her name:

https://books.google.is/books?id=DtcMCAAAQBAJ&pg=PA160&lpg=PA160&dq=scandinavia+ivy+goddess&source=bl&ots=GMILPvloOP&sig=ACfU3U3EX9SDhIxFUwiTT_sNHFbMbxOlng&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjv-_fXvYP1AhUwQEEAHdY1D9cQ6AF6BAgfEAM#v=onepage&q=scandinavia%20ivy%20goddess&f=false

Headstone symbolism:

https://headstonesymbols.co.uk/

[myriadxofxmuses]

Tagged by: @heartxshaped-bruises

Tagging: @savagecuhnt, @lunarruled (Ky), @uncxntrxllable (Bailey & Lakota), @littlewrensx (Wren), @thanaredreamtof (Felicity & Sam), @interxstitial, @wynterlanding, @blindspct (Miley), @fangsandmagic, @waveofstars (Chey)

Ethan

COMMON MISCONCEPTIONS

That he's all bad. Ethan can be surprisingly caring at times, but it is only with select people. He is also quite malleable when it comes to others who are generally good. It sort of rubs off on him and he tries to emulate their behavior. He is if nothing else adaptable, but on a small level he wants to be that way.

AN IMPORTANT HEADCANON

He has a lot of food allergies. His mother's pregnancy with him was hard and he was born with the immunity fragility. Sadly he had to find out the hard way with each new allergy, given that his parents rarely cared for him properly - nannies also opting for short stints of employment for his care.

A USELESS HEADCANON

One of his favorite forms of entertainment is documentaries. Ethan will watch any and all kinds. Some of his favorite genres deal with nature or religion. He knows all kinds of trivia because of it.

POTENTIAL TRIGGERS

Abuse, drinking, suicide attempts, NSFW- like murder, minimal stalking, gore, knives, death, violence, drug use, torture, ruffies, etc.

SOMETHING YOU ENJOY ABOUT (WRITING) THEM

Actually, and this probably makes me a total psychopath, but his coldness. The way his character just shuts it off. Just like that. He has no attachment and is one hundred percent free of emotional repercussions. I could never do that. I get attached to easily and quickly, but it can be fun to explore what it is really like when you truly don't care what others think.

SOMETHING YOU WANT OTHERS TO KNOW BEFORE WRITING WITH THEM

While Ethan can be very loving at times, that is not his go to. It takes some time and effort to get past his douchey, asshole, narcissistic, sociopathic ways to get to what little good in him he has. He does not open up to everyone and can be very difficult to interact with at times.

Oscar

COMMON MISCONCEPTIONS

That he has it all figured out and is put together. He does not deal very well with, as he calls it, his broken mind. He has quite a few breakdowns, all usually private and behind closed doors, but it leads him to drink. Oscar isn't big on meds, so he's very apprehensive when speaking to anyone about it - seeing it as a sign of weakness that he can't figure it out alone. Alcohol however is the one thing that not only helps him forget, but has also been an allowed vice throughout his career choices. Definitely not a great coping mechanism, but it's his nonetheless.

AN IMPORTANT HEADCANON

Family is essential for him. And his loyalty to Emily is unwavering. As is hers. They are extremely close siblings and come as a package. But that's not to say they come as a pleasant package. It is entirely possible for significant others or outside friends not to like the other. While blood is important they fully understand family is chosen and even the tightest family has internal turmoil at times. Loyal as they may be to each other, they will also fight to keep those who matter most to them.

A USELESS HEADCANON

Oscar can wiggle his ears. Not something he shows off, but he found out when he was a kid. After watching Little Rascals with his mom, he tried to copy Alfalfa and wiggled his ears.

He also sings in the shower.

POTENTIAL TRIGGERS

PTSD, drinking, NSFW- like crime, guns/knives, death, violence, war, black market weapon sales

SOMETHING YOU ENJOY ABOUT (WRITING) THEM

His strength. Both emotionally and physically. He is surprisingly just and fair when you consider his upbringing. While he isn't without flaws, he has very solid moral compass.

SOMETHING YOU WANT OTHERS TO KNOW BEFORE WRITING WITH THEM

He can be overprotective and his trust is hard to get. Oscar likes to know everything about a person and is not above using his job to perform background checks. Even though he is morally good, he is willing to bend the rules when he needs to continue on that path.

Ivy

COMMON MISCONCEPTIONS

That she has no attachment to things. She is very good at hiding her true emotions under a mask of nonchalantness. When in reality she can't help but become emotionally invested in both people and life in general. It causes for a lot of lonely nights working through disappointment and sadness.

AN IMPORTANT HEADCANON

When her father got sick and died from his work, she went after the company responsible. It was a total failure in the end and nothing came of it, the corruption too high for her to fend off. But it was what led her into hacking for real. She'd always been tech savvy, but this was what really helped hone her skills.

A USELESS HEADCANON

While she has a cat, Ivy is really a dog person. She just can't have them in her apartments. She also watches true crime/interrogation videos for white noise while she works.

POTENTIAL TRIGGERS

Crime - hacking, internet stalking, law breaking in general, minimal drug use (marijuana), drinking

SOMETHING YOU ENJOY ABOUT (WRITING) THEM

The tech and stealth aspects of her life. I have always loved hacking/hackers/surfing the depths of tech and it is fun to write her in scenarios where she can actually use it.

SOMETHING YOU WANT OTHERS TO KNOW BEFORE WRITING WITH THEM

Even though she likes to avoid becoming attached to others, she is a very open and accepting person face to face. She will keep others at a comfortable distance while still remaining a loyal and trustworthy friend. She would be a great ally when it matters.

[cieloclercs]

heyyy can i get a lover, you should’ve come over (also, love this song it hits so hard) for an f1 driver or atp player

i’m 5,3” with short brown hair (floppy curtain bangs), brown eyes and freckles just across my nose. i love classics, history, geography, english and politics in school, and i’m currently rereading the heroes of olympus series. jewelry is my favorite thing in the world and i love wearing novelty earrings, i don’t really wear make up just some occasional mascara. i love to read and write, and obsess over fictional characters and sportspeople in my spare time. my favorite music artists atm are the smiths, jeff buckley, the cranberries, fleetwood mac, hozier and the cure. although i don’t really believe in astrology, i am such a cancer and get very emotional about things. my family and my friends mean more to me than anything else in the world and one of my main goals in life is to be the kindest, best listener i can possibly be <3

tysmm and i love your writing <3

i ship you with oscar piastri!

— ok so a lot of my reasoning for this is that in another writer’s celly i was shipped with oscar piastri, and girl YOU SOUND JUST LIKE ME WHAT ??!! 😭 but like after reading it it made so much sense ?? i’ll explain:

— first of all you sound adorable, like i’m building up a picture in my head and you and oscar look so cute together 🥹 obviously he’s not the tallest, but he’s still significantly taller than you, and you can bet he’s gonna tease you about it at every given opportunity 😭 (he’s such a little shit i’ll stand by this till i die) also i feel like he’d absolutely love your freckles !! like one of those slightly cliche moments where your s/o traces the freckles on your face ?? you know one of those moments ??? yeah, that’s oscar with you 😭 cue him zoning out trying to count them and you catching him just staring at you and he blushes so hard 🤭🤭

— the more i learn about oscar piastri the more i can picture him with a super intellectual s/o, not just because of the vibes, but also because i think he’d take a genuine interest. not a lot of people would be interested in things like classics and history (i mean in my opinion it’s literally the coolest thing ever but from experience not everyone agrees 😭) and oscar definitely thinks you’re like the coolest person on earth 😭 he’ll ask you loadsss of questions about it just so he can hear you talk 🥹 and you can bet he’ll try to learn as much about it as he possibly can so he can impress you 😏😏 the man is a SIMP

— i don’t know whether a lot of other f1 fans think this ??? but i feel like oscar has surprisingly diverse music taste 🤔 like i can definitely picture him being into some of the old classics rather than current mainstream music (à la sebastian vettel) so i feel like you guys would have LOADS in common when it comes to music. oscar is definitely a huge blur fan (idk why he’s giving damon albarn vibes to me) BUT his guilty pleasure music is the smiths and fleetwood mac !!!! he’s a soft boy at heart 🥹 he’ll literally make you custom playlists and buy you vinyls if you’re into that stuff (pro boyfriend behaviour honestly)

— i feel like oscar will quite often be the voice of reason in your relationship. i mean we’ve all seen how chill he is (he genuinely reminds me of kimi he’s just completely deadpan 😭) so when you get emotional about something he’s always there to talk you down and help you feel better 🥹 and he’d be such a good listener too !! this man will literally sit and let you rant for HOURS if you need to without losing concentration 🥹 i also feel like oscar sometimes bottles things up ?? so when you can sense he’s doing that, you always try to coax him out and get him to talk to you about whatever it is that’s bothering him. you guys genuinely tell each other everything. you’re his confidant, and he yours 🤍

— + bonus head cannon !! sometimes oscar will surprise you or turn up at yours a day or so early after his races, and every single time he’ll bring you a new piece of jewellery from whatever country he’s just been in: whether it’s your favourite novelty earrings or a necklace or bracelet from one of those independent jewellery stores (the best jewellery imo) and he’d love just seeing your face light up every time !! 🥹 it’s not a particularly expensive gift, but you both love the authenticity of it and how personal it is to you ❤️

[myladybelle]

𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍? | chapter fifteen

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: art donaldson x female!reader x patrick zweig 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’ve always been content being second place to your best friend tashi duncan, waiting for the day you can quit tennis. your world is upended when you meet art and patrick, and you’re forced to embrace a life in the sport you’ve been too afraid to claim for yourself. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 8.6k 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): challengers content warnings, swearing, alcohol consumption, description of a panic attack, reader wears a dress and heels at one point, use of y/n 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: wow, i can’t believe it’s been almost two months since i last updated this!! as always, i appreciate your patience so much. life has been pretty wacky crazy recently and it’s been hard to find the time to unwind and write. enjoy xx 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒, 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 – 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝟓, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟔. 𝟖:𝟎𝟎𝐏𝐌.

The cocktail party buzzed with conversation, the soft clink of glasses blending with the low hum of music from a corner of the room. People milled about in elegant but understated outfits—cocktail dresses, tailored blazers—their laughter and chatter filling the air, a symphony of mingling voices that seemed to stretch and echo in the lavish space. You had been to countless events like this since you started competing on the professional circuit, but tonight felt different. Tonight, you were sharing the spotlight with Art.

Your ex-boyfriend, first love, and the person you admired most.

