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vivalgi · 8 months

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My spoilery review on Crimes of Passion 2

COP2 was a somewhat mixed bag for me but in general I enjoyed reading it. Although it had some glaring problems and other minors annoyances, the book definitely didn't leave me cold. I have many things to say about the investigation, the villain, Marguerite's controversial outfits and of course the relationship with Trystan.

The best part for me was the murder investigation. Despite the over the top depiction of this weird dystopian Eastern European kingdom and its equally silly royal family, the main plot was fairly fun. I was never fully sure who the murderer could be but I didn't really think it would be the younger siblings due to their age during the events leading to Juliana's murder. Although I still kept my eye on the real murderer, the evidence never quite pointed at at him. Vasili may have acted suspiciously kind natured and nonchalantly but you can't just accuse someone solely based on their personality. You need hard evidence and everything we found, kept pointing at other siblings. Especially when the suspect seemingly tried to sabotage the Act of Heir Equity.

Even though the royal family was already charcterized as twisted individuals, it was still somewhat surprising what a crazy psychopath Vasili turned out to be and what sick things he'd do, even to his most loved ones. I liked that he wasn't just cold and calculating but often acted on impulse and emotions. I guess the book finally lived up to its name.

I think it would have been even more awesome if his accomplice had been someone else but Colette. Was she the hooded figure in the bonus scene at the end of book 1? Since Lydea turned out to be not blood related to the king, imagine how crazy it would have been if she and Vasili had been secret lovers, plotting together. Now that would have been a real plot twist.

I usually have little faith in PB writing believable action scenes but the final 'battle' wasn't too bad. The taser shot was too slow and we had to buy a diamond scene for MC not to seem too clumsy and need our resident knight in shining armor to step in but otherwise it was fine. As usual, I believe that death is an easy way out for a caught criminal so naturally, I chose to let Vasili rot in the dark Drakovian prison instead of killing him.

One of the hot debates has certainly been Marguerite's credibility as a fashion designer. The outfits have been quite a mixed bag throughout the two books. It's actually funny and ironic how confident Mags is about her designing abilities all the time. I only bought the snake leather suit (RIP poor snakes) and the green suit, occasionally wearing the leather jacket and black premium suit from book 1. I quite liked the fashion show outfit too but my MC is an introvert with a major case of stage fright (unless it involves the chance to make out with a certain Drakovian princess named Astrid 🙈), so I had to decline the offer. However, by far the biggest offender was that weird gift wrapping made for female Trystan. I can't remember ever seeing a more horrible outfit made for any character in Choices history, especially an LI. Thankfully, with a few tweaks I was able to give her female MC's green premium dress, which I think suits her very well.

Finally, let's speak about the relationship between MC and Trystan. While I've never been Trystan's biggest fan and would have happily romanced Ruby instead, if this were a book from a distant era with multiple LIs as a norm, I still quite enjoy their dynamic. I love my stoic introvert MC and his sharp tongue and this outgoing nonchalant princess is a nice contrast to MC's personality. Their witty banter is always something to look forward to.

However, when it comes to the romantic side of their relationship then this was my biggest disappointment of the sequel. When that fight between MC and Trystan took place in chapter 4, I was quite intrigued how it would affect their relationship and how the two would solve their differences. I don't think romances have to be all rosy, that would a bit bland, especially in longer stories. Conflicts are a nice device for character growth and ultimately the love can only become stronger if you manage to climb over the obstacles. Unfortunately, good storytelling fell victim to corporate greed. Instead of focusing on mending the riff this fight should have caused, the writers decided to largely gloss over it. The main characters were made to act like a normal young couple so that PB could fit in as many p*rn scenes as possible, because this seems to be only thing readers spend their diamonds on these days.

The relationship felt superficial and one-sided as it seemed like Trystan only needed MC to satisfy her carnal needs. Trystan looked determined to take the crown and MC tried to support her decision but no-one seemed to care about MC's worries. He never got the emotional support he so badly needed. Whenever he tried to bring up the subject, Trystan decided to avoid it and distract him by trying to get into his pants, like during the coronation ball and on the ride back from Juliana's parents. To add at least some angst, In my head canon MC decided to be mad and cold at first after the fight. As the story progressed, he accepted their romance was practically over seeing how Trystan wasn't backing away from her destiny, and tried to act distant with her to get used to the idea of a life without his love. That of course meant declining every 'couple time' scene, which is only PB's loss.

Of course, PB would magically solve the problem in the most predictable and cliché way possible. Who actually didn't see it coming that Trystan would decline the crown at the very last minute? Naturally, I'm happy that at the end she chose love over duty to her country and to return to New-York with MC but what if at first we'd have gone home with a broken heart and we'd have even seen the "Thank you for playing..." dialogue and then suddenly on a rainy evening Trystan knocks on our door.

Ultimately, it was a decently fun book. I enjoyed the main plot of chasing the criminal and there were lots of funny moments but I was let down with how the relationship with Trystan was (non-)developed in book 2.

#playchoices #choices #pixelberry #choices stories you play #crimes of passion #crimes of passion 2 #Damn. I hoped my review would be shorter this time but oh well.#Looking forward to book 3

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galacticxcosmos · 3 years

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Hi! Could you do a smut where they just had a concert but you are really drained and just so tired and don't feel good after and when you go back to the hotel jimin takes care of you

𝑳𝒖𝒏𝒂 ♔︎ 𝐁𝐓𝐒 𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 « ᵐᵃᵏⁿᵃᵉ ˡⁱⁿᵉ »

𝔹𝕦𝕥 𝕀 𝕊𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕎𝕒𝕟𝕥 𝕐𝕠𝕦 ♕︎ ℙ𝕁𝕄 ♕︎

Read the profile if you are interested along with the request rules here.

Pairing :- Park Jimin X BTS 8th member < female reader >

Genre :- Bandmates with benefits, Idol AU, Erotica, Romantic, Fluff.

Rating :- 18+ ( M )

Word Count :- 2.7 k

Chapter Summary :- It's the last day of the LA concert, you were beyond tired, a little mess up on the stage was having a pressuring impact on you. Jimin was being a brat at the lack of your attention but soon realises the truth and comforts you in a way you would have never imagined.

Warnings :- brat!jimin { I just love it }, jealousy, slight angst, possessiveness, dom!jimin, blonde-haired!jimin, swearing, teasing, praising, pet names, hotel room sex, cum swallowing, finger sucking, body praising, breast sucking, unprotected sex { but be safe you all }, penetrative sex, soft sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, after care at it's peak, soft Jimin that makes my heart UwU.

A/N :- I know that I take forever but just bare with me okay. Also this is the first request for this book, I am so glad to get such a response at posting just the 8th member profile. I am really excited for this book, I hope you are too. ♡(> ਊ <)♡

P. S :- I am really nervous, so please ignore the typos, I would really appreciate any response. Feel free to send request.

The loud cheers and joyful screams resonated through the concert hall after the enliven performance. "Army!!" Seokjin pushed all his breath in calling out the beloved fans only to raise a wave of cheer in the crowd. Even after so many concerts, the beautiful light sticks shining in the dark never fail to captivate you inside it's mesmerizing view. The purple ocean snatched your breath away. "We are so grateful that you all are here, I hope you had a great time" Namjoon made the finishing statement in english, it was the last day of LA tour. You smiled and waved at dedicated crowd. Every good thing comes to an end someday but when it does we can only hope for something new to happen.

"Oh my, that was so funny" Hoseok's laughs filled the backstage waiting room. "He was like-- Can call me artist, cancallmeidol" Jungkook teased his leader about the minute mistake he made, making everyone burst into laughter. "Oh I didn't realise it would come out that way" the leader stood his ground, defending himself. You sat on the sofa, your head arched back listening to the endless commotion and leg pulling. You are exhausted, but that wasn't really the problem. Your heart sank deeper every time you remembered it. The second last performance was your solo where you had to not only dance but sing and rap at the same time.

This was nothing to complain about, being an idol mean you should expertise your way into each and every aspect individually and at the same time learn how to master all of it at the same. But your exhaustion took a toll of you and during one perticular step your voice got breathless as it was unstable. You felt a concoction of humiliation and disappointment bubbling up inside you. "Noona, are you okay??" You picked up your head to see the maknae looking at you, full of concern. Even though no one really realised the mistake, you still felt guilty about it. "Is it time to leave?" You asked getting up with a smile plastered on your face.

"Yeah, come on" he ideally swang his arm over your shoulder and walked towards the black vans waiting outside. The ride back to hotel was pretty quiet, most of them were pretty exhausted and had already fell asleep, as you wonder how. You can never fall asleep in motion, it's on top of your 'things that I can't' list. Some of them were busy on their phone checking twitter and the tweets that ARMYs made about the concert laughing at the funny pictures that ARMYs posted of them performing. "Y/N ah, your performance was really good" Hoseok complimented, to which you smiled potraying your gratitude since it meant a lot coming from the lead dancer.

But you couldn't deny the fact that it had somehow peeled off the newly tapped band aid off your wound.

Stepping out the steamy hotel bathroom in a fresh pair of PJs you looked around the deluxe hotel room. Quickly talking out your phone, you settled it down on the table beside the bed and started a vlive. "Hello ARMY" you waved at the camera and sat on the edge of the bed. "We just got over with our LA tour and now I am in my room so I thought to go live" you said with a smile, your eyes quickly scanning through the comments trying to find if anyone would mention about the incident. 'Eonnie, I am sure you did great!' you smiled at the comments of k-ARMYs who weren't at the concert.

'We loved the show!' English comments flooded the screen, 'You guys killed it!', 'Luna, you were amazing!' reading the comments you giggled, your heart finally felt a little light, "Oh my, thank you so much for these lovely comments" you replied in English, your usual Aussie accent coaxed your words, as you chuckled, your hand covering your mounth. A notification chimmed in, "Oh, Jin Oppa is doing Eat Jin live right now" you came back to speaking Korean as you read the notification. "So, a reason why I was doing this vlive is because--" you were cut off by the door bell. "Oh, must be room service, please wait a minute" you said getting up a d walking towards the door which was through the main room and thus it was not visible to the camera.

"Oh Jimin ssi" you looked just as confused as you were at the blonde standing in sweats. "Hi baby, are you done taking a shower" he pulled you towards him pecking on your forehead. "Jimin, I am on vlive" you whispered to him and he indeed was taken aback but it was soon gone being covered up in a chuckle, "They can't hear us" his arms were still embracing your waist as he pushed the door close with his back, "They can't see us" his lavishing eyes traveled down to you lips. "Maybe they can" you said with tight lipped smile, patting on his chest you wiggled out of his grip a d walked towards the room where the camera was.

"Well, well, well, look who is here" you took back to your place followed by a pouting Jimin who flopped next to you. "Hi everyone, did you all enjoy the concert" he said smiling, at the camera, his eyes turning into beautiful crescents. "Are you all not watching Eat Jin?? Y/N, I think you stole Jin hyungs audiance" Jimin turned towards you with a smirk. "What?? No I didn't. I was the one who came live first! It's it guys" you turned towards the camera with offence written all over your face.

"Alright, whatever it is, I think it's very rude and disrespecting towards Jin hyung" Jimin suggested and you finally realised the reason behind his sudden outburst of respect towards a certain older. "So how about we say our goodbyes now" he turned towards the camera waiving at it. "Okay, I don't wanna end up hearing Oppa's nagging, so we will talk later" Jimin internally smirked at the success of his plan, but it was soon disappeared, "Bye bye my little babies" you waved before switching off the live. "You never say that to me" He complained the second the screen went black.

"I am tired" you said squirming back to your bed, "Well you weren't tired to take a massage from Jungkook" you looked at him confused but it was replaced with a scoff when you realised what this all was actually about.

The four of you knew the relation between the four of you, the whole bandmates with benifits thing, but Jimin was just having his 'I don't wanna share you with anyone' or 'I just want you to myself' or 'Why can't it be just you and me' phase and as usual he was being a brat about it. "Jimin please we have talked about this" you sighed letting your body sink into the silk bed sheets. "I know it's just--" he just let his sigh replace the sentence. Your eyes were closed out of exhaustion as you felt the bed slightly shift. "I just feel left out, I just feel like you don't want me but---" he waited for a second, you felt an arm snake around your bare waist, as the PJ shirt was sliding up, "--but I still want you" you could feel him snuzzled into the crook of your neck.

"Hey, I am sorry I made you feel that way" you finally opened your eyes turning towards him, the moment you looked straight into his eyes, his complete expression changed, "What's wrong?" His brows turned into a frown as you remember how he can read you like an open book, a book that he could read with his eyes closed. "Jimin, I messed up" your voice broke, "Baby what? What are you saying? " His hands went straight to cup your face as a confusion brushed over his features, his own heart sinking deeper and deeper into his chest at your sight.

"I was really exhausted and I went out of breath during my solo, I missed a note.. God! It's so embarrassing" your lips trembled as pool of warm liquid accumulated at the corner of your eyes, threatening to fall off any second. Jimin quickly sat up, "Hey, it's fine. It's okay, we all make mistakes" you just shook your head, hiding your face on Jimin's shoulder. "No-- Nope, I am not letting you cry on the last day of our world tour" he made you face him, his soft plump lips came in contact with your closed eye lid as he kissed your tears away. "It's okay to mess up, you are not a robot, you are a human too and humans make mistakes" the pad of his thumb brushed of the tear stains on your cheek.

"I have something that you would like" your brows twisted into a frown as you saw him running to another room as if a child running towards the ice truck, it made you laugh but it turned into a gasp as he came back with a bar of chocolate. Complete delight covered your face, this time you became a child, ripping open the packet as a child trying to open its present. "I know you would love it" Jimin look at you giggling as you took a bite of the chocolate, the dark brown sugar bar piece melting inside your mouth, the taste made you moan in delight.

Jimin wasn't giggling anymore but you couldn't be less concerned as you innocently licked of the brown liquid off your fingers, Jimin subconsciously nibbled on the soft flesh of his lower lip. "You are eating alone? How rude is that?" The sudden drop of an octave in Jimin's voice made you looked at him, only to come face to face with eyes full of pure lust. You looked at him confused, slowly chewing the last piece. "That's not fair" he said leaning in until he was dangerously close to you, before you could realise, you felt something wet at the corner of your lip. Jimin licked of the chocolate from the corner of you lips.

"Not enough" he said before pushing your body against the headboard, pressing his lips against your. Without wasting any time, his tongue pushed it's way into your mouth through your slightly parted lips. His delicate taste buds layered with the utter sweetness of the chocolate that filled inside your mouth. He moaned into the kiss as his tongue tangled with yours rubbing off the sweetness in your mouth. Your hands made its way to his soft locks, your fingers curling to the blonde strands. "Fuck baby, I want you" Jimin said panting as he broke the kiss.

"What's stopping you?" You said cockyly which made him smirk. You straddled him, kissing him passionately, pushing your tongue against him wishlist helping him take of his shirt. His hands manuvered over your breasts as your fingertips traced down his abbs. He was hard as fuck under you as you rubbed against his length, the thin layer of clothes seperating you two, added even more friction to the action. Your core boiled with heat, waiting to be penetrated. Your hands reached down to the hem of his sweat pants. "Fuck" he moaned at your continuous teasing to which you smirked.

Your bare back came in contact with the silk sheets again giving goosebumps to your extra sensetive skin at this point. "You had your fun, didn't you babygirl" Jimin smirk latching his tongue to your nipple making you moan this time. "Ahh-- Jimin ahh~" your eyes rolled back with pure ecstasy. He came up to brush his lips against your neck as he slowly pushed two fingers into your mouth. As your tongue rolled around his fingers, he sucked on your neck not hard enough to leave hickeys. At this point he was getting so restless that he didn't even care if he left some. He finally pulled out his fingers from your mouth, covered in warm saliva of yours as the same dripped off the corner of your lips.

"You are so good at this baby, I wish, I could feel that mouth of yours around my cock. But let just save that for another time" he said pressing his lips to yours again even before you could approved his idea. You slowly pulled down your shorts, things clenched together, trying to hide the dripping wet entrance, your state itself was enough to drive Jimin crazy. "Fuck--" you moaned as his thumb pressed against your clit, without any warning his fingers slipped into your core making you breathe out unholy profanities. His thumb massaged your clit as his fingers twisted inside your heat against the walls.

"Jimin, I think--" your moans covered your sentence. "Not now baby, hold it in" he said, as his fingers increased their pace, you could feel a certain heaviness in your lower stomach. The orgasam that you were holding in, kept a constant pressure on your core making you whimper. Jimin didn't let go the chance to enjoy the pleasure of you whimpering under his touch, "Ji-- Jimin please--" your fingers curled around the soft bed sheets, "Cum for me baby" he wishpered licking you sensetive ear lobe, those words were like honey to you.

A wave of relief washed over you as you felt the warm liquid discharged off your body. Jimin licked off the white liquid from his fingers making you bite your lip, "So fucking sweet, just as I thought" he said smirking with satisfaction, "Jimin, I want you-- please" you insisted, Jimin chuckled at the turn of events, "So needy, aren't you babygirl" he said getting off his boxers, finally freeing his hardened length from its cotton cage that was now leaking with precum. The flushed pink tip covered in wetness ready to penetrate you. "I know that you are tried, don't worry I'll go slow" he assured you before leaning towards your body.

Just as his length rubbed against your entrance, both of you moaned out of pleasure. You could feel him slowly pushing into your core. "Ahh-- fuck" you moaned bitting your lips as he went deeper and deeper into you. He could feel your walls clenching around him, "So tight baby" he slowly pecked your lips. "Just for you, Daddy" you moaned. "Fuck! Not now babygirl. I won't be able to control myself" he groaned at the triggering word. You could feel him move, slowly thrusting into you as you bit your lips controlling the excessive moans. He snuggled into the crook your your neck, grousing against your skin. His fingers tangles with your. You grip onto him tightly as he increased his motion hitting you right at the spot.

The walls of heat encloses against his length as he throws his head back in complete pleasure. "Fuck! You are so good! All the fucking time" the showers you with praises. You humm in response, letting the high waves of pleasure hit you with it's highest intensity. "Fuck-- I think I am about to cum" Jimin groans. "Inside me" you finally managed to say as he looks at your surprised.

"I am on pills" you said and the next moment you were filled in as Jimin's thrusts became sloppy. You felt orgasm building up again, you lower stomach churned and twisted, you could feel the subcutaneous flame uder your cheeks, your chest heaving in unison. It finally hits you, the wave off orgasm engulfs you in pleasure, satisfaction and pure bliss. Jimin pulls out with a groan and topples on you. "I think we should get cleaned" you suggest chuckling, exactly knowing what's coming next. It's the 'after - sex - whinny - Jimin' who doesn't wanna let go.

He pulls the bed sheet over both of your bare bodies properly covering yours to ensure that the sudden cold contact of the air conditioner might give you cold. His arms snake around you as he pulls you towards his chest, sinking his face into your neck. "I love you" mummered against your skin gently pecking your bare shoulder. "I love you too Jimin, but seriously we need to--" your voice was cut off by a knock at the door followed by a voice that you knew very well was your beloved leader's, "Y/N, have you seen Jimin?" Namjoon calls out from the other side of the door.

Both of you look at eachother, "Shit!".

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olivemac · 3 years

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1300 miles | chapter one | b.b.

Summary | Bucky Barnes is adjusting to civilian life, living in Brooklyn, visiting Sam in Delacroix when he can, and trying to figure out what he wants. When he meets Jo Landry, the tattooed lead singer of a New Orleans-based band, he thinks he might have found the answer. Too bad they live 1300 miles apart.

Time Frame | post-TFATWS

Pairing | Bucky Barnes x fem!oc

Rating | explicit

Warnings | mentions of combat-related injuries, alcohol use, tattoos/body piercings, coarse language, gay male character, bisexual female character, recreational/medicinal drug use (weed), pet names (doll, Sarge), smut (f/m, mutual masturbation, fingering, slight dom!Bucky, praise kink), angst if you squint but not really, and all the romance tropes/fluff because I'm a sucker for it; more warnings to come; 18+ ONLY, minors DNI

A/N | It’s my birthday, so to celebrate I’m sharing chapter one of my new WIP. This started its life as a one-shot but then my enneagram 4 brain took over and now it’s looking like it’ll be a multi-chapter short. Enjoy!

Also, feedback – comments, likes, etc. – is always appreciated, my loves.

