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imjustthemechanic · 4 years ago

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The Price of a Soul

Part 1/? - Agent Russel Part 2/? - The Letter Part 3/? - Miss Lake Part 4/? - The Stewardess Part 5/? - An Assassination Part 6/? - Fallout Part 7/? - Face to Face Part 8/? - Deals, Details, and Other Devils Part 9/? - Baggage Part 10/? - Private Funding Part 11/? - Just Passing Through Part 12/? - Party of Four Part 13/? - Resolute Part 14/? - The Wreck Part 15/? - Body Snatchers

Somebody else has come to claim their prize. I’m afraid dogs die in this chapter.

The next day they continued their work to free Steve’s body from the ice, though they were careful to leave enough that they wouldn’t damage him. It would be dreadful for children to come see the body of their hero lying in state and find he had pieces missing… and after a surprisingly good night’s sleep curled up with the warm, furry bodies of the dogs for heaters, Peggy found she could think about that now. She could think about things like what to dress him in for the funeral – his formal uniform with the medals, surely, but with the shield on his arm and his helmet at his feet – and where to hold it, who would speak and what they would serve afterwards. She was finished grieving, and now she could go through the associated rituals with no fear of breaking down.

Lake, oddly, seemed to have other ideas. “I don’t know about cremating him,” she remarked when they stopped for a bite to eat. “Sort of ruins the King Arthur aspect.”

“I beg your pardon?” Peggy asked.

“You know… King Arthur went to Avalon but will return when Britain needs him the most,” said Lake. “Captain America will rise again when he’s needed.”

Peggy snorted. “Do people really say that?” It was ridiculous mythologizing if they did. Steve was a real person and would want to be thought of as such.

“I don’t know,” said Lake. “Just something I thought of.”

Peggy cocked her head, remembering the woman’s earlier comments about the narwhals as unicorns. “You’re a bit of a romantic, aren’t you?” That seemed quite strange coming from somebody who’d been raised as an assassin.

“A little,” Lake admitted. “Not something I get to indulge very often. Are you telling me you’ve never imagined Captain America reappearing out of nowhere to sweep you off your feet?”

“He wasn’t the type to do the sweeping,” said Peggy.

“It was usually Peg sweeping him,” Howard added with a grin.

Lake nodded. “You must have some great stories about him,” she said.

“Oh, you bet,” said Howard. “When we were figuring out his uniform, he…”

“Howard,” said Peggy with a warning.

“Huh?” He looked at her in evident confusion.

She tilted her head towards Lake, trying to remind him, without actually saying so aloud, that anything he said might be reported back to the Soviet government.

“I’m a spy,” Lake said helpfully.

“Oh,” said Howard, embarrassed. “Right.”

By evening they had dug down far enough that they could see the entirety of Steve’s body, suspended in the ice just above the fuselage of the Valkyrie. It was a surreal thing to see. His eyes were closed as if he were sleeping, and he’d been frozen so quickly that his cheeks were still pink, rather than going white or gray like other corpses Peggy had seen. It was almost more like an art exhibit than the remains of a human being.

How long would he have been there if Lake hadn’t led them here, Peggy wondered. A hundred years? A thousand? Would people of the unimaginably distant future have found this corpse and wondered who the man had been and why he wore those colours? Or would the ice have eventually drifted south and melted, dropping him to the sea floor to be devoured by fish and crabs?

They bedded down for the night again, with the northern lights again dancing overhead in a clear, star-studded sky. It was the sort of sky nobody ever saw from New York City. Peggy hadn’t seen one like it since the war, when Britain’s cities had turned off their lights so that German bombers wouldn’t be able to find their targets. At the time she’d been too busy watching for the lights of approaching planes to appreciate the stars… now here they were, in all their glory. This was the sort of sky primitive man must have seen, huddled in their caves. What had they thought about it? Nowadays the leading theory was that the sun and other stars were powered by atomic fusion in their cores, but people long ago would have had no such explanations. They would have known only the innumerable tiny lights.

To think… in a universe so very vast and beautiful, she’d been so worried about the fate of a single man.

Peggy woke in the morning to the barking of dogs, and realized that she was cold. The animals had gotten up and were outside, making a terrible racket. Howard and Lake were also blinking awake, and there was a roaring sound… familiar, and yet Peggy could not immediately identify it. She crawled to the den entrance to look, and was immediately blasted in the face by cold wind and snow. A storm?

No… that rhythmic roaring sound, that wasn’t made by nature. That was helicopter blades.

“That was fast!” said Howard. He put on his fur hat and held it tight to his head as he climbed out. Peggy wriggled out after him, and Lake came third. They found three or four helicopters, kicking up the snow as they lowered men and supplies to the ground… and Peggy knew right away that Jason hadn’t sent these. Something was very, very wrong.

With the thunder of the blades all around them, Peggy knew it would be almost impossible for Howard to hear her, but she still grabbed his arm and shouted in his ear. “Howard! Those are military!” How had the Army Air Force found this place?

“What?” Howard asked.

One of the dogs ran up to a solider as he dropped from a rope to the ice. Whether it meant to greet him or attack him, Peggy couldn’t tell, and evidently the soldier couldn’t either. He raised his rifle and shot it between the eyes.

A split second later, Lake was on his shoulders with her thighs around his neck. The man fell on his face, and Lake took his gun and held the muzzle to the back of his head.

“What did you do that for, you goddamn bastard?” she demanded.

Other men were dropping from the other choppers. Two of them ran up to pull her off the one who’d shot the dog, but Lake reacted almost before they’d moved. One she hit in the face with the butt of the gun, then she grabbed his shirt and shoved him into the second so that the two collapsed together… but more were already on their way. Peggy quickly realized that if allowed, Lake would try to take them all on herself, and she ran to intervene.

“Kay! Don’t!” she took Lake by the arm. “You can’t fight all of them!”

It was true – they could not. There were far too many soldiers, and soon Peggy, Howard, and Kay were surrounded by men with guns. They raised their hands as the helicopters landed on by one in a circle around the Valkyrie wreck.

“We’re not armed!” Peggy shouted.

One of the men stepped forward and motioned with his gun back towards the polar bear den. Peggy, Howard, and Kay obediently turned and allowed themselves to be escorted back into it. Men took up positions outside so that they couldn’t try to escape.

There were a series of shots at the rest of the dogs were killed.

“He’s down here!” somebody called.

“Excellent! Let’s get to work!” another ordered. “Carefully! No damage to the tissues!” Their accents matched the insignia on their uniforms and vehicles – they were Americans.

Peggy heard an engine start. They had brought jackhammers. They’d have Steve’s body out of the ice in minutes, and then… then what? Where would they take him?

Wherever it was, Peggy knew it would be to exactly the fate Steve wouldn’t have wanted for his remains. They would take him apart to extract the secret of the serum and make more super-soldiers. Perhaps out of men who wouldn’t have Steve’s principles. Had somebody overheard Jason’s message and passed it on to the wrong people? Or… Peggy knew she hadn’t called the army, and Howard couldn’t have, because he’d been here with them the entire time. That only left one suspect.

“Friends of yours?” Peggy asked Kay Lake.

“What?” Kay stared at her as if she couldn’t believe what she just heard. “No!” she said. “Why would I call them? When would I have called them?”

“I don’t know,” Peggy said, “I don’t know why you’d do half the things you do, because when I ask you questions you talk in riddles!”

“I did not call the army to come and steal Captain America for you,” said Kay firmly. “That is the truth.”

Peggy wanted to believe that… but how could she? This was the same woman who’d looked her in the eye and told her she was Agent Nadine Russel from the FBI. How could Peggy ever trust her?

She didn’t dare poke her head out of the den, but Peggy kept close to the door to watch what she could as the men with the jackhammers worked. From that vantage point the actual site of the wreck was hidden by the rocks and the rest of the Valkyrie’s severed wing, but she could see men coming and going and hear them shouting.

As she’d feared, it took them only twenty or thirty minutes to cut Steve free of the ice. Men began climbing back in the choppers to take off, kicking up the wind again. Somebody called to the two who were standing guard by the den, and Peggy realized to her horror that the soldiers meant to leave her, Kay, and Howard behind. As the men walked away to catch their ride, Peggy squirmed out the entrance and shouted to them.

“Hey, you can’t leave us here!” she protested.

Kay climbed out after her. “You killed our dogs!” she agreed. “How do we get back?”

She was only half-done speaking when the helicopter engine started. It was doubtful the soldiers even heard them, as they climbed into the chopper to take off. One by one, the machines roared into the air. The men on board could doubtless see Peggy and Kay, and Howard scrambling to join them, but they evidently didn’t care.

From behind the rocks, the last helicopter rose – a block of glittering ice was dangling from a chain below it. Peggy’s heart sank as she realized that was probably the last she was ever going to see of Steve Rogers…

Then the block shifted, jerking the helicopter sideways. The pilot took immediate action, reducing altitude again to set its precious cargo down on the ice, only perhaps thirty yards in front of where Peggy, Kay, and Howard were standing. Men climbed back down to tighten and re-secure straps. They wouldn’t want to risk dropping Captain America’s body into the sea. Buckles and chains were checked and double-checked, and the pilot tried lifting off again. This time, the load must have remained steady. The pilot raised it up fifty feet, then gently set it down again and let down a ladder for the soldiers to climb back up.

Peggy looked at Kay. Kay nodded, and both of them took off running.

Moments before the block could be lifted from the ice again, Peggy threw herself on top of it and grabbed the canvas straps holding it to the chains. The first thing she focused on was undoing the belt of her coat and putting it around the strap, so she could not lose her grip and fall. Only then did she look to confirm that Kay was still with her. She was, and was in the process of tying herself to the central chain. The wind snatched her hat off her head and tossed it into the void.

Peggy watched it go, and then made the terrible mistake of looking down. The ground was already a thousand feet below them, bright ice and dark rocks and the distant crack where the cetaceans came up to breathe. A tiny moving point may have been Howard, alone in the cold with only eight dead dogs for company, but it might just as well have been Peggy’s imagination.

The air in their ears and the thunder of blades overhead were far too loud for Peggy and Kay to be able to talk to each other, so all they could do was cling on as best they could with numbing fingers, the wind eating into their faces as the helicopters headed roughly south. Wherever they were going, Peggy hoped it wasn’t too far. There was a very real possibility of freezing to death before they got there.

It wasn’t far by air, but it must have nevertheless been hundreds of miles, because they went all the way to the edge of the sea ice. In the water beyond, a United States aircraft carrier was waiting for them. The other choppers landed first, letting men off who could help the one with Captain America’s body come in. There was nothing Peggy and Kay could do but hang on as they were lowered towards the decks. The gathered soldiers looked startled to see them, but when given orders they cut the two women free and held onto them while others got the block of ice onto a reinforced gurney.

Peggy’s ears kept ringing for minutes after the last blade had stopped turning. Steve’s body was taken away, and a man wrapped in warm winter clothing approached.

There were several possibilities of who he might be, but based on his height and carriage Peggy had already settled on one by the time he took his scarf off to look her over. Sure enough, it was Vernon Masters.

#fanfic #captain america #agent carter #peggy carter #steve rogers #steggy #fix it fic

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black-streak · 5 years ago

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Waiting for the Worms - Vera

Part 12

Aka, I have no control over myself and SOMEONE on discord maybe urged me on a little. One of these days, one of you are going to ask about the titles for these and I'm going to refuse to answer. Woah, someone remembered that Jason's body was dipped in a crazy pool and he hasn't experienced that before! How fun.

CLOSED beggars: @northernbluetongue @thethirdwheelfriend @shizukiryuu @theatreandcomicfreak @michellemagic @karategirl119 @moonlightstar64 @my-name-is-michell @mystery-5-5 @zalladane @queen-of-the-trash-planet-tm @miraculousdisapointment @dorkus-minimus @jardimazul @allthebooksandcrannies @g-arya @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @persephonescat @mycupisbroken @luciferge @18-fandoms-unite-08 @dawnwave16 @alwaysreblogneverpost @kris-pines04 @mysteriouslyswimmingfan-blo-blog @weird-pale-blonde-person @you-will-never-know-how-i-think @kokotaru @naclychilli @slytherinhquinn @clumsy-owl-4178 @ladybug-182 @darkthunder1589 @evil-elf16 @dast218 @lysslovsanime @emilytopaz @naoryllis @iloontjeboontje @thepeacetea @danielslilangel @finallyaniguana @i-like-fairytail-and-stuff @vixen-uchiha @yuulxd @bleeding-heart-romantic @magic-inthe-stars @st0rmy-w1th1n

~---~

Jason knew those eyes, had been haunted by those eyes for months now. Felt the absolute need to protect them from the horrors of the world without a second thought. And now they were in front of him, real and alive and coming from the face of a young, tan skinned boy with pitch black, course looking hair that fell in a rumpled mess across his face, quietly calling out Marinette's name. The name he spent the better part of three years responding to as though it were his own. But that didn't make any sense, he'd never met this boy before. How did he know her? Was this a repressed memory of hers that her body somehow stored all this time and was trying to inform him of over time? Was this the work of the fear toxin taking hold and showing Marinette's worst fear? That also made no sense. He'd known her since she was six and she'd never mentioned this boy. It also couldn't explain the simplicity of the sight before her. Nothing fear inducing was actually happening. Except he felt on the edge of a panic attack anyways.

Could it be that his worst fear was this boy because of his reoccurring presence in his nightmares and the idea of this being a real child who's gone through so damn much it reminded him of himself, it scared him half to death? Or the fear that perhaps he had truly gone insane and the dreams were an indication of the war he raged inside himself?

Lifting his hands up to his face to block the images, he took note of the size, the coloration, the scaring. This wasn't how Marinette's hands looked. Those weren't Marinette's arms. Looking down, he knew that he shouldn't sit this tall or be this broad or have that long of legs. Nothing made sense anymore and as the hysteria set in, green edged his vision.

"Marinette? Mari? What's happening?" The voice drew closer, sounding concerned and hinting at the slightest touch of nerves.

"Venomous green. Electric, neon. Like Plagg."

