#this is going to sound so self aggrandizing and self centered and i promise i dont mean it in that way but.

[yourbestdream]

I generally assume that the phrase "blood boiling" to describe anger is just metaphor and all that but then I get really genuinely angry about something and I remember that it is not.

[how-masterful]

Remastered

Dhawan!Master x Reader

Chapter 4: The Pandorica Opens

Summary: Roman Centurions. Pandora's Box. Together you and the Master find yourselves exploring the depths of the cavern below Stonehenge and what mysteries lay within. Legend speaks of a box, an ancient god trapped inside its walls. Why does the rest of the universe want it so badly? And what can the Master do when he finally finds out what’s waiting inside the Pandorica is not what it seems?...

Notes: Welcome back to Remastered! Its been a long time coming! I know I promised an update a while ago, but sometimes these things just don’t work out the way you want them to. If we had a dedicated Master show my job would be so much easier! I finally managed to beat my writers block and found an episode i’d like to masterfy, so i hope you all enjoy! 

(You know the drill by now. @plethora-of-imagines, my beloved hat and master lover, this one is for you. just like the other ones. and all the ones coming. because who else would they be for?)

All around the Master, ever so slowly, the world he’d found himself in was suddenly starting to make sense. Dangerous, deadly, foreboding sense. On any other day, the renegade Time Lord would see that as a good thing. But that evening, underneath the ancient ruins of Stonehenge, the Master knew the dark was not on his side.

The communicator had crashed out a mere few seconds ago, fizzing and hissing against his ear. He’d thrown the device to the floor with a frustrated yell, gritting his teeth as his fingers returned to rub at his beard in thought. The same hand ran over his cheek and through his tangled fringe that hung over his eye, fingers gripping at the hair as his feet scuffed and disrupted the old dust upon the floor. He was pacing back and forth. This was not good. The high pitched ringing was deafening, his fingers plugging his ears as he stared down as the communicator. Its corner was dented, dust flying into the small cracks that had crawled up the edge of the glass. The screen still flickers with your face and name, the giant red letters of ‘COMMUNICATION LINE DISRUPTED' beneath it not failing to make his stomach churn.

You were both in grave danger. But it seemed like his was getting even worse.

“Master, it's not real!”

You’d yelled down the communicator line. Behind your plea, the Master had heard the Tardis creaking. Her engines were metal upon metal, screeching and groaning as it hurtled through the Time Vortex.

“What the hell does that mean, it's not real? Where are you?”

“Listen to me! All of it, everything’s a lie! The Romans, they’re right here.”

The Master was getting impatient. But you sounded almost terrified. The Roman platoon was hurrying around him carrying weapons and ammunition throughout the Underhenge. Almost like clockwork. At least they’d forgiven your lie about your identities- Emperor Nero and Pharaoh Cleopatra had seemed like clever aliases at the time. The Master sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What are you talking about, what's all that noise-”

“In the book!”

“You’d better not be breaking my Tardis!”

“Master just listen to me, please!”

You let out a sudden scream. The Tardis jolted forward, sending you slamming into the console. The cloister bells had begun to toll, sparks and shocks of electricity and flame spurting from the central console of the type 41 machine. 

All around the Master, the Roman soldiers had slumped forward. Knees locked into position, life drained from their eyes. Weapons, spears and swords clattered to the floor with ricochetting bangs. The Master blew onto the screen of the communicator, banishing the dust from its surface. Every attempt to reopen the communication line was met with an electronic buzz, denying him access. Preoccupied, with one finger plugged in his ear and his shoulder pushed up against the other, he failed to hear the marching footsteps of the platoon behind him. 

A unified electronic whirr permeated the room, with all of the soldiers' hands snapping open and small, cylindrical cannons pushing through the exposed middle of their palms. All around the Master, the soldiers were following their commands and drawing closer and closer.

“What was that bang?!”

The Master pulled the com from his ear, before pulling it back closer to his mouth. A Roman had turned to face him, sending him a quirked eyebrow. In return the Master sent a fake smile, before ducking behind the corner of the large box in the center of the room. It would be best if he wasn't seen during this conversation.

“Y/N, talk to me, can you hear me?”

The Master half whispered.

“The Romans are in this book! The Tardis took me back to my house, i don't know why-”

“Your house?”

“When I was a kid. Something else had been there, the grass had these weird scorch patterns and the readings on that thing you gave me were going off the scale. The book on my nightstand, Roman history, i’d studied it at school-”

“You’d said it was your favorite subject, yes.”

Part of you wanted to mull over the fact the Master had remembered your favorite subject, enjoying the fact the hardened criminal had taken the time and care to recall such a trivial fact about his ‘not’ companion. He often mused how preferred to call you his partner. You treasured its double meaning to no end. But you also knew that favouritism was what had led you to visit this Roman colony. You felt slightly responsible over the ensuing chaos.

“I knew I recognized them from somewhere- The Romans, in the book, they’re the exact ones that are with you right now.”

“That's impossible- they’re DRAWINGS, love!”

“I swear! Something has copied the book from my house!”

The Master smacked the side of the communicator, shaking even more dust free from the device. It was only after that he raised his head, suddenly aware of the silence surrounding him. The Romans, or whatever they were, had stood themselves in flank formation, lined up against the edges of the chamber. Blocking his only way out. Beyond the boundary the other soldiers stood side by side in perfect position, surrounding the Time Lord in the purple tweed jacket. Cornering him in front of the Pandorica. Finally, the ringing had dissolved into white noise. Now the Master could think. Almost.

Before he could even begin to spew out a threat, of which he had many planned and ready at the tip of his tongue, the room began to shake with a gargantuan rumble. Lit torches, hung on the walls in metal cages, rattled in their confinements as dust fell from the ceiling like snowfall. The Master's attention was yanked from the Romans, his head whipping behind him as the corner of the Pandorica slowly began to split along its seam. The rumble grew stronger as the stone walls shifted along their mechanisms, the green glow drowned by the emerging, blinding white light.

“Oh, good. You’re ready to come out now?”

Sarcasm and wit had recently become a favorite of the Master. His new body seemed to enjoy plastering on a smug grin and a growled one liner when facing certain doom. He was universally known as indestructible, as his previous faces had bragged. But it seemed this was rapidly misplaced in the current situation. 

“I promise you!”

You yelled in protest, slamming hard on a lever and frantically tapping on the interface as you argued.

“They’re the exact same! So is the box!”

The Master reared his head to look at the box he’d pressed his back against.

“What do you mean, the box?”

The legendary Pandorica loomed down at him, the intricate detailing carved into its side glowing with an ominous green light that burnt from within. History had spoken of it, the mystery that lay beneath stonehenge, but to earthly historians, in their ignorant and self aggrandizing ways, it was just that. A mystery. Humanity had chalked the box up to being a folk tale, to ignore the mortifying idea of the supposedly supernatural being… natural: That aliens were anything beyond little green men in flying saucers, and human science simply couldn't, or more likely refused, to explain what had fallen from the stars.

“The Pandorica, I'd said it was like Pandora's box, right?”

You’d clapped with delight, unable to hide your excitement when the Tardis had materialised atop that hill hours before. You’d mentioned how similar the structure seemed to you, even down to the name: Pandora's box…  

Your favourite book as a child. He could remember you mentioning it.

The Master did not like where this was going.

“Well?” he asked hesitantly, possibly for the first time in his life.

“It's here, on the cover of the book, my copy of the book, it's the same box.”

The Time Lord could see something peeking through the bright white, the silhouette of something existing within the box. He’d try again with the communicator in a moment, he supposed, slipping it into his endlessly deep inside pocket. He lent forward, peering into the glow, ever curious. Was this the so-called trickster, the universe destroying monster that had dwelled inside that box for millennia? The possibility of an answer was suddenly snatched away, however, when two strong arms punched through the gap between his torso and his arms, sliding under his shoulders and yanking him towards his feet. 

The Master let out a shocked sound not unlike a bark, gritting his teeth as the soldiers clutched the man tight between them. His hair flipped madly as he turned to look at his wardens- the familiar, glassy look in their eyes turning the cogs in his brain. He tugged on their grasp, snarling as they dragged him through the dark and dusty cavern. His fingers scrambled to grab onto their own, to try and pry them from his form. Until he saw their fingers were no longer there. Replaced with small blasters in place of their palms. Their living plastic palms.

A sight all too familiar for the Master.

“How can they be the same, where even are you?”

The Master pinched the bridge of his nose once more, giving a disgruntled huff as his head fell back against the side of the Pandorica. Thoughts and possibilities were scrambling around inside his brains, like matadors trying to tame the most frightful of bulls in the ring.

“Master, these are my memories. Why did they go to my house, whatever it is?”

“Most likely, god, mimicry? They needed something that would peak our interest, make us come here-”

The Tardis jolted and screeched once more, her engines whining like a startled parakeet. Sparks and rumbles rocked the floor. You lost your footing, falling to your knees while clutching tight to the edge of the console. The Master pushed himself from the side of the box with a growl.

“What the hell are you doing to my Tardis, Y/n?”

“I don't know!”

You protested, heaving yourself up against the console. You continued to move along the screens, following the rhythm the Master had taught you. It was almost like a dance, especially the way his hands had wandered to your hips while he introduced you to the console.

“Its like something else is controlling it, the controls aren't responding-”

Another bang of sparks. The Master rolled his eyes.

“All those flying lessons I gave you- try and land her, wherever you are. The Tardis has protocols in place to keep you safe. You have to get out of there.”

“I’m trying!”

“The Nestene consciousness, I'd like to say it's pleasant to see you again.”

The Master grunted, trying to yank his shoulder free and almost losing his footing against his own force.

“Romans, a step up from shop dummies and plastic flowers, I'm impressed.”

He truly couldn't tell if his teasing was to intimidate or calm his own racing heartbeats. The Romans whirred and stomped, oblivious to his protests. Also oblivious to his remarks.

“Listen, I'm ordering you to let me go, there's bigger things for me to deal with here-”

Still no reply. The Master grit his teeth, yanking himself backwards in a feeble attempt at escape. He tried to thrash, to worm his way out of their grasp. But it was fruitless. The Autons were just as obnoxiously durable as the first time he’d met them, all those years ago.

“I COMMAND YOU TO LET ME GO!”

Further screams pierced through the communicator line, the timelord wincing as he once more pulled the device from his ear. You sounded terrified, the Tardis spiralling further out of control. 

“Y/n? Love, talk to me!”

“Master, I can't control her! Whatever's out there with you, it has to be connected. The same box, the same Romans, the same night, that CAN'T be a coincidence! Master, everything out there with you, It's a trap. It has to be. They wanted us to come here, Please just trust me, you have to get out of there-”

Crash. Hiss. Bang. The Tardis was screaming as it hurtled through the Vortex. The Master was beginning to worry. This time he wasn't going to deny it.

“Y/N! SHUT HER DOWN!”

“MASTER, I CAN'T! PLEASE!”

The world round the Master began to ring with a high pitched shriek. A piercing ring that echoed throughout the underhenge. The timelord winced, scrunching up his face and baring his teeth as he shrunk away from the din. Beside his ear he could hear your screams, the Tardis hurtling towards the unknown. Until suddenly, zap. Crackle. Nothing.