It had been surprisingly easy to avoid Art since college. You saw each other at major events and tournaments, but there was always a distance between you; just enough to make the possibility of confrontation seem too painful to entertain. At this point in your career, you had fourteen Grand Slam wins under your belt, but you had never won in the same year as Art. That day, you had earned your second French Open title, but it was Art’s first.

And what better way to celebrate than by parading the winners around together for the cameras?

Avoiding him was somewhat impossible. You saw him as you walked in, standing by the bar with a beer in hand, his broad shoulders tense under a perfectly cut jacket. His dark blonde hair was a little shorter than you remembered, a few strands brushing his forehead in a way that made your chest tighten, like the string of a violin pulled too taut.

And then there was Tashi.

Your breath hitched—not in a romantic, heart-skipping way, but in a way that felt like you stumbled and caught yourself just before falling into the chasm of old wounds. You smoothed your dress—a fitted black Oscar de la Renta dress with delicate spaghetti straps, a tulle-panelled bodice adorned with soft ruffles, and a figure-hugging skirt that fell just below the knee, chosen to make you feel confident—and stepped further into the room. Your heart beat a little faster, the pulse thrumming painfully against your ribcage. The photographers were already circling, their lenses clicking like clockwork, their flashes staccato bursts of light that made your nerves tangle.

“Y/N! Over here! Smile for us!”

You managed a polite smile, forcing yourself to stay steady in your black heels, the sharp click of each step an echo of your unease, and let the people working the event usher you to the photo area. This was nothing new for you, but nothing could have prepared you for when Art joined you. He stood so close that you caught a faint trace of his cologne—the same one he used to wear in college. It was a delicate, familiar scent, wrapping around you like a storm cloud, pulling at the edges of your thoughts. You drew in a shaky breath, willing yourself to keep grinning at the cameras and not blink every time the flash went off.

“Congratulations,” Art said softly, his voice barely audible over the chaos. His words were like a weight landing on your chest, slow and inevitable.

“Congratulations to you too,” you replied, keeping your tone polite but distant, a mask carefully constructed over the trembling chaos inside. Even as you saw Art try to meet your gaze in your periphery, you kept your eyes on the cameras, focusing on nothing but the flashing lights, desperate to avoid that blue gaze.

“Closer! Let’s get the champions side by side!” one of the photographers called.

You felt Art’s arm brush your back as he shifted closer. The contact was brief but enough to send a shiver down your spine, a twinge of sensation that prickled your skin like a live wire. Dread filled you when you realised Art had probably felt the tremor. The heat from his proximity wrapped around you like the suffocating press of too many hands, and you couldn’t escape it.

“How have you been?” Art asked, his voice low and measured like a question long withheld.

You finally turned your head, catching his icy blue eyes. That was dangerous, you scolded yourself, hurriedly looking away, but not before you felt the sharp stab of nostalgia pierce through you, making your throat tighten.

“Busy. You know how it is,” came your aloof response.

His lips curved into a small smile. “Well, not really. This is only my second time winning a slam,” Art pointed out, his voice lingering in the space between you like an invitation for something more. He looked like he wanted to say more, but the photographers were shouting again, directing you into different poses.

You felt his gaze linger on you, the heat of it sinking into your skin, and you forced yourself to ignore it. Art still had that effortless charm, the kind that had drawn you to him in college. His presence was magnetic, tugging at the air between you. If you ignored all the ways he had changed physically—putting on more muscle, cutting his hair, and dressing differently—you could close your eyes and transport yourself back to your old Stanford dorm. Though you tried to ignore it, a small part of you ached. The part that remembered late-night conversations and how he used to make you laugh.

Tashi’s voice broke the moment. “Y/N, you look stunning.”

You turned to her, plastering on another smile, the effort of it making your jaw ache. “Thank you, so do you.” You hated pretending that the sight of Tashi didn’t make your skin crawl, but you endured it. The last thing you wanted was for the press coverage to be about petty drama instead of Art’s first French Open title.

Tashi did, of course, look stunning. Her deep orange dress matched the colour of the Roland-Garros clay court perfectly, the fabric gliding over her skin like liquid bronze, and her dark hair swept back in a way that accentuated her sharp cheekbones. But her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

You wondered, briefly, what she saw when she looked at you. Did she see you as the girl who used to share her secrets? Or the one who had walked away from it all?

Unlike your conversation with Art, it brought you physical pain to be nice to Tashi in public. The words felt like needles, sharp and unwelcome, threading into the fabric of your politeness. What she and Patrick had done the night he proposed to you was unforgivable, and—unless she contacted you stating that it was an emergency—you would never answer her calls willingly.

The evening passed in a blur of interviews, handshakes, and obligatory small talk. Art was always nearby, his laugh carrying over the noise, his presence impossible to ignore, like the weight of the air had changed. At dinner, he was seated beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours when you reached for your glass.

“Sorry,” he murmured, pulling back, and the softness of his voice made your chest tighten like a hand gently pressing down on the raw edges of a wound.

You shook your head quickly, avoiding his gaze. Tashi, seated on Art’s other side, noticed. She always noticed. Her eyes flicked between the two of you, her expression unreadable. When she leaned in to whisper something to Art, he nodded absently, his attention already back on you, as if the air between the two of you still held a charge, something neither of you could shake.

The tension was suffocating. You could feel the pulsing weight of it in your chest, the heat that rose in your cheeks, the way your breath seemed to falter when you were near him. It was all too much, and yet, nothing at all had changed.

As soon as dinner ended, you excused yourself, weaving through the crowd toward the quieter edges of the venue. A waiter passed by with a tray of champagne, and you took a glass, sipping it slowly as you tried to collect yourself. The party was vibrant, the room filled with laughter and music, but all you could focus on was the lingering warmth of Art’s presence. It seemed to follow you like a shadow that never quite left.

When you glanced back, you found him watching you again. Tashi stood beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm, but his eyes were locked on you.

Tashi saw everything. She always had. It was one of the things that made you such close friends back in college—her uncanny ability to read people, to pick up on things left unsaid. Even now, as she stood beside Art, she could see how his gaze drifted toward you. She’d always known part of him still belonged to you, no matter how many years passed. And she couldn’t even blame him.

You’d been careful, distant. You’d kept your distance for years, and yet tonight, here you were, glowing under the lights, every bit the woman Art had fallen for all those years ago and so much more. Tashi wasn’t angry, not really. If anything, she felt tired. Tired of the distance between her and Art, tired of the slow erosion of their marriage. She’d thought it would be easier by now—especially after they’d had Lily—but it was like covering a bullet wound with a bandaid. It was enough to ensure Tashi and Art would always be family and have a place in each other’s lives, but it wouldn’t save their romance.

Seeing you tonight—seeing how Art looked at you—brought it all rushing back. She excused herself, slipping away to the restroom to collect her thoughts. When she returned, Art was gone.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been wandering the estate grounds. The party continued in the distance, laughter and music drifting through the cool night air. Your feet ached, but the night was still young, and as you looked out over the glittering lights of Paris, you felt a strange sense of calm descend over you.

You found yourself drawn to a small fountain tucked away behind a hedge, its waters glowing under soft golden lights. The scene was quiet and peaceful—a welcome reprieve from the chaos inside. You set your champagne glass on the fountain edge and sat down, letting the cool night air soothe your nerves.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

The voice startled you, but you recognised it instantly. You turned, finding Art standing a few feet away, his tie loosened and his jacket draped over one arm. He looked as uneasy as you felt.

“Shouldn’t you be inside?” you asked, your voice carefully neutral. Please go back inside, you begged below your polite words. 

“Probably,” he admitted, stepping closer. “But so should you.”

You didn’t respond, turning back to the fountain. Art hesitated before sitting beside you, leaving a few inches of space between you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The gentle trickle of the fountain filled the silence.

“It’s been a long time,” he said, his voice soft.

“Five years,” you replied. Your tone was quieter than you intended.

You both knew exactly how long it had been. Five years since Patrick’s disastrous proposal. Five years since Art had found you, heartbroken and vulnerable, on that tear-soaked night. Neither of you said it, but the memory hung in the air between you, heavy and unspoken.

“How’s Tashi?” you asked after a moment, breaking the silence.

He hesitated. “She’s… good. She’s great.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. “That convincing, huh?”

Art let out a quiet laugh, but it lacked real humour. When he looked at you, his expression softened. And for a moment, it felt like no time had passed at all.

𝐀𝐓𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 – 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟒, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟏. 𝟏𝟐:𝟏𝟗𝐀𝐌.

Your eyes widened as you stared at Patrick, your heart pounding. The words hung in the air between you, almost tangible. You blinked, half-expecting the moment to dissolve into a dream. But there he was, standing before you, his face—previously full of hope and excitement—reduced to absolute terror by the question he had asked.

“So?” Patrick prompted, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. “Will you marry me?”

The world tilted. It was as if the axis of your life had shifted without warning, throwing you into uncharted territory. The room was the same as it had been a moment ago. But everything felt unfamiliar now—the weight of Patrick’s gaze, the quiet hum of the air conditioning, the distant chatter from the street outside. Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve, and you realised you hadn’t breathed since he first spoke.

Was he serious? He couldn’t be serious. Not now, not like this.

Patrick reached into his duffel bag by the door and retrieved a small velvet ring box. You covered your mouth with your hand when he opened it, revealing a delicate ring, the light catching on its surface. The diamonds sparkled, each facet glinting like a shard of frost on a winter morning.

Your heart stuttered, and a wave of panic surged through you. The pressure of the question pressed down harder, and your thoughts began to race, colliding in a chaotic mess. You loved him—you knew you loved him—but things had been hard recently. Patrick had been struggling, his insecurities bubbling to the surface more often.

What if this was his way of trying to hold onto you? What if this was about proving something to himself? Or proving to the tennis world that he could be a suitable partner for you even if he was less successful than you? Or to… anyone but the two of you?

“Y/N?” Patrick’s voice pulled you out of your spiralling thoughts. His face broke into a wide grin, misreading your silence. “I knew it! You’re so happy you’re speechless.” He shifted closer, holding the ring toward your finger. “Here, let me put it on you.”

“Wait,” you snapped out of your haze. You instinctively stepped aside, feeling a wave of claustrophobia with your back to the wall, and staggered toward the centre of the room. Your left hand was clutched in your right as if to shield your ring finger from the weight of Patrick’s question. “Just… wait.”

Patrick froze, confusion clouding his expression. “Wait? For what?”

You hesitated, fumbling for the right words. “Can I think about it?”

Patrick stared at you as if you’d suddenly spoken another language. “Think about it?” he repeated, his voice low with disbelief. “What… what is there to think about?”