That wasn't his voice, was it? He spoke, but that voice was too deep, too husky and masculine to be right. Nothing was right. This felt wrong and yet exactly as it was meant to all at once and he didn't understand. The bright green closed in on him and he felt himself tremble.

"It's the pits, Marinette. You've dealt with them, remember? You know how to fight it, how to calm yourself," the voice stayed where it was at, but he was sure if he looked up, those haunting jade eyes would be right there, staring into his soul.

How could he calm himself? The nightmares never talked to him like this, never told him to calm himself, to take control. He'd never dealt with the green overtaking his vision, not since the very first dream well over a year ago. He never fought it, what was this kid on about? Why was his mind screaming at him? He wanted to lash out, to hit and fight and attack, but his instincts yelled to protect the child and nothing else was here. Grabbing up another knife, he slammed it down, surprised to see it hit into a cushion that landed under his hand right as he moved.

"Deep breaths, counts of seven with me," the voice was closer, counting for him and he followed without thought. His thoughts narrowed into the numbers, the screaming dulling down to a soft roar in the background, the green settling down until it disappeared entirely and still the counting continued on until his breathing became his own.

"Back with me?"

"What the fuck is going on?" He hissed out, fear and nausea piling up.

The kid's eyes widened and then narrowed as he backed up, grip tightening on the blade still in his hand. He opened his mouth and hesitated for half a second before he asked, voice demanding and sharp, leaving no room for argument, "Jason?"

Jason reeled back, having not heard that name since the accident, "How do you know that name?"

"She's been going by it for as long as I've known her."

"Who?!"

"Marinette."

His breath caught in his throat, shoulders dropping from their defensive hunch, unable to speak for a moment. He stayed still, processing as the boy across from him moved around the other side of the kitchen counter, swiftly grabbing the knife block and dropping it off on the counter furthest away from Jason.

"How?"

"She told me she woke up in a grave. Had been in there for quite some time. Dug out and landed in a coma for a year. My- Talia found her after she woke up. Took her back to the league and dropped her in the pits. That was about-"

"A year and a half ago."

"Yes… how do you know this?"

"Saw the acid green at night, didn't know what it was."

"She mentioned the connection cutting when she died. I guess the pits could have healed that as well."

"And she met you about nine months ago, then. Or at least something significant happened. I recognize your eyes."

"I might have approached her around that time, I suppose."

"How old are you?"

"Seven."

"Fuck kid, tell me half of what I saw wasn't real?"

"Depends on what you saw, but I would assume so."

"Fucking hell. And so what, she just up and ran? Took you with her? Mari's alive? Been alive all this time and I didn't know?"

"Something like that," the kid slid closer, carefully prying the knife from his hand. Realizing he still held it, had thrown one at the boy only minutes before, he abruptly let go, letting it clattered onto the counter below where the kid swiped it off and put it with the others out of immediate reach. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes as he came to terms with Marinette's state of living. Dug herself out of his grave? A coma? Talia. He couldn't wrap his brain around it. If the dreams were all visions, his sweet little soulmate had killed. Had fought for her life so often it felt like routine. Had suffered and lost so much, had seen this child going through the same things and put her foot down. Had ran for her life, kid in tow, no guarantee of survival, while he lived with her parents. No villains to defeat, no league to push him or force his hand. He hadn't even been grateful. Just depressed and angry while she went through a hell ten times as brutal. From the look the kid gave him, she didn't even talk terribly of him like he deserved. Otherwise he was sure the kid would have that knife worked up to his throat by now, demanding her back. Granted he didn't look happy, but his stance wasn't openly hostile yet.

Shit, he didn't deserve her and yet joy spread through him like a whip. She was alive. She was okay and had a little family of her own and had moved on through it all and he felt so damn proud and joyful to know she was alive all this time. Despite the horrible circumstances and atrocities she obviously faced in her time as him, she had been alive and not taken to an early grave. She turned seventeen last week no matter what body she did so in. The Joker hadn't taken her from him despite his best efforts. She was too strong, too persistent and capable. Marinette was alive and the pure happiness that shocked him to his core left him shaking and breathless.

"Calm down, you'll work yourself up again. She never told me you were an emotional mess."

"Shut it, kid. You would freak out if you found out someone you thought dead for three years was alive too."

"Tt. You won't survive a week with the madness."

"The madness? What's that supposed to mean?" Jason felt his hackles rising and had to remind himself of the emotional lockdown from his time fighting Hawkmoth to stamp it down. The kid obviously meant a lot to Mari and he wasn't about to make an enemy of himself.

"The acidic green and screaming in your head I had to talk you down from? That was an aftereffect of being dipped in the Lazarus pit. Marinette has no problem controlling it now. Should have known it wasn't her the second you couldn't force it into submission yourself," the kid gave a haughty sneer, turning his nose up.

"And the first time it struck her? Did she have such control then?"

The boy seemed to wilt at that, looking down in shame, "No."

"What happened?"

"I made a mistake. Someone almost got to me and she lost it. Killed everyone in the vicinity."

"And that was towards the beginning?"

"No. She wasn't allowed in the training room with me until she had the madness locked down. It wasn't even our first mission together. It was my fault she lost control. She would've been fine had I not messed up."

Jason immediately felt bad for chastising the kid for his attitude. He obviously felt uncomfortable looking at a familiar face and yet talking to a virtual stranger.

"Hey, relax kid, I'm sure she doesn't see it that way and wouldn't want you to either. She probably just did what she thought necessary to protect you, even if you don't agree with her methods. Trust me, I'm familiar with them," he offered with a self deprecating chuckle.

The boy seemed to soften, looking at him with curious eyes, "You really are her soulmate," he stated, almost coming off as a tease, "It's Damian by the way."

"Huh?"

"You've been calling me kid for the last half hour. My name is Damian."

"Whatever, kid," he smirked as Damian's lips twisted in annoyance, "Wait, did you say half hour?"

"It took a while to calm you down," he shrugged.

Suddenly it hit Jason where he had been. What had been happening that sent him into that panic.

"Fuck!"

The kid startled, looking at him like he lost his rocker, which okay, that was fair.

"What now?"

"The place I was at. It got attacked when we switched. She had to have taken in some fear toxin, who knows what type of effect that has on her!"

"Attacked? She'll be fine, Marinette's the beat fighter I know," Damian seemed to calm at that, almost offended at his inferring her inability to handle the situation.

"Was she exposed to fear toxin in the league?"

"Fear toxin? I'm not sure what that is, but her immune system was adapted to handle several poisons. Every league members' is."

"You mean this body was. This body's immune system was adapted."

That seemed to throw him for a loop, stiffening up, but he persisted, "Her mind has taken on the chaos of the pit, surely fear pulsing through as well couldn't be worse."

"As well! Her soul was in that pit, not just this body. Meaning the madness probably latched on to her soul as well. In an unadjusted body, with the jolt and panic of being launched into her old body in the middle of an attack with fear toxin coursing through it."

The air about Damian seemingly crashed around him and the small shoulders begin to shake as reality settled in, "she's going to lose herself again, isn't she?" He half whimpered, trying to push it down to sound less weak infront of Jason, but he was obviously afraid. Jason flinched, remembering the kid's age once more and that he probably should have just agreed to keep him calm.

"We'll track her down. You can ground her, you're good at that, right?"

He nodded, "Can't you just switch back, instead? Give Marinette back?"

"It doesn't work that way kid. You can resist the tug when it comes, but you can't force the tug itself."

"Give her back! She's probably a mess right now, I need to help her!"

"I can't, kid. I'm sorry. We'll find her though, I promise. I know where she is. Where are we? The faster I can map out a route, the sooner you'll be with her. Tell me and then get changed, we'll leave now."

As the kid ran to what was presumably his room, rambling out an address, Jason was surprised to realize how close they were. Marinette lived in Gotham. He shouldn't feel so surprised.

He forced himself to the other room, rummaging through a drawer until he found clothes to shove on and walked towards the door, Damian running up behind him. As his hand touched the doorknob, his mind yanked him back and without any warning, he was thrown into Marinette's body once more.

#jasonette #maribat #ml x dc #WFTW #part 12 #yall are spoilt by me #i didnt even give this a once over #its just being tossed into the world now

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aion-rsa · 3 years ago

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How Ted Lasso Sneakily Crafted its Empire Strikes Back Season

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

This article contains Ted Lasso spoilers through season 2 episode 8.

Perhaps you’ve heard, but Apple TV+ series Ted Lasso was the subject of some dreaded Discourse recently.

Since the Internet is infinite and we privileged few in the media have nothing but time, a handful of features came out weeks ago essentially questioning what Ted Lasso season 2 was even all about. Many of these features were well-written, well-argued, and fair, but when filtered through Twitter’s anti-nuance machine (i.e. Twitter itself), every feature boiled down to the same reductive take: Ted Lasso season 2 doesn’t have a conflict.

In some respects, this take was the inevitable reaction to the metanarrative surrounding Ted Lasso in the first place. Despite drawing its inspiration from a series of somewhat cynical NBC Sports Premier League commercials, the first season of Ted Lasso was all about the transformative power of kindness.

Or at least that’s what we critics declared it to be. And I don’t blame us. Awash in a flood of screeners about antiheroes, dystopias, and the end of the world, the simple kindness of Ted Lasso seemed revolutionary. They made a TV show about a guy who is…nice? They can do that? But the inherent goodness of its lead character was always Ted Lasso’s elevator pitch, not its thesis.

There’s been a darkness at the center of Ted Lasso since its very first moment, when an American man got on a flight to London in a doomed attempt to save his marriage. And, as season 2’s brilliant eighth episode rolls around, it’s become clear that that darkness is what the show has really been “about” this whole time.

Season 2 episode 8 “Man City” (the title is referring to AFC Richmond’s FA Cup match against opponent Manchester City but also stealthily reveals that this installment will be all about men and their respective traumas) is quite simply the best episode of Ted Lasso yet. It also might be the best episode of television this year. Near the episode’s end, right before AFC Richmond plays a crucial FA Cup match against the mighty Manchester City, coach Ted Lasso (Jason Sudeikis) finally comes clean with his coaching staff. He’s been suffering from panic attacks of late. His assistant coaches hear him, accept him, and then head off to the pitch where Man City absolutely obliterates their team.

Man City destroys AFC Richmond. They annihilate them. Embarrass them. Stuff them into a locker and steal their lunch money. The final score is 4-0 but it might as well be 400-0. The coaching staff is rattled but the players are hit even harder. Richmond’s star striker and former Man City player Jamie Tartt (Phil Dunster) is forced to endure watching his scumbag father cheer for his hometown team from the Wembley Stadium stands at the expense of his son.

After the game, Jamie’s father, James (Kieran O’Brien), enters the locker room where he drunkenly accosts him for being a loser and demands that Jamie grant access to the Wembley Stadium pitch for him and his scumbag friends to run around on. When Jamie refuses, his father pushes him, so Jamie reflexively punches him right in the face. James is dragged out of the locker room by Coach Beard (Brendan Hunt), leading a stunned and traumatized Jamie Tartt standing in the middle of the room, as if in a spotlight of pure pain, surrounded by teammates too afraid to even approach him. And then something amazing happens…

Here’s the dirty secret about television: there’s a lot of it. Due to the sheer number of TV shows released each year, even the best of them are destined to become little more than memories long-term. Sometimes all you can ask from multiple episodes and seasons of television is to provide you with one moment, one line, or one warm feeling to carry with you into the future. I don’t know how much I’ll remember from Ted Lasso 30-40 years from now when I’m immobile and reclined in my floating entertainment unit, Wall-E style. But I know I’ll at least remember the moment that Roy hugs Jamie.

The great Roy Kent (Brett Goldstein) – a character so disconnected from his own emotions that some fans are convinced he’s CGI – embraces the one person in the world he is least likely to embrace. As Roy and Jamie wordlessly hug, it’s hard to tell which man is more shocked by the moment. Ultimately, however, it might be Ted Lasso himself who is hit hardest. Shortly after seeing Roy play father to the younger Jamie, Ted quickly exits the locker room and calls sports psychologist Dr. Sharon Fieldstone (Sarah Niles) on his Apple TV+-apporved iPhone.

“My father killed himself when I was 16. That happened. To me and to my mom,” Ted says, weeping.

And that, my friends, is what Ted Lasso is all about. Pain. And dads. But mostly pain.

None of us can say that Ted Lasso didn’t warn us it was coming. To go back to the discourse of it all real quick – I don’t blame anyone for not picking up on the direction that this show was so clearly heading in. Ted Lasso is, first and foremost, a sitcom. The beauty of sitcoms is that you welcome them into your home to watch at your own pace and your own terms. If having Ted Lasso on in the background so you can occasionally see the handsome mustache man who smiles while you fold your laundry is the way you’ve chosen to engage with the show, then great! Just know that season 2 has been operating on a deeper level this whole time as well.

Let’s take things all the way back to the beginning – back to before season 2 even began. You’ve likely heard the old philosophical thought experiment “if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” Well Jason Sudeikis’s interviews leading up the season 2 premiere beg an equally as interesting hypothetical “how many times can one man mention The Empire Strikes Back before someone notices??”

Sudeikis referred to Ted Lasso season 2 as the show’s “Empire Strikes Back” multiple times before the premiere including in his local Kansas City Star and his technically local USA Today. The show even explicitly mentions the second Star Wars film in this season’s first episode when Richmond general manager Higgins (Jeremy Swyft) tells Ted that his kids are watching the trilogy for the first time. Sudeikis (who co-created and produces the show) and showrunner Bill Lawrence clearly want us to take the idea that Ted Lasso season 2 is The Empire Strikes Back seriously. And why would that be?

Think of how ESB differs from its two Star Wars siblings in the original trilogy. This is the story that features arguably the series most iconic moment when Luke Skywalker discovers his dad is a dick on a literal universal level. It also has the only unambiguously downer ending of any original trilogy Star Wars film. Luke is thoroughly defeated in this installment. Having one’s hand chopped off by their father and barely escaping with their life is definitely the Star Wars version of a 4-0 defeat.

The Empire Strikes Back can safely be boiled down into two concepts:

Dads are complicated.

