#just haynes feeling worse and worse

[galen-the-technomage]

comfort-watching The Bill ep where Ramsey is smashing Yorkie's gf followed by the one where Haynes is having a horrible day when he has to pick up Ramsey's stuff after he's been shot

[xneens]

wasted summer - one

series masterlist

watching jj like someone else hurts, thankfully, you finds comfort in rafe’s arms … and his bed.

Music boomed in your ears, the party in full swing as you made your way upstairs, away from the guys smoking weed and girls dancing to Kanye West. Using a guest room on the third floor, you opened the window and crawled out onto the roof. With a drink in hand, you watched partygoers jump into the Cameron's pool, observing the party from afar.

Taking a sip of the cheap vodka JJ had gotten, you glanced at the blond, a frown on your lips as you saw him sweep Kiara off her feet, jumping into the pool with her. Kiara likes JJ, that much you know is true after she had drunkenly confessed during a girl's night out. Bitterness grew inside you as you watched him respond to her subtle flirting, praying desperately he didn't return her feelings but your own.

You look away, downing the rest of the cup before throwing it off the roof in hopes of it hitting someone. Hopefully either one of them, but they were still playing in the pool. Together.

"Littering on my property? Harsh." a voice behind you murmurs as he crawls out the window, sitting beside you on the roof. Rafe grins at you, bringing the blunt to his lips.

You roll your eyes, keeping them on him instead of the heartwrenching scene below you. "Like you haven't littered at my house before. Payback."

"So vengeful ever since you started hanging out with those Pogues." Rafe chuckles, offering you a hit off his blunt. You decline it with a wave of your hand and he shrugs, taking another hit off of it.

Glancing back at JJ and Kiara, you can't help the pang in your heart as you watch them play in the pool, splashing each other with large smiles on their faces. Sighing, you look back at Rafe, suddenly wishing you'd brought a bottle of Titos with you.

Rafe arches a brow, a smirk dancing on his lips. "What're you doing up here, anyways? Shouldn't you be hanging out with the Scooby gang?"

Not wanting to be in his eyesight, you lay down on the roof, staring at the night sky, the lights from the party polluting the starry sky. "I needed a break."

"From those dirty Pogues?"

You smack his arm, causing the blond to burst out laughing. "Stop bullying my friends."

"Bullying works," replied Rafe, shifting to mirror your position. He groans softly as he lays back on the roof. "Remember Agatha Haynes? She no longer smokes fifty cigarettes a day after you called her Hagatha."

A snort escapes your lips before you can stop it. You shake your head. "God, I was a bitch."

"You still are." Rafe dodges another smack, a teasing grin slapped across his face. "Still the spoiled, snobby, selfish girl you were. You're just better at hiding it now."

"Oh, and the hits just keep coming." You groan out dramatically, smiling back at him. "I'll have you know that I am very empathetic and care about other people's feelings.”

The blond shakes his head, taking a hit from his blunt. "Is that why you're hiding out from your gang of mutts? Because you care about them so much you don't want them to know you're suffering in silence?"

"I wish you'd suffer in silence."

"Woah, don't violate the thirteenth-year truce," Rafe replies, drawing out a reluctant smile from you.

Rafe was ... Rafe. Born with a golden spoon in his mouth, acted like every rich kid from Figure 8, only worse, and knew how to get his way. The only fight the blond had lost was to a coked-out tourist to who Rafe ironically sold the coke.

Most people didn't see that he could be nice when he wanted to. You always held it above everyone that Rafe Cameron had a soft spot for you, even if it only came from being his little sister's best friend. Still, it was nice to be one of the few people not to be on the receiving side of his hostility, a side Sarah was constantly on.

It was a weird friendship built on a truce made by four and six-year-olds. During your fourth birthday party, Rafe had gifted you with a promise to never be the cause of your tears and you promised to never cut holes in his tighty whities again.

After a few minutes of silence, Rafe turns his head to look at you, exhaling out smoke. "Seriously, though, why are you hiding?"

"Not hiding, taking a break." You correct him, refusing to meet his eyes. He wasn't completely wrong, you were hiding from your friends, specifically two of them.

"That's such bullshit." scoffs the man next to you, rolling his eyes at your words. "Tell me."

You groan, covering your face with your hands in hopes of hiding your embarrassment from him. "No. It's nothing."

"Tell me."

"Stop being nosy."

Rafe snickers, putting his blunt out before grabbing your hands and pulling them away from your face gently. Eyes filled with serenity, a sight only you and Wheezie ever got to see. "Tell me, you know I won't tell anyone."

Your playful pout makes his grin widen. "You'll make fun of me."

"Me? After our truce?" asks Rafe, throwing his head back in laughter. "Never."

After contemplating whether to lie to his face, you sigh, rubbing your temples. It couldn't hurt to tell him, it's not as if he ever told anyone stuff you've told him before. "Kiara likes JJ. And ... I think he likes her back."

An awkward moment of silence hangs in the air before Rafe inhales sharply. "Oh. I didn't realize you wanted to fuck the help."

"Rafe." your tone made him throw his hands up in surrender. Staring back up at the sky, you scrunched your nose. "I kind of like him. It just sucks a little seeing them so touchy with each other and flirting in my face. If they become official, then I'll literally be the only person in the friend group without anyone. I'll be a seventh wheel and that's so fucking pathetic."

"You're getting ahead of yourself," says Rafe, scoffing. "My sister found someone who puts up with her shit, you'll have an easier chance finding a boyfriend. If you don't like anyone, I'll volunteer."

You can't help but roll your eyes at his not-so-comforting words. "Thanks. You really know how to make a girl feel better."

The blond chortled, sitting up. "I'm serious. Anyone who isn't blind can see you're clearly much better than those idiots you hang around. The girls you hung out with were annoying as hell but at least they were better than those group of Pogues."

"How very Kook of you to say," you mutter back, not taking Rafe's words earnestly. Shifting, you sit up, eyes flickering back to the pool, immediately spotting Sarah and John B., Pope and Cleo, and JJ and Kiara still playing with each other. "I don't know, they probably don't care I'm not with them right now."

You could feel Rafe's eyes burning a hole in your face, his lack of insults to throw at your friends making you uncomfortable. Anything was better than silence when it came to Rafe. Silence meant he was thinking and you almost always never liked what he was thinking of.

He stands up before holding his hand out, gesturing for you to take it. "Come on, let's get you something to drink. It'll cheer you up."

You immediately take his hand, standing up. "Don't need to convince me."

"None of that cheap shit you've been drinking. My dad has some expensive whiskey he keeps in his study." Rafe adds, climbing back through the window with you right behind him. He doesn't let go of your hand, even after you climb back inside.

Rafe leads you through the swarm of people in the hall, heading towards the second floor for his dad's office. He pushes a guy away from the door, unlocking it and holding it open for you to enter. You step across the threshold, glancing around Ward's office as Rafe shuts the door behind him.

You'd been in Ward's office a handful of times, most times with Sarah and one time with Ward himself when you had skinned your knee riding a bike and he bandaged it up. Being inside the warm-lit room with Rafe felt strange and slightly tense.

Plopping down on the big leather couch, you watch Rafe walk towards the desk, raiding his father's desk drawer until he finds the big bottle of GlenDronach. He grabs two glasses, sitting down beside you as he pours the amber liquid.

You scrunch your nose at the smell. "God, I can smell the hangover."

Rafe smirks, pouring too much into both of the glasses, capping the bottle back up. "Nah, if anything this will help you sleep. It goes down smooth."

You take the glass from Rafe, wincing at the strong musk of the whiskey before downing half the bottle like a shot, immediately coughing after swallowing it down. Rafe's brows furrowed as he watched you slam the half-filled glass down on the coffee table, exasperated. "That did not go down smooth."

"It's sipping whiskey, you don't drink it like a shot of vodka." the blond clarifies, judgment and confusion in his tone. "Who the hell takes a shot of whiskey?"

Glaring at him, you cough out the burning in your throat. "Get me a Sprite, motherfucker."

An amused smirk dances on his lips as he stands up and opens Ward's mini fridge, pulling out a cold can of Sprite. He opens it before handing it to you, sitting back down. "I just witnessed a crime."

You gurgle half the can, soothing your burning throat before glaring at him. "I don't like the taste of alcohol, I just drink it to get drunk. Besides, people who actually enjoy the taste are psychopaths."

"You never miss the chance to tell me I am," Rafe replies, grinning as he takes a more moderate sip of his whiskey. He makes an approving expression, swirling the liquid around the glass.

"You can have mine. I hate it." You push the glass in front of Rafe, leaning back on the couch. Rafe sipped his glass of single malt whiskey while you drank a can of Sprite. "Worse thing I've swallowed. And there's competition."

Rafe makes a face at that, shaking his head. "Please, no details of how the help was in your mouth."

Smacking his arm caused a drop of his whiskey to spill over the side. "Stop calling my friends the help, you snarky asshole."

The blond gives you a look, setting his glass back down on the table. "Maybank helped me carry my golf clubs at the club last week. I can't think of a better title for him. It's in the name."

You roll your eyes, downing the rest of your drink. Rafe could carry his own golf clubs so you knew he sought out JJ's help specifically to taunt and mock him. "If I get the lifeguard job, are you gonna start calling me the help?"

His eyes softened slightly, head tilting towards yours. "No, of course not. You're far better than anyone else, even if you decide to get an unnecessary job.”

"Even better than you?" you arch a brow, watching his lips quirk up in a genuine smile.

"Always," replies Rafe.

Heat pools in your stomach, the whiskey's delayed effect. You glance away from Rafe's sharp eyes. Clearing your throat, you shift on the couch, making yourself more comfortable. "It's not unnecessary, by the way. The job. It looks good on my transcripts."

"Hm, still going to Charleston?"

You shrug, staring at the insurmountably large portrait of Denmark Tanney in Ward's office. "I don't know. My parents want me to, and I'll get into it but I don't wanna be so close to home, you know?"

Rafe's brows furrowed, a frown tugging on his lips. "Where are you thinking?"

"Either New Orleans or London," you answer, pulling a laugh out of Rafe. "Yeah, a wide range of possibilities for me."

"You don't wanna go to Charleston?" questioned Rafe, his eyes never leaving yours. A look of displeasure passes his face. "It's not that close, seven hours."

You make a face, shaking your head. "Seven hours is too close for me.”

The blond scoffed, leaning forward to sip his whiskey.

A smirk tugged at your lips as you observed him. Teasingly, you ask. "What, you gonna miss me when I leave?"

"I thought it was obvious," Rafe replied, downing the rest of his glass. He shifts on the couch, placing his arms on top of it, giving you a sardonic grin. "I think Charleston is far enough."

Rolling your eyes for the millionth time that night, you lay your head back, sighing. "You can come visit me anytime. Just don't bring anyone. Especially not Topper or Kelce."

"Ah, I wouldn't wanna walk in on you and your victims." jokes Rafe, patting your thigh softly. "Wouldn't be the first."

You laugh, winking at him. "Maybe you'll be my next victim."

Rafe raises a brow, leaning back slightly as he stares at you. "Don't tease me, I have no self-control when it comes to you."

"Yes, I think that was clear when you sent Tom Schnitzel to the ER for trying to drug me," you reply, inhaling sharply at the memory. You were positive you still had Tom's blood stained onto the white top from that night. "Thanks for that, by the way. I don't think I properly thanked you for that."

Rafe waves it away with a hand, standing. "Don't worry about it. I needed to get it out that night, anyway. Come on, I have something to show you."

Curious, you follow Rafe out of the office, walking down the hall to his room. He opens the door, motioning for you to enter. Immediately, you plop down on his bed, laying out on the soft mattress as he closes the door behind him. You watch him walk towards his dresser, turning around with a small jewelry box, a bow sitting on the top.

"What's that for?" you ask, taking the box from Rafe, and inspecting it.

He sits on the edge of the bed, eyes watching you fiddle with the box. "Your birthday present."

"It's not for another month."

Rafe shrugs, grinning. "Consider it your early birthday present, then. Come on, open it."

Tilting your head, you lift the top from it, the diamond tennis bracelet sparkling as soon as the light hits it. You gasped softly, taking the bracelet from its mold, watching in fascination as the diamonds danced in the light.

"Holy shit, Rafe," you mutter, inspecting the bracelet. "What the fuck? How much was it?"

The blond chuckled, taking the bracelet and unlocking the hook. He gestured for you to put your wrist out. "Real diamonds. None of that lab-grown bullshit. Don't worry, the cost didn't even dent my account."

You give him a look, allowing him to put the bracelet on your wrist and shake it as soon as it's on. "I told you before that I don't want expensive gifts from my friends. Just my parents."

"I'd like to think I'm more than one of your obnoxious friends," replies Rafe, causing you to give him a look. He snickered, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Last time, I swear."

"Highly doubt that." you turn your attention back to the bracelet, smirking at how it looked against your skin. "Thank you, though. It's really pretty."

Rafe stares at you, blue eyes watching you admire his present. "Yeah, beautiful."

You glance up at him, cheeks flushed from the whiskey and drinks prior. Heat pools in your stomach as your eyes meet his. Clearing your throat, you tuck your hair behind your ear. "Best present I got this year."

He smirks, laying his head down on a pillow, watching as you mirror his movement. "Yeah? Do I get to be your favorite until I piss you off?"

"Of course. I give it five minutes." you tease, grinning when Rafe smacks you with a pillow softly. You dodge his second hit, rolling closer to him, your arm pressed against his. "I was kidding! You'll be my favorite forever."

"That's more like it," Rafe says, a satisfied grin slapped across his face.

You groan softly, rolling onto your side to face the blond, eyes closing. The party was still going on downstairs, the loud thumping of the music heard two stories up. Your mind briefly flickered to what was happening with JJ and Kiara until Rafe's fingers ghosted over your side.

"I swear to god if you're gonna tickle me, Cameron," you grumble, eyes still closed, feeling his fingers roam around until they hit your stomach.

Rafe chuckles quietly, fingers stroking the ribcage tattoo you had gotten with Sarah. "When did you get this?"

"A week ago." you giggle as he runs his fingers up, touching your neck. Your eyes snapped open and you immediately slap his hand away, your brand new bracelet swinging slightly from the movement. "Rafe. You know how ticklish I am."

"Sorry," he smirks, tone unapologetic. His hand drifts to your hips, fingers playing with your cutoff shorts. "Wouldn't want a repeat of the Jenga incident."

Your nose scrunches at that, remembering the night you spent at the ER. "It was an accident."

"Still sticking to that story?"

"You moved your head."

"You threw a glass at my head." Rafe corrected, a smile tugging the corner of his lips up.

Scowling at him, you shake your head. "No, I threw it at the wall behind you. You moved your head at the last second and had to get five stitches."

"If you weren't so fucking competitive ..." Rafe teases, trailing off.