“Y/n, can you hear me!?”

The communicator line went dead.

The Master was growing more tense by the second. And even angrier still.

“I order you to obey! Why do you want me, why do you want my Y/n’s memories-”

The Roman soldier to his left gave a grim admittance, staring forwards at the growing light shining from within the Pandorica. It was almost hypnotic to the lumps of plastic surrounding him, something he’d consider himself a seasoned expert of. But this was different. This still stunk of betrayal and subterfuge. And also a slight loss of pride.

“The Pandorica is ready.”

The Master should have been excited. Ready to meet this mythical creature, a ghost in time, a legend. But now he felt slightly sick. He leered up at the soldier, antagonizing the guard.

“Ready for what, eh? What other big bads have you around their pinkie this time?”

The plethora of Romans did not speak. They simply continued to stare.

“I’m going to tell you again, let me go. You took your orders from me, once- you should know who I am! I am the Master!”

“Correct. Subject has self identified.”

The Master's face practically drained of all color. He daren't move his head to look, knowing exactly what scum of the universe was waiting behind him. The sound of the Daleks still sent a quiver of tangible fear down his spine. It had been years since the time war, centuries since the destruction of Skaro. Of Gallifrey. But the Daleks had not only destroyed his people, they had executed him personally. And in the twisted sense of poetry, were the reason he was brought back from the dead. A soldier to fight in the universal war- the only time he decided to be like the Doctor, running away to the end of the universe to escape the carnage that gave the blood red skies and grass of home a brand new meaning. 

He wouldn't say he feared them. But a dead Dalek was much more preferable than a living one.

Just like his old face had said. Stupid tin boxes.

“The subject has identified himself. Scan complete. You are the Master.”

“Well, you lot look different. Fancied an upgrade?”

He watched the Daleks, three in a crow, creep towards his line of vision. They were bulky things now, taller than before, each with a garishly bright color scheme that he almost wanted to shield his eyes from. An ugly design for an ugly creature.

“Or is that a poor turn of phrase?”

“YOUR LIMITS, CAPACITIES AND WEAKNESSES HAVE BEEN EXTRAPOLATED. YOU HAVE BEEN CONFIRMED”

Oh great. More Cybermen. If you were here, you’d tease him relentlessly for the reunion. You had earlier, suggesting he take the Cyber parts home and build his own. With a flash of white and a digital blue haze, the Cyber leader phased into vision, followed by two further Cybermen. All carrying large black weapons, much like what he’d found earlier.

“Oh, I was waiting for you to show up. Just can't stay away from me, can you?”

“Your arrogance is continued!”

Sontarans. Fabulous. In another flash, the squadron of Sontarans had appeared in the Underhenge, proudly brandishing their blasters. Before the Master could even calculate a response, the whole room seemed to glow in fire. The Pandorica was still slowly creaking open, the beam of light shining brighter and brighter. The Master, who stood right in its glow, had to shrink away and squint from its brightness.

Teleportation fields, transfer rays, dimensionally transcendental movement corridors, it seemed the world and his wife were cramming themselves into the cavern below the rocks. The Master, now adapting to the light, was met with an endless sea of familiar faces. 

Draconians, Ogrons, Juddoon, Kasaavin, Axonites, Cheetah Warriors, Sea Devils, and even their silurian cousins. Even some faces he’d never seen before littered the crowd, some other foes he’d briefly met but never spared a thought to. Sycorax, Hoix, Zygons, members of the Trickster Brigade, Clockwork Droids- and tall, slender men in black suits with a name he couldn't quite remember. He even struggled to remember they were there, looming in the background behind the busying crowd.

The great monsters of the universe had gathered at the Pandorica. 

“The Pandorica is ready!”

The Sontaran leader cried. Hesitantly, the Master dared to ask.

“Ready for what?”

The white Dalek, the new supreme, slowly moved closer.

“Ready. For. you.”

 The sides of the Pandorica finally slid into position, the blinding shroud of light dissipating. Finally, the Master could see what was before him in the darkness of the cavern. The box had split open to reveal a mechanised chair, almost like a throne. Callous and black, the metal chair was embedded deep into the heart of the Pandorica. Its exterior was fitted with several restraints, the square shaped shackles glowing the same green as the exterior patterns. Two ankles, two wrists, and over the shoulders- any being within would be unable to break free. Or even attempt to escape.

Slowly, the puzzle, not unlike the box in the fairy tale of Pandora, was beginning to slot together. The Master turned to look at the aliens surrounding him- co conspirators, enemies, allies. All had stood to the sides of the room, leaving a walkway between himself and the Pandorica. They stood, watching intently, as the realisation began to appear upon the renegade Time Lords face.

The path was clear. The restraints on the chair had retracted outwards, unlocking themselves. The Pandorica was empty.

But the Master knew. 

Not for long.

“Wait, you can't-”

But they already had. The Nestenes began to walk forwards, dragging the Master along with them by his armpits. The timelord kicked and fought their grasp, his grey shoes kicking up dust as he scrambled to find resistance in his footing. The surrounding monsters watched on as the Master fought for his freedom, desperately trying to pull away from the plastic men. He shouted, grunted, bared his teeth, but no amount of tugging and shouting could break the Master free. The Silurians tilted their heads, hissing. The Draconians stood with poised disapproval. The Daleks and Cybermen stood proudly at the front of the line, the Judoon watching silently with the authority of the shadow proclamation. All those creatures, lit by the roaring fire of the flickering torches on the wall.

The Roman imposters dragged the Master to the empty chair, their strength unmatched as they heaved the Time Lord into the waiting seat. He let out a furious yell as the restraints snapped shut around him, his body yanked backwards into the chair. First his wrists, then his ankles, then his shoulders. The entrapments of the Pandorica had shackled him down to his seat. A last set of restraints emerged from within the structure itself, entangling themselves around the Master's waist and stomach, pressing tight against his torso and locking him firmly into the chair. A single light shone from above, acting as a spotlight over the Master’s head. All eyes could see the Time Lord struggle and fight. All eyes knew it was useless. Exactly how they’d designed it to be.

“No, you can't do this to me!”

The Master was visibly rippling with rage.

“All those times I've helped you all!”

“YOUR ASSISTANCE HAS BEEN A SCOURGE ON THE CYBER RACE.”

The Cyberman with black handles spoke, as monotone and electronic as ever. The Master widened his eyes.

“No-”

“Your presence within the universe has caused vital damage to Dalek strategy.”

“All our plans, every time you step in, have failed to reach fruition! The glory of the Sontaran empire is threatened by your hand!”

The Master turned to look at every monster surrounding the box. The pathway had closed, the races and creatures surging forwards, cornering him even more within the machine. Their faces, if they had one, were full of hatred and disdain. Even the robots among the crowd were seemingly glaring. And those without faces watched on with agreement. The Master glared between them, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

“So, what? You blame me for everything? Want to lock me in a box because you blame me for all your problems!?”

“Incorrect.”

The Daleks' voice was scratchy and mutilated. Much like the creature inside the casing.

“The Pandorica was constructed to provide safety for the Alliance. You have aligned yourself with the Doctor.”

The Master paused for a moment, staring down at the supreme Dalek. How it stood there, with all its pride and might, and accused him of such a thing. He couldn't help but laugh. And so he did. The Master barked out a laugh, teeth bared and head falling back as he sat shackled to the Pandorica.

“Me? With her? Who told you that?”

“CYBER DATA HAS CONFIRMED. YOUR PREVIOUS INCARNATION ASSISTED THE DOCTOR IN CYBER DESTRUCTION.”

“Missy? Really? A five foot four mistress of evil scared you so much you had to put me in a box?”

“Your identity as the Mistress has been confirmed to stand in allegiance with the Doctor. It's a well known fact you chose to stand alongside them. Who knows what chaos you could harbour with your… track record of derailment.”

The Draconian leader stood proud among his council. The Master sent him a scowl, his laughter dying out.

“You think I'm the Doctor's little helper? Her weapon against you all, the crazy old Master, happy to do her dirty work? News flash, I've tried to kill her! Yeah, she's a she now, it's her turn! Some of you I've even worked with! I helped YOU with the Cyberium!”

“The evidence shows otherwise. You simply can no longer be trusted.”

The Kasaavin leader dared to talk against him. The Master questioned how he could even be here, after the Doctor's exile of their race from the planet. Their hatred for him must be strong enough to transcend dimensions. It was almost romantic.

“I’m nothing like the Doctor! I don't even LIKE the Doctor! Sure, I had a bit of a wobble in morals, tried to be good..ish… but I'm back!”

The Master was positively exasperated. His messy hair and wide eyes making him look manic.

“So can somebody, anybody: any man, woman, robot… fish thing. I don't care. Can somebody tell me, what do you all think makes me like the Doctor?”

There was silence across the room. The Master's outburst had made them think. The Master watched them, eyes begging for an acceptable reply. Finally, the Cyberman spoke.

“YOU HAVE GROWN SENTIMENTAL. YOU HAVE TAKEN A COMPANION.”

You. Oh, you. This couldn't just be about you.

The variables began to bubble and clash within the Master's brains. Everything seemed to come back to you. Your choice in trip, your favorite subject, favorite book, you attack from the guard, your fake identity as a queen. And your current fate... However unknown it was.

Surely this couldn't be about you.

“The memories of your companion were extrapolated. A scenario was formed as a test of your intentions.”

“Mercy for a human! Defence over a fleshy girl, instead of the opportunity for universal destruction! Your allegiance cannot be guaranteed, your newfound kindness poses a threat to us all!”

The Master huffed, his hearts fighting within his chest. This couldn't be happening.

“It was you, wasn't it? You took took control of my Tardis-”

“YOUR COMPANION WILL BE DISPOSED OF. YOUR IMPRISONMENT IS A RESULT OF YOUR MERCY.”

“You fell into a trap that you simply could not resist. The draconian empire condemns you.”

“You’re going to kill her, and imprison me, just because you can't trust me to not be good!?”

“The safety of the alliance is paramount.  Your history of meddling in Dalek affairs, your part in the destruction of Skarro and our creator, the data cannot be ignored.”

The Master couldn't breathe. The surrounding forces were drawing closer and closer, surrounding him and his line of vision. The walls of the chamber had disappeared within the bodies of the alliance. They were really going to turn on him. They really intended to kill you.

“We will save our universe. From you!”

His mouth was dry. His palms were sweating, his breathing shallow, his rage burning like the brightest of suns. The Master glared upon the alliance, eyes twitching with inconsolable rage. This day had been long. He’d been tested far too much, pushed way too far. This morning he was lying in bed, embracing the warmth of the Tardis and your body against his own. But now his world was being stripped away from him. 

Angry didn't begin to cover it.

“Now you listen to me- you bring her back, you know for a fact the destruction of a Tardis in the Vortex will ripple through this universe. And then you’ll have me to deal with.”

“NEGATIVE. YOUR IMPRISONMENT CANNOT BE AVOIDED.”

“Your companion will perish. Your isolation will be permanent. This is confirmed.”

The Master let out a furious scream, a bitter yell that ripped harshly against the back of his throat. The tribe of Silurians hissed and stepped backwards, raising their weapons.

“LISTEN TO ME! If she dies, if my ship burns, I will rip this box apart inch by inch and I will destroy every single one of your ugly little races!”