Everything sucks.

When viewed through those two conceptual prisms, so much of Ted Lasso season 2 begins to make more sense.

Episode 1 opens with the death of a dog and then leads into a classic Ted Lasso speech that could serve as this season’s mission statemetn. After recounting the story of how he cared for his sick neighbor’s dog, Ted concludes with: “It’s funny to think about the things in your life that can make you cry knowing that they existed then become the same thing that can make you cry knowing that they’re now gone. Those things come into our lives to help us get from one place to a better one.”

Things like…a father who you didn’t have nearly enough time with? Following episode 1 (and following just about every episode this season), Bill Lawrence took to Twitter to assuage viewers’ fears about a lack of central conflict this season. He had this to say about Ted’s big speech.

Look, Merrill. It was thought out, but the speech he gives after (Written by Jason himself – I loved it) is the core of the season, but we knew some people might bum out.

— Bill Lawrence (@VDOOZER) July 27, 2021

Sorry, truly. Ted’s speech after (which I love, but am obviously biased) is a big part of the season. But it sounds like you had a crappy thing happen recently.

— Bill Lawrence (@VDOOZER) July 28, 2021

It’s not. But Ted’s speech has big relevance. Stick around!

— Bill Lawrence (@VDOOZER) July 26, 2021

He also had this to say about dads.

Effin Dads, man. Love mine so, but he’s struggling a bit.

— Bill Lawrence (@VDOOZER) July 27, 2021

“Effin dads” and our complicated relationships with them are all over Ted Lasso season 2. In the very next episode, Sam Obisanya (Toheeb Jimoh) tells Ted “You know, my father says that every time you’re on TV, he’s very happy that I’m here. That I’m in safe hands with you.”

Ted smiles at this bit of info but not as warmly as you might expect. Because to Ted, a dad isn’t a reassuring presence but rather someone you love who will just leave when you need him the most. That’s why he’s been trying to be the perfect father figure this whole time. That’s why he did something as extreme as leaving his family behind in Kansas while he heads off to London. If giving his wife space was the only way to preserve the family and remain a good dad, then he was going to give her a whole ocean of space.

Moreover, Ted hasn’t just been trying to serve as a father figure to his son this whole time but to everyone else as well. Sam’s comment to Ted reminds him that not everyone has a good dad, which encourages him to bring Jamie into the fold in the first place.

As time goes on, however, the stress of being the consummate father to everyone in his orbit begins to wear on Ted. Throughout the entirety of this season, Ted Lasso appears to be trying to be Ted Lasso just a bit too hard. His energy levels are too high. His jokes go on too long. The same life lessons that worked last year aren’t working this year. AFC Richmond opens with an embarrassing streak of draws before Jamie’s immense talents set things straight.

It all culminates in this season’s sixth episode when Ted has his second panic attack in as many years. This time it’s in public during an important game. The experience sends Ted running through the concourse of the stadium until he somehow ends up in the dark on Dr. Fieldstone’s couch, instinctively, like a wounded animal.

It’s certainly no coincidence that this panic attack occurs on the same day that Ted received a call from his son’s school asking him to pick him up, not realizing that he’s an ocean away. In that moment, Ted can’t help but remember what it’s like to be left behind by his own father and subconsciously wonder if he’s doing the same.

Though the shallow waters of Ted Lasso season 2 may have appeared consequence free for half its run, beneath the surface was a tidal wave of conflict. Just because the conflict wasn’t taking place between a happy-go-lucky football coach and a villainous owner doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Game of Thrones author George R.R. Martin is terrible at meeting deadlines but great at writing. According to him (and William Faulkner, from whom he borrows the quote), the only conflict worth writing about is that of the human heart with itself. That’s something that The Empire Strikes Back understood. And it’s something that Ted Lasso season 2 does as well.

The post How Ted Lasso Sneakily Crafted its Empire Strikes Back Season appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3E4eqHF

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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badacts · 5 years ago

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eyes on me (pt.4)

This fic is about Gotham’s revenant problem.

(part one) (part two) (part three)

Gotham is a stinking, ratshit city sulking in a sickly combination of sea fog and smoke. Goddamn, Jason missed it.

Things he didn’t miss so much: being in the same locale as his own headstone.

He’s aiming for the grave of Marc Rand, recently undeceased, but his feet move of their own accord to a spot on the northern side of the cemetery. He’s been here once before - it was raining, and he’d been sick when his boots stirred the smell of wet soil underfoot, spent the night shaking and sleepless in the dingy studio apartment he’d been squatting in.

Now, his helmet filters that out. He takes in the smooth white marble of the twin headstones, one for Catherine and one for him. A memento to his old life, still bedecked with a bouquet of white carnations.

He’s not sure what possesses him to look closer at the flowers. They’re fresh white, unstained by smog and age so far, with a card on the tie binding the stems. He’s expecting the name of one of Bruce’s society pals, looking to make nice by dropping flowers on some dead Crime Alley kid’s grave, or maybe some stalker Wayne fan.

Instead, the card says: I am the soft stars that shine at night.

“I am not there,” Jason murmurs, words falling like stones into the silence, “I do not sleep.”

He always loved that poem. It’s either a particularly on-the-nose joke on Bruce’s part, or something else entirely. And he knows it’s Bruce - even in the florist’s typography, the ‘- B’ is instantly recognisable to a child who grew up in Wayne Manor.

So that’s why he follows Tim back to the Cave from the hospital. That, and the fact that his replacement may or may not fall off his bike on the way without supervision.

Of course, Timmy doesn’t seem particularly pleased to have his help. If looks could kill, Jason would be dead for the second time right about now.

“Just sit there and don’t touch anything,” he tells Jason, pressing an ice pack to the back of his head with his left hand while typing at the computer with his right. He sounds grumpy. Not angry, as such, but still low-key pissed that Jason dared give him a teeny, tiny concussion.

Really, he should have caught himself. Jason is good, but so is Red Robin, and Red Robin can’t afford to be taken out by an (admittedly ably assisted) tumble on a rooftop.

Jason is going to keep putting down the fact that Tim did get him in a chokehold to his brief moment of mistaken sympathy. He’s going to have a bruise in the shape of Robin’s shinguard on his throat to remind him of that, too.

“Here,” Tim says, files folding out across the largest screen. “This is everything I have on Rand. I’d read it to you, but I’m still seeing double.” Because he’s dramatic as hell.

“I didn’t grow up on the same street as you, but I can still fucking read,” Jason snaps, waiting for Tim to vacate his personal space before he steps closer to the computer. There’s a discarded batarang there, gleaming black against the table, and Jason can’t resist picking it up to feel the familiar weight. Tim isn’t watching, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Probably.

Of course, before Jason can start the aforementioned reading, the Batmobile pulls into its spot, its familiar snarl cutting to silence.

It’s not like Jason didn’t know there was a decent chance of running into Bruce when he came here. It’s just that he’s never as prepared for it when it actually happens as he thinks he will be beforehand.

Batman is hard to read in the cowl, but Jason can tell he isn’t surprised to find the two of them here. His attention jumps to Tim, still holding the ice pack, and he demands, “What happened?”

“Hit my head,” Tim replies, surly, with another of those killer looks at Jason. “It’s fine. We’re going over the Rand case.”

“Let me look,” Bruce replies, pulling back the cowl and letting it hang down his back. Tim, sighing, allows it with bad grace. “Were you knocked out?”

“No. It’s a mild concussion.”

“They just don’t make Robins like they used to,” Jason says lightly, because he doesn’t want to watch this - the Bat clucking over his newest chick.

“I’m not the one that died,” Tim points out. He’s a shithead, and any regret Jason might have felt over giving him a head injury evaporates.

“Not yet,” he says, and even he isn’t sure whether it’s a threat or not.

Bruce pulls away from Tim, pressing the ice pack in Tim’s hand back into place. “We’ll get Leslie to check you.”

“I’m fine!” Tim exclaims, waving his free hand in exasperation.

“We don’t take risks with head injuries,” Bruce says, like it’s a lesson learned by rote, right before he turns his gaze onto Jason. “Did you do this?”

Jason shrugs. “I maintain he did it to himself. Turns out he’s clumsy as hell.”

“Fuck you,” Tim mutters at him. Jason would have gotten a double swear jar penalty for that one, but Tim doesn’t even get a look.

“You injured him. Again.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “It was an accident, Bruce. I’m fine.”

“This,” Bruce points at Tim, like he’s pointing at a little cuddly bunny rabbit, and not a buck-sixty of highly-trained muscle and creepy, canny brain, “Cannot happen again.”

Jason leans back against the desk, casual. “Well, that’s it, Timmers. You had a good run, but Dad says no head injuries ever again. Time you retired.”

Bruce is scowling. “That’s not-”

“Or I can lend you a helmet,” Jason cuts him off, smiling. “The colour’s right and everything.”

“This isn’t a joking matter,” Bruce snaps. “You nearly killed him.”

It’s an atomic bomb of a comment. Just like he meant it to be. Tim looks surprised, but he shouldn’t. Or maybe Bats doesn’t talk to him that way, saves it all up special for Jason.

“Yeah,” Jason says, stripped bare of anything but the truth - no attitude, no humour, nothing, “I did. I hurt him. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill you.”

There’s plenty he doesn’t regret. Plenty of blood on his hands he’d happily get all over again. But there are also things he would take back, starting with the sick bite of a chainsaw between the vertebrae of drug pushers and ending with his bullet in Tim Drake’s shoulder.

Doing what he does is a necessity. He believes that to the core. The taste for violence, the pleasure in it, the crack and wavering of his control - that’s dangerous for him. It’s an addiction that he needs to kick.

He’s not sure if his words are offering that up as supplication, or just rubbing what he’s done in Bruce’s face. Bruce doesn’t give anything away. He never really does; not for free.

“And every time you did, you took yourself further and further from what that represents,” he says, and points at the thing Jason has been trying to ignore this whole time.

His old uniform, enshrined and adorned with the worst inscription Jason has ever fucking seen. It’s certainly no do not stand at my grave and weep.

Because Jason isn’t dead, but the kid he was? The kid that Bruce claimed as his own, the one he claimed to love? That kid is. And this is the grave.

A good soldier. A good fucking soldier.

“Bruce,” Tim says, and he sounds tentative. He’s watching Jason’s hand, while Bruce is looking him dead in the eye.

“Every time you do, you prove me wrong for ever letting you wear it,” Bruce continues.

“Fuck you,” Jason rasps, and throws.

It’s a direct hit. The glass cracks and falls in a cacophony, echoing in a roll across the cave to the point it compounds on itself. The batarang lodges directly into the armour over where Jason’s fifteen-year-old heart would have been.

“Fuck you,” Jason’s mouth says. “I was never your soldier.” His brain, that part of him that has been getting quieter and quieter since he left this place, the useless part that screams you replaced me over and over, is deafening. All he can hear is that, and the insistent thrum of his own heart.

There are hands in the front of his jacket. He and Bruce are eye-to-eye, and it gives Jason a great view of his rage. In that moment, Jason has never been surer that he’s about to be hit, and that’s saying something, considering his entire life.

He’s holding the front of Batman’s uniform so tight that his nails are breaking on the kevlar weave.

“Stop.” That’s Tim, probably not for the first time either. But this time he prises himself into the space between them, unignorable.

Bruce leans back immediately, letting Jason go. Unfortunately, Jason can’t quite convince his hands to release, or his brain to stop screaming.

Tim is holding his wrists, face very series. He whispers, “Breathe.” Jason wants to break him in half, but he doesn’t, and he doesn’t, and he doesn’t.

His fingers relax.

“Gentlemen. What on earth is the meaning of this?”

It’s Alfred. He looks furious.

All three of them freeze. Then Tim lets go of Jason like he’s on fire. It would be funny, if it weren’t for Alfred’s gimlet gaze bearing down on them. Or if the entire preceding five minutes hadn’t happened.

“Master Tim,” Alfred says after a long moment where none of them move, “I believe you have some homework to finish.”

Tim opens his mouth like he’s going to protest, and then sees the escape route for what it is and takes it like the scuttling schoolboy he is.

Once he’s gone, Alfred turns. “Master Bruce.”

There’s a very long silence. Then Bruce says, “Hrn,” and turns away in the direction of the showers.

That just leaves Jason, still taut with adrenaline to the point his hands shake, standing below, and Alfred like an avenging angel above him, and a pile of glittering glass shards in the corner.

“Master Jason,” Alfred says, and then smiles. “Welcome home.”

#for the 12 people who like this fic and MYSELF bc i love it #happy new year (almost)#jason todd #bruce wayne #tim drake #alfred pennyworth #batfam #eyes on me #batfam fic #my fic

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nightglider124 · 5 years ago

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Dickkory Week: Day 6

LOL only about 2 days late but got there in the end.

I based this last day on the live action ‘Titans’ and it was... interesting to write their live counterparts. I don’t think I did an astounding job on this or writing them tbh but... it was a first attempt so I’m happy enough with it.

Hope ya like it and I hope everyone had a fab dickkory week.

p.s - because i just wanted this finally posted, it has not been proofread so soz if it’s a grammatical mess XD

___________________________

Stargazing

They were like tiny beacons in the dark sky; millions of them, all shining brightly and looking down on the world as they remained a celestial spectacle for all. The stars were like a puzzle; pieces scattered throughout the universe with no business being forced together, rather spread apart like the cosmic wonders that they were.

Kory watched them in the same way she had been for the past hour. It was late and she should probably be in bed, no worries or concerns pulling her in a hundred different directions. But, lately, her mind and body hadn’t exactly been in harmony with one another so here she was; sat on the balcony of the newest hideout they had taken up refuge in.

She idly wondered just how many safe houses Bruce Wayne actually had dotted throughout the country. They’d traveled across several states and stayed within two; not counting the ones that they had no knowledge of at all.

This one was different from the last one in Chicago. It was bigger, more of a house than some modernized, super apartment and it was a lot more hidden. It was out in the country, hidden by an army of trees and lost down several winding dirt roads, assuring all of them that they were more protected now than they were before.

Things had been… strange since Trigon.