You bite your tongue, letting the subject go with great difficulty, but managing to not bite back. Closing your eyes again, you let your muscles alleviate. "Hm. Whatever."

You both lay in silence for a few minutes, the alcohol in your system and Rafe's soft bed allowing you to relax despite the loud music creeping through the walls. Despite feeling his eyes on you, you felt your body intense, the bed cradling you.

Rafe's hand drifts slowly up your hip, fingertips softly brushing against the sliver of bare stomach before slipping slightly under the hem of your top. Your eyes flutter up at the movement, watching as his thumb draws circles on your skin.

Goosebumps arise, and you suddenly realize how close he is, not even a foot away. His eyes flickered to your lips, his tongue peeking out to wetten his own. Your breath gets caught in your throat, his face somehow closer now.

Maybe it was the alcohol you've consumed trying to forget your own despair or an excuse to get your mind off JJ and Kiara, but you watched as Rafe brought his lips to yours, not pulling back when the taste of whiskey invades your mouth.

A hand caressing your cheek, Rafe rolled over on top of you, his elbows holding up his weight as he kissed you. His tongue sought entry to your mouth, biting your bottom lip. You gasped slightly at the feel, allowing him to deepen the kiss. You melt into his touch, your lips parting slightly as Rafe's tongue sweeps in.

Rafe breaks the kiss, trailing his lips down your neck, leaving a string of soft kisses along your collarbone. Tilting your head back, you give him better access, running your hands through his hair, a soft content sigh escaping your lips.

He nips at your collarbones before sucking a mark into your skin, just right above your breast causing you to mewl at the touch, your hands drifting to his shoulders, freshly manicured nails digging into his skin. You meet his eyes, his ocean blues now darkened like the water during a storm.

Something comes over your body, seeing Rafe in a new light. Suddenly needy and impatient, your hands tugged at the hem of Rafe's black polo, pleading silently for him to take it off. Taking your hint, he sits up, taking it off in one swift move, tossing it on the floor.

You'd never admit it, not even to Rafe–especially to Rafe, but you'd always loved his abs. The definition of the, so toned, tanned, and delectable. He may have been your friend, but you weren't blind to his looks, and definitely how his abs looked when he flexed them.

As your fingers traced the defined line down his stomach, Rafe's hands slid under your top until the tips of his fingers met the fabric of your bikini top. Needing more, a lot more, you sit up, ridding yourself of the offensive clothing. You heard Rafe groan, pushing you back onto the bed, eyes roaming the sight of the hot pink bikini top you still wore, the top so little it was hardly covering your nipples.

"So fucking beautiful," he murmured, reaching out and pulling off the top quickly, the thin string breaking at the force, your tits spilling out. You gasped, nipples hardening in the cold air. Rafe groaned at the sight, hands cupping your breasts, his breath hitting your nipples. "Fucking incredible."

You arched your back, moaning softly as his tongue wettens a nipple before taking it into his mouth. His teeth nibble it, sucking and teasing the hard bud while his fingers play with the other, rolling it between his fingers. Rafe pinches it gently, looking up at you with a smirk when you mewl.

Running your hands over Rafe's back, you feel the warmth and firmness of his muscles, wetness pooling at the thought of kissing every single inch of his torso. Before he could take the other nipple into his mouth, you pull his lips back to yours, wrapping an arm around his neck as a hand runs down his back, nails scratching his spine.

Rafe's hand moves down your sides, fingers playing with the button of your shorts. Pulling back from the kiss, he unbuttoned your shorts, slowly–and agonizingly–sliding them off. The cutoffs pile onto his shirt on the floor.

You know Rafe's experienced, so are you, but you swore he almost looked nervous as he stared down at you, his hands slightly shaky as he hooks his fingers under the waistband of your matching pink thong. Those join the discarded clothing on his bedroom floor.

He looks like a man starved as his eyes focus on your bare cunt, hungry and almost animalistic as he leans closer to your glistening pussy, nose nearly touching the clit. "You're already so wet."

Instinctively, you spread your legs wider, hands grasping the sheets as his finger leisurely dips into your wet pussy, your lips parting slightly. His thumb touches your clit, rubbing it gently. You groan, hips bucking at the feel, needing more. "Fuck."

Rafe smirks, pushing a finger into your cunt, watching as your face contorted in pleasure. He adds a second before you could come down from the small high. "Look at you, so needy and desperate."

Before you could think of a retort, he leans down to replace his thumb with his tongue, licking and sucking at your clit as his fingers continue to thrust inside you, gaining speed. The sight of Rafe's head between your legs, his tongue flicking your clit was so erotic, the vision enough for you to get wetter. You throw your head back, your fingers tangling in Rafe's hair as you pull his head closer to your dripping pussy, a moan filling the room.

His fingers hit that spot inside you, causing a surprise whimper from your lips to escape. Rafe pauses, glancing up at you, pride in his eyes before he doubles his efforts, his fingers curling to reach that spot. He sucks your clit, nibbling it when you tug his hair.

"Rafe," you moan, arching your back. You push his head deeper between your thighs, pussy clenching around his fingers, so close to falling off. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"That's right, say my fucking name when you cum on my fingers," Rafe grunted, his fingers plunging in and out of your soaking wet cunt. He licks your clit, staring up as you come closer.

A dripping mess, you buck your hips up as Rafe continues his relentless actions on your pussy, moans of pleasure filling the room. His free hand moves up your torso, cupping your breast before rolling your nipples between his fingers.

You lose it when he pinches it harshly, moaning loudly as you come undone, pussy clenching around his fingers, throbbing. You whimper out his name, your hand gripping his hair. "Fuck!"

Rafe laps it all up, replacing his fingers with his tongue, hands holding your legs open as you attempt to close them, your clit sensitive. He runs his tongue along your pussy, lapping up your juices, groaning at the taste, unable to pull himself away.

He licks his lips, staring possessively at your cunt before looking up at you with a proud smile. "You taste so fucking good."

He then proves it to you, lips meeting yours in a kiss. You taste yourself on him as you kiss him back, lips moving against each other. As you come down from the high, you roll him over, straddling his torso. You move your lips to his neck, marking it until you kiss down his chest. Meeting his eyes, you run your tongue down his abs, kissing every individual one.

You move to straddle his legs, quickly unbuttoning his pants, much opposite of his agonizingly slow approach. Rafe lifts his hips, helping you take off his jeans, sitting up to pull you in for another kiss. Giggling, you push him back onto the bed, your fingers sliding underneath the band of his boxers.

You bite your lip as you take out his cock, your hand wrapping around it immediately. The size of it made your mouth water, licking your lips in anticipation as you stroked it slowly causing Rafe to groan. With an approving hum, you lick the tip, meeting Rafe's hungry gaze.

Smirking, you run your tongue along the length of it, pulling back when Rafe bucks his hips up, glaring at you for teasing him. Chuckling, you decide to end the shortlived torture, taking his cock into your mouth, your warm, wet lips wrapping around his cock.

He groans, fingers pulling at your hair, guiding your movements, and urging you to take more of him. The sight of your soft, pink lips wrapped around his cock was something he'd never forget. "That's it, baby. Suck my dick like a good slut."

You felt your pussy clench at his words, growing wetter as you suck him off, eagerly bobbing your head up and down his dick. Pre-cum drips onto your tongue and you savor the taste, moaning around his cock, Rafe grunting at the feel of the vibrations.

Not wanting him to cum down your throat, you stop, slapping his cock on your tongue, smiling innocently when he narrows his eyes at you. He looked so hot staring down at you, chest heaving as he panted lightly, his knuckles white as he tried to restrain himself. His cock bobbed up as if begging for attention.

Shifting, you move up his body until your pussy is inches from Rafe's cock. You tap your clit with his cock, whimpering quietly, your clit still sensitive. Rafe's hands drift to your hips and you smack them away, giving him a smile as you rub your cunt against his dick, wanting to tease him just a little bit more.

He grits out your name, hands by his sides as he clenches them into a fist. "Stop teasing.”

"Or what?" you arch a brow, smirking as you let the head of his cock slip into your wet cunt. Temporarily speechless, Rafe lets out a guttural groan as you sink down unhurriedly, watching as your pussy wraps around his cock until he bottoms out. The size of his cock stretches you out, your walls fluttering around him as you rock slowly. "Holy shit."

"Jesus Christ." Rafe growls, his hands cupping your tits as you begin to bounce on his dick. He squeezes them, watching as your pussy swallows his cock like a vice. "So tight. Made just for me."

You moan at his words, leaning back and placing your hands on his thigh, giving him a view men would kill for. You ride his cock, throwing your head back at the feel of his cock stretching you out. Rafe reaches down, slapping your ass as you ride him, and you mewl at the gentle pain. "Rafe."

Rafe's thumb touches your clit, rubbing it as he watches you ride his cock, his lips parted slightly like he is seeing one of the seven wonders of the world. His eyes dart between his cock sliding in and out of your cunt and your face contorts with pleasure, moaning every time you slide down his cock.

"Fucking gorgeous." Rafe whispers, thrusting up into you, his pupils dilated when you whimper loudly. He sits up, his hands gripping your waist, moving his face in front of your bouncing tits, taking a nipple into his mouth, swirling it with his tongue. "So much better than I imagined, baby."

You place your hands on his shoulders, pussy clenching around his cock. You moan into his ear, kissing his neck as he thrusts up into you, your legs trembling as you draw closer to cumming. "Rafe, I'm gonna cum."

The words cause him to double his efforts, gripping your waist so tight it would leave bruises, his cock filling you up as he fucks you fast. His lips drag across your neck, leaving a mark as his cock brushes against your cervix. "Cum for me. Cum all over my cock like a fucking slut."

You cry out as you come, your cunt tightening around his cock. You bite Rafe's shoulder, muffling your ungodly loud moan. "Fuck, fuck!”

He pulls you back in for a kiss, spilling his seed into your awaiting pussy. Rafe slows to a stop, groaning against your lips, his cock nuzzled deep inside you. Rolling you on your back, he doesn't separate from you, keeping his dick warm as he kisses you languidly. Taking a breath, he breaks the kiss, staring down at you, a small smile gracing his lips. "You alright, sweetheart?"

Tired and content, you return his smile, pussy throbbing around his softening cock. You nod, eyes heavy. "Yeah, you?"

Rafe chuckles quietly. "Yeah, me too."

As your eyes drift close, you feel Rafe press a kiss to your forehead.

[strangererotica]

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Springtrap x Reader | Summary: Your uncle has asked you to keep watch over his new investment, Fazbear Frights, and the vintage artifacts his attraction contains. When you begrudgingly accept his offer, things take a turn for the weirder. An encounter in your dreams with a yellow rabbit changes you…for better, or worse?

Heads up: This fic is not for everybody, and that’s okay! It’s a fucked-up fever dream and if the summary intrigues you, come along for the ride. If not, that’s okay too. Things get heavy here. There’s monsterfucking, dream sex, vaginal penetration, some choking, fear, lust, disgust, basically a whole grab bag of fuckery, so if that’s your thing, read on, dear deviant 🫵♥️ PS the end is kind of fire, I love a good twist!!!

To be honest, you thought the idea of opening a theme park ‘attraction,’ based on the mysterious disappearances of children was fucked up. But your uncle was convinced there was a market for such a sick endeavor, that an audience existed whose search for thrills and chills would have them willing to shed money for a chance at experiencing horrific local nostalgia.

Because really, who wouldn’t want to relive the tragedy of multiple kids going missing? You were being sarcastic, of course. But part of that sarcasm stemmed from genuine bewilderment. What was your uncle thinking when he formed the concept of Fazbear Frights? He’d always been into horror as a genre, but as far as you’d understood, his interest was confined to books and film, not true crime. And if the subject matter of the Freddy’s story had involved the tragic disappearance of local adults, maybe Fazbear Frights wouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. But kids had gone missing, lives had been upended, and your uncle was about to make a profit off of their heartache.

The worst part of all? You’d accepted his offer to work there. The cost of life after college was kicking your ass; you could barely afford your rent as it was, working two part-time jobs. Money was more than tight; you needed extra cash wherever you could find it. And besides, the Fazbear Frights gig would only last a couple of weeks, just until the attraction opened. Your uncle’s job offer had been to monitor the security of the place overnight, with generous pay promised. You couldn’t understand why he’d be willing to pay someone to guard a bunch of creepy old relics from an abandoned pizza parlor, or why additional security was necessary when the theme park itself already had an overnight guard? Your uncle maintained that additional security was needed, and that he only trusted family with the responsibility of protecting such an important investment as his precious, twisted attraction…

Entering Fazbear Frights, your first impression is that it’s really fucking ugly. Granted, it’s supposed to look old fashioned, and maybe the building’s creepiness is simply proof of good set design. However, a sense of unease lingers in your stomach, and you’re almost positive it’s caused by something beyond the decor. The attraction is fully furnished, but won’t open for a couple more weeks while the finishing touches on lighting and sound are tweaked. Those changes are made during the day, when at least a little sunlight can be seen filtering in through the windows, reminding you there’s life outside. For your part, working the night shift, the dark building makes you feel secluded and more than a little creeped out.

You have a flashlight, and mostly functional electricity running through the building. But there’s still much to be desired in the way of making the attraction feel…not haunted. And it occurs to you that that’s the word which describes how you’re feeling: haunted. The hairs on your skin are standing at attention, a cold sweat clinging to the back of your neck, but why? Obviously the setting is creepy, but it’s meant to be. You’re usually comfortable around spooky decor. It’s not as if you’re a scared kid wandering the halls of a haunted house alone…but that’s how you this place makes you feel…

It’s getting late. An outdated digital clock (probably a relic from the late eighties itself) on the desk in front of you reads 3 AM. You shiver as yet another cold breeze whispers past your shoulders. You look around, studying the vintage posters on the wall, wondering how much money your uncle threw away in order to call these scraps his own. The figures staring back at you look menacing, despite their wide smiles. They’re called animatronics, you remember. That’s how your uncle had referred to them. You also recall his mentioning one animatronic in particular, a Freddy’s original he’d managed to get his hands on and would be bringing to Fazbear Frights. You haven’t seen it yet, and to be totally honest, you’re not sure you want to. If the animatronic your uncle purchased looks anything like the ones in the posters you’re staring at, you’d prefer to never encounter such a creature…

Re-entering the theme park feels like walking through the gates of Hell. You’d rather be anywhere else than here. Another night of spending six hours alone in the gloomy replica of a literal crime scene has your stomach twisting. And you didn’t sleep well, either. Your dreams had been too vivid to allow you rest. You’d dreamed of a monster, or something that could certainly be called one…a massive, towering figure with patchy, mustard-yellow fur clinging to its skeletal frame. It resembled a rabbit, or had, at some point long ago. While still maintaining the general shape of a rabbit, its appearance had decayed, warping its cuddly features into something ugly. Its eyes were cold gray orbs that rested deep in its oversized, vacant skull, tendons and ligaments intertwined with wires that wrapped its skeleton, which you later realized, was comprised of metal rather than bone.