You swallowed hard, guilt twisting in your stomach. “I don’t know if I’m ready to get married,” you stammered. The words felt foreign as they left your mouth, almost as shocking to you as they clearly were to him. 

Patrick’s face shifted, his joy giving way to an uneasy smile as he tried to brush your concern off. “We’re not eloping tomorrow or anything,” he said, a nervous laugh breaking the tension. “We can be engaged for as long as you want. I’m not in a rush. You can set the timeline. We’ll get married whenever you’re ready.”

You bit your lip, your mind still racing. Patrick was trying to keep things light, but your heart urged you to step back and process. “I know, but it’s not just that.” You winced. The way you worded it made it seem like there were a string of issues, which there were, but the last thing you wanted to do was hurt your boyfriend. “I wasn’t expecting this. I need time to settle into it.”

Patrick’s smile faltered, and you saw a flicker of hurt in his eyes. “Y/N,” he said slowly, his voice dipping lower. “Is this about Art and Tashi?”

The mention of your ex-boyfriend and ex-best friend caught you off guard. “What?”

“Is this because they got engaged?” Patrick pressed, his tone sharpening. “Because if it is, that’s–”

“No. Well, a little. But not because of me, because of you,” you explained. “I mean… you’ve been bringing them up almost every day for months. You mentioned them getting engaged again this morning. It’s not crazy that I’d think–”

“Oh, come on,” Patrick snapped, the hurt giving way to irritation. “Why would you even go there? This has nothing to do with them.”

“It’s not that far-fetched,” you shot back. Your voice rose despite yourself, the tension pulling at your every word. “You’ve been comparing us to them nonstop. How could I not think about it?”

Patrick sighed, dragging a hand through his dark curly hair. “Y/N, I’m not saying this because of them. I’m saying it because I love you,” he insisted. “Because I want to spend my life with you. You’ve always said you wanted that too.”

You nodded, your throat tight. “I do. I–” You stopped yourself, the weight of your words bearing down on you. “I just need time to process this. I’m not saying no, Patrick. I just… I wasn’t ready for this right now.”

The tension in the room grew unbearable. 

His shoulders slumped, and his free hand clenched into a fist. “You weren’t ready?” Patrick repeated, his voice trembling now, edged with frustration. His cheeks flushed, and his jaw tightened as he struggled to maintain his composure. “I don’t get it. You always talk about wanting to marry me, about having a family with me. And now, when I’m finally asking you, you’re not ready?”

You could feel tears threatening to surface. “I don’t know why,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I’m just not. I wasn’t expecting it. I need time, Patrick. Please.”

Patrick’s breath hitched, his eyes glistening. He turned his head away, clearly trying to stop the tears from falling, but his voice cracked when he spoke again. “I’m not gonna sit here hoping I’ll be good enough for you one day. If you don’t want to marry me, then just say it. Because I can’t–” He swallowed hard, his breath unsteady. “I can’t wait around for you. What am I supposed to do? Sit here and wonder if you want to marry me until you finally decide that you probably don’t?”

“That’s not fair,” you cried. “Patrick, please,” you said, stepping closer, your hands trembling as you reached for him. “I’m not saying no. I just need time to think. We both need to calm down and process this.”

Patrick whirled around and shouted, “You aren’t being fair! If it’s not a yes–” he said sharply, turning to you with a tear-streaked face– “then I’m done. This is it. You either want this or you don’t. Either you want me or you don’t.”

“Don’t say that,” you pleaded, your voice breaking. “Please don’t do this. Don’t make this an ultimatum. I’m not saying no. I’m just asking for time.” You reached out to him, your hands trembling. “You know I love you. I–”

“Do you?” Patrick cut you off, his voice rising now, pain in every syllable. “Because it sure doesn’t feel like it right now.” He was shaking as he tried to stop crying. His eyes were red and a deep, dark blue-green you had never seen before. “I’m done waiting around hoping that I can be good enough for you one day–” Patrick said, his chest heaving with each breath, “I won’t be your fallback. You either say yes, now, or it’s over.”

Your heart sank as the finality of his words hit you like a tidal wave. The room seemed to close in on you. You opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Patrick stood there, giving you one last chance, his eyes searching your face for a response.

Shaking your head, tears streamed down your face. Patrick stared at you, his expression hardening as if the vulnerability had been carved away, replaced with something cold and distant.

“I can’t,” you sobbed, your voice trembling. “I can’t say yes right now, I’m sorry. Please, don’t–”

But he didn’t give you the chance to finish. Patrick turned away from you, wiping his face with his hand, trying to control the tears threatening to spill. He was angry; so angry, but there was so much pain in his eyes that you couldn’t breathe.

“You know what?” Patrick said, his voice shaking with fury. “Maybe you should just go back to your mother’s house. You want time? Take all the time you need. But I won’t be there waiting around for you to win another Grand Slam. I’m done.”

You froze. The words hit you like a slap. Your mother’s house. The place the two of you had made your home base for the last few years—had referred to as your shared home. Hearing Patrick rebrand your safe space as a house where every room was haunted by the ghost of your mother’s neglect and resentment hurt almost as much as Patrick’s ultimatum. 

Your whole body trembled as the old wounds reopened, raw and painful. You reached for Patrick, but he was already storming out—the ring box still clutched tightly in his hand. As the door slammed behind him, you sank to your knees, the weight of the moment crashing over you, leaving you broken and alone. For the first time, you truly understood the depth of what was at stake. But even as your heart screamed at you to fix it, to say something, you couldn’t find the words to make it right.

You felt the cracks in your chest deepen as you stayed on the floor, your body shaking like the last leaves on a tree caught in autumn’s final gust. Your hotel room felt distant, as though you weren’t in it. Your palms were flat against the floor, fingers splayed out on the carpet to hold yourself steady, but the tremors only intensified.

You didn’t know how long it had been since Patrick left, but the silence that followed his absence was suffocating. It pressed against your ribs like the weight of a thousand unspoken words, a thousand apologies you never thought you’d need to say.

Your breath hitched again, catching in the back of your throat. Panic rose like a wave, and the world tilted dangerously on its axis. The walls seemed to close in, each inhale feeling tighter, colder, more impossible. Your chest was tight with something raw, something dangerous—this feeling of being unmoored. Of not having a place to land. Of not knowing if you’d ever stop falling. The room tilted again, but this time, it wasn’t the room; it was you.

Your hands shook so badly that you barely noticed the tears until they stung your skin. They were hot and angry, but they didn’t belong to any one thing. They didn’t belong to the breakup—not entirely. They belonged to the feeling of losing control, of losing everything at once, and most of all, to the gaping emptiness threatening to swallow you whole.

The silence was deafening. All you could hear was your own rapid breathing, the frantic beat of your heart, and the staccato sound of your shallow gasps for air. You could feel your pulse pounding in your neck, a rhythmic reminder of how fragile everything was. How everything could shatter in the span of a few words.

You want time? Take all the time you need. But I won’t be there waiting around for you to win another Grand Slam. I’m done.

The words echoed in your mind, repeated like a drumbeat, over and over until they lost meaning. Until all you heard was a blur of syllables and your heart thudding in your ears.

Your fingers pressed harder into the carpet, your nails digging into the plush fabric as if somehow this would ground you. As if somehow this would keep you from floating off into the ether. You had to breathe. You had to stop this. You knew this was a panic attack—the kind that built from something small and spiralled until it felt like you were drowning in your own mind—but it had been so many years since you’d last had one that it caught you off guard.

The tightness in your chest pulled deeper. The weight of it was unbearable. It felt like a boulder sitting on your lungs. No matter how much you tried to push it off, it stayed. You tried to inhale, to hold it steady, but your breath came out in short, stuttering bursts. It was too much. It was all too much.

The air felt thick and heavy. It was thick with the absence of Patrick, with the sting of the finality in his words. And there was nothing you could do to stop it. You couldn’t pull him back. You couldn’t change the past few hours. The finality was there, like a door slammed shut with too much force, leaving you standing on the other side, wondering if you ever had the key. After everything you and Patrick had been through, he ended it like it meant nothing to him.

You forced yourself to take a breath, but the air felt thick in your throat. It burned. It wasn’t enough, and your hands began to tremble more violently, your legs aching as they tried to hold you, to keep you from crumbling.

But then, slowly, you managed to take another breath. And another. And another. Each one was shaky at first, like the tentative steps of someone who’d just learned to walk. But the fog started to lift, even if just a little, the sharp edges of your panic beginning to dull as your breath steadied. Your hands stopped trembling.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. And in that moment, something was enough.

You reached for your phone, the screen glowing in the dim room, and typed a quick message to your dad. You needed to go. You couldn’t stay in that house anymore. You couldn’t go back to the place where ghosts of the past haunted every corner, every creaking floorboard. It had been a place of refuge for a time, and it was easy with Patrick by your side, but now it was just a tomb. 

You sent the text, feeling the weight of it settle into your bones like a quiet resignation. The words were a decision. A choice. It was time to leave.

But even as you pressed send, your mind raced back to Patrick. To the way his voice cracked when he told you he was done. To the way he walked out, leaving behind a vacuum where he had once stood. You didn’t want the night to end this way, and you definitely didn’t want your relationship to be over. Not like this.

You gathered your courage, your breath still shaky, and you called him. Patrick’s phone rang somewhere in the hotel room; he hadn’t taken it with him. Of course, he didn’t. All he was holding when he walked out was the ring box. 

He was probably already miles away by now, distancing himself from whatever just happened between you two. Your fingers trembled again as you ended the call, but your eyes caught the gleam of his car keys on the nightstand, his wallet next to it. He’d left his things there. He was gone, but he hadn’t gone far.

Your heart beat faster as a strange sense of urgency rose inside you. You needed to find him. He couldn’t be out there alone, not after everything. The night was dark, and he was vulnerable, just like you. And if something happened to him, you’d never forgive yourself.

You grabbed Patrick’s wallet and keys, sliding them into your bag, but your body protested. It ached, exhausted, and yet you pushed yourself out the door and into the night, your feet carrying you through the empty streets. The world around you felt cold, too cold for comfort, but you pressed on. You couldn’t stop now.

You turned the corner, walking faster, your breath quickening as you scanned the streets, asking every passerby if they’d seen a man with dark curly hair wearing a grey t-shirt. But no one had seen him. No one knew where he’d gone. The night stretched out before you like an endless maze. With every passing moment, your panic returned, hotter this time, suffocating.