Dick had been pulled back from the demonic influence that had a tight grip on him when she and Donna had finally found a way through the ethereal dome surrounding Angela’s house. The two of them had burst through the door and Kory hated to admit how much it scared her to see the hollow blackness replacing Dick’s eyes; the way his skin had turned so much paler than his usual tone. He looked sick and unlike himself; trapped in whatever torment Trigon had conjured up in that mind of his.

The rest of that night was a blur when she tried to think back on it now.

Rachel had been the one to end things. After Jason showed up with two others she had never met before who she now knew as Hank and Dawn, it was like an explosion went off.

They all banded together, trying to decrease the power and the hold that Trigon had over their friend and makeshift leader of the little group he had put together. It had little effect, even with Gar morphing into at least 3 other animal types; something he was still trying to figure out how he did since all he really knew was a tiger.

Kory closed her eyes as she sat on the stone railing that ran around the edge of the balcony, a bitter breeze causing goosebumps to appear upon her dark skin. Despite the burning fire at her core, she felt cold and she couldn’t pinpoint why that was.

Thanks to Rachel, they had won against her demonic father. A power had surged up from inside of her, one that not even Kory was aware she had buried away. Purple and black had swirled around the kid, like some kind of magical tornado and Trigon had been powerless to stop her shear strength.

He’d been pulled in, sucked away from this dimension as easily as he had walked into it through the planes of that mirror Angela had set up in her living room.

She had fought him the whole time, refusing to let such a monster who would hurt Dick as he had, into their realm without strife.

It had taken her time, with Angela screaming at her to stop and how helping Trigon was her destiny before ultimately being restrained by Donna’s glowing lasso.

Trigon had disintegrated before everyone’s eyes until he was trapped in the newly formed red gem that was stuck to Rachel’s forehead on a daily basis now.

Ridding Trigon from their world seemed to undo all of his mistreatment, including releasing Dick from the nightmarish hell that had been plaguing his mind since the minute he ran on ahead into the house.

He’d been out of sorts for a few days after that, always checking to see what was real and what was simply in his head.

Slowly, Dick had begun to regain his self assurance and he was falling back into his old self, his personality renewed as it had been before.

It had been a couple of weeks since that all happened and a few things had changed.

Rachel had started to harness the darkness inside her, rather than running scared from it. She was learning, piece by piece, what she was capable of doing. She’d decided on a bit of a makeover too. She’d changed her hair and her style, ever so slightly and surprised Kory to see that she was no longer the same terrified girl that she had rescued from the nuclear family about 2 months ago.

They had all sort of become a makeshift team or unit, since Dick hadn’t warmed to using the former term as of yet. It was still the 4 of them, except now they were joined by Donna, Jason, Hank and Dawn.

Their little ‘family’ had some extended members now and it… took some getting used to.

Kory wasn’t sure what she thought of them. She and Donna had started to get along, better than when they’d first met at least but the other 3 were still a bit of a mystery to her. She didn’t know them and she certainly didn’t trust them yet. After all, she only just about trusted Rachel, Gar and Dick.

Kory had changed herself a little too. Her clothing style had altered and so had her hair, now flowing down her back in loose, wavy curls rather than the afro of tight ones she had been sporting since she stumbled across her little group of misfits.

Something was heavy in her chest; a weight that had been there for days now and she was growing more and more frustrated by the second, wanting to figure out what the cause was but also not having a single clue how to do that.

Sighing, Kory lifted her knees to her chest from her position on the balcony railing. She hugged them close, trying to provide comfort to herself.

It was hard being one’s only confidant and even harder when one couldn’t remember a thing about themselves.

She tilted her chin, eyes going to the stars again; a gesture that brought her much relief and again, she didn’t have an answer why.

Her emerald eyes were searching, looking for something of importance but failing to find it.

“What’re you doing out here?”

She jerked at the voice from the doors behind her and she briefly turned her head but ultimately refused to shift more so that he could see her face.

“Uh… I just needed some air. That’s all.” She lied,

There was silence on his end; a sure fire hint to know he was analysing her, doing that detective thing of his and trying to dissect her without words or questions.

“That’s not all.” He paused and his voice grew louder, having stepped closer, “You okay?”

Kory took a deep breath, holding her arms to comfort herself, “I’m fine, Dick. You should go back inside. You need the sleep.”

More silence followed and for a moment, she thought he had truly listened to her and gone back inside, leaving her to dwell on her insecurities in peace.

That was until she felt him pull himself up onto the stone railing, sitting with one leg on either side. He was facing her, staring at the side of her face as he tried willing her to look back at him.

“Can you stop staring at me?” Kory sighed, finally meeting his gaze,

Dick shrugged, “I can… once you tell me you’re okay and you mean it.”

Kory tried to ignore the way heat rose to the back of her neck as she glimpsed at Dick’s bare chest, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifted his shoulders.

“Are any of us okay? Really?” She barked out a laugh and shook her head, “I’d say we’ve all been pretty fucked up recently.”

Dick smiled, “That’s an understatement.”

“I promise, I’m as fine as anyone else in this safe house.” Kory told him, her eyes on the hands clasped in her lap,

He fell back into that bout of silence for a long while, just breathing and looking up at the stars occasionally as well.

“You know… I’ve been having nightmares… about what happened with Trigon. But, I guess being possessed by an ancient demon can do that to you.”

Kory glanced at him, her eyes stuck to him like glue. He hadn’t really talked about what had happened to him with Trigon. He had been brief but Dick hadn’t once truly opened up about what went on in his mind whilst Trigon was in the driver’s seat.

He was staring out across the field surrounding their safe house and it reminded her so much of the first time he had unknowingly opened up to her at that crappy motel, or at least; he had started to open up before he realized it and clammed up again.

“It was so real. All of it.” Dick pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and shook his head, “I had so many memories of that life and yet… I’d only been in it for an hour. There were good points of it… like Rachel and Gar being at college, like normal kids.”

Kory quirked a small smile at that; the idea of those two living a life away from the craziness they’d had to endure so far.

“But… beyond that, I had this life that… I didn’t actually want. Bruce was… unhinged. I haven’t always agreed with his way of doing things but… he was a cold blooded murderer in that world. Despite everything, he isn’t that.”

She nodded her head a little, her eyes shifting between him and the stone of the railing they were both perched upon.

“And then there was you.”

Her head snapped up to find his intense gaze on her now, a hesitant vibe flowing off of him. She gulped and lowered her chin slightly, as if prompting him to tell her.

“You were… a cop.” Dick snorted, earning a dual smirk from Kory.

“What?” She asked,

He grinned, “I was confused and surprised too.”

“Why a cop?”

Dick shrugged, “I suppose Trigon didn’t have enough memories of you to know exactly where to place you in the dream world… so a partner of sorts was what he settled for.”

Kory felt her heart flutter but tried to ignore the implication that she meant something to him; enough to have a prominent part in the nightmare Trigon had played out for him. She refused to let that thought enter her mind. It was still very early days and the pair of them were still way off having that talk. At least, she felt they were. She couldn’t speak for him.

But, she still had a lot to figure out by herself before she was going to consider any kind of romance with the man sat in front of her.

“But, you were still you. It’s what made it hard to know what was real and what wasn’t.”

“What’d you mean?” Kory queried, tilting her head ever so slightly,

She saw his adam's apple bob in his throat as he paused, “You were still doing that thing where… you become some kind of voice of reason. There were plenty of moments in this dream life where I had the chance to go back and not fall into Trigon’s trap including you, telling me to go back and forget about saving Batman…” He shrugged, “It… was very like how you are in the real world.”

“Calling you out on your bullshit is trait of mine.” Kory lightly teased,

He raised a brow and smirked, “And the attitude was there as well. Made it extremely difficult to tell the difference.”

“I can imagine.”

“And then… Bruce killed you.”

Kory felt cold suddenly, “He what?”

“Killed you. Shot you with a freeze gun while you were getting ready to light him up but... he got you first.”

“Oh… right…” She replied, not really knowing how she was meant to feel about dying in his fake world,

“After that, I gave in to whatever darkness Trigon was trying to push on me and… I killed him.”

Kory’s brows hit her hairline, “Who?”

“Bruce.”

Her mouth fell open without realizing. She would never have thought that was what turned him into that possessed husk of a man she had stumbled across when she and Donna got over the threshold.

“Shit…” She mumbled, not knowing what else she could really say to that, “I didn’t realize what he actually did to you…”

Dick hunched his shoulders a little, his fingers laced together with the furrowed brows that were so apparent on his face most of the time; like he constantly looked troubled with the burdens of the world.

He exhaled and refused to meet her gaze, “Yeah well… I haven’t exactly been shouting it from the roof or anything.”

Kory gave him a playful smile, “Good thing too. Don’t want anyone thinking you’re batshit crazy.”

Dick lifted his chin, his cool stare meeting the fiery green of her eyes under the dim moonlight and he chuckled, the tension of his story easing and clearing. Conversation and opening up came fairly easy between the two of them. Despite not knowing one another for a terribly long time, Kory often felt an unspoken trust that had formed between them and she couldn’t understand why.

There was a… connection there and she was still trying to pinpoint what it meant.

“So…” Dick prompted after a few minutes,

Kory rolled her eyes and gave him a look which soon crumbled and she smiled at him in disbelief, “What?”

“What’s going on?”

She ran her tongue across one of the upper canine teeth in her mouth and half laughed, shaking her head. Her knee bounced up and down in rapid succession as she contemplated telling Dick the truth but there was a hesitance in her heart

Kory could sense the way he was looking at her so finally, she sighed and faced the stars.

“It’s nothing, I just… everything with Trigon and what we found out about me at that warehouse… it’s just a lot is all…”

He remained quiet, waiting for her to continue since he assumed she wasn’t quite explaining everything.

She shrugged and chewed on her bottom lip, “I keep wondering… if I’m ever gonna remember everything about myself.”

“Your memories have started coming back in the last couple weeks… that’s a good sign, Kory.”

Frowning, Kory looked at him, “It’s not enough, Dick. I only know pieces about my past and myself… I just…”

“It’s frustrating.” He surmised,

Kory sighed, “More than anyone seems to understand. I came out here to try and prompt some memories of my planet but…” She dropped her chin, eyes on her lap, “Nothing.”

Dick’s brows knitted together in sympathy; he could only imagine how surreal it would be to not remember anything from an entire lifetime.

“We’ll find the answers, Kory. I promise. We’ll all help you.”

She took a deep breath and shook her head, “How? I don’t even know where to start so I doubt any of you will have more luck.”

He kept his mouth shut, not wanting to irritate her even more than she already was.

“Sorry… I just… I’m tired of not knowing anything.” Kory murmured, playing with the gold ring around her finger,

Dick nodded, “We’ll figure it out.”

Kory didn’t share the same level of hope Dick seemed to. She felt like she was at a dead end and that her answers wouldn’t be found by spending more time on Earth.

“Dick… I think… at some point, Earth won’t give me any more answers. I think I might have to figure out the way that ship works and go back. I think I’ll need to go home to Tamaran.”

He felt a cold, sinking stone in his stomach. He’d been afraid she would say that. It made sense, of course, but he didn’t think he was quite ready to say goodbye to her just yet. Having her around felt right; the four of them had been together since this all began with Rachel finding him first.

Sure, they had more people around them now but still… he needed Kory with him and so did Rachel and Gar.

“Yeah… I thought you might say that.”

She gently nudged his knee with her own and he looked up to see her smiling at him slightly, “But… that won’t be for a while. Like you said… memories are coming back… just slowly. Might as well stick around for now.” She paused and her lips curved into a smirk, “Sides… you’re all growing on me. Can’t go just yet.”

Dick smiled at her, the ache of his heart ebbing ever so slightly.

#Titans #dickkory #dickkoryweek2019 #dickkory week 2019 #dick grayson #koriand'r #dc comics #fanfiction #oneshot #first time writing them and it was interesting to say the least #nightglider124

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kiara-carrera · 5 years ago

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mere monstrosity

pairing: sweet pea x brooke holliday warnings: mentions of blood and gore, minor character death word count: 4,890 author’s note: for the southside archive’s weekly au ‘werewolf’. very loosely based off the 2011 red riding hood movie, as well as that one episode of tw set in france. but like, very barely. like the aesthetic is there, not much more. also reggie exudes some major gaston energy, but that’s unrelated. a part two to this will come eventually if i can find enough inspo and if people like it enough!

read on ao3 or continue on under the cut!

Everyone in the village of Riverdale has heard the tales.

The story of the wolves and the man. A story — the telling of a nightmare, really — of men who could transform in the light of the moon. Stories of beastly creatures that walk silently and discreetly among them in the daylight, but who become something entirely different at night.

Some say it’s only under the light of the full moon, some believe it to be at will. The ones said to bend a will are always more terrifying because there’s an added element of surprise, no planning that can be done. But all the same, the stories are always tales of horror, never heartwarming. Stories of unearthly creatures never are. It’s always about the beast murdering and hunting and then being hunted right back. Man is always made to be the victor, vanquishing the beast back to the hell it came from.

They go by many names, every iteration having a different title. Shapeshifter. Lycanthrope. Wolf-man. Beasts. Half breeds. But most of the storytellers in Riverdale had taken to calling them one thing and one thing only: monsters.

Each and every tale, while following different paths, all have the same patterns when you looked past the gory details and frightening endings. A man, a wolf, a moon. The darkest of nights come to bring the darkest of creatures. A man and a wolf, one and the same. Flesh by day, fur by night. The sharpest teeth imaginable, maw slick with the blood of its victim. Claws as pointed as blades, a way to rip through chest cavities to the beating hearts of the pure and for leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. A man, a wolf, a murderer.

Some perceive these creatures to be the work of the Devil, embedding demonic entities into poor, unfortunate souls. Other believe it to be the work of witchcraft, curses placed upon those who made enemies of the old crones. Most just see it for what they think all tales like these are — fiction.

Because everything can be fiction until it happens, right?