Your senses had been particularly keen in the dream. The rabbit’s scent was stale, yet comfortingly nostalgic. It reminded you of an old quilt your grandmother had once given you from the bottom of her dresser drawer, which smelled of love and other ancient, homemade things. She’d wrapped you up inside it, with kisses and promises that the chilly winter night wouldn’t be as cold now, that the quilt had been waiting there in the dresser for years, waiting for someone who needed it…

The rabbit’s fur was coarse, your skin a soft contrast when you wrapped your arms around its waist. It felt like the outdoor carpet that had lined your parents’ back porch, which your feet and rain had pelted countless Summer nights. The rabbit’s fur was cool to the touch, moist with something bittersweet, a musky blend of old books with yellowed pages, their corners turned down and words lined in pencil…

And against your lips, that was also his taste, his tongue the flavor of nostalgia, his large, unbearably strong hands crushing your body against his like he intended to make love to and ruin you all at once. Whether or not he consisted of machine or animal, he was more human than anything else, fully formed with the parts needed to bring you to a state of rapture. He held you suspended, your legs around his waist, fucking up into you with more vigor than his decayed appearance would suggest him capable of. You clutched his back, and then his ears, locking your fingers around them and bracing for impact as each of his mechanical, brutal thrusts punched inside you with a machine’s precision…

You’d woke up in a state of climax, your body drenched with sweat. The sheet beneath you had been ripped from the mattress, balled into tight fists. Your chest heaved, your bare breasts glistening with perspiration. Your cunt was pulsing, fluttering with the aftershocks of a powerful orgasm. Arousal dripped down your quivering thighs, onto the mattress which was soaking wet beneath you.

A shower and breakfast had done little to calm the questions racing through your mind. What the hell was that? Your dreams were rarely as vivid, as visceral, as the one about the rabbit. And as for the sex…it had been the best sex you’d had in a dream, ever. And it had been with what must surely have been a monster…

You hope your six hours at Fazbear Frights will go quickly tonight, partially because you’re still a little unsteady and aroused from your dream this morning. Additionally, you’re looking forward to sleep, because maybe the rabbit will be waiting for you when you close your eyes, again?

Unexpectedly, your uncle meets you at the staff entrance of Fazbear Frights. He seems excited about something, and you’re grateful for a distraction from your thoughts of the rabbit. “Hey kid,” your uncle greets you with a friendly wave. “How’d it go last night?”

“Alright,” you reply. “It’s a little creepy in there, but that’s the point, isn’t it?”

You don’t miss the subtle gleam in your uncle’s eyes, revealing how pleased he is that his attraction is having its desired effect. “That’s right,” he says cheerfully. “Gotta give the people what they want. And what they want-.” He turns his key in the lock and pulls the door open for the two of you. “-Is the authentic Freddy Fazbear experience. Which is why I’m here tonight.” He lets you step past him into the building, and locks the door behind you both. “-To show you the part of my collection that’ll really have people talking. We just brought him in today-you’ve got to see him…”

You grimace visibly. “It’s the fucking animatronic, isn’t it?” you groan, and your uncle rolls his eyes.

“Yes it is, sourpuss,” he teases. “And trust me when I tell you, it’s gonna make this place really feel like Freddy’s, like you’re stepping inside a time capsule or something.”

Your uncle led you down a hallway to one of the doors marked STAFF ONLY . “He’s showing his years of course,” your uncle continued, searching his ring for a different key. “I mean, this animatronic sat abandoned for thirty years; of course he’s gonna look a little rough around the edges.”

Your uncle finds the appropriate key and jiggles it inside the lock. “But just knowing that we, Fazbear Frights, have our hands on the one and only Spring Bonnie-.” He sighs proudly. “-It reminds me how much all of this was worth it, y’know? Now that he’s here, back in his element. Where he belongs.”

Your eyebrow lifts in curiosity; you resist the urge to laugh in your uncle’s face. “You do realize you sound just a little bit crazy, right?” you question him. “Talking about this thing like it’s a real person or something. Don’t tell me-.” You lean in, whispering. “-You talk to it sometimes, don’t you?”

Your uncle pauses before whispering back, “yeah, but, the only time I really feel crazy is when he responds…”

You giggle at that, watching while your uncle pulls the door open wide. “Here he is, (Y/N),” your uncle declares, beaming in the doorway. “The yellow rabbit himself. Spring Bonnie in the flesh-err, I mean, fur…”

For a moment, you assume you must be dreaming. Because you find yourself looking at the exact same rabbit from your dream this morning. He looks different, sat on the floor, leaning against the far wall; but it’s unmistakably him. Your uncle watches your expression, slightly confused. “Is he really that scary?” he asks, his voice hopeful.

You take a step forward, curiosity overriding your apprehension. The rabbit is large, just as large as he was in your dream. Even seated on the floor, you can tell his height is substantial. Tentatively, you reach for the rabbit’s face, stroking his musty-scented fur tenderly.

“D-be careful!” your uncle frets behind you, adding, “that thing was very expensive-be gentle with him-,” but his concerns aren’t necessary. You know this rabbit…intimately well. And once you’re alone with him again, you’ll make sure to take excellent care not to damage him in your…exertion…

“What did you say his name was?” you ask, gazing into the rabbit’s steely eyes. Your uncle clears his throat, obviously perplexed by the care you seem to feel for a decaying animatronic you had no interest in seeing only moments ago. “Uh, Bonnie,” he replies. “Spring Bonnie.”

“Bonnie,” you repeat, allowing the word to sink over your tongue. “That means beautiful, doesn’t it?”

Your uncle nods, still confused, and glances at his watch. “Well, it’s just about midnight,” he says. “Time for me to head out. Come walk me to the door, will ya?” He pretends to shiver. “This place gives even me the creeps at night, to be totally honest.”

You choose to leave the rabbit (for now). “I’ll be back,” you whisper against his ear, quietly enough that your uncle doesn’t hear. He’s waiting for you in the doorway, a warm smile on his face, your fascination with the yellow rabbit a fleeting curiosity to him, and nothing more. Once you’re sure your uncle is gone, you exhale a sigh of relief. Locking the door behind you feels like sealing the world away completely; and in contrast to yesterday, that kind of isolation is now exactly what you want. Your heart thuds against your chest like a horse’s hooves, skipping beats as you turn for the hall.

You’ve bunched your skirt around your waist, your shoes clicking loudly in the empty hall. Heavy rain pelts the tin roof as you round the corner that leads to him. In the doorway, a tall, familiar figure stands. His gray eyes flash cold as steel, locking you in place at the opposite end of the hallway.

Thunder growls outside. The building’s electricity spits in and out, crackling around you like fireflies caught in a jar. Your heart’s in your throat, lips spreading into a wide smile. The hall goes dark, lit only by the steely gaze of the yellow rabbit...

…until suddenly, even his eyes disappear, and you’re left engulfed by an all-consuming darkness.

Lightning flashes, illuminating the hand reaching for you. Robotic, aluminum fingers draped with rotting yellow fur close around your throat, silencing the scream beneath them. The rabbit lifts you by the throat till you’re completely suspended, feet dangling limp and useless beneath you. His sour breath reeks of rotten meat and dried blood, the kind of smell that instinctively alerts you to danger. Your eyes roll back, surrender sinking over you as you accept your fate.

But as quickly as he seized you, the rabbit yields. You feel the cold, filthy tile meet your cheek as you land against it. Through gauzy vision, you make out the metallic feet of the rabbit standing before you, his endoskeleton clearly visible. He takes hold of your hair, and tugs you upright, holding you in place as your trembling legs cannot sustain you. His eyes bore deeply into yours, chortled breath leaving his mechanical chest in a slow, grotesque pant. When he speaks, your whole body shivers.

“You…” the rabbit murmurs, his wide jaw cracking, fleshy tendons stretching. The curdled timbre of his voice betrays the smile on his lips; the rabbit is glad to see you.

“How…long…” he snarls. “…has it been…?” He drags a thick, soiled finger across your cheek, the gesture unexpectedly tender. “…Since anyone desired me…?”

Your chest is heaving, conflicting emotions of every kind overwhelming you. A sick cocktail of fear and arousal throbs in your belly, keeping time with your pounding heart.

“P-please,” you stutter, tears bleeding down your cheeks. “Don’t h-hurt me…”

The rabbit tilts his head to the side, thinking. His hooded eyes wash over you, this tiny little creature in his hands, pleading mercy from him.

“Mmm,” the rabbit hums, his skeletal chest vibrating like a lion’s purr. “You think I’m a monster, don’t you?”

You gasp as his touch glides from your face to your chest, his big paw closing over your breasts. He groans at the feeling of your heartbeat thundering against his palm. “I’d forgotten,” he says. “How a woman’s pulse feels…the proof of her life, beating in the palm of my hand…”

With his other paw, the rabbit clutches the back of your head and draws you closer. The stench of rot, of horror and decay, cannot repulse you anymore…not when his tongue has breached the barrier of your lips, the thick, sinewy muscle undulating against your tongue in a wet bed of perversion. His bulky fingers lodge between your thighs. Immediately, you begin to grind against the textured fur, wetting his mechanical digits with your arousal.

Seized by a sudden courage, you lift your hips in a way that has you poised atop one of the rabbit’s fingertips, his damp appendage resting against your entrance. He obliges your silent request, allowing you to sink over his thick finger, taking him as far as you can.

The thunder inside you eclipses the storm outside. You moan filthy, disgusting praises as he pleasures you, all sense of fear long-abandoned in exchange for the fulfillment of your most hedonistic desires. His fat, coarse digit strokes you like it was made for you to ride, reaching places inside you no part of any man ever has. You’re going dumb on top of him, so dumb you don’t even notice when the rabbit gently eases you onto the ground.

He’s under you now, his back pressed against the wall, his paw of a hand still clutching your cunt, letting you use his fingers to get yourself off. A dark, satisfied chuckle rumbles up from his bony chest. “Just look at you,” he murmurs, his steely eyes heavy with lust. “Bouncing on my lap like a slutty little rabbit, aren’t you?”

His lewd words and husky tone send you over the edge. Your body convulses on top of him, the muscles at your core clenching around the rabbit’s touch, sucking his fat appendage rhythmically as you ride out your high…

“Fucking Christ!” A man’s voice bleats through the hallway like a frightened animal. You whip your head to see him, blinded instantly by the beam of his flashlight. He’s wearing a shirt that identifies him as the theme park’s security, and as your eyes follow up to his face, you’re met with the wide-eyed gaze of unfiltered horror staring back at you. His flashlight shakes wildly in his hand, catching the rabbit’s skeletal leg in its beam. Confusion sets over you…followed by shame. Because the rabbit is now as he was when you arrived there tonight…sat against a wall, unmoving and limp, no more than a broken machine overcome by decay. But unlike earlier, you’re now sat straddling the broken machine, your cum dripping down its tattered fur…your hands locked around one of the animatronic’s arms, lodging his hand between your thighs…one of his fingers buried deep inside your cunt…

The guard clears his throat; you force yourself to meet his eyes. “Th-there was a c-.” He clears his throat again, blinking to focus. “-County-wide power outage, miss…I knew you were um, keepin’ watch over the place for your uncle, and uh-.” He swallows, forcing his eyes from dropping to the place where your body and the animatronic are joined. “-I th-thought you might be spooked in here, alone-.” He glances at the rabbit, then back to you. “-in the dark��”

Frustrated tears burn at the corners of your eyes, your cheeks hot with humiliation. Carefully, you ease the rabbit’s finger out of your cunt, wincing as the metal scratches your skin. Somehow, it didn’t hurt before. You smooth your skirt down, concealing your nakedness but none of your shame.

Standing in the beam of the guard’s flashlight, you summon every bit of the (minimal) pride you have left to tell him, “thank you. That was very kind of you, to come check on me.”

He licks his lips nervously, eyes darting between you and the animatronic propped against the wall. His flashlight illuminates the perverse scene, revealing your cum still glistening on the rabbit’s fur. The fear in the guard’s expression has softened to a pitying disgust.

“I think it’s time for you to go home, miss,” he says. You wipe a tear from your cheek, glancing back at the animatronic one last time, before leaving Fazbear Frights (and your rabbit) behind, forever…

[randomfoggytiger]

X-Files Collector's Edition: The Field Where I Fix-It Fic-ed

Ahhhh, The Field Where I Died-- quite an impressive idea, not quite an impressive execution. These fics, however, make me glad that it exists in its own, weird little corner.

Dedicated to the one anon that wanted a TFWID fic list~! :DDDD

Loose chronological order below~!

**Note**: Will ghost edit this post later. ;)))

eponine119’s I Do Not Want To Believe

""I was powerless to do anything but watch as he rose in the field next to me, his chest covered only by his thin blue shirt. No bulletproof vest to save his life. And I knew he was going to die.

Worse, I realized, he wanted to die. To be with her. So that history would repeat itself. What could I do? "Mulder!" I shouted at him as I had so very many times before. It was no use.

Cringing inside I watched. Waiting.

No shots rang out. He disappeared into the building.

No shots rang out. I ran after him.""

Post TFWID Scully realizes that CSM is the contradictory lynch pin to Melissa Ephesian’s story. Mulder, meanwhile, believes their own bond broke the chain that linked he and his “soulmate" in tragedy.  

@alienbaby-babymama/ABBM515’s Soulmates 

""You okay, partner?” Scully reaches out to squeeze his bicep. She’d seen the same forlorn look on his face during his hypnosis session.

“Although this didn’t end how any one of us wanted it to, it was nice to know.”

“Know what?”

“That I’m not alone,” Mulder turns to look at her, “and neither are you. Never one without the other. Kismet.”

“Even if I don’t believe in that line of thinking, I’d have to agree.""

Post TFWID Mulder is glad that he and Scully loved each other every lifetime; and is willing to wait for the “right” moment in this one. 

Nicole van Dam's Forgive and Forget

""Perhaps it wasn't the initial meeting that caused him to question her position as a new partner. Just the mere apprehensiveness that lived in him since he was a small boy. It only took a day, one day of her trying to convince him she wasn't sent to watch him; to gauge his work.

She was sent because it was just the way it was supposed to be.

How did he know to trust her to tell her his life; his problems; his fears? How did she?""

TFWID Scully is resigned to Mulder and Melissa's connection... but ponders more deeply on her own.

@wendelah/wendelah1/avesuvianface’s (Gossamer, LJ)

With Regret 

""The deep connection I feel to Mulder isn't because we knew one another in a past lifetime. Even if we had, what possible difference could it make?""

Post TFWID Scully has regrets. 