His shoulders were heaving, spit flying from his mouth as he spat between gritted teeth.

“I will bring down destruction on every one of your stupid little planets and your silly little spaceships. I’m a Time Lord, my people have made a mockery of you since the days you formed on your tiny little rocks, floating through space. I’ll show you how merciful I can truly be as I kill you all slowly, one by one, so you can watch what happens when you think you can destroy me. I am the Master, and you will all pay for this!”

The Cyber leader stepped forwards, clenching a fist to its chest. It looked deep into the Master's eyes, its soulless black pits of metal mesh showing no humanity nor hesitation.

“SEAL THE PANDORICA.”

“Listen to me, you will obey me! The Tardis will implode, your worlds are in so much more danger than you could possibly realise!”

The heavy walls of the Pandorica began to slide shut. The Master was frantic, tugging and yanking against his bonds. Nothing. The metal locks were clasped tight, his body imprisoned and trapped against the seat. His eyes were enormous, his hair flopping from side to side as he continued to fight against the seat. Still, there was no way of escape. No amount of fighting would work. That didn't stop him from trying his best.

“The universe will rot and perish if you harm her! Everything you know will be nothing but ash, I promise you! All your suns, your moons, your hopes, I will destroy each and every one of them! You can't do this to me! I am the Master! You will obey me!”

The Master's words echoed through the Underhenge, bouncing off every wall and dissolving into the gathered crowd. The alliance watched on as the timelord begged for his freedom, promising destruction in his wake. But these were songs they had heard before. Plans ruined by opportune chance, and disappointing failure at the hands of his old friend.

“YOU WILL OBEY ME!”

The Master screamed, as the walls of the Pandorica finally snapped shut. With a hiss the edges of the box sealed together, the mechanical insides ticking away as the glowing green sides twisted and interlocked. As the box gave its last rumble, the Pandorica was finally sealed. The legendary trickster, the mischief maker that had destroyed worlds and brought down civilisations, finally locked within.

The Tardis hurtled through the Vortex, crashing against the walls of time, its engines phasing and crying out as the cloister bell rang from within. You crawled across the floor, scrambling back towards the console, fingers grasping onto anything they could purchase. Sparks flew beside your head, the cables linked to the belly of the console fizzing and pulsating as you begged the console to calm down. You’d been with her for years now, you knew how the Tardis would normally fly. This definitely wasn't her doing. This definitely wasn't her in control.

Your hand smacked hard against the side of the communicator, the line still ringing out every time. You’d tried to call the Master several times, each instance ringing and ringing with no return. He never refused to reply. You clutched on tight as another wave of turbulence hit the flight deck, the trinkets and knick-knacks you’d gathered on your travels tumbling from every shelf and crashing into nothingness against the floor. 

“Please, Master, answer me!”

Nothing. He simply wasn't there.

You couldn't cry yet, there was still hope. Or at least, you tried to convince yourself. You hoped for a miracle, for something that would help you regain control of the Tardis. You didn't want to die.

“Master, please! I’ve not got much time!”

Your calls were falling on deaf ears. Nothing was going to save you. A rogue spark suddenly flew from the console, knocking you backwards as the Tardis collided with the Vortex once more. You flung back towards the floor, head colliding with the hardwood as you fell. You felt the impact through your whole body, all strength slipping through your fingers as your eyelids felt heavy. From your position on the floor you could see out the window, the reflection of the flaming Tardis console bathing the Vortex in deep orange.

“Master, I love you, I'm sorry…”

You whispered, your vision beginning to fade. You gazed deeper into space, watching as the world shook and disappeared around you.

And as you blacked out, every star began to fade from the sky.

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 77: Like a Good Old-Fashioned Barn Raising

Chapters: 77/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: pg

Relationships: Loki x Reader

Characters: Loki (Marvel),

Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Party Time

Summary:  Buridag begins!

Loki was awake long before you were, getting preparations ready, loose ends tied up, last minute orders sent out. He allowed you to sleep until you woke on your own, having removed his little illusory alarms from you some time ago.

Sometimes flower petals still rained upon you, and perfume rose from your footsteps, but no more snakes in the bath.

So you rose slowly, stretching and yawning the grogginess away at your own pace. Time was very hard to tell by looking out windows at this time of year, but when Loki entered the room carrying an egg sandwich, a little pile of fresh potato chips, and a glass of coffee, you placed yourself firmly within brunch territory.

Loki flicked on your sunlamp, gestured at the chair, and handed you your brunch once you'd taken your seat.

You munched your food and absorbed your light while Loki laid out the day's plans. You'd get dressed in a ceremonial outfit that included your armor and helmet, and join the parade that was gathering even now.

They were initially going to put you on Sleipnir. You had asked them not to. Sleipnir was magnificent, but you had no connection to him, nor to Leynarodd, who was the second choice. Your sweet, stout, shaggy little Acorn was who you preferred, a horse that belonged to no one initially, but who had formed a trusting bond with you.

Your clothing was, predictably, green, the underdress and apron a dark mossy color, hemmed on all edges with fine gold braid, embroidered with stripes of delicate knotwork, and your mark, also in gold. Over the top of this went your quilted tunic, in it's shimmering jade, and then your armor; the breastplate, the tassets, the bracers, pauldrons, greaves, and poleyns, though the last two were not visible. They went on over the leather trousers you'd been given to wear under your dress. They were sleek things, made of tough black leather, pleated in diagonal patterns, just like something Loki would wear. You thought the pleats had the advantage of putting more leather between you and any danger, and were flexible as well.

There were actually places where your familiar oval brooches could be fastened, your strings of shining beads strung between, your chatelaine dangled. Your belt was tooled leather and brass findings, hung with a leather purse, your Yggdrasil phone case, a small drinking horn carved with your mark, and of course, your knife. A little burst of deep pink against all the gold, green, and black.

You wore a minty-green velvet cape, a gift from Andsvarr, and your beautiful helmet to top it all off. You truly looked like something out of a fantasy novel, someone who looked like they should be standing next to the legendary figure that Loki currently cut.

He looked enormous, with his many asymmetrical layers, and molded shoulder guards, his billowing cape and hair spilling from beneath his magnificent curling horns. He shone with nornbein, and his cloak, shot with silk, shimmered subtly.

“You're so beautiful.” you mumbled. Loki smiled, and leaned down to adjust your cape, cheeks dusted with pink.

“Thank you.” he said, “I make every attempt. Though I think I will fade into the background under the power of your radiance.”

Warmth rushed to your face.

“Um, I know we've got to hurry and get Acorn, but I want to ask you a favor, Loki.”

“Anything. Tell me what it is and I'll make it so.”

You took a deep breath.

“I need you to stop trying to impress my father.”

The pink on his cheeks transformed into bright red.

“Ah. Yes, I rather hashed that, didn't I? I apologize. I thought that was still standard procedure, but your father, uh, explained otherwise.”

“Mhm, I'll bet he did. Look, I know you wanted to surprise us, but when it comes to things like that, you really oughta run it by me first. I could have told you that wouldn't work out the way you thought it would. You know, saved you from being chewed out like that. You can let me save you sometimes too.”

“ Like with the Huldra.”

“Kinda. Dad's not as bloodthirsty as she was, but he's a lot more stubborn.”

“Like father, like daughter, hm?” he teased.

“You have not seen me be stubborn yet.” you warned, and he gave you a quick smooch.

“A blessing, I'm sure. Very well, I agree. Surprises get run by you. Anything to save me from another tongue lashing. That man truly does not hold back.”

“I mean it though.” you persisted. “I'm not saying that you can't have any surprises at all, but talk to me about big stuff like that. If it's something that Asgardian law or custom would demand, but would be insulting to a human, we can maybe hash out an alternative that would satisfy both. That's the point, isn't it? Please, I really don't want to deal with anymore trouble between you two. Don't get hung up on impressing him, he has every reason to reject it, and he will. No more gifts, no toasts, no calling attention to him in public, nothing. He hates being the center of attention. Just let him be a guest, and see, without interference, that his little girl is doing fine on her own.”

“I really didn't mean to make him so angry.” Loki said, a little crestfallen. “And the more I tried to explain, the angrier he became. I just wanted him to know how much I value you. I wanted you to know too.”

“Material culture is different where I'm from. There are places in the world where that would have been understood and appreciated, but we've stopped doing it. In the same vein, fathers don't make all the decisions for their daughters anymore, so you don't actually need his approval. But...I need you to understand, it's not just that you took away his child, though that's bad enough. It's that I'm the only family he has left. My grandma only had one kid, and that was my dad. And she's dead, and so's my granddad, before I was even born. And then my mom died, and Beth too, and so I'm all that's left for him. And I have this giant Sword of Damocles hanging over my head all the time, and he's had to worry about that for my whole life. Most of the women on my mom's side all died from this, but occasionally, rarely, there's one that doesn't. I'm starting to hope that might be me. Maybe the magic is protecting me. But he's not going to be able to accept that so easily. I'm all he had left, and you took me away. That's all that's going to be important to him. You didn't even have to do the things you did in New York, this is the worst possible crime you could commit, in his eyes.”

Loki heaved a sigh of remorse. “And I cannot even return you to him. It seems there is one more thing I cannot set right.”

“The best you can do is make sure I'm okay. And don't bother him anymore. And maybe let him come visit more often. The more he sees me living my life and being fine, the more confidence he will have that I'm actually safe here.”

“I shall endeavor to help you thrive.” Loki promised.

“All right, so if that's settled, we should go get our horses.”

                                                                         ******

Acorn was, like you, a bit overdressed in your opinion. Long tabbards and blankets covered her from nose to rump, green and gold, embroidered with oak leaves. They were so long, they almost brushed the ground. Ribbons were braided into her wild mane and tail, and bells jingled with every movement. Like you, she could barely be seen under her splendor. But she was probably warm, and happily accepted a carrot from your hand. Placid as always, she let you up on her back, and fell into step behind Leynarodd, who likewise, followed up behind Sleipnir, whose hooves still rang like bells even over the thin layer of packed snow that covered the recently cleared streets.

There was a whole procession of people-this was a parade after all, and Thor, on Sleipnir, was preceded by the twin Valkyries, carrying Asgardian banners, as well as several musicians, and Beli, who chanted an ancient epic on the exploits of Buri.

Saga had translated the chant for you a while ago, and it sounded something like the sensationalized, self-aggrandizing boasts of pharaohs, or Mesopotamian kings-the kind that claimed to be rulers of the world, or rulers of the heavens themselves, to have battled armies of demons, killed giant lions with only a stick-that sort of thing. But when Beli called out those verses in such an ancient dialect of Asgardian, the words themselves felt powerful.

Thor followed slowly, Sliepnir plodding along, both of them absolutely huge. Loki and Leynarodd came right behind, only slightly smaller. And then you and Acorn, almost comical in your stature, diminutive by comparison. You were keenly aware of it, but either all of Asgard was too polite to say anything about it, or they simply didn't care.

The human guests, corralled in roped off areas, whooped and cheered when when you passed. Behind you, more musicians played, and a circle of Seidkonas walked in silent dignity. Then came more banners, the rest of the Valkyries, representatives of each noble house and guild, and the rest of the Aesir in Asgard, provided they didn't already have another position in the parade.

