He had you pinned down to the bed. Completely naked and trembling. A thin sheen of sweat on your smooth skin. His calloused hands holding yours above your head, tangling in your hair. You two had been at this like rabbits. He wanted to breed you like one too.
"That's it love...squeeze me real good." He murmured, punctuating his words with a deep thrust into your sopping and sore cunt. You gasped. Throat raw from moans and cries. "Fuck yes. Wanna be filled up again, baby?"
You nodded, eager for it like a pathetic slut. He grinned. Fuck, he loved watching your face contort when he had you over stimulated and cumming inside you.
He let go of your hands to grab your hips, starting a rough rhythm that had the bed frame smacking the wall. The neighbors hated you two for sure. You could barely take it. His length pistoning in and out of you, the wet squelch making you shudder.
"Oh, god, Price-" you choked, back arching, toes curling as pure pleasure took control. Price chuckled, sliding his hand to pinch your nipple. "Good girl, such a good girl." He said.
With one final slam, hilting himself inside your tightness, he released. And god, you could feel it as his cum shot inside you. His load coating your insides white.
His thumb ran over the skin of your lower belly, feeling the slight bulge there where his cock rested. "You're gorgeous like this, love." He murmured, kissing your lips gently.
Then he pulled out slowly. You both groaned at the loss of heat and contact. His pearly cum immediately came dripping out. Your pussy red and swollen from the fucking it took. Price hummed. "Look at that..." then used his fingers to push the cum back in. "Gonna keep it in until it takes, yeah?"
MY TAKE ON CHAPTER 129, i.e. Asagiri really wants to introduce overpowered mastermind characters, but he can't write them (don't bite off more than you can chew)
I constantly come across opinions that people have lost interest in the manga after the last dozen or so chapters, or abandoned it altogether after reading the fateful chapter 129, and I'm not at all surprised. Here's why.
Note: You don't have to force yourself to like this chapter and settle for something less than the bare minimum just because you have a good heart and don't want to hate on the author. This isn't AO3 or Wattpad; this manga is monetized, and the author profits from you. You have the right to have a negative opinion.
1. The plot isn't plotting
First, I would recommend considering why Asagiri decided to introduce the plotline of Fyodor's resurrection and replace his old ability with a new one. Was it so that Fyodor could drop that one book quote and reinforce our belief that both he and Atsushi are most likely connected to The Book™? Oh, wait... We've known that for a long time... Maybe it was to artificially prolong the action, to drag out the battle to the limit, which was losing its epicness with each chapter, so that there would be enough episodes for a sixth season? Why create a whole new arc if, in the long run, it serves no purpose other than to poorly serve up the development of individual characters (instead of showing that development naturally, in line with the main plot)? Kafka has once again repeated the pattern of prolonging something only to return to the starting point in the end.
The entire series of recent chapters was characterized by a lack of climax, an excess of plot twists that rendered them meaningless and made it impossible to take the action seriously, and a clumsy, ineffective build-up of tension. Instead of tipping in one direction, the scales of victory swung awkwardly from side to side, and instead of reading with bated breath, we read while stifling yawns.
An anticlimactic, tedious battle culminating in an equally anticlimactic death.
I also want to refute the argument supposedly justifying Fyodor's death, namely the needlessly prolonged action at the airport. This wouldn't have been a problem if Asagiri hadn't decided to resort to this tactic. It's not Fyodor's fault that everyone was fed up with the airport scene, but the author's inability to keep the plot interesting.
Kafka took the easy route, using a character who had already been killed off, likely thinking it would generate surprise ("wow, Fukuchi is still alive?"), but in reality, it only caused confusion and undermined his credibility. This lack of consistency makes the plot convoluted, and Kafka, as usual, uses twisted logic to get out of the situation he himself placed his characters in.
2. Wasted potential, in other words: you can't convince the audience to believe in a character's big brain by shouting in their face, "he's smart!"
An important point, if not the most important one. The great evil genius, the main antagonist of the series, who always proves to be not two, not three, but a whole tango of steps ahead, is suddenly defeated by the most logical method. The character have the ability to abandon a dead body, inhabiting the body of the person who killed him? The solution suggests itself; the simplest way would be to kill him first, then himself, to prevent his rebirth. No one will convince me that a genius like Fyodor (who is so intelligent that not only other characters are unable to keep up with him, but even the author himself – Asagiri's quote) couldn't have predicted that his opponents would try to kill him using this exact method. Fyodor may be arrogant, but he's not stupid, and he was perfectly aware that Dazai was alive and would do anything to thwart his plans. True, he could have overlooked the fact that Fukuchi was still somewhat alive, but there could just as easily have been another character in his place. Dostoevsky foresaw everything ahead, but he didn't foresee the most obvious thing?