LuvMulder’s Tonight I Watch You Dream

""You sleep fitfully beside me as I write, your brow furrowed in the solitary pain I have witnessed so many times since I first walked through your office door. On this night, at this moment, high above the earth, I feel you dream; yet, for the first time since I've known you, I doubt it is Sam you see. Unconscious oblivion, the softness of night and shadow are but words, failed promises that bring you no peace as we head back to our lives, far removed from the grassy fields of Apison, Tennessee.

I'm glad to be going home. We deserve a week of bad coffee and boredom--alone--in the clutter of our basement sanctuary.

I need. I sense....questions.

My friend--are we forever changed?

I am so afraid.""

Post TFWID Scully feels like she’s failed Mulder, unable to take the same leaps of faith that he asks of her. 

@happenstanced's (Ao3) For Eternity 

""Scully, look at me.”

I lifted only my eyes, looking up from under my lashes. Tears must’ve formed and were threatening to fall because his expression softened more than I thought was possible.

Uncharacteristically, I blurted out the one thought that had consumed me.

“Did you mean it?""

Post TFWID Scully is avoiding Mulder’s eyes… and he calls her on it. 

Anne Haynes’s (Gossamer) Greater Meed

""She had known he would come to her to talk more about what had happened to him in Tennessee. She hadn't been sure when it would happen, but she'd known it WOULD happen. It was as inevitable as predestination.

He put the sack on her kitchen table and shrugged off his coat, folding it over the back of a chair. "It wasn't about past lives, was it?" he asked with no preamble.""

Post TFWID Mulder has a nagging thought that something is off… and realizes that CSM was already alive during WWII. He expounds about his "stuck" psyche with Scully over ice cream; and she assures him that, of course, his life does means something.

Thalia D'Muse's Day to Give Thanks

""Mulder placed the cassette in his pocket, his mind completely enraptured by the tiny book in his hand. It resembled other small pamphlet-style books one might see at the check-out counter, exclaiming 'Lose 5 Inches In 10 Days' or 'Your Astrological Forecast'.

But the title of this one threw him. The cover was a faded blue with a white seagull, its wings spread across the entire page. Dark blue letters across the top told Mulder the title: 'The Writings of Richard Bach'.""

Post TFWID Mulder turns down Thanksgiving with Scully to brood over his loss and confusion. One of Scully's books enlightens his outlook, giving him hope. 

Stephanie Lutz’s The Wheel 

""He tilted his head back and looked up into the night sky. There was no moon, no stars. Heavy storm clouds had closed in as the sun was setting, blocking any chance of romantic night lights. Appropriate, he thought. Was she out there, somewhere, waiting for him now? As if in mocking answer to his question a smattering of raindrops struck his face.""

Post TFWID Scully lets Mulder have space to process before forcing comfort and understanding on him. He wants to believe; but she reasons they’ll always find each other, no matter what. 

Meredith’s (Alt.) The Favor

""There are parts of that experience I can't let myself forget. My mind was influenced by outside elements, but in my regression I did see some truths. It's just taken me time to sort them out for myself."

She couldn't bear to ask which ones.

"She played a role," he continued in her silence, "and so did you. I just had to figure out where the truth ended and the deception began.""

Post TFWID Mulder and Scully assist Langly on a family member case involving a psychic. He’s already processed his feelings about the episode; and the two discuss how they get each other. 

story_monger’s Searching Souls - Chapter 1

""No, stop, what are you doing?” Scully snatches at the bills, but Mulder slides them out of her reach, and before Scully can react the bartender has swung past to scoop up the pile.

“You can owe me a pizza or something,” Mulder promises her. He touches at her back. “C’mon, it’s getting late.”

Scully putters her lips and slides off the stool. 

Post TFWID Mulder picks up and drives Scully home, rebutting her personal projection ideas and shocking her into believing his theory (even if only for one night.) 

Christina M. Simmons‘s Near Death Experiences 01 & 02

""Eyes stared up at her from the yellowed tint of an ancient photo. Eyes that could have been green, or grey, or blue. A young man in a Confederate uniform, stern-faced... barely thirty, if that. It was the eyes that captured her, though. The expression in them.

Skeptical.

As though he didn't quite believe the camera would work. As though he wouldn't be satisfied until he saw the finished print.""

Post TFWID Scully decides that eternity is not long enough to debate her and Mulder’s ideas, seeking proof in Sullivan Biddle's journal for Mulder’s sake (and her own.) When there is only evidence to the contrary, she is reassured by his easy acceptance of her unbelief.

stellar_dust’s (Ao3) Instinct, With Better Light

""... You weren't in love with her, in this life."

"No .. no, I wasn't. If we'd met under different circumstances, ... maybe I could have been. But you're right, I wasn't."

"She wasn't in love with you, either."

"No. But she wanted to believe.""

Post TFWID Scully suggests that maybe Mulder and Melissa Ephesian were trapped in a terrible cycle because they weren’t “meant” to be. 

@saintbellamys/starsonfire's First Dates and Soulmates

""A comfortable silence and then, "Do you ever think about it?"

Scully glanced at him with curiosity, her nose almost brushing his neck. "Think about what?"

"Our lives. If they could've been different. You told me once that it seems like there could only be one choice and the rest were wrong. There are signs and everything leads up to all these moments.""

Mulder takes Scully on their first date. While stargazing, he explains how wrong he his first soulmates theory was.

@sunsoakd/agenderleadingplayer’s I Wouldn't Change A Day

""And you know you're supposed to want to say yes. You know that part by heart know, know that she would want you to say yes –

Wouldn't she?

– but instead you think about it for a minute, a minute and a half, two. And the answer is no, because if you answered yes then who would she have? And you don't, you think, want to make it seem like you saved her from anything; you didn't, you didn't, she saved herself, you just helped when the tears came down too hard, but...

The answer is still...

"No." It's said with an exhale, an air of finality to it. No, I will not die for you, no I will never, because us, together, that's our whole deal, isn't it? Together. That's the deal, that always was.""

Scully asks (boyfriend) Mulder if he’d die for her. No; but Mulder knows she already has for him. 

RocketMan/Darkstryder’s Mine 01, Mine 02, Mine 03

""In one brief flickering instant I could see the pain all behind her eyes. If I hadn't been looking directly at those sharp blues I wouldn't have even seen it. But I did. Fear and pain and hurt. She hurt for me. No.......she is hurting because she thinks I couldn't be her soul mate.

Even Scully wants a soul mate.

"You're mine," I whisper....""

AU-- Post TFWID Scully feels cut off from Mulder, sad and lovesick. When he realizes, he quickly corrects her misconception… then almost bungles it further. (But that doesn’t stop them from living their lives out together, finally gaining the afterlife in the next.) 

Diadem’s Somewhere 

""It was special. We had to say goodbye the following morning, and neither of us wanted to leave the other behind. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders as we walked down the main street of the little town.

We started talking about the Ephesian case. I don't know how we got on to it, but suddenly Mulder was asking me if I believed in past lives and reincarnation.""

AU-- Mulder and Scully finally admit their feelings… and then Mulder is shot. As he dies, Scully insists they will get this right when she finds him again. 

@ghostbustermelanieking/skuls‘s a roll of stars and fade to black 

""All but the third, but the M.O. is the same for all the cases,” says Skinner. “Trace evidence proves that all three victims were at Forrester’s apartment at one point or another. It's open and shut. He lured these people into his apartment, drugged them, and kept them for hours before allowing them to return home. We have him on kidnapping and use of an illegal drug.”

Mulder turns over restlessly in bed, sheets tangling around him. “Do we know why he did it?” Scully asks, watching Mulder out of the corner of her eye. She is worried about him. First the attack by Samuel Aboah, and now this. They end up in the hospital entirely too much.

“The notes found at his apartment included recaps of the victims’ time at his apartment, based what seems to be some kind of past life experiences specific to each victim....” Skinner clears his throat awkwardly. “We're confirming this theory with the victims now.”

AU-- A rewrite of the episode: Mulder, druggily flashes back to his deathbed in another life-- Sergeant Sullivan Biddle at his bedside-- and uses those recovered memories to probe deeper. Scully and Skinner, meanwhile, try to make sense of and solve the case.  

Diana Alexander/Teresa Horne’s Not What It Seems 

""It had all happened so fast that it makes my head spin. In fact, the memory is only a blur. Though the thought of giving Mulder up tears my heart to shreds, I could've done it. I could've accepted that Angela was his soulmate eventually, and left them both alone. I could have gone out and gotten a life. He never would have been burdened by my feelings, and I would have gone on, no matter what the cost.

I felt a trickle of blood run down my neck and glanced down. The knife had grazed my neck before Mulder realized what his "beloved" Angela was about to do. He aimed the gun and shot her. It could have been merely a reaction, what he was supposed to do under the circumstances.""

AU-- Mulder’s soulmate puts a knife to Scully’s throat; which leads to a more personal (if implied) revelation for him. 

Erin M. Blair/Erin Blair’s Miss Series 04 - Miss You Four

""The truth is within our hearts and our love for each other.

I'm thankful that we're all together as a family. It will make us stronger somehow. When you told me of your epiphany that we were meant to be together, I knew then we were meant to be. I knew we were the true soulmates. Our souls connected through the spaces of time.""

AU-- S9 Mulder has returned with Will in tow; and spends his days, heart very full, watching his soulmate have everything she could ever have wanted out of life.

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

[bill-millions-movies]

CAROL

"Just when you think it can't get any worse, you run out of cigarettes."

HOLIDAY SPECIAL FIELD TRIP

CAROL (2015)

DECEMBER 9, 2024 - HOLLYWOOD THEATER - 7:30pm

I had planned to screen this movie for the club at home this weekend, as part of a mini holiday series, and *then* saw that Hollywood Theater was showing it on Monday. Let's see it on the big screen! The film takes place during the Christmas season in 1952, so it's at least as much of a Christmas movie as, say, Die Hard.

Portland's own Todd Haynes had one of his very biggest critical and popular successes with this adaptation of Patricia Highsmith's 1952 novel The Price of Salt. Highsmith, the creator of sociopath Tom Ripley, and the thriller Strangers on a Train (which Hitchcock famously adapted), published The Price of Salt under a pseudonym, and it has long been a staple in LGBT studies for its depiction of "the closet" in 1950s America.

Thus it was perfect fodder for Todd Haynes, who loves Douglas Sirkian melodrama and exploring societal pressures of conformity. Though stars Cate Blanchett and Rooney Mara were nominated for Oscars and Golden Globes, the film itself was famously snubbed and didn't receive an Oscar nomination for best picture. At Cannes, it received a ten-minute standing ovation after its screening, and Rooney Mara won best actress.

"Carol might have been content to be an archaeology of the closet, or a pitying backward glance at the mores of a less enlightened time. But it is much more than that. Mr. Haynes is a historian of feelings, of the unspoken and invisible traces of the libido... The images in “Carol” are cool and elusive, but they also pulsate with life." -New York Times

"An exquisitely drawn, deeply felt love story that teases out every shadow and nuance of its characters' inner lives with supreme intelligence, breathtaking poise and filmmaking craft of the most sophisticated yet accessible order." -Variety

7:30 - 9:30 Carol

[Want to watch at home instead of joining us? Carol is currently streaming on Netflix]

[mourningmaybells]

like a low level crime boss failing to have control over a situation and waiting for someone to kill him is an ok premise but the nickel ride lacks so much tension you forget what's happening also it does have the skyler white type character (wife of the criminal, you know how it is) but where skyler is a subversion of what used to be bland morality pets, linda haynes just feels like the typical girlfriend in the gangster films of yesteryear (i dont know if it was already overdone at that point, but it certainly helps it age worse). i do like the weird cowboy though. i feel like they put a bunch of passionate actors and a few eccentric people in a room and hoped they would carry the script. they did not.

[anislandintime]

(Natalie Haynes - 'Stone Blind')

What really hurts, more than being unloved, is the fact that I was made to feel unworthy of love and our love undeserving of a chance, and that too after she initiated everything. In her own words, she chose someone who was emotionally unavailable over me who was emotionally available to her. What am I supposed to understand from this? Does this mean, she believes that he is more deserving of her love, despite him being mean to her at one point and making certain disrespectful remarks, and I who was not just respectful to her, and as she herself says, was very understanding of her, was not worthy of a relationship and that our love did not deserve a chance in front of the possibility of she getting to be with him? What else can I make out of the way this entire story has unfolded? Am I so worthless and so undeserving? If monsters are all worthy of love, am I worse than a monster?

[luesmainblog]

hey there anon, listen to me. listen. the last time i counted, i had 30 people that we were aware of, that are fully formed enough to count as their own person. and the number grows at seemingly random sometimes. i have like 3 different people baking in the oven and one of them keeps Almost saying hi. almost. and that is okay. there is nothing wrong with being a big system. there is no need to be scared; new people are an Opportunity. whether you have memory share or not, it's a chance to learn someone new and have a new card up your sleeve. viewed from a purely clinical standpoint, your brain makes new people for a Reason; let it do its thing. and yeah, like op said, normalize never knowing what the fuck is going on; i gave up on keeping tabs on my headmates a loooong time ago. i leave that shit to vio and music now. i did use to freak out really bad back when i still had some negative feelings about systemhood, and then even worse when i was terrified of somehow accidentally faking it. then i learned about Jeni Haynes, a system of over two THOUSAND, who made history in 2017 when her alters were permitted to act as witnesses on the case against her father. They Won. i feel a lot less weird about it now; some plurals are just very big and that's okay.

I have a lot of guys and I’m scared because I think theres a new girl in here and I cant tell and I cant figure it out.

anon. anon listen to me. i can never tell. i can never figure it out. 99% of the time someone comes sauntering on into my brain and im vaguely aware of the fact that Someone has arrived and i have to get some other bitch to come and confirm it for me. normalize never knowing what the fuck is going on

[buglass]

Ch. 1: Are You Hopeful Tonight?

Pairings: Austin Butler!Elvis Presley x OFC

Chapter(s): 1/?

Warnings: slow burn, angst, mentions of racism, partially implied sexual situations

Rating: M (Mature)

Word Count: 2.5K

Song Inspo: Are You Lonesome Tonight? - Elvis Presley & Fever - Elvis Presley

Summary: Hope Haynes has done much in her life leading up to this revolutionary tell-all, but nothing quite like this. No one greater had ever swept her off her feet until she formally met Elvis Presley during the rise of his career and height of new fame. Haynes tells her story for the first time to give insight into the beloved late King of Rock n' Roll. Despite decades of rumors he was prejudiced, Are You Hopeful Tonight? goes into great detail to set the record straight and remember Presley in a different light when love and hate knew color. Or so it was thought. 

© 1991 Chapter 2 Here

A/N: Hi, hello! A little nervous since I haven’t written fics in some time and this will be quite the introduction back into it. Excited to see what you think! I prefer to typically write 1st or 3rd person if that bothers anyone. I proofread this myself but if you spot any mistakes please let me know! Feel free to picture Elvis as himself or Austin. Some bits and pieces are historically accurate but may not add up chronologically or coincide with the film. This would have been “published” 2 years after the song Fight the Power would’ve been released. It won’t entirely be a memoir, but a retelling of events, memories, and Hope’s writing. Here are some references that I feel will ease not only my mind but others as well.