After them, the gathered Asgardians began following, lengthening out the procession, bright balls of magical light bobbing overhead. The sun had barely peeked over the horizon, and would be slinking away in a mere three or so hours, so the mage lights sparkled everywhere. Helpful Einherjar herded the humans to the next specially roped off area, so they could follow the parade as well; you caught a few amused faces at the playful rowdiness displayed by celebrating humans.

That was just how humans were when they were excited about something. Humans loved to holler, to jump, and dance, and clap. Some of them were even trying to keep time with the music.

You weren't actually able to pick out your father or Tara in the crowd, nor anyone else you knew, so you just kept your head forward and your back straight, trying to look as dignified as you could.

You'd only ever seen a few of what you considered 'proper' parades: in a small town a parade mostly consisted of people waving from the backs of neighborhood pickup trucks and tractors, maybe decorated with balloons or paper chains, blasting music from dusty old speakers. In the autumn, there might be pumpkins and corn stalks, and usually hayrides. But never anything like this spectacle.

As you got closer to the construction site, the apprentice mages responsible for all the floating lights started throwing sparks from their hands, like colorful sparklers. The gathered Asgardians began lining up in their designated areas, ready to play their part. The foundations had already been dug, and everything that needed to go into them was already there. All that remained was the pouring.

Thor, Loki, and yourself dismounted as close to in unison as you could manage, the horses carefully lead away to a temporary enclosure. You headed to the stack of decorative bricks, and took your place among the Asgardians there, while Thor gave the order for the cement to pour.

While this went on, Beli gathered his students and skalds in front of the Huldrastone to recite a modern epic. Within the first few verses you realized that it was about the Huldra's attack, and your confrontation with her.

Of course, the poem was much cleaner and more elegant than the actual events had been, but certain things had still been included. Your ears burned beneath your helmet when Beli reached the part where you had 'bestowed upon the fallen prince, a gentle sacrificial kiss, knowing that to trade life for life would grant him breath once more.'

You had finally spotted your father and Tara in the crowd; he crossed his arms and glared upon hearing the verse, while Tara gave you a cheezy grin and thumbs up.

As the poem reached its conclusion, the cement finished pouring, and a new recitation began. As Thor and Loki knelt and began scratching ritual runes into the wet cement, Beli's current group of student came forward and began telling the story of Beli, while apprentice mages illustrated the words with colorful, stylized illusions.

There were harrowing battles against huge stone people, the construction of the original Bifrost, which at that time connected a fleet of alien ships to one another. The illusions showed the gathering of construction materials, the building of a platform in space, and the grand revelation of the crystalline platform upon which Asgard slowly grew. Mountain and plain, river and ocean, building after magnificent building rose into the sky. Their ships captured and carved an asteroid, then set it in orbit as a bright new moon. All this was accomplished by the use of a glowing, icy blue cube that was difficult to look directly at. It was compelling though; it caught and held your attention with its beautiful, sparkling light.

You knew what that device was: you had learned about it in your lessons with Saga. It was the object known as the Tesseract, a four dimensional creation meant to house the incredible energy of an Infinity Stone. Perhaps that was why it was simultaneously fascinating, yet hard to perceive. Your curious human brain was drawn to its uniqueness, yet equally unable to fully fathom it.

That device was the key to Asgard's existence and eventual success. It was unthinkable to you that Odin had just lost it on Earth, as Sagas histories had proclaimed. It must have been a terrible loss.

Thor and Loki completed their carving, and began the process of imbuing the foundations with divine power. Goosebumps rose on your arms, and there was a pricking in your sinuses, like you were about to sneeze. There was almost a flavor to it.

The actual blessing didn't take nearly as long as the rune carving ritual, and soon, the two brothers stepped back, to allow others to begin their work. More mages worked a spell together that lifted the water out of the cement, drying it within moments. People came forward with wires and pipes, floor and wall supports, insulation, hammers, plaster, bricks, and mortar. In rotating lines people laid flooring and installed fixtures, scraped grout and assembled frames. Every now and then youths moved through, sweeping up dust, always away from you.

It suddenly became clear that that was why you were so far back in line, why you'd been assigned a decorative brick, something that would be placed near the very end of the construction. There would be no dust then. Gratitude swelled in your chest, but you said nothing. There was singing now, simple, repetitive melodies that sounded like work songs.

Every hour, volunteers carted huge, heated cauldrons around the lines and groups of human spectators, dipping out hot drinks like witch's potions, and it was possible that there was a simple sort of magic in things like hot chocolate, strong coffee, and buttered rum on a cold day.

The building went up faster than you thought possible, the widows, doors, and lights being set into place as auroras began ribboning across the sky.

Finally, there was one brick left. You lifted it up, as the singing seemed to intensify, scooped some mortar from the pail, and fitted it all into the only remaining slot. Giving the brick a light pat to make sure it was secure, you turned back to the assembled crowd.

“We did it.” You said, and the cheering began.

[requirings]

do you have any reddie fic recs?

BOY DO I! gosh these are gonna be so hard to choose so i’m gonna try to limit myself to just 10 fics

(not in order by preference)

Like a Bullet in the Back (honestly one of my fav works of literature i’m not joking)

There are literally so many good excerpts from this fic, it was hard to choose just one <:I

I love you. I’ve loved you so god damn long I can’t remember when it began. Do you remember, Eddie, that you were born the day before I was born? Five weeks premature. That’s you, Eddie. As if you couldn’t wait to meet me. And it doesn’t work like that. It never works like that. Nobody meets someone when they’re eight years old and knows I will love you forever. But I did. I did know. I didn’t know that I knew but I did.

Husband and Husband (THE CUTEST FIC younger losers, 5ish yrs old)

Richie is so overcome with happiness that he can’t do anything but run around the kitchen, whooping with joy. Eddie sits at the kitchen table, watching him and giggling uncontrollably.

Not Quite Young (i swear i didn’t know rants before reading this fic)

The laughter around Eddie felt like it was a million miles away. Everything about the way Richie talked to the way he walked around the stage felt unbelievably, achingly familiar, and yet Eddie was still clawing through his memories as if trying to string together fragments of a dream. Maybe this was a dream. He closed his eyes for a second, trying to ground himself.

Is This Thing On? (pwp vibrating butt plug)

"You look so good," Eddie says in that same low tone, the one that seems to resonate in time with the vibrations slowly taking Richie apart. "This is so hot, watching you get all worked up when you can't moan or touch yourself or beg for me." Richie grips his drink so hard he thinks his fingers might go straight through the glass bottle. "Son of a bitch," he hisses, and drains half the beer without taking a breath.

Soak Up the Sun (pwp richie’s ass is sunburnt and sensitive)

“You can’t have my dick right now, babe,” Eddie says, circling again, pressing down against his center until Richie is straining upwards, trying to push back onto his finger. “And whose fault is that?” “Ugh, mine,” Richie groans, pressing his face into his forearms. “Because I didn’t put on sunscreen. Is that what you wanna hear? I’ll never forget the sunscreen again, Eds, I promise, if you could please just— ohh.”

Adult Friends (i usually don’t read au’s but this one’s funny!)

Except, Richie hadn’t known Eddie for years and years. They’d only just met. The first time Richie made Eddie smile, he thought, oh. That’s something. And that night, when they were clutching their stomachs and Eddie was grinning at him, red-faced and whimpering and wiping tears from his eyes, Richie thought, oh. Oh, this man is beautiful.

Now What I’m Gonna Say May Sound Indelicate (stellar inner monologue)

Richie knows he’s funny. He self-aggrandizes to the point of parody, but he always has. For every beep beep the gang dished out, he got twelve laughs. Eddie never really wanted him to shut up, even when he was telling him to shut up, even when his jokes were really stupid. Even when he was hunched over his phone at the airport, waiting for YouTube videos to buffer while Richie gargled out some truly pathetic ghost-written jokes, Eddie never closed the window. He wanted to keep hearing Richie talk, like he was waiting for something.

Take My Hand, Take My Whole Life Too (short but sweet)

“But I’m okay?” He can’t help but make it sound like a question. “Tell that to my fucking brain,” Richie croaks. But his eyes are open now and he’s staring at Eddie like he’s trying to commit him to memory. Eddie lets himself smile, his cheeks dimpling, because if this is the image of him that Richie is going to think of to ascertain that Eddie is real and alive, blood still pumping through his veins, then he’ll give him this: proof that Eddie is happy.

Richie Tozier Settles Down (this one is the best media pov fic)

Like, if you want these roles, you’re going to have to put on a disguise. You’re going to have to work really, really fucking hard to put that disguise together.” Tozier, in the years that followed, would fill his routines with references to girlfriends, and go on pre-arranged, intricately choreographed dates with women. He was not out as gay, even to his close friends.

i said i was gonna add 10 but uhhhh honestly a lot of my bookmarks are just. fics that i dont remember what they’re about. and it really doesn’t help that the summaries and tags don’t allude to the plot. fic authors.... please........... tell me wtf is happening.

so! instead i will recommend a stan/pat fic! (it’ll eventually have reddie but the fic is on a hiatus rn)

Tooth & Crow (great inner monologue; unsettling but in a good horror way)

Outside in the tree the great bird rubbed its wings against its sleek body. Then it startled. A crow, ink-feathered and lean, alighted on the branch above it and spread its own black wings darker even than the night. The crow said, “Maturin, maturin,” and the owl leapt clumsily out of the tree as the crow shouted after it: “maturin, maturin,” a hoarse thing that continued long after the owl had gone and the man in the room at the end of the hall had gone away again to another place distant and strange.

[aion-rsa]

Biggest Movie Traitors and Backstabbers in Cinema

https://ift.tt/3u8zB6p

Last week, as part of the streaming service’s ongoing plan to bring Warner Brothers’ slate of theatrical releases to audiences at home HBO Max premiered Judas and the Black Messiah on the same day it opened in theaters. Directed by Shaka King, the incendiary historical drama centers on the rise of Fred Hampton, the charismatic Black Panther Party leader, and his tragic betrayal at the hands of FBI informant William O’Neal.  Daniel Kaluuya stars as Hampton, a scorched-earth performance that attempts to recreate the magnetism and magma-like intensity of the revolutionary figure, but Kaluuya is somehow not the star of the film.

The film’s true protagonist is O’Neal, played by LaKeith Stanfield. After getting himself into some hot water, O’Neal is propositioned by FBI agent Roy Mitchell (Jesse Plemons) to either infiltrate the Black Panther Party and report back on his findings or face jail time. At first O’Neal seems to luxuriate in the kickbacks he’s given by Mitchell for his intel but he quickly learns how dangerous it is to lead a double life. O’Neal also has to try to reconcile betraying the very movement he’s spent real time and energy trying to build.

Stanfield’s performance is filled with queasy anxiety and paranoia but also cockroach-like survival tics. It’s an all-time great turncoat performance, worthy of the biblical reference in the film’s title. To honor Stanfield’s turn as “Wild” Bill O’Neil, here’s a countdown of some of cinema’s greatest backstabbers.

