#which they tried waving away with a stupid throwaway line

[charlesoberonn]

After having a night to think of it, and reading some reviews, my opinion of Doctor Strange 2 mellowed somewhat. I still think it’s very enjoyable, especially its visuals and (some) of the acting (Benedict Cumberbatch and Elizabeth Olsen do a great job, some of the cameos are also good, but Rachel McAdams is phoning it in hard, or she’s just not that good)

But its script is a mess and a half. It’s a swiss cheese of plot holes, and the pacing is out of wack, being way too fast to begin with, and padded out after that with lots of random bullshit.

I’d still recommend it for the visual and emotional experience alone (much like the first movie) but the writing is far from satisfactory (I think the writer of Loki being behind this movie is probably why, since that show is a mess and a half too).

[ncssian]

A Favor: Bonus Scene Two (Gwynriel)

Masterlist

a/n: this picks up right after nesta leaves gwyn’s apartment in Part 24. warning for discussions of sex, obviously.

***

As soon as the apartment door shuts after Nesta, Gwyn releases a breath and turns to Azriel with a wide gaze. “Do I really have to teach you guitar?” she says.

“Of course not.” He rolls his eyes. It was a throwaway line meant to get Nesta off his back, and even she didn’t entirely believe it. He moves toward the kitchen to get a glass of water, still shaken from Nesta storming into Gwyn’s bedroom like that. Not that she interrupted much. Gwyn still has a long way to go before she can handle anyone touching her between her legs, Azriel thinks.

He never asked Gwyn what a twenty-seven year old woman was so afraid of sex for when she first suggested her proposal to him. She looked so scared that he would question her that he couldn’t bring himself to poke even a little bit. Not that he needs to poke. He’s not a fucking idiot, and Gwyn’s thighs had been trembling in involuntary fear under his hands earlier. She’s been hurt.

For her sake, he pretends to remain ignorant and incurious, but right now his grip on the glass in his hand is so tight it might shatter. His face remains cool as he pours himself water.

“Why didn’t you tell her the truth?” Gwyn hops up onto the kitchen counter and swings her freakishly long legs. “About what you get out of our deal?”

“I don’t expect you to teach me sex for free, obviously,” Gwyn blabbered the day after they got back from the ski lodge. “You can ask for something from me, too. Even money, if that’s your thing.”

Prostitution was not Azriel’s thing, though he wouldn’t knock it. The truth was that his brain had started turning as soon as Gwyn told him about her idea, and now it couldn’t stop. Oddly enough, this opportunity was perfect.

“Tell Nesta that I’m using you as a rebound?” Azriel nearly snorts on his water. “Did you miss the part where she almost cut my dick off and choked me with it?”

Gwyn hums noncommittally. “Being a distraction from your ex is better for me than it is for you. It’s insurance that you won’t get any funny ideas.” She narrows her teal eyes at him. “If you find yourself moving on from Nesta’s hot sister, you better tell me right away. I’ll end this whole thing quickly and cleanly.”

“Why?” He thought moving on from Elain was the goal, one he was unlikely to achieve.

“You know.” She crosses her arms in an X over her chest like she’s warding him off. “You might catch—feelings for me.”

This time Azriel really does snort on his water, hard. His laughter turns into coughing when it slips down the wrong pipe, and liquid dribbles onto his shirt. Gwyn just sits there and stares at him in vague disgust.

When he’s done choking, he wipes his mouth with the hem of his tee and gasps, “Even without Elain, you wouldn’t need to worry about that. Trust me.”

Gwyn wrinkles her freckled nose in distaste. “I would be offended if I wasn’t so relieved.”

He’s still chuckling when Gwyn says cautiously, “By the way…” She chews on the inside of her cheek. “Did you really ghost Elain?”

Azriel is no longer amused.

“When you said you broke up with her, I thought you actually broke up with her,” Gwyn continues. “I didn’t know you were one of those guys.”

Shame tinged with embarrassment floods Azriel, and he doesn’t have the slightest idea why. Why does it matter what Gwyn of all people thinks of him, especially when she doesn’t have all the details?

He thought he was making things easier for Elain by leaving without a word. He thought she would let him slip out of her mind after a couple of weeks just like he slipped out of her life, and that it would be better than having to hear him dump his insecurities on her.

He knows now that he was only making things easier for himself. Knows that if he had stayed and talked things out with Elain, she would have convinced him to stay. If he had called her at all in the past two months, he would have gone running back to Velaris like a sailor answering a siren’s song.

She’s always been a siren—which is why he can’t regret doing what would have happened eventually anyway. Even without that Vanserra bastard or some other man, Elain could never have been a permanent fixture in Azriel’s life. Little details sprinkled throughout their time together confirm that for him now.

That doesn’t mean Elain deserved it, or deserves it now. Azriel knows that.

But all he can think of to say to Gwyn is, “Yeah, maybe I am one of those guys.” He puts his glass in the sink. “You still want me as your teacher?”

Gwyn shrugs, looking away. “It’s not like I’ve got any other choice.”

Azriel would disagree. He says what he’s been thinking since they got back from Cassian’s birthday trip. “Wouldn’t you rather do this with someone you love and trust?”

“God no,” Gwyn snorts, providing no further explanation.

Azriel can understand being hesitant to admit sexual inexperience to a crush, but it doesn’t stop him from judging Gwyn’s new man. If this coworker of hers is so great, wouldn’t she be able to trust him unabashedly with her insecurities? Wouldn’t he readily accept her for all that she is?

Ugh, he’s been dipping into Nesta’s reading collection too much lately. “Alright, then.” He leans against the counter opposite Gwyn. “Let’s talk about learning. You clammed up in bed back there after ignoring my suggestions and shoving my head between your legs.”

“I clammed up because of my best friend barging into my room and catching us together,” Gwyn defends.

“Your pussy was dry as bread before that,” he retorts. Ooh, now he wants toast.

Gwyn turns a furious shade of red while Azriel starts looking around for bread. He finds it sitting by the toaster. “Can you not say that?” she hisses at him.

“What?” He looks up from dropping bread into the toaster.

“You know…” She glances around cautiously as if someone might overhear. “Pussy.”

“Pussy,” he says again, just to be annoying. Gwyn’s shoulders turn inward in embarrassment, and he has to hold back a grin. Yeah, she’s definitely not ready for oral.

He finds a butter knife and some peanut butter. “I told you to start easy and you ignored me. You tried jumping into the deep end without learning how to tread water.”

Gwyn scoffs. “And what does ‘treading water’ entail again?”

Azriel shrugs, plucking up his finished toast. “Making out, heavy petting, freshman-year-of-high-school kind of stuff.”

“I’ve done that before,” she mutters indignantly. “Maybe not in my freshman year, but I’ve done it.”

He wonders how long ago that was, or if it was before she was—hurt.

“Besides,” Gwyn goes on before he can push the matter further, “I’m not budging on kissing. I want to save that for the man I actually like.”

“You don’t like me?” Azriel raises a brow, slathering peanut butter over his toast. “You definitely don’t act the same with me as you do with other men.” Or at least that’s what he assumes. Up until a short while ago, he never would’ve been able to imagine timid Gwyn having the guts to ask anyone for sex ed. That’s got to make him special, right?

But then Gwyn waves him off and says, “That’s ‘cause you’re not a real man. I knew you before puberty.”

Azriel nearly drops his toast. “Wow, the nerve of this woman,” he mutters with wide eyes. If she keeps this up, he’s going to start regretting ever going to the same school as her. “That’s not what you said when you were going on about how attracted you are to me.”