You pulled out your phone again, eyes blurry with the beginnings of a panic attack. The tears threatened to fall, but you couldn’t afford to let them. You couldn’t afford to break down out there, not like this, not alone.

Your thumb hovered over Patrick’s name in your contacts, but then you stopped.

Your breath caught as you thought of Art. You hadn’t talked to him in months. Not since your birthday, and even then, it had been only a brief conversation, polite but distant. You didn’t know why you reached for him now. Maybe it was because he was part of your past, someone familiar who still knew you. Maybe it was because he was close—he was playing in the Atlanta Open finals tomorrow.

You pressed the call button before you could second-guess yourself.

His voice was immediate, calm and steady, like the anchor you didn’t know you needed. “Y/N?” Art asked, his tone surprised. You shut your eyes, nearly weeping at the familiar timbre of his voice. It was like a weighted blanket, pushing down on your chest and reminding you that it would be okay. “What’s wrong?”

The panic rose again, sharper this time, and you choked on your words as you explained between sobs, between breaths. You told him you didn’t know what was happening, that Patrick was gone, and you didn’t know where he went, that you were scared. You were scared of everything.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Art said, his voice never wavering, never questioning. “Where are you?”

You told him that you were near a hotel, walking around, asking people if they’d seen Patrick, but it was no use.

“That’s where I’m staying. I’ll meet you in the lobby. Stay on the phone,” Art instructed firmly. “Keep breathing.”

His voice, steady and unwavering, was a balm to your raw nerves, a lifeline thrown out into the sea of your panic. Art was here. Art was going to fix it. Art was safe. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to breathe, to feel the fragile comfort of knowing you didn’t have to face this alone.

Art arrived at the hotel lobby, his heart still thumping erratically from his conversation with you. He glanced around, eyes scanning the space for a familiar face. But a fleeting glimpse of something else caught his attention first: Tashi.

She was sitting at the lobby bar, her dark hair shimmering under the low lights, the soft curve of her cheek reflecting the warmth of her drink. Across from her sat Patrick with his familiar curly hair, with his hand wrapped around Tashi’s hand. It was clear they were in the middle of an intimate conversation across the small table, but Art couldn’t make out Patrick’s expression.

Art froze, his body tensing. He was rooted to the spot, struggling to piece together the sight before him. Tashi, his fiancée, and Patrick, your boyfriend. What was she doing with him? Especially after you were in such a panic about Patrick’s whereabouts. It didn’t add up.

“Art? Mr. Donaldson?” Art turned around to see a fan smiling widely at him. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe my luck that I would run into you so late at night,” she expressed. Digging through her bag for a marker, the fan asked, “Um, would you, uh–” She handed him her boyfriend’s cap to sign.

“Sure, yeah,” Art readily agreed. He tried to sound cheerful despite the confusing sight of Tashi and Patrick lingering in the background. Art took the pen, offering a polite smile, and scribbled his signature across the brim of the cap. “There you go.”

“Thank you,” the fan said warmly.

“Thank you,” Art echoed. 

He turned back to the corner of the bar to find Tashi and Patrick’s seats vacant. Art looked around quizzically, trying to figure out where they went. He stood for a moment, disoriented, the sight of them together stirring something deep within him. But before he could lose himself further in his thoughts, a burst of energy and warmth rushed through the lobby. 

It was you.

Your face was still streaked with tears, but you looked beautiful. It had been a few months since he last saw you at a tournament, and he hadn’t expected to see you at the male-only Atlanta Open. Like always, you were a breath of fresh air. It was like Art had been slowly suffocating and you were the oxygen that filled his lungs once more.

Without hesitation, you rushed through the lobby and threw yourself into his arms, wrapping him in a tight hug. “Oh my God, Art!” you exclaimed, your voice full of relief. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Art’s chest tightened as he held you. His arms wrapped around you tightly, instinctively trying to offer you comfort, his mind still whirring over the strange encounter with Tashi and Patrick. But for now, all that mattered was you and how your body shook in his arms, the weight of everything crashing down on you.

“I’ve got you,” Art whispered, brushing a strand of your hair out of your face as you pulled back, your tear-filled eyes locking with his.

You moved to the couches in the lobby, settling into a corner with a drink in hand. Art watched you as you wiped your eyes, trying to steady your breath.

“Where do I even start?” you murmured, shaking your head, eyes darting around the room. “I’m such a mess, Art. Everything is… everything’s broken and wrong.”

Art took your hand gently, squeezing it in reassurance. “Tell me what happened,” he said softly, his voice steady.

Your breath caught as you exhaled slowly, beginning to explain what had happened between you and Patrick that evening. Your voice trembled with each word as you recounted how Patrick had told you he was done if you didn’t agree to marry him, how everything had spiralled into a confrontation you couldn’t escape.

“I just don’t understand,” you whispered, your voice raw. “I thought we were okay. We were so happy, Art. But then… then it just fell apart. It all just fell apart.”

Art’s mind wandered back to the strange scene he had witnessed moments ago, Tashi and Patrick in the bar, their proximity oddly intimate. His stomach churned. He wanted to believe that your heartbreak had nothing to do with Tashi, that Patrick wouldn’t do something like that. But a part of him couldn’t shake the suspicion.

Your words began to blur, your pain seeping through in every syllable. Art kept his gaze fixed on you, trying to stay focused, but the more you spoke, the more he felt a sinking dread in his chest.

“I don’t want to believe it,” Art said quietly, more to himself than to you. “But I think… I think Patrick and Tashi are together right now.”

Your face fell, brows knitting in confusion. “No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “No, I—I don’t believe that. I don’t.”

Art felt a painful ache in his chest, a knot forming in his stomach. He knew it was hard to accept, but the pieces were falling into place.

“I don’t think Patrick would cheat on you,” he said carefully. “But he’s going through so much right now. I think… I think he might have pushed you away, Y/N, but maybe not because he didn’t care. It’s like he’s trying to protect himself from getting hurt again. And–” Art hesitated, trying to find the words that didn’t feel like betrayal. “And maybe the way he would try to heal, to deal with everything, is to have a one-night stand with Tashi.”

Your lips widened in horror. You shook your head again, trying to push the thought away. But the way your lips trembled told Art that deep down, you understood. “I… I don’t think so. It’s not possible. Tashi and Patrick?” your voice wavered with disbelief. “That doesn’t make any sense. He wouldn’t do that.”

Art lowered his gaze, his voice quiet. “I don’t know… I saw them sitting together in the bar. I don’t know what that means, but I don’t think it’s good. You don’t know how things have been since Tashi and I got engaged. I thought everything was fine, and then she... she just couldn’t handle it. Especially with how you’ve been dominating in tennis. She couldn’t stand seeing you succeed, not after everything. Things have been hard for us, and maybe she needs this. We never really understood their relationship when they started seeing each other all those years ago. They were never… together, but they had a way of comforting each other that I could never replicate.”

You recoiled slightly. “No,” you said again, shaking your head more frantically now. “I don’t want to believe it. Not Tashi. Not Patrick. They wouldn’t do this to me, they know that this–” You inhaled sharply. “This would destroy me.”

Art sighed deeply, his heart heavy. He wished there was another explanation, but he knew deep down that his instincts were rarely wrong. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I just think that if you’re right, and Patrick really is done, then he knows he has to hurt you. Because you’re the kind of person who fights for what they want until it’s no longer an option. I don’t think Patrick wants you to fight for him anymore. He wants you to hate him, and I think this is how he’s going to do it.”

You looked away, your face filled with tragic sadness as you fought to keep yourself together. Art could see it in your eyes—you were trying to hold everything in, to protect yourself from the truth.

“I need to leave,” you murmured after a long pause, your voice thick with emotion. You stood up, clutching your bag tightly in your hand. “I can’t stay here. I can’t be around this anymore. I need to get out.”

Art stood, his hand instinctively reaching out to you.

“Don’t go,” he said gently. “Please. I don’t want you to be alone right now.”

“I need space. I just… I need space,” you whispered, your voice breaking. Without another word, you turned and walked toward the door, your steps slow but determined.

Art watched you go, his chest heavy with the weight of everything he had said, everything you were feeling. He couldn’t stop you.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that this night was just the beginning.

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒, 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 – 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝟓, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟔. 𝟏𝟎:𝟏𝟓𝐏𝐌.

You looked at Art, your heart thudding in your chest as the years between you two melted away in the quiet, charged space around the water fountain. There was something unspoken. Something in his light blue eyes that reminded you of the days when things had felt simpler. You had both been so much younger in college, so much more naive about what would come, about where you would end up. The lives you had now—separate but somehow still linked in the quietest ways—felt like they belonged to someone else.

Ever the gentleman, Art slipped his jacket around your shoulders, and you closed your eyes, relishing his familiar scent. His comforting action was so natural that it sent you back nearly ten years when you first fell in love with him. You settled beside him, the faint rush of water the only sound for a moment before he broke the silence.

“So, how’s it going?” Art asked, his voice soft, trying to sound casual though there was an undercurrent of concern. “All the success, everything... how are you really doing?”

You chuckled, a hollow sound that didn’t express joy or amusement. “Oh, I’m good. Really good,” you said, though the words felt strange, foreign on your tongue. “Just... lonely, you know?”

Art’s brow furrowed, a flicker of sympathy crossing his face. “Lonely? With everything you’ve built?” he asked, incredulous.

You nodded, the weight of his question pressing down on you. “Yeah. I don’t really have anyone except my dad. No partner. No friends.” You paused, swallowing thickly, unsure whether you wanted to say the next part. But you did, anyway. “Everyone’s always using me, Art. Like... like some accessory to parade around, not a person. And the few people who could have been close, the ones I thought would be–” You sighed, rubbing your forehead, trying to keep the bitter edge from your voice. “My closest friend, Elora, she’s too busy being my manager, too busy planning my life to actually be my best friend. I know she loves me and sees me as more than her client, but the little free time she has is spent with her wife and kid, so I don’t really fit into her life like I used to.”

Art’s expression softened, his eyes locking with yours as if searching for the deeper meaning behind your words. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” he said quietly. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” you admitted, staring down at the water, feeling your chest tighten. “I thought I could handle it, you know? But sometimes I wonder if I’ve just become this... this shell of what I wanted to be.”

He exhaled slowly, his gaze far away for a moment before he spoke again, quieter this time. “I’m sorry you’re going through that. I know you wanted more. You deserve more.”

You felt your heartbeat quicken at his words, a rush of something unexpected—something raw—coursing through you. But before you could let it settle, Art turned to you, his eyes heavy with something unsaid; something darker than you expected.