That’s what the people of Riverdale used to believe. Their land has always always been peaceful. Quiet. Safe. Nothing bad ever happens in the village situated along the river and the thick groves of trees known as Fox Forest. Children are free to roam the forests without fear of danger. Nights hang over the village, the sky inky black canvases dotted with crystalline stars, and all they are followed by is the rise of the sun. The night doesn’t bring fear, no more than the day does.

And then the deaths began.

The first victim that death claims is none other than Jason Blossom, the son of an affluent family. The Blossoms have lived in the northern part of Riverdale for years, the stories detailing that it’s their ancestors who settled the village to begin with. But while Great Grandfather Blossom achieved a memory linked with the settlement, his descendant finds a legacy enriched with darkness.

Jason came into the world with his twin sister and had left alone, found at the banks of the river, just outside the tree line. His chest had been torn open, face mangled and body nearly unrecognizable. He was in pieces when they found him, or so the rumor goes. His heart was missing and a trail of blood scattered off in tracks amongst the once virgin snow.

Tracks that suspiciously resembled wolf tracks. Tracks that resemble the paws of a wolf that trail off into the snow, less thick with Blossom blood the further they lead away from the body. Tracks that, eventually, morph into footprints.

Human footprints.

Fiction and reality seem to blur when this detail comes to light. And yet, all the same, fiction and reality seem to be separated in the minds of the villagers.

The village was sent up into an uproar with the death of the Blossom boy, villagers crying out about the animal attack that had to have taken place. For it had to be an animal, nothing more and nothing less. That’s how it always starts with these stories. A man, a wolf, a moon, a death. Animal attack. That’s what they’ll always call it. The superstitious will try to make the people see past the obvious answer that an animal is the cause, but no one ever believes them.

Because again, everything is fictional until it’s not.

The authority of the village puts out a search for an animal that supposedly took Jason’s life. They round up a few of the strongest boys in the village, the ones not too sickly and frail to hunt the beast. The sons of the families Mantle, Mason, and Clayton enter the woods with nothing but a vague idea of what they’re hunting and a belly full of fire and revenge at the thought of their fallen comrade. It takes two days, a group situated in the thick of the forest with weapons before they return dragging the carcass of a wolf as if it’s some sort of prize.

Weeks go by. Jason is buried. He’s buried in the cemetery that’s behind the Church, Father Solomon blessing his spirit to find peace. His sister, a pretty redhead named Cheryl, seems to be eternally on the verge of going off the deep end, dressed in long black dresses every time she’s seen out in village. Cheryl’s probably the first who feeds into the hysteria, not believing the elders and village leaders for a minute when her brother’s death is regarded as an accident.

She doesn’t say the words, but people can tell what she’s thinking most days. On good days, she’ll be silent in her suffering. On the bad days, her curls have sprigs of monkshood — wolfsbane — woven into them, toxically beautiful plants obtained from her mother’s garden. No one asks her why wolfsbane — they know. She believes the old wives tales, the horror stories. People call Cheryl crazy and parents warn their children to avoid her.

She’s not crazy. She’s not. They just don’t have reason to believe otherwise yet.

And then death claims another. Dilton Doiley, a scrawny boy at the top of his class at the local schoolhouse, is found deeper in the forest, hundreds of feet from where Jason was found. The scene is almost identical to when they found Jason. Chest ripped open, covered in blood, left to rot amongst the rows of maples. Wolf tracks. Human tracks. One and the same. A man, a wolf, a death. He’s buried and it’s like repeating the same brutal history.

Except … except Dilton’s death comes far more unexpected than Jason’s did. Jason was thought to be a freak accident. But Dilton’s passing slaps the village in the face, for they believed they vanquished the beast. Suddenly, the carcass that Reginald Mantle toted into the village’s center is nothing more than a mere animal killed in vain. Suddenly, another mother has lost her son.

His mother’s already used to grief, losing her husband years prior, but it’s her son that seems to do her in. She spirals and suddenly Cheryl’s not the grieving madwoman of the village anymore. Old Mrs. Doiley will scream her suspicions at anyone who will listen. She theorizes and points fingers, shunning people she believes responsible and demanding justice for her son. The elders of the village, ones whose ancestry stems from the wicked village across the river whisper how it reminds them of the stories of witch trials that once occurred many, many years ago.

She points fingers and she wails most days and it’s become commonplace in the village for her to do so. The only one who doesn’t seem to watch her with ridicule or fear is Cheryl. The village now has two firm believers in the stories that the elders used to tell to scare the children into obeying their parents. Two believers and a village of people clinging onto a reality that unravels more and more as the snow falls over the land.

The longer the winter rages on, the longer the list of victims become. The bodies pile up, the time between deaths ranging anywhere from weeks to mere hours between corpses being found. Corpses that were once people now just become names and little wooden crosses embedded above graves. They become stories to their friends and families. They become warnings to little kids, proof that you cannot go out safely anymore. And eventually, they just become afterthoughts.

Ben Button, a tall and gangly blonde who was a little odd, but meant well. Little knew him, so little mourn him. The few friends he did have will raise a glass to him and then try to move on.

Midge Klump, an angelic beauty who’s death seemed to rock the village to its core. Her passing sees a lengthy farewell, a long drawn out day of sobs to accompany rivers of tears.

A drifter named Kurtz, who had been once accused of robbing the apothecary and offering strange elixirs to adolescents. His death is almost rejoiced, although done in secret. He receives a burial as a means of disposing the body. There is no funeral, there is no grave marker, there is no one to remember him.

Joseph Svenson, who had once been regarded as the village degenerate. He lost his family when he was younger and never married, so there’s no one present when he’s buried.

By this point, the village is in shambles. No one goes out after dark. No one steps near or beyond the tree line of Fox Forest if they can help it, no longer believing the deity they once prayed to in order to keep them safe. For if the gods could create such a monster, how could they be trusted with prayers?

Father Solomon, bless his heart, tries to instill faith in the villagers, to keep their connections to their god strong in these troubling times. Some turn to religion, as people in chaos always do, but the deaths continue anyways. There is no god that can save them now.

Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Third begins his conspiracy novel for the sake of having something to do. He sits in the dark corners of the local pub, fingers stained black from his inkwell, surrounded by stacks of filled pages. No one knows if he’s truly a believer or if he’s just looking for a story to tell, but there isn’t a single person who questions why he insists on documenting this part of Riverdale’s twisted existence. He spends most of his time at the pub or down in the southern area of the village, his home, discussing the old tales with elders like Thomas Topaz.

No one calls him crazy. And no one calls Cheryl crazy anymore or even little Old Mrs. Doiley. In Riverdale, no one’s crazy anymore.

They’re just afraid.

Everyone’s afraid and the madness seeps into the village easily and it’s clear as day on everyone’s face. No one knows what to believe, no one knows where to put their faith, and everyone goes to sleep at night surrounded by unease. Some try to act like everything’s normal, like the village suddenly has a wolf problem. As if there’s something in the water making them crazed.

Most try to live their lives, but it’s hard. There are children to think about. Livelihoods. Some wonder if the village will make it to spring or if…whatever’s hunting them will pick them off one by one before silver snows can melt into flower buds and greenery.

Brooke Holliday just tries to keep living, day by day. She gets up and ties back her hair and puts on her dresses and tries to pretend that her village hasn’t fallen into a rut of hysteria. She doesn’t voice her opinions on the death and no one bothers to ask.

There’s something…different in the way Brooke operates under all of this chaos. She goes about her days, not feeding into the fear that people have but also not discounting how they’re feeling. Somewhere, embedded deep within the pages of Forsythe’s novel, there’s a mention as to how the blonde carries herself throughout this. More than a footnote, shorter than a chapter. He watches her carefully, never too long to dive deeper into what’s different about her during these dark times, but enough to notice. She’s different, calm but on edge at the same time…almost as if she knows more than she lets on.

He chalks this up to the fact that she hears everything. Not because she’s a good listener, but because she’s employed under old man Tate at the local pub, the same one where she can see her friend add another twenty pages to his manuscript over the course of days, not knowing she’s mentioned among his pages. The same pub where she hears family men bemoan about keeping their wives and children safe. The same one where she can hear some boasting arrogantly that they’d take down the beast one-handed if they came across it.

Reginald Mantle, the same Mantle who took the life of the wrong animal, falls into that last category. He’s always been a bit of a loose cannon. Devilishly handsome, well built, and from a respected family from the northern part of the village, he’s the kind of good stock that Brooke assumes she’s expected to be interested in. Even more so now that’s he’s begun to spout his tales of would-be heroics. Frankly, she just thinks he’s full of it.

Tonight is no different as she brings him and his companions another round of steins filled to the brim with amber liquid. Mantle’s been here for over an hour, prattling on to anyone who will listen. His dimwitted companions hang onto his every word and the few girls in the village who are of age and not in a courtship seem to flock to wherever the dark-haired man goes.

“Wherever this beast is,” Reginald begins to boast, a smug expression on his face as not one, but two — deeply misguided, Brooke assumes — maidens fawn over him. “I will find him and his head will have a place above my fireplace. A story to tell my grandchildren.”

Brooke tries her hardest not to roll her eyes. She figures that he got lucky during the last outing into the woods. Try that again and he’d probably ended up maimed or worse. She sets down the drinks, before wiping her hands on the apron tied around her waist.

“You’d do well not to go in the forest looking for a fight you could potentially lose, Reginald,” Brooke quips. “Wouldn’t want that pretty little face of yours to be ruined.”

The two women dangling off Reginald’s arms glare up at Brooke, while most of his companions burst into laughter at the anger blooming on their friend’s face. He wears the kind of expression he dons when he expects his opponent to back down, bow out. But Brooke’s known him since childhood and frankly, she’s never been one to be afraid of the self-proclaimed Mantle the Magnificent.

“Laugh all you want,” he sneers at her. She wants to interject that his friends are actually the ones laughing, but she bites her tongue. “But it will be an entirely different story, Miss Holliday, when that beast comes for you next and you need a rescue.”

Rescue? From him? She’d sooner want to be the wolf’s next meal. “You mistake for a damsel and that’s your first mistake, Reginald,” she tells him, before drifting away to another table that needs drinks.

Brooke keeps her head high, not caring that she can most definitely hear the sneers that Mantle throws her way under his breath. She pays little mind to the opinions of oafs like him. Once upon a time, Reginald had been tolerable. But over the course of this bloody winter, things in Riverdale have changed.

She figures it’s only natural for something like this to change people. In a way, it makes sense. Once deaths like this occur, with so much superstitious lore filling the blank spaces in between, it’s only natural that people’s true colors would spill out over the page. Reginald’s always felt that he had something to prove. It only makes sense he’d choose now to be the time to do it.

The doors to the pub burst open, winter winds whipping through the bar easily, flakes of fresh snow drifting in as well. Everyone’s eyes seem to fall on the group slipping in out of the cold and Brooke can feel her heart pick up as she sees who’s made themselves known.

It’s a group of men, the ages of them ranging from young to old, who hail from the southernmost tips of the village. For years, even before the hysteria that started with Jason Blossom’s death, the southern villagers have always been detested by the northern residents. No one’s exactly sure why it happened this way, but it’s always been the unspoken way of the land.

At the schoolhouse, the rooms were divided. At the church, they sat in different rows. The children were warned against playing together once they started to reach certain ages and most young companionships faded out by certain ages. Northern men are taught to turn their noses up to southern women. Northern maidens were always warned against the men of the south. Crossing over lines like that would be blasphemous to most and it’s gotten to the point where there’s a clear divide in the village. But old man Tate’s pub has always been common ground between the north and south and that’s where the trouble for Brooke always seemed to begin.

Trouble, all six foot three of it, that had just walked into the bar.

His name is Nathan, but he’s known amongst his friends by the nickname of Sweet Pea. His hands rub together feverishly, trying to bring quick warmth to the near frozen digits. He trails behind his friends, but he moves slowly, eyes scanning the bar until he lands on the blonde barmaid. And almost as she couldn’t help it, her eyes lock with his.

Brooke swallows thickly as she watches him from across the bar, hand still gripping the drink she had brought to the table beside her. Her heart feels like it’s running a race alongside the fastest horses and she knows her cheeks are warming with a blush as a ghost of a smile carves across his lips. An almost imperceptible nod is thrown her way before he licks his lips.

Almost instinctively, she’s pulled into a daydream, hidden memories playing out in her mind for her almost tauntingly. She can still feel his hands gripping her hips through the layers of her dress, can feel the way his lips slot against hers as if they were made to be together. Her hands in his hair, his rucking up her skirt. Whispered sweet nothings, hush filthy phrases in her ear. Kisses down her collarbone, devilish lips sucking purples and reds into her milky skin. Dark corners, the back room of the bar after closing, the shed behind her house, anywhere that no one’s likely to intrude upon.

Him, all of him, just for her. For all the moments they share, she is his and he is hers and nothing can take that away from her until it’s over. Her mind is a filthy place as she watches him cross the bar and slip in beside Forsythe and his other companion, sweat-slick nights of passion playing over and over again until she’s certain her grip on the beer stein will shatter the glass.

Her blush darkens by the second as she finally turns away from his gaze, knowing he’s most likely chuckling to himself as she makes her way back behind the counter where some men sit. She’s fighting a growing grin that wants to cover her lips, the same grin she has any time he’s near. Her memories dance across her mind, taunting and teasing when she feels a familiar heat pulsing inside of her at the thought of them. Under the layers of her skirt, her thighs press together a little tighter.

It’s sinful, what they have. Countless nights together, nothing between them but skin and sweat and heat. Sinful. Forbidden. It’s secret, what they have. She’s expected to marry someone from the northern edge of the village and he’s expected to stay away from her. If anyone were to find out that they were together, that he had deflowered her…Brooke doesn’t even want to know the consequences of that.

So, what they have is secret. Forbidden. Sinful. Delicious. Heart racing. Love. Brooke loves him and Nathan loves her and one day they’ll be together. One day, they’ll leave this all behind. That’s her fantasy. That’s her dream. That’s their future. But for now, it’s late-night trysts and hushed confessions of love in the darkest of corners. For them, that’s perfect. It’s perfect.

But like all love stories, soon it will be threatened. Compromised.