“I said you were attractive, not that I was attracted.” Gwyn’s blush is more from irritation than shyness now. “You do the job, but you’re no Max.” She giggles at saying his name. Actually giggles. “I’ll only kiss Max.”

“What kind of stupid ass name is Max?” Azriel grumbles through a mouthful of peanut butter.

“It’s short for Maximillian.”

He chokes. “Jesus, that’s even worse.” He’s doing all this work for some guy named Maximillian. Maybe he should just go home and let Nesta give him the beating he deserves.

Except thinking about Nesta only reminds Azriel of what a coward he is, because he fears facing her again almost as much as he fears facing Elain. “By the way, could I…” he starts hesitantly.

Gwyn gives him a judgmental sneer. “You don’t want to go back to the cabin, do you?”

He shakes his head.

“You can’t stay here,” she responds, crushing his hopes. “I have plans tonight, but even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t let you be such a wimp.” She hops off the counter and comes over to him, surprising him by grabbing both of his shoulders. “Azriel,” she says somberly.

He swallows his toast roughly.

“You have to grow some balls,” she continues. “Not just for your sake, but for the sake of every poor woman in your life. Also, all this drama is personally a turn-off for me, which is detrimental to my sex education.” She wrinkles her nose. “Do better and all that, you know?”

Damn, okay.

Instead of standing there like an idiot, Azriel manages to say, “Fine, I’ll go.” He shoves the rest of his toast into his mouth and dusts off his hands, heading for the living room.

“Wait, you don’t have to leave right now—” Gwyn follows after him. Azriel is already on the couch, pulling a stray notepad and pen on the coffee table closer to himself.

He clicks the pen. “When’s that library guy planning to take you out?” he asks, starting to write.

Gwyn hovers near him, watching the notepad over his shoulder in confusion. “Um, this Saturday. Just a casual coffee shop thing.”

“Then I’ll see you on Friday.” He scribbles down some bullet points and labels the page LESSON PLAN. “Until then, think about a way to enjoy foreplay without kissing. Here are some suggestions so you can practice.” He tears the lined paper out of the notepad and hands it to Gwyn.

Her eyes skim over the page, brows rising with each point she reads. “Is all this really necessary?”

Azriel remembers how he barely brushed his lips against Gwyn’s core before having to pull away and kiss her quivering thigh instead. He can’t have sex with an unaroused woman, and he definitely can’t do it with a terrified woman. “Foreplay is absolutely necessary,” he says, getting up from the couch and stretching to his full height. Where Elain used to only reach his chest, Gwyn’s head almost reaches his nose. It amuses him for some reason.

“Do you like movies?” he adds. “I’ll take you to the movies on Friday.” Preferably something boring and played out, so the theater will be empty and she won’t be paying attention.

Gwyn’s eyes widen. “Is going on dates also part of foreplay?”

“It can be,” Azriel shrugs. It will be when he does it. He drops a hand onto Gwyn’s head and ruffles her hair. “I’d love to stay and help you study, but I have to go and grow some balls.” He mock-frowns at her as he heads for his shoes and keys. “See you later, Gwyneth.”

***

a/n: wait why do i wanna write the movie theater scene now… pls help me im just trying to finish this damn fic im getting too old for this

tagging: @hellasblessed @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @valkyriewarriors @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @swankii-art-teacher @wannawriteyouabook a favor: @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01 @verypaleninja @maastrash @bow-dawn @perseusannabeth @dead-on-the-inside666 @jlinez @hungryreadingaddict @anidealiveson @planet-faerie @shallowhighwaters @ghostlyrose2 @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @rarephloxes @readiajin @nessiantrashh @live-the-fangirl-life @ifinallygavein @xoblivisci @sjmships @jungtaekwoonie-is-life @lysandra-tiara @lanyjoy-13 @post-it-notes33 @loosingdreams @fromthelibraryofemilyj @18moneytoad @dontgetsalmonella @champanheandluxxury @togreblog @arinbelle @ladygabrielli1997 @meridainthedisneyland @moodymelanist @pixieelea @teagoddess99

[ficklefics]

Human - Dhawan!Master x Reader

Complicated is too simple a word to explain the relationship between you and the Master. But perhaps he doesn’t hate you that much.

(A/N: This is the breakup fic. Just FYI. Might be OOC, but this is more for me tbh)

MASTERLIST

Warnings: Kidnapping, breakup

Travelling with the Master was… strange, to say the least. You had been a friend of the Doctor’s a long time ago. After a close-call with the Weeping Angels, you had both decided that it would be better for you to go home. Safer. And it was. Until the Master came calling. He was from your Doctor’s future, a few regenerations after the Master who became prime minister. And, as usual, he was looking for the Doctor. And a hostage was always useful.

Technically you were his prisoner. And at first, it had certainly felt like that, as he dragged you around time and space looking for her, always a step out of sync with her adventures. You hated him with every facet of your being. He had dragged you away from your home, made you feel as though you were constantly being held at gunpoint, took his anger and frustration out on you. You guessed he wanted your fear. But you wouldn’t let him have it. You hid everything away under a façade of cool indifference, sarcasm, and over-confidence. Just like the Doctor would. You weren’t sure if it worked. The Master did know the Doctor better than anyone; if anyone could see through her tactics, it would be him. If he did, he didn’t let on.

As time went on, your relationship became less captor and prisoner and more… there wasn’t quite a word for it. You guessed you might say reluctant companions. It wasn’t an immediate change. You couldn’t say when it happened, but you were pretty sure it started when he let you wander his TARDIS on your own while he had his daily meltdown. Of course, most of the doors were locked, and you didn’t stray too far in case you got lost in the endless halls, but you did find a massive library. Artwork from every era lined the walls between towering bookshelves, desks were hidden in alcoves, the floor cluttered with rugs. It was lit warmly with candles. Somehow, despite the size of the room, it was cosy. Reaching out you pulled a book off of a shelf without looking and, finding a soft armchair in a closed-off corner, you curled up with it.

You didn’t realise how long you had been there until you heard him shouting your name. He came into the room, muttering pointless threats. It took him grabbing the book out of your hands to draw your attention away. Your eyes widened in surprise and fear as he glared down at you. “And what do you think you’re doing?” You scrambled to your feet, tripping on the cushions, to stand in front of him. “I was just reading,” You protested, trying to snatch the book back, but he held it out of your reach. “Back to the console room. Now.” He ordered, turning to leave without checking that you were following. You weren’t. He seemed to realise this by the time he got to the door, as he sighed and stood for a moment, his shoulders tensing, before he looked back around. “What?” “I’m not a child. Don’t talk to me like one.” “You’re a human. Practically the same thing.” You rolled your eyes at him but followed anyway. “Can I at least get the book back?” You chanced. He glanced at you, disbelief in his eyes, and almost chuckled. He handed you the now slightly bent book which you took quickly before the two of you went back to the console room. After that, you spent a lot of time in the library. And he didn’t ever mention it or ban you. A coffee machine appeared, a cupboard of blankets. It was probably just the TARDIS. Probably.

You started to actually spend time in the places you visited, rather than just making a mad dash through whatever place the TARDIS brought you to, looking fruitlessly for the Doctor. He still insisted that you were his captive – he had to. But you liked to think he hated you slightly less than everyone else.

And then your world fell apart around you. Or at least it felt like it. He took you home. “Not permanently,” He insisted, “Just for a visit. You can grab some things.” It had technically only been two hours since he’d taken you. For everyone else at least. While you were packing a bag, your phone buzzed next to you. You grabbed it casually, checked the message like you did all the time, completely average.