“I’m... I’m not doing too well, either,” he confessed, his voice laced with a sadness you hadn’t noticed before. “Tashi and I are separating.” Art let the words hang in the air, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause.

You blinked at him, your breath catching in your throat. “What? But... I thought everything was good. You two have a daughter.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you saw the way Art’s eyes clouded, a mixture of regret and something else flickering beneath the surface.

“We do,” he confirmed, the words heavy, each weighed down by something painful. “But... we haven’t been in love for a long time. Our daughter, she was... well, we wanted kids. Not because we were so madly in love we had to procreate. We just... wanted kids.” He paused as if trying to explain the hollow truth of it. “The love went away, Y/N. It left years ago. I don’t know if it was ever really there, or if we both just wanted to be close to you somehow.”

You didn’t know what to say. The reality of it was too much, too sudden. The image of Art—always so solid, so strong—shaken, cracked in a way you didn’t know was possible, made something inside you ache. You wanted to reach out, to fix it, but you knew there was nothing you could say. Not now.

The silence that followed felt too long, stretching between you both like a gap too wide to cross. The water bubbled in the background, the only sound now, filling the empty spaces around your words.

“I never knew,” you murmured, your voice barely audible. “I always thought that the love was always there, even when you and I… Anyway, I guess I thought I was in the way. That you finally found happiness together. I’m sorry that wasn’t the case.”

Art smiled wryly, though there was no humour in it. “Yeah. We’re keeping it under wraps. It was easier that way, I guess. Easier to pretend everything was fine when it wasn’t. Especially with Tashi being my coach.”

You shifted beside him, your heart racing in your chest, and for a brief moment, everything felt so impossibly tangled. For so long, you’d been feeling like nobody in the world understood how you felt. But Art did. Art always understood you. Just as his relationship with Tashi had been relegated to a professional one, your friendship with Elora had done the same. 

You wanted to ask him more; wanted to understand what had happened, but there was something more pressing in the air between you—something unsaid. The space between you, the physical distance that had always felt safe before, now felt too wide, like a canyon you couldn’t cross. You were both standing on the edge of something, not quite ready to leap, but afraid of falling into it. And yet, there it was: the undeniable pull, like gravity, drawing you closer.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him. “I’m sorry about everything.”

Art didn’t respond right away. His gaze locked on you, his lips pressing together in a way that made his jaw tighten. For a moment, neither of you spoke, and then, as if pulled by some unseen force, he leaned in slightly. Just enough to make you feel the shift in the air.

Your heart skipped. Your breath hitched.

And in that moment, neither of you moved. Your lips were close. So close that you could feel the heat from his skin, the warmth of his breath, but you both stopped. Just a whisper away from something you didn’t know if you should want. You closed your eyes instinctively, letting your pulse race, the ache in your chest growing sharper. You wanted it. You wanted him. More than you could admit to yourself.

You both leaned in again, drawn to each other with a magnetic pull that neither could resist. The air between you was thick with the things left unsaid, the years of longing and unresolved feelings flooding back. You could feel his warmth, the faint tremor in his breath as his lips moved closer to yours. For a second, you could have sworn everything in the world had narrowed down to this moment, this breath, this longing.

Your heart raced in your chest, and everything about this felt like it was meant to happen. The rush of emotion was so intense it hurt, and for one fleeting moment, you thought, Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the moment where everything changes.

And then—as his lips hovered so close, barely brushing yours—your voice broke the silence, barely a whisper in the still air. “You’re married.”

The silence between you was suffocating now, and you fought against the tightness that had formed in your chest. You pulled away. It wasn’t fast, but it was firm. A sudden, painful decision. You took a sharp breath, heart hammering in your chest as you stood, your legs shaking beneath you.

“Art…” Your voice broke. A jagged edge of regret cut through you. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. Not clearly, at least.

He stood beside you, his gaze locked on you, confusion flickering in his eyes. “Y/N?” His voice was soft and uncertain, but there was hope there too. Hope that you both knew couldn’t come to fruition, not like this.

“You’re married,” you said again, the words like acid on your tongue. You swallowed the lump in your throat, your pulse pounding in your ears. “You’re married, Art. And I can’t... I can’t do this to someone else.”

Art blinked, the shock in his eyes growing as you spoke. “I–”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head, your eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I can’t. I can’t be the other woman. Not after everything with Tashi, and the night Patrick proposed, I just can’t do it.” Your eyes and nose stung with the onset of tears. 

The memories of that night—of seeing Patrick leave the hotel when you went to get some air and realising Art had been right; of realising your trust had been shattered, your heart broken, all because of their betrayal; of realising Patrick and Tashi would rather hurt you than set aside their pride and try to make things right with you—rushed back in full force.

You had loved Art, so deeply, once. And to see him like this now, so close, so familiar, and yet so far away, it was unbearable. But what was worse was knowing that, at this moment, you couldn’t be the reason he hurt someone else. You couldn’t be the one to cause pain the way you’d felt it.

Art’s expression shifted, like the weight of your words finally registered, and the hurt in his eyes was a mirror of the pain you felt. He reached out as if he wanted to bridge the distance, but his hand faltered in the air.

“Y/N…” he said delicately, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m not... I’m not happy, Y/N. I’m not in love with Tashi. I haven’t been for years. I don’t know if I ever actually– But she’s my wife. And I haven’t figured out how to end it... not yet. I don’t have the courage."

The words hit you harder than you expected. You knew this. Deep down, you’d known. Art was always the kind of person who would stay until the other person told him to leave. It was why you had to be the first one to say your relationship wasn’t working anymore in college. Art would have stayed with you, even through the pain. And now, Tashi was who he would stay with. Hearing him say it out loud made the reality all the more painful. 

“I don’t know if I’ll ever have the courage,” he added, his voice low and raw. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I never wanted to hurt you, Y/N. But I’m stuck. I’m stuck between what I want and what I’m supposed to do.”

You closed your eyes, the ache in your chest intensifying. You wanted to scream, to tell him to leave Tashi, to choose you. But the reality was crueller than that. He hadn’t left her, not truly, and maybe, just maybe, he never would. Inhaling shakily, you tried to steady yourself.

“You’re still married.” You tried to keep your voice steady, but the pain was so raw it broke through. “You haven’t ended it. You haven’t set yourself free.” A tear slipped down your cheek, and you quickly wiped it away, embarrassed by the display of emotion. “You have a family, and I respect that. But I can’t be the reason someone else gets hurt. Not even Tashi.”

A painful silence followed. You both stood there, inches apart, each feeling the pull of what could be and the harshness of what already was. You wanted to kiss him, to give in to the desire that burned between you, but you knew you couldn’t. Not while he was still tethered to Tashi, even in this broken state.

“I need to go,” you whispered, your voice faltering. The words were hollow, but they were all you had left.

He didn’t stop you. He couldn’t. Not when he knew the truth of what he was holding onto, and what he had already lost. “I’m sorry,” Art murmured, his voice strained with the weight of everything unsaid.

You shook your head, trying to hold yourself together. “No, it’s not your fault,” you said, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. “It’s mine too. I’m sorry too. For the record…” you paused, wondering if you had the courage to confess something you’d only told yourself on your darkest, saddest days. “You’re the guy I wish I had fought harder to be with.”

And as you walked, you knew you had done the right thing. But it didn’t make it any easier.

[haroldgross]

New Post has been published on Harold Gross: The 5a.m. Critic

New Post has been published on https://literaryends.com/hgblog/oscars-2024-final-call-2/

Oscars 2024 (final call)

What a great year for film. Surprise after surprise, despite the various delays and strikes and controversies. The breadth of the subject matter, the quality of the performances, the brilliance of the execution, the intelligence and  emotional impact of the writing is truly exciting.

Admittedly not all of the films had all of these things. And only one can win in each category. And, yes, some of this will come down to industry politics as it does in all awards situations, but the stack to choose from is high enough quality that we shouldn’t be dealing with any feelings of betrayal, only disappointment for our own selections. And, yes, I’m preparing for my own on that front.

Also, I’m going on the record with my picks and predictions, as has become my habit. If nothing else, it helps keep me honest with myself! As usual, I’ll follow up with the results and my hit-rate.

Actor in a Leading Role

Bradley Cooper (Maestro) Colman Domingo (Rustin) Paul Giamatti (The Holdovers) Cillian Murphy (Oppenheimer) Jeffrey Wright (American Fiction)

This category was locked for a while, and then came Giamatti with The Holdovers. It’s a great performance, perhaps his best. And Giamatti is a likeable guy as a surprisingly likeable character in a film full of nostalgia. For a while it looked like he might overtake Murphy, but the final big awards going to Murphy suggest that isn’t a possibility. If there is an unexpected announcement I wouldn’t be upset, but I’d be surprised. And, honestly, I think Murphy’s Oppenheimer has much more road to travel and with much greater challenges.

My choice: Cillian Murphy Likely winner: Cillian Murphy

Actress in a Leading Role

Annette Bening (Nyad) Lily Gladstone (Killers of the Flower Moon) Sandra Hüller (Anatomy of a Fall) Carey Mulligan (Maestro) Emma Stone (Poor Things)

Another packed category, to say the least. Bening’s Nyad is really amazing, but she’s a hard character to bond with. You cheer her on, but she isn’t very likeable, which doesn’t help in awards season. Hüller and Mulligan are also both fabulous in their respective roles. But this category has been a Stone vs. Gladstone battle from near the start. Frankly, I think Stone is the more complex and interesting and effective performance. But Gladstone does huge work with near silence at times, which is no small feat. It has been a toss up until recently. At this point, I think Gladstone walks away with the statuette. It is certainly earned, but it isn’t my pick.

My choice: Emma Stone Likely winner: Lily Gladstone

Actor in a Supporting Role

Sterling K. Brown (American Fiction) Robert De Niro (Killers of the Flower Moon) Robert Downey Jr. (Oppenheimer) Ryan Gosling (Barbie) Mark Ruffalo (Poor Things)

This was an easy category. Brown is the only contender that made me pause. Gosling was fine, but it wasn’t a brilliant performance so much as a fun one. Downey’s work was layered and twisted and believable and flooring. He is the unspoken spine of the movie in many ways that don’t become clear till near the end. And while much credit goes to Nolan on that, a good deal is at Downey’s feet as well.

My choice: Robert Downey Jr.  Likely winner: Robert Downey Jr.

Actress in a Supporting Role

Emily Blunt (Oppenheimer) Danielle Brooks (The Color Purple) America Ferrera (Barbie) Jodie Foster (Nyad) Da’Vine Joy Randolph (The Holdovers)

This has been Randolph’s from the start. As good as the rest were, Randolph owned that screen and lifted the story in ways that the others didn’t get the chance to do.