Fredo Corleone – The Godfather Part II (1974)

Fredo Corleone, the least intelligent and most ineffectual of Don Vito’s children, has become something of a pejorative term used against anyone deemed to be the lesser sibling in a famous family. Played with a sense of melancholy and knowing pity by esteemed character actor John Cazale, Fredo’s betrayal of his brother Michael is due more to petty jealousy than it is to Machiavellian scheming or dreams of leading the Corelone Crime Family.

As the character pathetically rages, “‘Send Fredo off to do this. Send Fredo off to do that. Let Fredo take care of some Mickey Mouse night club somewhere’… I can handle things! I’m smart! Not like everybody says!” The worst part about Fredo’s actions against his family is that it’s unclear if Fredo actually knew what was being planned against his brother or whether he was just blindly jumping at the opportunity to be important and have something for himself.

Lando Calrissian – Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back (1980)

Perhaps the most lovable backstabber on the list, Lando at least shows some backbone and tries to make up for his nearly unforgivable alliance with the Dark Lord of the Sith, Darth Vader. While serving as Baron Administrator of Cloud City in The Empire Strikes Back, Lando is visited by Vader and bounty hunter Boba Fett and told to help trap his old friend Han Solo and the Rebels seeking sanctuary in Cloud City in exchange for the safety of the city’s citizens.

After selling his friend out, Lando has a change of heart when he overhears Han being tortured and realizes that Vader and the Empire were already reneging on their promises. He helps Leia and Chewbacca escape, and is able to evacuate Cloud City before the Empire is able to retaliate. Later he participates in the near-incompressible plot to rescue Han Solo and serves as a key general in the Rebel Alliance. Still, even back when he’s on the wrong side of the fight, Billy Dee Williams is able to turn Lando an appealing character, making his eventual redemption that much sweeter.

Henry Hill – Goodfellas (1990)

Ray Liotta plays the ultimate rat. After a long and fruitful career as a capo for local boss Paulie Cicero, Henry Hill’s mafia lifestyle comes to a final, screeching halt after he’s arrested by narcotics agents while trying to facilitate unapproved drug deals with his Pittsburgh associates. Henry’s good friend Tommy jokingly posits that Henry would crack under questioning earlier in the film, but Henry’s damning testimony against his associates Jimmy Conway and Paulie is all about survival: Henry knows that if he doesn’t cover his own ass, Jimmy will have him and his wife killed.

Read more

Culture

The Real Goodfellas: Gangsters That Inspired the Martin Scorsese Film

By Tony Sokol

Movies

The Godfather Coda: The Death of Michael Corleone Proves a Little Less is Infinitely More

By Tony Sokol

Becoming the very thing that mafioso’s hate most of all, Henry turns on his friends and is forced into the witness protection program. All Henry ever wanted was to be a gangster, but in the protection program, he’s reduced to “an average nobody. I get to live the rest of my life like a schnook.” It’s a fate that may be worse than death for him.

Mr. Orange – Reservoir Dogs (1992)

Arguably the villain of the story, depending on who’s side you’re on, Mr. Orange is actually L.A.P.D. undercover cop Freddy Newandyke. Looking to bring down crime boss Joe Cabot, Mr. Orange infiltrates his crew and takes part in diamond heist gone bad. In the ensuing chaos, Mr. Orange is shot and ends up killing an innocent civilian in retaliation. Played by Tim Roth, Mr. Orange screams and cries as he believes he’s fatally wounded, but it’s also possible that he’s airing out the guilt he feels in letting his undercover operation get so out of hand.

Without going into all of the bloodshed in the conclusion of Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs, Mr. Orange’s double agent status is so sound that it eventually leads to the demise of almost all of Cabot’s colorful crew, and Orange then feels compelled to confess his deception, resulting in an ambiguous ending that most believe concludes with his death.

Dennis Nedry – Jurassic Park (1993)

Wayne Knight’s Dennis Nedry is probably the most cartoonish Benedict Arnold of the bunch, and if you think about it, the only human antagonist in the original Jurassic Park film, if you’re not counting short-sighted, megalomaniacal John Hammond. The slovenly Nedry is chief architect of the computer system at the fledgling Jurassic Park theme park, and he’s miffed by perceived low pay. So he decides to take an offer from Lewis Dodgson (“DODGSON, WE GOT DODGSON HERE!) of rival biotech company Biosyn to steal embryos of 15 dinosaur species in exchange for $61,500,000.

To make his grand escape with the embryos, Nedry shuts down the park’s security systems, including the electric fences surrounding the dinosaur paddocks. He also uploads a self-aggrandizing computer virus to prevent the systems from being quickly turned back on. However, a perfect combination of his own harebrained scheme and a nasty storm leaves Nedry stranded and at the mercy of a young Dilophosaurus. It does not end well.

Cypher – The Matrix (1999)

Cypher’s betrayal of the Nebuchadnezzar crew in The Matrix is pretty easy to see coming, and not just because the character is played by Joe Pantoliano, who’s portrayed many malcontents throughout his career. Cypher being a red pill dabbler and wishes he had taken the blue pill instead. He also outwardly makes his disapproval of Morpheus known throughout the movie. Using “ignorance is bliss” as his mantra, he strikes a deal with Agent Smith to return him to the Matrix and erase his memory of ever awakening from it in exchange for selling Morpheus out.

Read more

Movies

The Matrix 4 Already Happened: Revisiting The Matrix Online

By John Saavedra

Movies

Jurassic World: Top Jurassic Park Deaths by Dinosaurs

By David Crow

After tipping Smith off to a meeting with the Oracle, Cypher goes full villain and unflinchingly kills Dozer, Apoc, and Switch before finally being stopped and killed. At least he’s free from the reality he hated so much.

“Mad Eye Moody” (aka Barty Crouch Jr.) – Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (2005)

What’s a bigger betrayal: Death Eater Barty Crouch Jr. revealing that he’s been impersonating Alator “Mad Eye” Moody for the entirety of Harry Potter’s fourth year at Hogwarts, or Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling revealing herself to be a transphobe, betraying many of the themes of her beloved book series? We’ll leave that one to you, dear reader.

However, Barty Crouch Jr. (David Tennant before he was the Doctor) memorably betrays Harry Potter and the Hogwarts community by using the Polyjuice Potion to impersonate the former Auror and ensure that Harry would get into the Triwizard Tournament and ascend to the Third Task, which was a trap to help Lord Voldemort return to a body of his own. At least the real Mad Eye didn’t actually turn his back on those that revered him (like Rowling).

Colin Sullivan – The Departed (2006)

The biggest rat in a film full of “gnawing, cheese-eating fucking rats,” Sgt. Colin Sullivan (Matt Damon) is the criminal counterpoint to Leonardo DiCaprio’s undercover cop Billy Costigan, an undercover gangster who serves as the personal mole to Irish mob boss Frank Costello (Jack Nicholson).

Played with smarm and cowardice by Damon, Sullivan eventually double crosses the police and Costello when he discovers that Costello is an FBI informant—a rat leading rats. Scared but trying to retain his high-ranking job, Sullivan misguidedly tries to position himself as a hero and tie up all loose ends, resulting in a shocking, bloody finale that finds cocky Colin Sullivan miraculously as the last man standing. Or at least the last man standing for the moment, as a final, forgotten loose end returns to give the audience what they want; another dead rat.

Robert Ford – The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (2007)

Well, it’s all right there in the title, innit? Played with a jealous, insecure bent by a creepy (in multiple ways) Casey Affleck, Robert Ford starts off as a Jesse James fanboy, desperate to join the outlaw’s gang with his brother Charlie (Sam Rockwell). When he finally gets close to the mythical criminal (a shadowy Brad Pitt), Bob begins to resent the man, eventually brokering a deal with the Governor of Missouri to either capture or kill Jesse James in exchange for a substantial bounty and full pardon.

Read more

Movies

Hamilton: The Real History of the Burr-Hamilton Duel

By David Crow

Movies

News of the World Review: Tom Hanks Western Has Rugged Warmth

By David Crow

Bob Ford cozies up to Jesse James even further, eventually earning the man’s complete trust, before cowardly shooting the man in the back—although in the film both carry an air of expectation that it needs to happen. Ford then lives out the rest of his days known as the coward punk that betrayed Jesse James until his eventual murder.

Aaron Burr – Hamilton (2020)

Close knit allies but ideological opposites, Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton both fought in the Continental Army for independence from the British. However, when it came time to actual govern the new country that they fought to begin, the men drifted apart.

It’s unfair to call Burr the only backstabber in this relationship, because both men betray their former friend. Burr (Leslie Odom Jr.) becomes jealous that Hamilton (Lin-Manuel Miranda) constantly has George Washington’s ear, and switches political parties to defeat Hamilton’s father-in-law in an election, ending their mutual admiration.

Burr also inadvertently pressures Hamilton to publicly reveal an affair, which strains the rivals’ relationships even further. However, when Hamilton endorses Thomas Jefferson (Daveed Diggs) in the third presidential election, a man that he doesn’t even like, to block Burr’s political malleability from the presidency, it becomes the final straw for Burr, who challenges Hamilton to a duel. In the ensuing gunfight, Hamilton throws away his shot, and Burr seals his fate to be remembered as the villain who killed Alexander Hamilton.

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[evien-stark]

✧I Need You✧ Chapter 65

You hadn’t expected Tony to be in New York at this time- a month ago- when the Met had contacted you about an invitation to their charity benefit. And while you absolutely could (and maybe should) go on your own, you decided against it. Stark Industries was already doing enough, you were already doing enough. Sending a check would suffice enough in lieu of your actual presence. But they’d mailed back very recently telling you utterly disappointed they were that the two of you couldn’t attend. And then in the postscript asked if instead of money you’d think about parting with a few pricey pieces in your household.

Because it was an art auction benefit, of course. Not for any other reason. 

The problem was, the Malibu mansion’s pieces were not yours to give away. And the other collection you had had in stock at one point had been gifted to the Boy Scouts of America some time ago. It made it hard to approach Pepper and ask if you could snatch one or two pieces she had just started putting together… 

It angered her. Upset her. She was just rebuilding after her collection had been carelessly given away. But, being an amazing sport, she said… eventually, fine. Then she trotted out her “least favorite” pieces. It was just the lingering gaze she held before she left that made you feel guilty. Why did she care so much about these? Far beyond you. But, now it was up to you to pick a couple out to have sent so other celebrities could vie for them. 

It didn’t really matter. Not to you, anyway. All you had to do was choose a couple and be done with it. Whoever ended up with them after didn’t matter. The event didn’t matter. Because you weren’t going. 

So you thought. 

Until Tony wandered up from the lab into the penthouse where you had art strewn about. “Charity thing?” 

Nodding absently, “Charity thing.” Because what else would you be doing with random pieces of canvas? Of course it was for charity. 

“Should we… go to the charity thing?” 

“I already told them we weren’t going. Hey, which ones should we auction? It doesn’t matter but at the same time I can’t decide.” It mattered to Pepper, that was probably why. Your guilt was making it impossible to pick a single one, let alone two. 

He’d crossed over to the kitchen and came back with a water bottle. Arm around your waist, he pretended to look like he cared as much as you didn’t, and then let out a hum. “How about… those two.” Pointing to the abstract pieces on the far end. “And so what? You think they’ll be mad if we show up?” 