We need to talk. We need to break up.

The rest of the message was a blur. The phone fell out of your hand. You watched it spin as it fell to the floor and bounced on the carpet. The screen still bright. You were shaking. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel anything but the pain, the aching in your chest. Your head buzzed with white noise. You moved automatically, scooping your phone into your bag and hooking it over your shoulder. Out of your flat, down the stairs, out of the door. The TARDIS wasn’t far away, disguised as an old car. You still weren’t used to the working chameleon circuit. Your feet carried you inside. The Master was stood at the console, watching the screens intently. “That was quick.” The comment was a throwaway. No answer required. Usually, you would have made a joke, some sarcastic comment, but not today. Not now. You walked past him, dumping your bag onto the ground and retreating to the door that lead further inside as your emotions started to take over and tears began to fall. “Stop.” You stuttered on your feet, battling between the want, the need to be alone and the survival instinct that told you if you didn’t listen you’d be in big trouble. Survival won out. You turned around, hurriedly swiping at your cheeks, keeping your head down. No eye contact. Or you would break. “What’s wrong?” He sighed. Glancing up for a split second you saw that he had stepped back from the console, head resting in one hand with the other on his hip. You couldn’t see his face. Was he really…? No. Don’t be stupid. “Nothing.” “(Y/N)…” There was a warning in the growl. A warning that said Don’t lie to me. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t care anyway.” Any caution was thrown to the wind. You just had to get away. You couldn’t deal with him right now. You needed to be alone. “I care if you’re going to be moping about more than usual. You bring the mood down.” Dismissive as always. You stepped back up to the console, leaning against it and staring at the complicated controls. “Sorry if I’m not super enthusiastic about being kidnapped by an insane Time Lord,” You huffed. Or tried to. On the final words of the sentence, your throat tightened, and they became choked. Tears began to form again as the text message swirled around your mind. “Ugh, don’t tell me you’re crying,” He groaned, having looked across at the failure of your voice, “You haven’t cried once since you got here.” “It’s not you.” You might have shouted at him if you’d had the energy. You nodded at your bag, not trusting yourself to say any more. He sighed in irritation at your attitude but crossed the room and picked it up. “Phone.” Barely a whisper. He reached inside. “Password.” “1748.” The day you met the Doctor. Sentimental. He unlocked it. The messages app was still open. You couldn’t look as he read the texts. It was all you could do to keep the fragile strands of composure together. “Oh.” And that word, that tiny, meaningless word… it made it real. And it broke you. Pain flooded from you like a tidal wave. Your body shook as you sobbed, as you clung at yourself, pulled at your clothes, at your hair, as you fell apart in front of him. Whatever embarrassment you felt was overwhelmed by the raw emotions that tore at your insides. Your sorrow, your grief, your anger, your loneliness. The Master could have been doing cartwheels and you wouldn’t have noticed. You didn’t want him to see you like this. You went to hurry past him, down the stairs and into the bowels of the TARDIS, but he caught your arm, stopping you in your tracks. His grip was tight, but it didn’t hurt. Maybe you were just numb. “Look, just leave me alone.” They were barely words, more ragged gasps between sobs. He pulled you forward and stood in front of you, taking hold of your arms and keeping you in place. “Stop crying.” You couldn’t. You gasped for breath, for peace, but the tears wouldn’t stop. You couldn’t control it. “Stop.” Maybe it was the tightness of his grip, or some weird Time Lord magic, or just the sound of his voice, but with a few gulps, you managed to contain yourself. Tears still ran down your cheeks, but your breathing steadied and you could actually see him now. If you didn’t know any better you’d say he looked concerned. “He is not worth your tears. He’s human, an insignificant, stupid little human. He doesn’t matter.” You wiped away a tear with your sleeve, chuckling weakly. “I mean, I am also an insignificant, stupid little human.” He shook his head, laughing under his breath, making you frown. “You might be human, but you’re far different from any of that lot.” He pulled away from you – almost like he was embarrassed. “Doesn’t seem like it. The Doctor left me, you hate me, and here I am crying over a guy who…” You had to stop yourself from speaking as the pain started to build up again. “Get over him. And get over yourself.” He was pacing, circling the console while you stood, hunched, tear-stained. “Do you really think I would let just anyone travel with me?” “I thought we were looking for the Doctor?” You began walking in the other direction. You met him after a few steps, seemingly surprising him. He avoided your eyes. “We are… the long way.” “Why?” The fear that you had felt for so long was slowly starting to disappear as you realised the Master maybe wasn’t as cruel and heartless as you thought. “Don’t push me.” He attempted to step around you to get to the console but you stopped him. “Why the long way?” “Because for some reason…” He groaned, frustrated, and ran a hand through his already tangled hair. “I like you. I like your company. Turns out I prefer it over being alone.” “I’m flattered.” You smiled weakly. The pain was still there, the anger, but you pushed it away. For him. “Don’t. You’re still my prisoner. I just happen to also not hate you.” “I can live with that.” You grin. “So…” “So?” “What now? Where are we off to?” You walked to one of the screens, despite knowing you wouldn’t be able to read the information on it, and pulled it closer to you. In the reflection you saw the Master approach, leaning over the shoulder. You were hyperaware of his presence, of the space between your bodies. But you weren’t scared. “Anywhere you want.” His voice was low, enticing. You turned, starting slightly at just how close he was, but not backing off. “Anywhere?” “Anywhere.” You considered the offer, imagining all the places, all the times you could go, all the things you could see. “Take me…” Your eyes were locked on his. “Take me somewhere beautiful.” “Somewhere beautiful it is.” He stepped closer, his chest against yours, making you look up at him, and he reached around you, pulling a lever on the console, jolting the TARDIS to life.

Time for a new adventure.

PART TWO

MASTERLIST

[briapia95]

An analysis, many interpretations, and comments on the interactions between WWX and LWJ in Chapter 25: Malice —Part 3

I feel like this chapter [and the last couple of paragraphs from the previous chapter] is gold and all that happens between those two is so interesting and bittersweet to read. And it also gives me so many feelings because you can feel the yearning in-between the lines.

By this point, they’ve have reunited after LWJ went after the person running away from the man-eating castle and WWX has managed to run away from JC and transfers JL curse mark.

Just by the end of the previous chapter we are given this small piece: [consider that WWX is coming late to the meeting point]

[...] the white-robed figure stood at the end of the street, standing motionless with his head hung low.

Before Wei Wuxian made any sound, Lan Wangji looked up and saw him. After some hesitation, he walked over with a darkened expresion.

Wei Wuxian didn’t know why, but he involuntarily took a step backward.

He could almost see scarlet streaks of blood by the corners of Lan Wangji’s eyes. He had to admit... Lan Wangji’s face really did look quite scary.

So, it’s quite clear to me that LWJ was not angry but instead scared, and deeply scared as that. The novel has stated several times that WWX used to teased him so much and in such a high degree in the past because it was difficult to get a reaction out of LWJ. But now? Now it only took for WWX to take longer than it was expected to get such a reaction from LWJ.

