Justus kann legit Dinge nicht vergessen die er mal gelesen/gehört/gesehen hat. Er weiß ALLES über Popkultur, es interessiert ihn nur nicht (und es würde zu unglaublich witzigen Situationen führen).
Peter: "Omg habt ihr gehört dass Lil O-Pound verhaftet wurde."
Bob: "No way!"
Justus ohne vom Motor, den er gerade zerlegt, aufzuschauen: "Wegen illegalem Waffenbesitz und Steuerhinterziehung. Seit er sich von Cassie getrennt hat geht es echt mit ihm bergab, das neue Album war ja auch eher mittelmäßig, und dann das mit seinen früheren Bandkollegen..."
Was mich an den Änderungen von "Toteninsel" von Buch zu Film am meisten irritiert, ist, dass sie so weit von der eigentlichen Geschichte entfernt sind.
Dass man etwas ändern musste, weil die zweite Hälfte des Buches einfach zu gewaltig ist, geschenkt. Das ist halt so. Aber für mich wäre die offensichtlichste Änderung aus der CIA eine von der US-Regierung finanzierte geheime Forschergruppe zu machen. Passt auch zum zweiten Weltkrieg, wir haben trotzdem eine geheime Forschungsbase, bei der die Regierung ein Interesse hat sie jetzt nicht so sehr an die große Glocke zu hängen.
Hadden könnte immer noch durch seinen Großvater, der dann Wissenschaftler anstatt Soldat war, von der Insel wissen. Und da es zuerst eine Grabstätte war, bevor die Insel missbraucht wurde, kann man die "Schatz" Storyline trotzdem nutzen. Vielleicht war damals auch ein Sphinx-Mitglied dabei und man hat eine doppelte Verbindung.
Selbst der ausbrechende Vulkan könnte bestehen bleiben, der hat sehr gut für Zeitdruck und Spannung gesorgt. Vielleicht war er sogar (mit) Forschungsobjekt damals. Olin könnte CIA-Mitglied bleiben, ohne dass man das explizit machen muss (wie zur Hölle soll Cotta den auf hoher See erreicht haben, was?). Mit dieser kleinen Änderung könnten viele Handlungsstränge des Buches bestehen bleiben. Der Wechsel von US-Militär auf das japanische Militär ergibt eben überhaupt keinen Sinn, weil es genügend alternative Storylines gibt, die mit den USA zu tun haben können. Besonders wenn André Marx dabei ist, der einer der stärksten Autoren der Reihe war und doch genau diese Änderungen beratend vertreten könnte.
Der Film ist trotzdem sehr, sehr gut, aber warum man genau diese Änderungen durchsetzt und damit die originale Geschichte verwischt, ist mir schleierhaft. Spaß gemacht hat er trotzdem.
Ganz grundsätzlich: Fandom kann nur existieren wenn man sich auch engagiert und beiträgt, selbst postet, kommentiert, Dinge fragt, Dinge malt, schreibt, Vermutungen anstellt, Gifs erstellt, Videos schneidet, fun facts teilt etc. etc.
Keine Beschwerden ohne aktives Mitarbeiten bitte! Die werden erst nach Teilnahme freigeschaltet.
Bernd das Brot hier, die Maus aus der Sendung mit der Maus da, die KIKA Ikone, die wirklich mal international gehen sollte ist Beutolomäus, der einzig wahre Sack des Weihnachtsmannes
@cousinesofa Uhm akthually 🤓 wurde der Weihnachtsmann entführt, nicht Beutolomäus. "Beutolomäus sucht den Weihnachtsmann", meine absolute Lieblingsstaffel lol.
Und ja, der Bösewicht hat sich als Kind einen weißen Hund gewünscht und der Weihnachtsmann konnte den Wunsch nicht erfüllen, weil er allergisch war. Davon trägt der Arme ein Weihnachtstrauma davon, das aber glücklicherweise aufgelöst werden kann und die Bescherung muss nicht ausfallen!
Macht auch noch als Nicht-Kind Spaß zu sehen, das waren noch simple Zeiten. Ist auf YouTube hochgeladen und ein echt nostalgischer Rewatch! <3
Summary: what happens when you combine two identical dachshunds, one dog park mix-up, and a very famous racing driver? Your meet-cute becomes a dognapping crisis!
The late afternoon sun in Monaco is a specific kind of gold. It’s not the hazy, humid gold of a Spanish summer or the sharp, brittle gold of a Swiss autumn. It’s a rich, old-money gold, the kind that filters through the leaves of ancient plane trees and spills across the manicured lawns of the Jardin Exotique, making everything it touches look impossibly expensive and serene. It’s the kind of light that makes you feel like you’re living inside a vintage postcard.
You are watching that very light catch the highlights in the ridiculously silky fur of your dachshund, Gretchen, as she trots with immense self-importance across the dog park’s pristine grass. Her little legs move in a blur, a determined, stubby piston-action that is entirely at odds with her otherwise regal demeanor.
“Gretchen, darling, the ball isn’t going to throw itself!” You call out, holding up the slobber-covered tennis ball.
She gives you a look over her shoulder, a look that clearly communicates, ‘And your point is?’ before she resumes her patrol of a particularly interesting patch of clover.
You sigh, a fond, exasperated sound. Having a dog named Gretchen Wieners means accepting a certain level of high-maintenance sass. It was funny when you named her, a perfect joke for a tiny, cream-colored wiener dog who seemed to be full of secrets. It is slightly less funny when she’s actively ignoring you in favor of sniffing something that is, in all likelihood, the ghost of a croissant from someone’s picnic last Tuesday.
You lean back on the park bench, the wrought iron cool against your sundress, and close your eyes for a moment, just soaking it in. The gentle murmur of French and Italian, the distant hum of a supercar winding its way down Avenue Princesse Grace, the happy yapping of dogs. It’s a peaceful symphony.
The symphony is interrupted by a new sound. A frantic, happy scrabbling of claws on gravel, followed by a leash-jangle and a low, musical voice speaking in a mix of French and English.
“Doucement, doucement. Leo, calm down, please.”
Your eyes flutter open.
Standing by the gate is Charles Leclerc, looking somehow both exactly like he does on television and completely different. He’s not in a race suit, but in a simple white t-shirt and dark shorts, his hair artfully messy from the breeze. He’s wrestling with the clasp of a leash, and at the other end of it is a carbon copy of your dog. A small, cream-colored, long-bodied, short-legged dachshund, vibrating with the sheer, unadulterated joy of reaching a field of grass.
“Okay, okay, you win,” he laughs, finally unclipping the leash.
The dog is a missile. A low-to-the-ground, cream-colored torpedo of enthusiasm. And its target is Gretchen.
He barrels towards her. Gretchen, who had been engrossed in her clover investigation, looks up, her ears perking. She sees the approaching blur and, instead of her usual aloofness with strange dogs, she does something extraordinary. She wags her tail. Not just a polite little flick, but a full-body, a-stranger-is-a-friend-I-haven’t-sniffed-yet wag.
They meet in the middle of the lawn in a flurry of sniffing and tail-chasing. It’s an instant, profound connection. A dachshund love story for the ages.