For there’s a secret that they share that’s far more dangerous than sex and love. A secret about him, his friends, one he entrusted her with the day he declared her love. One that frightened her, but not because she was afraid of him. Because she was afraid for him. Afraid for what this hysteria meant for him.

A man, a wolf, a moon. This is how it starts. Man hails from a pack with a long lineage of shifting. Man and pack do not hunt humans, do not threaten the ways of nature, merely only serving to protect. Protect against the feral ones, the packless, the murderers. Man falls in love with a beautiful girl. Full moons come and go, murders start. This is the end of all things for them.

The end begins now.

The doors burst open to the bar again, but this time, there is no joyful laughter or hands rubbed together to gain back warmth. There’s only gargled shouts, crimson blood dripping on the hardwood floor that tracks in from the snow. There’s only Archibald Andrews clutching his chest tightly, blood seeping through his fingers. There’s only Andrews calling for help through a mouthful of blood with horror in his eyes.

“Andrews!”

The shout comes from Reginald, who’s up in an instant and sprinting to his side. His friends follow closely behind and soon the redheaded Andrews man is being lowered to the ground as everyone’s sent into a panic. It’s almost nightfall, that much can be gleaned from the still open door. Nightfall. Monsters always come out at nightfall.

Brooke moves across the bar in a flurry, carrying multiple rags behind the counter. She’s on her knees beside Archibald within seconds, shoving his hands out of the way and pressing the clean rags against his wound. It’s large, covering the left side of his chest, in the shape of claw marks. Her heart drops at that, but she tries to focus on anything else while someone sprints out of the bar and down the road towards the village healer’s home.

Staunch the blood flow, staunch the blood flow, she tells herself. He can be bandaged later. Her hands are shaking as she presses down even harder.

She seems to be the only one focused on the blood.

“Who did this?” Reginald snaps at Archibald, eyes alight with fury. “What happened?”

Brooke’s eyes narrow in a glare as she turns her head up to look at him while still pressing down on the blood flow. Her hands are stained crimson and so is her dress, but all she can think about is how insensitive Mantle’s being. “Reginald, he—”

Archibald murmurs something then. The crowd huddled around them falls silent, every set of eyes flickering down the boy who might not make it through the night.

“Arch?” Brooke mumbles, his childhood nickname falling off her lips. “What…what did you say?”

This time, he murmurs louder. His voice is hoarse and his eyes are fighting to stay open, but he looks directly at her when he says it. “M…Monster. Men turning to w…wolves…back to men…”

And there it is. The big grand reveal. Brooke feels her heart stop at that moment. They say the truth will set you free, but all she can feel in that moment is the crushing fear that stems from this coming out. Wolves and man, one and the same. Wolves and man, responsible for the many murders that have haunted their village over the course of a frigid winter. Jason, Dilton, Ben, Midge, Kurtz, Svenson. All fell to the hand — claw — of the beast, the shapeshifter, the werewolf.

The monster.

She can hear every story the elders have ever told, can see the wolfsbane woven in the Blossom girl’s hair, can feel the grief that radiates off of Old Mrs. Doiley. For everyone in Riverdale has heard the tales.

Including Reginald Mantle.

Fury licks across his features, dark eyes almost turning black in rage as Andrews’ confession sinks in for him. Monster. It’s the only echoing in his mind as anger burns through him. A monster, in his village, killing his friends and people.

“I knew it!” he sneers, getting to his feet faster than Brooke was aware anyone could move. His foot kicks out, sending a chair sailing across the room. “I knew the second that Blossom died it wasn’t just some ordinary wolf. There’s some fucked up creature running around our village killing people!”

It’s a bold claim he’s making, Brooke notes, saying that he knew. He was one of the ones who went into Fox Forest after Jason died looking for a wolf, an ordinary wolf. But Reginald, he always has to appear ten steps ahead because he has something to prove.

“This ends now,” he thunders, hand tossing out to gesture at where Archibald’s barely clinging to life. “These monsters already killed enough of us and tonight they tried to take Andrews too. But I say no more. No more death. No more monsters!”

He’s met with a round of cheers, mostly from older northern men and his friends. No one notices the way that the table of men who just entered the bar not too long before Archie say nothing. Forsythe watches with cold, calculating eyes. Nathan watches with a blank expression, arms crossed. But that’s overpowered by the way of the ones following Reginald’s lead.

Anger seems to flare through the bar like a stroke of lightning, men angrily scowling and clenching their fists. Archibald’s blood flow seems to be slowing down a bit and it’s that fact that lets Brooke focus more on what’s happening around her. With so few words, Reginald has seemed to instill fury into those around her. A domino effect of anger, fear of the creature turning into the need to destroy what’s different.

“What should we do?” Mason asks, narrowed eyes turning to Reginald. Other’s follow suit, people looking to Mantle as if his word is law.

For a moment, Mantle says nothing, deep in thought. And then all at once, it seems to come to him. His eyes narrow. Clambering up onto a table, raising his fist in the air, Reginald shouts. “I say we kill the beast!"

He’s met by more cheers. A mob seems to be forming, for there is a beast on the loose. In some sense, it only makes sense for the wolf to be hunted. It’s caused chaos and strife and pain and grief and it needs to end. This winter cannot go on with so much red staining the white snow. People will not be able to live if they are afraid.

Fear is a powerful thing. It makes people do stupid things or it can make them do horrible things. Riverdale is a village that’s filled with so much fear. So what stupid or horrible thing will they do with it?

Brooke has an idea of how it will go, thoughts fueled by everything she’s ever known from stories. The tales always go the same way, follow the same structures and patterns. The death comes first, it always comes first. But then the full moon rises again and the people, they’re ready now. Ready to face their fears and the monsters. The beast is discovered. The beast is killed. But what happens when there’s more than one wolf and only one is a monster? What then becomes of the wolf who does nothing more than protect his loved ones?

Across the bar, through crowds of angry men, Brooke’s eyes lock with Sweet Pea’s. This time, there’s no sexual charged daydreams. There’s only fear.

Fear for him. It blossoms in her chest, sprouting from the seedlings of fear she carried for him every day. It’s sad to say, but it’s almost as if Brooke’s been waiting for this to happen.

For this is how it starts. A man, a wolf, a moon. A list of murders not at his hand or his pack, but ones that will surely be placed upon them if they’re discovered.

A man, a wolf, a moon. The woman who loves him and a village full of men who wish to destroy him.

#weekly discord au #werewolf!sweet pea #sweet pea x oc #sweet pea fic #brooke holliday x sweet pea #sweetbrooke #tw blood #tw character death #riverdale fic #riverdale au #amanda's moodboards #my edits #amanda's fics

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luninosity · 5 years ago

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For @thebestpersonherelovesbucky: here’s the full text of the fake film review I wrote yesterday, for Steadfast...

Steadfast Combines History and Heart Into Triumph

Jillian Poe’s latest directorial effort, Steadfast is at once familiar and unfamiliar: a Regency romance set against the Napoleonic War, full of ballroom scenes and lavish costumes, crackling with politics and passion. It’s (extremely) loosely based on the 1940s novel of the same name, which in turn was based on the historical Will Crawford’s surviving letters and notes, and the romance is real in more than one way—assuming you haven’t been living under a rock, you’ve seen the stories about on-set melodrama: Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli hooking up, being injured, falling in love, and from all reports being blissfully happy.

Leaving the behind-the-scenes drama aside, the question is: is it a good film?

The answer is unequivocally yes.

It’s more than good. It’s a brave film, in the best ways: not only in telling a historical gay love story—and it is very, very gay; Jillian Poe and her cast don’t shy away from sex scenes—but in the raw emotion and power of the storytelling and the relationship. It’s the kind of film that gets remembered as a landmark: what good filmmaking can do. And it’s worth seeing, not only for the attention to period detail or the reminder that gay people (and black people, Indian people, and others; we see an impressively diverse London, especially among Will’s Home Office fellow recruits) have always existed in history, but for the sheer emotional experience. Steadfast is a romance, unashamedly so, and it wants you to fall in love, and you will.

The casting and the script are spot-on, to start.

Jillian Poe has her favorite stable of actors, so some familiar faces won’t be a surprise. Colby Kent, also a producer, and given co-writing credit with Ben Rogers, stars as Will Crawford—Rogers and Jillian Poe have independently confirmed that Colby did on-set rewrites, which means most of what we see is likely his. We’ve discussed Colby and the industry and uncredited script work at length back when that news broke, so here I’ll just say that Colby is a better writer than any of us realized—good at knowing and utilizing the source material, but also paring down, choosing the exact right word for each moment, giving his fellow actors dialogue that sounds effortlessly natural. Odds on a Best Adapted Screenplay award or two? Pretty high, I’d say.

Speaking of Colby Kent, he’s always been quietly excellent on screen, often underrated (that Academy Award loss to Owen Heath should’ve gone the other way, no offense to Owen, who is also generally excellent), and equally capable of adorable clumsiness or aristocratic decadence. You could argue that playing young and wealthy and vulnerable and gay is exactly in his wheelhouse and hardly a stretch, and you might be right—but you would also be wrong.

It’s an award-winning performance. It’s a master class in complex character acting. It’s compelling and dramatic and the core of the film, at least half of it, more on which later.

Will Crawford—in ill health, a natural scientist, the Regency equivalent of a rich kid and only heir to a vast estate—might have come across as weak, or naïve and fragile, or in need of rescue. And Colby Kent’s good at fragile and lovely and desperate. But Will’s also a literal genius, determined to be useful, and willing to do anything—including spycraft and affecting the tide of battle and the fate of nations—to protect the man he loves. Colby Kent never lets us forget that, and the character and the story become richer for it. He’s almost at his best in moments without dialogue—I say almost because Colby, as ever, has flawless timing when delivering lines, both the heartbreaking and the wryly sarcastic. But his eyes and expressions say so much that every close-up could be a page’s worth of emotion-filled speeches, except not, because they’re not necessary. He’ll definitely get the Academy Award nomination; if there’s any justice, he’ll also win. Though, having said that, my personal vote might go to the biggest surprise of the film, just because I was so impressed and delighted. But we’ll get to that in a minute.

The supporting cast is also superb—Leo Whyte, as Jason’s second-in-command, embodies complicated and compassionate loyalty, someone who’d follow his captain into battle and also sympathize with his captain’s difficult love, given his own socially fraught marriage to a poor Irish girl (Kate Fisher, having a marvelous time and some of the funniest lines). John Leigh gives his performance as a conflicted would-be mutineer some delicate nuance—he still admires his captain and ultimately makes a painful personal choice. Jim Whitwell epitomizes workmanlike British gentlemanly acting—though we get a hint of the dirtiness of his profession, and of his sympathy for Stephen and Will, which adds layers to his performance. And young Timothy Hayes is worth watching as Stephen’s favorite optimistic midshipman, with deft comedic timing in the midst of storms and the stalking of a French ship.

The crown jewel of the supporting cast, of course—and the shoo-in for Best Supporting Actor—is Sir Laurence Taylor, notoriously picky about taking on new projects at this point, but here fully committed to his role as Will’s father, the aging Earl of Stonebrook.

It’s easy to say that Sir Laurence is a legend, but sometimes we forget what that means. In this role, we remember. He delivers words that cut right through his on-screen son, and by extension the audience; but his anguish and grief are equally genuine: he’s a man who loved and lost his wife, who doesn’t understand his only son and heir, who clings to the need to protect the family name and estate and future, while faced with the dual truths that his son prefers men to women and in any case might die young—of illness, if not from daring the world in Regency spycraft. The Earl is awful and vicious and cruel to Will—but watching Sir Laurence stand at his son’s bedside, or come to the window and silently watch his son depart for London…those moments will make you hurt for him despite yourself, and it’s a virtuoso piece of acting.

Speaking of brilliant pieces of acting, let’s talk about that biggest (and I don’t mean just the physique, though that can’t be missed) surprise of the film: Jason Mirelli.

First, a confession: I, like quite a few people, felt some skepticism about this casting choice. That’s not to insult action films as such, and Jason Mirelli’s been a consistently reliable action-hero lead. But it’s a very different genre, and Jason’s previous filmography hasn’t, let’s say, exactly indicated much dramatic range. (Having said that, I’ll admit to unironically loving Saint Nick Steel. Is it ridiculous? Yes. Is it hilarious absurd so-bad-it’s-amazing fun? Also yes. Does it have Jason Mirelli in an artistically torn shirt chasing terrorists through a shopping mall while protecting small children and wearing a hat that makes him the reincarnated spirit of Christmas? Hell yes it does. We watch it every year.)

If you, like me, were on the fence but willing to be convinced…

I’ll say it right now: Jason Mirelli should be on that Academy Award ballot alongside Colby Kent.

He’s the other half of the heart of this film, and the second he steps down from that carriage in the opening shot, he’s commanding the narrative. He’s captured the physicality of a wartime ship’s captain, but more than that, he’s captured the layers of character. Every motion of those shoulders, those eyes, that jawline, all means something—as do the moments when he chooses not to move and be still. Take the moment when he looks at Will in the morning-after scene, which is just a look and a few beats on camera, but Jason’s able to convey Stephen’s love, and wistful frustration over their different social classes, and genuine affection, and fear about Will’s illness, and surprised joy at having someone to wake up next to. It’s a hell of a role—romance, war, leadership on a ship’s deck, the shock when Will falls gravely ill, the emotion of the ending, which I won’t spoil here—and Jason’s a revelation. He’ll have his pick of roles after this, and he’ll deserve the Oscar nod, though it’s unlikely he’ll win—the Academy likes to reward previous nominees and is notoriously skeptical of popcorn-flick pedigrees, and Jason might need to prove himself once or twice more. But he shouldn’t have to. This is enough, and it’s fantastic to watch.

Part of that epic transformation should be credited to Jillian Poe’s direction. With Steadfast, Poe demonstrates her skill as a director and her ability to handle multiple genres—she started out, you might remember, with lighter romantic-comedy fare, often also with Colby Kent—and her ability to get quality performances from her actors, every single one, every single time. I also wouldn’t be surprised at her picking up a directorial award or two; it’s an ambitious project, and also a labor of love, which shines through in each frame.