♡ ♡ ♡

I never liked spoilers or skipping to the end of a book. It is worse when not given a choice because you lived the ending. It is the one time I think I will forgive myself for knowing what happens. - Hope

Chapter 1

That was the thing about fame and celebrity. Not only was it choosy but sporadic. Either someone had it or not. Maybe they knew the right people in the right place or time. That something in that particular someone was in Elvis Presley. He had Soul that knew no bounds.

It did not matter who you were or where. You heard the hit That’s All Right playing on a forty-five record or the radio. There were plenty of black artists with the same blinding celebrity (additionally, original lyrics) and not enough room for them in the mainstream. Sam Phillips at Sun Records had tried, but bills need to be paid. Even black radio stations diversified their range. Who could blame anyone? Despite the racial barriers and tension, it was not peculiar to be familiar with white culture. Elvis bridged the gap to some degree. The majority of folks who didn't care for it were older and privy to keeping things the same. 

I could feel the change coming. Just not when. 

Doctor King had been making headway around the same time at just twenty-five, but word traveled slow, and others were afraid. Either way, the younger generation wanted things to be different. I never felt any different from anyone else outside of being told I was. There is an invisible line constantly present yet flamboyant signs of being unwelcome. As a little girl, I understood that despite feeling the same as another little girl of pale complexion, I was not. I never felt that way on Beale Street. Most of us found solace in the surrounding area. A different world all on its own. Looking back, I imagined Elvis felt similarly. Not that I always was around to catch him on Beale Street. Everyone has at least one story. Once, my good friend Aletha came back to me years before about how she spotted a "white boy" walking about and staring in a suit shop window or perusing the area like he owned the place.

“Ain’t it just the most absurd thing you ever heard, Hope?” She had said.

“It’s somethin’, alright,” I replied in amusement, not thinking much of it. “But I don’t think him buyin’ a three-dollar shirt is ownin’ the place.”

  Only when I saw him for myself did I believe it. By then, it was commonplace. I stood across the street leaning against the cool brick in the shade, nursing a hand-rolled cigarillo. Too many vehicles and passersby blocking my view. Slicked jet black hair, its ducktail staring back, and only a reflection I could barely see in that same shop window he was ogling. My eyes wandered to the sign Lansky Bros. and back to him again. That time he went inside seemed to be for more than a measly shirt by the state of his dress. I never fully caught a glimpse of his face, but something about him had been familiar. I didn’t take to staring at white men much anyhow. My mama always said I had to be careful around those folks. Move off the sidewalk, keep your eyes down, and don’t do this or that. 

By 1956, I was twenty and Elvis was twenty-one. He had become one of the biggest names out of Memphis for Hound Dog. There was not a soul who was not aware of him. I had so much as became a passive fan. His take on music struck a chord in me that I was embarrassed to admit. My daddy detested the idea of listening to anything but black artists among generally supporting all things black. It left a deep-seated pit in my stomach. It was unavoidable once in the throes of Club Handy. The summer heat had simmered down to autumn and made for lax evenings. Gaining access to the club before the peak influx was the most ideal. The odds of a mass of commotion outside had been less expected when he showed up and hurried inside. I watched alongside Aletha from a nearby window while people tried to clamber or beg their way. Only then, as if the wailing guitar filling the air had stopped, did I turn to see him striding along with B.B. King. B.B. had spoken of Elvis in passing at church long ago, but nothing like seeing them conversing excitedly while rounding the bar. 

“You might wanna close your mouth before ya catch flies.” Aletha leaned in to tease.

“I’ll do you one better,” I murmured before finishing my glass and giving myself an excuse. “Catch more with honey.” I breathed out after a burning gulp.

“Hope…” Aletha said skeptically. She looked ready to wrangle me into my seat. It might have been the booze burning in my belly loosening me up. I figured there was no harm in approaching. One second I was smoothing down my skirt and hair, then standing beside B.B. the next. He took notice when my arm brushed his. His face lit up quickly in recognition.

“Just when I didn’t think the night could get better. There’s always Hope.” B.B. grinned, too proud of himself for his tired-out pun. 

I suddenly felt my heart in my throat when Elvis’s head turned from the bartender towards me. I had never seen such bright and open eyes on me before. Neither such an ostentatious lace shirt paired with a suit jacket did nothing to hide the skin beneath. My eyes raised again to somewhere more appropriate—the healing cut on his cheek and its unusual hue shiny with a salve. I had heard about what happened at whichever gas station he had been at in the papers. No one ever took him for a legitimate ruffian before then.

“I finally had a moment to catch up with you. You’re hardly around in Memphis anymore. Thought I’d catch you before you get lost in the events of the evening and the road callin’ your name,” I smiled and placed my empty glass on the bar. “Don’t be rude. Introduce me.” 

“If you gave me a moment, girl.” B.B. chuckled and took the slightest step back so Elvis and I could see one another. “EP, this is essentially my little sister and shadow Hope. Hope, Elvis.” B.B. gestured between them. Elvis was the first to outstretch his hand and I followed suit. His touch was gentle and appropriate for greeting a lady. No different from any other woman he might be meeting.

“It’s very nice to meet you. Hope, is it? A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” Elvis grinned while trying to catch my eyes. I was shaking his hand much too long while the shock rippled through me and the alcohol failed to uphold its purpose. The most downright sinful electricity filled me when he spoke. I swore the Creator himself was ready to strike me down for it. I was nodding despite myself.

“Yes. I mean, thank you, Mr. Presley--” I started.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. That would be my father. Just Elvis is fine.” He offered a lop-sided smile. I would have blushed if I could have. The rosy blush on my cheeks did enough on its own. The budding sweat, on the contrary, could be blamed on the close-knit environment. Elvis, too, if I was truthful. I finally let go of his hand and looked at B.B. as if just remembering he was standing there. There was an amused, silent exchange the blues singer gave me that was gone as quickly as it had shown.

“What are you havin’?” B.B. asked and signaled the barback again. The opening was closed again as B.B. leaned against the bar while I took the stool.

“Whisky, neat.” I raised a brow and felt the smirk creeping on my lips. If B.B. was paying, I was drinking. Elvis placed a hand on his chest and held the other upward in defeat.

“Now, that is not a girl you want to mess with. Huh, B.B.?” Elvis smiled at me again. With all their drinks handed out, I felt that much lighter. Our glasses and bottles clinked in a chorus of ‘cheers’.  After a few minutes of chatting, pretending everything was normal, Aletha joined my side. I loved her like a sister, but it could not have been more poorly timed. Someone had come by to let B.B. know his set was next. 

“Break a leg,” I told him from behind the rim of my glass.

“I hope it’s both.” Elvis quipped before letting out a hearty laugh. The sound was unlike any other without the static of a poor radio signal or television screen in the way.

“Let’s hope.” B.B. clapped his free hand on Elvis’s shoulder and spun on his heel towards the stage. 

The unoccupied stool left room for Elvis to scoot over, and he did. I would have paid for that sort of sober confidence at twenty. What are the chances I would get to speak to Elvis Presley alone ever again? Let alone see him where women would not be trying to tear his clothes off. Aletha was more than favorable. She passed the (forsaken) brown paper bag test and was narrow-nosed. Curvaceous in places that would take months' worth of meals for me to compete. My insecurities blinded me once I introduced them. Their casual banter carried on with inquisitive, casual plights. Aletha never appeared to have the same shyness or awkwardness I carried with me everywhere. 

“You’re awfully quiet,” Elvis said. His eyes scanned the crowd, lingering there. 

“Sorry?” I looked up from the amber liquid swirling around in the glass. Taking to people watching and B.B. setting up had been a lazy escape.

“You’re awfully quiet,” He repeated and cocked his head to the side, dipping to meet my eye level. Stray strands of hair fell into his face. I hated how much I liked it. The teenage girl in me wanted to save it to memory for when I would have to reminisce about his lost presence. I shrugged and shook my head dismissively. “Let’s dance.” He reached back to place his nearly empty bottle atop the bar.

The panic returned, my heart hammering in my chest. I spared a glance at Aletha observing. She shrugged and reached to take my glass from my hand. The look she gave me said I would be crazy not to dance with Elvis Presley. My mouth fell open ready to utter an alibi without a chance. He pulled me out to the floor. Wistful bodies moved to the guitar, and B.B.’s voice crooned a lovelorn tale that sent my mind elsewhere. Elvis drew me into his arms, one hand on my lower back and the other clasped in mine. Time seemed to slow down. The worry of being near a man different from me felt pointless under his touch.

“This alright, darlin’?” Elvis leaned in with his lips near my ear. All I could do was nod. When he withdrew, he was watching me, reading my face. It warmed my chill exterior Elvis was willing to ask. All I could do was focus on him lest I catch anyone staring. There was a flash and another in our specific direction. Someone took a picture of us, that worry festering again. 

“Doesn’t that bother you?” I asked and dropped my chin down towards my chest. Maybe if I shrunk, I would magically become the size of a pea. We swayed from side to side as the bystanders' cheering became louder. Elvis stepped in closer with his knee nudged between my own. He dropped his head so I could hear him better and held my hand against his chest. Lord, what was happening?

“Why should it, Hope?” He rumbled and brought their hips closer. “It don’t matter to me.” Elvis affirmed. Every movement shared was guided by those devilish hips. 

“I think you know why,” I answered a bit too breathlessly for my liking. How tempting to close my eyes and let Elvis sweep me away. 

“I’ve never been one to care about those sorta things. It’s how I was raised by my mama and daddy. Sometimes folks don’t know what they’re missin’.” He explained warmly and drew back enough to smile at me. I was unaware, at the time, of his childhood in Tupelo or the friends he kept. Elvis’s smile was shit-eating though not cocky. Playful at best. 

“First I’m hearing about it…” I trailed off. 

A weary sigh left me. I gave in to the closeness, lying my head on his chest. He was firm and steady. Parts of myself stirred that I didn’t often face. The warm ache in my lower stomach, familiar and unwelcome, was assuaged by him and the density of the room. I swore it felt akin for him as well. I wanted to snap out of it. Instead, I wondered what it would be like to have him on my bed. Whatever spell Elvis Presley had cast on me was reeling me in. I had never gone that far with a man. I was not planning to start there. When the song faded away, I separated from Elvis. The distance helped to clear my head of the cobwebs. That picture was going to be in the papers tomorrow. The world could not find a more avid reader than my father. He would be the least of my worries once every consumer of the paper got a look at me. I tucked my hair behind my ear before joining in on the applause. Pretending was not something I was ever capable of doing. I excused myself, moving out of reach from Elvis. There was a tug at my arm to slow me down and I tugged right back.

“Hope, wait a minute, would you?” Elvis asked. “I can’t understand what’s wrong if ya don’t talk to me.” His long legs carried him around to face me quicker than I could manage.

“That’s it, Elvis, I don’t have to. I’m not some trollop you can carry off into the night. Alright?” I answered heatedly. A poor attempt to put my foot down and create space. Beelining towards where Aletha remained at the bar, I pointed towards the exit that would lead us downstairs. She gave me a look of disbelief once more. I thought Aletha of everyone would be understanding of how ludicrous it had become. Had she been watching us at all? When her eyes skipped past me, I turned again to find Elvis waiting patiently. I was so sure he was a man who had become accustomed to getting what he wanted. The three of us could be stubborn together.

“I would like to see you home, at least. Aletha too, if she’s comin’.” Elvis offered, waiting. He pursed his lips at me when I didn’t answer immediately. In the lull, his eyes lit up again. I would be added to the list of people who struggled to tell him no.

“You are trouble.” I looked at him meekly from under my lashes.

“I’m evil, sugar.” He said, pearly teeth shining bright. ♡ ♡ ♡ A/N: I wouldn't have written this or posted it without the encouragement from the people who left comments and asked to be tagged. Thanks for reading! This chapter was mainly just to set the foundation as much as possible. It gets better (I think...). Taglist: @wonderprince @4niah

[seat-safety-switch]

You might never have seen a Pontiac J2000. In fact, I’d reckon most people alive today haven’t. You don’t even have to be very young to have missed it the first time around. Five or six years past the initial year, their corpses were already clogging up junkyards. It wasn’t because the cars were bad, or at least not any worse than General Motors’ other fine products. Back then, folks just didn’t think that a 90-horsepower mustard-coloured family car that rusts like a sacrificial anode would become a collectible item. And they were right.

Even though I like to think I’ve seen and done it all, I am still very surprised when some ancient time-machine artifact like an original ‘82 J2000 pops up in my town. It looks so out of place, a relic that was inexplicably preserved for forty years, like opening a fridge at the dump and finding peanut butter jars from the Vietnam War. I went back a few times that day, just to make sure I had actually seen it. I would have taken a picture, but my phone was so full of pictures of domestic cars that it was no longer willing to operate until I took at least one picture of a mid-00s Toyota RAV4 to recalibrate its thought-matrix.

It’s gone now, because you can’t park something like that outside. No, not because of thieves (they don’t want it,) or the salt. The reason you can’t, is because the universe will see it. And the universe hates it when it “missed one.” Ever seen that movie, Last of the Mohicans? It’s about a car called the Ford Mohican and the little boy who tries to save it from being scrapped. What do you mean, it’s based on a book? Like a Haynes manual? No, I haven’t seen it. Stop interrupting, we’re trying to talk about Pontiacs here.

I’ve gone back every day since, in the hope that I was simply wrong. This car must have been raptured up into wherever those cars go. Maybe it’s in Jay Leno’s secret harem of domestic shitboxes. Perhaps it’s in a special, more exclusive junkyard than the one I go to, for moneyed elites who wear pants and respect the rules against carrying in plasma cutters.

Before I die, though, I’ve got to know where they all went. That’s where my new plan comes in. I’ve purchased a 2005 Saturn Astra, an exotic future-car, and stuffed it into the parking garage of the apartment building near me. If it stays indoors until 2045, then I’ll be able to park it on the street and see where it goes. Maybe I’ll go with it, although I have the feeling I wouldn’t enjoy front-wheel-drive Chevy heaven. I already feel like I’m spending all of eternity trying to make a ropey shifter feel like it’s still attached to the gearbox.

[rebelsofshield]

Star Wars: Andor ”Kassa,” “That Would Be Me,” and “Reckoning”-Review

Star Wars television reaches new heights in this grimy, personal story of the first days of revolution.

(Review contains spoilers and plot points for the first three episodes of Andor)

Cassian Andor (Diego Luna) is on the run. When a lead on his missing sister goes sour and leaves two dead Pre-Mor Security officers in its wake, Cassian desperately searches for a way to cover his tracks and get off planet before things get worse. Luckily his friend and ex-lover, Bix (Adria Arjona) has a contact that might be interested in buying a valuable piece of stolen technology. However, this man (Stellan Skarsgård) has machinations of his own and very soon Cassian finds himself drawn into an intergalactic game of cat and mouse that is way bigger than he ever imagined.