AO3 link | 1300 miles playlist

_____

The sun is just starting to sink in the sky as Sam and Bucky finish the latest repairs on the boat. Sam has spent the last hour pestering Bucky about things he’s missed over the last 80 years — things he needs to do, shows and movies he needs to watch, music to listen to, places to go. Bucky is considering the consequences of putting his vibranium fist through the new Captain America’s face.

“You’re telling me you’ve never been to New Orleans?” Sam half-shouts at Bucky in amusement.

“Sam, besides the airport, when would I have been to New Orleans?” Bucky sighs.

“We’re going. Tonight.” He stands up. “But none of that Bourbon Street bullshit. I know a place,” he says.

_____

The bar is crowded on a Saturday night, but they manage to find a table near the small stage where a band is setting up.

“I’ll get drinks,” Sam says, heading to the bar.

“Sam said he knows the owners?” Bucky asks Sarah.

“Jo and Danny. Yeah,” Sarah says. “Danny served with Sam on his last tour. Real young kid when he served. Took some shrapnel to the chest and face in an RPG explosion and got out early. He and Sam kept in touch.”

Bucky watches Sam talk to a man with a mop of curly, brown hair and an auburn beard behind the bar. From where he sits, Bucky can see a jagged scar peeking out from the top of the man’s beard over his cheek, stopping just below his right eye.

Sam returns with three beers. "Danny says hi," he tells Sarah. "Says he'll come over when he has a free minute."

"Jo around?" Sarah asks.

Sam nods toward the stage. "She's playing tonight. Danny says she's in the office rewriting the set list."

Bucky sips his beer and looks around. When they entered, there was a wave of enthusiasm as people recognized Sam as Captain America, but it seems to have died down and now no one is paying them much attention. Bucky prefers it that way, though he’s happy that people are excited for Sam.

“Speak of the devil,” Sam says, smiling and nodding toward a woman emerging from a door beside the bar marked ‘Employees Only.’ She’s wearing a loose-fitting white tank tucked into light-wash jeans cuffed just above a pair of black combat boots. Her wavy, dark hair fans out behind her as she rushes towards the stage. She's clutching a piece of paper in one hand, and the smile on her face makes Bucky's heart stutter for a moment.

Sam catches the way Bucky is watching Jo as she jumps onto the stage. He elbows Sarah and nods at the lovestruck look on Bucky's face, and they share a smirk. Bucky doesn't notice the exchange. He's too busy studying Jo. Her arms are covered in tattoos, from shoulders to fingers. When she tucks a strand of hair behind her left ear, Bucky can see the row of piercings adorning the curve of her ear. There's a gold ring between her nostrils. Bucky's seen some of the kids in Brooklyn with that piercing, but he doesn't know what it's called. He's seen plenty of women like her since moving back to New York — with tattoos and piercings and dark hair — but there's something about the combination with her green eyes and soft smile that makes his mouth go dry and his palm sweat.

He takes another sip of his beer to ground himself.

Jo picks up an acoustic-electric guitar from its stand, swings the strap over her shoulder, and plugs the guitar into a small amp at her feet. She raises her right hand in the air and sets a count with her fingers — one, two, three, four. The band starts, and Jo strums the guitar, smiling at the crowd. When she steps up to the microphone and opens her mouth, Bucky is surprised at how sweet her voice sounds. He was expecting it to be rougher, but it's gentle and warm, and he likes the way her mouth looks as it forms the words to the song.

Next to him, Sam taps his foot along to the music. Bucky can't remember the last time he saw a band play live. God, he thinks, it was before the war, before everything. He takes another sip of his beer before Sarah hands him a fresh bottle. He hadn't even noticed that she'd left the table and gone to the bar. He smiles and nods his thanks.

Sarah leans over and whispers to Bucky just loud enough for Sam to hear, as well, "You should ask her out after the show."

Bucky grimaces and shakes his head. As he told Yori once, there's a dance to these things, and he's eighty years out of practice. Plus, his last date didn't exactly go as planned.

But he can't stop staring at Jo's painted black nails and tattooed fingers as they move across the guitar strings. LOVE is written across the top knuckles of her right hand, HATE on the left. A series of lines and dots decorate her lower knuckles. There’s a snake curling around her left wrist, its inked head resting on her hand, and several large peonies cover the back of her right hand and up her forearm. Bucky wonders what her tattooed hands would look like wrapped around his cock. He also wonders where else on her body she has tattoos and what that voice would sound like when he's between her thighs. Fuck.

The band transitions into another song, and Jo's eyes land on Bucky. She's used to people staring at her, especially when she's on stage, but she's caught by the way his eyes never leave her, never wander to look at the band's female bassist or to Sarah sitting next to him. She's certain his stare could burn a hole right through her, and she wouldn't even complain. He’s fucking gorgeous.

She knows who he is, of course. She’s seen the recent footage of him with Sam in New York and read the Times article detailing his move from assassin to almost Avenger. Plus, her twin brother, Danny, was a bit of a history nerd as a kid so she’s definitely seen a Captain America documentary that mentioned the Howling Commandos. And they may or may not have hidden a fugitive Captain America and Falcon following the Accords.

Jo tears her eyes away from the super soldier and focuses on the rest of the audience. She can see Danny behind the bar, flirting with the man he's been trying to sleep with for the past two weeks. She catches his eye and smiles her encouragement between lyrics. Get his number! she tries to say with her eyes. Danny's usually pretty good at reading her mind. She doesn't know if it's a brother thing or a twin thing or just a Danny thing, but when he holds up his phone in surrender and smiles back at her, she knows he got the message.

The first half of their set ends with a crash of drums and a long guitar riff. Jo takes a swig from the mason jar full of water she keeps on stage. Her eyes meet Bucky's again as she swallows, and he licks his bottom lip. Heat curls in the pit of her stomach at the thought of what else that tongue could do.

Willow, the band's bassist, steps over and whispers in Jo's ear, “If you don’t fuck him after the show, I’m going to."

When Jo looks at her, she can see the amusement dancing in Willow's eyes. She rolls her own eyes and avoids looking directly at Bucky for the rest of the set.

_____

After the last song, Jo thanks the crowd and helps the rest of the band tidy up the stage, unplugging amps and turning off the mics. She's still trying not to look at Bucky, even though she can feel his eyes on her.

"You have to stop staring, man," Sam whispers to Bucky.

"I'm not staring," Bucky grumbles.

Sarah laughs, "You're definitely staring."

“Here," Sam says, "I'll introduce you." And before Bucky can protest, Sam is waving Jo over. "Josephine," Sam says, hugging her.

"Samuel," she returns, smiling. "Congrats on the new gig." She punches his shoulder lightly. "Better you than that John Walker douchebag," she says. Bucky snorts, and she catches his eye and smirks before turning to Sarah. "Hey, Sarah." They exchange pleasantries while Bucky tries to get his tongue to turn back from lead.

Sam points at Bucky, "This is—"

Bucky stands. "Bucky. Barnes."

Jo smiles and shakes his gloved hand. "Jo. Landry," she says, matching his cadence.

Sam was right. Bucky can't stop staring at her. This close, he can see there's a bit of gold in the green of her eyes and a slight gap between her two front teeth. She smells like sandalwood and citrus and just a little bit like pot.

Jo returns his stare. His five o’clock shadow doesn’t hide the dimple in his chin, and she briefly imagines pressing her lips against it. She’s trying to name the exact shade of blue of his eyes when Sam clears his throat.

She’s not usually so easily flustered by attractive people, but Bucky's blue eyes and chiseled jaw have done a number on her self-control. “Let me grab a drink,” Jo says, turning quickly.

“No need,” Danny says, appearing in front of her and handing her a glass. He leans in and whispers in her ear, “He’s cute.”

“Please fuck off,” Jo hisses in return, widening her eyes at him. She’s only half-serious, and Danny knows it. It’s a twin thing.

When she looks at Bucky again, he’s smirking, and she wonders if enhanced hearing is a super soldier trait. Bucky pulls out the fourth chair at the small table for her to sit, and Jo can't remember the last time someone did that for her.

"The show was great," Sarah says, grabbing Jo's attention.

"Thanks," Jo replies. "Took a while to get back to it after…” she snaps her fingers but doesn’t finish her sentence.

"You were snapped?" Bucky asks.

Jo nods. "Yeah. You?"

"Yeah."

"Cheers," she says sarcastically, raising her glass in a toast. She shakes her head again and pushes her hair behind her ear. "Five years just," she holds her hands open, "gone. Danny was still here, holding all this together by himself."

She tucks one leg under the other, and her knee bumps Bucky’s beneath the table. When she moves to pull her knee away from his, he places a gloved hand on her thigh, holding her leg in place.

Bucky surprises even himself with this move. He hasn’t been this forward with a woman since an auburn-haired nurse in Italy during the war. With her, it was all hands and mouths and skin on skin because he was certain he was going to die any day. Now he supposedly has all the time in the world. He just isn’t sure what he wants to do with it.

But in this moment, he's comfortable here, in this tiny bar, with a beer in his hand and Jo's knee pressed against his. He's confident that Sam would never introduce him to someone he couldn't trust.

Bucky's flirted with Sarah, sure, but that was mostly to irritate to Sam. And as much as he doesn't want to admit it, the thought of something happening between himself and Sarah and then ending badly and ruining his relationship with Sam makes his stomach hurt. Pursuing Jo seems safer in that regard. She and Sam are friends, but if — when, he thinks — he ruins things, he can just go back to New York instead of losing his only friend.

Jo asks Sarah about AJ and Cass to distract herself from the butterflies forming in her stomach at Bucky’s touch, and Sam starts a story about the boys' latest interests. Bucky is content to listen to the three of them talk, his eyes barely leaving Jo. When she flicks her gaze over to him every now and then, she doesn't seem phased by his staring, and she hasn't pulled her knee away from where it's softly touching his. After a while, Danny emerges from behind the bar and joins their table, introducing himself to Bucky with a firm handshake.

While Danny and Sam trade updates about people they know, Jo leans towards Bucky and asks, “You want another drink?”

“Sure,” Bucky replies.

Jo doesn’t say anything else, just nods her head toward the bar, stands, and offers Bucky her hand. He takes it, the leather glove of his right hand warm against her palm. He wishes he could feel her skin without the gloves between them. He doesn’t usually wear them around Sam and Sarah and everyone in Delacroix, but he wasn’t sure how the metal arm would be perceived at this bar he’s never been to. Sam told him not to worry about it, but Bucky doesn’t like to draw unnecessary attention to himself.

Jo leads him through the sea of tables to a barstool, then moves behind the bar and grabs him a fresh bottle of the beer he's been drinking all night. "Unless you want something stronger," she says, pausing before she hands it to him.

"This is good," Bucky replies.

She pops the top and hands him the bottle. He takes a sip as he watches her maneuver around the bartender on duty to fix herself another whiskey sour before taking a seat on the barstool next to him.

"Full disclosure; because it's only fair," she says, taking a sip of her drink. "I know who you are, Sergeant Barnes. Not the whole story, but bits and pieces."

Bucky pauses. He searches her eyes for the fear he's expecting but finds none. "And you're okay with that?" he asks.

Jo quirks the corner of her mouth up in a half-smile and says, “If Sam trusts you, I trust you."

“I’m not great with meeting new people, and I was telling myself the same thing about you," Bucky admits, almost sheepishly.

“You know we can never tell Sam about this, right?" Jo says, conspiratorially. "We’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Never,” Bucky agrees, and knocks his beer bottle lightly against her glass in understanding.

They talk for a while, just the two of them alone at the end of the bar. Jo asks him how he likes Louisiana ("Hot, but the people are friendly"); where he's staying ("Sarah's"); when he's heading back to New York ("A week from tomorrow"); what he likes to do for fun ("Still figuring that out"); his favorite place ("Wakanda") and favorite book ("The Hobbit"); and a myriad of other questions — some of which Bucky answers easily and some that make him pause. He makes her give her own answers to each one in turn.

Jo leans close to Bucky so she can hear him over the noise of the room, and he takes the opportunity to study her features more closely. He's practically mapped all of her face when her eyes leave his for a brief second and land on Sam, Sarah, and Danny staring at them from the table across the room.

"Don't look now," she whispers, leaning even closer, "But we seem to have an audience."

Bucky makes a big show of looking over his shoulder at the group.

"I said 'don't look!'" Jo laughs and swats casually at his arm.

Bucky takes the opportunity to pin her hand with his own, holding it tightly and licking his bottom lip before smiling at her. He can see the blush paint her cheeks and creep down her neck and chest.

He likes Jo, likes how easy it feels to be around her. He isn't used to that. He isn't used to feeling comfortable with people. Hell, he thinks, I barely feel comfortable with myself. But there's something about Jo that makes him feel safe and calm. Of course, there's attraction there — plenty of it — but he's sure it's more than that.

For her part, Jo is enamored with Bucky. She likes his hard edges and his snark, but she also likes the small glimpses he's given her of the man beneath all of that. She doesn't usually fall for people so easily, but she's found herself drowning in the sea of blues that make up Bucky's eyes, and she doesn't want to be rescued. How fucking cliche, she tells herself.

"We should probably go back over there," Bucky says, squeezing her hand once before releasing it.

They both stand and make their way back to the table. Bucky pulls Jo's chair out for her again, but this time, he makes sure to pull it a little closer to his chair in the process. This doesn't go unnoticed by Sam who smirks at him. Bucky returns the smirk with a thin-lipped smile of his own before scooting even closer to Jo.

Jo finds it hard to focus on the conversation in front of her with Bucky's warm body so close to her own, and she realizes she misses the pleasant feeling of his gloved hand around hers. She places her own hand on his thigh and hopes he gets the hint.

Bucky’s fascinated by even the slightest movements of Jo's tattooed fingers, and when her hand rests on his denim-clad thigh, he thinks the sight alone might kill him. Before he can second-guess himself, he pulls the glove off his right hand and links his own flesh and bone fingers with hers.

Jo doesn't look at Bucky — she's trying not to draw attention to her hand in his lap — but Bucky watches the corner of her mouth quirk upwards into a smile, and he squeezes her hand in response.

The conversation continues a bit longer before Danny leaves the table to check in with his bartender. Jo excuses herself to get another drink, and Bucky watches her pop behind the bar to fill a glass for herself.

"I need to get home, relieve the babysitter," Sarah says when she finishes her beer.

"We're heading out then," Sam says, then turns to Bucky, "You coming?"

Bucky looks toward Jo and says, "No, I'm gonna stick around. I'll get a cab back or get a hotel room in the city."

Sam smirks. "I don't think you're gonna need a hotel room, man."

Bucky rolls his eyes.

"Just promise me you'll use protection," Sam laughs. "We don't need any little super soldiers running around just yet."

Bucky gives him a sarcastic smile, but realizes Sam's probably right, and he definitely doesn't have any condoms in his wallet. He's not planning on sleeping with Jo tonight — he just met her, and he's not sure he's ready for that yet — but if the army taught him anything, it's to be prepared. As if reading his mind, Sam pulls out his wallet and places a condom in Bucky's palm before pulling him in for a hug and clapping him on the back.

"Have fun, man," Sam says.

Sam and Sarah say their goodbyes to Danny and Jo on their way out, and Bucky joins Jo at the bar, sitting on the barstool next to her where they sat earlier.

"Sticking around, soldier?" she asks. She reaches for his dog tags and tugs them gently. The drinks have been strong, and she's feeling more flirtatious than she would otherwise.

"If you don't mind," Bucky replies.

Jo smiles and reaches for his hand this time. "Not at all."

"Are you gonna finish your interrogation of me?" Bucky asks, amusement apparent in his voice.

Jo laughs in return. “I thought I'd read your palm instead," she says, turning his hand over in her own.

Bucky snorts but doesn't pull his hand away. "Is this a trick you use on all the guys?"

"And girls," Jo says, meeting his eyes. Then she studies his hand carefully, running her index finger across the lines that crisscross his palm.

"Your dominant hand," she continues, "determines your future, while your non-dominant hand is tied to your past."

Bucky snorts again at the truth of it all.

"I'm not making this up!" Jo laughs. "I mean, someone did, but I'm not!" She can see the laughter shining in Bucky's eyes, so she goes on, "Your head line is deep, meaning your thinking is clear and focused, but it's also curved downward which indicates a creative spirit and an appetite for literature and fantasy." She looks up at him, "Explains the love for Tolkien."

"I'm not sure I'm buying this," Bucky says.

"You've literally fought aliens, and you're gonna give me a hard time over palm reading," Jo laughs.

"The aliens were real," Bucky deadpans.

"And in New Orleans, palm reading and psychics and crystal balls and voodoo are real," Jo says, still laughing. "But I promise not to read your palm again or read your aura or get out the tarot cards."

Bucky likes the way her slight accent makes New Orleans sound more like Nawlins. He also likes the sound of her laughter and the way her face lights up when she smiles. She's still holding his hand in her own, so he turns his palm over in hers and brings her tattooed knuckles to his lips.

_____

Meanwhile, the bar closes, and Danny and the bartender clean glasses and close up for the night.

Danny points at Jo as he comes around the bar. "I’m locking up then heading upstairs," he says.

"Thanks, love," Jo replies.

Danny walks the bartender out and locks the front door, then retraces his steps to the back of the bar. On his way past Jo, he stops and kisses her on the cheek, saying, "Be good. And set the alarm."

He turns to Bucky. "And you, Sergeant Barnes," he says, pointing at him now, "I know you're an Avenger or whatever, but if you hurt her, I'll kill you."

"Bye, Danny," Jo says, rolling her eyes as he disappears through the door marked 'Employees Only.' "Don't worry about him," Jo says, turning back to Bucky.

“Older brother, right?” Bucky says. He understands; he was an older brother once.

“Twins, actually,” Jo smiles.

Bucky takes a sip of his beer. "Sarah said Danny served with Sam," he says.

"Yeah. Afghanistan. A lifetime ago," Jo says. “He only had one more mission before he could come home so he switched with someone. An RPG barely missed the helicopter he was in, and he was pretty badly injured in the explosion and the resulting crash. Almost lost an eye. He came home, got out of the Air Force, went to business school. Now we own the bar..." She pauses to take the last sip of her drink. "...and the building. Sam's really helped Danny get past everything."

"He's good at that," Bucky says.

"Another thing we can never tell him," Jo laughs.

"Agreed. So, when do I get to ask about your tattoos?" he questions.

"What do you want to know?" she asks.

Bucky licks his bottom lip. "Anything."

He likes her dagger tattoo the best. It’s inked on the inside of her right forearm, nestled amongst the peonies, the hilt facing the crook of her elbow and the knife’s tip pointed toward her wrist. It’s feminine and dangerous and incredibly sexy. She blushes when he tells her how much he likes it. He doesn't tell her it reminds him of one of his favorite knives, currently tucked at the bottom of his backpack back in Sarah's living room.

"In some ways, they're my armor," she explains. "When I'm on stage, people look at the tattoos, not me, and I kind of like that. It lets me be whoever I want to up there."

Bucky understands the desire to hide better than anyone. But she knows who he is so there's really no point in hiding from her any longer. Plus, he feels like his arm is something she would understand, something she could accept — not just because of her brother's military record but because of her own unique body modifications.

He pulls his left glove off and shrugs out of his leather jacket, revealing the vibranium arm beneath his black t-shirt.

Jo takes in the black metal and gold details. "That," she says, pointing to his arm, "is lovely."

"It's lethal," Bucky warns.

She cocks her head to the side and says, "If you're trying to scare me, it won't work, Sergeant Barnes."

Bucky can't stop the corner of his lip from pulling up in the slightest hint of a smile.

"Okay,” she says, placing her palms flat on the bar top. “You want another beer?" she asks.

Jo stands and turns to move behind the bar, but Bucky's vibranium hand on her arm stops her. She looks at him curiously, and he slides his arm behind her back and pulls her flush against his chest. She settles between his open thighs, her palms resting gently on top of his legs. He's staring at her so intensely she's convinced he willburn that hole right through her, but she can't bring herself to look away.

He leans in, his lips only a breath away from hers.

"Can I kiss you?" Bucky finally asks, his flesh hand moving up to cup her cheek.

"Please," Jo whispers, desperately.

Bucky closes the distance between them, and his lips meet hers. He's hesitant at first, but when he feels Jo respond, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing even closer, he runs his tongue along the seam of her lips until she opens them for him. She tastes like bourbon and lemon from the whiskey sours she's been drinking, and Bucky loves it. His tongue sweeps along the roof of her mouth, and Jo moans. Bucky is determined to hear that sound again.

He kisses across the corner of her mouth and over her jaw. The hand that was cupping her cheek moves to her hair to angle her head backwards and give him better access to the bare skin of her neck. He laves his tongue over the corded muscles there, then nips at the skin with his teeth. She moans again, and Bucky is on fire.