I often encounter the pseudo-argument, "Fyodor had to die"—and yes, in all the possible scenarios, I couldn't imagine Fyodor surviving, but to die at such a moment and in such a stupid way? Just because Asagiri repeatedly tells us through the characters how great and powerful Fyodor is won't make anyone believe it if he's then reduced to such a careless death that directly contradicts his intelligence and centuries of experience.
3. "My plan that I spent years on is ruined! Anyways..." — Fyodor's unconvincing reaction to his own death
I've seen some analyses of Fyodor's body (haha) language, that is, his facial expressions at the moment of his presumed demise, and while I understand the concept of finding peace and relief only after death, his desperation during life is somewhat at odds with his acceptance of defeat with such open arms. Fyodor often puts on his poker face, but in situations that threatened his plans, his impenetrable facade sometimes gave way to shock or even anger. Here, we have the opposite: Fyodor is slightly disconcerted, perhaps subtly offended, and while he usually carefully conceals his emotions behind a proud mask, this is hardly the face of someone who, with admirable determination, has devoted centuries and at least several lifetimes to, in his opinion, making the world a better place.
I didn't expect a major breakdown or crash out on his part (as some had hoped), but I also didn't assume that his failure would manifest itself as passive acceptance. Let's not forget that Dostoevsky is a person "determined to cling to life," and since he was coherent enough to speak in his final moments (or not? see point 4), I cannot entirely believe the version that the shock robbed him of any ability to process his situation.
I don't really understand the fascination with these few careless panels where Fyodor looks at the sky, for me it's the bare minimum in the case of such an important character as him.
In the helicopter his expression was more natural, although that death was less believable in terms of the plot.
4. Talking Heads and the French Revolution — the lack of realism without any justification
Throughout human history, there have been numerous cases of posthumous decapitated heads moving their mouths, eyes, and even changing facial expressions or responding to certain impulses. This sometimes caused panic and fainting among onlookers, but this was due to uncontrolled muscle reflexes and nerve twitches. Speaking in such a state is simply physically impossible, and even if the vocal cords were intact, a person would be unable to use them without airflow from the lungs. A head alone, without a rib cage, cannot speak.
If this is not a deliberate choice and an intentional desire to raise doubts in the viewer, I am very surprised that Asagiri decided to take such a step, because previously he tried to keep issues related to medicine and the way the human body works at least within the limits of realism, and he justified any departures from it sensibly (example: Dazai did not die from a gunshot to the head because Chuuya used his ability, Sigma survived the fall from the casino because Gogol helped him, and it was thoroughly explained how he did it).
5. "I am always alone and that is fine by me" — Fyodor doesn't expect to be understood, but he doesn't even get a chance to be understood
Fyodor lived, died, rose from the dead, dropped a few nice quotes, we learned practically nothing new about him, and then he died again. The lack of explanation for his motives, aside from vague clues repeated from the beginning, prevents viewers from choosing their side. Readers were not only denied the opportunity to understand his character on more than a superficial level, but were also deprived of a broader perspective on his actions, experiencing the perspective almost exclusively from the perspective imposed by the protagonists. We are unable to fully assess whether his actions were right or wrong because the author did not give his own plot a chance to explain them.
6. Bonus: Asagiri and his Dazai fetish, i.e. the author himself has undeniable tendencies to be a Dazai glazer
Whether it's supposed foreshadowing (though far-fetched), or a neat reference, it doesn't change the fact that Fyodor, as an individual, didn't deserve to have his final moment focused on Dazai, his penchant for double suicide, or, as some say, a reference to Odasaku's death. The big moment, which should have been the culmination of Fyodor's story, is not only rather devoid of emotion, but is largely stolen by Dazai.
Not to mention it wasn't even a double suicide, it was a double homicide.