Charles walks over, a sheepish, devastatingly charming smile on his face. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Ah, sorry. He is … a lot.”
“Don’t be,” you say, your own smile blooming effortlessly. “Gretchen is usually the queen of social distancing. I’ve never seen her take to another dog so fast.”
“They are, euh, they look like twins.” He gestures towards the two dogs, who are now engaged in a chaotic game of chase that involves a lot of tumbling and playful nips.
“They really do,” you agree. “What’s his name?”
“Leo.”
“I love that. This is Gretchen.”
Charles’s eyebrows raise in amusement. “Gretchen? Like, from Germany?”
You can’t help but laugh, a real, genuine laugh that makes him smile wider. “No. Well, yes, technically. But her full name is Gretchen Wieners.”
He blinks. Once. Twice. Then his head tilts, a look of slow-dawning comprehension on his face. He lets out a sudden, surprised bark of laughter. It’s a wonderful sound, not performative or polite, but deep and real.
“Non. You did not.”
“I absolutely did,” you confirm, feeling a ridiculous surge of pride. “She’s a wiener dog. It felt like a moral obligation.”
“That is the best name for a dog I have ever heard,” he says, still chuckling. He runs a hand through his hair. “Now I feel bad. Leo is just Leo.”
“Leo is a great name! It’s classic. Strong. Lion-like.”
“He is not very lion-like,” Charles says, watching as Leo dramatically trips over his own feet while trying to catch Gretchen. “He is more like a small piece of bread with legs.”
You laugh again, covering your mouth with your hand. “A baguette?”
“Exactly! A tiny baguette.”
You both fall into a comfortable silence for a minute, just watching your identical dogs play. The golden light deepens, casting long shadows across the grass.
“You live around here?” He asks, his voice a little softer now.
“Just up the hill,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “Moved here about a year ago.”
“Ah, okay. Me too. Well, I have always lived here. But my apartment is new.”
“Right. Of course.” A silly thing to forget. “It must be strange. To have your hometown be this place.” You gesture around at the opulent, postcard-perfect scenery.
He considers this, his gaze distant for a second. “Sometimes. But most of the time, it is just home. Where my dog is, you know?”
“I know exactly,” you say, your eyes soft as you watch Gretchen roll onto her back, submitting to Leo’s playful attack. “It’s funny how they anchor you. Doesn’t matter where you are, as long as they’re waiting for you.”
“For sure,” he agrees. He turns his head to look at you, and his eyes, a warm, clear green, hold your gaze. There’s an intensity there you weren’t expecting, a flicker of something that makes the air feel suddenly warmer. “It is grounding.”
You feel a blush creep up your neck. You break the gaze, looking back at the dogs. “So, uh, does Leo have any other special skills? Besides the baguette impression?”
He grins, the moment broken but the warmth lingering. “He is very good at sleeping. A champion, really. He can sleep for twenty hours, I think. And he is very good at stealing my socks. And you? What about Gretchen Wieners?” He says her full name with a delighted reverence that makes you ridiculously happy.
“She’s an expert at judging people. She has this look … it can cut you to your very soul. She’s also a master manipulator. She’ll pretend she hasn’t been fed when she absolutely has. She has my parents completely wrapped around her little paw.”
“A clever girl.”
“The cleverest.”
You talk for what feels like five minutes but, when you glance at your phone, you see it’s been almost an hour. The sun is kissing the horizon now, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and soft orange. The park is emptying out.
“Oh, wow,” you say. “I should probably get going. It’s her dinner time. And if the queen is not fed on time, there will be a rebellion.”
Charles nods, a hint of disappointment in his expression. “Yes, me too. Leo, he gets very dramatic.”
He whistles, a sharp, clear sound. “Leo, viens ici!”
You call out at the same time. “Gretchen! Time to go home, sweetie!”
The two cream-colored blurs, now thoroughly exhausted and panting happily, detach from each other and trot towards the sound of their respective owners’ voices. Or, at least, that’s the general idea. In their post-play haze, they seem to aim for the nearest tall human.
The little dog that arrives at your feet looks up at you with big, brown, adoring eyes, its tongue lolling out. You reach down and scratch behind its ears, the fur just as soft as you remember. “Good girl,” you murmur, clipping the leash onto its collar without really looking.
You stand up and smile at Charles, who is doing the same with the dog at his feet.
“It was really nice to meet you, Charles.”
“You too,” he says, and his smile is genuine. “And you, Gretchen Wieners.” He winks.
“Bye, Leo the Baguette,” you say with a little wave to the dog beside him.
As you walk away, a giddy, light feeling bubbles in your chest. It’s the kind of feeling you get from a perfect, unexpected moment. A little cinematic scene dropped into the middle of an ordinary day. You don’t ask for his number. He doesn’t ask for yours. It feels too transactional. This was just a nice moment at a dog park. Maybe you’ll see him again. The thought brings another smile to your face.
The walk home is pleasant. The dog trots happily by your side, only occasionally pulling to sniff at a particularly fragrant potted plant. When you get into the elevator of your apartment building, it licks your hand.
“You’re extra sweet today,” you coo, stroking its head. “Did you have fun with your new boyfriend?”
Inside your apartment, you unclip the leash. The dog immediately does a perimeter check, sniffing every corner of your living room with a seriousness that suggests it’s searching for contraband. This is normal. Gretchen always does this, reacquainting herself with her kingdom.
You go to the kitchen and pull out her food bowl — a ceramic one with ‘Her Majesty’ painted on the side. You fill it with her special, grain-free kibble and add a splash of water, just how she likes it.
“Dinner is served, my lady!” You call out.
The dog trots into the kitchen, gives the bowl a cursory sniff, and then looks up at you. And whines. A soft, confused little sound.
“What?” You ask. “It’s your favorite. Don’t be difficult.”
It ignores the bowl and nudges its head against your leg, looking for more pets.
This is the first red flag. Gretchen lives for her food. She would trample over a line of puppies for a single piece of kibble. She never, ever, turns down a meal.
“Are you feeling okay?” You ask, crouching down. You run your hands over the body, checking for any tenderness. It just wags its tail and tries to lick your face. Everything seems fine. Maybe it’s just tired from playing so hard.
You leave the food and go to the living room, flopping onto the sofa. The dog hops up next to you — another small, almost imperceptible oddity. Gretchen always waits for a formal invitation to come onto the couch. She sits, puts a single paw on the cushion, and stares at you until you pat the seat beside you. This one just launched itself up.
“You’re being very bold tonight,” you say, stroking its long back.
It snuggles into your side, letting out a contented sigh, and promptly falls asleep. Okay, this part is normal. The post-park crash. You turn on the television, keeping the volume low. After an hour, you realize the food in the kitchen is still untouched. That’s not right.
You gently nudge the sleeping form beside you. “Hey. You really need to eat something.”
The dog stirs, blinks its sleepy brown eyes, and then yawns, a wide, cavernous yawn. You smile and go to give it a belly rub, your fingers seeking out that perfect spot that makes its leg start thumping.
Your hand moves across its warm, soft belly. You rub and you rub. And then you stop.
Your brain, which has been happily coasting on the fumes of a charming encounter, suddenly slams on the brakes.