My choice: Da’Vine Joy Randolph Likely winner: Da’Vine Joy Randolph

Directing

Jonathan Glazer (The Zone of Interest) Yorgos Lanthimos (Poor Things) Christopher Nolan (Oppenheimer) Martin Scorsese (Killers of the Flower Moon) Justine Triet (Anatomy of a Fall)

Directors had quite a range of movies in style and topic this year. But anyone who can make a 3 hour movie that is mostly talking about physics, philosophy, and politics fly by in a tense and entertaining way has my vote. I say this having loved most of the rest. I think Lanthimos and Scorsese underdelivered in some ways, but Triet’s effort was brilliant…and absent Oppenheimer I may well have voted for her. But Nolan’s the far favorite here and well earned.

My choice: Christopher Nolan Likely winner: Christopher Nolan

Writing (Adapted Screenplay)

“American Fiction” — Cord Jefferson “Barbie” — Greta Gerwig, Noah Baumbach “Oppenheimer” — Christopher Nolan “Poor Things” — Tony McNamara “The Zone of Interest” — Jonathan Glazer

Of course the big controversy here is Barbie. There just is no real justification for it being forced into this category. It would have been its consolation prize, and may still be. But, honestly, it just doesn’t have the same amount of meat on the bones as the others and, in an honest world, it doesn’t have a chance. But it still may upset. Of the remaining, I’m leaning toward Oppenheimer again. Poor Things is great, but imperfect (and probably too odd for the Academy). And American Fiction is satire in a way that also slaps some of the hands that must vote for it. But it does have an edge having secured the BAFTA, and folks want to give it something. But I’m betting on the Oppenheimer wave.

My choice: Oppenheimer  Likely winner: Oppenheimer

Writing (Original Screenplay)

“Anatomy of a Fall” — Justine Triet, Arthur Harari “The Holdovers” — David Hemingson “Maestro” — Bradley Cooper, Josh Singer “May December” — Samy Burch, Alex Mechanik “Past Lives” — Celine Song

This is one of the tougher categories. I don’t think Maestro or May December deserve the honors here. But the remaining three are all impressive. However, since we’re forced to pick one, the question comes down to whether Holdovers or Anatomy get it because they couldn’t pick up other rewards. Certainly, the smart money is on one of those two. To my mind, however, Past Lives is the best script overall, though Anatomy really is a close second and may just get it.

My choice: Past Lives Likely winner: Anatomy of a Fall

Best Picture

American Fiction Anatomy of a Fall Barbie The Holdovers Killers of the Flower Moon Maestro Oppenheimer Past Lives Poor Things The Zone of Interest

Honestly, there is no perfect answer for this category. Past Lives is one of the quietest, sweetest movies I’ve seen in a long time. It reminded me of The Farewell in that, but with much more control. Anatomy of a Fall is unexpectedly gripping, despite being a tale told in a very clinical way. Killers of the Flower Moon is an important story lost to most classrooms, and it is laid out with massive talent and scope. Poor Things is a wild fantasy with a sledgehammer of a point. American Fiction is clever and delivered wonderfully. Barbie, Holdovers, and Maestro likewise. And Zone of Interest, even with its late surge, is also in Best International which is where it is more likely to win.

But purely from an overall craft point of view, accepting that all of these films belong in the category, Oppenheimer has more of the points in the same bucket than any of them, despite some script weaknesses. It grabs you and never lets you go for 3+ hours. There isn’t a weak performance in there. The technical aspects are impeccable (even if you disagree with the booming sound levels, they were done for a reason). It is the best picture of the lot, even if some of the others are ones we’re more likely to come back to more often.

My choice: Oppenheimer Likely winner: Oppenheimer

International Feature Film

Io Capitano, Italy Perfect Days, Japan Society of the Snow, Spain The Teachers’ Lounge, Germany The Zone of Interest, United Kingdom

I was very frustrated this year by not being able to see most of the nominees in this category. Given the chatter, however, I think the likely winner, for sheer audacity if nothing else, is Zone of Interest. Also, it’s a way to give Hueller her due since Anatomy of a Fall isn’t likely to pick up much. Zone has multiple nominations and, other than sound, isn’t likely to win any of them either. But it speaks to its level of quality.

My choice: The Zone of Interest Likely winner: The Zone of Interest

Animated Feature Film

The Boy and the Heron Elemental Nimona Robot Dreams Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse

What a fabulous range of flicks, though as of the ceremony I’ll only have seen trailers of two of them. Spider-Man continues to wow audiences and awards (like the Annies). It is the smart choice. But Boy and the Heron may well pick it up for the sentimentality and farewell to Miyazaki…but how many times can you cry “last film” and have folks believe you?

My choice: Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse Likely winner: Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse

Documentary Feature Film

Bobi Wine: The People’s President The Eternal Memory Four Daughters To Kill a Tiger 20 Days in Mariupol

Five challenging stories told with skill and emotion. Four Daughters is by far the most inventive, but it has issues as a movie. My guess is that 20 Days will take this. It is topical, ongoing, and brings us all into the story by showing us the expanded view behind the images we all saw during the outbreak of the war in Ukraine. That doesn’t take anything away from the others, but universality and continuing story help it stand out.

My choice: 20 Days in Mariupol Likely winner: 20 Days in Mariupol

Live Action Short Film

The After* Invincible Knight of Fortune* Red, White and Blue The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar*

This may be one of the few areas where the voters will be willing to give Netflix a serious nod. Let’s face it, there just aren’t many venues to produce and show shorts in mainstream media. Not only did Netflix give Anderson a home to show off his work (a collection of several Roald Dahl stories) but financed it. That alone should get them a nod. But the truth is, the result is utterly wonderful. Not that Knight of Fortune isn’t also solid, and should be sought out, but Henry Sugar is packed with production values and story and acting that puts it well above the rest.

[* = was able to see it]

My choice: Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar Likely winner: Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar

Documentary Short Film

The ABCs of Book Banning* The Barber of Little Rock* Island in Between* The Last Repair Shop* Nai Nai & Wài Pó*

These are wonderful in their way and should also be seen. Barber for its tale of entrepreneurial success and overcoming systemic racism. Island in Between for its perspective. ABCs for a reverse look at the issues in a way that just might get through. And Nai Nai for its delightful humor (even through the credits) and warmth. But only Last Repair Shop has the scope and range that marks a solid documentary. The connection to music is attached to each person in different ways and with different meanings but with an overall goal that is brought together at the end. It is the richest of the bunch and will brighten any dark day.

[* = was able to see it]

My choice: The Last Repair Shop Likely winner: The Last Repair Shop

Animated Short Film

Letter to a Pig Ninety-Five Senses* Our Uniform Pachyderme War Is Over! Inspired by the Music of John & Yoko

I’ve only managed to catch one of the nominee’s as the ceremony comes around. But from what I’ve read, War is Over is the far favorite, and has a great pedigree in previous nominee Dave Mullins. It also won the Annie earlier this year.

[* = was able to see it]

Likely winner: War Is Over! Inspired by the Music of John & Yoko

Film Editing

Anatomy of a Fall The Holdovers Killers of the Flower Moon Oppenheimer Poor Things

Editing made Oppenheimer. It set the pace and kept multiple time lines straight. It switched visual formats and managed not only not to make a hash of it all, but to be almost invisible and yet still impactful. None of the other films come close, and the Editors guild thought so as well.

My choice: Oppenheimer Likely winner: Oppenheimer

Cinematography

El Conde Killers of the Flower Moon Maestro Oppenheimer Poor Things

While the winner is somewhat a given, El Conde should have given it some run for its money. It is an odd and wonderful film in B&W and uses the screen in wonderful ways. It is almost certainly the one almost no one will have seen. Let me suggest you should (with the caveat that it is a bit weird and violent). But Oppenheimer takes on all the challenges the other films had and then some.

My choice: Oppenheimer Likely winner: Oppenheimer

Production Design

Barbie Killers of the Flower Moon Napoleon Oppenheimer Poor Things

Of all the nominees, Poor Things has the most interesting, inventive, and widest range of effort. Barbie comes a close second on those points. The other options recreate worlds seamlessly, which is no small feat either. And of those, Oppenheimer had the most challenges with varying time periods and shifting between B&W and color filming. But all that said, this is one of the places Poor Things can win and the will is there as well as the delivery. Oppenheimer may well surprise and continue its sweep, but this is one spot where there is a very worthy competitor that could overcome momentum.

My choice: Poor Things Likely winner: Poor Things

Costume Design

Barbie Killers of the Flower Moon Napoleon Oppenheimer Poor Things

Similar to and related to Production Design, Poor things is the likely awardee. Barbie, however, may get one of its consolation prizes in this category.

My choice: Poor Things Likely winner: Poor Things

Music (Original Score)

American Fiction Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny Killers of the Flower Moon Oppenheimer Poor Things

If there was any movie made by its score this season, it’s Oppenheimer. This was by design. Most of the score was ready before the movie began filming. Nolan knew that it would be a character in the film and it is part of the reason it moves as well as it does from start to finish.

My choice: Oppenheimer Likely winner: Oppenheimer

Music (Original Song)

“The Fire Inside” from Flamin’ Hot “I’m Just Ken” from Barbie It Never Went Away” from American Symphony “Wahzhazhe (A Song For My People)” from Killers of the Flower Moon “What Was I Made For?” from Barbie

Per usual in this category, I don’t really have a favorite or that much invested. But I like Eilish and she’s been picking up earlier awards in the category, so I’m happy enough to go there.

My choice: “What Was I Made For?” Likely winner: “What Was I Made For?”

Makeup and Hairstyling

Golda Maestro Oppenheimer Poor Things Society of the Snow

There are so many good choices here, but Maestro has picked up the awards outside the Academy, so I’m going with that.

My choice: Maestro Likely winner: Maestro

Sound

The Creator Maestro Mission: Impossible – Dead Reckoning Part One Oppenheimer The Zone of Interest

I’m picking this one on faith and based on many interviews and samples. I haven’t had the chance to catch the film yet. But everything I’ve heard and heard about the film makes it clear that Zone of Interest is the right choice here. Absent that, I would have probably gone with Maestro. As much as I loved Oppenheimer’s sound, the levels were too brutal to reward it to my mind. But it still may surprise.

My choice: The Zone of Interest Likely winner: The Zone of Interest

Visual Effects

The Creator Godzilla Minus One Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 Mission: Impossible – Dead Reckoning Part One Napoleon

Yes, it’s ironic, but my pick for this one is the one flick in the category I didn’t get to see yet. But from those that have and from all the write-ups, it seems pretty clear. Creator may sweep from behind on this one, but Godzilla has quite the wave in viewers and press pulling for it.