Summary: Asagiri would have to pull out all the stops to fix the situation and make up for the last few chapters. Suddenly bringing Fyodor back would be another pointless plot twist, but his death is just as, if not more, senseless. This action can't even be called a dignified death for a key character, just a simple dismissal of him and the removal of one of the most crucial pieces from the chessboard for no apparent reason. If you're so terrible at writing intelligent characters and then don't know what to do with them, then simply don't create them or lower their IQ by several dozen points, instead of removing them from the plot in a way that not only demeans them but also insults the viewer's intelligence.
At this point, only a jaw-dropping plot twist would save it, overshadowing all the failed plot twists and attempts to surprise the viewer in the last few chapters. Does Kafka have an ace up his sleeve, or is he simply oblivious to the fact that he's descending a level lower than the ending of Stranger Things? Considering the massive downgrade BSD has undergone since the Mersault arc, I wouldn't hold out much hope, but we'll see ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊
Note2: sorry for possible mistakes, English is DEFINITELY NOT my first language
There wasn't anything too remarkable about you -- not to your Commanding Officers, anyway.
You were a glorified technician, at the most, typically seated in the womb of the bridge, a level below your higher-ups, in the literal and metaphorical sense. You were effective at your job, and your ascendency came easy when you kept your blinders on.
Keeping in pace with the Venator's diagnostics, remaining punctual with your reports, and occasionally bringing the Admiral his datacards; Simple enough. His presence was rather scarce whenever you were on the bridge, but it was always apparent when he was around, when the oxygen in the air was snuffed out before he even entered a room.
You'd caught his eye entirely on accident -- not during one of your routinely courier tasks, the Admiral hardly ever looked up when you entered his office, no -- your waggling tongue had gotten you into this during a bloody debrief.
As the Admiral and his fellow Senior Officers conversed the trivial matters of battle-planning, you'd stupidly chimed in to add onto something one of the lieutenants had said, and Gods, you wished you could remember what it was, but every thought had promptly vanished from your brain when the Admiral had fixed you with his carmine gaze, practically stripping you naked on the spot as his Officers gawked.
Ever since, you've been a blip on his radar... in a sense.
It was hard not to notice his gaze when it gravitated toward you after that, heavy and always piercing your back, erecting the hairs on your nape when that energy on the air became stifled. He was a daunting man, dangerous beneath the surface of his stark-white uniform and the cool azure consistently masking his expression, commanding respect in every way.
There was almost something primal or instinctual about it, the way it came as easily to him as breathing, his unintelligible cunning on its kept you empty-headed like a bumbling moron. You couldn't anticipate him.
Mitth'raw'nurudo, known more simply by Thrawn, had been utilizing that 'empty head' of yours for the better half of a circadian moon, by now. His interest in you had festered into a mild obsession, his mild comments during your courier runs exponentially evolved into something more salacious in an almost back-handed manner. It was hard to read, his monotone damn-near inscrutable to decipher.
It was almost... disturbing.
A walking enigma, though you'd loathe to ask.
Your only reliable -- as in safe, to avoid the risk of a Court Martial -- source of information on the sly Chiss Admiral were your fellow Junior Officers, and they hadn't been much of an aid.
By the time you'd begun to question the extra time spent in his office during (now daily) tasks, and his lingering, observant looks, Thrawn had you backed up to the edge of his desk with a sapphiric hand palming your clothed sex, breathing something in behind your ear to mutter in a tongue you'd never even begin to understand.
It was something you began to anticipate after a few rotations.
Your colleagues took immediate notice of your consistent tasks in and out of the bridge, tasks that often took you away from your work for the Navy. You'd served since you'd graduated the Junior Reserves, you'd never known another job outside of the Imperial Navy; What was taking someone as subservient as you away from the helm?
Gossip under Thrawn's nose seemed to be snuffed much quicker than before, now.
Nobody would notice, just as he expected.
As plain as you were, you more than sufficed for him.
From that first day he took notice of you, Thrawn was curious of you.
Curiosity often shifted into infatuation for him. As for why, that kept him baited and hooked.
So he'd have you brought around more often than before, Thrawn had (of course) delved into your confidential files, indulged himself on your work in the Imperial Junior Reserves, just to give-in to himself anyway.
It wasn't a faltering grip on his discipline, merely a new craving that needed satisfying.
It had been almost too easy to get under your skin through subtleties, and part of him had been thankful for it, seeing as he didn't entirely find enjoyment in making you too fearful.