Rogue One is a strange film. In some ways it is the most personal and lived in installment in the Star Wars franchise. Its main characters aren’t Jedi, but disparate and diverse freedom fighters fighting against a tyrannical empire. Its alien environments feel populated by organic, multispecies crowds of civilians, criminals, fascists, and rebels. At its best, Rogue One makes the Galaxy Far, Far Away feel much closer. Where the 2016 film struggles though, is in giving its central cast of characters the emotional and personal depth that their design and presence might suggest. We have an idea of who these characters are but not why they behave the way the do or what their wants or desires might be.

Its for this reason that the announcement of Andor was both something exciting but also confusing. Diego Luna is an undeniably talented actor and he made the most out of a stoic and sometimes cold character, but was there really a story to tell about rebel assassin and spy, Cassian Andor? Especially considering the fiery end of his story serves as the climax of the first film he appeared in?

The short answer is that yes, Andor, absolutely has a story to tell. The long answer is that showrunner and head writer Tony Gilroy, who served as a co-writer and co-director for Rogue One, has crafted a show that not only is compelling and exciting in its own right, but retroactively makes its source material better and may just be the best live action Star Wars product produced in at least five years.

Much of what makes Andor such a success is how it takes the every man aesthetic of Rogue One and makes it into the modus operandi of the series. Despite how often Star Wars has gestured at producing narratives about the galactic every man, Andor, is the closest the franchise has ever gotten to showing us the day to day lives and effects of those living under the long arm of the Galactic Empire. It takes the crowded streets and grimy settings of Rogue One and finds a way to populate them with characters that almost instantly feel real, emotionally accessible, and psychologically complicated. Its fantastic production design does environmental storytelling with ease and confidence. Toby Hayne’s direction feels intimate and personal without being afraid to pull us back into moments of grandeur and spectacle.

But, of course, Andor, despite its eventual galactic stakes, is really the story of a man. And that man is way more complex and messy than we may have ever believed. Over its first three episodes Andor paints Cassian Andor as a person whose life has routinely been upended by galactic forces beyond his control and whose own personal decision making is flawed and sometimes disastrous. When we first meet Cassian, he’s wandering down a rain soaked Blade Runner-esque redlight district in search of a sister that he hasn’t seen for decades. And mirroring his first appearance in Rogue One, this stop for information ends up with Andor gunning down a man in a dark alley. But unlike the cold detachment we are used to, Andor’s act of violence is one of desperation and panic. He doesn’t necessarily feel bad about shooting down a corrupt cop, but it’s not something he’s used to and it’s definitely not something he can brush off. Cassian knows that the instant he pulls that trigger that his life is not going to be the same and it’s a very smart narrative move that the rest of this three episode arc spills out of the consequences of this one split second moment of violence.

Back on his current homeworld of Ferrix, Cassian ends up having to pull in favors and grifts from the various members of his community. There are dock workers and scrappers that know his name and whom Cassian owes money. There’s his ex Bix and her new current boyfriend Timm Karlo (James McArdle) who become entangled in Andor’s attempt to cover his tracks both due to lingering emotions and also Bix’s connections to a mysterious benefactor. There’s the adorably affectionate droid B2EMO (Dave Chapman) who looks at Cassian as both an owner/caretaker but also something of a wayward younger brother. And finally there’s Fiona Shaw’s Maarva Andor, Cassian’s adoptive mother. Andor effortlessly builds this ensemble of characters and not only succeeds in contextualizing them within Andor’s own social and emotional circle, but also gives them own rich and layered personal lives. These are characters that feel human in flawed and shockingly normal ways. They get jealous, they have sex, they can be friendly and mad with one another at the same time. For a franchise that has so long now been concerned with the metaphysical and larger mythological storytelling, there’s something undeniably refreshing about seeing a complicated conversation between two maybe friends, maybe enemies, maybe lovers that feels layered in the personal and not the galactic. Tony Gilroy’s dialogue is effective and natural and draws us further into the universe and that’s not just because we get our first in-canon use of the word “shit.”

In a smart move though, this isn’t the only family of Cassian’s that we meet. In delightfully designed and wonderfully understated flashback sequences, we meet Cassian, or Kassa, in his early years on the abandoned mining world of Kenari. There is something idyllic in how Toby Haynes directs these sequences, showcasing a tribe of children wearing patched together clothing and eking out a life in a tropical rain forest. But of course, even here, the larger galaxy finds a way to come crashing in. When a fiery craft comes tumbling out of the sky, Cassian and his fellow tribe members travel to the wreckage and uncover visitors from another world that violently upend their understanding of the universe. But in an even smarter storytelling move, its not these strange visitors that end up taking Kassa off world and separating him from his younger sister, Kerri. Instead, it’s thief Maarva Andor, who sees this young boy angrily striking at a spaceship that has changed his world, and takes pity on him. It’s an act of kindness that ends up being a disastrous misunderstanding. It speaks smartly on how even benevolent intentions of colonial behavior can often do damage that isn’t immediately apparent, on the personal and macro level.

This theme of colonialism, empire, and the specter of authoritarianism of course plays into the series villains. And what delightfully malevolent and pathetic bunch they are. In an inspired move, Tony Gilroy doesn’t start us off with the Empire as our big bad. Instead, the force of tyranny are a corporate security entity hired out by the central planets to police the areas of the galaxy that are either too far away or too insignificant to warrant their full attention. It’s a creative bit of world building and effortlessly helps create a feeling of scale that is often easy to forget in the casual planet hopping of Star Wars media. And the face that Andor gives to this threat is the wonderfully portrayed Syril Karn (Kyle Soller). Karn is the kind of middle management fascist that makes the banal evil of Empire feel all the more accessible. He’s a man that believes just a little too hard in his job and the modicum of power it gives him. His ambitions shoot higher than his ability, and his actual experience in the field is woefully inadequate. Karn begins as a character that is joyfully fun to hate and slowly transforms into an understandable representation of every day evil and oppression. I’m already invested in his journey and the messy winding route its likely to take. He’s the perfect kind of antagonist for this sort of narrative.

And of course, finally getting to see Cassian and the members of Ferrix fight back is a gratifying moment of small scale rebellion that hints at much larger, much more dramatic things to come.

If there’s anything that Andor is really struggling with so far, it’s a matter of pacing. While I’ve seen some fans and critics describe the series as slow or even boring (I disagree on both accounts), the real issue is that each episode, or at least the ones that we have seen so far, fails to feel like its own unique chapter of a narrative. The endings of the first two episodes, “Kassa” and “That Would Be Me,” just sort of happen upon the viewer abruptly. There aren’t clear episodic arcs or plots, but rather just stopping points. It makes sense in this regard why Lucasfilm and Disney+ would decide to release this first batch of episodes in one three episode chunk. By the end of “Reckoning” we do feel like we’ve reached some form of temporary conclusion, a satisfying one at that, but had we watched the the prior two episodes on their own before that, I wouldn’t blame viewers for being a little confused and let down. The heavily serialized nature of Andor so far is definitely one of its strengths, but it would do well to learn that installments of a whole can still feel complete in their own right. If Andor ends up being 10 week movie broken up into awkwardly sliced bits, many of its many, many strengths may end up being undercut.

Even with this, it’s hard to describe the sheer joy I felt watching Andor. It may be a dark and sometimes ponderous show, but it’s so refreshing to see Star Wars made with such obvious craft and care again. If The Mandalorian succeeds despite its underwritten characters and Obi-Wan at its best told emotional stories in a bland and under realized production, Andor somehow manages to succeed across the board. It makes a Star Wars show that is thrilling to look at and personally engaging. It proves that the franchise can in fact work on this smaller scale without giving up much of what makes it feel like itself. It may need to settle into its groove a bit more as the season progresses, but I haven’t been this eager to see new Star Wars in quite a while.

“Kassa” Score: A- “That Would Be Me” Score: B+ “Reckoning” Score: A-

[marmorada]

So, this needs backstory I think, because it might seem like a weird overreaction if you don't know my existing obsessions lol.

When I was in high school, my OCD came into the forefront and made me totally nonfunctional. I'm talking couldn't leave my room or eat food or anything, and despite intensive therapy the miasma clung to me very hard. Despite having the strategies I needed I couldn't pull myself out of the mentality. At this point I had been out of school for months and had had to drop my AP classes, so I landed in Film once I got back. Our first assigned film ended up being I'm Not There by Todd Haynes, a surrealist quasi-biopic about Bob Dylan. It felt like a wakeup call. For the first time I realized what art could mean and do. Not just that, but it was mine. This was the kind of art I was born to do. It ended up being such a powerful distraction that I couldn't spend my energy on compulsions anymore.

Before this I was a very rigid, structured and humorless person. I avoided anything that made me feel weird or uncomfortable and conducted myself rigidly because I'd always had anxiety and didn't want anything rocking the boat. I've always been an artist, but hyperrealism was the limit of my ambition back then. I didn't think I should go to art school. I became a completely different person after this. I pored over Tarantula and The Secret Life of Salvador Dalí. I started meditating to try and access the kind of inspiration the great Surrealist masters reported. I listened to Dylan and other songwriters for hours, as if I could peel back the membrane and learn what made them tick. I actually joined tumblr originally for rare Dylan photos lmao. I realized to be a real artist I needed to stop the agoraphobia and collect real experiences. I was never a "summer of love" person but I got very interested in 'the scene' otherwise. If it was weird, I wanted it. I also became obsessed with horror precisely because I couldn't withstand it. I started testing my limits with all the horror movies I could find, and eventually it crystallized into an interest in horror that focused on the nature of inhumanity (this is important).

So of course both artistically and out of leisure I'm all very bound up in Rock n Roll. I've seen Bob Dylan live twice, I have a vinyl collection including Rolling Stones bootlegs, a Jefferson Airplane first pressing (Surrealistic Pillow), tons of Lou Reed...

It was a great several years. Of course, things have changed since I got my art degree. My mother got cancer, and I never really recovered. Where my first OCD obsession was about my own mortality, up close and personal knowledge of hers was devastating. I've been depressed and have pushed deep art away since 2014. It got worse when she was killed 4 years ago. I've been passively searching for something that fulfills my interests but it always feels like things miss the mark.

For whatever reason, Youtube has been showing me recommendations for videos with views under a thousand. And so the other day, this was what it showed me:

Now, I am still rigid in some ways. Everything has to be perfect for me to experience a new piece of art the first time. (I refuse to relegate this to streaming and must instead buy a blu ray and get a player of course, in the same way I don't listen to classic rock albums until I have a really old vinyl record...) And things are different this time. I don't have my whole future in front of me, and I'm stuck in a difficult living situation. I am in the middle of a row with my father who I really can't escape from in this tiny little house. Something is wrong with my hands neurologically that won't be tested properly until December, so I can't draw or sculpt about it. So it feels like it's not the right time to dive in. I've been watching the video on loop for days. Of course I am deathly fucking afraid it won't live up to the hype I've created...

So, when a movie that's a horror rock opera tragedy about the corruption of art, with a protagonist losing his humanity, with the best visual style I have ever seen comes by? And it's directed by the guy that fucking filmed Carrie? Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Look, there are rock operas and horror films and good visuals. But altogether? And with a VERY strong emphasis on visual design (this being distinct from cinematographic aesthetic) coming together in one of the coolest costumes possible, something I am sure was rearranged for each shot to ensure precise composition between the mask and his eyes? They even change the makeup between shots for proper emphasis without regard towards continuity. And I'm convinced there are two masks with slightly different contours... The fact that it juxtaposes tragedy with glam rock ridiculousness, that they're willing to do with something as weird as metal teeth and a flamboyant singer named BEEF-- Everything about this movie is (apparently) done completely at the whims of De Palma here. It's art in its pure form, fully supported and realized.

The movie, naturally, was a total box office failure. But I don't think anybody making it cared. What studio greenlights gothic Faustian fiction crossed with glam debauchery????

I mean, the whole story of this movie is that this guy is so dedicated to his artistic vision that he is clawing through death. A lot of the time, art about art feels like masturbatory kitsch garbage to me, but not here. William Finley's passion here is so arresting. Other people might attribute these unbridled shows of emotion to scenery chewing, but to me it's sincerity.

It's like part of me is back and insisting I don't let go. I have to find a way to be who I was supposed to be.

Maybe, when I finish my professional certs and finally get a job that combines my graphic design degree and new technical skills and get away from my father, I can. I will probably never become a filmmaker, which, underneath the fine art and writing I've always held close, I have secretly considered the epitome of art. But I can try.

There needs to be a word for when you're so overpowered by an artistic work that you can't do anything else for days and days

[i-watch-too-many-movies]

5 Favorite First Viewings of July 2021

Quick note: Hi everyone, I'm back, things have honestly been getting better for me, and I'm glad to be on this site full of cinephiles, people that are too horny, and cinephiles that are too horny. I'll be more active on here. But anyway, let's talk about some movies.

Beyond the Valley of the Dolls (1970) (dir. Russ Meyer)

CW: Abortion mention

What a picture. What a gorgeous, sexy, horrifying slice of what Hollywood and star life can do to a bunch of bright-eyed young people looking for success. Also is a critique of how macho nature can ruin friendships and romantic relationships with total ease. I was obsessed with the scene transitions, like Pet pouring pancake mix onto a plate after the abortion scene, or Kelly singing after someone screams before their murder in the opening scene.

Great, campy flick with exceptional music too.

Deep Cover (1992) (dir. Bill Duke)

Laurence Fishburne plays Russell Stevens, a Cincinnati police officer who hopes to do well by the community, to make a difference. He’s traumatized by the death of his substance-abusing father, and wants to make sure that he can help the people of his own town. He goes undercover on assignment as a drug dealer, where his boss orders him to take down the kingpin. Stevens realizes the police’s own failings while on assignment. The racist abuse he takes from Agent Carver, and the realization that the police department is protecting drug kingpins like Gallegos and Barbossa. Giving drugs to Black kids and Latinx kids so there will be less of them. The cops are no different than the drug kingpins looking to make filthy amounts of money.

Fishburne’s performance is excellent, as Stevens feels he has to maintain a stone face so he doesn’t get caught by Jason or Barbossa or any of his cronies, but also he maintains a stone face to try and hide his emotion, his trauma. But when he gets pissed, Fishburne acts it beautifully, as is when he has to deliver a funny quip to counter Jason’s douchebaggery. And the production design, holy fuck, the sets and the lighting.

A perfect neo-noir for the HW Bush years, arguably one of the most timeless commentaries on the era, as well as the police as a whole.