Jo's right hand weaves into his short hair and tugs until his mouth comes away from her neck. He catches his breath while Jo nuzzles his nose with her own and places a soft kiss against the Cupid's bow of his upper lip. His eyes meet hers, and her pupils are blown wide with lust.

The need to kiss her again is overwhelming. Bucky’s lips find hers, and Jo somehow leans even closer into his body, her hands tracing down his chest to his waist. Bucky lets his own hands move to Jo’s ribs, resting just beneath her chest, his thumbs teasing the underside of each breast. Jo gasps when Bucky’s right thumb moves across her taut nipple.

Fuck, he thinks, I need to slow down. While he’s shared kisses with the handful of women he’s met on dating apps, he hasn’t done anything this intimate in a lifetime.

Bucky pulls away, panting. He rests his forehead against Jo's and stares into her green eyes.

"I should leave," he says. “I’m getting carried away. I…I want to do this right.”

And he does. Desperately. He wants to buy her flowers and take her out and learn what makes her swoon. But he also wants to map every tattoo on her body with his fingers and tongue and then fuck her until she can’t walk straight.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

Jo laughs breathily. “We don’t have to do anything, but it’s almost three o'clock in the morning and your ride already left. You can sleep on my couch if you want to be a gentleman.”

Bucky groans. “I should be a gentleman."

She kisses him again, lightly, then moves away to set the alarm and turn the rest of the lights out. She leads him through the 'Employees Only' door and up a set of stairs to her apartment.

"You're not allergic to cats, are you?" Jo asks, as she unlocks the door.

"No," Bucky says. As far as he knows, he's not allergic to anything thanks to the knock-off serum, but he doesn't say that.

Inside her apartment, Jo kicks off her combat boots at the door, and Bucky does the same, leaving them both in their socked feet. There's a fluffy black cat sitting on the back of the green velvet sofa.

"That's Toulouse," Jo says. "Or Louie. He doesn't answer to either, so it really doesn't matter what I call him."

The cat regards Bucky with indifference before standing up, stretching, and leaving the room.

"Guest bathroom’s just there,” she nods. “Let me get you some blankets and pillows for the couch," Jo continues. "Unless you've changed your mind about being a gentleman." She smirks at him.

Bucky laughs through his nose. “Don’t tempt me.”

Jo leaves the room for a moment, which gives Bucky a chance to look around. He's standing in her living room; one wall features a set of French doors that lead to a balcony overlooking the street, and the opposite wall holds bookcases stuffed from floor to ceiling with books, framed photographs, and various knick-knacks. From where he stands, he can see a small room with an upright piano and guitars hanging on the walls. The exterior walls of Jo's apartment are brick, and everything else is set in jewel tones. He likes it. It's dark and cozy, and from what he knows of Jo so far, her living space matches her well.

When she returns, Jo is holding a stack of blankets and pillows. She sets them on the ottoman and moves across the room to close the curtains.

"There are some sweats and a t-shirt there that should fit you" she says, turning to Bucky.

"Thanks," Bucky says, smiling softly.

Now that they're here, in her apartment, Bucky isn't sure what he's supposed to do or say. He can still feel the heat of Jo's lips on his, and he's painfully aware that the condom Sam gave him is still in his pocket.

Jo must sense the hesitation rolling off him because she crosses the room to stand in front of him and takes his hands in hers.

"Get some sleep, Sarge," she says, squeezing his hands in tandem before dropping them.

"Goodnight, Jo," Bucky returns.

_____

Bucky lays on Jo's couch in the dark beneath blankets that smell like laundry detergent. He wishes they smelled like her. He unlocks his phone and looks up the distance between New Orleans and Brooklyn. Just over thirteen hundred miles. He sighs and drops his phone onto the coffee table before closing his eyes and reliving each kiss as he falls asleep.

On the other side of the wall, Jo falls across her bed, deflated. She likes this guy. She wants him — painfully so. But leave it to her to fall for the one guy in her bar who lives half-way across the country.

_____

next chapter

#bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #sergeant barnes #bucky barnes x oc #bucky x oc #bucky barnes x ofc #bucky x ofc #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes romance #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fluff

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youllallriseintheink · 3 years

Text

Lasting Melodies, chapter 1: You Were Always There

I thought I’d make a story for Jack Fain and Sammy Lawrence, showing their snippets of their lives together from their first performance to Jack’s untimely death.

The first chapter is mostly going to be fluff. In the second chapter, ink-related angst kicks in.

I hope you all enjoy this.

---

In the backstage of a little theatre, Jack Fain sat in anxious silence, waiting to be called out alongside Sammy for their Vaudesville routine. During their practices together, he’d been able to push down the idea of dozens or hundreds of people staring at him for their entertainment, but now it was all he could think about. He looked to Sammy, who seemed much calmer, and offered him a little smile and a nod. Sammy had done many performances before, beginning with concerts as a child and teenager showcasing his prodigal talent. Sammy was the reason Jack didn’t simply shed the flashy vaudevillian getup and make a run for it- Sammy had never, at least as far as Jack knew, had a humiliating performance, and Jack wasn’t about to waste all the effort they’d put in and make it his first.

The announcer finally called them out. “Just focus on the routine,” Sammy said, leading Jack onto the stage.

The routine was no different than practice- in fact, the adrenaline of doing it before an audience made it easier if anything. It would have been poor performance not to look at the crowd, so Jack did, but they didn’t terrify him like they expected. They weren’t bored, or annoyed, or vicious, they were having fun. And Jack was having fun with them.

When the routine was finished, the crowd cheered.

“They love us, Sammy,” Jack breathed. Of course, the crowd had cheered for every performer that night, and Jack knew that. But it felt so good. People loved him! All their skill and effort had made people cheer.

Jack felt a little tug at his sleeve and followed Sammy’s lead backstage, slightly embarrassed that he’d almost overstayed his welcome.

“That was amazing!”

“Good!” Sammy replied. He was smiling, too. “I was starting to think you weren’t cut out for this, but you’re actually a real stage personality. Would you do it again with me?”

“Next chance we have.”

“Great. I’ve been meaning to ask you something, actually- I want to do shows like this for a living someday, but I'd want a partner for it. So, will you be my partner?”

“Wow, that’s an awfully big choice. I wanna say yes right away, but give me a little time to think about it. Okay? And thank you. I would have never been able to do this without you.”

“Heh. No problem. No one I’d rather be on stage with than you.”

Jack blushed. It was a touch awkward to have his crush and best friend praise him like that. “Thanks,” was all that he could manage.

---

As soon as Sammy walked in to their apartment, Jack could tell that he was in a bad mood. Jack put down the book he was reading and went to him. “Something up, Sam?”

Sammy sighed deeply. “I think we need to have a little house meeting.”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Well, I was fired by the movie theatre for,” Sammy made air quotes with his fingers, “‘unhinged and unprofessional behaviour.’ And let’s be honest- we’ve been at the musical thing long enough, and our names aren’t taking off. Remember that Joey Drew guy who offered to hire us as a pair? I think we should do that. It’s a way for us to be working on music together.”

“Well, it’s too bad that you want to give up on the performances, but hey, writing music for a living sounds like an improvement on working at the record store. Sure, let’s do it.”

Sammy smiled and nodded, then looked away. “There’s something else I want to tell you as well. I... well, I found your love poem.”

Jack was stunned. “What?”

Sammy took the folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Uh, here... sorry. You told me it was a song you weren’t finished with, and I took a peek, even though you told me not to, and it was probably an accident you left it in the open.”

Jack's heart raced, afraid of what this would mean for Sammy’s perspective of him. “Okay,” he began, in a tone one might use to calm an animal, “Now that you know about this, I understand if you want to set some new boundaries with me-”

“No! No- I found it months ago. Sorry I didn’t give it back- I just don’t think I convince myself it existed, otherwise. And I didn’t think I wanted to pursue this, but I just thought, you know, if I couldn’t pursue musical performance the way I wanted to, maybe I could have the other thing I wanted.”

Not quite stunned by disbelief, Jack cupped Sammy’s face with one of his hands, forcing Sammy to meet his eyes. “I love you too.”

Sammy pulled him into their first kiss. It was just how Jack had always imagined it would be.

---

Jack sat in Henry’s old desk, waiting for his turn to be called into Joey’s office. Joey had, for no obvious reason, scheduled Sammy in for a fifteen-minute meeting at nine, with him having a similar meeting right after. Finally, Sammy came out, not looking any more upset than usual, thankfully.

“You’re not getting fired, don’t worry,” Sammy said. “We’re gonna have plenty to talk about over lunch, though.”

“Okay.” Jack’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Any idea what his reason is for calling us in like this?”

“Frankly? I think you’re sitting on it,” Sammy said, rolling his eyes. Then he left.

This just confused Jack. There had been no secret that Joey was sore over Henry’s departure a couple days ago, but what could that have to do with Joey wanting to see them?

As soon as Jack had entered Joey’s office, Joey had sat him down with a nice cup of coffee. “So, this is just going to be a casual meeting, Jack. Just you and me talking- one artist to another, alright?” There was an air of longing and desperation in Joey’s eyes.

“Alright.”

“Alright! Excellent! So, as an artistic man, I’m sure that you understand that an artist needs a partner, right?” Joey reached out and stroked Jack’s hand with his finger. Jack took his hand off the desk.

“I’m actually with someone else.”

Disappointment was evident in Joey’s eyes. “Oh, I meant nothing of that sort. I meant a person I could share my dreams and my ideas with. To be loyal and dependable to me.”

“Okay. Sure. I can do that.”

“Alright, great. First thing- you spend a lot of time with Sammy. Tell me about him- what he likes, what he dislikes, what he means when he says ‘please give me space,’ and so on.”

The fifteen minutes passed, and subjects such art, dreams, and ideas went unmentioned. Jack and Sammy truly did have a lot to talk about over lunch, which they took in Sammy’s office for privacy’s sake.

“Wow. He was really that direct with you?” Sammy couldn’t say he was surprised. Though he hadn’t been that obvious about it, Joey had clearly been chasing Sammy’s approval.

“Yep. But the second I told him I was with someone else, he went right on to talking about you. I could just see him taking notes on how to impress you.”

“Pathetic. Well, maybe I should tell him that I’m interested in complete control over my department, who works in it, and when he visits it. Who knows, I might get it. And then you’ll have eternal job security.”

“And maybe I could tell him that you like something goofy to see how far he’ll go.”

Sammy smiled. “Please do. This I must see.”

The next day, Jack told Joey that Sammy’s favourite flower was a white carnation. When Jack came in the next day, there was a vase containing three white carnations on Joey’s desk.

Now knowing his power, Jack resisted the temptation to use it for about a week before he decided to wax poetic to Joey about Sammy’s supposed lifelong love of reptiles. The day after that, Sammy walked into their morning meeting to see Joey with a medium-sized snake around his shoulders. “Her name is Vivaldi,” Joey explained. “She’s a Bullsnake. Wanna pet her?”

Sammy did not, in fact, want to pet her.

After the snake incident, Jack’s daily meetings with Joey became more professionally-focused before ending entirely, and within a few weeks, Vivaldi’s tank, along with the snake herself, had disappeared from Joey’s office.

---

“What? Why...?” Tears were forming in Jack’s eyes. He couldn’t believe this.

Sammy ground his teeth. This wasn’t easy for him, either. “Because you’re the anchor that’s keeping me at Joey Drew Studios. I’m turning thirty in a month, and I… I don’t know whether to accept that I’m going to be working here forever or if I should move on to other options. But “other options” probably wouldn’t let me keep working with you. I need to remind myself that I can live without you, and look at what other opportunities are out there. So, yeah. We can still live together, and we can still talk as the job or as being roommates requires, but I’m going to try not being your friend or your boyfriend for a while, okay? It probably won’t be for more than a month or two.”

Jack wanted to say something- something like, “but I need you, too!” but he didn’t. “Okay,” was all he said. “I hope you get what you want from this.”

Sammy cringed at how defeated Jack sounded. He wanted to hug him, but he didn’t want to break their “no being friends or lovers” agreement within the first five seconds, so instead he left for his room.

Jack and Sammy soon found out that they were very bad at staying away from each other. People still used Jack as a go-between to get messages through to Sammy, and that alone meant they interacted almost on a daily basis. The two of them still needed a discerning eye to look over their music, and while there were others, there was no one they trusted as much or enjoyed the company of quite the same. Sometimes Jack would forget (or “forget”) about their break period and try to bring Sammy coffee and snacks, or check to make sure Sammy was doing alright during the deadline crunch- and sometimes Sammy would send him away out of principle, but just as often he didn’t have the willpower. Jack found himself entertaining fantasies of them drifting back together within a matter of weeks.

Then one day, Jack caught sight of Susie Campbell kissing Sammy’s cheek in the music room. “Other opportunities” indeed. Jack wrestled with himself over whether to say anything, but ultimately chose to keep it to himself. If that was what Sammy wanted, there was nothing he could do about it.

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #my fanfiction #sammy x jack #sammy lawrence #Jack Fain #joey drew

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curiousconch · 3 years

Text

Fight or Flight

Chapter 13 of Ricochet (An Open Heart AU)

Catch up here: Series Masterlist

Chapter Synopsis: Bryce and Heather both need to make major decisions as they face the final revelation about what truly transpired during Heather's kidnapping.

Pairing: Bryce Lahela x MC (Dr. Heather Song) ft. PLATONIC Ethan Ramsey

Words: 3.5k+ | Genre: Crime, Suspense/Thriller, Romance

Rating/Warnings: Mature (16+) / language, hints of violence

Author's Notes: So this took too long to write, and frankly, I'm still reeling with it. I have long planned the conclusion of this series but I am still shocked with how I came up with this final twist. I do hope you forgive me for sitting on this for far too long. Life wasn't making it easier.

Also, disclaimer: Majority of the characters are owned by Pixelberry, except the main character Heather Song.

"You can't go back to the case, Lahela."

Bryce pounded his fists on his oak desk in frustration. He just came out of a meeting from Chief Tanaka, requesting for him to be assigned back on the Farrugia case.

Victim - prosecutor relations. Possible disbarrment. Termination. To sum it all up, his career will be in jeopardy.

These are the looming threats over Bryce's head if he didn't back off the case. Not that he had much choice. Now that his and Heather's faces were plastered across every Boston online article from the gala.

He couldn't help but to think that someone planned to stop his involvement in the case. Probably because that person knows he's doomed once Bryce works his way to untangle the web of conspiracies that transpired.

Resolved, the ADA swears to himself to get to the bottom of it before he lets this go. Sitting down, his mind ventures to Heather, wishing that her day back to Edenbrook was going much smoother than his was.

***

Unfortunately, before noon, Heather found herself in a supply closet.

It was proving more difficult to go back to normalcy after everything that has happened. Patients recognize her from the news coverage. Doctors, nurses, even half the staff was treating her like something fragile. Even the usually grumpy attending that was her boss wasn't trying to get on her toes today.

For Heather, it was incredibly disorienting.

But the probable reason behind how everyone was acting weird around her was that early morning incident.

While taking on an emergency case, she froze up. The last time she did was during her intern year. And that was for an entirely different reason. This time, her head blanked out because she thought she saw Ed Farrugia in that gurney. The slithering snake of a man he was. She couldn't move her fingers, nor speak because of the mixed emotions of her imagined vision.

Edenbrook was where it all began.

Luckily, Dr. Naveen was around to sub for her.

And thus began her slow downturn, reaching the tipping point in this condemned supply closet.

Eyes closed and breathing slowly, Heather struggled to free herself from the suffocation she was feeling. She loved Edenbrook, she loved working here. But now, why does she only feel dread the first day she again set foot on it?

Beep beep.

The sound of her pager momentarily freed her from her prodding mind. It was Ethan. He wanted to see her at Chief Banerji's office. Sighing deeply, she fixed herself and got out of the closet, wondering what this meeting might be about.

An elevator trip and a couple of minutes later, she knocked on Naveen's door and let herself in. Ethan Ramsey was already inside.

"You asked for me?" Heather said, closing the door behind her.

Her mentor and grand-mentor exchanged looks of concern before straightening up.

"Grand-protégé, have a seat," Chief Naveen gestured towards the comfortable chairs in front of her desk, where Ethan already took a seat on one.

She obliged, taking the seat opposite her boss. Dr. Ramsey didn't take long to speak right after.

"We know you've been through a lot recently Dr. Song and we-"

"Please don't put this delicately, Ethan. I can't get anymore fragile," Heather spoke up, demanding for both doctors to tell it to her straight.

"Of course, Heather." Ethan coughed, before sitting up in a more commanding posture.

"Johns Hopkins have offered a long-term position to the Cancer research partnership we have with them," Naveen said. "We both think it's in the best interest of you and Edenbrook to take the opportunity, given that it's your target specialization and -"

"It's not in Boston." Heather finished the sentence for him.

"Yes," Ethan nodded. "We don't want your career to be overshadowed by what has been going on. You have a lot of potential, and this would make you a forerunner in the advancement of cancer research."

"It's frankly what you can call it, hitting two birds with one stone," the eldest of the doctors added.

"How long will it be?" Heather asked, weighing it all in.

"A year, a year and a half, at least." Ethan replied.

"And what of my position in the diagnostics team?"

"You'll stay on to consult remotely, but your responsibilities will be diminished given that we want you to spend more time on the cancer research."

Heather swallowed hard. They're putting me into self-imposed exile.

Sensing her hesitation, Ethan reached out to her and patted her arm.

"We only want what we think is best for you Heather, so please at least give this some thought."

She met her mentors' gaze and nodded at them, before rising to stand up.

"I will think about it," she said, leaving the office.

***

Pulling all the strings he had left, Bryce Lahela stepped foot into the mansion of Massachusetts' prolific senator. Isolated by house arrest, thinking about Ed Farrugia made the young ADA's skin crawl.

As he walked the carpeted floors into a receiving room, he couldn't help but notice the select macabre portraits that showed war scenes hanging on the stuffy walls. Says alot about its owner, that's for sure.

The double doors he entered in opened, and a tall imposing figure in unflattering maroon satin robes came in. He looked a bit older, yet, somehow, more formidable.

"Ah, ADA Lahela. I see you are not backing down?"

Bryce almost snorted at his arrogance, immediately sensing the pretend machismo in his foe's tone.

"We'll see about that, Senator," the prosecutor replied politely. Didn't want to cross the point of no return before I had the answers I wanted.

"So, what does the young and promising prosecutor want from a disgraced politician today?" Ed sat down on one of the most pretentious armchairs Bryce has ever seen in his life.

"The truth," Bryce smiled cheekily, standing opposite the other man, matching his bravado.

The senator's response was to lean back on the too comfortable chair, crossing his legs.

"Well ADA Lahela, are you certain you are ready for the truth? It may get closer to home, more than you will ever think," Farrugia replied, a sinister grin masking his features which suddenly made Bryce feel queasy.

I don't like where this is going. He thought to himself, staying quiet.

"I thought so," Ed Farrugia nodded, watching the lawyer's stoic facade slowly crumble. "But to hell with it, it's just going to be fun to watch how you had a hand on all of what happened to your precious Doctor Song."

The former senator snapped, and in came a butler that carried a tray. In the tray was a white envelope, and a tumbler of what Bryce smelled as scotch. The politico grabbed the glass and sipped the rich liquid, neither offering Bryce any nor pouring him another glass. Instead, he reached for the white envelope and raised it to Bryce's level.

"Recognize the handwriting, young man?" Ed Farrugia was now sneering at him, expectant.

As Bryce's sight slowly trailed the cursive handwriting, he sensed the familiarity of the strokes. Ed Farrugia's name was written, but there was something about the way it was written.

When his eyes fell on the top left side, he recognized the insignia almost immediately, the hairs at the back of his neck standing up.

There it was, the name he tried to get away from since his adolescent life. Lahela. The logo of his parents' godforsaken company that duped so many families.

Bryce can only freeze in place, as the horror of the realization that his parents somehow had a hand in all of the things that happened to Heather slowly dawned on him.

"Heather Song was the doctor that saved my ass, ADA Lahela, so of course I didn't have the motive to hurt her, you know. She prevented my assassination, and I'm not an ungrateful hypocrite," Ed Farrugia began to explain. "But Heather knows this... I am not to shy away from people who can give what I want, what I need, you understand of course? You're a smart young man."

"So in exchange of a generous donation to my campaign, I am to concoct a plan that will mutually be beneficial to me and my donors," Farrugia continued. "My donors wish to teach you a lesson, make sure that you do not forget where you came from, remind you that no matter where you go, once a Lahela, always a Lahela."