There was such thing as a healthy dose when it came to you. Ever since that day, Thrawn had been trying to replicate that fathier-in-speeder-lights look on your face that had originally enraptured him. What possessed that tongue of yours to be so defiant?
He studied you, learned you, attempted to understand your nature --
-- And now, the Warrior had you on your back like the prey item you were, 'admonished' from your duties for that day to instead occupy his personal quarters.
Not his office, anymore -- not after the incident.
You'd been perched on his desk, your gray jodhpurs unbuttoned to give your CO's wide palm ample room between your thighs, working two thick fingers into you with that hither motion he'd learned, mouthing the corner of your jaw where your lobe met your cheek, velvety with vellus hairs that tickled his nose. Thrawn had made it clear from the start that you weren't to kiss him, mark him, and much less fall for him.
You'd suffice with it.
There were seldom any punishments being dished out, and he was fair enough to you when the pair of you coupled. "Being intimate," was too strong of a statement.
Once Thrawn had decided he's had his fill of your cunt, he'd withdrawn his hand for you to clean with your tongue -- thoroughly lapping up the ambrosia he'd coaxed out of you -- before guiding you to your knees onto a folded sheet he'd forethought you'd need. He always had a plot in place. Once you'd settled, Thrawn unbuttoned his starched, durable trousers that had been pulled taut by the print of his cock, before letting it spring out to settle upon your waiting tongue.
It had been enjoyable until one of his bleeding liaisons had come into his office with an incident report, yammering on for ten minutes while you struggled not to gag or huff around the indigo coils at Thrawn's base.
Needless to say, he'd decided that he'd allowed his dubious curiosity get out of hand for a moment, but it was quickly rectified.
Henceforth, your routine 'couplings' shifted from his office, to his private quarters.
Here, he was enabled to do just about whatever in the Nine Hells he wanted with you.
It's been this way for several rotations, now.
"Pohskapforian, tell me what this means, Ensign," Thrawn's throaty drawl brought you back to the present, gulping down your own saliva as it gathered on your tongue, the cool sheets sticking damply to your back as you groaned in agonizing bliss.
"Shhh, sh, sh, darling, these walls are thin," your Chiss Admiral chastised, keeping his unyielding hand upon the shaft of the spreader bar to keep your legs up over his blue-black hair.
"One might think that an Officer such as myself would be given a bedchamber more befitting of my station, amongst the other whelps on this Destroyer," you punctuated his statement with a whimpering cry, jerking involuntarily as Thrawn adjusted the cigarra-shaped vibrator against the engorged bud of your clit. The sensations upon your most sensitive area -- with up to three-thousand nerve-endings, Thrawn had added -- made your thighs shake erratically, writhing fruitlessly to either flee or chase the sensations.
"Ensign, you're not paying attention," Thrawn prompted, rousing your attention once more as he withdrew the vibrator, keeping your legs suspended as he studied your fluttering hole as it clamped around nothing, beckoning his cock to feed it thick inches. His resolve was stronger than that, especially when you cried like that, tears of frustration pricking the edges of your eyes as he denied you another fucking orgasm.
Still, to his absolute pleasure, you struggled to keep your tongue bitten, and that never failed to excite him.
"Y-Yes, Admiral?" You'd whinge.
"Yes, what?" Thrawn prompted with a bite in his tongue, his expression garnering zero sympathy for you -- laid out, buck-fucking-naked in his bed, a puddle of tremors, sticky with your own anticipation for him.
It took you a moment of wordless floundering, still reeling from your seventh -- was it? -- denied climax of the evening, before you remembered what was asked of you. Translate.
Skrag, what was the word...
You opened your mouth to reply once you'd found your tongue, only as soon as you did, Thrawn began to lightly circle your folds with the tip of the vibrating device on its most unpredictable setting, and your shuddering moan was enough to make him smirk.
"F-- Fuck --"
"Oh, come, now... It's simple," Thrawn taunted the command, humming in satisfaction when you looked to him for confirmation in your delirium. No, you likely wouldn't come for a moment, now.
"F-Fishing boat... Pohskapforian, means, 'fishing boat,'" you ground out, panting erratically as your hips churned against Thrawn's administrations, desperate for a modicum of release.