Fast Five (2011) (dir. Justin Lin)

I was torn between including this or Furious 7, but I ultimately went with Fast Five because it felt like an important turning point in the series, it's a great heist film, and it reached the same chaotic highs and genuinely excellent filmmaking that I had been waiting for since 2 Fast and Tokyo Drift.

Fast Five opens where Fast & 4ious left off. Dom is hauled away to prison on a bus. Mia and Brian drive in their high-tech cars and knock the bus over, helping Dom escape. The title drops. Fast Five. It’s such an intense yet short action scene, and dropping the title immediately after it lets the viewer know that this movie is not fucking around. It’s arguably gonna be more intense and insane than the previous one.

And it is. The filmmakers made the decision to use a lot more practical stunt work for the film, and as a result, it leads to, so far, the best action in the entire series, since 2 Fast and Tokyo Drift. It’s not just how it’s shot or edited, it’s the geography of the locations, the rooftop chase echoes the rooftop chase of Jackie Chan’s masterwork Police Story, particularly the way each character bounces from top to top.

And of course, there’s the silliest moment in the movie, the one that matches the intensity and kineticism of a film like 2 Fast, which is driving the Reyes’ bank vault throughout the street, getting chased by corrupt cops.

I know we make fun of Vin Diesel for saying “family” all the time in these films, but there’s a reason we remember him saying all of these impassioned monologues. Because he’s unbelievably sincere, and has so much love in his heart for every single person in the room. Anytime he delivers a speech to any of them, it’s genuinely heartwarming.

This is the film that finally shows La Familia in their best environment, which is working together, in a movie genre that allows them to work together, which is a heist film. And a great one at that.

Last Days (2005) (dir. Gus Van Sant)

CW: Mention of suicide

Several films have been made about legendary rock artist Kurt Cobain, and for good reason. He is one of the most tragic figures in rock and roll. A tortured genius who has written and performed classic song after classic song with his band Nirvana. He was called the voice of a generation, and helped change the face of mainstream alternative rock music as we know it. But with that fame, and all of those expectations came a worsening depression and further drug abuse, and his eventual death. But most of the films about Kurt Cobain ask one question which gets under my skin way too much:

“Who REEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLY killed Kurt Cobain?”

It was him. He did. And it’s okay, I’m sad too. Thinking that Kurt Cobain was murdered is completely ignoring the depression that he faced. And despite Last Days being more inspired by the death of Cobain rather than actually about it, it feels much more honest than the conspiracy documentaries on his death, wanting to leech off of his dead body.

This is the last installment of Gus Van Sant’s “Death Trilogy”, the previous two installments being Gerry (2001), and Elephant (2003). While I have not seen Gerry, I have seen Elephant though, and love that film for its minimalist, raw nature, and its boldness for not romanticizing the school shooter or the lives they had taken. Last Days falls into that trap once, as I don’t agree with the shot of Blake’s soul climbing up a ladder, that always struck me as cheesy in a film that is anything but.

Last Days is similar to Elephant in terms of the way it is filmed. Its usage of long takes, and still shots of characters doing various things, such as Blake playing his guitar behind a drum set. The way these moments are shot is similar to a Chantal Akerman film, particularly Jeanne Dielman. Where the acts of the mundane are the stars of the film. Blake wanders around an empty house, and the viewer can feel the pain, not just through Michael Pitt’s acting, but from the house itself. Its decay, its paint peeling from the walls, from the soft glow of the lamp that lights his face.

I say this is the most honest film about Kurt Cobain, because, despite the characters technically being fictional (the main character who looks, walks, and acts like Cobain is named Blake), this film focuses on the mental state of a person before they eventually take their own life. They’re still working, still making music, still trying to talk to friends and bandmates, but the depression lingers on. Not once does this film try to make you believe that someone else killed him, because you can see the signs of his own suicide taking place just through the film’s excellent cinematography by Harris Savides, showing his mental state only growing worse through the production design.

And it’s empathetic with him. There’s no judgement for leaving rehab, there’s no finger-wagging at him or the people he was with, there’s just a silent prayer at the end of the film, hoping that he is in a better place than he was.

Sometimes you don’t need to show every event that led you to where you are, all you can show is the moment, which also makes this better than most biopics as well, as it never feels messy or muddled, just showing one moment of Blake/Kurt’s life.

I really loved this film, and I’ll be writing about it in full soon.

The Village (2004) (dir. M. Night Shyamalan)

The Cracked.com/Channel Awesome audience stuck in 2012 will tell you that this was the beginning of the end for Shyamalan. That this was when people stopped taking him seriously, that this was when he became more of a punchline because of his twist endings.

But why?

The Village was released in 2004, deep in the Bush administration, during the early stages of the Iraq War. The leaders of the time were talking about imaginary boogeymen, terrorists that would attack the civilians if they could. Because of 9/11, politicians could get away with these false ideas with the majority of Americans fully believing them. The boogeymen in The Village are “The People We Don’t Speak Of”, monsters attracted by the color red. Yet we find out that they are all costumes made by the Elders of the land, designed to prevent people from going outside the land. They rule by fear disguised as love. They’ve gone through their own traumas through the deaths of their family members, but they’ve decided to completely abandon the lives that they’ve had and have their children living lies.

9/11 impacted American life by teaching citizens to live primarily by fear, to not trust anyone but their own people. And yet, post-9/11, all that increased was not “coming together”, but hate crimes against South Asian people. The rage white Americans had felt led to conservative politicians pushing fear-mongering agendas, and said white Americans blindly accepted. The outside world was progressing, but too many people were fine with living with further conservative politics only regressing American life further and further back, all for the illusion of safety. Meanwhile, the only threats to them were not the brown citizens outside of America they were so afraid of, but the white elders, the white politicians.

The Village explores these fears so eloquently, all while having a terrifying atmosphere, an enchanting score, and brilliant sound design. I enjoyed this movie very much.

Other viewings I enjoyed:

Beavis and Butt-Head Do America (1996) (dir. Mike Judge) (re-watch)

Blow Out (1981) (dir. Brian de Palma) (re-watch)

Clueless (1995) (dir. Amy Heckerling) (re-watch)

Furious 7 (2015) (dir. James Wan)

The Long Goodbye (1973) (dir. Robert Altman)

Lupin III: The First (2019) (dir. Takashi Yamazaki)

Unbreakable (2000) (dir. M. Night Shyamalan) (re-watch)

Velvet Goldmine (1998) (dir. Todd Haynes)

The Visit (2015) (dir. M. Night Shyamalan)

[defensefilms]

Defense Films Lists His Favorite TV Characters Of All Time

5. Chris Partlow- The Wire

The ending of The Wire paints Chris Partlow as something closer to a serial killer. 

He wasn’t. None of his hits were done out of pleasure, curiosity or even impulse. Every one of those bodies helped the Stanfield organization become what they became, even the one on Michael’s stepdad.

What Chris represents is reliability and capability. The ultimate “get shit done” guy. Out of all the characters on the show, none were more dependable or crucial to the success of the institution they served. 

Lester Freeman was capable but not a good politician and ultimately a nuisance to his superiors. Bill Rawls was incredibly capable at his job but he was power hungry and ambitious. In season 5, Gus Haynes is the most capable man in the news office but the problem was that Gus questioned authority and didn’t “go with the flow” when the office decided the paper needed a “refreshing” of how they cover the local news.

Chris didn’t have any of these handicaps impeding the people he served.

He recruits the foot soldiers for the Stanfield crew, even training them himself and Marlo had something akin to a small army at his disposal as a result. He organized his sub-ordinates, handled all surveillance when Marlo’s crew was under investigation at the start of season 5 and took care of incoming shipments after they established a direct line to the Greeks. 

When the task required finesse or subtlety, like the time he stole Sergey’s picture from the court office, he was more than capable of that too. When Marlo is questioning how to address the murder of one of his dealers, he listens to Chris and chooses to retaliate on the perpetrator directly rather than targeting everyone on his corner. 

Marlo truly comes to rely on Chris in matters concerning Omar Little. Every step of how Marlo wants to get back at the near mythical larcenist, is first passed by Chris. Chris takes this as his number one job throughout the show. Anything concerning Omar is handled with brutal efficiency, tact and an almost out ouf place  sense of professional pride. 

That’s Chris’ most endearing quality. Through all the blood, guts, scheming, lying, betrayal that comprises Baltimore’s underworld, all of which Chris is very much a part of, he has a pride in how he approaches the day to day business aspects of what he does. 

Stringer Bell is arguably the best second-in-command in the show’s run but he was dishonest, ultimately harming the survival of the institution he served and damn near going rogue. 

Chris doesn’t share such qualities as blind ambition or selfishness. He understands that trust is all he has in this game. When the indictments eventually come down and Chris is facing a life sentence he doesn’t complain or even raise the possibility of turning state witness. Instead he ends up on the yard along side Wee-Bay. Marlo in turn makes sure that Chris’ people are taken care of financially.

Many of the men that serve in the various institutions depicted in the show could learn a thing from Chris Partlow. When the time came, he fell on his sword and did so in full acknowledgement that this is where it all leads. There’s a kind of honor in that.

4. Tony Soprano- The Sopranos

One of the biggest misconceptions about The Sopranos was that it was a story about a gangster. It wasn’t, or at the very least, that would be an over-simplification of what the story actually contained.

What it was was a story about a man and his family, both biological and criminal. That’s the tie the binds all of the story’s narratives together.

Another way of looking at Tony’s story is one of leadership. Having ousted his Uncle Junior from the seat of power, season 2 and onwards, as far Tony’s criminal life is concerned, focuses on what happens once you get to the top. 

While the show’s creators gave you plenty of grizzly, violent scenes, what leads to those is the story of a man struggling and failing at leadership. 

In every season, Tony has to deal with a problematic figure, employee or subordinate. 

Season 1 was his Uncle and the idea of old fashioned leadership. Then in season 2 it was the ever-acerbic Richie Aprile, representing a generation older than Tony’s, that still feels entitled to something. Seasons 3 and 4 gave us Ralph Cifaretto, the only one among the men I’m mentioning that actually earns his status and then in season 5, it was his cousin Tony Blundetto.

Each of these problems is uniquely stressful for Tony because of how they pull at the threads of both his family and criminal life. With the exception of his Uncle Junior, he kills all of them.

By that metric, Tony is in fact a very poor leader. 

He doesn’t really deal with the Richie Aprile problem because his sister beats him to it. He doesn’t willingly promote Ralph Cifaretto even though Ralph earns it and is the only one among the candidates with any real intellect and business savvy. In both the cases of Christopher Moltisanti and cousin Tony Blundetto, Tony allows favoritism and nepotism to cloud his judgement and ironically both those men die at Tony Soprano’s hands.

This paints a picture of a tyrannical man, slowly devouring everything around him because he’s got to be in control. Worse yet, his need to be in control doesn’t actually lead to smarter long term decisions or better people management.

Tony’s relationship with Ralph in particular is built on professional envy. He feels entitled to Ralph’s race horse winnings because “why should his subordinate benefit more from anything than he does?”. He then proceeds to take ownership of the racehorse itself without assuming any of the costs of owning the animal. Then to top it off, he steals Ralph’s girlfriend purely because he has the status to do it, even digging in to Ralph’s personal life in order to justify doing so.

Textbook mismanagement. Every type of managerial violation you could imagine.

So how does Tony handle it when an employee is actually being a problem on a criminal/business level?

He rewards Tony Blundetto’s deception after the Joey Peeps killing by letting him run an already profitable gambling joint. He promotes Christopher to “made guy” even with his drug problems being well known, and he promotes Bobby Baccalieri, partly at his sister’s behest and partly out of spite.

 It was fun to watch on screen but you’d hate to work for Tony Soprano.

How does that translate to his family? What kind of leader is Tony at home?

Season 3 does well at examining Tony as a father/paternal figure starting with his relationship with Jackie Jr, which is built on concern at first. Then later it starts to make Tony anxious. Before Tony decides to push nature towards taking it’s course, when Jackie runs afoul of men in Tony’s charge.

His relationship with AJ is also a bigger part of the show as the seasons go and it’s not much better in as far as the leadership or guidance that Tony offers. We can waffle on about AJ’s failings as a spoilt teenager but the real problem is that Tony doesn’t see himself in AJ. 

That’s the first step to any failure of leadership. An inability to find common ground or identify with the people you’re leading.

We won’t go in to how hypocritical it is because the entire way that Tony entered the mob life is because he himself was a mob prince and his father’s status definitely paved the way for him. 

Hypocrisy. That’s the other key to failure in leadership. 

All these negatives added up to make the most fascinating television character in over 20 years. A constant stream of contradictions and watching a man say one thing but do another was it’s own experience and you didn’t realize what a horrible human being you were watching until you saw the show over and over again. A scary observation that implies people are either blind or really comfortable with evil and narcissistic behaviour.

3. Noah Solloway- The Affair

Out of all the characters on this list, this one was hurt most by writers hitting a ceiling in how much they could say about the character or how much they wanted to say.  Divorced men don’t really have that much representation, so if you’re writing a character that so strongly linked to that one particular event in his life, you may hit a ceiling if you don’t actually have real life examples to work with.

They had the right actor, the right story and it was the right time in human history to tell this story, it just felt like they didn’t follow through on really speaking on the plight or rise of guys in Noah’s situation.

Anytime I watched The Affair, and unlike most, I was pretty loyal to it despite what reviews told me, I identified with Noah. All those other characters didn’t make sense to me the way Noah did.

The story begins with my man being stuck in a rut, the kind of middle age funk  married men tend to fall in to, so he drives out to visit some folks and while he’s there he happens to meet a baddie. Story of every man’s life. Only he does what you’re not supposed to do and sacrifices everything he has so he can be with the bad-bad. 

Then my mans starts popping off with his book writing, gets a publishing deal and in his 40′s, he starts achieving his highest career peaks. See this is important because it shows that the writers understood the subject matter really well, as well as the demographic they were talking about.

Then the next season, they go in to some murder mystery plot, Noah ends up in jail somehow, almost as if the writers and producers didn’t feel confident that they could tell Noah’s story without the theatrics/murder mystery element. 

The other danger that the writers probably didn’t want to indulge was rewarding the character with any kind of happy ending or positive outcome. Noah’s infidelity serves as the jumping off point to all of the story’s unfolding plots, mostly depicting the impact on the lives of his immediate family, a handful of which play out in sad dramatic fashion. So the writers likely felt like Noah couldn’t win at the end. 

In the 1930′s when gangster films were first being made, they would commonly feature PSA messages at the start warning against criminal behaviour. 1931′s “Little Caesar” starring Edward G Robinson, features a warning at the end that makes it clear the film’s producers and writers needed the character to go down in flames at the end, to prove the moral point that “crime doesn’t pay”. 

A writer’s moral obligation and the times in which they live can lead some to write the ending that makes a moral point rather than writing the most dramatic or honest ending. I think Noah Solloway kind of suffered from this.

I don’t know. 