There is … anatomy here. Anatomy that Gretchen, a female dog, definitively does not possess.
You stare down at the dog. The dog stares back up at you, tail giving a lazy thump-thump-thump against the sofa cushion.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. The words hang in the quiet air of your apartment.
You gently lift the dog’s back leg. You confirm the evidence.
This is a male dog.
This is not Gretchen.
This is Leo.
“Oh my god.”
You have Charles Leclerc’s dog. Which means … Charles Leclerc has yours.
A wave of panic, so potent it’s almost nauseating, washes over you. You jump up from the couch. Leo — because this is definitely Leo — looks at you, confused by the sudden movement.
“Okay. Okay, okay, okay, think,” you say to yourself, pacing the length of your Persian rug. “How do you fix this? How do you fix this?”
You don’t have his number. You don’t know which apartment is his. Monaco is small, but it’s not that small. You can’t just go door-to-door. ‘Excuse me, are you a world-famous Formula 1 driver? And if so, have you accidentally stolen my dog?’
You snatch your phone, your hands trembling slightly. What do you even do? Post on Instagram? Tag him? That seems insane. Mortifyingly insane. Hi @charles_leclerc, sorry to bother you during what I’m sure is a busy schedule of being handsome and driving fast, but I appear to be in possession of your dachshund.
Leo hops off the couch and comes over to you, nudging his wet nose into your hand as if to say, ‘What’s all the fuss about? I’m comfy here.’
You look down at him, your heart sinking. “Your dad is going to think I’m a complete lunatic,” you tell the dog. “Or a dognapper. A very incompetent dognapper.”
You check the collar. It’s a beautiful, soft leather. There’s a small, silver tag attached. You flip it over, your heart pounding with a sliver of hope.
It’s engraved with one word: Leo.
Of course. Why would it have his phone number on it? He’s Charles Leclerc. That would be a security risk.
You sink onto the floor, pulling your knees to your chest. Across the principality, in another apartment that probably has a much better view than yours, is your sassy, judgmental, food-obsessed little girl. And she’s with a man you just met. A very famous, very handsome man who probably thinks you’re, at best, an idiot, and at worst, a kidnapper.
This is, without a doubt, the most bizarre and stressful thing that has ever happened to you.
Leo rests his head on your knee and lets out a tiny, sympathetic sigh.
***
Meanwhile, in an apartment overlooking the glittering expanse of Port Hercules, Charles is frowning at a ceramic bowl that says ‘LEO’ in bold, masculine letters.
The small, cream-colored dog sitting primly at his feet looks from the bowl, to him, and back to the bowl, her expression one of utter disdain.
“What is this?” Charles asks the dog, his voice laced with confusion. “It is your favorite. You love this.”
He had arrived home feeling lighter than he had in weeks. The encounter at the park had been … nice. Genuinely nice. The woman — he hadn’t even gotten her name, he realizes with a pang of regret — was funny and warm, with a laugh that made you want to do whatever it took to hear it again. And her dog’s name … Gretchen Wieners. He smiles to himself just thinking about it.
He’d walked in, unclipped Leo’s leash, and expected the usual routine: Leo would sprint to his water bowl, drink for a solid minute, then come demand his dinner with a series of impatient yaps.
But this dog hadn’t done that. It had walked calmly to the center of the room, sat down, and just watched him. Politely.
“Are you tired, mon bébé?” He’d asked, scratching behind its ears. The dog had leaned into his touch, but it felt different. Less frantic. More refined.
Now, it is refusing to eat.
“Leo, come on. Eat.”
The dog lets out a delicate little huff, turns its back on the bowl, and trots over to the sofa. It sits on the floor and looks up at the cushion, then back at Charles.
“What? You want up?”
The dog just stares.
“Okay …” Charles says, patting the seat next to him. “Come on, then.”
The dog, with an air of someone who feels they’ve finally been understood, hops gracefully onto the sofa and curls up in the corner, tucking its nose under its tail.
Charles stares at it. Leo is not a graceful hopper. Leo is a scrambler, a climber. Leo’s method of getting on the couch involves at least two failed attempts and a final, desperate lunge. This was … elegant.
A strange, unsettling feeling begins to prickle at the back of his neck.
He walks over to the sofa and sits down, observing the dog. It’s the same color. The same size. The same long body and short legs. But is its face a little … narrower? Are its eyes a little more … almond-shaped?
“Am I going crazy?” He murmurs.
The dog opens one eye, regards him, and then closes it again, as if to say, ‘That is a question for your therapist, not for me.’
He leans back, trying to shake it off. He’s just tired. It’s been a long week. The dog is just tired, too. That’s all.
He scrolls through his phone for a while, replying to messages from his team, his family. The dog doesn’t move. Doesn’t snore. Leo snores. Not loudly, but a soft, whistling sound. This dog is perfectly, unnervingly silent.
Finally, he decides to go to bed.
“Okay, time for bed,” he says, standing up. “Come on, boy.”
The dog on the sofa doesn’t move.
“Leo?”
Nothing.
He walks over and gently picks the dog up. It’s warm and sleepy in his arms. He carries it towards his bedroom, talking to it in a low, soothing mix of French and Italian, the way he always does.
“… and tomorrow we can go for a long walk, eh? Maybe see your girlfriend again.”
He sets the dog down on its bed at the foot of his own. As he pulls back his hands, his fingers brush against its stomach.
His hand freezes.
He slowly, carefully, moves his hand again.
There is a distinct lack of something. Something that should be there. Something that has been there every single day of Leo’s life.
Charles’s blood runs cold.
He lets out a string of curses, a fluent, panicked mix of French, Italian, and English.
“Merde. Porca miseria. No, no, no.”
He turns on the main bedroom light, flooding the room in a harsh, bright glare. He kneels down and, with the gentleness of a bomb disposal expert, confirms his horrifying suspicion.
This is a female dog.
This is not Leo.
This is Gretchen Wieners.
He stands up so fast he feels a little dizzy. He runs a hand through his hair, his mind racing.
“Okay. Okay.”
He has her dog. The woman from the park. The funny, beautiful woman whose name he doesn’t even know. He has her dog. And she has his.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in his throat. This is a disaster. But it’s also absurd. He pictures her, wherever she is, having the same moment of shocking discovery.
Unlike you, however, his panic is quickly replaced by a wry sense of determination. He can fix this. But how? He paces his bedroom, Gretchen watching him from her temporary bed with an expression of mild curiosity.
He pulls out his phone. He doesn’t have her number. He doesn’t know her name. But he knows where she was. And he has a very particular set of skills. None of which are useful in this situation.
He checks Gretchen’s collar. A simple leather one, with a gold, heart-shaped tag. He flips it over, hoping for a number, a name, anything.
The tag is engraved.
Gretchen Wieners
If I’m lost, my mom is probably ugly crying.
Charles reads it. Then he reads it again. And then he throws his head back and laughs. A loud, genuine, relieved laugh that echoes in the silent apartment.
“Oh, you are kidding me,” he says to the dog, a massive grin spreading across his face. “Your mother is a comedian.”
Gretchen thumps her tail once, as if to say, ‘The best.’