"That's why we went with a warning first, remember? Get out of Boston, or else," the senator shook his head. "Your parents didn't think she'd be a good influence to you. Frankly, an orphan with an absentee father? She'd set you up for failure. At least that was what your parents thought."

"And of course, I wanted to gain something more with it, might as well do the work right? I had my kidnapping staged, that dashcam footage you received? That's from me so that you can arrive at the scene before I get killed by that amateur wannabe Jordan. What's in it for me was public sympathy - as the survivor of a second assassination attempt. Public sympathy equals votes. As simple as that."

Ed stood then, and padded his way to the nearest open window, before looking back at Bryce.

"I used my own enemy, the Travis Brothers, to deflect suspicion, of course. I also a used a middle man, someone who already wants payback from Dr. Song, someone with motive... So Declan Nash worked for me, in exchange of leniency in his role on Panacea's medicare fraud." He smirked, satisfied with the grandiose of his plan. "My only mistake was that I underestimated that ungrateful piece of crap though. Who would have thought he had the brains to record me?" his fist connected on the windowsill, startling Bryce.

"So you see, young man, everything that happened, is on you. No one is to be blamed more than you. All because of your ambition to become something you are not. Something you will never be, be apart from your family name."

Stunned into silence, Bryce can only gape at the senator. The turmoil within though, was unparalleled.

The anger that was boiling in him in the revelation that all this time, his parents was the cause of so much misery. Bryce's heart was so quenched of the discovery that he hasn't completely escaped them, nor their relentless hunger for taking control of his life.

His fists clenched, wanting nothing but to smash every single thing in that wretched room. He didn't care anymore.

What right do they have after putting him in so much pain? What do they even want to achieve? Do they want to make him crawl back to them as if nothing happened? Do they want the same pretentious respect that so many others had just for their mercy?

How does he even begin to explain all of this to Heather? That everything that went downhill for her was because of the person she loved? How can she accept him now? How can she love him now?

And as if on queue, Bryce's phone began to ring. When he saw the caller ID, he almost dropped it.

It rang once again. And he knew he had to take it.

"Bryce? Can we meet?" The voice from the other line was firm, but fragile.

He tried to level his voice, not wanting to have her worried. At least not now.

"Sure, babe. Where do you want to go?" Bryce replied, walking out of the mansion that was sucking the life out of him.

"In that cafe, where I bought you coffee that first day we met. Do you remember where?"

Bryce sensed the urgency in Heather's voice. Has she found out? He hoped not.

"Okay, what time?"

"I was hoping now. If you're done working, that is."

He was done. No reason to delay the inevitable.

"Okay, I'll drive there now. I'll see you."

With a heart heavier than it has ever been in his entire life, he drove down to where it all began, praying so much that it wouldn't be a trip to full circle.

***

Heather nervously sat by the glass wall of the Cafe, in a quiet corner. She already ordered two caramel macchiatos, the same drinks she and Bryce had the first day they met.

She rehearsed what she was about to say in her head, hoping that repetition will make it less taunting. Once she sensed Bryce, she waved him to the table and stood up.

He instantly saw her, and the load he was bearing suddenly become a little lighter. But the guilt was still there. The guilt of being the person to have caused much misery in her life.

But years of practice of showing everyone else the facade of his unbreakable confidence helped him hide what he was truly feeling at the moment, and instead smiled at her.

Her beaming return smile proved to be almost too much.

He reached out to her and intertwined his fingers with hers, almost nudging the cup of coffee in front of him.

"Hey, you remembered," Bryce was touched.

"Of course, it's probably the only thing you ordered during those meetings." Heather chuckled, brushing his cheek with her knuckles.

Her chuckle was lackluster, not her usual one full of wit.

"What's going on, Heath? It can't be that you just missed me," Bryce asked, straight to the point, hoping to dodge her intuitive powers of observation.

She sensed the edge in his voice, making her eyebrow quirk. Heather discerned it was best to ask him first.

"No, Bryce. What's up?"

For the second time that day, Bryce was stunned into silence. Heather's sharp perception of him was unimaginably accurate. And he knew he'd explode if he didn't tell her.

So he did.

From the denial and threats of Chief Tanaka, to his prodding, which led him to the heavy weight of the truth of Senator Ed Farrugia's admission. He didn't spare any detail.

Heather listened intently, trying to comprehend exactly what he was saying. She saw the guilt in Bryce's eyes when he told her that his parents set the wheels in motion, apparently for some sick and twisted lesson he needed to learn, like he was still under their supervision, under their control.

The more she heard, the more overwhelmed she got. But she didn't let go of the grip she had on Bryce's hands, reassuring him that she's there to not judge, but only hear out what he learned of the unnerving truth. And to acknowledge the strength of Bryce's character to not hold out the truth to her.

That was what she loved about Bryce. He was never one to back down from the truth, when it mattered. At least that's the case with her.

She has spent half the day pondering about her own decision. She took Bryce's position into account but she didn't expect this other factor to come into play.

If she stayed in Boston, she'd stay with him. And he won't be able to help her case. She knew Bryce, and he'll be unnerved not to be able to personally oversee it. And with this new discovery, he'd want to all the more take this case. This was personal. And Bryce wasn't one to back down against it. She's going to hold her back.

If she left... Well, Bryce would be able to take on the case.

Either way, she'll lose him. And the mere thought of it pained Heather to the core.

Bryce noticed Heather's lack of reply, the contemplative look in her face made him sense something was about to go south.

"What if there's a way, Bryce?" Heather finally spoke. "What if there's a chance for you to fight all this? Would you take it?"

"Heath, I don't think I want to know where this is heading..." Bryce stared at her, confused.

"Answer me first, Lahela. If I give you an out where all those hurdles goes out of your way, will you go through with it?" The intensity with which her eyes bore into his was unparalleled, yet rendering him clueless.

It took him a few moments before answering. Everytime he asked himself the same question, the answer was never different.

"Yes, Heath. I'll fight this to make sure those bastards can do you no more harm." his answer was firm, but as to her way, he still had reservations.

She nodded, her heart screaming not to do this. But she had to do it, else, everything her and Bryce will have between them will be diminished to nothing but resentment and guilt. With him claiming responsibility for his own parents' actions, yet unable to do anything about it. And Heather resentment, because she can't guarantee that a day won't come that she'll blame him.

They can't be together. Not until this is all resolved, not until they can leave everything behind.

Laying it down the line, Heather had to choose. She had to choose for both of them, even if it will surely hurt them both.

"Do you trust me, Bryce? Do you trust us?" Heather was firmly holding his hands, determined.

He nodded, despite himself. He feared what she was about to say, so he held his breath.

"So be it, Bryce. I'll give you an out. I'll give you what I think you need now,"

Bryce was afraid to ask the next question in his mind, but he did anyway, fuelled by Heather’s fire.

"What's the cost, Heath?"

"I'm leaving for Baltimore, Bryce," she said quietly, biting her lower lip, clearly putting in an effort to hold back tears. "I hope two years is enough for you to fight everything alone, because you'll have to. We both have to fight this separately, it seems."

Bryce's blood ran cold. No, no, no, no fucking way.

Seeing the panic in his eyes, Heather soothed him by brushing her fingertips on the back of his hand, sadness beginning to creep into her expression.

"It's the only way, Bryce, it's the only way..." she repeated, as if to convince herself rather than him.

"No, Heather, I can't lose you, not this time, not ever." Bryce's voice was pleading with her, yet he knew, deep down, that she was right. That this seemed to be the only way to fight all the remaining battles of their lives.

"If we concede now, Bryce, it would only break us. If we avoid this now, it will eventually haunt us and we'll succumb to it. We'll just end up hurting each other." She struggled to reassure him, but she pressed on.

"This way, we're not bowing down. We stand more of a chance to overcome this if you'll fight this. If, we will fight this." She rose from her seat to take the chair beside him. She wrapped her arm around his shoulders, comforting him. "We're merely carving our own way around it. It's not going to be easy, but I know we'll overcome... Because you're one hell of a prosecutor, Lahela. You're the best and you know it."

"How come you're the one who's so brave about this?" Bryce stared back at her, tears brimming in the corner of his eyes, aware that this may be their end.

"Because I believe so much in you, Bryce. Because you can do so much for this world more than how your parents defined you. You are your own person, and nothing can ever take that away from you," she paused, brushing the hair away from the beautiful amber eyes that gazed down at her. "Most importantly, because I love you so, so much. And what I can give you now, the love I have now in me, is less than what you deserve. I want to heal, for myself Bryce. I want to be whole again, so that I can give my 100%. When all of this is over, I'll come find you, that's a promise."

Bryce couldn't help himself anymore and pressed his lips against hers with fervent passion, knowing that this will be the last time in a long time before he can find her in his arms like this. Agreeing to this course of action, they bid their goodbyes, never as uncertain as they were about the decision they just made.

In less than a week, Heather left for Johns Hopkins, bidding goodbye to everyone except Bryce. Hoping the moment she stepped inside the plane, life would give her this chance to start over, to completely heal, to become whole again. Because Bryce Lahela deserved more than the fraction of what she could give. He deserved everything of her, no inhibitions, no limits, no holding back.

Bryce watched her go from a distance. He watched her plane took off from the ground, all the while concocting a plan to defeat the shadows of his past lurking around so that he could be with her again. Freely, completely and irreversibly.

That day, two open hearts chose to fight. Fight for the things that hung over their head so that it was no more. But in their decision to fight, they lost the comfort of each other. They embarked on their separate paths with the promise of meeting again one day.

The path to the summit was often lonely. It is in their hopes however, that the moment they reach the end of this hard path they were in, they would no longer be alone anymore.

More than their willingness to overcome another hurdle in their way was their certainty to trust in each other, in the strength of their love for one another. In their endurance. In their hope.

For them, that was more than enough. It has to be enough.

Author's Notes 2: If you're reading this, I want to thank you so much for taking time to read this series. There's an epilogue in the final edits and I promise to tie the loose ends of this final chapter! Please do share your thoughts in the comments, I would really appreciate it!

Tags: @eleanorbloom @ejustlurkshere @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

#open heart #bryce lahela #open heart 2 #choices #choices fanfiction #open heart fanfiction #bryce lahela x mc #pixelberry #fics of the week #choices fic writers creations #play choices #open heart au

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mochuelovelli · 4 years

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ASOUE AU? ASOUE AU. Pt 1 (Characters)

Okay so I just posted a little doodle I did for an A Series of Unfortunate Events AU that I had been thinking about ever since I realized that Esmé was obviously Magica's VA (which was 3 days ago so oop). I don't have all the characters figured out right now (mostly bc quite frankly there aren't really enough adults that act so... neglectful towards the kids in ducktales). I'll list the ones I am pretty concrete on VS the ones I'm unsure or ones that I "reimagined" due to not everyone fitting perfectly in this world.

Characters that are Definite:

Glomgold as Count Olaf: Think about it, horrible actor/cosplayer (yes thats what he is). Both obsessed about riches, revenge and are generally incompetent. Really, Olaf is much more wicked in the ASOUE series imo (bc even tho Glomgold wants to kill Scrooge and steal his money. This anger only extends his wards if he wishes to use them against Scrooge and is less keen on the murdering of kids. Notice I said LESS). Not 100% if I want him to be as...well explicit as Olaf can be at times. Especially his characterization in the Bad Beginning if you know what I mean (pst it's child marriage)

Magicia DeSpell as Esmé Squalor: Like I said, this is a no brainer. She has the stage performance of Magicia with a bit of Mark Beaks Mom (forget her name) mixed in. Probably would downplay her love for fashion and replace it with an obsession with the occult. I would also not have her be obsessed with Glomgold, its more in character for Glomgold to be obsessed with her anyhow. It is also possible bc I tend to believe she is a more compelling villian in canon that she might take the place of Glomgold on the Island in "The End". But I also plan for Scrooges Number One Dime to replace the Sugar bowl so, maybe not.

Doofus Drake as Calmanita Splats: Duh, spoiled brat who is very creepy and probably has parents that want them dead? Instead of wanting to sing all the time he mainly wants to wreak things/people. He still definitely dresses up tho into a hodgepodge of things. It always changes and Glomgold is always annoyed by this but he likes him more than Magicia. She definitely wants him dead just like Olaf in the series (she really hates kids).

Duckworth as Larry your waiter: Yeah not much competition for this role. It was either him or Launchpad. Duckworth is too perfect for this role and he honestly will play a better spy than canon Larry. If I ever write it out a lot of the "fight scenes" and anime-esque "explaining how I fooled you" dialogue will definitely be reworked but still present. I will however not keep out the main theme of neglect or ignorance with the adults, they will still fail in that regard as always but will just not literally stand there and tell Olaf "We finally caught you, now let me explain why we are so smart oh no you set something on fire again". I mean...maybe for a Mr. Poe but not the VFD. Or...SHUSH I should say but more on that later (or in another post who knows?)

Scrooge McDuck as Lemony Snicket (sorta): Okay so OBVIOUSLY we can't have our "Lemony" have the hots for the McDuck siblings mom (yes another thing I must explain oh boy). Scrooge will still be gilted in love by, of course Goldie though I am still not 100% if she should play part of the the role of Kit Snicket (again NOT related to Scrooge) or should she be someone else entirely. Scrooge is basically the reason everything is happening in this AU just like the canon Lemony but writes sad letters to Donald and Della as well as Goldie. As you might of well guessed, Scrooge's Fortune is also the riches the McDuck's have.

Fethry Duck as Dr. Monty: Of course a snake lover will become a marine lover in this AU! Also of COURSE Mitzy will play the roles of the incredibly deadly viper AND the great unknown! Fethry and Dr. Monty not being mentioned by their family but also too enthralled with their studies to care all that much (but seriously thats fucked up ducktales). Totally made for this role. As far as setting goes this will be where the siblings will be underwater first but since the series already has plently of aquatic locals I will probably swap out the Lake Lacamose story with Peru or the Galapagos. Speaking of...

Ms. Quackfaster as Aunt Josephine: For narrative purposes it would make sense that Ms. Quackfaster would lose her edge as a brave and bold woman. For what exact reason I am still trying to figure out. Not sure if I still want to keep the "Ike" storyline, maybe she just got really spooked by FOWL. Maybe some creature from the Galapagos ate her leg or something.

Ma Beagle as Dr. Orwell: This particular role was sort of hard for me to cast due to the fact that Dr. Orwell is older and romantically involved with Olaf (at least its sorta there). I really didn't want to give this role to Owlson bc other than she isn't a bad person, she is also way too young. Ma Beagle already has a similar motivation im canon to want to reclaim Duckburg as Beagleburg so the Terrible Mills plot to frame the B for causing a fire in order to have control over the mill is very in line with Ma. I originally wanted the Beagle Boys be working in the Mill but since I am changing the setting to Egypt, I decided to use the people stuck in the pyrimid (idk what they are actually called) and will either use Amulet, Launchpad or Dijin as Cookie

Characters that are Mixed with others:

Huey Duck as the Narrative Role of Violet B.: I mostly imagined(?) the kid characters in a approximation of set characters from the books/series. For this reason, Huey plays the ROLE of Violet Baudelaire so that he can take the "inventor" occupation. I went back and forth on finding who would have Violet's quirk of using an object to help her think. My mind originally went to Webby since she has a bow and I wanted Huey's obsession with the Incomplete History of Secret Organizations to take the place of his JWG. However I reworked it so that Huey's JWG would act as Violet's ribbon with him having to flip through his beat up (and slightly burnt) journal to find a quick solution or just to calm his nerves. Something that applies to all the triplets and twins is that their last names are changed to "McDuck" mostly bc it sounds better that they are later called the "McDuck Murders" instead of the "Duck Murders" as well as Scrooges edited role in the kids lives. He has a mix of Klaus' social awkwardness and habit of talking at length about his special interests to whoever will listen. Huey is also the one who gets hypnotized in the Miserable Mill ep.

Louie Duck as the Narrative Role of Sunny B.: Pretty sure I swapped Louie and Webby for this role in my first post but whatever. I wanted to confusingly change Klaus' role into a "Charmer" or "smooth talker" (obviously still a work in progress) since I felt that Huey in DuckTales canon was always well researched as well a good mechanic and having two characters who pretty much fit the same role was... redundant. I also wanted to really make Webby's Sunny much more inline with her notorious/abnormal fighting abilities. However, I realized that instead of changing Klaus' role I should just change Sunny's characterization since I would have to rework it anyways since she was a baby. I also got the idea from recently rewatching the series and saw Sunny basically trick her way out of being trapped with the Hook handed man (i.e. Fernald). I will instead make Louie's role as what he functionally is in DuckTales (the guy who can talk his way out of anything). He would probably also say his occupation is "Defense Attorney" or something along those lines. He is also the one who gets captured the most but not by much. However while he still has Sunny's sarcasm, he also has Klaus' inherit skeptism and distrust of adults.

Webby Vanderquack as the Narrative Role of Klaus B.: Like I said in Louie's segment, Webby is changed to Klaus or more accurately the "Researcher" of the group. She is often the one who stays up late, researching ways to get out of Glomgold's schemes. Unlike Klaus though, she has more of the optimism of Violet but might not put as much belief into all authority as Huey might. She still has role models that she looks up to but isn't against bending the rules. She also unfortunately takes Violet's role of becoming "Olaf's bride" in the Bad Beginning. In the story she has always lived with the McDucks but didn't take their name and still had Mrs. B (until she was around 10, she was 12ish when the fire happened). However, she is still in the McDuck Will and therefore Glomgold hatches a plan to use her to get the fortune. She also tricks him by signing her name "Vanderduck" or "McDuck" instead of Vanderquack to make the marriage null in void. She is also a mix of Sunny since she is generally the most physically capable out of the children.

Dewey Duck as the Narrative Role as Quigley Quagmire: Okay honestly after a rewatch, I don't exactly know what makes Duncan and Quigley that different from each other. I'm pretty sure Duncan is the Klaus of his siblings but whatever. Dewey mostly just 1/2 of the reveal that two people survived the fire during the Carnival segment (which is changed to an underground wrestling theme for reasons to be explained). I am fairly certain that during the last part of the Village of Fowl Devotees I want Dewey be the one left behind with Webby and Lena that way we can have more time spent with him and Weblena/ Magicia v Lena drama. Dewey's occupation would be "Comedian/Host/Actor" . He also is the one the adults ignore during the first half and will be the subject of Triplet/only child jokes that the Quagmires face.

Gosalyn Mallard as the Narrative Role of Duncan Quagmire: Okay so like, no she isn't related or adopted by the Quagmires

Lena Saberwing as the Narrative Role of Isadora Quagmire: c'mon both these kids like poetry. Literally I can think of no other DuckTales kid that likes that (other than Webby but that was more of her liking Lena's stuff). She will still have her background as Magica's niece and might take some of the role of Fernald where he gets redeemed by betraying Olaf/saving Sunny. I am unsure by what extent though as she isn't going to be a henchperson of Glomgold or Magica. It might be that she is uses morally questionable ways to get what she wants/needs. Maybe she is "good" but has to commit a terrible act similar to how the Baudelaires have to burn down the carnival.

Characters that I am uncertain about or straight up don't have someone in that role:

Violet Saberwing as the Narrative Role of Fiona Widdershins: Like Fiona, Violet was also originally distrusted by a part of the cast (in this AU, it probably be Webby and/or Louie as Huey catches feelings lol). She is also obsessed with the occult not fungus and has to save probably Louie from losing his soul or something (wip). Violet more than any of the main cast of kids will probably act more like her canon self since she is naturally straight forward and booksmart. She probably gets forced to stay with Glomgold until her and Lena can escape again. Also since I didn't want it to be another underwater local and wanted it to relate to DuckTales17 a bit more closely I thought it be better if they were in the sky. Maybe Violet got the Sun chaser or maybe even the Spear of Selene. Maybe instead of going to look for their dads (since they are dead oof) they come back at The End to tell the McDuck Siblings et all that they might of found something...or someone important.

Boyd as the Narrative Role of Friday: This is definitely more of a stretch as really he is only Friday because in role only because I want him at the Island at The End so that he can save the siblings from whatever organic incident happens since he is still an android. I previously thought he could also fit the role of Fernald since he could go through a redemption arc easier due to him sorta going through one in the show. Its not out of the realm of possibility that Glomgold could have reprogrammed him to obey him (he might still do something similar I haven't figured it out 100%).

Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera as the narrative role of Hector: He probably won't faint as much as Hector but he will have to be pushed by the kids to be confident in himself during the Vile Village (which will probably change to a Capital city since I plan to rework FOWL into this). Maybe its similar to a military academy which makes having a set of rules make sense. Its also possible that Fenton escapes with some of the kids in the Sunchaser by the end of this.

Steelbeak as the Narrative Role of Fernald Widdershins: I mainly chose him because Steelbeak and Hookhanded man both most clearly are shown to be sympathic antagonists. They are still functionally villians, much more so than any of the children like Boyd or Lena who, yeah, have done bad things but in one case wasn't given the freewill to decide for himself or was but when she decided to stand up for herself she was literally tortured and had her freedom taken away (more so than in the beginning since. Steelbeak would, like Fernald, be making a choice as an adult man to be apart of a mad man's troop and was harden enough to commit murder if it meant he could impress his boss. But because he is not related to (by blood or otherwise) any protagonist I struggle to know where to put him. I might still have him defect during the end of what would have been the Grim Grotto ep and comes back with the Saberwings at The End. Maybe he brings Gosalyn back after finding her at some point, maybe he dies somewhere towards The End. Not sure.

Gladstone/Ghost of Christmas Past/News Reporter Lady as the Narrative Role of Mr. Poe/Mr. Poes Wife: wow this one is really confusing. My reasoning behind these picks is because The News lady would be a great pick for Mr. Poe's wife or at least a substitute as she has similar motivations in DT17. The biggest set back for her tho is that she has no reason to be on the Baudelaire case (or McDuck case anyways). Ghost of Christmas past is a bit of a stretch since why the fuck would he be in charge of making sure the kids had guardians? I mainly want him just bc of his motivation (or lack thereof) to do his job and being incompetent at it. Gladstone while making some sense that he also would be uncaring about where the kids go is also a stretch given he is a relative and he while he might not care 100% about their whereabouts he wouldn't lose them like Mr. Poe would simply bc he is so damn Lucky. Its possible to work that against him, maybe in a scenerios like where he drops off the kids but gets whisked away because some rando gifts him a boat. Still unsure.

Mrs. Beakley as either the Narrative Role of Jaclyn S (Mr. Poes Secretary/VFD spy)., Olivia C. (Librarian): I want Mrs. B to have a role which fits her being experienced and competent but also met a tragic demise. I might mix the experience of JS with the fate of OC. Poor Webby.

Justice Strauss as ???: I'll be honest, I am stumped with this one. This is a very important role to fill and I can't quite find an adult character that fits the bill of Justice Strauss. Mrs. B is too smart, Launchpad studying law while ridiculous, is something inline with the show but he doesn't have a DT17 motivation similar enough to Strauss where he's desires can be exploited nor has he really want kids in the same sense as Strauss. Drake Mallard is close since he is an actor but having him work with law is a bit of a stretch, I also think that making him somewhat bumbling is an insult to his character but Strauss is tragic since she WANTS to very much be the Baudelaires guardian but fails so much. Maybe in a safer world she could have been, maybe if they were luckier. She loves them so much, but they run away where she can't find them to at least try to be there for them and is left heart broken by the end. Whoever becomes JS is in for a world of hurt and I'm sorry. Goofy could also be a replacement, maybe Max died for more angst 😬.

Goldie or Daisy as the narrative role of Kit Snicket: This kinda gets really fanfic-y as neither of these characters really fit nicely into this role. Goldie definitely has the skill of Kit and her disregard for the rules but the pregnancy thing is... something. Not entirely sure if I actually want her to be pregnant but I also want a Beatrice II type character (of course she would be named Della II) but again very fanfic-y. Daisy I am more comfortable being the one who gets pregnant, she might take Olivias role as the new VFD recruit instead of Kits more seasoned one. All I know is that if either or both outcomes exist they will die also a Dewey Deanumont(?) Character wouldn't be the father it would of course be Donald or Scrooge depending who gets pregnant.

Jacques Snicket as ???: Another mystery for me. Functionally? Maybe Manny could play this role or even Launchpad (he really is just my go to for any character idk about huh?) Whoever it is will die but wont have a romance with the Olivia character(s). Maybe its Goofy lmao.

This is quite long enough, let me know if y'all got any more ideas. I'll edit this when I can since I am tired of writing. Please comment or reblog for suggestions and the like thx u. And please...Look Away while you still can.

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smilexcaptainx · 4 years

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Nomination | Tom Holland

Wanna be part of my Imagines Tag List?

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Requested: Anonymous

Request: Hi! Do you think you could write something about reader being an author and dating Tom secretly and them being revealed when her book is nominated and wins an award and she brings him with her as her date? Thank you I love your writing?

A/N: I love youuuu and I hope you enjoy!

Warning(s): None

Word Count: 913

masterlist

Every story comes with inspiration from at least something that happens to them. In this case, you’ve written a best seller based on the relationship you and Tom shared. You’ve gained many fans, and numerous of them say that they can definitely relate to your book. Of course, they would ask the follow up question, “What inspired you to write about what you wrote?”‌ At those times, you wished you could tell them about Tom, but you remained silent.

Your best seller was surprinsgly nominated for an award in one of the most famous book award shows in the world. Tom felt nothing but complete joy for you when he found out. He invited you over to his place to celebrate and it was one of the most magical nights of your life. It was also the night that you asked him that he would be willing to be your date to the award show. Tom answered with a gentle kiss and a smile.

The night finally came and Tom couldn’t stop hyping you up. His over dramatic reactions would always remind you why you fell in love with him. He rode with you to the show and was by your side the entire way in. You had a smile plastered on your face as the flashing lights about blinded you on the way in. You knew that the pictures were probably mainly for Tom, but you still felt lucky to have him as your plus one.

The show started and you couldn’t stop thinking about the part where they would announce your book for the nomination. How were you going to react? Do you wave at the camera? Do you smile? Your thoughts were running wild, next thing you knew, they called out your name. Your face showed up on the big screen and you just gave the camera a simple smile. Once the camera came off of your face, Tom leaned over toward you.

“You’re going to win darling, I know you are,”‌ he whispered softly. “and if you don’t win, this award show was rigged the entire time.”

You chuckled. “Thanks Tom.”

The entire area fell silent as the host slid out the winner from the envelope. Tom snaked his hand your way and laid it on top of your hand. He gently squeezed your hand as the tension built up. The next two words to leave the mouth of the host was the first and last name of you. You won, and you weren’t even the first one to react. Tom shot up to his feet and threw his hands in the air, acting as if he was the one who won the award.

You were in complete shock. You couldn’t believe that you actually won. The whistles, claps and cheers were all echoing in your head. Everything seemed to be spinning, your book won! It wasn’t long until Tom took your hand and helped you stand up. Tom suddenly smashed his lips against yours, catching you off guard. The cheers inside the room increased and your heart beat picked up its pace.

You pulled away from Tom, hoping that the camera didn’t catch that whole scene. Although, you wouldn’t mind re-watching that on YouTube. It made you think that maybe it was time for your relationship with Tom to be shown to the world. You received a bunch of “congratulations!”‌ as you made your way to the stage. You still felt like you couldn’t stand straight, you were still in quite the shock.

The host hugged you and gave you the reward. He stepped aside and the microphone was all yours. You took a deep breath and looked out to the crowd, immediately noticing Tom. He was on the edge of his seat, eager as could be. His smile was enormous you feel his love from far away.

“Wow um, I’m feeling a large amount of gratitude at this moment,”‌ you said into the microphone, the crowd dying down its volume. “I’m especially grateful for the man who has been with me through it all. My date tonight, Tom Holland.”

Murmurs instantly broke out. You heard a few squeals come from the audience, but you didn’t pay too much attention to them.

“Tom and I have been dating for quite a while now, and honestly, if it weren’t for him, I‌ never would have written this book. I’ve had many breakdowns, and I’ve wanted to give up multiple times, but Tom was always there to lift my head up and encourage me to finish it,” you said, staring directly at him. “I also wanted to thank all my fans out there who made this possible. This is because of you. I love you guys and I’m thankful for each and every one of you. Thank you.”

You gave an assertive nod as your little speech ended. Everybody clapped and the host hugged you one last time before you left the stage. As you walked down the aisle back to your seat, Tom had stood up and was smiling brightly at you. He was so handsome. You made it back to your seat and he sat down when you sat down. He put his arm around you and you laid his head on his shoulder.

“It feels so good to finally show my love for you in public,” tom said quietly. “I don’t have to hold back my feelings for you anymore.”

“I know,” you smiled. “and you’re welcome.”

The End

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Tag List:

( If your name is in bold, that means Tumblr won’t let me tag you, but I will still message you so you can still be notified )

@whenpugzfly , @mo320 , @hauntedhoagiesoulkid , @babydazz , @cporter003 , @let-the-music-take-c0ntrol , @trashparker , @catislittlecorner , @cruciomondani394 , @me-lis , @sincerelyfan , @taman-a , @iwastornsincethestart , @jillanaholland , @swagbearfreakmoney , @aavocadocloud , @missmulti , @bellagrayson-wayne

#imagine #imagines #tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland imagines #tom holland x reader #marvel #the avengers #peter parker #spider man #my writing

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letterboxd · 4 years

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How I Letterboxd #5: Will Slater.

Talking mullets and other manes with the man behind the internet’s definitive ‘exploding helicopters in movies’ catalog.

“Man cannot live on helicopter explosions alone. Even I need some occasional intellectual nourishment.”

A London-based PR man by day, by night Will Slater has a thing (and a podcast, blog and Twitter account) for movies that feature exploding helicopters. According to his Letterboxd bio, it’s “the world’s only podcast and blog dedicated to celebrating the art of exploding helicopters in films… as well as shaming those directors who dishonor the helicopter explosion genre”. As Will tells Jack Moulton, he also loves film noir, Wakaliwood, masala movies and much more. Just don’t get him started on the one action movie cliché that never fails to disappoint.

Sylvester Stallone takes aim in ‘Rambo III’ (1988).

First things first, have you ever had a ride in a helicopter? Will Slater: What, do you think I’m mad? Of course I’ve never flown in a helicopter! If I’ve learned anything from watching hundreds of films where helicopters spectacularly explode, it’s that they are a singularly dangerous form of transport. You never know when Sylvester Stallone is going to pop up with an explosive-tipped arrow and blow you out of the sky.

I’m going to say the words ‘the definitive action hero/heroine’. Who pops into your head first? No runners-up. Go. Snake Plissken, no question, for a number of good reasons. First, there’s the look: that eye-patch, the beaten-to-hell leather jacket and Kurt Russell’s lustrous mane of hair. Second, there’s the attitude: his contempt for authority, the drawled sarcasm and all-round bad-assery. And I also like that he doesn’t have any special abilities. Action heroes generally tend to be either musclebound slabs of beef—Arnold Schwarzenegger, Stallone—or martial arts specialists—Jean-Claude van Damme, Jackie Chan—Plissken is just a pissed-off, angry dude who’s trying to stay alive. He’s very relatable. Plus, I’d argue he pretty much invented the whole anti-hero formula that rules our screens today.

Kurt Russell as Snake Plissken in John Carpenter’s ‘Escape from New York’ (1981).

When did you start your podcast and which film got you into looking deeper into the topic? It was while watching the cheesily bad Cyborg Cop that I first had an epiphany about the weird and wonderful ways in which helicopters seemed to continually explode in movies. But the film that convinced me to start documenting the phenomenon was Stone Cold. If you’re not familiar with the film, it was an attempt to turn former gridiron star and mullet-king Brian Bosworth into the next big action star. It goes without saying that Stone Cold did not transform ‘The Boz’ into the next Arnold Schwarzenegger, but the film wasn’t a total failure as it features a helicopter explosion that is as brilliant as it is gloriously stupid.

And that was the prompt to start the Exploding Helicopter. I launched the website in 2009, and the podcast followed 2015. Since we started, our aim has been a simple one: to celebrate the strange and inventive ways that helicopters explode in films.

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Motorcycle crashes into helicopter in mid-air, ‘Stone Cold’ (1991).

When did you join Letterboxd? What are your favorite features here? I’ve been around since 2013. As for the features, the stats are very cool. When you dig into your viewing history, you can learn some very revealing things about yourself. For example, I generally like to think I have a commendably broad taste in film, and watch only the most important and influential works from every decade, genre and country. But then you look at the data and find you’ve watched Thunderball nine times in the last five years, so maybe you’re not as cool as you thought.

We noticed that your profile faves are low-key and explosion-free, given your theme of choice. Why these four and not Die Hard four times? Man cannot live on helicopter explosions alone. Even I need some occasional intellectual nourishment, between watching whirlybird conflagrations. There’s a little bit of nostalgia tied up in The Ipcress File. I first saw it as a kid, and it made a big impression on me. It’s very stylishly directed, has a great John Barry score and a star-making turn from Michael Caine. I’m a big film noir fan and Sweet Smell Of Success is a beautifully sour tale of cynicism and manipulation. To borrow the words of Burt Lancaster in the film, it’s a “cookie full of arsenic”.

Jean-Pierre Melville is my favorite director and Le Samouraï was the first of his films that I saw. What Melville does so masterfully in this, and his other crime films, is distil the elements of film noir. Basically, he takes the genre’s iconography—the gun, the trenchcoat, the fedora—and familiar plot tropes—the betrayed assassin, the heist gone wrong, the criminal doing one last job—then elevates them above cliché into something almost mythic. And what do I really need to say about Taxi Driver, other than it’s a masterpiece?

Now you say you shame directors who dishonor the art of helicopter explosions? Which directors did you dirty? Well, one of the biggest names in our hall of shame is Tony Scott. For a man who specialized in hyper-stylized, pyrotechnic-filled action movies, he flunked every helicopter explosion he filmed. In our eyes, one of the most egregious offences you can commit is failing to show the helicopter explosion. And in both Spy Game and Domino, old Tony cheats the viewer by having the chopper fly out of sight before it explodes. Now, I can accept such visual chicanery in a low-budget film, where they presumably don’t have the money to stage the scene, but what’s Tony’s excuse? If you look at his filmography, at one time or another he’s wrecked trains, planes and automobiles in spectacular fashion. But for some reason, he repeatedly couldn’t be bothered to give us a satisfying chopper conflagration. At a certain point, it starts to feel like a personal slight. Tony, what did I ever do to you?

In your immortal words, “a film is always improved by a helicopter explosion.” When has this been especially true? When you see lists of worst-ever directors, Uwe Boll is a name that always seems to turn up. And, according to the internet, one of his worst-ever films is the video game adaptation, Far Cry. Now, I’m not going to try [to] convince you that the film is a neglected classic, but it does have a very imaginatively staged exploding helicopter scene. It’s too convoluted to explain here, but take my word that it wouldn’t be out of place in a Fast and Furious movie.

What about the unsung heroes; the stunt artists, the pilots, the pyrotechnicians, the VFX wizards who have worked on numerous iconic action moments, all of whom deserve a shoutout? Personally, I don’t understand why the Academy doesn’t have a stunts category. But if they did, I’d be lobbying hard for Spiro Razatos to get the first award. These days, he works as a stunt coordinator on the Fast and Furious and Marvel films, but I’d like to draw people’s attention to some of his early work. Back in the nineties, he did a lot of work with PM Entertainment films, an independent company that made low-budget action films for the home video market.

They might not have had much money, but they put every cent on the screen with glorious, raucously inventive set pieces that were often more spectacular than big-budget Hollywood offerings. And remember: this was in pre-CGI times, so every death-defying detail was absolutely ‘real’. Go back and watch films like The Sweeper or Rage, and you’ll can see why Super Spiro has now graduated to these more prestigious gigs.

Narrow this list down for us: which is the ultimate most spine-tingly epic “we got company” movie moment? As you may have gathered, I do like an action movie cliché. When you encounter one in a film, it’s like meeting an old friend. And one of my favorites is when someone uses this classic line of dialog to signal that a car chase or a gun battle is about to start. I’ve heard people deliver the line in all sorts of ways–funny, scared, angrily and often just badly. But if you want spine-tingly, then you can’t beat Harrison Ford in Star Wars. He drops the line during the detention-block scene after failing to bluff an imperial officer. As soon as he says it, John Williams’ iconic score kicks in. It gives you the ‘feels’ every time.

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“Boring conversation anyway.” Han Solo and Chewbacca in ‘Star Wars’ (1977).

And which action movie cliché can you simply not stand? Stop it: my hackles are raising just thinking about it. For me, the trope that never fails to disappoint is the ‘reluctant’ hero being convinced to take up arms and join the fight. You know the scene. Invariably, the hero has hung up their spurs and is living a bucolic existence ‘off the grid’, when a gruff buddy shows up asking them to risk almost certain death by taking on ‘one last job’. Now, dialog is rarely an action film’s greatest strength, and these beefcake actors generally are not cast for their dramatic chops. Which means we get subjected to the same perfunctory and uninteresting scene over and over again: “I told you, I’m out the game”, “Goddamnit, we need you”, “OK, I’ll do it”. These scenes just never work and are never less than painful to watch.

Which up-and-coming action director are you most excited about? In terms of up-and-coming action talent, I’d pick the director Stefano Sollima. I first noticed his work on a couple of TV series: the fantastic Italian crime dramas, Romanzo Criminale and Gomorrah. The way he composed shots really stood out, and it was clear he had a very cinematic eye. He rather reminds me of Michael Mann. He’s now on Hollywood’s radar and got to direct Sicario: Day of the Soldado the other year. And he’s lined up to make a Tom Clancy adaptation with Michael B. Jordan. I can’t wait to see what he comes up with.

Have you witnessed the glory that is Wakaliwood—Ugandan DIY action filmmaking—three of which make Letterboxd’s official top ten films by black directors? Which international films do you feel out-match Hollywood? I love the Wakaliwood films I’ve seen. It’s fascinating to watch action films from around the world and see their different styles and flavors. Recently, I’ve been trying to investigate Indian cinema and, in particular, what are known as ‘masala movies’. These mix action, comedy, drama, romance and dance numbers into one big, crazy, entertaining mess. They’re a unique experience. If you want to check one out, I’d suggest Dhoom 2. It’s bananas.

Can you believe there are only two female directors represented in your exploding helicopter list? Do you believe that’s due to systemic or thematic reasons? You have to say it’s systemic. Men have dominated filmmaking for more than a century. Until women have the same opportunities to direct and make films as men, it’s impossible to know what their interest may or may not be in blowing up helicopters. [Will has previously written about the search for “true gender equality in the world of exploding helicopters”.]

To address the elephant in the room, how has Kobe Bryant’s unfortunate death earlier this year changed the way you look at these scenes? Obviously, I appreciate that Kobe Bryant’s death was very shocking and a tragedy for his family and fans. But basketball really is not a thing on these grim shores, so it didn’t register with us unenlightened Brits other than [as] a sad headline about a US sports star.

What was your most anticipated movie event of 2020 before Covid-19 pushed every tentpole back? That’s easy: No Time To Die. I’m a huge Bond fan and as soon as tickets were available, I booked myself in to see it on opening day at an IMAX. But if the Daniel Craig era is synonymous with anything, it’s lengthy delays between films.

Freerunner Sébastien Foucan in the opening scene from ‘Casino Royale’ (2006).

What’s a fond memory you have in theaters related to the Bond franchise? I remember going to see Casino Royale. I was excited, but also nervous to see it. The Brosnan era had ended with the risible Die Another Day: invisible cars, kitesurfing and, worst of all, John Cleese’s awful Q. Since that had come out, we’d had Mission: Impossible, Bourne and the Triple X films, so it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that Bond might be finished. Then the first ten minutes of Casino Royale happened. And while that outstanding parkour-inspired chase was terrifically exciting, it also hit me like cinematic Valium. I suddenly realised I could sit back and relax, safe in the knowledge that 007 was going to be just fine.

Are you planning on returning to theaters as soon as you can? When would you feel comfortable? I’m taking a wait-and-see approach. I’d love to see films back on the big screen again, but I want to know more about how cinemas are going to maintain social distancing inside.

Finally, what three Letterboxd accounts should we all be following? Why not give Todd Gaines, Jayson Kennedy or Fred Andersson a follow? If you’re interested in genre films that are a little off the beaten trail, they’ll likely all steer you towards some hidden gems.

#letterboxd #how i letterboxd #letterboxd member #letterboxd community #cine #film lover #exploding helicopter #chopper fireball #action films

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internetbynight · 4 years

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𝙊𝙣 𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙇𝙞𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙣 𝙀𝙭𝙩𝙧𝙖-𝙈𝙤𝙧𝙖𝙡 𝙎𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙚

In some remote corner of the universe, poured out and glittering in innumerable solar systems, there once was a star on which clever animals invented knowledge. That was the highest and most mendacious minute of "world history"—yet only a minute. After nature had drawn a few breaths the star grew cold, and the clever animals had to die.