And of course, the man is scared out of his life. The last time he left WWX behind in a hostile situation was also the last time he ever saw him alive, if it was any other character they would not have risked doing so again. But despite all of that, he chose to trust WWX’s judgment and go after NHS so as to not lose track of him while WWX took JL so safety, even when LWJ knew there was a high possibility that JC was around. [which turned out to be correct]

So now he sees WWX coming back to him and it’s such a relief that even in his stoicism WWX is able to gather that something was happening with LWJ [pity he misunderstood what emotions were going through LWJ at that moment]

Now to the actual chapter I was supposed to be talking about:

WWX, having being attacked with zidian and bearing the curse mark, staggers and almost fall if not for LWJ

[...] thightly gripped his wrist like what he did last time, back in Dafan Mountain.

Wangxian.mp3 playing in the distance.

So now we have two things that really made me laugh:

WWX being flustered because LWJ knelt in front of him to look at his wounds.

I love how even as WWX proclaims to have such a thick face, yet he still gets easily flustered by such small things.

And the famous “... I only left for a few [fucking] hours” phrase from LWJ.

I mean I’m pretty sure inside his head LWJ was screaming so many curses because yes. By this point, WWX has been with him for days and nothing has happened to the other man. Not even with the failed evocation at the Mingshi with NMJ arm. And now he has left WWX out of his sight for |this| short amount of time and look at what happened to him. LWJ is screaming and suffering internally. And WWX is downplaying the seriousness of his injuries. Please give the man a break WWX.

And just when WWX starts to walk towards the shop where NHS is located, we get this:

Lan Wangji stood behind him. He suddenly called out, “Wei Ying.”

Wei Wuxian’s figure paused. A second later, he pretended as if he didn’t hear the name, and answered, “What?”

Idk about you guys but if this is not a heavily charged moment idk what it would be. Because this is the first time LWJ directly calls WWX on his bluff. He’s literally offering him a hand. Tentatively he’s saying “I’m here, you don’t need to hide, you can rely on me”, but at the same time If WWX had chosen to ignore the call he could have easily done so because LWJ is not imposing. Yet WWX chose to tentatively reach back. And IDK, this part causes so many emotions in me, because, for all of what they both remember, their last interactions pre-WWX’s reviving were terrible hostile.

LWJ then states the obvious, 1) you transferred JL’s curse mark to yourself, and 2) you met JC.

And WWX delivers this harsh truth

[...] “As long as both of us are alive in this world, we’d meet for sure, sooner or later.”

Here WWX furthermore confirms his true identity but also I think he implies something quite sad. If he and JC are both alive they’ll keep meeting, they’ll keep hurting each other, and sooner or later one of them will end up dead. And LWJ is not stupid, he catches on quite fast, so he replies:

[...] “Do not go...”

And this little sentence is so many things in such a few little words at the same time. ‘Don’t go meet him, don’t leave me behind, let me protect you, you don’t need to die and leave again.’

And of course, WWX being who he is by this point of the novel, deflects. Because if he’s good at something it's to change the subject and joke around when he’s placed on a tight spot that involves opening-up to face harsh feelings.

[...] If I don’t go, how am I supposed to leave? Are you gonna carry me on you back or something?”

WWX said this because he knew it worked in the past, that LWJ has shot down similar requests in his first life. But, at LWJ’s lack of response, he knew his deflection didn’t really work as he planned to, maybe LWJ would leave the subject to rest but WWX would not be able to tease him into forgetting the conversation.

And LWJ totally does just that, he goes and tries to carry WWX, just like WWX did when they were teenagers, and now is WWX turn to be flustered again.

There’s a little part that stood out for me in this whole scene.

[...] Lan Wangji walked in front of him, as if he really was going to bend down, kneel, and carry Wei Wuxian on his back, despite his honorable status.

And is such a small throwaway line that almost goes unnoticed but it reflects one of the main obstacles WWX has to overcome. WWX does not think of him as an equal to LWJ. And how could he? First, he was the son of a servant, no matter how talented he was in contrast to the second Jade of gusu. Then he was reviled as the Yilling Patriarch, the scum of the cultivation world, in contrast to Hanguang-Jun, the light bringer. He was persecuted and killed and while LWJ was revered. It’s a sad life the one that WWX lived on his first life if you think about it. And WWX is totally aware of these differences in social status and the comparisons other people drew. He might be able to boast that in skill they're equals, but that's it. Outside that he was always regarded as the inferior, that's something I think plays a heavy hand in his belief that the only reason LWJ wanted to bring him back to gusu was to punish him.

As for LWJ’s part, we have this moment after WWX denies being carried

After a moment of silence, Lan Wangji responded, “But you have also carried me on your back before.”

Wei Wuxian, “Did such a thing ever happen? Why don’t I remember?”

Lan Wangji answered in an indifferent tone, “You never remember such things.”

First, we have a vulnerable moment when LWJ tries to reminisce a treasured memory and then goes to quietly exasperated with a dash of disappointment. Because as I stated before, I truly believe WWX did remember the time he offered to carry LWJ in his back, the phrasing is too deliberate to be a coincidence, and LWJ knows it too but also knows that indeed WWX tends to forget many things -read Wangxian.mp3 [the entire reason he figured who you were WWX omg]- so he also can't be sure if WWX is playing into the oblivious character he tries to pull or if he truly doesn't remember. So he doesn't press the matter further but also is not going to let WWX tease him into forgetting he's been hurt.

LWJ has evolved, he now actually can take WWX teasing and keep up with it too, that’s why he ends up carrying him bridal-stile. (To WWX further embarrassment). But being the tease we know WWX, he escalates his antics, starting to play with the front of LWJ clothes as he’s been carried -aka flirting, you are not fooling anyone here WWX- and LWJ just goes along with it. And, of course, he will! He waited 13 years for you WWX with no hope of ever seeing you again, he’s not gonna let this chance go to waste.

Then WWX decides to ask what’s been on his mind since Dafan Mountain, “how the [dolphin noises] did you know it was me? And even since the begging too!” And LWJ here chooses to answer him with a non-reply, the kind of when he's saying the truth but he knows the other person will not understand what's he's saying (his favorite form of communication).

[...] “You told me yourself”

I feel like mostly this is a way of defense LWJ uses when he's also avoiding telling people what he really wants to say, either because he does not care what the other interprets and/or is subtly insulting them -see his treatment of JC and JGY- but he will still be courteous when doing so or because he's afraid of the reaction the other person could have if he's being completely honest -WWX rejecting him if he links together that wangxian.mp3 = you've had feeling for me ever since then = I remembered I rejected you so I’ll reject you again. But also is a way of subtly letting WWX in, as if to say, ‘I know you rejected me but my feelings are the same’. And the moment WWX is unable to figure it out this happens:

It seemed as if something had sent ripples through Lan Wangji’s eyes. Yet, the slight waves faded immediately, and his eyes were a still pool of water again.

Oh LWJ you poor suffering fool, I don’t blame him since for all that he knows WWX rejected his feelings already. But also, this is why communication is important guys, non-replies are cool and everything but if LWJ had said something else, anything else that hinted at the reason he was able to recognize WWX, so much pining would have been spared. But alas.

This is getting longer than I expected but there are two more points I want to touch.

When they arrived in front of the door of the room where NHS is staying at and WWX ask LWJ to let him down so that he can open the door. It goes like this

Before he finished his words, Lan Wangji did something that was extremely impolite. It was possibly the first time in his whole life that he had ever done such a rude act.

Carrying Wei Wuxian, he kicked the door open.

And I really love this part.

I remember reading a while back a meta that said that in WWX’s first life LWJ had tried to be the bridge that connected WWX with the “righteous” path, that he was trying to bring him back to the “right and accepted” side, but in WWX’s second life LWJ pretty much says, ‘I’ll walk alongside you in any path you chose’.