The tag is useless for contact information, but it’s a jolt of pure personality. It reminds him so clearly of her laugh in the park. The stress melts away, replaced by an overwhelming urge to see her again.
He has to find her.
He has a plan. It’s simple. It’s perhaps a little optimistic. But it’s all he’s got.
He will go back to the dog park first thing in the morning. And he will pray that she has the exact same idea.
***
You did not sleep.
You spent the night with a very cuddly, very sweet male dachshund who seemed thrilled to be having a sleepover. Leo, it turns out, is a world-class snuggler. He burrowed under the covers and pressed his warm little body against your back all night. It was nice. But it wasn’t Gretchen.
Every tiny sound from the hallway had you jumping, half-expecting a knock on the door from a frantic, or angry, Charles Leclerc. You imagined him with Gretchen, who you know for a fact is a bed-hog and will systematically push a person to the very edge of the mattress over the course of a night. You hope she hasn’t declared a coup and claimed his bed for herself.
At 6 AM, unable to lie there any longer, you get up. Leo follows you, stretching his long body with a groan.
“Okay, new friend,” you say, your voice rough with exhaustion. “Here’s the plan. We are going back to the scene of the crime.”
You get dressed with a sense of grim purpose, pulling on jeans and a simple sweater. You forgo makeup. This is a rescue mission, not a fashion show. You clip the leash onto Leo’s collar, your hands clammy.
“Please be there, please be there, please be there,” you chant under your breath as you walk out the door.
The morning air is cool and fresh, the sky a pale, promising blue. Monaco is still sleepy, the streets quiet save for the early-morning hum of street cleaners and the cry of gulls. The walk to the park feels ten times longer than it did yesterday. Leo trots beside you, sniffing the air, perfectly content. He has no idea of the international dog-swapping crisis currently unfolding.
As you approach the gates of the park, your heart is a frantic drum against your ribs. The park is mostly empty. An elderly man throwing a ball for a golden retriever. A woman jogging on the perimeter path.
And then you see him.
He’s standing near the same bench from yesterday, looking out over the grass. And at his feet is a very familiar, very regal cream-colored dachshund.
Relief washes over you so intensely your knees feel weak.
“Gretchen!” You cry out.
Charles turns at the sound of your voice. His face breaks into a wide, relieved smile. Gretchen’s head snaps up, her ears perked, and the moment she sees you, her tail starts whipping back and forth like a metronome on high speed.
At the same time, Leo spots Charles and lets out a series of excited yips, pulling on the leash.
You half-walk, half-run towards each other, meeting in the middle of the lawn like soldiers being reunited in a black-and-white movie.
“I am so sorry,” you both say at the exact same time.
You stop a few feet from each other, a little breathless, and then you both start to laugh. It’s a slightly hysterical, sleep-deprived, utterly relieved sound.
“I am so, so sorry,” you say again, crouching down to unleash Leo, who immediately bounds over to Charles, jumping up on his legs. “I didn’t even look. I just clipped the leash and walked away. I feel like the worst person on the planet.”
Charles is doing the same, unclipping Gretchen, who sprints the last few feet and practically leaps into your arms. You bury your face in her soft fur, inhaling her familiar dog-smell. “Oh, I missed you, you little monster.”
“Non, non, it is my fault,” Charles says, ruffling Leo’s ears. “I was … I think I was a bit distracted.” He looks up at you, and the meaning is clear in his warm eyes. “I am just happy you are here. I was not sure if you would come.”
“Where else would I go?” You say, stroking Gretchen’s back. “I had your dog hostage. I was about five minutes away from creating a city-wide amber alert.”
He chuckles. “I saw the tag on her collar.”
You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh, god. You saw that.”
“The part about the ugly crying?” he says, his smile teasing. “It was very, uh, descriptive. I felt I had a responsibility to prevent this.”
“Mortifying. Absolutely mortifying.”
“I thought it was charming,” he says softly.
You look up, your cheeks flushing. “So, how was she? Was she a nightmare? Did she steal your side of the bed?”
He laughs. “She is a princess, for sure. She refused to eat from Leo’s bowl. She would not get on the sofa until I formally invited her. And yes, she sleeps horizontally. I think I had maybe ten centimeters of the bed last night.”
“That sounds about right,” you say, shaking your head. “Leo was an angel. He’s the world’s best cuddler. And he didn’t eat either. He just whined at Gretchen’s ‘Her Majesty’ bowl and looked at me like I was trying to poison him.”
“He is not used to such a fancy dish,” Charles says. “He is a simple man. A baguette.”
You both smile, the morning sun warming your faces. The dogs, happy to be with their rightful owners, are now sniffing each other again, their crisis averted, their world restored to its proper order.
An easy silence settles between you, filled with the relief of the situation being resolved. But underneath it, there’s a new tension. The excuse for seeing each other is gone. The dogs are back where they belong. This could be another goodbye.
You can’t let that happen.
He can’t let that happen.
“So,” he says, breaking the silence. He shoves his hands in his pockets, a gesture you’re starting to find incredibly endearing. “To prevent, you know, a future canine mix-up of this magnitude …”
“… we should probably be more careful,” you finish for him, your heart starting to beat a little faster.
“Yes. That. But also, maybe I should have your number,” he says, his gaze direct and hopeful. “Just in case. For emergencies.”
“Right,” you say, your voice a little shaky. “Emergencies. Like if I accidentally take your dog again.”
“Exactly,” he says, a playful glint in his eye. “Or if, for example, I wanted to ask if you were free for dinner sometime, to properly apologize for my part in the dognapping.”
A huge, brilliant smile spreads across your face. “I think I could be free for that particular emergency.”
“Good,” he says, his own smile mirroring yours. “That is very good.”
You pull out your phone, and he pulls out his. You trade numbers, your fingers brushing as you hand his phone back to him. A tiny spark zings up your arm.
“I’ll text you,” he says, his voice low.
“Okay,” you breathe out.
He lingers for a moment, as if he doesn’t want to leave. “I never got your name yesterday.”
You tell him. He repeats it, testing it out, the sound of it in his accent making your stomach do a little flip.
“It was very nice to meet you. Properly, this time,” he says.
“You too, Charles.”
He gives a final scratch to Gretchen’s head. “Be good for your mother, Princess.” Then he looks at Leo. “Come on, baguette. Let’s go home.”
You watch him walk away, Leo trotting happily by his side. Just before he exits the park, he turns and gives you one last smile and a wave.
You wave back, your hand feeling floaty and light.
You look down at Gretchen, who is looking up at you with an expression that is somehow both smug and loving.
“Well,” you say, clipping her leash back onto her collar. “I guess you’re a pretty good wingwoman after all.”
Gretchen wags her tail, as if to say, ‘You’re welcome.’
summary: your son wants nothing more than to have spiderman at his birthday, and when a certain neighbour finds out, he decides to take matters into his own hands to make it happen.
wc: 4.2 k
warnings: none!
➤ MASTERLIST - part two - part three - part four(ish)
"Mr. Norris?" Lando had a soft spot for kids. That much was obvious, especially when they were fans. Maybe it's that he remembers being that age, what it felt like to meet someone he thought was a celebrity. Maybe it was the little McLaren merch, or baby fever, or something, but Lando had a soft spot for kids.