One might invent such a fable and still not have illustrated sufficiently how wretched, how shadowy and flighty, how aimless and arbitrary, the human intellect appears in nature. There have been eternities when it did not exist; and when it is done for again, nothing will have happened. For this intellect has no further mission that would lead beyond human life. It is human, rather, and only its owner and producer gives it such importance, as if the world pivoted around it. But if we could communicate with the mosquito, then we would learn that he floats through the air with the same self-importance, feeling within itself the flying center of the world. There is nothing in nature so despicable or insignificant that it cannot immediately be blown up like a bag by a slight breath of this power of knowledge; and just as every porter wants an admirer, the proudest human being, the philosopher, thinks that he sees on the eyes of the universe telescopically focused from all sides on his actions and thoughts.

It is strange that this should be the effect of the intellect, for after all it was given only as an aid to the most unfortunate, most delicate, most evanescent beings in order to hold them for a minute in existence, from which otherwise, without this gift, they would have every reason to flee as quickly as Lessing's son. [In a famous letter to Johann Joachim Eschenburg (December 31, 1778), Lessing relates the death of his infant son, who "understood the world so well that he left it at the first opportunity."] That haughtiness which goes with knowledge and feeling, which shrouds the eyes and senses of man in a blinding fog, therefore deceives him about the value of existence by carrying in itself the most flattering evaluation of knowledge itself. Its most universal effect is deception; but even its most particular effects have something of the same character.

The intellect, as a means for the preservation of the individual, unfolds its chief powers in simulation; for this is the means by which the weaker, less robust individuals preserve themselves, since they are denied the chance of waging the struggle for existence with horns or the fangs of beasts of prey. In man this art of simulation reaches its peak: here deception, flattering, lying and cheating, talking behind the back, posing, living in borrowed splendor, being masked, the disguise of convention, acting a role before others and before oneself—in short, the constant fluttering around the single flame of vanity is so much the rule and the law that almost nothing is more incomprehensible than how an honest and pure urge for truth could make its appearance among men. They are deeply immersed in illusions and dream images; their eye glides only over the surface of things and sees "forms"; their feeling nowhere lead into truth, but contents itself with the reception of stimuli, playing, as it were, a game of blindman's buff on the backs of things. Moreover, man permits himself to be lied to at night, his life long, when he dreams, and his moral sense never even tries to prevent this—although men have been said to have overcome snoring by sheer will power.

What, indeed, does man know of himself! Can he even once perceive himself completely, laid out as if in an illuminated glass case? Does not nature keep much the most from him, even about his body, to spellbind and confine him in a proud, deceptive consciousness, far from the coils of the intestines, the quick current of the blood stream, and the involved tremors of the fibers? She threw away the key; and woe to the calamitous curiosity which might peer just once through a crack in the chamber of consciousness and look down, and sense that man rests upon the merciless, the greedy, the insatiable, the murderous, in the indifference of his ignorance—hanging in dreams, as it were, upon the back of a tiger. In view of this, whence in all the world comes the urge for truth?

Insofar as the individual wants to preserve himself against other individuals, in a natural state of affairs he employs the intellect mostly for simulation alone. But because man, out of need and boredom, wants to exist socially, herd-fashion, he requires a peace pact and he endeavors to banish at least the very crudest bellum omni contra omnes [war of all against all] from his world. This peace pact brings with it something that looks like the first step toward the attainment of this enigmatic urge for truth. For now that is fixed which henceforth shall be "truth"; that is, a regularly valid and obligatory designation of things is invented, and this linguistic legislation also furnishes the first laws of truth: for it is here that the contrast between truth and lie first originates. The liar uses the valid designations, the words, to make the unreal appear as real; he says, for example, "I am rich," when the word "poor" would be the correct designation of his situation. He abuses the fixed conventions by arbitrary changes or even by reversals of the names. When he does this in a self-serving way damaging to others, then society will no longer trust him but exclude him. Thereby men do not flee from being deceived as much as from being damaged by deception: what they hate at this stage is basically not the deception but the bad, hostile consequences of certain kinds of deceptions. In a similarly limited way man wants the truth: he desires the agreeable life-preserving consequences of truth, but he is indifferent to pure knowledge, which has no consequences; he is even hostile to possibly damaging and destructive truths. And, moreover, what about these conventions of language? Are they really the products of knowledge, of the sense of truth? Do the designations and the things coincide? Is language the adequate expression of all realities?

Only through forgetfulness can man ever achieve the illusion of possessing a "truth" in the sense just designated. If he does not wish to be satisfied with truth in the form of a tautology—that is, with empty shells—then he will forever buy illusions for truths. What is a word? The image of a nerve stimulus in sounds. But to infer from the nerve stimulus, a cause outside us, that is already the result of a false and unjustified application of the principle of reason. If truth alone had been the deciding factor in the genesis of language, and if the standpoint of certainty had been decisive for designations, then how could we still dare to say "the stone is hard," as if "hard" were something otherwise familiar to us, and not merely a totally subjective stimulation! We separate things according to gender, designating the tree as masculine and the plant as feminine. What arbitrary assignments! How far this oversteps the canons of certainty! We speak of a "snake": this designation touches only upon its ability to twist itself and could therefore also fit a worm. What arbitrary differentiations! What one-sided preferences, first for this, then for that property of a thing! The different languages, set side by side, show that what matters with words is never the truth, never an adequate expression; else there would not be so many languages. The "thing in itself" (for that is what pure truth, without consequences, would be) is quite incomprehensible to the creators of language and not at all worth aiming for. One designates only the relations of things to man, and to express them one calls on the boldest metaphors. A nerve stimulus, first transposed into an image—first metaphor. The image, in turn, imitated by a sound—second metaphor. And each time there is a complete overleaping of one sphere, right into the middle of an entirely new and different one. One can imagine a man who is totally deaf and has never had a sensation of sound and music. Perhaps such a person will gaze with astonishment at Chladni's sound figures; perhaps he will discover their causes in the vibrations of the string and will now swear that he must know what men mean by "sound." It is this way with all of us concerning language; we believe that we know something about the things themselves when we speak of trees, colors, snow, and flowers; and yet we possess nothing but metaphors for things—metaphors which correspond in no way to the original entities. In the same way that the sound appears as a sand figure, so the mysterious X of the thing in itself first appears as a nerve stimulus, then as an image, and finally as a sound. Thus the genesis of language does not proceed logically in any case, and all the material within and with which the man of truth, the scientist, and the philosopher later work and build, if not derived from never-never land, is a least not derived from the essence of things.

Let us still give special consideration to the formation of concepts. Every word immediately becomes a concept, inasmuch as it is not intended to serve as a reminder of the unique and wholly individualized original experience to which it owes its birth, but must at the same time fit innumerable, more or less similar cases—which means, strictly speaking, never equal—in other words, a lot of unequal cases. Every concept originates through our equating what is unequal. No leaf ever wholly equals another, and the concept "leaf" is formed through an arbitrary abstraction from these individual differences, through forgetting the distinctions; and now it gives rise to the idea that in nature there might be something besides the leaves which would be "leaf"—some kind of original form after which all leaves have been woven, marked, copied, colored, curled, and painted, but by unskilled hands, so that no copy turned out to be a correct, reliable, and faithful image of the original form. We call a person "honest." Why did he act so honestly today? we ask. Our answer usually sounds like this: because of his honesty. Honesty! That is to say again: the leaf is the cause of the leaves. After all, we know nothing of an essence-like quality named "honesty"; we know only numerous individualized, and thus unequal actions, which we equate by omitting the unequal and by then calling them honest actions. In the end, we distill from them a qualitas occulta [hidden quality] with the name of "honesty." We obtain the concept, as we do the form, by overlooking what is individual and actual; whereas nature is acquainted with no forms and no concepts, and likewise with no species, but only with an X which remains inaccessible and undefinable for us. For even our contrast between individual and species is something anthropomorphic and does not originate in the essence of things; although we should not presume to claim that this contrast does not correspond o the essence of things: that would of course be a dogmatic assertion and, as such, would be just as indemonstrable as its opposite.

What, then, is truth? A mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, and anthropomorphisms—in short, a sum of human relations which have been enhanced, transposed, and embellished poetically and rhetorically, and which after long use seem firm, canonical, and obligatory to a people: truths are illusions about which one has forgotten that this is what they are; metaphors which are worn out and without sensuous power; coins which have lost their pictures and now matter only as metal, no longer as coins.

We still do not know where the urge for truth comes from; for as yet we have heard only of the obligation imposed by society that it should exist: to be truthful means using the customary metaphors—in moral terms: the obligation to lie according to a fixed convention, to lie herd-like in a style obligatory for all. Now man of course forgets that this is the way things stand for him. Thus he lies in the manner indicated, unconsciously and in accordance with habits which are centuries' old; and precisely by means of this unconsciousness and forgetfulness he arrives at his sense of truth. From the sense that one is obliged to designate one thing as red, another as cold, and a third as mute, there arises a moral impulse in regard to truth. The venerability, reliability, and utility of truth is something which a person demonstrates for himself from the contrast with the liar, whom no one trusts and everyone excludes. As a rational being, he now places his behavior under the control of abstractions. He will no longer tolerate being carried away by sudden impressions, by intuitions. First he universalizes all these impressions into less colorful, cooler concepts, so that he can entrust the guidance of his life and conduct to them. Everything which distinguishes man from the animals depends upon this ability to volatilize perceptual metaphors in a schema, and thus to dissolve an image into a concept. For something is possible in the realm of these schemata which could never be achieved with the vivid first impressions: the construction of a pyramidal order according to castes and degrees, the creation of a new world of laws, privileges, subordinations, and clearly marked boundaries—a new world, one which now confronts that other vivid world of first impressions as more solid, more universal, better known, and more human than the immediately perceived world, and thus as the regulative and imperative world. Whereas each perceptual metaphor is individual and without equals and is therefore able to elude all classification, the great edifice of concepts displays the rigid regularity of a Roman columbarium and exhales in logic that strength and coolness which is characteristic of mathematics. Anyone who has felt this cool breath [of logic] will hardly believe that even the concept—which is as bony, foursquare, and transposable as a die—is nevertheless merely the residue of a metaphor, and that the illusion which is involved in the artistic transference of a nerve stimulus into images is, if not the mother, then the grandmother of every single concept. But in this conceptual crap game "truth" means using every die in the designated manner, counting its spots accurately, fashioning the right categories, and never violating the order of caste and class rank. Just as the Romans and Etruscans cut up the heavens with rigid mathematical lines and confined a god within each of the spaces thereby delimited, as within a templum, so every people has a similarly mathematically divided conceptual heaven above themselves and henceforth thinks that truth demands that each conceptual god be sought only within his own sphere. Here one may certainly admire man as a mighty genius of construction, who succeeds in piling an infinitely complicated dome of concepts upon an unstable foundation, and, as it were, on running water. Of course, in order to be supported by such a foundation, his construction must be like one constructed of spiders' webs: delicate enough to be carried along by the waves, strong enough not to be blown apart by every wind. As a genius of construction man raises himself far above the bee in the following way: whereas the bee builds with wax that he gathers from nature, man builds with the far more delicate conceptual material which he first has to manufacture from himself. In this he is greatly to be admired, but not on account of his drive for truth or for pure knowledge of things. When someone hides something behind a bush and looks for it again in the same place and finds it there as well, there is not much to praise in such seeking and finding. Yet this is how matters stand regarding seeking and finding "truth" within the realm of reason. If I make up the definition of a mammal, and then, after inspecting a camel, declare "look, a mammal" I have indeed brought a truth to light in this way, but it is a truth of limited value. That is to say, it is a thoroughly anthropomorphic truth which contains not a single point which would be "true in itself" or really and universally valid apart from man. At bottom, what the investigator of such truths is seeking is only the metamorphosis of the world into man. He strives to understand the world as something analogous to man, and at best he achieves by his struggles the feeling of assimilation. Similar to the way in which astrologers considered the stars to be in man 's service and connected with his happiness and sorrow, such an investigator considers the entire universe in connection with man: the entire universe as the infinitely fractured echo of one original sound-man; the entire universe as the infinitely multiplied copy of one original picture-man. His method is to treat man as the measure of all things, but in doing so he again proceeds from the error of believing that he has these things [which he intends to measure] immediately before him as mere objects. He forgets that the original perceptual metaphors are metaphors and takes them to be the things themselves.

Only by forgetting this primitive world of metaphor can one live with any repose, security, and consistency: only by means of the petrification and coagulation of a mass of images which originally streamed from the primal faculty of human imagination like a fiery liquid, only in the invincible faith that this sun, this window, this table is a truth in itself, in short, only by forgetting that he himself is an artistically creating subject, does man live with any repose, security, and consistency. If but for an instant he could escape from the prison walls of this faith, his "self consciousness" would be immediately destroyed. It is even a difficult thing for him to admit to himself that the insect or the bird perceives an entirely different world from the one that man does, and that the question of which of these perceptions of the world is the more correct one is quite meaningless, for this would have to have been decided previously in accordance with the criterion of the correct perception, which means, in accordance with a criterion which is not available. But in any case it seems to me that the correct perception—which would mean the adequate expression of an object in the subject—is a contradictory impossibility. For between two absolutely different spheres, as between subject and object, there is no causality, no correctness, and no expression; there is, at most, an aesthetic relation: I mean, a suggestive transference, a stammering translation into a completely foreign tongue—for which I there is required, in any case, a freely inventive intermediate sphere and mediating force. "Appearance" is a word that contains many temptations, which is why I avoid it as much as possible. For it is not true that the essence of things "appears" in the empirical world. A painter without hands who wished to express in song the picture before his mind would, by means of this substitution of spheres, still reveal more about the essence of things than does the empirical world. Even the relationship of a nerve stimulus to the generated image is not a necessary one. But when the same image has been generated millions of times and has been handed down for many generations and finally appears on the same occasion every time for all mankind, then it acquires at last the same meaning for men it would have if it were the sole necessary image and if the relationship of the original nerve stimulus to the generated image were a strictly causal one. In the same manner, an eternally repeated dream would certainly be felt and judged to be reality. But the hardening and congealing of a metaphor guarantees absolutely nothing concerning its necessity and exclusive justification.

Every person who is familiar with such considerations has no doubt felt a deep mistrust of all idealism of this sort: just as often as he has quite early convinced himself of the eternal consistency, omnipresence, and fallibility of the laws of nature. He has concluded that so far as we can penetrate here—from the telescopic heights to the microscopic depths—everything is secure, complete, infinite, regular, and without any gaps. Science will be able to dig successfully in this shaft forever, and the things that are discovered will harmonize with and not contradict each other. How little does this resemble a product of the imagination, for if it were such, there should be some place where the illusion and reality can be divined. Against this, the following must be said: if each us had a different kind of sense perception—if we could only perceive things now as a bird, now as a worm, now as a plant, or if one of us saw a stimulus as red, another as blue, while a third even heard the same stimulus as a sound—then no one would speak of such a regularity of nature, rather, nature would be grasped only as a creation which is subjective in the highest degree. After all, what is a law of nature as such for us? We are not acquainted with it in itself, but only with its effects, which means in its relation to other laws of nature—which, in turn, are known to us only as sums of relations. Therefore all these relations always refer again to others and are thoroughly incomprehensible to us in their essence. All that we actually know about these laws of nature is what we ourselves bring to them—time and space, and therefore relationships of succession and number. But everything marvelous about the laws of nature, everything that quite astonishes us therein and seems to demand explanation, everything that might lead us to distrust idealism: all this is completely and solely contained within the mathematical strictness and inviolability of our representations of time and space. But we produce these representations in and from ourselves with the same necessity with which the spider spins. If we are forced to comprehend all things only under these forms, then it ceases to be amazing that in all things we actually comprehend nothing but these forms. For they must all bear within themselves the laws of number, and it is precisely number which is most astonishing in things. All that conformity to law, which impresses us so much in the movement of the stars and in chemical processes, coincides at bottom with those properties which we bring to things. Thus it is we who impress ourselves in this way. In conjunction with this, it of course follows that the artistic process of metaphor formation with which every sensation begins in us already presupposes these forms and thus occurs within them. The only way in which the possibility of subsequently constructing a new conceptual edifice from metaphors themselves can be explained is by the firm persistence of these original forms That is to say, this conceptual edifice is an imitation of temporal, spatial, and numerical relationships in the domain of metaphor.

We have seen how it is originally language which works on the construction of concepts, a labor taken over in later ages by science. Just as the bee simultaneously constructs cells and fills them with honey, so science works unceasingly on this great columbarium of concepts, the graveyard of perceptions. It is always building new, higher stories and shoring up, cleaning, and renovating the old cells; above all, it takes pains to fill up this monstrously towering framework and to arrange therein the entire empirical world, which is to say, the anthropomorphic world. Whereas the man of action binds his life to reason and its concepts so that he will not be swept away and lost, the scientific investigator builds his hut right next to the tower of science so that he will be able to work on it and to find shelter for himself beneath those bulwarks which presently exist. And he requires shelter, for there are frightful powers which continuously break in upon him, powers which oppose scientific truth with completely different kinds of "truths" which bear on their shields the most varied sorts of emblems.

The drive toward the formation of metaphors is the fundamental human drive, which one cannot for a single instant dispense with in thought, for one would thereby dispense with man himself. This drive is not truly vanquished and scarcely subdued by the fact that a regular and rigid new world is constructed as its prison from its own ephemeral products, the concepts. It seeks a new realm and another channel for its activity, and it finds this in myth and in art generally. This drive continually confuses the conceptual categories and cells by bringing forward new transferences, metaphors, and metonymies. It continually manifests an ardent desire to refashion the world which presents itself to waking man, so that it will be as colorful, irregular, lacking in results and coherence, charming, and eternally new as the world of dreams. Indeed, it is only by means of the rigid and regular web of concepts that the waking man clearly sees that he is awake; and it is precisely because of this that he sometimes thinks that he must be dreaming when this web of concepts is torn by art. Pascal is right in maintaining that if the same dream came to us every night we would be just as occupied with it as we are with the things that we see every day. "If a workman were sure to dream for twelve straight hours every night that he was king," said Pascal, "I believe that he would be just as happy as a king who dreamt for twelve hours every night that he was a workman." In fact, because of the way that myth takes it for granted that miracles are always happening, the waking life of a mythically inspired people—the ancient Greeks, for instance—more closely resembles a dream than it does the waking world of a scientifically disenchanted thinker. When every tree can suddenly speak as a nymph, when a god in the shape of a bull can drag away maidens, when even the goddess Athena herself is suddenly seen in the company of Peisastratus driving through the market place of Athens with a beautiful team of horses—and this is what the honest Athenian believed—then, as in a dream, anything is possible at each moment, and all of nature swarms around man as if it were nothing but a masquerade of the gods, who were merely amusing themselves by deceiving men in all these shapes.

But man has an invincible inclination to allow himself to be deceived and is, as it were, enchanted with happiness when the rhapsodist tells him epic fables as if they were true, or when the actor in the theater acts more royally than any real king. So long as it is able to deceive without injuring, that master of deception, the intellect, is free; it is released from its former slavery and celebrates its Saturnalia. It is never more luxuriant, richer, prouder, more clever and more daring. With creative pleasure it throws metaphors into confusion and displaces the boundary stones of abstractions, so that, for example, it designates the stream as "the moving path which carries man where he would otherwise walk." The intellect has now thrown the token of bondage from itself. At other times it endeavors, with gloomy officiousness, to show the way and to demonstrate the tools to a poor individual who covets existence; it is like a servant who goes in search of booty and prey for his master. But now it has become the master and it dares to wipe from its face the expression of indigence. In comparison with its previous conduct, everything that it now does bears the mark of dissimulation, just as that previous conduct did of distortion. The free intellect copies human life, but it considers this life to be something good and seems to be quite satisfied with it. That immense framework and planking of concepts to which the needy man clings his whole life long in order to preserve himself is nothing but a scaffolding and toy for the most audacious feats of the liberated intellect. And when it smashes this framework to pieces, throws it into confusion, and puts it back together in an ironic fashion, pairing the most alien things and separating the closest, it is demonstrating that it has no need of these makeshifts of indigence and that it will now be guided by intuitions rather than by concepts. There is no regular path which leads from these intuitions into the land of ghostly schemata, the land of abstractions. There exists no word for these intuitions; when man sees them he grows dumb, or else he speaks only in forbidden metaphors and in unheard-of combinations of concepts. He does this so that by shattering and mocking the old conceptual barriers he may at least correspond creatively to the impression of the powerful present intuition.