And this paragraph is LWJ's character evolution in a nutshell. It was shown in little glimpses before like with the scene of WWX finding the secret stash of emperor’s smile at the Jingshi or the whip scars on LJW’s back. But nothing is so blatantly stated regarding this change in LWJ’s character previous this moment. The “I will stay with you and help you forge a path where we can both walk freely” is this small moment when LWJ prefers to keep WWX in his arms and just slam the door open than letting him on his feet to open the door because it's the proper thing to do that we know LWJ will always choose WWX and not try to find compromises as he did on WWX’s first life. Something that goes against everything he was taught about property probably. And he’s doing it without a single hesitation. If that’s not love and devotion I don’t know what it is.

And now, the last part I wanted to bring into attention; right after LWJ startles NHS when kicking the door open and walking with WWX on his arms:

Acting as if he didn’t see anything, Lan Wangji carried Wei Wuxian inside and put him in the bamboo mat.

LWJ just showing so much care for his beloved Yilling Patriarch. He will make sure that WWX is safe and comfy before continuing with this very serious investigation. All because on WWX’s last life, LWJ was not able to provide him this sort of affection and care he always wished for. But now he’ll make sure as hell that he’ll be able to bring comfort to his beloved, no matter the situation because he actually can do it and he sure is not going to be wasting this second chance.

And that’s it, I feel like this chapter is Wangxian in a nutshell. The chapter underlays the feelings, characterization, interactions, and arcs that will be explored through the rest of the book. And it’s why it gives me so many emotions while reading it.

Omg, this turned out so much longer than I thought. Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk I guess xD

[more rambles]

[fanfictrashdump]

Queening a Pawn, 11

[I’m stressed and stuck on several of my projects, so guess who’s writing throwaway chapters? (Hint: it me)]

Summary: During the Time Heist, Loki stole the Tesseract and escaped. He did not expect, however, to be pulled through a Time Loop that delivered him to a Midgard more than a decade older, wiser, and bitterer. Having just lived through his unsuccessful attack in New York, Loki must learn to live in Midgard after the defeat of Thanos (post-Endgame). The question is, who is Loki without a quest for a throne or total domination?

Pairings: Loki x OC

=

Loki rested against the ornate tufted black velvet and gold headboard in the pitch black, staring into nothingness. He had never been one to stay asleep for very long, barely getting four or five hours a night, if he was lucky. Ever since his powers had been restored, however, he was lucky to get two or three hours before the buzzing in his soul forced him awake. Delilah had been helpful, despite her increased work in securing the Compound following the attack the week before. She was patient with his borderline erratic emotions and didn't bring up the fact that he could now do magic unless he brought it up, beforehand. Loki, on his part, did not want to think about the fact that he was free to do magic. In fact, barring the mind-control incident he had yet to wield his seidr.

Well, that was not entirely true. 

Three hours prior, he had had Delilah wrapped in his long limbs, sitting together quietly, whiling away the hours. He had mentioned that he was having issues staying asleep; she had taken it as a cry for help (which it probably was) and declared she would not leave until he was asleep. They had sat in his bed, when he had decided that showing affection wouldn't be the worst thing he had ever done and pulled her into his chest. He had amused her with phantom shapes of animals trotting along the air. Lilah had fallen asleep somewhere between his elephant stampede and the galloping wild horses, breathing evenly against his chest with a hand fisting the front of his white t-shirt. He had gently rearranged her between the sheets and kept watch. That had been two hours ago and he was no closer to finding sleep.

"Lo?"

Loki couldn't help but smile into the darkness at her sleep-roughened voice and his name on her lips. His fingers sought out her head, delving into the soft waves of her pixie cut and was rewarded with a contented purr. "Back to your slumber, love." Her hand joined his and a moment later he was being led down beside her. 

Not long after that he was comfortably nestled in her embrace, being overwhelmed by his need to prolong the contact of her fingertips on his skin. Lilah played with the hair that tickled the nape of his neck, making some small comment about his hair starting to grow out after the chop. Her lips on his crown sent a pleasant shiver down his spine and he burrowed further into the warmth she seemed to radiate in waves.

"–and we can train in the morning, if you want. You haven't all week, so I'm sure you're getting restless." She was speaking softly about nothing in particular and gliding her hands over him and making him groan softly.

"Mmm… stay right there, please," he mumbled, his eyes fluttering closed as she kneaded the back of his neck. She added her other hand and he made a strangled noise at the back of his throat, feeling his nerves firing at random at the sensation.

"Hm… that's interesting," she quipped, and he peeked out of one eye to see her smiling at herself.

"What is?"

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth to keep from giggling. Her hands grasped his own and deposited a kiss onto each palm which felt damn near scalding. Delilah turned his hands and he watched with rapt interest as the raised lines and dusky blue of his Jotun form stared back at him. "I thought you'd be colder," she whispered, tracing the lines on his forehead with her index finger, making goosebumps erupt on his skin. "These are so pretty," she remarked of the scarred dots forming a crown across his temples.

"I'm a fairytale monster," he replied, drily.

"No more than usual." She catalogued the lines in her mind with a smile. "Do they vary by family or by individual?"

"Individual. Though families and mates often look similar or match."

"Interesting." Her finger followed a contour down his jaw to his neck where it disappeared under his shirt. Lilah craned her neck until she was able to press her lips securely against his, much to his amazement. "Do you always turn when you're sleepy?" She paused. "Nope. Stupid question. You wouldn't know."

"I don't know." He wanted to say something defensive, but her hands found the knot at the back of his neck until he groaned again. "I thought the eyes scared you."

"They would if it wasn't you behind them, I guess," she whispered, easing him into relaxation until he closed his eyes and hugged her to him. She giggled into his neck.

"Stay?"

Delilah feigned thought. "I don't know. I have other Aesir demigods to cater to."

Loki smirked. "Who, the Valkyrie?"

"Oh, no. Of course not," she defended. "Your brother, though–"

She giggled as he danced his fingers her ribs, making her shriek with laughter as she tried to navigate the slippery silk sheets to escape. She was soon caged by his limbs, the sensation of her body under him feeling comfortable and welcoming, despite the blue-hued tone of his skin. "You'd prefer the mighty Thor over your merciful, magnanimous, indulgent god?"

"I do love thunderstorms," she thought aloud. "But I am a fan of your silver tongue." He smirked devilishly at her, wiggling his eyebrows. "Not what I meant!"

"Precious girl," he whispered, kissing her cheek. "Stay with me." He repeated, though this time it was a demand.

"Yes, my merciful, magnanimous, indulgent god." He smiled and dropped beside her with a huff. "It wasn't in my plans to leave, anyway. Your bed is better than mine." Loki chuckled, though offered no response as he reclaimed his possession of her. "Close your eyes." He obeyed quickly, settling down into the mattress, limbs tangled together. "Deep breaths."

"You're so warm," he murmured, tightening his grip.

She laughed. "And you're a soft little villain who just needed a hug," she riposted. "Quiet. You'll never fall asleep if you're keeping a running commentary."

"You're distracting."

Delilah rolled her eyes, tracing lazy circles on his back. "Shhh. Quiet." He huffed, but swallowed whatever sassy retort he had on his tongue. The truth was that his whole skin was tingling from her touch and he was sure he could hear her steady heartbeat in the calmness of night. His own slowed to match it and before he knew it, he had slipped into easy slumber.