Done deal, with his decision. You started stacking the pieces you were keeping against the wall near the elevator. “You sound like you wanna go. And you hate going to these things. Almost more than I do.” Almost. But not quite. You weren’t in the mood to go buy a fancy dress and get him put in a sharp tuxedo just to bump elbows with people who just wanted to use you for photo-ops. 

Neither did he. ...right?

“Sure.” He shrugged, folding his arms. “I don’t wanna go. But… maybe we should?” He was terribly easy to see through. He hated being in the Tower. Even if he’d been having a fair bit of fun with Bruce in the labs. He just couldn’t stand it. And he couldn’t fly home to work on the army of suits he’d started because he’d promised he’d stay for the press event you had set up in a couple of days- ...and also because he was starting to finally get the understanding that you didn’t like that army of suits hiding beneath the house. 

So. Cabin fever, effectively. And to cure it he was willing to put on a bowtie and go schmooze. The lowest of the low hanging fruit. 

“If we go we’ll have to buy some new pieces. Do you just want to take Pepper instead? I’m sure she’d love to go.” 

“Yeah. Because that’s the headline we need next.” 

“What? Friends can’t go to art galas together?” Grinning at him lightly. He was too right. Every newspaper from here to LA would be talking about how the two of you had broken up. Or how he was flagrantly cheating on you. 

“Are we friends? I get the feeling she still doesn’t really like me.” 

“Hard to dislike someone who’s never around.” Back to lightly flippant as you moved away from the front of the room to take a seat on the couch. 

He drew in a hiss of a breath. “Mn. And… you’re still… mad?” 

“I was never mad.” 

“...disappointed?” 

He was standing behind the couch, so you dropped your head along the back to stare up at him, smiling again. “Getting warmer.” 

His hands raised in a show of deference. “Warm is good enough.” It really wasn’t, but for the sake of not fighting with each other over how stunted the two of you were at this moment in time, you let him continue speaking- ah, better yet, let him lean in to press a little upside down kiss to your lips. “So. Charity thing?” 

Effectively ruined, you blew a sigh out hard in his face. “Yeah. Charity thing.” 

Tony wanted to go. So you’d go. 

                                                     --------------

The benefit organizers made sure to gush about how grateful they were that you and Mr. Stark were taking time out of your super busy schedules to drop by the event- and bring artwork, too. Did your charitable-ness know no bounds? One could only wonder. 

For the event you had Pepper pick you out a dress and she’d come back with a black ball gown with sheer sleeves and silver starry accents. Easy enough for Tony to match with an all black tux and silver bowtie. Silver expensive cufflinks, too, of course. Really, it would have been much better to just send the money you’d spent on the clothes you were never going to wear again to the event but what fun would that be?

If you didn’t go how then would you take your time walking up the red carpet, posing for ten whole minutes for pictures and take questions you didn’t really have answers to- and deflect things you didn’t want to answer- all while smiling for the general public who were really the people who thought to care about this sort of thing. Because they’d read about it tomorrow. In all the fashion magazines and all the newspapers that would either revel in what a great thing the star power of the world was continuing to do, or the more truthful pieces that called this out for the piece of self-aggrandized crap it all was. 

...when had you become so bitter? 

The only good thing about the evening was that the museum was letting its esteemed guests roam the halls unsupervised. Because the rich and famous could be trusted. And everyone was paying their way to be here, in some shape or form, so why not? It made getting away from all the noise and all the people a very easy thing to do. And while art had never been one of your absolute favorite things, tonight you’d make an exception. 

You and Tony wandered through several different wings, trying to escape the noise, going further and further until finally it no one was around and all the two of you had were the sound of each other’s footsteps in the lonely rooms where the art stared back at you. 

The two of you followed the dimmed lights into the rear center quadrant of the museum, ending up in the French Decorative Arts section. All overly designed rooms from overly wealthy French people throughout history. Maybe it would have been interesting to look at all the things and read all the placards… 

But Tony read the both of your minds as he plopped down on an antique couch (emphasis on antique) that groaned dangerous with his weight. Despite how much trouble the two of you were potentially about to be in, you couldn’t help a smile. “I don’t think you’re allowed to sit on that.” 

“Where’s the sign that says I can’t?” He hung his arms over the back, looking like he belonged there. 

You hooked your thumb to the left. “Right there.” A big one, in fact. Because the objects were very fragile. And were not meant to be disrespected. But this was the danger of letting wealthy people do whatever they wanted, right? Disrespect was sure to follow. 

He turned his head briefly. “Right. It says specifically No Tony Starks allowed on the big ugly couch?” 

Feeding into his behavior was bad. It was the wrong thing to do. But you raised a hand to hide a giggle. It was nice to just feel some semblance of normal. The two of you hated these events. What a way to show it. “No, I don’t think it’s that detailed.” 

“Then it’s fine. That’ll hold up in court.” 

Despite your better judgement, when he raised his hands with a curl of his fingers, beckoning you closer, you came. Lifting the large skirt of your dress, you settled on his lap. The couch creaked. Settling your hands up the sides of his neck, you gave him quite the imploringly soft look. “What are we doing here, Tony?” 

“Great question. Does that mean it’s time for the usual early evening bail?” His hands came to your sides, thumbs stroking just underneath your ribs. 

“Then what was the point of coming? We didn’t even bid on any art.” You had guessed something like this would happen. It had become a little bit of a habit, he was right, that the two of you would leave far too early into a party meant for charitable leaning. That didn’t mean neither of you cared about whatever good cause was going on at the time, just that…

These things sucked. And you two far preferred each other’s company than that of people who liked to pretend to care about things. 

He gave a careless shrug. “I wouldn’t even know where to start. We’d end up going home with some ugly Pollock piece. He’s the one that does all the ugly art, right?” 

Again you couldn’t quite keep a small laugh from escaping, which was incentivizing him all the more to keep going, you knew. “Art’s supposed to be subjective. Someone likes his work.” 

“Someone isn’t me. I much prefer… let’s call it... “ His tone dropped a very increments, head inclining, eyelids dropping just a little. “Live art?” 

“Let’s not. And not here.” Dangerous territory. Because if you acquiesced, Tony would take your dress off and then take you right on this old french couch. For sure. No questions asked. 

“So, again I ask… time for the early evening bail?” 

“It’s terrible that it has a name- and don’t think nobody notices that you and I have been leaving all the charity events super early. It’s bad for PR, you know.” Despite the words coming out of your mouth, you weren’t really concerned with any of that. PR was easy to spin and… god you hated these things. 

“I’m heading a lot of words, and none of them are no.” His grin up at you was unfairly handsome- and more than devilish. Par for the course for him. Especially with what he was asking. 

“Why did we come here, Tony? We could have stayed home and fucked, you know?” Cut right to the chase. 

That grin disappeared, and there was an ache to his gaze that you knew he didn’t want to put words to. Yet despite this, for you, he tried. “I thought it would help.” Being terribly, painfully honest. 

Something you already knew, too. He didn’t want to be at the Tower. But he also didn’t want to be here. The one place he did want to be, you didn’t want him to be. So he was stuck. And realizing it, you felt awful. “Okay, Tony. Let’s go home. But… out the back, please. It’s barely been an hour.” Your shortest record yet. And with it being so early, every single organizer would be asking where the hell you two were going. 

As you leaned back, the couch moaned underneath the sudden movement, and the two of you jolted as one of the legs gave way, sending the front down in a tilt. Tony looked about as anxious as you did. “Out the back?” 

“Yes. Now.” 

If the two of you were trying to leave discreetly, your paired giggles and quick footfalls gave it all away. 

                                                    --------------

While it would have been wise to call Happy to bring the car around and head right home, instead the two of you walked from the venue a few blocks south., following the outskirts of Central Park. The bottom of your dress was already getting dirty, but hand in hand with Tony in a city that wasn’t actively bearing down on you… it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Of course people on the opposite side of the street were taking pictures and there were some not so sly paparazzi trailing behind you. But that was life. That was your life. 

Anywhere you went with him, unless it was a private event, the privacy of your own home, or somewhere with tight security, the two of you were being looked at. Scrutinized. But they were easy to forget. Especially when he seemed so calm and just there. For the first time in a long few months Tony was present. And that was more than you could have asked for. 

There was a Mr. Softee truck parked just a little bit up ahead. “Wanna make this old school?” 

“Oh, yes. I want a double twist.” Feeling your mood improving dramatically now that he was back in full control at his own helm. 

“Classy choice.” 

“I know how to pick ‘em.” 

The window opened as you approached and while the clerk was about to give a memorized speech, once he saw the two of you he stopped dead. “No way.” 

Tony reached into his jacket to pull out a hundred dollar bill. “Way. Hey. Once you’re done gaping, can you get us two double twists? Thanks.” Holding the bill out. “And keep the change.” 

Reaching down, the kid grabbed the bill and nodded, and then shook his head. “Yes- I mean sure, but I’m not allowed to. Company policy.” 

Leaning up on tiptoe you held your hand up to the side of your mouth, “We won’t tell if you won’t.” 

“Better you keep it. In fact, here-” Tony dipped his hand back into his jacket and procured a wad of bills. “I was going to throw it all away on art I don’t care about tonight. Better spent here.” 

His eyes just about popped out of his head. “You’re- giving me- ...that?!” 

“Better hurry.” You teased. “He’ll just buy the truck off you if you don’t.” 

“I mean I don’t own the truck, the company owns-”

“Offer going once… twice…” All he had to count to before the kid shakily reached down to accept such a massive amount of money. You had no idea how much Tony had even had on him. Or why he was walking around with that much at all. Plastic was the new king. 

Once he finished stuffing that stupid amount of money into his apron, he got to making your ice cream. It took a short minute to get both out to you, but what you weren’t expecting was when he came to the front of the car and then exited out the driver side door to come up to you. Shorter. And… much younger, now that you could see him properly. “This money’s gonna change my life.” 

Tony reached his free hand out for a shake. “Sure thing, kid. You’re welcome. What’s your name?” 

“Dante. Really. My mom lost her job because of the … that alien stuff. We’ve been behind on rent- This is gonna help so much.” He grabbed on to Tony’s hand hard and shook it a little too vigorously. 

You tried not to eye him too sadly. “Stark Industries has a program out, have you looked into the paperwork?” 

Turning to you he offered his hand and you gave it a brief shake, but he shook his head. “We don’t meet the minimum requirements, so-”

Fire burned in your chest. “There are no minimum requirements.” 

“That’s not what the people on the phone said.” 

Tony, sensing you were probably about to explode, put a hand on the kid’s shoulder and took control of the conversation. “Mistake on our part. We’ll get it fixed. In the meantime, why don’t you drop by Stark Industries tomorrow. You make one hell of an ice cream cone, but I think I can find something better suited to your talents.” 

As Dante started glowing with excitement and babbling Tony’s ear off, you turned away, getting your cell phone from your purse. Calling Pepper, you were glad she answered on the first ring. It was only eight o’clock, not too late, but she didn’t have to. After she greeted you, “Is the person in charge of the rebuild initiative still in? Do you know?” 

“Uh oh. Uh- yeah I think she… I think she might still be in her office. Why? This sounds bad.” 

“I’ll tell you tomorrow. Thanks.” The window would be closing shortly. It was luck that she was still in the office. Turning back to the two, you saw Dante chewing Tony’s ear off and Tony listening with nods and dramatic brow raises while eating his ice cream. 