There are ages in which the rational man and the intuitive man stand side by side, the one in fear of intuition, the other with scorn for abstraction. The latter is just as irrational as the former is inartistic. They both desire to rule over life: the former, by knowing how to meet his principle needs by means of foresight, prudence, and regularity; the latter, by disregarding these needs and, as an "overjoyed hero," counting as real only that life which has been disguised as illusion and beauty. Whenever, as was perhaps the case in ancient Greece, the intuitive man handles his weapons more authoritatively and victoriously than his opponent, then, under favorable circumstances, a culture can take shape and art's mastery over life can be established. All the manifestations of such a life will be accompanied by this dissimulation, this disavowal of indigence, this glitter of metaphorical intuitions, and, in general, this immediacy of deception: neither the house, nor the gait, nor the clothes, nor the clay jugs give evidence of having been invented because of a pressing need. It seems as if they were all intended to express an exalted happiness, an Olympian cloudlessness, and, as it were, a playing with seriousness. The man who is guided by concepts and abstractions only succeeds by such means in warding off misfortune, without ever gaining any happiness for himself from these abstractions. And while he aims for the greatest possible freedom from pain, the intuitive man, standing in the midst of a culture, already reaps from his intuition a harvest of continually inflowing illumination, cheer, and redemption—in addition to obtaining a defense against misfortune. To be sure, he suffers more intensely, when he suffers; he even suffers more frequently, since he does not understand how to learn from experience and keeps falling over and over again into the same ditch. He is then just as irrational in sorrow as he is in happiness: he cries aloud and will not be consoled. How differently the stoical man who learns from experience and governs himself by concepts is affected by the same misfortunes! This man, who at other times seeks nothing but sincerity, truth, freedom from deception, and protection against ensnaring surprise attacks, now executes a masterpiece of deception: he executes his masterpiece of deception in misfortune, as the other type of man executes his in times of happiness. He wears no quivering and changeable human face, but, as it were, a mask with dignified, symmetrical features. He does not cry; he does not even alter his voice. When a real storm cloud thunders above him, he wraps himself in his cloak, and with slow steps he walks from beneath it.

Frederich Nietzsche

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gav-san · 4 years

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The Hollow Kingdom

Review and Defense of a classic fantasy favorite.

Warning: Below is a large explanation that spoils some upcoming projects and talks about things you may be uncomfortable with, but are important to talk about. Also, spoilers of the book.

Please consider reading the book!

There’s a stage that man girls go through, likely after watching the 1986 Labyrinth. I like to call it the ‘Goblin King Craze’. After all, few things match the childhood spectacle of David Bowie dancing in very tight pants with his cohort of bumbling goblins, coupled with the magic of Jim Henson.

I can imagine many of you who have watched this movie, had like me, also longed for the imagination and craze in your own life, or at least something similar in fiction.

Cue being a teenager, and discovering The Hollow Kingdom (published 2003), but mere chance in your hometown library.

Here is the Goodreads summary: “In nineteenth-century England, a powerful sorcerer and King of the Goblins chooses Kate, the elder of two orphan girls recently arrived at their ancestral home, Hallow Hill, to become his bride and queen...”

It’s no surprise that I ended up loving this book.

This book is generally under a YA fiction/fantasy tag. It has won various awards, including the 2004 Mythopoeic Fantasy Award for Children's Literature. It’s well-written, relatable to a young woman, and full of intelligent moments and clever thinking. The characters are fully-fledged, as are the societies they live in.

It’s not a perfect book. Sometimes the pacing and choice of focus can be inconsistent, and sometimes the timing and structure are not as strong as they could be. Its lack of care for developing romance can cause problems with the reviewers, had they been expecting a romance.

Now let’s chat a bit. As a teenager, it was an eye open experience to discover a book that didn’t pander another tale of ‘Beauty and the Beast’ once again. Meaning, an easy tale that force-fed me obvious morals, and condescended to my 'age-level’. And, I thought, it was better to talk about difficult things then pretend they didn’t exist.

And so time passed, the internet grew, and the Me Too movement rolled along, said hi, and sorta gave a half-hearted wave as it did so. Now, much older, I have finally had time to work on some projects that I’ve been thinking about for a long time. I do fanfic’s as a writing exercise, but my true love is illustrating stories on the webtoon platform. I have a series called ‘Vixen’ out that has been a trial run of sorts to sharpen my skills and get me back on track.

One of the long-running projects that I’ve desperately wanted to illustrate for a long time is ‘The Hollow Kingdom’. I am only in the beginning steps and have yet to contact the author or any of the other relevant sources. This research stage is mostly an exploration to see if this is even possible, and how it would be done.

As I’ve delved into the internet to see how my old favorite has aged... I was a bit startled.

Despite its initial accolades around 2018, when a lot of Hollywood was being stripped and scattered, and there were many accusations worldwide of prominent figures accused of sexual abuse, perhaps it was predictable that a complicated book that does not deal with a traditional happy ending started becoming maligned in general. And as social media, as a rule, tends to ignore content in favor of a thoughtful readthrough, I felt the need to go reread and reassess my POV.

So I did.

And I still enjoyed the book. As did the roughly 10,000 others who rated it 4 stars and above.

But to be fair, here are some reviews from other who didn’t:

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1. The end is some sort of apologia for rape, abduction, and Stockholm Syndrome.

2. I expect that when I’m told said female protagonist is intelligent for her to actually be intelligent, like you know, by giving her any ounce of sense, resourcefulness, or deductive skills.

3. (The Goblin King)...seriously tries to justify his actions by saying he doesn’t have a choice...

4. I also did not like the pointless slaughtering of animals…which really if you think about it made no sense…why would the monkey and wolf not be threats and be all for following kate but not the bear or the snakes…

5. It didn't help that I was well aware of how the main character got tricked. I mean, if her guardian believed her and was concerned for her sister why would still keep Kate locked up in her room and offer freedom from the room in exchange for info on goblins?

6. A young woman is coerced into marrying the Goblin King, Lord of the Hollow Kingdom.

7. What I'm trying to get across is that this is another example of a story where a young woman gets virtually everything taken away from her - her passions, her freedom, everything - but (through Stockholm Syndrome or sheer stupidity, I'm not sure) she forgives it all in the name of love and becomes a supremely contented Stepford Wife.

8. So a girl is kidnapped by the Goblin King, and is trapped in the goblin kingdom. The end. Well, she ends up liking it, doesn't struggle, doesn't really care about what is happening to her.

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Sorry, that was a lot. I understand that there are many who are just not going to jibe with a book. But I think it’s fair that on the complaints that accuse the book, it can be rebutted.

1(a). Perhaps many of the problems with the book that people expected it to be the perfect mash between Labyrinth and Beauty and the Beast. First of all, Beauty and the Beast is a classic tale, which many accuse of Stockholm Syndrome. It isn’t, by the way, but that’s not why I’m here. Or here.

Neither is the Hollow Kingdom. It seems that many of the reviewers are sure that Kate is forced into marrying the Goblin King. She wasn’t. She actually ends up going to the Goblin King and agreeing to marry him in exchange for the release of her sister.

But Gav-san, the Goblin King )Marak) misled Kate into thinking they had her.

No, they didn’t. It even points out that had she asked, they would have told her. It’s stated very early on that Goblin do not lie under any circumstance (though are prone to being crafty beasts).

Kate never is isolated with her captour, or ignore his awful parts and has does not fall in line with his ideas, holding strongly to her own. In fact, it’s her very ideals that lead to her success in the end, and that leads to Marak’s change of ideology. Kate’s own honor often compelled her to make choices that seem frustrating to the (modern) reader (who perhaps forgets this is 1815 England). To demand modern ideologies from the protagonist is awfully stupid and presumptuous.

1(b). This book, in no way shape or form, is an apology for rape and abduction. It’s a large point in this book that is unavoidable. The Goblins and Elves kidnap humans (and the occasional elf) to marry. The King must always marry outside of his race. This inevitably leads to unhappy women and broken families.

It is not seen as a happy, good event, but often a stressful, angry one that leaves tragedy and scars that echo across the generations. It is also a revealing look at humanity and our own atrocities. Much like the goblins and elves, sometimes these things are painted as noble when they weren’t, and thus it makes the societies feel real, having these pitfalls.

And, as a King whose entire, beloved kingdom is at stake, do you chose to make one person miserable, or condemn the entire lot to a slow death?

It may make us uncomfortable to see the reality of this situation played out in such close-to-the-chest terms.

Because Kate ends up happy and the victor, even in a situation that was not perfect, should she be condemned? I don’t think she or any women forced into that situation should be denied a healthy joy they find.

Remember, at the end of the book, it’s because of Kate that the Kingdom continues.

2. Kate is intelligent. (How could you miss her relentlessly scheming, most that succeed?!?!) And due to her heritage, she has top-notch instincts (untrained though) she continually outsmarts and outmaneuvers the Goblin King and the meddling human family. I think, had her Uncle not kidnapped Emily, she would have escaped. But her own concern for her sister was more important, and so she made that choice. That’s why she agrees to settle in, and that’s what open’s the door to her falling in love with Marak. She isn’t his prisoner, but his equal, who he learns to respect. Many human relationships could learn that last part better.

3. The Goblin King doesn’t justify himself in any degree. He knows he’s not going to be a desirable, handsome husband to any woman, especially in 1815 (or any time before and long after). If the only way a magical kingdom could continue is the misery of one person outside your race who is treated well, all things considered, then why would a brusque goblin who is not naturally inclined (thanks to his heritage) to get his feelings hurt easily worry? Many of the King’s Wifes never fell in love with their husbands, especially the sensitive elves.

In the animal kingdom, it’s not as important. Stop projecting modern standards on a fantasy culture. JRR Tolkien's goblins murder, are crass and cruel, but we don’t expect them to be human and learn to be polite. Dunkle’s Goblins are far more genteel and human-like, but they are not humans.

4. At the end of the book, there is a sorcerer who is a bad man and uses human and animal parts in his spells. If you are sensitive to that, perhaps it’s something to consider, but the book doesn’t go into great detail of these things. And frankly, ‘traditional’ medicine in many parts of the world does the same.

And why would Kate release animals that would hurt her?

5. Kate’s Guardian was never concern for her. He thought about murdering her and was concocting plans to do so. As it says in the book, society would not be kind to Kate or Emily. This is no surprise. A wealthy young woman in 1815 England? A prime target.

Kate manages to trick the doctor who the guardian brought (to put her in the insane asylum) and save her sister, though she needed to Goblins help. She was in a bad position!

6. Why are people so determined to take away Kate’s dignity and choice? Her uncle lied to her, and he was punished for it later, by the Goblin King. She went to the Goblin King and bartered her own freedom. Women make their own choices and feminism is respecting those choices as a man’s would. Her acceptance of the Gobline Kingdom is not proof of her weakness, but a show of her strength. You will face difficult problems you cannot change, and the only decision at that point is how you react.

Just because Sarah didn’t chose the Goblin King doesn’t make her strong. It was what she learned doing it. The point of reading the book is the journey.

7. Or you can see this as a book that takes on the idea of conflicting cultures that are forced upon a woman, and she makes decisions that ensure the important things to her are seen through. A real woman who, much like real women, is put into a difficult situation that is fraught with dangers and missteps, and does a decent job at navigating them without giving up her integrity or beliefs.

Don’t be taken in by easy illusions that meant to be as shallow as they appear. Feel free to message me and we can chat about it more.

In the end, this is just my opinion. But I don’t think I’m wrong, and I stand by it, which is why I’m writing it, and why I hope to illustrate this magnificent work one day.

Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.

#the hollow kingdom #hollow kingdom #Clare B. Dunkle #review #webcomic #defence #book #Ya lit #goblin #goblin king #fantasy #slight romance #adventure #spoilers

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mobius-prime · 4 years

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211. Sonic the Hedgehog #143

The Original Freedom Fighters (Part 2)

Writer: Romy Chacon Pencils: Art Mawhinney Colors: J&A Ray

So it's time to find out just how the original Freedom Fighters were betrayed and lost. The guard at the Lake of Rings catches a ring and then lets Sonic and Hope watch the place for a bit while he delivers it to the castle, and Hope urges Sonic to continue his story, which he agrees to on the condition that afterward she'll let him go off to do his thing. One day when Sally was still young, Stripe was speaking with her and being kind when Peckers, who has the worst name by the way, burst in with some news.

That's right, they found out about the Zone of Silence years before the current Freedom Fighters did. They went into the palace on a mission to rescue the king, or at least to gather more information for a future rescue, but suddenly found themselves trapped within a room, with Scales leering at them from the outside and Robotnik stepping up beside him. Scales had apparently betrayed his teammates because he wanted power and also because it was "totally within his nature" as a snake, but true to form, Robotnik had some treachery of his own to enact, throwing a horrified Scales in with his fellows. Robotnik revealed to them that they were standing in his first room-sized roboticizer, before pulling the lever.

Oof. Uncle Chuck, still roboticized, saw the whole thing and had it recorded in his memory banks for posterity, but those in Knothole never found out what happened until years later when he regained his memory. All they knew was that their heroes had disappeared, and held funerals for them all befitting their status as heroes. The young Sonic was stunned and demoralized, as Stripe in particular had always been kind and encouraging to him, but ultimately the actions of the original Freedom Fighters were what inspired Sonic, Sally, and the others to form their own group and carry on the fight.

Now remember how I said this ties into something I've brought up before? I've talked many times about how the war against Robotnik has essentially been carried on the backs of literal child soldiers, but we've never really discussed why this came to be. Well, here it is. This is why. Remember that Robotnik's takeover came right on the heels of the Great War, with barely a few years at most separating the two wars. From Robotnik's perspective, he couldn't have picked a better time to stage a coup - the kingdom was weakened, and a lot of its best fighters had likely died or had to retire permanently due to injures from the previous war. Not to mention that a lot of people who could have helped in the current war were likely captured and roboticized in the initial fight before they had time to react - Robotnik would have known who posed the greatest threat to his rule and made sure the swatbots targeted them, and in addition, it's implied in the previous issue that Stripe was one of the only veterans who had the sense to run away rather than stand and fight. The original Freedom Fighters were basically all Knothole had left. And when they were lost, Knothole was vulnerable. Hope was in short supply. Hardly anyone had the ability or the mental fortitude to even try to carry on the fight.

And then this little band of orphaned kids rallied around the precocious princess, and took inspiration from those who had fought before them. These kids, most of whom were barely older than eight (and I'm not guessing at that number, it's literally confirmed later on in the comic that Sonic started striking back against Robotnik at the age of eight), banded together with the overconfidence of young children and put themselves in harm's way to save the planet. They grew up so surrounded by war that participating in it was second nature to them, and though each of them were hit with their own unique traumas from the things they'd seen and experienced, they kept up the fight, into their teens and into now. And like I've pointed out before, even now that many of the kingdom's adults are freed and willing to continue the fight for them, they refuse to give it up. Sure, Sally may be preoccupied with being active ruler right now, and maybe Rotor has retired from field duty to work on inventions back home, but everyone is still wholly invested in the fight despite their still-young ages. And that's both inspiring, and utterly tragic - especially considering that most of them aren't even self-aware enough to understand how awful throwing children into a war is. They just don't know anything different.

But anyway, as Sonic's story winds down, Hope thanks him and then rushes off, remembering her homework assignment for history and leaving an exasperated Sonic to guard the pool alone after all. The next day, she has her report all finished, and recites it in front of her class to much praise.

That is a great way to tie everything together, if you ask me. I'm sure it makes Mrs. Stripe and everyone else who personally knew the original Freedom Fighters happy to see the youth of today, even the youth of another species entirely, remember the sacrifice of those heroes.

Mobius 25 Years Later: Father's Day

Writer/Pencils: Ken Penders Colors: Jason Jensen

Are you ready, kids?! This is actually the best installment of this arc, period! It's relevant to the current conflict, it contains important character development, and a satisfying conclusion is reached by the end! I know, I know, I'm shocked as well. But my praise for this chapter is genuine, and you'll see why.

Lara-Su comes downstairs in the morning, wondering where her father is. It's hard to tell if this takes place shortly after her discussion with Knuckles last issue, or if this is the next day entirely or something, but either way, Julie-Su reminds her daughter of what day it is, which - well, I hardly have to tell you, it's right there in the title. It seems that on Father's Day every year, Knuckles visits the grave of Locke in the forest - it's been hinted at here and there that he's dead by the time of this arc, but this is our first clear confirmation of the fact. Knuckles drifts into memories, first of a conversation he'd had with Archimedes many years ago. They'd traveled to the crater in Downunda where Angel Island first lifted off after having spent several weeks together, and prepared to part ways, as Archimedes was planning to move here to Downunda permanently. Knuckles was somewhat baffled by his decision, having deep roots on Angel Island and being unable to relate to wanting to move somewhere else, but Archimedes pointed out that as Athair followed his own path, so must he, and so had Knuckles for that matter.

I think it makes complete sense for a slightly older Knuckles to have decided to end the Guardian tradition, given how much pain it has caused him over the years and how shady the whole operation could be. Archimedes said his goodbyes to Knuckles after telling him how proud he was of him, and Knuckles used his guiding star gem to head back home. Once there, he was shocked to find Lara-Le crying and distraught, and all she could manage to say was that something was wrong with Locke. Wynmacher called a cab and took them both up to the hospital in Echidnaopolis, where the doctors revealed to him that his father was getting weaker by the day and they couldn't figure out what was wrong. After some exploratory surgery, they determined that he'd developed pancreatic cancer and didn't have long left for the world, so a stunned Knuckles and Lara-Le were allowed to enter the room to speak to him once he'd woken up. From here, I'll let the next couple of pages do the talking for me.

I think this is literally the best thing Penders could have possibly written on this subject. I've pointed out how awful Locke has been many times, and one of my biggest criticisms of him was less about the character himself and more about how Penders handled writing him. Locke was based on Penders' own father, with whom he'd had a difficult relationship, and this colored his writing of Locke a bit for the worse. Locke was in many ways abusive, selfish, and distant from his son, and put Knuckles through hell for his own purposes. He was too shortsighted to see how this was affecting his son, and only when reality began to harshly and repeatedly bitchslap him in the face did he even begin to realize how badly he'd messed up. This has always been clear from the outside, but it's also obvious that Penders, naturally, wasn't keen on writing a character based on his own father as a bad guy, and the end result was Locke being portrayed in a bizarrely sympathetic light as he manipulated, spied on, and betrayed the trust of his son without any self-awareness at all. This scene is exactly what we needed in the light of all that - a scene where at the end of everything, Locke truly realized just what he'd done to the two people he loved most in the world, fully owned up and admitted to all his mistakes, and asked for forgiveness. He makes no excuses for his actions, instead laying it all bare and trusting them to judge him fairly on his own deathbed. I've said before that Locke would have been far more fascinating as a well-intentioned but too-extreme antagonist of the story, and ultimately this is exactly the kind of redemption scene I would have imagined for him at the end of said story. I may make fun of and even get angry with Penders from time to time, but I truly think that this is one of the prime examples of where his writing shines. He has great ideas, just often bad execution of said ideas. This is one time where he did it right.

Knuckles finishes reminiscing and comes back to himself in the present, standing in front of his father's grave, and begins to realize that in a way, he's been repeating the same mistakes that his father did with his own daughter. While Locke never gave him the choice not to become a Guardian, he's done the inverse with Lara-Su, never giving her the option of Guardianship at all. He decides that he's going to give her the choice after all, and thanks his father at the grave while Locke's ghost and Aurora watch proudly from the afterlife. And you know what? This is also a great scene! Because I 100% believe that Knuckles, after going through everything that he has, would want to end the tradition of Guardians and never put the island's fate on the shoulders of one person again. Let's face it, he's downright traumatized by some of the things he's seen and been through, and once he had a child of his own he'd want to protect them from going through any of the same things he did. And I fully believe that with that mindset, he could end up stumbling into the same "my way, no highway option" mindset that his own father had, just in reverse. He never realized just how his own hangups were affecting his daughter until he came here to meditate after all her pestering. And what makes this scene so great, ultimately, is that he learns from it. He doesn't continue down the manipulative, restrictive path that his father did, but rather opens up to the thought of listening to what his own daughter wants, and allowing her to make her own choices in life. This issue ends with a tribute to Penders' own father Kenneth, who lived from 1934 to 1982, and I find it a fitting end indeed. After all, for all my criticism, I can hardly condemn a person for wanting to pay loving tribute to their own parent. Good job, Penders - this issue's story was genuinely enjoyable, and I appreciate the work you put into it.