[radiojamming]

Cody/Jacob - soulmates au

ohhh buddy u have no idea how much i’ve mused on this exact thing

(this got so fucking long i am so sorry and yet i am not)

- - -

For the few months that Jacob Seed actually remembers his family owning a TV, he notices a few things. 

He’s about six years old, leaning up against his mother’s legs while she patches the elbow on one of his father’s work jackets (she’s always, always patching things; they never buy anything new). Joseph is sitting on the floor beside the TV set, playing with a worn down wooden horse toy that they bought at a garage sale, and he babbles to it in his own language that is half English and half two-going-on-three year old chatter. Their father is out working late again, which means they have a few hours to watch whatever they want, rather than the loud televangelists that he likes.

On the screen, in shivering monochrome, a greaser bobs his way into a diner, smirking at a young lady in a poodle skirt leaning up against a jukebox. He says, “Hey, sweetcheeks. You got a name to go with that pretty face?” 

The girl rolls her eyes and the audience laughs. Jacob doesn’t get it.

“Martha,” the girl finally drawls.

“What a coinky-dink!” says the greaser. He shoulders off his leather jacket and rolls up a shirt sleeve, revealing an entire list of names on his right arm. Soulmarks, Jacob knows. He knows them from TV and from what Pastor Jim talks about at church sometimes. He doesn’t really know what they are, except some way to find out who you’re going to marry. But he does know that they show up different on everyone. Names are common. His mother has a name on her ankle, and it isn’t his father’s.

On the screen, the greaser runs a finger over his arm before he settles on a name. “Gee, Martha! Guess you n’ me are just meant to be together!” he exclaims, all but shoving his arm in her face.

Martha looks at him with thinly-veiled disgust before reaching over and dumping a glass bottle of Coke on his arm. Then, she reaches up while the greaser is stunned and the audience is howling in laughter, and she uses her shirt sleeve to wipe the names off his arm until they’re just an inky mess. 

“Nice try,” she says levelly before turning on heel and walking out the door to the audience whooping and laughing. 

Jacob sits in slack-jawed awe while Joseph chirps out something that sounds like, “Pecan!” which Jacob thinks is the name of the horse. Then, Jacob leans back against his mother’s legs, tilting his head up so she looks upside-down in his vision. “Mama, can you wipe soulmarks off?” he asks.

His mother gives him an upside-down smile and shakes her head. “No, baby. They don’t come off. He was just bein’ silly.”

“Oh.” Jacob tilts his head back down as a commercial comes on for Oscar Mayer bologna. He looks to his right, seeing the last few letters of his mother’s soulmate’s name peeking up above her sock. All he sees is -EY in weird writing. He looks down at himself, at his shorts and bare knees and tube socks with two neat red lines near the top. Then, he looks down at his hands, his wrists, and even his elbows. “How come I don’t have one?” he finally asks.

His mother laughs, and Jacob’s too young to realize that it’s one of the rarest sounds in the world. She reaches down and runs a hand over his hair, red like his dad’s. “You will soon, baby. Sometimes it takes a little while.”

He’s also too young to realize that some people never get them.

- - -

They switch churches when Jacob’s just shy of ten years old. His skin is still bare of anything like a soulmark, although he has enough freckles, scars, and bruises to last him a lifetime. 

His dad doesn’t like Pastor Jim’s preaching anymore, and Jacob’s aware that they had some kind of argument about the way his dad treats his mom. His dad swears that it’s because God isn’t in Pastor Jim’s preaching, so they end up going to a Baptist church that’s built so close to the Coosa River that it looks like it’s going to fall right in. It’s the kind of church that has something called a revival every few weekends, where they set up a big white tent near the river and dunk people in the water while yelling about Jesus for a few hours. Jacob was baptized awhile ago, but he still watches in stunned silence when their new pastor, Pastor Richard, hollers and waves his arm like a ghost in a madhouse before dunking old ladies and young guys and a whole gaggle of little kids.

And Pastor Richard has a lot to say about soulmarks.

He smacks the Bible a lot when he talks, and goes on for ages about how only a man and a woman can marry over soulmarks, or how soulmarks were made on Adam’s skin from the dirt he slept in while God took his rib to make Eve. During one sermon, someone says something about having multiple marks, and Pastor Richard goes on such a screaming tangent that Joseph starts to whimper in his mother’s arms. There’s no such thing as multiple, he snarls. That’s not how God’s love works.

Jacob looks down at his own skin again, peeking out under the sweat-soaked white button-up shirt his dad makes him wear every Sunday. He sees freckles on his wrists and not much else.

He almost wants to ask about people who don’t have marks, but he’s afraid of Pastor Richard shouting at him, too. 

- - -

The next few years make it hard to think about soulmarks or much of anything except how to keep himself and his brothers alive. Lots of things happen in a blur; his dad getting taken away in a patrol car, his mom taken in the other direction in an ambulance while she stares at nothing, and then the ugly black Cadillac that comes to take them away in a third direction. There are stark white offices, bunk beds in rooms that smell like fresh paint and sawdust, stacks of papers that Jacob has to sign sometimes, and what feels like hundreds of people with faces that Jacob is never going to remember, all pretending to be sad on his behalf.

He holds John through most of it, trying not to think too hard about his parents or the life they left behind. Sometimes he thinks about the name on his mom’s ankle, or the tattoo-like splotch on the back of his dad’s left wrist, or how the two of them were never meant to be together. 

Sometimes, he thinks if he doesn’t have a mark, then–

He stops himself there, because otherwise, he just gets himself upset. He can’t do that in front of his brothers when they need him the most.

Then, they get adopted by the farmer couple in Rome, and before Jacob knows it, he doesn’t have time to think about soulmates and marks at all. 

- - - 

He’s in juvie when he gets something like a mark. Maybe. 

It’s one of the younger kids, Toby or Tony or something, with the long Italian last name who was born with two fingers on his right hand fused together. He follows Jacob around like a lost puppy, along with a few other kids who quickly learn that Jacob Seed punches like a fucking boxer when one of the older kids picks on one of the younger. Toby-or-Tony was one of those kids, after one of the older guys (colloquially known as Forevers, since everyone knows that once they’re out of juvie, they’ll just boomerang right back into prison) gets a few of his buddies started on calling him Lobster Boy. He shoves Toby-or-Tony up against the chain-link fence at the courtyard and makes a big show of seemingly trying to peel his fingers apart, when Jacob (known for his soft voice, massive height, and the fact that he stares people down like a goddamn wolf on the prowl) hauls up behind him and socks the shit out of the guy. Once the guy’s on the ground, bleeding out of the mouth and mewling like a kitten, Jacob saunters away without a word and Toby-or-Tony follows him like he’s magnetized.

And he notices the weird mark on Jacob’s hand first. It’s a splotch of blue-black in near the tip of his left middle finger, and he points at out at lunch one afternoon while Jacob prods at a Salisbury steak which would probably be better suited as a hockey puck then an edible item. Toby-or-Tony watches his hand move before he clears his throat.

“Uh. Jake. You got a little somethin’ on yer…” He makes a throwaway motion towards his hand.

Jacob curls his hand inward enough to see, and furrows his brow at the weird little mark, not quite a quarter of an inch long. It looks like an ink stain, but the last time he touched a pen was in the social worker’s office almost five weeks ago. They only let the kids have pencils in school.

“Huh,” is all he says. He takes the moist towelette they give out with the lunches and tries to wipe it off. It stays in place, not blurred or faded in the least. He blinks at it, then down at the towelette which is as clean as it was when he took it out of the package.