Once he locked eyes with you though, he knew. Giving Dante another firm pat on the shoulder. “Seems like we’ve got somewhere to be. But I’m serious. Come by tomorrow. We’ll put you somewhere nice.” 

“A corner office?” Cheeky. You liked him. 

Tony must have, too, grinning. “You never know. One might be freeing up sooner than later.” 

                                                    --------------

This trip would be a short one. Because someone was not on the right page. Even though you’d given explicit instructions about how the recovery funds were supposed to be handed out. And sure enough, Ms. Cadence (Pepper had texted you, your fault too, you should know who was in charge of your charity funds like that), was still in her office. You didn’t bother knocking. 

She had her feet up on the desk, watching something on her phone, but as soon as she realized what was going on, she rocked back in her chair and stumbled to her feet. Tony had opened the door.  “Mr. Stark! Hi- I didn’t know you were coming by- oh- and-!” 

“Save it.” You only walked about a quarter into her offices. “What are the minimum requirements of the recovery funds for the victims of New York?” 

She made a face and then shook her head. “Well, they have to be making less than 20k income yearly. And-”

“What part of everyone gets help did you not understand? The everyone part? Or the getting help part?” Perhaps you were being too harsh. Coming off too strong. But this was not only going to hurt your image, Stark Industries’ image, but more importantly, people in need were being denied help. That could not go on. 

Breathing out a sigh she held her hands up in a shrug. “With all due respect, ma’am, we can’t help everyone. And some people don’t even need the help. They just want the money. So… having a minimum weeds them out and-” 

“You’re fired.” 

It took her a solid ten seconds to process this. “-what? You can’t be serious.” 

“You don’t understand that, either? You’re fired. Collect your stuff and get out.” 

“You can’t be serious!” 

“I had direct instructions about what I wanted you to do. You decided to do something else. Something that not only hurts us, but is hurting people out there. People that are already hurt. So yes, I’m serious. You’re fired. Get out. Don’t make me say it again or I’ll get security.” 

Side stepping you she leaned over to implore with Tony still waiting at the door. “Mr. Stark-” 

Tony put both his hands up. “Don’t look at me I’m not the boss around here. But. For the record. I agree.” For a moment the woman felt a small sense of relief. Tony Stark was on her side- “You’re doing a terrible job.” Until that moment. When he fired a cannonball through her sails. 

On your side. Always. 

                                                    --------------

It took her too long to get her things, too preoccupied with ranting and raving about how you were ruining the company, how you didn’t understand the economics of things, or how things worked. Eventually you called security just to post them at the office door so they could watch her and escort her off the property. After that you took Tony by the hand to exit towards the elevator. 

Once inside, the soft smirk he was giving you tickled you too much to ignore, so you turned to him. “What?” 

“Nothing. It’s just hot watching you throw your power around.” Hands yet again moving forward, quickly to amend, “For the right reasons.” 

There was no point in trying to hide your smile. “Thanks for always being on my side.” 

“Hey. I knew you had what it took to run this company years ago but someone didn’t want to take full control.” 

The doors opened up into your penthouse suite and you led him by the hand over to the couch. “Why don’t you take some full control.” 

“Oh. Yes, ma’am.”

The two of you only made it as far as the couch. Which was fine. He was careful with your dress, so you tried to pretend to be careful when you helped him out of his jacket and undid his bowtie. This is what you’d wanted. For him to just be with you. In the moment. There. 

The feel of his lips on your bare neck and shoulders helped immensely, too, of course. As did him promising he would take his sweet time, and those kisses trailed down from your chest, over your stomach, and to your thighs… a handful of his hair between your fingers. His mouth hot and sure with every touch. It didn’t take long to get you to completely dissolve. 

You really did like when he took full control. 

Even more so when, after coming down from the first high, he took helped you up only to bend you over the back of the couch. He found some amazing way to be gentle about it, each thrust in slow but hard all the same. His arm came around your shoulders, and he just held you to him while he rocked up into you at that angle. One that had your knees threatening to go weak with every move. 

From the couch to the kitchen, where he perched you on the island counter and you wound your legs around his waist, drawing him in again. Forehead pressed against his, eyes half-lidded, but gaze staying on his. Just breathing in each other. You weren’t sure who lost it first that time. But it must have been you. It always seemed to be you. 

He assisted when your legs seemed not to be working, carrying you to the bed where it picked up again. This time the both of you on your sides, arms wrapped around one another, your leg up over his hip. His thrusts were shallow but sweet and you got so lost you thought you might never find your way back. A fitting end. 

You were sure you’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms. And that was where you wanted to stay. But somewhere deep in your unconsciousness, a weight started to crush you. There was no dream to attach the feeling to, it was just a sense of dread. And too little too late you realized it wasn’t coming from you. When you awoke in a start it was because Tony had literally thrown you aside, and you were a little stuck at the edges of sleep to get a read on what was happening. 

Crawling to the edge of the bed you saw him on his hands and knees on the floor, drenched in sweat. Panting. “Tony-” Edging down to come next to him, putting your arm around him. “Tony, talk to me…” 

“Just a- ...just a nightmare- I… I can’t breathe…”  His hands were curled into fists in the carpet, gabbing at it. Clawing. His whole body shuddering.

“Alright- you’re okay… listen, watch me… try in for me… and out…” Starting to count for him until he could follow. Gone again. Not all there anymore. So fast. He’d been torn away from you so fast. Because the second he could breathe on his own he was up on his feet, pulling on a robe. 

“I… I don’t think I can sleep anymore. I’m gonna go down to the lab.” 

 You followed and tried to recapture his attention, putting a hand on his waist, and when he turned, cradling his cheek in your opposite palm. “Stay. Stay with me. Talk to me. Don’t run.”

 His smile was forced. “I’m not running anywhere. I’m just. I can’t sleep. And I’m in the lab. It’s right downstairs, if you need me.”

As quickly as he’d filled in the hole in your chest, he’d hollowed it out again. You let your hands drop from him. “Okay.” What more could you do? What more could you say? Though at the door, you tried. “Are you sure you don’t wanna talk about it?” 

“Just a nightmare. Don’t worry about me. Go back to sleep.” He left in the next instant. 

And you were lost again. 

[badbadbucky]

Novelization of the scene between Klaus and Hargreeves in the Afterlife

Hey everybody, I’m trying a writing  exercise in which I novelize my favorite scenes from TV shows and movies in an effort to improve my prose writing. Below you’ll find the scene of Klaus and Reginald in the afterlife from the Umbrella Academy, the episode the Day That Was. I’d love to hear what you guys think!

Klaus stood on the dirt road in heaven. The mean little girl who was God pointed him toward a tiny cabin, practically a shack, under a water tower.

Sometimes, he and Dave had laid in a foxhole together, talking, and  praying they didn’t hear the pop of gunfire. Dave would tell him about his uncle’s cabin. All the summer’s he’d spent sleeping in a tent under the water tower, while his uncle slept off a few sixpacks inside.  The one that his uncle had promised to sell him once he got back home. Small, but cozy. Stacked with cans of soup and board games and mystery novels. Dave said that when they were back in the world they could stay in the cabin and never leave. Their whole world could be the cabin, the trees, and the water tower. If this was heaven then it was exactly as he’d hoped.

Klaus smiled for the first time in what surely must be a hundred years. Had he only lost Dave the day before? Not allowed to properly mourn. Forced to explain his pain only to find no one listening? But they were going to be together again. Dave was waiting for him.

He ran across the brambles and undergrowth in the clearing where the cabin and watertower sat. Just off the little dirt road.

“Dave!” He called. “Dave!” He’d pretended to be this excited a thousand times. He was a brilliant pretender, but he’d never been so genuinely excited to see someone. He’d never run to see someone unironically before. But it was Dave. Dave.

“Dave!” He burst through the door of the cabin to find himself inside an old fashioned barber shop.

He turned from side to side, taking in the empty barber shop, a little disoriented, a lot confused. The name of the shop, the Nite Owl Barber Shop, was painted on the outside of the window. A game played on the radio in the back room. The floor was black and white and checkered. No one in sight. Certainly not Dave. Was this something he had to go through to get to Dave? Or had he been had?

He tried not to feel too disappointed, otherwise it would overtake him. What did he expect?

Klaus climbed into one of the barber chairs. Seemed to be the thing to do. Maybe if he got through whatever this was he would get to see Dave. Fine. He’d play along.

Behind him the barber snapped a cape in the air to shake it out and then draped it over his neck. Klaus instinctively tensed as the barber pulled the cape tight and buttoned it around his neck. He turned but didn’t get a glimpse of the barber’s face.

Klaus sighed. Was the afterlife always this abstract?.

The barber hooked a hot towel under his chin and then draped it over his face, enveloping Klaus’s face in warmth with a hole in the center for breathing. It felt amazing.

Klaus let his head drop back. “Oh. Oh yeah. Feels so nice,” he said.

The barber turned the chair until Klaus was facing the mirror, though his vision was obscured by the towel. This wasn’t half bad.

The barber pressed the towel against Klaus’s face, releasing tension he hadn’t realized he was holding in his jaw.

Then. Then that familiar stern voice. That daft villain from a superhero cartoon, too posh by far, release the hounds accent. “What in God’s name took you so long?” And the hands were gone.

The tension was back in Klaus’s neck and shoulders before his brain even registered who the voice belonged to. The response was so automatic. Fear and defensiveness. He was glad the towel was still covering his face, it gave him time to put his mask back on before he slid the slowly cooling towel off his face, leaving his skin soft and warm.

“Dad.” The joy and the spark were gone from his voice, all that remained was thick voiced acceptance. If he’d hidden his face for longer then his dad would know he was weak.

So this was what God meant by “he.” Not Dave. No. Dear old dad. The old man. He already hated his powers every single day of his Goddamn life but on days like this one he hated them double. If he just sat here, through whatever it was the old man had to say, then maybe they could part ways and he’d never have to see him again.

Klaus tilted his eyes up as his father drew closer, already in full lecture mode, skipping all niceties. Always he skipped the niceties. All of this just so typical.

“I expected my son, who can conjure the dead, to have brought me forth days ago.”  Sir Reginald said. Always so gruff. Always so forthright. Strident.

Disapproval was an angle he could work with. He was used to his father being disappointed with him. Disapproving of him. It was a familiar dance. One he knew all the steps to if he’d allow himself to fall back into sense memory. He took a moment. A deep breath, then he said the first line of an old routine, the specifics may change but the song remains the same.

“Oh, yeah, well, you see, it’s complicated. I tried I-”He felt himself starting to whine but found he couldn’t help it.

Reginald brushed shaving cream over his face, covering his lips, cutting off whatever excuse he’s been about to give.

The fresh sharp bitterness of the cream hit his tongue, he blew out his lips trying to keep more cream from getting in his mouth, his eyes involuntarily squinched closed.

“I did, but-”

“You were poisoning yourself.” Reginald continued to brush the shaving cream onto Klaus’s face.

“What do you expect? You just died, I was beside myself with grief.” Neither of them believed that.