Milo, however?
Milo could probably tell Lando to crash during a race and he'd do it.
"You alright?" He finds himself saying, immediately squatting to Milo's level by the elevator. In the boy's hands are a stack of red and blue envelopes, with names written twice: once in neat, formal writing, and the other in Milo's. "What've you got there?"
"It's for my birthday party." Milo says quietly, extending the envelopes. "It's spider-man."
"No way!" Lando says, smiling down at the papers. "That's so cool! How old are you turning?"
Rather than answering, Milo holds up four fingers, the coordination making the envelopes spill from his hands. Lando's quick to pick them up, neatly sorting them into a stack, when he realizes one has his name on it. "Is this for me? Do I get to come to your birthday party?"
"Oh, you're the guest of honour." Your voice says from above, and Lando counts another reason he has a soft spot specifically for Milo:
You.
His mother.
You couldn't be much older than him, soft spoken and so kind when you moved in next door, offering sweet treats and texting apologies, laughing at his jokes, taking care of Milo. It was the sort of infatuation that Lando wasn't used to, at least with normal people in real life. You were perfect, he was pretty sure, except that was an insane thing to say to someone, let alone your neighbour. "I'm so honoured."
The elevator doors ding open and Lando rises to let Milo and you past, and despite the fact that he had just gone up the elevator, he gets back on to waste a moment with you. "Is spider-man coming?" Milo asks up at you, and you gently card your hand through the boy's hair, and Lando wonders how that would feel if you did it to him.
"No, sweetheart. I'm afraid Spider-Man is busy in New York!" Maybe it was the little British accents, too, that really got him. Lando rented an apartment, back home, for whenever he needed to escape from the chaos that was Monaco and just be normal. You, he thinks, are the perfect embodiment of that normal.
Just a normal person, leading a normal life, telling your kid Spider-Man can't come to his birthday. Only, as Lando stares down at the envelope in hand, Spider-Man could technically come to the birthday. He might not be able to do a flip, but Lando's pretty sure he still has an old Spider-Man costume hung up in a closet somewhere, and has a cheery enough voice for it.
"Well, I will definitely be coming." The elevator doors ding open to the first floor as you lead Milo out by the hand, and he reaches up to take Lando's, dragging him along towards the main doors of the building. "Oh, am I joining you today?"
"You're going to take us in your car," Milo states firmly. "Your fast car."
"I don't think we'd all fit," You offer with a soft laugh, the kind of noise that has Lando dreaming of a domesticity he's never even thought of before. "And I think Mr. Norris has more important things to be doing today."
Mr. Norris. It was a sweet thing, for Milo to call him, but whenever you said it, Lando always considered what it would be like to call you Mrs. Norris.
Not that he would ever, ever voice that thought aloud. "And if you're busy the day of the party, no worries." You add quietly back to him, stopping at the door. "Milo just wanted to make sure you got an invite."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world!" He responds honestly. "Do you need me to bring anything? Snacks? Presents?"
"I think just bringing yourself would be enough. I'm sure the other kids will be very, very excited a professional race car driver is at the party." Well, an F1 Driver AND Spider-Man, but he decides to leave you out of those plans. "Say goodbye to Mr. Norris, Milo!"
"Bye, Mr. Norris," Milo says, waving happily. "See you at the party."
Lando watches the two of you go, happily walking down the street, and he waits in the doorway until you're gone before he's sprinting back to the elevators. He needed to test out that Spider-Man costume, and find the best possible gift he's ever given in roughly a week.
Manageable, he thinks.
Surely that's manageable.
-
The knock on the door is the only unexpected part of Milo's birthday party. So far, everything had gone off without a hitch - all the decorations were perfect, the cake had arrived, the kids were somewhat behaving themselves for a room of four year olds, hyped up on sugar.
Milo, ever the little copycat, was trying to show them how to play Mario Kart, because when Mr. Norris arrived, Milo wanted to show off how he could beat him at the game.
Lando threw every game, but Milo didn't need to know that. The thought of the racer next door then clicks to the knock on your door, and you quickly spare a glance in the mirror in the hall before answering. It was a stupid, stupid, childish crush to have on the man, but you couldn't help it.
Maybe it was the way he played with Milo, offered to babysit, raced around the world and somehow kept a level head, maybe it was how he looked, and how he spoke, and how he dressed, and how he acted, or maybe it was the way he looked at you when he thought you were paying attention to Milo.
Whatever it was, you were starting to get a bit embarrassed of how much you looked forward to seeing Lando today, until you open the door, and Lando was not standing there.
Instead, there's Spider-Man, with a stack of boxes tucked under his arm. "Hey there!" He says, with an accent most certainly British but trying not to be. "I heard there's a me-themed birthday party?"
Slowly, without alerting the kids, you peer around the door and into the living room, where they are still glued to the television, and the parents are watching and conversing nearby. "Spider-Man," You say quietly, "How did you get my address?"
"A friend of mine told me," He says, accent slipping, "He drives fast cars, and lets me borrow them for my missions."
"Oh, does he now?" You step aside to hold open the door, and you turn toward the kids. "Milo, your special guest is here!"
"Mr. Norris?" Then, as Milo turns, you watch the greatest shock you think you've ever seen wash over his face as his jaw drops, clinging to the back of the couch as he stares at Spider-Lando, who offers a cheesy wave.
And really, maybe you liked Lando because of how much Milo loved him. Watching him now, sprinting full-tilt at the driver, it almost makes you emotional. He had never run like that towards any man, only ever you. Well, you suppose he doesn't know it's Lando, but maybe it's the fact that Lando does stuff like this when he really doesn't need to.
Lando lets the presents drop to scoop up the boy, who's been spouting questions faster than any human, or any superhuman, could answer them. You join Lando's side to gently take Milo's hand, who finally sucks in a breath to look at you. "Mom," He whispers dramatically, "Spider-Man came."
"Well, you're a very special kid." You answer, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Of course he'd come."
Four years old. You remember when he was just a thought, a terrifying realization, and now, he was your world, dressed up like Spider-Man himself and in Spider-Man's arms. "Is that Mario Kart?"
"We have to wait to play with Mr. Norris." Milo says, looking at the TV and the other kids, who are now circling Lando. "He's coming soon."
"Why don't we do something else then?" Lando offers, voice cracking. You can tell he's smiling under that stupid mask at the thought of Milo waiting for him to play the game.
"We could do cake." You say, and the crowd erupts with chants for cake. Lando gets Milo to his spot at the head of the table and helps pull out chairs for the others as parents snap photos, offering you strange looks. You had told them, outright, you hadn't been able to afford someone to play Spider Man.
And now, here he was. You take the cake from its box on the counter, and stick in the large 4 candle and light them, as the kids begin singing. You had been so worried, once, about Milo making friends, about being a single mother, but watching now as you set the cake down in front of him, as he blows out the candles and everyone cheers, as other parents offer to help with plates and knives and forks, you realize you might actually be good at this parenting thing, even if the situation wasn't the best.