There was a chance to explore modern men in a way that most stories fail to. They had the foundation. They knew enough about who and what they’re talking about. However it didn’t manifest in the telling of the story. 

I’m not saying Noah needed a positive ending, it’s just that the one we got was not the most fitting nor did it wind up ending the story honestly or even dramatically.

Noah Solloway should have got the Tony Soprano treatment in as far as how much the writers explored his inner world but instead the show’s creators decided it didn’t matter. They didn’t answer the question of why this happens to modern men.

If nothing else Noah Solloway can be a blueprint or foundation for those telling this story in the future.

 2. Ciro Di Marizio- Gomorrah

About as slimy and as low down as a television character can possibly be. Ciro represents Machiavellian criminality pushed to it’s extremes. 

When writers plot a character’s trajectory, they often fill it with moments that make the character more endearing. Exploring the relationship the character may have with a child, friend or spouse that makes you see the character’s more genuine/compassionate/likeable side. The writers of Gomorrah did plenty of that with Ciro.

However, they didn’t hesitate to show you just how off-the-rails and downright evil Ciro could be. 

What’s funny is that Ciro is defined by loyalty and servitude when the story begins. He is a capable captain and rises to 2nd in command when the Savastano family needs him to. However the death of his close friend and mentor changes him for the worse and he goes ham. 

What follows is betrayal and Ciro basically masterminding a coup of the Savastano clan but the levels of paranoia that his new found power push him to, make him question whether it was all worth it. The world burns around him and a kind of justice is restored when Gennaro is able to take back power and restore the Savastano name. 

That’s one aspect of the show that Ciro truly exemplifies in that he rises to the top but the throne never truly feels like it’s his.

He is Iago-like in his ability to understand the weaknesses of people around him. He proves himself more cunning, capable, strategic, murderous and even business-minded than almost every other character. Every character except for Pietro Savastano (the man he betrays) and Gennaro Savastano. 

The show goes to great lengths to put forth the idea that crime families in Naples are on the same level as the pope. True modern day monarchies. Royal families that have the power to benefit or harm anyone around them. People bow their heads to them when they walk in public and use reverential terms when addressing them. They will often have salons, jewelers  or restaurants cleared out so they can enjoy the establishment in ostentatious privacy. 

When you look at it like that, Ciro was always an outsider. The difference between just sitting on the throne and being born of the throne. 

In that way maybe Ciro’s story is about redemption. 

He eventually sides with Gennaro Savastano again, helping him get his wife and daughter back after they’re kidnapped. He does this by essentially lying to/duping a crew of young dealers from Florence to fund this hostage rescue and then he offers himself as a sacrifice when the Florentines demand blood.

At his best Ciro served the clan and went to great lengths to restore what he had destroyed. 

1. Marlo Stanfield- The Wire

Is there any greater?

Sure there are characters like Tony Soprano whose world and whose inner thoughts the audience gets more familiar and intimate with. Within the same shared universe as Marlo is a character like Stringer Bell and the writers of the Wire go to great lengths to understand and convey his moral conflict as a drug kingpin turned wannabe real estate tycoon. 

Marlo is something purer though. 

You don’t need to know his inner-most thoughts like Tony because his utmost desire is simple, he wants to be the top kingpin of Baltimore. What more do you want?

He does not share Stringer’s moral complexity because unlike Stringer he is not conflicted at all. He’s not a drug dealer playing businessman, he’s just a drug dealer and that’s all he ever wanted to be.

From the start of season 3, it was fascinating watching this man move about on the screen with a confidence reserved for the richest and most talented. Indeed Marlo proves he has both in bundles. 

He outwits the older drug kingpin in Stringer Bell by maintaining independence from the Co-Op. He matches Avon Barksdale’s war effort step-for-step after Avon comes home from prison. He outsmarts the wily, Proposition Joe in order to learn how to launder his money and then get access to the Greeks.

It was fascinating watching Marlo avoid pitfalls, monopolize Baltimore, out-think his older counterparts and grow his empire to the scope that he did. 

There’s a youtube video that compiled all of Marlo’s scenes from his 3 seasons on The Wire and it pretty much plays like a feature film. Watch it here if you dig Marlo as much as I do.

You’re not watching a drug dealer become a kingpin, or at the very least that’s what I believe. It has more to do with watching the younger generation upset the order, and in a lot of ways that’s what Marlo represents. From the moment Marlo shows up, all old agreements are null and void. He does this over and over again throughout his story. Constantly upsetting the order and establishing his own. 

Indeed Marlo isn’t aware that this is what he’s doing. He’s acting on ambition, arrogance and naivety. 

It speaks volumes that most of the characters on this list have on-screen relationships that explore their personalities, like the aforementioned Ciro’s relationship with his daughter. Marlo has none of that.

Marlo’s most revealing relationship is his rivalry with Omar Little, a man he only ever encounters once. The continuation of their feud happens because Marlo refuses to let any perceived slight towards him slide. One way of looking at what this shows is that Marlo is both egoist and perfectionist, the latter of which is actually very prized personality traits in today’s business environment. The combination of the two is actually commonly seen among CEO’s and top executives.

Marlo shows every weakness and drawback of youth while exposing the follies of the more seasoned and experienced in his field. A walking contradiction in that way.

[readforchangeproject]

Chapter 10: I Ruin a Perfectly Good Bus 10/04/21

Feel free to join in with our read along of The Lightning Thief - here's all the info

I love that Annabeth is taking a book on the quest in case she gets bored- a girl of my own heart

OF COURSE Grover listens to Hilary Duff lmao. Do you think he knows 'what dreams are made of' from the Lizzie McGuire movie

I was wondering if Maia was a reference to something so I stuck it into google translate and apparently it means midwife in greek?? that can't be right. there's no way the word that gets the magic shoes to fly is 'midwife' :////

ahhhh okay I've done some more digging and apparently Maia is the name of Hermes's mum- now that makes a lot more sense

Also sounds like Zeus's relationship with Maia was non-consensual. Not as bad as the swan situation but still. This is why Zeus sucks.

"Grover went flying sideways down the hill like a possessed lawnmower" hahha

It's interesting that Chiron says Hercules rather than Heracles

Actually the whole Hercules vs Heracles thing is v interesting in that I can't think of any other instance where the roman name has caught on over the greek. Maybe Neptune I guess. Anyone know why that is?

Wow riptide really said "sorry babe if ur human it's not even worth my energy trying to kill u" #rude

eeeeekkk the narrative that Athena caught Poseidon in her temple 'with his girlfriend' is a bit yikes

Obviously I understand this is a book for kids, and myths vary from version to version anyway but do think it's worth noting that a lot of versions depict this as yet another non-consensual relationship

Which honestly makes it worse that Athena gets mad at Medusa as well as Poseidon. I do think it's interesting that Athena can be presented as very #girlpower but there really aren't many instances of her having positive interactions/relationships with women in greek mythology

If you’re interested in reading more about Medusa and the role of women in greek mythology I'd 100% recommend checking out 'Pandora's Jar' by Natalie Haynes! I read it a couple of months ago and it's a 5/5, very colloquial and readable with lots of insights into the role of women in greek mythology and how and why it's changed over time

This chapter title is fake news. They're getting on another Greyhound bus which, by definition, is NOT a 'perfectly good bus'.

Idk how I feel about the fact that Gabe smells "repulsively human"

Like I get it from a narrative standpoint but it also feels like it's saying Gabe is the epitome of human, if you had something that was 100% fully fledged pure human you'd get Gabe

And I'm not sure I like that. I'd like to think that humans are good at their core and we're not all just people trying our best not to revert back to our natural Gabe-like tendencies

And I reading too deep into this? Yes. Anyway Sally is a trooper and and icon for sticking with Gabe for Percy's sake and I love her

This scene of them playing hackey sack with an apple is so pure!

Did nobody think to give Grover a weapon? Or anything other than a tin can?

Gotta be honest lads, this quest isn't off to a great start

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[boo-cool-robot]

Red White and Royal Blue (Matthew López): Adaptation of an insipidly liberal gay romance novel about an English Prince and the American president's son. Okay, I expected bad politics and mediocre acting and filmmaking craft. I watched season 1 of Teen Wolf so I thought I could handle whatever, but this is so much worse in ways that were not at all expected. Every moment feels entirely disconnected from the next. The writing has not heard of the idea of building tension or having character arcs. It's edited like they had to stop filming early and didn't get enough footage. The racial politics are the shallowest nonsense you could imagine. (The prince takes the American, who has talked about feeling like a racial outsider (even though his parents are a senator and a president) to. THE BRITISH MUSEUM in a big romantic gesture.) There are extremely famous actors doing horrible jobs. I thought people were exaggerating when they said bad movies felt like eternities, but this movie legitimately felt like it took 5 hours to watch and I was winded at the end. I frothed at the mouth at the In the Mood for Love namedrop. There is misinformation about the HPV vaccine being only for bottoms.

The Third Man (Carol Reed): An American comes to post-war Vienna to work with his friend, only to investigate his suspicious death. Brenna Wellnoe picked this one as an introduction to the noir genre for me, and it's a good one! Super interesting to watch an older film and see where genre conventions develop from, and there's surprising depth in its portrayal of how global geopolitics shade the characters' lives.

Scott Pilgrim Takes Off (Abel Góngora): The perfect sick day treat. Funny how it tries to rectify the mistakes of the original. Fun, not too deep, and I appreciated the upped gayness.

Institute Benjamenta (The Brothers Quay): A young man is drawn into the surrealist machinery of a school that trains servants and the suffocating relationship between the siblings who run it. This one had my brain working overtime to hold all the visual symbols and assemble them into meaning, in an enjoyable way. I can say that this is the only homoerotic phrenology scene I've seen.

Gilda (Charles Vidor): Conman becomes the miserable third between a controlling casino owner and his sharp wife/conman's ex. This was a Brenna noir pick meant to demonstrate an early femme fatale. This film seems to generally be described as a fun noir where Rita Hayworth puts on a good performance, but the reality had me the most Tails Gets Trolled I've been about any film this year. If you watch the first hour and 20 minutes it’s the most incredible rancid bisexual all-directions mean love triangle. If you watch everything but the last 10 minutes it’s a harrowing but effective tale about the horror of heterosexual marriage. If you watch the whole movie you’re gonna get so mad-

Carol (Todd Haynes): Harold, etc. 60s period piece about an aspiring photographer falling for an older woman in a disintegrating marriage. The actors are very compelling, especially Cate Blanchett, but this one fell short for me after experiencing Velvet Goldmine. It's just a well-made film with nice shots, and I wanted weirder.

Chased by Dinosaurs - Sea Monsters (Jasper James): Faux-documentary about a Steve Irwin-esque guy time traveling to hang out with ancient sea creatures. (Me: Chased by dinosaurs? I didn't even know he was transgender! Brenna: Ha. Ha. Ha.) It was very funny to watch with Brenna and the ending did make me shriek.

Legend of Korra [Halfway through S4]: This one is also too long to explain if you don't already know it. Every time any politics come up I get incredibly angry. WHY DO THEY HAVE A PRESIDENT NOW, UNEXPLAINED??

Everything I Watched This Year

I have watched the most movies this year of my life, which is still so few that I can fit them all into one tumblr post, so here they are in approximately chronological order (along with TV shows). I almost exclusively watch visual media with other people, and they're often the ones picking. Favorites get an asterisk (*), and this does not include rewatches.

*Fallen Angels (Wong Kar-Wai): Five loosely connected lonely people chase imagined versions of each other around the Hong Kong nightscape. I didn't go into a plotless arthouse film expecting it to be extremely funny, but it is. He Zhiwu (my new tumblr icon!) deserves to be up there among the deranged autistic blorbos of all time.

What We Do in the Shadows (Showrun by Paul Simms and Stefani Robinson) [First half of S4]: If you're on tumblr you probably know the premise already. I was disappointed that after S3, which felt like a build to huge shifts in the characters and status quo, S4 felt like a walkback. Don't remember much else about it other than crying laughing at the sequence where they try to get baby Colin Robinson into private school.

Brokeback Mountain (Ang Lee): Everyone knows what this movie is already. It's well-made and solid, but it wasn't anything that exciting for me. I expected it to be more striking. Love the 70s home production design in that one scene though, and that kiss truly is good.

*Velvet Goldmine (Todd Haynes): A reporter tracks down the truth of a rock star gay affair that sparked his own queer coming of age. Dreamy, gorgeous, and I could not describe the plot scene to scene if you paid me. Just a really lovely film to experience for me, someone who had latent and unnamed transgay feelings as a teenager about the concept of "emo boys kissing."

Phantom of the Paradise (Brian De Palma): Phantom of the Opera-inspired drama about a songwriter getting revenge on the predatory producer that ruined his life. Total delight of a campy melodrama.

Kamikaze Girls (Tetsuya Nakashima): A delinquent and fashion-obsessed scam artist strike up a lesbian-tinged unlikely friendship. This movie is bananas. Way more stylistically experimental than I'd expected--there's a sequence of the protagonist's birth, people just float offscreen sometimes, the townspeople constantly turn to the camera and advertise for the megamart they buy all their clothes from, etc. A really really surprisingly fun watch.

*Mobile Suit Gundam: The Witch from Mercury (Hiroshi Kobayashi and Ryō Andō) [First 6 episodes only]: Optimistic young pilot of a war machine that she may have an illegal psionic connection with goes to space high school and is promptly drawn into political plotting via accidentally getting gay engaged to a corporate heiress. Highly enjoyed the parts of it I saw - great action sequences, fun character drama, and just enough political substance. Not as weird as Utena, which it's inspired by, but can be brutal where necessary. I should watch more!

*In the Mood for Love (Wong Kar Wai): Two Shanghainese emigrants in Hong Kong discover their spouses are cheating and embark on a tragic affair of their own. God, this movie deserves every bit of praise it gets. I gasped out loud multiple times at the gorgeousness of shot compositions. Top notch acting, gorgeous colors. This tends to be a movie pitched as being about a repressed love affair, but it's also a movie about the positionality about being middle class colonial subjects and the relationships they have with the world. This gave me so much to chew on after I watched it.

Happy Together (Wong Kar-Wai): Two Hong Kong expats living in Argentina have a toxic gay relationship trapped in a tiny apartment. This one felt very opaque to me, and it is allegedly an allegory for Hong Kong being returned to Chinese rule after British colonialism, which I absolutely do not have enough background to really get. Wong is a great director though, and I constantly think about the sequence of the main character seeing the abusive ex walk into the club, beat while he finishes his drink, and then he breaks his bottle off and goes in to screams.

Bound (The Wachowskis): A lesbian handyman falls for a woman married to an abusive mobster that they plot to rob. The first 45 minutes were very enjoyable as a lesbian heist film. Unfortunately, once the gunshots started the torture scenes became so stressful for me to watch that I sweated through my shirt. (I also had Covid).