“Don’t you dare try to use me as an excuse for your weakness. “

“Oh right. Yeah. You had nothing to do with it.” He couldn’t believe he was actually saying all of this to his father. The things he’d been wanting to say for years. The things he’d practiced in a thousand roleplays in a thousand group therapy sessions in rehab, what he’d fallen asleep rehearsing in his mind, if he ever got the chance to have a real conversation with his father.  To tell him what he did. To try and make him understand what he’d taken from him. From his siblings.

“Locking me in a mausoleum with corpses when I was thirteen?” He was proud that his voice only wobbled once as he put baldly just exactly what it was his father had done to him. No more euphemisms. Calling it training or immersion therapy. He’d been locked in a mausoleum for hours, sometimes days on end, with the dark and the spirits, when he was just a kid.

His father pulled out a straight razor and looked at him with exasperation as he kept trying to put the blade to Klaus’s face to begin the shave, but Klaus was not going to be shut up. Not yet at least, no matter how much it annoyed dear daddy.

“No you’re right. It’s irrelevant.”

Once again his father tried to grab his face to scrape the blade across his skin. Klaus pulled back a bit, eyeing his father.

“Ah, ah, ah, careful, Dad,” he said. He didn’t actually care whether the old man nicked an artery but with Sir Reginald you scored points any way you could.

“Don’t worry,” Sir Reginald said, “You’re already dead.” He didn’t soften his tone, in fact the old bastard almost sounded gleeful, he seemed to know that the news wouldn’t bother Klaus.

And it didn’t. Klaus relaxed into the chair.  “Well. That’s a relief.” It was over. He only now realized that he wasn’t hurting. The shivers, the nausea, the crack in his skull. He felt good. His heart hurt, but he took that to be a permanent condition.

His father gently stroked the razor down his face. “You children like to blame everything on me.”

If there was a moment Klaus was convinced that this really was his dad and not a head injury induced hallucination this was it. However solipsistic and self-aggrandizing he remembered the old man to be, he was always blown away by the genuine article.  

Then came the words Klaus had been longing to say to his father his entire life and he wasn’t even enjoying it. “Well you were a sadistic prick.” He didn’t look at his father, just stared into the middle distance. He never imagined he would be so calm. “Not to mention the world’s worst father.”

“I just wanted you to live up to your potential.”

That bullshit might still work on Luther. And hell it may have even worked on Klaus at one time or another, but not now.

“You especially.” Reginald gestured at him with the razor. “You’re my greatest disappointment, number four.”

Well, at least he was number one at something.

“You only scratched the surface of what you are truly capable of.”

But what could his father possibly have expected from him? Wasn’t he the one who told him he was weak. Who ranked him dead in the middle. Everyone knows the middle isn’t special. That nothing great is expected from the middle of the pack. What was he capable of?

“If only you’d focused.”

“Wait wait wait wait wait, what, what potential?” Was his father really just going to blow past that one?

“No instead you just pump yourself full of poison.”

He was going to blow past it! Klaus wanted an explanation of his supposed potential but instead he got track six of Dad’s greatest hits. Say nope to dope.

“Because you’re...afraid. Afraid of what? The dark?” His father had a hold on the side of his face and it was starting to hurt.

Was he really going to have to explain for  the millionth time he was not afraid of the dark? He couldn’t. Not again. Dad had never listened in life. He sure wasn’t going to listen in death. Nothing was going to make a dent so he might as well get it all off his chest.

“You know, I suggest you get down off your high horse there, dear papa,” he pronounced the papa like a Victorian orphan, “you never had our best interests at heart. Look at your precious number one. Luther found all the unopened letters he sent you. He knows you sent him up to the moon for nothing.”

If there was anything that might get through to the old man it was that. Luther was his favorite. The only one who’d stuck by him. The one who sacrificed his mind, soul, and finally body at the altar of their father’s ego.

His father’s sharp gaze softened a bit. He looked a bit less like an angry cartoon owl and more like a person.

“That was foolish of me.”

Klaus’s eyes widened. He’d gotten through. The old man actually gave a shit! Maybe not about him, but about somebody.

“I should have burned it all.”

Klaus couldn’t help but laugh. Of course. Of course.  “That’s your take away.” Yes. The genuine article always blew him away.  “Oh. Wow. Yeah. Of course it is.”

His father grabbed the other side of his face and jerked it to the side to get a better angle as he continued to shave Klaus’s face. Harder than necessary, his fingers dug into the side of Klaus’s head. Klaus blinked in surprise at the pain, then his father loosened the grip.

“Not an ideal solution, I confess. Bu I knew that the world would soon need him. Need all of you. And I had to do what was necessary.”

Klaus crinkled his eyebrows. He could almost believe the old man.

The old man looked him in the eye. “Is he okay?”

Klaus held his gaze steady. He spoke flat and calm. “Do you care?”

“Everything I did. Everything I put you through. It was to prepare you. All of you. For something bigger than yourselves.”

Sir Reginald Hargreeves. Endeavoring to explain himself. Wonders never ceased.

“You never understood that.” Reginald continued.

They weren’t the only ones who never understood.

The razor scraped across the skin on his neck, clearing away the hair and cream.

“We were-” He paused. His father wasn’t going to listen to him. But he had to try and make him. He had to say it. He wasn’t strong enough like Luther. He wasn’t brave enough like Diego.  But he was the only one who could.

His dad continued to scrape the razor across his skin. Ignoring his son, sitting there, desperately trying to tell him something.

Klaus grabbed his father’s hand. Stopping him. Forcing his dad, the only one he ever had, to look at him.

Even though he could feel his voice cracking and feel his chin wobbling, the sure signs he was on the verge of tears, he said what needed to be said.

“We were just kids. Little kids.”

His father stared into his soul. “You were never just kids.”

That was that. He’d tried and he failed. His father would never see what he did to them. Not in the face of-

“You were meant to save the world.”

“Wait. Wait. So you knew all about this? About the apocalypse?” Klaus asked.

“I knew I had to bring you back together one way or another. The fate of the world depended on it.”

Klaus put the pieces together but his brain refused to articulate it. It was unthinkable.

“Why-What are you saying?” Klaus asked. Praying his father wouldn’t answer.

His dad carded his fingers through Klaus’s hair, brushing it back. The most physical contact they’d ever had and they were both dead. There was some small comfort in having his father’s hand resting on his head, but he couldn’t find solace in it. He couldn’t hide the dismay on his face, even if it made him look weak. If his father thought he was soft.

“The only way to get you all back together was something...momentous.”

“Wait. you.” A tear rolled down Klaus’s cheek. “You don’t mean...you killed yourself?”

The old man grunted. Confirmation.

“Oh Christ. You could never do things the easy way could you? You couldn’t have picked up a phone?”

“Would you have answered? “The old man asked.

Klaus opened his mouth and closed it. Probably not, but at least try it first. Suicide shouldn’t be plan A.

“Now listen to me number four.” Things were always serious when your parent used your full name. “What I am about to say is of great importance…”

And just like that his father faded away. Always had to have the last word.

The pounding music from the rave seeped through the walls of the barber shop. Oozing into his ears.

“No. No. No. No, no, no, no, no. I can’t. No I can’t.” He cried, shaking his head, begging God, the universe, the little girl, anyone just let him stay, don’t make him go back. He was dead. He didn’t hurt. He could rest. He was going to find Dave. “I can’t go back!” His voice frantic. “No. Wait!” He squeezed his eyes shut.

And when he opened them he was back in the club. He shot up, gasping for air. The ravers surrounding him, convinced he was dead, all stepped back.

He was back. The music punctured his ear drums. He was freezing but also sweating. His head hurt and his brother was nowhere to be found.

[thesinglesjukebox]

LAUV - I LIKE ME BETTER [5.00] And we like controversy!

Will Rivitz: One of about a million things that makes Carly Rae Jepsen's artistry so compelling is the way she effortlessly makes the listener believe in the love she's alternately stumbling into, living, and losing. She sings about The Feeling more viscerally and powerfully than anyone else I've found, and you can't help but find yourself swept into the flurry of emotions she evokes whenever anything she creates comes on. "I Like Me Better" is a perfect song for exactly the same reason: its unassuming treatment of the very same Feeling is infectious, and I can't escape its deceptively massive pull without at least a faint smile plastering itself on my face. Lauv captures the banalities of the morning after with the rosiest of tints, pitched-down strings swelling with the silly sensation of satisfaction that spreads through your body while you look at the person who maybe might just be the one disheveledly drinking their morning coffee, at least at the times when you can get the memories of kissing them under the streetlights for the first time out of your head for a moment. Every little detail - the roundness on the plucked bass adding extra warmth to the arrangement, the gorgeous reverb on the guitar line, the playful inflection on the singer's voice when he brings in the chorus with an awestruck "Damn..." - is built immaculately, aerodynamically lathed to press all the right buttons and hit all the right heartstrings, and Lauv's skill at evoking the sentiments he does is already astounding six songs into his career. It's the purest rush of emotion I've heard all year, Jepsen's humongous summer single included, and I'll be in its thrall for months to come. [10]

Thomas Inskeep: I suppose it's good that you like yourself better, Lauv, because I don't like you at all. [1]

Ian Mathers: "What's the most self-aggrandizing way I can phrase my love and admiration for another person? Bonus points if I can manage to convey the impression I might be a Bachelorette contestant or something." Plus one point for the nicely creaky sample (of?) that opens the track and could conceivably be used in a better song. [3]

Tim de Reuse: Well, the restraint is refreshing! Half the song takes place over hushed snaps and shy little synth plucks in an acoustically-untreated garage, letting the vocals take center stage: a perfectly fine setup that completely backfires. The main issue is that I'd be completely unable to pick Lauv's voice out of a lineup because he refuses to reach for anything that wasn't well-trodden pop ground several years ago. Worse, the lyrics are unflavored bubblegum, expressing contentment in a way that is precisely and deliberately neutral -- the immediate NYC scene-setting ought to clue you in to how much this tune loves the culturally generic! It's almost impressive how thoroughly he's wrung all of the potential excitement out of a declaration of new love and replaced it with the tedium of a children's song. There are, frustratingly, drops of ambition here and there in the sound design, like the sparse, scratchy guitar and the rich chopped-and-screwed string instrument in the after-chorus; the rest is just dull, even if it's dull for kind of interesting reasons. [5]

Will Adams: The invocation of New York would annoy me more had I not had the exact experience in that city. The premise is familiar, even for this year, but it's one that has nagged me for years: how to reconcile the selflessness of loving someone else with the self-interest of wanting to be loved. "I like me better when I'm with you" summarizes it neatly, and unlike my previous examples, Lauv sings in the present, in the what-could-be-for-me. But even he sounds apprehensive. The misty-eyed hook, a vocal turned into a sax, wails on and on over an introverted instrumental that never wants to become too big. The promise is in Ari Leff's delivery during that one line, which sounds like the elbow bending after a stand-off at arm's length. [8]

Ashley John: I've put myself purposely through the obstacle course of going to shows by myself and drinking a gin and tonic without anyone to turn to for conversation. What I hear in this song more than comfort is surprise. Between plucky beats Lauv sounds wondrous at the realization that sharing a moment doesn't mean splitting the benefits. "I Like Me Better" is uncomplicated to the point of formulaic, but the sound of a comfortable relationship is sweet still. [5]

William John: Just trite enough to earn an invitation to the Chainsmokers' next writing camp. [3]

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