Toby-or-Tony gives him a lopsided grin. “You get a tattoo from Kev or what?” he asks, referring to Kevin-in-the-bathroom, who gives kids tattoos using ink from a broken pen and a fork he stole from lunch ages ago. 

“Fuck no,” Jacob replies gruffly, shoving the towelette aside. “I’m not that stupid.” And it’s forgotten in the course of him trying to saw the steak in half, failing, and then flipping it onto Toby-or-Tony’s plate, who retches a little at the sight of the alarmingly gray gravy trail it leaves behind.

It’s forgotten, for a little while, until Jacob stands in the showers and looks down at it again. It might be a trick of the waxy light in the bathroom, but he swears it’s gotten bigger. 

- - -

When he starts BCT at Fort Benning, Jacob sees the marks on his knees. They’re the size of half dollars, plastered in blue-black on his skin like he just slid through a puddle of ink. They’re nearly identical, too, and he stares at them in confusion and something like awe in that split second of time he has before he has to get back in uniform. 

It’s on his mind for only an hour or so before the drill sergeant is screaming in his ear through drills.

Jacob usually only ever has two things on his mind at that point. He still thinks about his brothers, about how the last time he saw them, Joseph was a wiry-looking preteen with owlish eyes and a healing broken nose, and John was crying, clinging onto Joseph’s hand with his big blue eyes so full of tears that he had to blink a dozen times just to see Jacob clearly as the police pulled them apart. He remembers how John kept one of his shirts like a security blanket, keeping the black fabric draped over one arm or clasped against his chest while he slept. Then, Jacob realizes that the more he thinks about that, the more it hurts. But it hurts more to try to forget them at all.

The other thing he thinks about is his future, which rocks back and forth precariously between promising and doomed. Linda, his social worker back in Macon, bluntly told him that his outlook was either prison or the army, but cited his fantastic test scores as a potential for college. He remembers her manicured nails, painfully pink against the black desk, and how she clicked them, one-two-three-four against the surface.

“You get into the army, then college is pretty well paid for,” she had said with a shrug, glancing at the paper with his GPA from the center. He knew it without having to see it, staring with a three and ending with a high number that nearly tips the scale into 4.0. “You ever think about getting a degree?”

He hadn’t. He said as much, followed by, “If I did, could I get custody of my brothers?”

She had shrugged, and it made his heart sink. “Maybe. Maybe not. Most likely not,” she said. “They might be adopted out by now, and even if you did get a degree, there are a lot of other factors that the state would consider.”

And that’s what kicked off his second dwelling point, where he wavered between optimistically thinking about his years of service, a college degree, and the potential of not only seeing his brothers again, but having custody, and then ending up in a gutter somewhere, or possibly prison.

But a third point hardly occurred to him until the stains appeared on his knees, as stark as tattoos. 

He sees them again when he goes in to shower after drills, and all he can think of is that TV show and the names on the greaser’s arms, followed by his mother saying sometimes it takes a little while.

And sometimes not to people like him, with no future and no prospects, he had thought.

His mind keeps playing the show and his mother’s words, but the rational part of him, the one that speaks in a voice an awful lot like Linda, says that they’re just bruises. 

It’s harder to forget this time, though.

- - -

Once again, things are a blur. A big one, kicked off mercifully by huge doses of pain medication given through syringes in hep-locks and intravenous tubes. 

Jacob’s only vaguely aware of what’s going on, trying to piece it all together as he rolls in and out of consciousness like a ship on the waves. He remembers a black expanse of desert in the darkness, then shouting, then a high whistle of something airborne and travelling at high speeds, and then– 

Pain. 

White-hot and cracking and oozing. 

All over his body.

He sees flashes of white, and people behind masks. He sees someone he knows is a surgeon, and then they’re gone. He feels things touching him, more poking and prodding, the smell of something so antiseptic that it stings to breathe it in, and the endless drone of voices in multiple languages, mixing together so it sounds like Joseph’s made-up language from childhood.

Shit, he hasn’t thought about Joseph in awhile. 

He doesn’t have time to think much of anything else before he dips under again, and his head is full of strange dreams of little kids sleeping on bales of hay, but then the bales turn to sawdust-smelling bunk beds, and then they’re shoved up against chain-link fences. He dreams of blue-black bruises on his knees, and as he comes back up for a second, smelling sickly-sweet medicine and hearing the distinct beep of an EKG, he has one rogue thought that breaks rank and hauls ass in another direction.

Sorry, he thinks, directing at someone far away. Someone he’s never seen, but in this twilight-phase of sleep and waking, he knows is there. You don’t need this on you. You don’t need to see this.

It doesn’t make sense, and, hell, he isn’t even sure what it means. All he knows is that at some point, his entire body feels like it’s bandaged, and he’s sure he looks like an old Hollywood mummy plastered to a stretcher. 

At some point, he thinks he hears someone say, “Second and third degree burns over sixty percent–”, but he might also dream that.

And yet, all he can think still is, Sorry, sorry, sorry.

- - -

He tastes something charred in his mouth as he walks, and his head feels unscrewed from his body, like the bulb of a flashlight not quite screwed in all the way. Here and there, it flickers– He flickers, not quite here, not quite gone. He staggers through the desert on a leg that’s not right, with a ghost trailing behind him, and his head is just–

He’s laughing. He’s fucking laughing, and the sound carries loud and clear over the mountains and the sand and the thin ground cover that promises water that isn’t there. He’s choking on the sound, and when he looks down at his left arm, sleeve torn away to make a bandage for 

(for Miller, but God knows he doesn’t need it now)

someone, he sees a long lance of ink-blue trailing down his arm in a dark stripe. he about loses it then, the laughter breaking like glass in his throat.

“God, I’m so fuckin’ sorry,” his voice cracks, riddled here and there with splits and crevasses. He grins in a rictus smile, muscles yanked back so that it feels like he has no control over his face. He smiles like

(like that corpse you left behind, you sick fuck)

a skeleton, and he shivers so hard that it’s a wonder his bones are holding together at all. 

He runs his hand down that mark, and up, and down. Over and over until his calloused hand feels as abrasive as sandpaper on his skin. He’s trying to wipe the mark away–

(“No, baby. They don’t come off. He was just bein’ silly.”)

It doesn’t come off. He rubs and rubs until his skin turns red around the blue. He laughs. He screams. He screams and screams and screams.

(Until the Humvee comes after a report from a lookout at a mountain outpost, drawing full alert to the fact that there’s a man in US Army fatigues staggering like a drunk across the desert. And then they pick him up, delirious to the point that he’s laughing in dry heaves of sound, clearly malnourished, vomiting the second they give him water, and chattering madly about ghosts and brothers and someone that he can’t stop apologizing to.)

- - -

Whoever said, ‘All roads lead to Rome,’ needs a solid kick in the jewels, no matter how long they’ve been dead. (He knows it’s from the Golden Milestone. He’s read it, among five hundred other things to occupy his time in the dingy little apartment the Army saw fit to gift him with after an honorable discharge. Fuck them.)

The road’s led him from Hartsfield-Jackson Airport to a miserable walk-up on Beecher Street to hitchhiking across half of Georgia to avoid Rome, and finally from I-16 to I-75 to 411 and straight back into that goddamn hornet’s nest of memory that Rome is.