"Can you take off your mask to eat some?" Milo says, awkwardly grabbing at Spider-Lando's cheek, who happily moves the boy's hand away.
"I have to keep my identity a secret!" Lando says, before carefully rolling up the edge of his mask. "So I'll do it like this, yeah?"
"That's silly," Milo says with a giggle, and you cut out a slice for him, which he immediately hands off to Lando. "For you!"
"No, muppet, birthday boys get the first slice!" Lando has fully abandoned the accent by now, but no one really cares. The rest of the cake gets distributed and smeared across faces, Milo included. He gets one streak of blue icing far up on his cheek, and you grab a napkin to wipe it off. "Do I have any?" Lando asks, and without thinking, you reach over to gently wipe some icing from the corner of his mouth.
No one seems to notice the action, too absorbed with eating and celebrating, but you feel your cheeks burn, quickly turning back to watch Milo as he finishes up. By the time the cake is done, and Lando hasn't arrived, Milo decides to turn from Mario Kart to a game called 'Spider Man Tag', where everyone chases Lando around the apartment, and you take videos of the whole thing, laughing.
When that's done, and the kids stop climbing on him, and just when he looks like he might faint, one of the girls suggests hide and seek, and Milo immediately volunteers to be the seeker. "Go hide," He says to you, before clapping his hands over his eyes. "Spider-Man too."
You're quick to help the other kids find their spots, throwing blankets over them and tucking them behind curtains until finally, Milo is down to 1, and you realize you haven't hidden. Luckily, you don't seem to be the only one alone in this, because Lando grabs your hand and pulls you into the front hall closet, just as Milo pulls his hands away from his eyes.
"Hold the door," Lando says, and you put your hand together on the sliding doors to keep them from moving, and Lando pulls off his mask with a gasp. He's flushed, hair slick with sweat, and you can imagine this is what he must look like after a race. Hell, you've seen what he looks like after a race - he might honestly look worse.
Cramped together, he doesn't have much room to wipe over his face, arm bumping into you. "You okay there, Spider-Man?"
"I worked out this morning!" He groans softly. "That was so stupid."
"Language," You chide softly, and he offers an amused scowl. "There are little ears nearby."
"They can't hear us," Lando says, intercut by a scream of a child found as Milo happily laughs. "Right?"
"We'll just have to whisper," You say, as the predicament you're in slowly dawns on you.
You're chest to chest with Lando Norris, in a spider-man costume, in your closet, as he pants against you.
There are a lot of not age-appropriate thoughts that occur, so you shift quickly into something you can talk about. "You really didn't have to do all this," You say, and Lando cracks a smile. "You've made his year, I think. This is too much."
"Well, he said he wanted Spider-Man, so he gets Spider-Man." Lando says, eyes skimming down your face before snapping up to your eyes. "How much longer do you think we have in here?"
The world slows a little bit at the question. "Not much longer," You say, as Lando somehow manages to shift closer. "Breath while you can."
"The mask is awful," He says, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. "Think it's constricting my airways."
Well, if you need CPR... "You can say you need to get going to stop a villain or something, and then come back as Lando. He'd be just as excited."
"No, no, I'm committing to the Spider-Man thing." He says, tugging the mask on, but stopping before his mouth. "Can I ask you something cheesy, and you promise not to hate me for it?"
"Trust me, Lando, there's little you could do to make me hate you."
"I always wanted to do the Spider-Man kiss thi-" The door to the closet yanks open as Lando fumbles to get the last of his mask down, and Milo cackles in delight.
"FOUND YOU!" He grabs both your hands and drags you back to the living room, and you try to take as many deep breaths as possible.
He always wanted to do the Spider-Man kiss thing.
Did he...with you? "Why don't we do presents?" You say, trying to find anything to distract you, and also give Lando a break. "Go sit on the couch, Milo."
You gather up the few gifts the children brought, and Lando grabs the ones he abandoned by the door. Like any little kid, Milo rips through each package excitedly, showing off cars and Spider-Man toys and a new bubble-blower, until finally, he gets to Lando's presents, who you're sure didn't wrap them himself.
Or, if he did, you might just love him more, considering the Spider-Man wrapping paper that's wrapped neater than you could ever manage, bow included. Milo, for some reason, takes his time opening them, and the first two are Lego sets, one of a Spider-Man scene, the second a McLaren car.
Oh, Lando. "Mr. Norris still isn't here!" Milo says, distraught. "This is his car!"
"Mr. Norris invited me!" Lando says, gesturing to the gift. "He told me what to get you! Maybe he'll build it with you when he gets back."
Then, Milo carefully opens the third box, and discovers his very own webshooters. "No way!" He immediately hands the box off to you to open, which is basically the equivalent of silly string, strapped to his wrists. The moment he gets them on, he begins spraying, and in a matter of mere minutes, the room is covered in string as the kids all giggle in unison. At some point, Lando squats beside him to help him aim and shoot, carefully gesturing to things that will be easier to clean up, and your heart clenches at the image.
Because as much as you were good at this parenting thing, as much as you had mastered being a single mother, it was something new to see a man in Milo's life who wanted to be there, who cared for him, who bought him gifts and came dressed as Spider-Man and who just...adored him, like you adored him.
You're not sure how long you just stare at the chaos unfolding, but it's long enough you think you might genuinely have feelings for Lando, cheesy Spider-Man suit be damned. It's the sort of messy, perfect ending to a messy, perfect day. As much as Milo really doesn't want to end the party, considering Mr. Norris hasn't shown up, he's yawning and trying to fight off the inevitable crash that comes after this.
The kids get their party favours, which include pictures with Spider-Man, and Milo says goodbye to everyone, perched on Spider-Man's shoulders, and Lando carefully dumps the boy on the couch with a huff. "I think you need to get cleaned up!" He says, gesturing to the cake and silly string staining the boy's clothes. "Heroes have to stay clean!"
The moment Milo disappears into the washroom, Lando collapses onto the couch, head hanging back off the back of it to look at you. You step forward and gently uncurl the mask, and with as much bravery as you can muster, you speak. "Can I ask you something cheesy, and you promise not to hate me for it?" Lando's lips part as he swallows, before he nods. "I always wanted to do the Spider-Man kiss thing."
"Yeah?" Lando breathes out, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Well, Mary Jane, now's your chance."
Kissing Lando upside down is not how you originally planned on doing it, but it's sort of everything you wanted it to be and more. It's soft and sweet and patient, the kind of loving you need after everything you've gone through, that's just hot and heavy enough that when you hear the tap turn off in the bathroom, you're quick to pull away.
"Can Spider-Man stay the night?" Milo asks, running up as Lando pulls down his mask again, and he lets out a soft sort of laugh that does something to your stomach.
"I've got to get home! Maybe another time," Lando says as he rises from the couch, and Milo's bottom lip trembles. "Just think, you still have your guest of honour that needs to visit."
"I don't want to see Mr. Norris," Milo mumbles, "I want you to stay."
You watch Lando hesitate then, about pulling off his mask and revealing himself, but for the sake of the magic, he chooses not to, and you intervene to let the poor man go home. "There's lots of people Spider-Man has to go save," You say, crouching down to his level and brushing the hair from his face. "And you never know, he might come back soon. But for right now, let's thank him for coming." Milo pushes away from you to wrap around Lando's leg, and Lando kneels down to give him a proper hug.