The costuming and sets are as plush and attentive to detail as you would expect from an Oscar-bait period piece that’s a Jillian Poe production—that reputation for perfection’s deserved. The score is, if not anything out of the ordinary for a Regency setting, handled with delicacy and love—the music plays into the mood of each scene unobtrusively and expertly.

Fans of the novel might have some minor critiques involving the looseness of the adaptation, in particular the ending, which—let me offer a minor spoiler warning, no detail, but stop reading if you want to know nothing at all—adds a final sequence that provides a happy ending for Stephen and Will. Is it book-accurate? No. But I called Steadfast a brave film earlier in this review, and this ending is an act of courage: imagining a happy ending for gay men in history, demanding that their love story end well and with joy. (And Colby Kent personally met with the novel’s famously reclusive author, so for all you purists, this change was made with permission.)

Those stories matter. Steadfast as a film matters. Go see it. Fall in love.

#character bleed #i write fic for my fic #meta #headcanon #extras #thebestpersonherelovesbucky #esaael #turtletotem #nocturymiszczu #ahnjunae-blog #who am i forgetting to tag

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dustedmagazine · 5 years ago

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Dust Volume Five, Number 10

The Hammered Hulls

Time again for a load of short, mostly positive reviews of records that caught our attention at least for a little while. This edition is typically wide ranging with free jazz, teen garage pop, piano experiments, acoustic guitar picking and goth-y post punk all jockeying for your ear. It’s not just obscurities this time around either, as Ian Mathers looks for the solid core of the National’s over-long latest, while Jen Kelly makes peace with the Futureheads. Participants besides these two include Bill Meyer, Andrew Forell, Nate Knaebel and Justin Cober-Lake.

CP Unit—Riding Photon Time (Eleatic Records)

Riding Photon Time by CP Unit

CP Unit, an evolving ensemble formed around saxophonist Chris Pitsiokis, exhilarates live, the sound anchored by antic, twitching, faster-than-advisable-but-nailed-anyway bass, complicated patterns of percussion and abstract slashes of guitar. Live, the music is colored rather than dominated, by the urgent, chaotic energy of the proprietor on horn. A late summer set at the Root Cellar in Greenfield, MA left me gasping. Riding Photon Time captures the same band I saw—Pitsiokis, Sam Lisabeth on guitar, Henry Fraser on bass and Jason Nazary on drums (which is different from the line-up Derek Taylor reviewed here )— in two fiery 2018 live settings. The first half of the disc was recorded at the Moers Festival in Germany in May, the second at the Unlimited Music Festival in November. “Once Upon a Time Called Now,” from the earlier set, captures the spare, rippling tension between Pitsiokis’ free-ranging inquiries and Nazary’s intricate but grounded rhythms; they duel for a couple of minutes before the rest of the band enters. The cut also foregrounds Fraser’s restless, rampaging bass work, carving a headlong through line in the squall and storm. “Seasick,” from the November show, gives space to Lisabeth’s guitar, lyrical in a tilted, offkilter way, the tones bouncing off Pitsiokis’ sax melody in loose conjunction and counterpoint. My only complaint is that the mix favors melody, zooming in on the sax and obscuring, somewhat, the fascinating interplay between drum and bass. In most bands, that’d be fine, but in this case, the rhythm is just too good to hide.

Jennifer Kelly

Eluvium — Pianoworks (Temporary Residence Ltd)

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Matthew Cooper has done enough things under his Eluvium moniker that even those only mildly acquainted with his work might not be surprised that he’s put out an album of solo piano compositions; they might, however, be surprised to find out that Pianoworks is the second such Eluvium album, after 2004’s An Accidental Memory in Case of Death. That record, coming after the striking (and often noisy) debut effort Lambent Material served to establish that Cooper wasn’t going to be restrained by genre, form or instrument. Here, having accomplished an awful lot over the past 15+ years it’s fitting that Cooper appears to be in a more contemplative, even melancholy mood. Whether it’s the gently rippling “Underwater Dream” or the brightly rounded runs of “Carrier 32”, Pianoworks serves as a reminder that Cooper can stop you in your tracks with the simplest of setups, if he chooses. (And for those really a fan of his piano work, the deluxe version features an extra disc of new versions of practically all the previous Eluvium piano pieces as well.)

Ian Mathers

Frieda’s Roses — Jessica Triangle (Mika)

The three women of Frieda’s Roses—that’s Greta Fannin, Ava Miller and Poppy Lang—aren’t even in high school yet; their ages range from 13 to 15. And yet, this debut album, Jessica Triangle, is a marvel of minor key garage pop, raucous and wistful at the same time. Its bristly onslaught of guitars guards a tender center. You also realize, about halfway through the album, that teen girl pop has changed since the last time you looked, and the subject matter here is rather empowered. In a very strong middle section, “Isadora Giving” chides a girl for being too accommodative (“She’s kind in the way of giving things away”), while the stand-out “Lucy Poe” celebrates the complexity and intelligence of a young woman (“She’s happy and not/at the same time.”) “Forever Defend Her Story” recounts the ordinariness of sexual assault and the way women are blamed for it. The songs are bright and dark simultaneously laying in the pretty vocals of, say, Grass Widow, atop a raucous, acerbic foundation. There’s no way you’d know, without reading the coverage, how young this band is. They sound like they’ve been doing it forever.

Jennifer Kelly

The Futureheads — Powers (Nul)

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Back at the old Dusted, I wrote perhaps my most vicious review ever about the Futureheads’ second album, News and Tributes. It was disappointment speaking — I’d genuinely liked their taut, fizzy debut — when I said, “Now, with News and Tributes, the sad truth emerges. The Futureheads were lean from hunger, not discipline. With opportunity, they tend toward the flabbiest sort of excess.” Well, 13 years have passed, and I no longer expect anything from the Futureheads. I’d forgotten they existed, to be honest, but their latest album, Powers, is kind of fun. Much of what made the debut such a pleasure—the tightly wound guitars, the unexpectedly complicated vocal counterparts, the exuberant avowal of depressing ideas—is here, too. “Electric Shock” trips all the wires (ahem) by itself, with its zingy guitar and drum cadence, its densely harmonized vocals and its celebration of an extreme form of mental health therapy (“When I got my electric shock/it knocked me off my feet”). “Jekyll” punches, stings and tantalizes, its hoarse, wracked northern lead pillowed by giddy oohs and ohs. “Can you control your transformations?” asks the singer Barry Hyde, and then the song itself transforms itself, turning into a popcorning cacophony of closely aligned vocals. Even the willfully positive, good time anthem, “Good Night Out” ripples with existential angst; it’s only a feel good song if you don’t listen too closely. And yet, there’s a great deal of joy in these tight, complicated songs. They burst into flames as you listen, leaving spots in your eyes from the brightness and the bitter taste of ash.

Jennifer Kelly

Hammered Hulls — S/T (Dischord)

S/T by Hammered Hulls

Perhaps it's a bit lazy to toss out the old "super group" appellation; but, come on, if you're even a moderate follower of that thing we call indie rock, you have to recognize the extraordinary line-up of Hammered Hulls for what it is. With DC hardcore royalty Alec MacKaye on vocals, newly minted arena rocker Mary Timony on bass, Chris Wilson of Ted Leo and the Pharmacists fame (among other outfits) on drums, and Des Demona/Pink Monkey Bird Chris Cisneros on guitar, Hammered Hulls represents an undeniably impressive assemblage of rockers. If any individual band member's musical history comes to the fore here, though, it's probably MacKaye's, as the band trades in a brawny yet cunningly complex punk that recalls the musical revelations delivered by Dischord's first blasts of post-hardcore creativity. And while this is clearly a team effort, each sonic component is worthy of the listeners attention as much as the superlative whole. Though two of the three tracks clock in at just over a minute, indicating that at least in spirit the band isn't denying its past, the practically byzantine by comparison (coming in at almost four minutes) "Written Words" hints at the potential Hammered Hulls has to be more than just a spirited one-off by some friends with impressive resumes. This single should leave everyone desperate for more.

Nate Knaebel

HTRK — Venus In Leo (Ghostly International)

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Australian duo HTRK’s latest Venus In Leo is a collection of electro-acoustic minimalism characterized by a woozy shimmer reminiscent of Mark Nelson’s work as Pan American. Jonnine Standish and Nigel Yang have stripped their music to the bare bones. A heartbeat throb, sparse percussion, occasional washes of synth and Yang’s simple guitar strums underpin Standish’s voice mixed to the fore on nine songs redolent with damaged longing. There is a rawness of emotion and acute observation of small domestic moments recorded with an intimacy that draws the listener close. Influenced by dub’s use of space, echo and silence Yang and Standish achieve a feeling of momentum to evoke quiet turmoil. Their miniaturization of Missy Elliott’s “Hit ‘Em Wit Da Hee” takes repeated lyrical snippets from the original and turns the song into a ghostly waltz. “What's up star? /We know who you are/Shit, no shit I thought you hadn't noticed.” Venus In Leo’s unadorned modesty is at times devastating.

Andrew Forell

Justin Peter Kinkel-Schuster — Take Heart, Take Care (Big Legal Mess)

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Songwriter Justin Peter Kinkel-Schuster frames his new album Take Heart, Take Care as the result of an artistic problem. He'd become used to writing dark songs, until he found he was content and had mostly good things to say. It's a false dilemma, of course. Any number of artists have built not only albums but careers on encouragement (see the War and Treaty as an example of a current act doing it really, really well). The real trap for Kinkel-Schuster was to avoid get treacly in his new mood, and he successfully avoids that snare.

His performances rely on his patience — he's content, remember, but not exuberant. He builds his songs comfortably within his context, but he doesn't jump on them. When he sings, “There's plenty of wonder in this world still to be found,” on the opener, his ease prevents it from sounding like a naïve epiphany. Kinkel-Schuster's Americana-influenced indie-rock comes carefully constructed, but only to make space for that heart to come through. It's a songwriter's record, easy melodies supported by well-balanced guitars. It's the singer not the guitars who have done their processing. The record and its bright sound create a warm space and sit down in it. Kinkel-Schuster may have found his ease, but his desire to share it quickly becomes apparent.

Justin Cober-Lake

Longriver—Of Seasons (Hullaballou)

Of Seasons by Longriver

David Longoria of Longriver picks nimbly at his guitar, plucking out porch blues-y tunes that are steeped in tradition but freshly imagined. Not quite spare, his tunes are abetted by a crew of Texas regulars, songwriters Sarah LaPuerta of Strange Paradise and Lindsey Verrill of Little Mazarn, Evan Joyce and Colin Gilmore, as well as composer/percussionist Thor Harris. Though mostly acoustic guitar and voice, his sound is filled out with harmonica, soft percussion and twining communal harmonies. His songs run at a mid-temperature folky pace, so soft spoken and unassuming enough to elide one into the other, and honestly, don’t quite catch fire until late in the album when ghostly, lovely “Texas Doesn’t Care” comes along. This one uses all the tools, an aching pedal steel guitar, some silvery electric keyboards, punchy drums and fiddle. It also contains the prettiest melody of the disc, fluttered out in a high, not quite falsetto quaver. A few more like this and Texas might sit up and take notice.

Jennifer Kelly

Lunaires — If All the Ice Melted (Shades of Sound/Wave Records)

IF ALL THE ICE MELTED by Lunaires

If All the Ice Melted is a highly polished blend of cold wave, goth and stadium synthpop. This first outing from Milan post-punk Jeunesse d’Ivoire veterans Patrizia Tranchina (vocals) and Danilo Carnevale (guitars, programming, synths) evokes the heyday of 4AD bands such as The Cocteau Twins, Xmal Deutschland and Dead Can Dance. Here, Tranchina ruminates on loss, mortality and nature’s power as Carnevale constructs dreamy electronic soundscapes with sparklingly clean guitar lines twinkling above. The results are lovely but polite. The edges have been sandpapered to nothing and the dust swept away. “Mirror Trancefix” stands out precisely because it has that grit — the drum programming a little ragged, the bass dirty, the guitars cutting. Otherwise the gloss creates an emotional distance, which may be the point but discourages complete engagement with Tranchina’s often affecting vocals. If All the Ice Melts sounds good, and if it never quite breaks out there’s enough here to enjoy and look forward to what Lunaires could do with a little less restraint.

Andrew Forell

Bill Nace & Chik White—Eel (all parts) / Wild Wire (Open Mouth)

The news that Bill Nace (Body / Head, Vampire Belt) has picked up an acoustic guitar and sat down to jam with a jaw harpist might give some cause for pause. Is he going American Primitive, or maybe going skiffle? Spoiler alert — the ghosts of John Fahey and Lonnie Donegan will not hear their names called when you play this record. But play it you will, and for only the best of reasons. First of all, it’s a seven-inch, black vinyl single, and no one buys such things anymore unless they really, really love them. But this one does more to earn your affection than merely exist. On the a-side, White’s orally organized vibrations and Nace’s persistent smacks on prepared strings stir up a constellation of buzzing sounds that’ll reliably destabilize your equilibrium without getting you fired when the Feds drop by to drop everyone on the work floor. The flip combines broad feedback ribbons with intermittent glottal eruptions to create a sonic sweat lodge experience so deep that you’ll be unloading all your Scientology machines on e-bay, all issues resolved.

Bill Meyer

The National — I Am Easy to Find (4AD)

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The National have been getting expansive recently (with the instrumentation and their runtimes, among other things), and who can blame them? Having attained the kind of big-venue prominence that means either you start lapsing into the version of yourself the hecklers always claimed you were (an especially slippery potential slope for a band like this one, so precisely emotionally calibrated and so close to being the bad kind of dad rock) or you start just going for it. The latter approach served them mostly well on Sleep Well Beast a few years ago, but this time finally feels like the kind of record that the National needed to make for their own progress more than one that’s necessarily fully successful. One absolutely successful move is the series of accompanying singers (“backing” seems almost disrespectful for what Gail Ann Dorsey and Lisa Hannigan, among others, bring to these songs), and the expanded studio palette first highlighted on Beast is still mostly working for them. There’s even a quick comparison in the form of old fan favorite “Rylan,” which still sounds great here. Ultimately what doesn’t quite settle right is just the sheer length, bulk, and discursiveness of the album, complete with accompanying film, brief interludes by the Brooklyn Youth Chorus, interpolating a Thinking Fellers Union Local 282 song into a track that was already too long and feeling that somewhere within these 63 minutes is a really killer 40 minute or so album just waiting to be carved out. Eight albums in, things could be a lot worse.