"Good, that's very good," he praised like he was purring, turning his head toward your leg that had been perched on his shoulder, absentmindedly nipping and mouthing above the ball of your ankle as he rearranged his hand. Using his thumb, he tucked the vibrating device against the heel of his palm after spreading the gel of your slick across your folds to delve his two longest digits into the velvety warmth of your cunt.
Your walls spasmed around the intrusion, your body welcoming him with a rattling gasp as your feet arched with the curl of your toes, bucking under his vice-hold on the black bar that kept your legs wide-open for him. Like this, you were a spectacle, his muse. Peppered in sweat that made your hair cling, shivering like a leaf in a Nabooian tempest, desperate only to please him with that end-result in mind.
He always gave it to you -- eventually.
"Can you give me one more?" Thrawn crooned into your calf, nipping small marks up your leg that wouldn't be seen in any variable context. Any mark inscribed on your skin by Thrawn -- either by teeth, his trimmed nails, or his lips -- he ensured could be hidden by all of your garments. Uniform, relaxed fits, P.T. attire.
"One more, sir?" You echoed in dismay, suspended on the edge of another orgasm that raged like combustible tibanna in your gut. You weren't explicitly allowed to question him with the word, 'what,' and Thrawn had made sure you learned that requirement well. You were simply there to take orders, not question them outright.
"You took a bit longer to answer me than desired," Thrawn elaborated in a curt tone, a single strand from his slicked-back style falling out of place to dangle between his eyes in an arc, damp with his own sweat. You felt like a depraved animal exposed to Felucian pollen, jerking when Thrawn nudged your swollen clit with the heel of his palm, scissoring you open more as the word, "Ran'iscehah," spilled from his lips like a tooth-rotting syrup.
As your walls sucked at his fingers and squelched around his ministrations, you wracked your brain for an answer, trying to keep your breathing even as his forearm began to pump in tandem with his digits. He seemed absolutely enthralled by the contrast of your skintones, the thatch of your public hair split apart to greedily welcome his fingers into your squelching warmth.
Past your litany of spewed curses and broken moans, you answered, "Dissasem-- fuck, no -- disarm!" with a prompt correction. It nearly sounded as if Thrawn had chuckled to himself, but even if his expression had betrayed it, you wouldn't have known.
The only satisfactory confirmation you got was a familiar, yet unknown, "Taskavcas, ch'acah," uttered from his lips as he captured your wanton moans in the seal of his mouth. A murky film of tears swam over your eyes as Thrawn reciprocated your newfound depravity with a hand flush to your pussy, the uneven vibrations of the device kicked up to a higher, consistent setting with a sly thumb, thrumming mutedly into your folds as Thrawn pressed the cold black bar against your chest.
The action tilted the angle of your hips, and left you utterly powerless to the assault on your sex that left you crying out into Thrawn's mouth with unwarranted tremors as your climax ripped through you like a fucking Holdo maneuver.
Maker, you should've known he wouldn't stop.
"One more, like I said, Ensign," Thrawn cooed against your lips, withdrawing his slick fingers from your spent, still-spasming vulva to reach for the zipper at the front of his relaxed fit where his cock strained to be released, fumbling to join you in your pleasure.
"Just one more, ch'acah..."
Footnotes : THANK YOU FOR READINGG comments and reblogs are GREATLY appreciated !!!! Crossposted on ao3♡♡
“I don’t like keeping dogs,” she panted, chest heaving, “that don’t fucking listen.”
He watched as a drop of liquor from the bottle fell from its lip, teasingly hanging, hanging, hanging— until it slipped over the side and fell onto her chest. He resisted the urge to lick his lips, but could not keep his eyes from it as it fell, slipping down curves until the drop was out of view.
The collar around his neck—pink and pretty, picked out of a pile of similar ones with “BITCH” written on the side in big, embroidered letters—was pulled harshly, leash in her hand as she forced his head to move from its spot of fascination.
“When I say ‘stop’, you stop. When I say ‘bark’, you bark. And if you have any objections, you’ll walk out that door right now, and I’ll report you if you even try to follow me again.” She glared into his eyes, using perfectly manicured nails to hold his chin in place. “I’m the one in control — you’ll fucking cum in your pants if I tell you to, I don’t care how embarrassing it is. You got it? Or do I have to dumb it down for you?”
He shook his head rapidly, trying to make his eagerness known.
I’ll listen. Whatever you want.