"Thanks," Milo mumbles into his shoulder. "You can come back whenever you want."
"Thank you for having me!" Lando tries to say cheerfully. "But your mom is right, I have to get going back to New York! It's a long plane ride."
"Say goodbye, Milo." Milo finally lets go, and helps walks Spider-Man to the door.
"Bye, Spider-Man." He says, offering a small wave.
"Bye, Milo. Hope you had a great birthday."
-
Lando strips the moment he gets home.
Fireproofs were hot, the race suits were hot, but the Spider-Man suit?
Wrangling that many kids?
With you kissing him?
He's practically a sauna. And yet, as soon as he's done showering and gets changed, he'd back at your door, knocking and hoping it's not too late, and that Milo's already gone to bed. There's a shuffling noise behind the door before you open it, and he's discovered in the time it took him to shower and get back here, both you and Milo had changed into pyjamas, and were eating dinner at the table. "Mr. Norris!" Milo says, mouthful of pasta falling into his bowl. "You missed Spider-Man!"
"What? Spider-Man came?" You let Lando in with a soft smile, and all he can think of is your lips on his, how you repeated his line back to him like it was nothing, how right it had felt. Kissing you right-side up probably felt better, but he was just riding off the high that you kissed him at all. He was pretty sure, all things considered, that you had to like him, as much as his brain tried to convince him otherwise.
Having you actually kiss him and prove it? He was still struggling to wrap his mind around that. "And he brought me webs!"
"Webs that are going to be tricky to clean up." You say, shooting a grin his way as you move to the stove. "Dinner?"
"Actually, that sounds great." He had a single slice of cake after being the personal play-place for kids all afternoon. It might not be the most gentlemanly thing he's ever done, but he's not turning down a bowl. He finds his place at the table, and you take your place across from him, and for a moment, Lando thinks he can see into the future. "Did you get anything else?"
"Bubbles, a book," Then, as if remembering it all over again, "He got me your Lego car! He said we can build it together." Then, as if remembering what Spider-Lando said, "You know Spider-Man? And you didn't tell me?"
"It's top secret," Lando says around a mouthful of noodles, and you grin down at your own bowl. Dressed in an over-sized t-shirt and fuzzy pyjama pants, it gives a certainly warm glow that has Lando wondering what man could ever give this up. "But, I still haven't given you my gift."
Milo perks up as your head shoots up to look at him, confusion furrowed between your brows. "Lando, that's not-"
"I want you to come to a race." He couldn't really think of some big gift to get Milo, besides a full-paid trip to a race. Silverstone was soon, anyways. It would be fun, for Milo to see him race, for you to see him win. At least, Lando really hopes he'll win, because then that's one more reason to kiss you. "All expenses paid."
"Lando!" You exclaim, fork clattering to your bowl. "No, no that's too much-"
"Really?" Milo cuts you off, leaping out of his chair to throw himself at Lando. "Thank you thank you thank you-"
"Okay, okay," Lando says, trying to calm both of you. "But you have to promise to be on your best behaviour for it, okay Milo?"
Milo nods furiously against Lando's leg, and Lando scoops him up to hold him in his lap. "I promise. Can I drive your car?"
"Wait another eleven-ish years for that one, mate." He continues eating his pasta as Milo drags his bowl over, content to finish his dinner sitting with Lando, and he catches you staring. You do that a lot, especially when Lando and Milo interact, and he doesn't blame you. He's a strange man playing with your kid, who wouldn't want to be checking in?
But there's always something more in the way you look at him, like you're not used to someone being there. He doesn't know the full story, and he doesn't need to, but he has a feeling that, if he pursues this, he's filling in a spot that never really was occupied before.
"Thank you, Lando." You finally say, finishing up the last of your dinner. "That means a lot."
"What else would I do for my favourite neighbour?" Milo, also now finished eating, yawns into his hands. "Bedtime, buddy?"
"Come on," You say, pulling Milo from his lap. "Let's get you changed and ready for bed. Lando can read you a bedtime story." Then, back towards him, "Finish up your dinner first. No rush."
And then, like it's the most normal thing in the world, Lando finishes the last of his food and gathers up all the dishes on the table and puts them in the sink, and finds you and Milo already on Milo's bed, a Spider-Man storybook laid out on Milo's Lap. Lando takes the other side of you, and as guest of honour, Milo explains, he gets to read tonight. If he had really been prepared for how tonight was going to go, Lando would've brought his own pyjamas, but instead, he just cozies further into his hoodie, and flips open to the first page.
"This is Spider-Man," He begins as Milo crawls over you to splay over your lap. "He's a superhero."
"You're a superhero," You whisper quietly with a yawn, and Lando is pretty sure he turns as red as Spider-man's suit.
"Spider-Man shoots webs," Lando continues, moving to the next page, and he decides to focus all his energy into the book, rather than you pressed up beside him. However, he finds that as he finishes up the last page, he might've let his attention wander to far.
You're asleep beside him, head tilted back as you doze, and Milo is the same in your lap, tuckered out from the party. Honestly, if Lando could, he'd fall right asleep beside you, but that's for another time, another date, so instead, he presses a kiss to your temple, closes the book, and turns off the light.
It's how he hopes he can spend every night for the rest of his life.
a/n: baby fever is in full swing. tell me he wouldn't be a fantastic dad.
Okay also, zu der Kampf/Sexszene in Hüter der Schwelle, HEAR ME OUT:
Die Hauptszene ist Sebastians Kampf mit dem Mann, beide oberkörperfrei, generell schon sehr sexuell konnotiert. Diese wird daraufhin aber allerdings mit der Sexszene zwischen Sebastian und Diana gleichgesetzt. Wenn man jetzt den homoerotic gaze mit einbringen würde, wo Schuckmann argumentiert, dass “violent man-to-man fights, gun-battles, and torture scenes abound and allow for physical contact between the male characters, they often serve as a kind of safety valve for homoerotic tensions; the homosexual act is displaced onto ritualistic scenes of submission and empowerment as well as sado-masochistic scenarios.” (sorry werd das nicht übersetzen, bascially hardcore auf die Fresse geben = gay sex)- dann wäre die Kampfszene allein schon genug für die homoerotische Spannung gewesen.
Aber nein!☝️ Sie gehen noch einen Schritt weiter! Denn man hebt die Ausübung von Gewalt auf dieselbe Stufe wie den Austausch von Intimität. Die Szenen laufen parallel zueinander und kreieren damit eine Art Einheit; eine Einheit, wo Gewalt und Lust gleichgestellt werden. Der Zuschauer ist dadurch auch dazu angeregt, die Szenen zueinander gleichgestellt wahrzunehmen. Zu guter Letzt endet der Kampf im K.O. parallel mit dem Orgasmus, ERGO steht der K.O. Schlag metaphorisch für den sexuellen Höhepunkt.
Okay no I need to talk about the book version of Howl's Moving Castle. I love the movie but the book has such a different vibe and you, yes you, should read it.