Ian Mathers

Reduction Plan — (Ae)Maeth (Redscroll Records / Dune Altar)

(Ae) Maeth by Reduction Plan

Reduction Plan swells to epic size in this sixth full-length, turning the darkwave, synth-heavy aesthetic laid out in the five previous albums into an enveloping, shimmering, near-post-metal overload. Daniel Manning, the band’s single member, worked with Swans/Walkman producer Kevin McMahon this time, a move which transformed his Cure-circa-Disintegration gloom into a weighted, gleaming edifice. “An Act of Self Immolation” sets the tone with giant masses of guitar sound that tower and lumber. Unencumbered by vocals, it’s more like Pelican than gothy-post-punk. “The River” hews closer to new wave, with its clean, chiming synth tones, gate-reverbed drums and echoey vocals — there’s a nice smouldery sax solo in this one, too — but still looms and glowers with a palpable heaviness. “Ae Maeth,” at the end, brings on Jae Matthews from Boy Harsher for added vocals, a kindred spirit in reviving music at the intersection of dance, goth and industrial; the album’s longest cut slows the thump of dance floor into a desolate cadence that can’t and won’t stave off destruction.

Jennifer Kelly

Rosenau & Sanborn — Bluebird (Psychic Hotline)

Bluebird by Rosenau & Sanborn

The house on the cover of this LP is surrounded by fallen leaves. But even though it depicts the location of this recording, and that recording took place in October, and they recorded with the windows open, the sounds inside are not particularly autumnal. Chris Rosenau’s (Collections of Colonies of Bees, Volcano Choir) is too quick and eager, Nick Sanborn’s (Sylvan Esso, Megafaun) electronics too effervescent. This music feels like the sun hitting your brow, refracted by heavy air. It feels like the first awareness of escape when you turn off the work phone and start a vacation. Or maybe it just feels like Indian summer. Put it on, put the speakers out the window, and go kick some leaves.

Bill Meyer

We Melt Chocolate — We Melt Chocolate (Annibale Records)

we melt chocolate by we melt chocolate

The reanimation of shoegaze pioneers My Bloody Valentine, Slowdive and Ride has brought renewed attention to the genre’s flourishing across Europe, the US, and Japan during their absence. Italian band We Melt Chocolate — that’s Vanessa Billi (voice and synth), Lorenzo Sbisa (guitar), Enrico Baroncelli (guitar), Marco Crowley Corvitto (bass) and Francesco Lopes (drums) — hit all the classic marks on their latest, excellently produced self-titled album. Ethereal vocals, banks of effects laden neo-psychedelic guitar, washes of synth, and a thick bottom end are all present and correct. Taking Loveless as their template, We Melt Chocolate strive for the epic and on tracks like “wishful” and “orange sky” reach it with elegance rather than sheer volume, although turning it up never hurts. We Melt Chocolate probably won’t convert non-believers, but fans of shoegaze and dream pop will find a lot to like here.

Andrew Forell

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thismoviefucks · 5 years ago

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Jaws (1975, dir. Steven Spielberg) gets a lot of credit, and rightfully so, as the first great summer blockbuster, but I think it deserves to also be known as maybe the most successful and biggest horror film perhaps ever made in the mainstream, a regard which it only shares with a few other movies (such as the Spielberg-produced Poltergeist, or maybe The Exorcist).

This is still, even after 45-odd years, a scary, scary movie; especially in the first half. I found myself tensing up in a way I don't often feel for movies, even movies which I know damn well are terrifying. The Kintner attack and its leadup, in particular, has horrified me since I was literally a child. I remember distantly seeing it on TV at my dad's place one time when I was fairly young but was still a fan of Friday the 13th (my dad is a horror junkie and showed me Jason X maybe a little early), and it was the Kintner boy's flailing helplessly in a horrific volcano of his own blood that got me way more than anything Jason Voorhees could or would ever do. In fact, prior to tonight, I saw Jaws maybe once in its entirety, if even that; I had a DVD given to me as a gift by my grandma but wouldn't dare watch the thing (even though I watched the 3-hour-long making-of documentary on the other side, which was definitely a bit slow-paced and quiet for my adolescent, ADHD-riddled brain to handle), out of fear that, I don't know, a movie would succeed at scaring me? (Which, believe me, I'm more than willing to have happen now.) So now having watched it, my observations:

This movie is a lot bloodier than I remember it being. I knew the general gore bits -- skinny dipper, Kintner boy, Duvall -- but I had no idea just how brutal they were. And this is a PG! A 1970s PG, pre-Temple of Doom and Gremlins PG, but a PG nonetheless. Fuck's sake, in pretty much every country Texas Chainsaw got either the highest rating or outright banned and it had less blood than this movie! There's an incredible shot of the severed arm of the skinny dipper from the opening sequence, all gross and covered in worms, that straight up reminds me of a shot from Hereditary (and to be perfectly honest I wouldn't be terribly shocked if Ari Aster saw a disgusting, decomposed body part framed in stark daylight and thought "Hmm..."). And, of course, special care to the shark explosion at the end, a massive geyser of Kensington gore and fish entrails that definitely enshrines the "blockbuster" nature of this movie with a theatricality and drama that would effectively define that style of filmmaking. This movie gets downright gruesome sometimes, and I love it. I really do.

And the scares here are top-notch, too. I see this movie get regarded as simply a "thriller" a lot, even by Spielberg himself, but fuck that. This is a full-throated horror film, down to its core. It's a screamfest that knows its dynamics extraordinarily well, and especially when you consider that this is Spielberg's second movie (and first theatrical release, after the TV movie Duel a few years prior) it's kind of incredible that Spielberg had the tension-release, quiet-loud cycle down so beautifully so early in his career, a style that would come to define a lot of my favorite movies of his -- Jurassic Park comes to mind immediately. This movie keeps you on the edge of your seat in perpetuity, especially when paired with the incredible score by a pre-Star Wars, post-Valley of the Dolls John Williams, with its classic, constantly-spoofed two-note ostinato that for me constantly reminds me of the harsh, pumping strings of the first dance in Stravinsky's Rite -- my brain actually keeps mixing the two together to create a sort of "Jaws of Spring" mashup -- and the gorgeous, triumphant piece at the denouement of the movie. And, of course, the cinematography is incredible. It's often said about good cinematography that you sort of don't notice it (as in, you only really notice cinematography when it's not good), but fuck that. There are some absolutely incredible shots in this movie that fully take advantage of the Panavision format it was shot in (not that I would particularly know from this watch; my 25th-anniversary VHS of this is in 4:3...), from the guy passed out on the beach after the opening attack to the infamous Vertigo shot during the Kintner sequence to the shaky first-person shots that pretty much define the movie and ended up inventing a substantial element of horror language, one that's been copied from Evil Dead to Friday the 13th to everyone else. (Although of course it's gotta be said, Halloween did it first. Which is pretty much the equivalent of "Simpsons did it" for horror tropes, eh?)

Look, if you somehow haven't seen this movie, it's really non-negotiable.

You sit in front of the TV. Jaws is on the TV. You watch Jaws. Shark's in Jaws. Our shark.

This movie fucks.

#jaws #movie review #film review

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marredbyoverlength · 6 years ago

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Year-End Awards 2018

2018 sucked personally, professionally, and politically. But hey, at least the movies sucked too!

Ok, there were plenty of good movies. But the bad vastly outnumbered the good, and the highlights weren’t especially high. Even my favorite filmmakers had weak years: Wes Anderson and the Coen brothers both put out some of their most mediocre films in 2018.

But no year is devoid of value, and damned if I won’t do my best to find it. Let’s dive into the only blog post I still do, the year-end awards.

(Honorable mentions, as always, are listed in no particular order.)

Best Lead Performance: Paul Giamatti & Kathryn Hahn, Private Life.

Giving this to two people is a cheap trick (and one I’ve used before), but this is my blog and I make the rules. Private Life is a powerful, painfully realistic film about a middle-aged couple, played by Hahn and Giamatti, going through IVF to get pregnant. Their relationship is at the core of the film; singling out one for praise would be a disservice to the other.

A film like this could easily be a one-dimensional tragedy about baby angst, but both lead actors go through a broad range of emotions that are at once inarticulable in words but instantly recognizable. The highs and lows of their journey and the stress it puts on them and their relationship come out in every expression, every movement of their bodies. This is the highest praise you can give actors: that they portray something that can’t be portrayed any other way.

Honorable Mentions: Olivia Cooke, Thoroughbreds; Joaquin Phoenix, You Were Never Really Here; Toni Collette, Hereditary; Ryan Gosling, First Man; Viola Davis, Widows; Olivia Colman, The Favourite; Emma Stone, The Favourite; Annette Bening, Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool.

Best Supporting Performance: Anton Yelchin, Thoroughbreds.

Enough has been written about this already, but Anton Yelchin could easily have become one of the greatest actors of our time had he not died such a weird and sad death. His performance in Thoroughbreds is the perfect example of why I say that.

Yelchin plays a kind of guy that everyone knows, the wannabe operator who hangs out with, and deals drugs to, kids much younger than him and feels cool for doing so. He slips perfectly into that role, but what makes it better than just a caricature is how he captures the character in the scenes where he’s out of the element he’s chosen for himself: once after two high school girls violently rob him and once at the end after he sees what one of the girls has become. He is shaken and unsure, and letting that façade drop in real time is an impressive feat of acting.

Honorable Mentions: Richard E. Grant, Can You Ever Forgive Me?; Alison Pill, Vice; Oscar Isaac, Annihilation; Jason Isaacs, The Death of Stalin.

The Costner Award for Worst Actor: No Winner

Before going into more detail, I’d like to point out that I didn’t see any Gerard Butler movies this year, so take this with a grain of salt.

There were a lot of god-awful movies this year. But all those movies are awful for reasons distinct from acting. Bruce Willis was boring in Death Wish, sure, but his character was boring. Tye Sheridan was annoying in Ready Player One, but his character was annoying. Travolta was actually pretty good in Gotti, even though the movie was a total disaster.

In fact, I can’t think of any performances this year that made me angry in the same way the Kevin Costner makes me angry. Congratulations to actors, I guess? If you know of a truly heinous performance, let me know.

Nicest Surprise: Aquaman

Aquaman is a superhero movie about a very strong, very stupid dog in the shape of Jason Momoa (just look at his dumb face!). There is also a giant octopus who plays the drums. That’s about all you need to know about Aquaman.

Honorable mentions: Mission: Impossible – Fallout; Game Night.

Most Insulting Moment: “Street Weapon,” Robin Hood.

In Robin Hood (2018), Little John (Jamie Foxx) trains a fledgling Robin (Taron Egerton) in the art of hoodery. At the completion of this training, he says to Robin, “you’re going to need a street weapon.” Then he hands Robin this:

“Patrick, is that a full-sized bow with brass knuckles tied to it?” Yes, yes it is. You know, for the streets.

Honorable Mentions: Queen Saves Live Aid, Bohemian Rhapsody; Tactical Furniture, Death Wish; Pretty much all of Ready Player One.

Winter’s Tale Memorial “What the Hell Am I Watching” Award: No Winner

I almost gave this award to Gotti, a movie so widely panned that the marketing campaign explicitly told potential viewers that critics are scum. But then a friend of mine live-blogged his first viewing of The Book of Henry, the current title-holder, and I was reminded of just how gonzo bananas a movie has to be to get this award.

Sure, Gotti is an incomprehensible failure tornado that somehow had enough money for John Travolta but apparently not enough for, you know, lighting and sound guys, but it’s not bewildering like Winter’s Tale was, or like Book of Henry was. A winner should make me ask not just “what the hell is going on” and “how the hell did this get made,” but also “why the hell would anyone want to make this?” I didn’t see anything that prompted that last question this year.

Prettiest Movie: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse

I used to give out an award for technical filmmaking, but in hindsight, I don’t know enough about filmmaking to confidently give that award. But I am an expert on the topic of “things I find visually appealing,” and since film is a visual medium (despite what the Academy would have you believe), I’m bringing the category back in this form.

Anyway, the winner is Spider-Verse, no contest. It’s the most brilliantly animated film I’ve seen in years, and easily the best-animated CGI film ever produced. In a world drowning in endless round-and-shiny Pixar clones, Spider-Verse made something entirely unique, influenced by the styles of comic books through the ages but ultimately producing something all its own. The end sequence, with manifold universes spiraling out of a black hole and bleeding into each other, will no doubt be the most impressive feat of animation for years to come.

Honorable Mentions: Mandy; Annihilation; You Were Never Really Here.

Best Picture: Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool.

After seeing this beautiful film, I resigned myself to the fact that it wouldn’t receive any Oscar buzz. I was more right than I realized: not only did it not get any nominations, it didn’t even qualify for consideration. The Academy considered this a Film Stars a 2017 movie, as it was released on a very limited run on December 29, 2017. I didn’t hear the name until I saw a trailer for it in January of this year, and I didn’t get to see it in my city until February. This is the great crime of Oscar season: everybody tries to put their stuff out as late as possible, and real gems like this one get crowded out by Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, a movie that gets worse every time I think about it.

I’m correcting this injustice. Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool is the only great movie of 2018. The script is heartbreaking, the acting is profoundly human, and the fluid cinematography masterfully blends past with present, creating a portrait of the last days in the life of Gloria Grahame (Annette Bening) in all her messy detail, seen from her own perspective as well as that of her former lover, the much younger Peter Turner (Jamie Bell). Where those perspective diverge is where the film is at its best, and those moments are easily the most moving of the year.

Honorable Mentions: Annihilation; The Death of Stalin; Private Life.

That’s it, that’s the whole post. Peace out.

#Film #Oscars #Best list #Awards #italiano

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