#nala reads archie sonic preboot #archie sonic #archie sonic preboot #sonic the hedgehog #sth 143 #writer: romy chacon #writer: ken penders #pencils: art mawhinney #pencils: ken penders #colors: joshua d ray #colors: aimee r ray #colors: jason jensen

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muselixer · 5 years

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ask meme - things my friends said ! ( volume three )

from July 2019 - September 2019 warnings: language, ns/fw themes, alcohol mentions, drug mentions change pronouns as needed! under the cut for your dashboard convenience

“Put that on reddit and I’ll grind you like cheese.” “THIS ISN’T THE M25.” “Safety first? Can’t relate.” “I am a mer-BITCH.” “Wonderful, my drunk ramblings are being used for education again. Where's my wallet?" “PUT THE HUNDREDTH PRESIDENT ON THE HUNDRED DOLLAR BILL, ASSHOLE!” “Instead of carrying mase, I just carry a hairbrush.” “We're just really high on blanket smell.” “Only crackheads can hear normal voices.” “I WALKED INTO BOTH OF YOU MOTHERFUCKERS.” “LOOK AT US. PLEASE, LOOK AT US. WE'RE YOUR PACK MULES.” “If you have a neck, you’re a hellspawn.” “I should probably do the dishes before my mother astral projects back home to yell me into the dirt.” “This is not HENTAI, I am NOT attracted to a snake.” “Don't mind me, I'm just having a gay stroke.” “I WILL NEVER STOP SAYING BITCH, FUCK YOU.” “Limes taste like an old, stale skittle.” “WHO DO YOU THINK I AM? THE GOLDEN CORRAL OF BITCHES?” “I DON'T CARE. I DON'T ASK PEOPLE FOR NUDES.” “WE CAN RE-EDUCATE THE CHILDREN.” “God, I can already feel myself drifting off. How does a horizontal position change the game so much?” “We HYDRATE in this bitch.” “I'm a drunk man with a phone.” “I'm your man for getting into small holes.” “Tony Hawk is just THAT powerful.” “I wanna be the fastest boy in the village.” “Well, I thought, if I think faster, I’ll go faster.” “Imagine nutting, and suddenly you’re a flame thrower.” “I feel like a Vienna sausage.” “I diagnose myself with bitch.” “God damn, I miss being twelve and not depressed.” “I don’t need drinks to be drunk.” “I fully gave birth out there.” “As long as I’m not detrimental to anyone, I WILL be an inconvenience.” “Hey guys, I’m back. And I’m ready to BITCH.” “I love being a weak bitch!” “Sorry, my brain is on fucking cucaracha.” “Fapping is just sex in single player mode.” “Is it possible to un-dab?” “Google how many nipples snakes have.” “Snakes don’t have nipples.” “Lil Punk is my new rap name.” “It’s legal for babies to pout.” “We’re the--” *gasp* “WE’RE THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE.” “I don’t wanna live in a world where a beat-up station wagon is an ‘epic’ moment.” “I am a shredded potato in this current moment.” “I might have a death wish but I would do literally anything else before I let some little bitch parasite threaten my life.” “Who hasn’t gotten a little tongue with their dog?” “LET’S CURBSTOMP THE GOVERNMENT!” “The smell of Axe body spray triggers my fight or flight response.” “Are you telling me I DON’T have a disease called homosexuality?” “My consciousness is but a parasite.” “It’s an egg that puts the fear of God in me, I’ll tell ya what.” “It’s a parking garage for prisoners!” “You don’t need contacts to see their boobs!” “Niccolo Machiavelli looks like a little bastard.” “Yeah, he seems like the kind of person to be like, ‘I’ll live another ten years,’ and then he didn’t.” “Nothing new happened, but the anxiety metaphorically bodyslammed me into a folding table.” “I’ve yelled at you way too many times for you to cry about it.” “Can you imagine two e-girls fighting?” “Hecko, I am a loser-o.” “I feel like Vincent van Gogh. I’ll be unappreciated until my death, and only then will I be loved and adored by millions.” “The good Lord has smote me with that sweet, sweet anxiety.” “You look like a fucking limo driver.” “Did you know I kin the lesbian pride flag?” “I’m gonna commit stage four cancer treatment.” “I didn’t know early 2000′s Alan Cumming was making a comeback.” “Swear, I’ll clap your asscheeks.” “I might be able to serve you in a rap battle, but I don’t know how to serve a table.” “My entire lower half is weeping.” “I guess when you turn 16 you gain a neck.” “Oh, you want a bigger dick? Have fun NEVER USING IT, EVER.” “You wouldn’t go out adventuring if you were a shithead.” “Be prepared to be spooked and clench your asshole.” “My mouth is good for French.” “I don’t even have a brain cell today.” “I’m gonna give you five seconds to say something else.” “I have had one ugly moment and I’m still in it.” “This rhombus has jaundice. The jaundice rhombus.” “There’s two places pineapple doesn’t belong! One: on a pizza! Two: in my ass!” “Yup, I’m a god amongst men.” “I’m a fucking shit.” “You want me to pour an egg straight into your mouth, you kinky fuck?�� “How long ago was 2003?” “Being gay and homophobic is pretty woke.” “He doesn’t deserve cheesecake. I deserve the cheesecake.” “The pencils smell like pencils.” “I loosen the pants. Is that a charisma check or a strength check?” “Who is this Hawaiian mother fucker?” “Walking is hard.” “We at an anime convention, Jesus can’t help you!” “And you’re a sparky sparky boom boom boy, you deal with that.” “His butt would his the foot rest.” “I CAN’T BE AWAY FROM YOU CRACKHEADS FOR FIVE MINUTES.” “I forget you have family.” “It’s the brain cell of the week.” “Men must have created speed bumps.” “Ew, ew, my clothing.” “Oh, I’m already getting a game over? That’s fucking hot.” “At this point it’s not even about straying further from God.” “How am I supposed to go to a job interview after this? All I can think about is sexy Colonel Sanders.” “That’s some long meat.” “Zeus was horny on main.” “Don’t be horny on main. Be horny on sideblog. Have you SEEN Hades elsewhere? MY GOD.” “There’s men with computers in their heads and we don’t know if they’re going to try and steal our condensed milk.” “If you’re gonna be a slut, you should at least be proud of it.” “I will dress nice for you, but I will NOT cosplay in a cheesecake factory.” “When your child overthrows you, they take the skeleton with them.” “HE’S A FUCKING CHICKEN WIZARD. DILF CHICKEN WIZARD.” “What would I know? I’m not a capitalist.” “I MIGHT KEYSMASH A WHOLE LOT, BUT I CAN DRIVE, WHICH MEANS I’M NOT A BOTTOM.” “We salted our cardboard pizza slices like cavemen.”

#not a musing #ask meme #rp ask meme

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shes-soparticular · 5 years

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Slow Burn (Part II)

I wanna be king in your story I wanna know who you are I want your heart to beat for me You’ve got that power over me

A/N: Part One is here. Other Alex related one-shots can be found in my Masterlist. Hope you like! Comments, reblogs, likes are always appreciated!

Word Count: 2977

There’s an inherent quality to spending every other night in a different country that bonds people in a surprisingly rapid and uniquely fierce way. By the time they arrive in Berlin, there’s a shared energy among the group that makes tour feel more like a backpacking trip among friends rather than actual work. At the current moment, they’re about twenty minutes out from Alessia’s set and passing the time with an incredibly heated ping pong tournament. Yet another ball whizzes right past Alex’s mallet and he can’t stop himself letting out a frustrated groan. “I never would have agreed to playing pairs if I knew you were this bad,” His arms snake around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground as he walks her to the other side of the room. “You stay over here, I’m better off playing one on two.” She squirms against him, letting out a wounded whine as he sets her down. The second he lets go she turns to sock him in the arm. Though her eyes are narrowed, they’re sparkling up at him in a way that brings a rush of heat to his chest. Feels Great is drifting through the green room speakers and adrenaline rushes through his veins even though he’s more than an hour from stepping on stage.

“If this was beer pong, I’d be owning all of you.” She snipes, pulling her shirt back down where it had ridden up her back. Bumping her hip into him as she walks back towards the ping pong table, she tosses her mallet down. “Shawn’s too good for me, I guess I’m out you guys,” She laughs towards their competitors, Brian and Alessia, before plopping herself down on the couch with a fresh bottle of Augustiner. Connor and Olivia eagerly take their places, the trash talking immediately resuming with the game. A smile plastered to his face, he saunters towards Alex, content to sink into the couch next to her. She raises a boot clad foot to halt him as he closes in, which he catches with one hand. “No, don’t come over here. You were mean to me.” She pouts, her attempt to keep him at bay fails as he pulls her ankle until her back slides off the couch and gently on to the floor. “Shawn!” She tries to catch the arm of the couch before she slips over the edge, but doesn’t grab hold in time. The sound of her saying his name, shouting it really, only makes his smile grow wider.

“That’s what you get for lying to me about being such a champ at ping pong. You ruined my record.” He shakes his head, letting go of her ankle before taking over her spot on the couch. “You really should be the one apologizing to me.” Alex is still splayed out on the floor, hair fanned beneath her and beer bottle clutched in her fist. She turns her body so that her legs are resting on the couch next to him, her upper body still resting on the floor. “Are you staying for the show tonight?” While her days are sometimes busy following up on schedules and reconfirming details with the hotels and busses for the next day’s destination, her nights are usually free. He’s made it a point to try to include her as much as possible in any plans, not wanting her to feel like the new kid on the block. The only problem is that whenever she’s in the room, it’s his only focus. He gravitates towards her no matter how hard he tries to keep his cool. It’s becoming obvious to the rest of the crew and he knows he needs to reign himself in but caution is thrown to the wind every time he hears her voice.

“Yeah, I’ll stay for the show.” She nudges her boot against his thigh. “I wore my dancing shoes, I’m ready to go.” Without thinking, his hand lands softly on her calf, his thumb meeting the skin bared from beneath one of the rips in her jeans. The courage is finally spreading inside of him as he drinks in the grin on her face and he knows all he needs to do is ask. Sure, they could spend the rest of the tour leg dancing around one another, building this tension, but what was the point?

“Hey, after the show, do you – “ He’s cut off by the sound of her phone ringing. It’s sitting on the table in front of them, face up, so he’s able to see the name on the screen. Ethan. Maybe it’s a work call? A friend? He knows she has a brother, but he doesn’t recall the name Ethan. When she sits up to grab the phone, the grin instantly fades from her face and he’s pretty sure he hears a “shit” muttered underneath her breath.

“Hold that thought, I need to answer this.” Alex scrambles to her feet, answering the phone while simultaneously turning her back to Shawn. “Hey Ethan. Yeah, yeah, I can talk, hold on.” She’s quick to walk to another corner of the room, tension apparent in her shoulders. Yeah, it must be a work call. It has to be. On the other side of the room, the ping pong game comes to a halt as Alessia and Olivia leave for her set. Brian and Connor have moved on to fooling around on a couple of long boards, and Shawn catches Brian’s attention long enough to wave him over.

“Hey, who’s Ethan?” He nods towards Alex and her phone call, hoping that maybe Brian has some intel that he doesn’t. Their crew is small and close-knit and he imagines that if there’s anything to know, Brian is probably the one to ask.

“Ethan?” Brian mulls it over, taking another lap on the longboard past the couch and back again. “Uh, probably Alex’s boyfriend.” The stunned and slightly sick look that comes over Shawn’s face tells Brian everything he needs to know. “Dude…you didn’t know that she has a boyfriend back home?”

A boyfriend. A boyfriend??? That had NOT come up. “Fuck.” It’s the only word Shawn can manage as he blows out a breath, hand running through his hair. His heart sinks into his stomach and he can almost feel the adrenaline leaving through his fingertips.

“Maybe it’s not that serious?” Brian offers, realizing how deep of a hole his best friend has dug for himself. “The guy is probably a loser anyways, just give it a couple weeks.” Ever the wing man, Brian’s support is appreciated but still falls short. Shawn isn’t the type of guy to chase a girl with a boyfriend. Even if after a few short days that girl was doing things to him he couldn’t begin to understand. At least that would be his stance for the time being. Although at a distance, he can tell that if this Ethan is in fact Alex’s boyfriend, it’s not the most pleasant of calls. She’s pacing, a deep crease in her forehead as she talks in clipped sentences that he can’t make out. When the volume of her voice finally grows, she heads for the door of the green room to seek more privacy. He doesn’t see her again until several songs into his set, when he catches sight of her on the side of the stage, swaying along to Mutual, shouting the words back to him with the rest of the crowd. For fuck’s sake, of all songs, that one? He doesn’t mean to, he doesn’t want to, but he somehow manages to lock eyes with her and nearly stumbles over the words to his own song. Boyfriend or no boyfriend, this woman is going to end him. Judging by the way her hips are moving to his song, to his voice? He can’t wait.

As usual, the younger members of the group assemble after the show. He couldn’t tell you whose room they’re in or what time it is, but a guitar keeps being passed around and the mood is light. It’s been a game of musical chairs all night as everyone mingles among one other. He tries not to be over eager about getting a chance to talk to Alex, makes it a point to keep himself aloof until she comes to him. It does happen eventually, when a spot opens up next to him on the sofa and Alex plops herself down, a beer for each of them clasped in her hands. “That for me?” He reaches towards her left hand, only for her to shirk away.

“Nope, both for me, sorry.” She attempts to bring both bottles to her lips at the same time, but one giggle breaks free and then she can’s stop. He rolls his eyes and grabs the extra bottle away from her anyways, even though he can’t hide the grin breaking on to his face.

“I don’t believe that you’re twenty-four, not for a second.” Her laughter is contagious and he can’t suppress a chuckle in her direction. “Haven’t talked to you since before the show, when you marched off on that phone call. Everything good at home? You looked upset.” He tries to slip the question in as nonchalantly as he can, taking a long sip of beer while he waits for her response.

Covering her face with her hands, she slumps deeper into the couch next to him with a pained groan. “Everything is fine.” Alex sighs, dropping her hands from her face to glance at him. “Relationships, am I right?”

So it is in fact a relationship. For the second time that night, his heart is in freefall. A small piece of him feels betrayed. They’d been flirting constantly for days, why hadn’t she offered up the fact that she had a boyfriend? Had he been misreading everything? Maybe she was just flirty by nature. Maybe all the moments that had felt like signs of something to come were simply kindness. “Didn’t realize you were in one of those…” He continues to keep his voice as light as possible. There’s no use in making a fool out of himself at this point.

“Yeah, me neither.” She huffs before downing a good quarter of her beer. Needless to say, that answer is not at all what he was anticipating.

“Okay, you’ve got me.” Shawn shifts towards her to help block out the noise of the other conversations going on around them. “I’m intrigued, what’s the story?”

“Well, for starters, it’s that I’m an idiot.” Another quarter of her beer is gulped down before she continues. “In a nutshell, we’ve been together on and off since high school and he waited until the day before I left for Europe to lose his mind about me leaving. He tried to give me an ultimatum, him or the tour, and I told him he was being fucking crazy…and then left for tour. So. That was kind of how we left things.” She stares off into the distance, and while he can’t completely read the look in her eyes, she just looks exhausted. Possibly even apathetic. It’s nothing like the look in her eyes when she’s laughing at one of his jokes or congratulating him after a show. Maybe there’s some hope after all…

“But he called tonight?” Shawn presses on, now he needs the full story. The conclusion. God, he hopes there’s a conclusion.

“Yeah, long winded apology. He says he didn’t mean any of it, he was just drunk and upset, the same old scripted apology I’ve heard about a thousand times,” Alex leans her head back into the couch, screwing her eyes shut. “Uh, let’s change the subject. I’m putting that issue on the back burner until I get back to Chicago after this leg ends.” He nods back at her, and their conversation quickly turns to an unfinished argument they’d started earlier in the day about Harry Potter versus Game of Thrones. The relationship frustration is immediately wiped from her face and replaced by competitive passion as she waxes on about Jon Snow and Khaleesi and a multitude of other names and terms he doesn’t understand. All he can think to himself is maybe we can just be friends, maybe that’s enough.

The weeks stretch on and before he knows it, they’ve reached Turin. Time moves fast and slow all at once and he’s on such a natural high from performing every other night that it’s typically hard to erase the smile off of his face. But it’s not only the tour making him feel that way. She has a lot to do with it.

Everyday, he learns something new about her. Alex is habitually early for everything, which sounds great, until you take her impatient nature into account. When it’s time to go, it’s time to GO if Alex is calling the shots. Which takes him by surprise, considering she’s sworn off caffeine. She claims it triggers her anxiety and thus he’s left wondering where her insane energy comes from. Speaking of the anxiety, that’s another similarity they’ve bonded over. The scourge of 90s kids. There’s one afternoon in particular that an attack had hit him out of nowhere, most likely a result from the constant energy he’d been expending. Alex had been quick to sit him down, talking him through his breathing while gently rubbing his temples with her fingertips. The combination of her voice and her touch had calmed him down almost instantaneously, a strange feat considering normally she raised his heartrate rather than lowering it.

The crudest joke in the room is bound to come from no one other than Alex, to the point that everyone is always pleasantly shocked by the filth that comes from such an innocent, unassuming woman. The fact that one minute she’s cooing over pictures of someone’s puppy and making dick jokes (unrelated, of course) seconds later? It’s kind of fucking impressive. Not everyone gets her sarcasm, sometimes it even goes over his head, but it doesn’t stop her from always having a snarky answer locked and loaded. She’s not stingy with her laughs, either. When something makes her laugh, like really makes her laugh? There’s this adorable little snort sound she makes. Not like he’s keeping count or anything but he’s gotten her to make that noise exactly seven times.

Like him, she never dresses warm enough and is pretty damn stubborn about it. If you press her, Alex mimics Jack Dawson’s speech from Titanic about how she’s originally from Wisconsin and no one understands how cold it is unless they’ve spent the winter there. He once challenged her about Canadian winters being much worse and immediately learned another fun fact. Alex is never wrong. Even when you hit her with the facts, the hard proof, she still finds a way to twist it into a misunderstanding that absolves her of being wrong. The fact that she’s an Aries and he’s a Leo, a couple of fire signs that insist on being in charge, it means there’s usually a battle for control. Lately, it’s usually about walking directions and who gets to lead the pack. But the competitive nature of their bickering only draws him in more. It keeps him on his toes.

Then there’s all of her weird food habits. For one, she literally carries a bottle of hot sauce in her bag a la Beyoncé. She’s got half a dozen reserve bottles in her suitcase, because in her words, “you can’t trust that Europe is going to have Louisiana hot sauce”. She’ll order a Bloody Mary morning, noon, or night and then add said hot sauce to it when it doesn’t meet her spice needs. She hates spaghetti with the heat of a thousand suns and wouldn’t sit next to anyone in Italy that ordered bolognese. But he’s also watched her eat an entire plateful of pineapple for breakfast and then go back for more. And when she’s tipsy or high? There’s usually a mission for chicken fingers and literally nothing else will appease her.

Alex pretends to hate gossip, but he knows she secretly loves it. Currently, they can’t stop commenting on Brian and Alessia’s budding…thing, which is ironic considering that attention is probably returned right back to Alex and Shawn’s…thing. She’s extremely opinionated and unafraid to speak her mind. There’s a lot about the world that royally pisses her off but there’s also so much she loves. And she never hesitates to express that love. Whether it’s the color of the sky at dusk, someone’s floral Doc Martens, the sound of her name in a foreign tongue, or a melody he absent mindedly plucks out on his acoustic while she catches up on emails. When someone talks, she listens, really listens. She doesn’t idly check her phone and she isn’t simply waiting for a chance to interrupt with her own anecdote. She cares. Alex is this enigma of a person that somehow has the biggest, softest heart while concurrently being a hot-tempered spitfire unwilling to take shit from anyone.

He soaks it all in like a sponge. As if learning a new language and understanding piece by piece how she works. Except he’s actually committing her to memory the way he never managed to with French and Portuguese. Shawn lets his guard down with her, too. He’s an open book when the questions are coming from her lips. No scripted responses, no Andrew approved answers or deflections. He can be his most authentic self with Alex, without any danger of being judged. Okay, so maybe she’s laughed at him a few times, but it’s always good natured. Always with that little snort of hers, laughing with him.

And the thing is he’s falling for her. Way too fast, far too hard and it’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

#shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes #slow burn fic

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