Movie Howl is a soulful and quiet. Book Howl is a drama queen and Causing Problems and has a long string of jilted exes and couldn't shut up if you paid him.
Sophie and Howl drive each other up the wall at the beginning and it's really funny. Sophie and Howl are (despite themselves) very much in love by the end and they still drive each other up the wall and it's even funnier.
In the movie, Howl has been ordered by the king to participate in The War, and Howl is avoiding it because he is a brave conscientious objector. In the book, Howl has been ordered by the king to rescue his lost brother from the Witch of the Wastes, and Howl is avoiding it by any means necessary because he is a cowardly weasel who wants to stay as far from the Witch as possible.
In the movie, the Witch cursed Sophie because she was jealous about Howl speaking to Sophie for five minutes. In the book, the Witch cursed Sophie because Sophie had been doing surprisingly powerful magic for years without knowing it and it was actually starting to cut into the Witch's plans. (Sophie does not discover any of this until nearly the end of the book, but the reader can start to pick it up much earlier and the way Sophie's magic works is pretty darn cool.)
In the movie, there's a rumor that Howl eats the hearts of maidens, but this is implied to be nothing but nasty fearmongering. In the book, there's a rumor that Howl eats the hearts of maidens because Howl started the rumor so people would stop asking him to do wizard junk all the time.
The book lightly parodies a couple of tropes from Western fairy tales. In particular Sophie has internalized that, as the eldest of three sisters, her "destiny" is to fail so that her younger sisters will look cooler when they succeed, which is why she's so resigned to the hat shop at the beginning. (Sidebar: Sophie's sisters come up much more in the book and they're great.) There's also a really funny bit where Sophie attempts to operate a pair of seven-league boots.
In the movie, the fourth and final location that the magic door connects to is some sort of black void / mindscape / time portal dealy. In the book the fourth location is Wales, in the UK, on Earth, so that Howl can visit his family, because from Howl's perspective this is an isekai story.
Reveal of Welsh postdoc and rugby lad Dr Howell Jenkins (27) perennially one of the funniest things tumblr users can discover in fiction.
It’s unclear whether he finished his PhD or is still a grad student in the process of slithering out of his actual viva.
Here is Calcifer’s “silly saucepan song” that he sings to himself, which Howl sings when drunk (and Sophie doesn’t understand.) It’s a Welsh rugby song.
nothing more embarassing than when you develop personal beef with a piece of media thats entirely petty. like sorry no i cant talk about that show it. bit me.
I am SO glad that Ryan didn't end up with Jenna. They were and would be such a terrible couple and I was so happy that the team did NOT make them end game. While them cuddling in bed was super cute, that was mostly done to the wonderful acting done by Elijah and Fiona (the forehead kiss??? Help?!).
Attraction does not equal a healthy relationship and throughout all the seasons the showrunners and the characters were so clear that Ryan was giving her too much and doing too much for her and that Jenna was aware of that and let it happen anyway. I don't think she doesn't care for him at all btw! She's a good, realistic character with flaws, as we all have. But he is a very giving person and friend (read: people pleaser and afraid of rejection and confrontation) and she clearly relies on him heavily for dogsitting, help with issues in her life, emotional support... It's giving heavy early The Big Bang Theory Penny and Leonard vibes.
And I also think it's a good message that a person struggling with mental health and loss should NOT hurry into a relationship. Ryan is clearly unwell and focusing on himself and his healing is so much better use of his time and energy than a relationship with someone who he'd try to please at every possible moment so that she doesn't leave. Having stable relationships and a support system does not have to include a partner, especially a new one. Him realizing that he idolized her was so important to help him let go.
Besides, I don't hate Drew and Jenna together. I actually think Drew deserves better. From all we know, his worst flaw is that he gets competitive in games. He is a very sweet, friendly guy who is trying his best.
So, in conclusion, I'm really glad that it went this way. Fiona and Elijah did such a good job with these characters and I love the end message: Don't settle, don't let yourself be walked over, be in a healthy, equally-giving relationship and maybe heal yourself before you take on problems of other people.
P. S.: The conclusion to the relationship to Amanda is so brilliant as well. Her being a mirror to him in their mental health journeys and choosing healing over love was such a good plotline. Refusing to be sucked back into the madness of Wilfred, something that Ryan hasn't been able to do for four seasons! I hope she's doing well, what a queen.
hey remember how awhile back i mentioned that tiktok has a whole trend where people mix cleaning supplies well i redownloaded tiktok so im finally able to show you what i mean
Jesus fucking christ. One time I accidentally mixed an ammonia scrub and a bleach spray and gave myself a migraine in 15 minutes how the fuck are they even still standing.
See below for a chart on what household cleaners to NEVER EVER MIX EVER OR YOU CAN (AND WILL PROBABLY) DIE OR OTHERWISE BECOME EXTREMELY FUCKED UP AND NOT IN A FUN WAY BUT IN THE HOSPITAL AND/OR GRAVEYARD WAY:
The above is not a complete list, but these are extremely common in most households and therefore are the most likely chemical fuck-ups to occur.
DO NOT MIX HOUSEHOLD CHEMICALS.
DO NOT MIX CLEANING AGENTS.
DO NOT MIX CERTAIN ASTRINGENTS. (HYDROGEN PEROXIDE IS OFTEN IN FIRST AID KITS OR WOUND SPRAYS AND CAN CAUSE A REACTION IN SMALL AMOUNTS IF MIXED WITH THINGS IT SHOULD NOT BE MIXED WITH EVEN ACCIDENTALLY ON A SURFACE ETC.)
DO NOT MIX ANY CHEMICALS THAT YOU ARE NOT 100% SURE ARE SAFE TO MIX. (SPOILER: MOST THINGS ARE NOT REALLY SAFE TO MIX AND SOMETIMES COMBINING SAFE ONES ACTUALLY MAKES THEM LESS EFFECTIVE ANYWAY, SO JUST DON’T COMBINE THIS KIND OF SHIT!)
YOU ARE PROBABLY NOT A CHEMIST. PLEASE DO NOT TURN YOUR KITCHEN/BATHROOM/HOME INTO A LAB ACCIDENT.
IF YOU ARE A CHEMIST, YOU SHOULD STILL NOT FUCK AROUND. MANY OF YOU DO NOT RELIABLY USE YOUR SAFETY GOGGLES OR THE CORRECT TYPE OF SAFETY GOGGLES. (IF YOU’RE THE TYPE OF CHEMIST WHO DOESN’T ENSURE ADEQUATE VENTILATION IN YOUR WORK AREA, I WILL NOT TRUST YOU WITH BLEACH. COMPLACENCY KILLS.)
CONCLUSION: STOP MIXING CHEMICALS!
YOU ARE NOT PROFESSOR X, AND YOU WILL NOT END UP CREATING THE POWERPUFF GIRLS.
YOU WILL ONLY CREATE A NEW INVOICE FOR YOUR LOCAL FUNERAL HOME.
I AM YELLING AT YOU BECAUSE I LOVE YOU AND WANT YOU TO BE SAFE.
TO ANY DUMBASS TEENAGERS OUT THERE, I WANT YOU TO SURVIVE LONG ENOUGH TO BECOME DUMBASS ADULTS.