She seemed to evaluate him, tilting her head as she stood, moving to sit on her bed as she looked at him to his place on the floor. She tilted the bottle in her hand all the way back, chugging the last of it and settling it with a “clink!” on her nightstand.
Please. Please. Please.
“At my feet.”
He crawled onto his knees, not daring to stand as he moved his way to her. Upon reaching her feet, stocking-clad and raised from her crossed legs, he remained on the floor at her side, looking up to await her next order.
She then eased his head into her lap, his face blushing heavily as his cheek came into contact with the divide between skirt and thigh.
“Good boy.”
He felt a switch flip inside of him, like he was melting and vibrating all at once. He felt his dick straining in his pants, a tangent of thoughts echoing with no end.
I’m a good boy. I’m a good boy. I’m a good boy. Please touch me, I’m your good boy—
Her hands started to weave through his hair, slowly passing through the soft locks. She shifted, removing one of her hands to pull out her phone, and he resisted the urge to whimper at the loss. She still continued to fool with his hair with her other hand, and the soft music of whatever game she was playing on her phone started to fill the room.
He had almost fully relaxed, a false sense of security causing his eyes to slowly close, when he felt it. A slight, gentle movement near his pants, slipping against the fabric without a sound. It slid further, suddenly resting over the tent in his pants before it started to apply pressure.
He jumped at the sensation, leaning further into her lap as he grabbed at her thighs and legs. It seemed to only make the pressure harder, however, and a moan slipped from his lips as he pushed his forehead into the skin of her thigh.
“Shhh! I’m trying to concentrate, ya know?” She shifted her foot, and this time he had to bite his lip to keep the sounds from slipping out.
She seemed determined to keep it up, moving her foot and varying pressure, going from barely touching him to rolling the ball of her foot against his dick in seconds. All the while, her hand was gently combing through his hair, as his breath stuttered and he drooled spit all over her thigh and skirt.
It was like that, head pressed as far as he could into the fat of her thighs without being reprimanded, drool smeared across his chin and cheeks, that the hand in his hair twisted, pulling him up to look at her through lidded eyes. He was a messy sight, one that she couldn’t help but laugh and giggle at.
She tapped at her phone, the sound alerting to the “snap!” of a picture.
He could feel himself drawing close to his limit, from the coldness of his own spit on his face to the pull of his hair in her hands to the tightness of the collar around his neck, connected to the leash that was surely at her side. The removal of her foot from his covered dick was probably the only reason he didn’t cum right then and there, every sensation teasing him closer and closer.
“You’re such a perv! It’s pathetic seeing you get this out of it when I’ve barely even touched you! Aren’t even pussy drunk and you’ve got spit on my thighs.”
Her words sent new images in his mind, eyes clouded as he imagined how she would look and taste and if there was hair and—
If he was approaching the line before, he was edging it now.
“Please!” There were tears in his eyes as he begged, voice desperate and shaking, “Please let me cum, please! Please—just please.” His words started breaking down into babbles, barely understandable through the haze of tears, snot, and drool.
“You’re not gonna be like this for anyone else. You only follow me, you only look through your cameras at me. Peep in on me in the shower, steal my used underwear. All of it, any of it. All of your ecstasy, all of your pain—that’s mine, got it?”
He nodded, moving his head as much as he could with her tight grip still on his hair. It earned him a bright smile, and tons of kisses peppered on his face. When she let go, he could only fall onto her stomach, boobs looming over his face as she slipped her hand into his boxers.
ok, so I know this might ruffle a few feathers, but the 2003 film Love Actually fascinates me. It's a terrible script, I mean god-aful, but all ten British actors of the early 2000s act the shit out of it. They're delivering these stellar performances with absolute garbage lines and barely 2-dimensional characters. It has at least ten different stories, none of which have any plot whatsoever, and somehow all the characters are connected in a bizarre Six-Degrees-of-Separation that makes absolutely no sense and stretches the non-plots to their breaking points just to depict. It has a completely pointless song feature, unrelated to the story about a musician trying to score a hit with an atrocious cover that he himself eviscerates. It has a child dodging post 9-11 airport security like Simone Biles. It has a porn shoot. It has a Hugh Grant dance sequence. Bill Nighy is naked. Just describing this clusterfuck of a film makes me sound psychotic. And somehow, somehow, UNRELATED to ALL OF THE ABOVE, it's a Christmas movie?! I think I'm having an aneurysm.