Likely winner: Godzilla Minus One

[denimbex1986]

'...Andrew Haigh‘s “All of Us Strangers” is poised to be the next fantastical film that makes the academy’s voters sit up and take notice. Part romance, part ghost story, the film is loosely based on Taichi Yamada‘s 1987 novel “Strangers.” The story follows Andrew Scott‘s Adam as a writer struggling with his latest project who forms a relationship with Paul Mescal‘s Harry. As their relationship progresses, Adam finds himself drawn to his past and visits his hometown only to find his parents (played by Claire Foy and Jamie Bell) just as they were the day they died, 30 years ago.

The film has received rapturous praise and currently sits on 97% on Rotten Tomatoes. Many of these rave reviews made special mention of the writing.

David Rooney (The Hollywood Reporter) noted: “In Haigh’s script, the circumstances of their separation at a formative time in Adam’s life are written by a cruel stroke of fate. But many queer audiences cut off from their families after coming out will recognize the urge on both sides to rewrite fractured history and share words that were never said.”

Wendy Ide (ScreenDaily) observed: “Haigh’s elegantly elliptical screenplay was adapted from a 1987 Japan-set novel, titled ‘Strangers,’ by Taichi Yamada… All of this chimes, first and foremost, because of the quality of Haigh’s gorgeous, perceptive screenplay. But there’s a harmony in the craft here that complements and elevates the writing.”

David Ehrlich (Indie Wire) opined: “Haigh tells this potentially maudlin story with such a light touch that even its biggest reveals hit like a velvet hammer, and his screenplay so movingly echoes Adam’s yearning to be known — across time and space — that the film always feels rooted in his emotional present, even as it pings back and forth between dimensions.”

Not surprisingly, “All of Us Strangers” is high up on our Best Adapted Screenplay Oscar chart. It currently sits just outside our predicted five nominees...

This would be Haigh’s first-ever nomination and “All of Us Strangers” would become just the 10th fantasy film this century to reap a bid for its writing and only the fifth adapted screenplay to do so...

...Haigh’s would be the first fantasy film nominated in Adapted Screenplay since 2004. It certainly deserves to be — and there is another reason to believe he can pull off the nomination, too. Acclaimed writer-directors often find nominations in writing categories for films that are snubbed in other categories. It’s a nomination to make up for skipping over them in other categories such as Director or Picture.

We don’t think “All of Us Strangers” will compete in either of those categories so a nomination for Adapted Screenplay could be the perfect way for the academy to recognize Haigh’s work and film. This has happened several times before. In Original Screenplay: Rian Johnson was nominated in 2020 for “Knives Out,” Paul Schrader was nominated in 2019 for “First Reformed,” and Mike Mills was nominated in 2017 for “20th Century Women.” In Adapted Screenplay: Johnson was nominated for “Glass Onion” in 2023, Maggie Gyllenhaal was nominated for “The Lost Daughter” in 2022, and Greta Gerwig was nominated for “Little Women” in 2020. Haigh’s potential nomination would fit right alongside these bids.'

[itsclydebitches]

It FEELS weird that R freaked out at a talking mouse when her dog can take down a mech, and I think that's mostly because RWBY has failed to do the appropriate world-building to let us know what is and is not normal in the setting. We don't have a good feel of Remnant, so Maidens, magic birds, and talking mice don't feel out of place compared to the other weird stuff in Remnant. If the show spent more time establishing the world, these out of place elements would actually feel out of of place.

This exactly. I mean, we certainly can give the writing the benefit of the doubt here. It reminds me of a scene in Jupiter Ascending where Jupiter freaks out about Caine's gravity boots and is shocked when he can't really explain how they work... until he points out that she probably can't really explain how her phone works either. It's a way of highlighting that this New Thing isn't actually any weirder than the Normal Things you're used to, it's just the fact that you already are used to them that blinds you to how weird/complicated/incredible it actually is. Little having the intelligence and ability to speak isn't really that far removed from Zwei having the intelligence and ability to obey Oobleck's command to take out the White Fang, but because Ruby has only experienced one of those things before, the other feels shocking at the start.

But it doesn't feel shocking for the viewer. Because as you say, Remnant has so much weird shit in it that there's no baseline for us. We have no sense of when something is Normal Remnant Weird vs. Abnormal Remnant Weird until a character reacts to it... and then we're left with those questions like, "Why is your uncle transforming into a bird horrifying but your sister transforming into rose petals isn't? Why is Oscar shooting a beam magic but Weiss shooting glyphs isn't? Why is a talking mouse worth screaming over but you live in a world with human-like pets and peers with various animal traits?" I'm of the opinion that a fantasy world should either have hard and consistent rules, in which case both characters and audience know precisely when something is #off, or loosey-goosey rules where anything goes and, crucially, no one really questions it. The Umbrella Academy is pretty good about that, actually. (It's on the brain since I just posted about it a few minutes ago.) Everything in that show is so weird, but the characters know everything is weird, so when they encounter a sibling who's a floating cube, or a black hole in the basement, they might side-eye it for a hot second, but they don't actively try to claim that this is fundamentally different than all the other weird shit they live with. Weird is normal.

RWBY doesn't do that. Because yeah, we don't know the world and its (barely established) rules well enough to have a sense of everyone's expectations and bias. One moment the characters are acting like Remnant Fantasy People (haha Zwei arrived in the mail) and the next they're acting like Real People In The Real World (holy shit talking mouse!). It flip-flops too often for the audience to get a handle on that baseline... because it doesn't really exist. In classic RWBY fashion, things change to serve the latest Volume/episode/scene. I also don't think it helps that Ruby has not reacted to everything else weird that's going on. It's probably just the scene being isolated, but we haven't yet watched her freak out about waking up on an impossible island. She doesn't react to the time loop-y forest except with very normal sounding frustration. Doesn't look at the clearly abnormal bird screaming beside her. Stares considerately, but not surprisingly, up at the giant-ass tree. Barely even gives the cheese plant a second glance. And (though this is definitely pushing the fourth wall a bit) doesn't react to Little's very intelligent, person-like gestures to hand the cheese over. Ruby in this scene is totally apathetic towards the entire weirdness of the island, so by giving her a strong reaction to Little speaking, it sends the message that this is by far the WEIRDEST THING AMONG ALL THESE WEIRD THINGS

...when, you know, it's really not. Especially when we factor in Ruby's experience with her dog, the faunus, literal magic, and soul-bearing androids.

If I were tweaking things (working under the assumption that we can't re-write RWBY to establish this long-term worldbuilding) I'd have her actually freaking out over everything she saw, this totally new and alien world causing her brain to misfire for a bit, with a talking mouse just being the last straw in a very large, understandable pile.

[softcallofdutyimagines]

Hey so, my dog of 18 years, my old pitbull named Oscar, who've I had for the majority of my life is about to be put down. I was wondering if you could maybe write some Adler, Woods, and Mason comforting the reader? Sorry. If you uncomfortable doing so that is TOTALLY OKAY! I dont want you to feel pressured to do this!

Oh no, I'm sorry to hear that 🥺 I've had some rough pet passings in the last couple years too, so I understand. It's no pressure at all sweetie 💖

But I know you gave Oscar a great life and I'm sure he sends his thanks for all the good times you shared and hopes you'll remember them when you're feeling down after he passes 💖

Adler

You know, Adler's had some extremely rough times himself

Some quite recent, as a matter of fact

He tries his best to keep you sane, just as much as you try for him

So whenever you're feeling down he's always around to offer some comfort

Adler's quite the smooth talker, so while he can't make everything go away, he at least will try his best to talk you through what's going

He's got an "I know things are tough now, but I promise they'll get better" speech at the ready

It's predictable, but it usually helps

However, he's always down for some cuddling to keep the sadness away

Otherwise, he's pretty reliable for a comforting hand holding, an arm around the shoulder, or some pats to the back

Sometimes he's a little awkward, but all gestures are made in kindness and support

Mason

If anyone knows what it's like to go through hard times, it's Alex

He's gone full years of his life where his mind wasn't even his own

Few things hit harder then the loss of one's own self, so he understands best when others suffer with grief too

Alex has always been a quiet guy, so that's how he approaches these kinds of situations

When things are this heavy, words are rarely necessary

He gives the best Dad™ hugs, and won't hesitate to pull you in and hold you so you can let some stuff out

He'll get you anything you need in the meantime while you sit together:

A blanket, some water, a tissue...

He may try to cheer you up or get your mind off of things, but he has no problem sitting for hours and letting you do what you need

Woods

When it comes to handling emotions, very few think to call Frank first

And while it's true for most that he wouldn't be much help, you are one of the special few that he would bend over back to cheer up

He would be the one to have something if a comfort care package on standby

It's not as fancy and refined as it sounds, but he at least has objects at his disposal to grab and throw together to bring to you

Woods has seen his best friend go through hell and has droves of his own men brutally killed and tortured in front of him

He may not be great at expressing it, but he knows how it feels to hurt and grieve

He'll offer to talk about it with you, and would like to walk you through what he does when times get him down

He's a surprisingly sympathetic ear when it comes to the people he loves and he'll do whatever he can to try and keep your focus on the good or funny times so that that bad ones don't seem so dark <3

[opheliafm]

*  ──  (  jessica  vu  ,  twenty-two  ,  cis  woman  ,  she/her  )  welcome  to  hilton  hills  ,  ophelia  hoang  !  as  a  well  -  known  socialite  and  daughter  of  an  oscar  winner  ,  we  can’t  believe  you  traveled  all  the  way  from  los  angeles  in  order  to  spend  a  few  months  here  .  you’ve  made  quite  the  name  for  yourself  in  the  tabloids  as  being  -  aloof  and  -  quick-tempered  ,  but  all  we  have  seen  is  how  +  compassionate  and  +  resolute  you  are  since  you  arrived  a  few  days  ago  .  if  we  were  to  compare  you  to  anything  ,  it  would  be  gripping  onto  your  sense  of  self  with  tight  fists  ,  ordering  fresh  flowers  to  hotel  rooms  ,  sunshine  disguised  by  cloud  .  make  sure  to  unpack  in  time  to  make  it  to  the  bonfire  tonight  !  i  hear  they  are  going  to  play  be  sweet  by  japanese  breakfast  just  for  you  !  [  elle  ,  26  ,  she/ her  ,  gmt  ]

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hello!! i’m elle / ella whichever you prefer ! i’m from the gmt and fun fact — i have never been early to writing an intro in my life ! ophelia is a brand new muse of mine so pls excuse me while i work her out a bit when we get things going. if you’re interested in plotting pls hit that like and i’ll come to you on disco (or lmk if you prefer im and i can do that too!). 

basics

full name: ophelia arden hoang  nicknames: fee, lia birthday: november 18th horoscope deets: scorpio sun, leo moon, cancer rising.  hometown: los angeles, california  enneagram: 8w7 tropes: lonely rich kid, spoiled sweet, the stoic, defrosting ice queen, the woman wearing the queenly mask. mbti: enfj ( the protagonist ). 

background (drugs tw, addiction tw) 

ophelia’s dad was a total 90s heartthrob. a former child actor who had been plucked from complete obscurity by a talent scout in long beach. think: equivalent of a former mickey mouse club member who took some more serious roles as he grew older, posters on teen girls bedroom walls across the nation he even once capitalised on the love and adoration and had a single titled ‘ready for your love’ by the age of nineteen.

her mother... was a complete nobody in the eyes of the media. her parents had grown up on the same street and somehow kept in contact even when her dad’s career catapulted to new heights. he’d invited her along for a few weeks at a beach house he was renting in hilton hills whern their friendship developed into something more in between the deep talks and late nights spent on the beach. ophelia followed along 9 months later and the headlines weren’t so kind. 

somehow, though, their little patchwork family made it work. lia’s fondest memories are of her father’s big heart and her mother’s kindness. always. her mum went to live in his la home and looked after lia during the day while pushing him to audition for more roles in dramas as she knew he had potential. and she was right. by the age of 23, her dad had stood on a stage as one of the academy’s youngest recipients of an oscar. 

lia would be the first to admit that the oscar wasn’t just the pinnacle of his career but also the start of a downward spiral that she’s far too young to remember. because whilst he’d dedicated the award to his newborn daughter, he’d also dabbled with hard drugs at the afterparty. it was the catalyst for a whole lot more. 

little lia was a bright, bubbly thing! she was the first to offer to put on a play for her parents (and her grandparents when they visited) and v much the self-described leader of any group activity through elementary school. but what she loved most were her summers because every summer her parents would take her to that beach house (now owned) in hilton hills and she’d spend the entirety of it in the sand.

not all was perfect behind closed doors, though. as the pressure of her dad’s drug habit started to take its toll and lia would often come home from school to the sound of her parents yelling at one another. she went from bright and bubbly to bitter and lonely surprisingly fast. 

by the time she turned fifteen, her father had been in and out of rehab three times. lia internalised a lot of her feelings about it, particularly when she’d start to get questions at school. questions had always mostly been about her father’s career rather than her or her mum but fifteen was the age where they really started to grind her gears. she was struggling at home, struggling at school due to it and had no outlet for where to put the anger. ‘fuck off and mind your own business’ practically became a slogan.

it was around this time that lia also started to act out. stealing her dad’s credit card to sneak into clubs... hanging out with people at school who she knew her mother would disapprove of... she even got kicked out of her fancy prep school. 

she moved out by eighteen and didn’t look back... but she did continue the partying and other bad habits that seemed too difficult to drop. until she turned twenty and her father came to visit. it’d been the fourth time in rehab that stuck. he’d been sober for a year and they had a genuine heart to heart. ophelia wouldn’t necessarily call it a wake up call but it did make her reassess her own behaviour and the path she was on.

lia’s been trying to turn her life around after the past two years. she’s still incredibly outspoken, but she tries to use her platform for good. she’s probably more known for her instagram account these days than the pictures that used to heavily feature in the tabloids of her out partying. she’s thought about maybe following her dad’s footsteps into acting but has honestly been a bit terrified to take the plunge!? which might just be the first time she’s ever been scared at trying something new? so right now she’s doing what she knows best - spending a summer on the beach to readjust. 

personality 

lia’s got a heart of gold behind a little closed off shell. she can be hard to get to know but once she lets you in you pretty much have a teammate for life. she’s loyal babes!

big helper energy. you have a project you need a hand with? a person to tell you the best lighting for your photo? she’s got your back.

she gives me big shayla wang vibes from the summer i turned pretty. she’s ambitious and knows what she wants from life but also compassionate and loving. 

still has elements of that kid who liked to boss her friends around lead. catch her organising your bunch trip and booking all her trips herself rather than getting an assistant to do it. girlie loves to be organised! 

still likes to have a good time every now and then... just not every night of the week. catch her on your table when she’s drunk and dancing. 

she’s a whole 5′1 but will put her whole mind, body n spirit into an argument. 

wanted connections

childhood friends // lia’s a summer transplant and has been all her life to hilton hills. even after she moved out of her parents place, she still couldn’t bring herself to not make the annual pilgrimage to the place she’s always considered more of a home. i’d love someone who has been there through it all? we can explore whether that’s like... strained or whether they’ve just always rolled with the punchs! i think it could be cute if they were a little group who met up...? but this is super open. (0/4) 

former party friends // lia was a mess from the age of 15-20 exclusively. your muse and her would meet up and have the best damn night of their lives over and over. i think this could be fun if it’s put a strain on their friendship orrr maybe they just meet up to party on occasions like no time has passed at all? (0/1)

a summer fling // or it’s supposed to stay as that! super relaxed, just good vibes when they meet up (0/1)

someone to do brunch with / confidants / old friends / gym buddies / former flames / flirty friends / an ex or two / someone she bumps heads with / secret friends / unlikely friends / distant relations / frenemies

literally..... anything lmao we can work anything in! 

[writing-in-april]

Happy Birthday Old Man

Nathan Bateman x Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: Nathan’s feeling nihilistic on his birthday— mostly hating on his looks. You show him how wrong he is.

A/N: AhH I’m so excited for my first Nathan fic 🥰 thanks for pushing me to write the fic for worshiping Nathan’s bald head and beard @writefightandflightclub ! I’m hoping I did ok with Nathan’s characterization 😫This is all for Oscar Isaac’s birthday which also happens to be on MGG’s birthday!! So that’s why there’s two fics tonight! Happy birthday to Oscar Isaac 🥰 Requests are open and thanks for reading!

Warnings: Nathan having an existential crisis about his age— and implied age gap, one sexual innuendo, heavy drinking

Main Masterlist Word count: 1.1k

Something was wrong with Nathan, much more than usual. Though some people would say that there’s always been something wrong with him, mainly due to how big his ego can be.

His ego seemed to have taken a bit of a bruising though by the skittish way he had been acting all day. At first you had thought you had maybe done something to make him even more aloof than he already was. But, he usually would’ve been much more brusque with you, he seemed more somber today.

Today happened to be his birthday, you assumed that must be the culprit for some reason. Though, normally when a holiday he despised came around to be celebrated the day was filled with blunt jokes about consumerism and commercialization.

He had been typing away all night and well into the morning which, again, wasn’t that odd of behavior for Nathan. But, it was the stench of alcohol that permeated through the stark halls and the sad eyes he flashed you that let you know that something was off.

When you had first gotten into a relationship with him you had given him the ultimatum to not drink so heavily as you were afraid he would drink himself to death with the sheer amount he had been consuming. The compromise was a hard one to reach, but he had eventually agreed as you were the only person he had ever wanted to truly stay before. He had surprisingly taken your words to heart, only drinking a glass of wine at dinner now and maybe a glass extra when you two were feeling a bit more fancy.

After you had thrown away the empty bottles you made your way into his office where he was still typing away furiously as if he was trying to take out his feelings onto the keyboard.

When you took your usual place perched on his lap with your chest facing his own he tensed, like he had only done the first few times you had done this. Now that you had been together for quite some time your place on his lap was a sure thing, either clothed or naked most of the time.

You didn’t push him to speak, you only moved closer to his chest to wrap him up tighter and began to rub circles with your thumbs on his head.

You were quite used to silence around Nathan as he found great solace in it at times, this was a different type of silence though. This was a silence so stark you could feel it creeping all the way through you, making you shudder slightly. When he felt your shoulders rumble from the shudder it was as if something in his mind clicked to remind him that you were there and he spoke just a little,

“I’m old…” Ah, he was having an existential crisis because it happened to be his birthday. He never had wanted to celebrate it and you respected that, only putting a little bit more effort in on the day by cooking his meals instead of Kyoko. Though his words concerned you, you had been with him for a few years now and he had never voiced his concerns about aging out loud

However, he always was a bit nihilistic so you weren’t that surprised that once he reached a certain age that his impending mortality would slap him in the face instead of letting him live in blissful ignorance thinking of himself as some sort of god. Though, you would still not characterize him as old.

“You’re not old.” You said simply not wanting to hide behind flowery language, you knew he wouldn’t appreciate that.

“You deserve someone younger, someone who’ll be around to take care of you longer.” You scoffed a little, a little irritated that he thought you needed to be taken care of. But, you knew he meant well, he knew you could take care of yourself as you had shown him time and time again. It was just a very Nathan way of phrasing it.

“Well you’re sure a sap today, Nathan.” You joked in hopes of lightening the mood. Instead you were met with a glare from Nathan that made you quiet again, resuming stroking his head.

After a while of tense silence he spoke again, “Why would you want to be with someone like me? I’m an asshole with a bald head and a graying beard.”

“Thought you would know by now how much I

love that beard of yours- and your bald head.” Was your response while you moved your hand up to the top of his head to stroke it. It wasn’t like he had never voiced his insecurities to you before, but that was when he was wasted before you guys had gotten together, he definitely didn’t remember it. You moved your other hand to simultaneously stroke his wiry beard before speaking again, “And- your my ass hole and I love you for it.”

You lent down to kiss his nose lightly. Normally he would have wrinkled it and pulled away while calling you a sap, the fact that he didn’t made you frown a little. He definitely was feeling down if he didn’t have a crack back at your remarks. But, you continued to try to comfort him as he had not moved away from you.

You lent down again to kiss right between his furrowed brows set deep with worry. Sighing lightly he let his furrowed brows relax some, hopefully helping melt some of the other tension he held in his body.

You lent down again for the third time to kiss right on top of his head lingering a bit longer than you had for the previous ones. In your head you were imagining whispering praising phrases about how much you loved his bald head and beard, maybe someday he’ll be open to listening to all of the praises you had for him.

Until that time you tried communicating your praises through your touch and your eyes as you looked into his own deep almost onyx irises. Once you could feel him relax into you, like he finally trusted your words you decided to try and cheer him up again, “Happy birthday, old man.” And, this time I finally got a laugh out of him.

——

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