In the end, the road back to Rome has taken him to the optimistically-named Hope Rebuilding shelter where he sleeps on an Army cot (God, he can’t even get away from that) while listening to the droning buzz of fluorescent lights above his head and the insistent cough of a woman dying of emphysema on the other side of the room. There are plenty of other wayward veterans here, all with glassy eyes and too-long beards (at least his is still red and not ash-gray or bone-white) and the occasional pension check that floats in to provide for cigarettes or the contraband bottle of Wild Turkey. 

Jacob resigns himself to his cot, to the olive drab duffel bag that he lives out of with the handful of books he kept from the Beecher Street apartment and a few essentials. The rest, he doesn’t care about. He’s sure he’s going to die here, the same way people do all the time. One day, one of the sweet old ladies of Hope Rebuilding will come over to wake him and find him stone-cold and grinning like he did in the desert, and then maybe they’ll weep a little before calling the ambulance company and funeral home that they have on speed dial. He’s oddly content with that now.

The only other thing keeping him afloat is the person on the other side of those blue marks that ripple onto his skin sometimes. He knows that they’re soulmarks, but he also knows that he’s never going to meet that person, and that it’s for the better that he doesn’t. He’s left them scarred, he’s sure, if the marks are what he imagines. Every time one of them gets hurt, the mark appears on the other person. It’s somehow suitable, in the way that the marks are supposed to be. He knows his soulmate is accident prone but not in any real danger. They get scrapes or bruises all the time, and when he allows himself to let his mind wander, he imagines that they might play some kind of high contact sport, especially when he gets a blue mark on his right shin in the shape of a leg guard.

Sometimes, when his head is unscrewed again and he’s seeing corpses smiling at him when he closes his eyes, he brings his left forearm up to his face and presses his lips against the skin. There’s a thin sky-blue line there, a scar left over from the day when it was a cobalt-colored stripe. After he kisses it, he apologizes again.

He’s sorry that he did this to them, probably making them look like they’ve been drenched in ink.

He’s sorry that they had to watch that happen, and it’s only a little comforting to think that someone out there worried about him.

He’s sorry that they’ll never meet, and he’s sorry that he’s alright with that.

“I wish you could wipe them off,” he says to the scar one night when Sharon-with-emphysema hacks and wheezes and one of the old Vietnam guys groans and yells in his sleep. “I wish you didn’t get stuck with me. I’m sorry.”

His isn’t one of the soulbonds where he feels the things his soulmate feels. But for a moment, he thinks he feels them respond.

It’s okay. We’re okay.

- - -

Joseph is still owl-eyed, but his wide eyes are now hidden behind gold aviators which he only takes off to wipe at his face when he tears up too much. Everything else about him is different. He’s taller now, more muscular, with long dark hair like their mother’s pulled back into a ponytail tied low on his head. He smiles at Jacob like he can’t believe he’s real.

John is… different. Jacob doesn’t blame John for being wary, because they’re practically meeting as strangers. John’s full grown now, which is mind-boggling. He’s a good-looking twenty-something, with slicked back hair and a finely trimmed beard and clothes more expensive than anything Jacob’s ever owned. He’s a lawyer, Joseph explains, and he’s the one responsible for scenting Jacob’s trail. 

That’s not hard to do, Jacob says. He hasn’t showered in days.

Joseph doesn’t think that’s very funny, but when John smiles, Jacob knows for sure that it’s his little brother in there, rich boy bedamned. 

They catch up slowly, first in the shelter, then at a greasy diner downtown, then at a hotel room that John gets for Jacob so that he can reassemble himself into something almost human.

He learns that Joseph had a soulmate, but she’s dead now. John has a mark, but no one on the other end yet. They find out he has one, but no interest in meeting them.

He almost has to smile as Joseph frowns at this. The Seeds, just as discontent and dysfunctional as they’ve always been.

Then Joseph tells him about the Voice, about his mission, about all this godly crap and being led to convert people whether they want to be converted or not. Joseph says he understands that Jacob will be hesitant, after everything he’s been through.

No shit, says Jacob, and Joseph almost admonishes him for language. John laughs again. He laughs a lot, but it’s not always happy.

Oh, but it’s all true. How else would Joseph find his brothers again? And doesn’t Jacob remember when Joseph told him about the Voice when they were kids? 

Jacob stares at him, at his massive eyes that look like they’re pleading for him to believe his brother. Then, he looks at John, who shrugs.

John believes him. He’s even helped rent a space in an old meat-packing plant for this new church Joseph has started. They already have a congregation, and they have space for one more Herald, this thing Joseph says is necessary for them to save the world or whatever.

It’s not like Jacob’s life can get any weirder, honestly.

He looks down at that pale blue line on his left arm, and down at the torn knees of his jeans, where below the feathered white threads, he knows there are two identical silver dollar scars on his knees from what he now believes are a few saved up childhood falls. He almost mentally asks his soulmate if this is alright, if they’d be fine with him running off with one brother who might be just barely clinging to reality, and another who is rich, damaged, and happy to go along for the ride.

He doesn’t ask, because this feels like something they don’t need to know about.

“Sure,” he says. When Joseph looks at him, almost puzzled that he didn’t have to push his point harder, Jacob just shakes his head and shrugs. “Anything for you. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again.”

Joseph hugs him again, so tight that it almost hurts. He thanks Jacob repeatedly, saying he won’t regret it. He’ll never regret it. Eden’s Gate is going to succeed, because they’re all together like God planned.

Jacob never tells him that he doesn’t really believe him, but it feels like the right decision all the same.

- - -

So the Lord God called out to Adam, “Where are you?”

“I heard Your voice in the garden,” he replied, “and I was afraid because I was naked; so I hid myself.”

Jacob pretends he’s not hiding this. Not hiding the split in his mind and the things that he’s doing, when the Montana soil on his hands gets darker and damper until it runs dark red off his fingers. He pretends he’s not somehow ashamed of this, of the things they do. It’s for Joseph, after all. It’s what Joseph wants, what he says God commands, because God commands that all must convert, be it their decision or not. And God’s commanded Jacob to build Him an army, an army that carries Joseph’s word like a banner.

He pretends this is what he’s wanted all along, and he turns a blind eye to the silver and blue lines and splotches on his skin. They’ll never meet, he knows. They’ll never see this, this empire he builds on the bones of those that have failed. This is not Rome, not Babylon. This is designed to go on forever, beyond the end.

He’d like for them to be there when the world burns away like the impurities in a crucible. But that’s just not meant to be.

- - -

Over the radio, John sounds like he’s about to laugh himself into a fucking aneurysm. Jacob can hear him practically wheezing as he tells Jacob that the Deputy, this Oakley girl that he remembers from the arrest in the church is headed towards the Whitetails in a fury. At first, he thinks John’s laughing because Deputy Oakley thinks she can do something to stop Eden’s Gate, but it quickly becomes clear that it’s not the case.

“I baptized her. Or, tried to,” John attempts to explain, but he dissolves into laughter again until Jacob just turns off the radio out of frustration.

He knows he’ll recognize her. There’s only a handful of people out there who match her description. He’s got it all written down in his office, prepared for wanted posters and broadcasted alerts and commands. Deputy Oakley (Pratt won’t give up her first name), late 20s or early 30s, height between 5′6″ and 5′9″, auburn hair, hazel eyes, dark tan skin. In the church, she had been pretty steadfast and serious, full of nervous energy. Now Jacob knows better, learning that she’s been blazing trails up one mountain and down another. She’s done action movie leaps out of moving helicopters, run around with a pet cougar, and by his security footage, has done stupid shit like hand stands on a cliff edge and stunt rides on a rickety ATV that’s probably as old as she is.

And her stupid laugh is on loop in his head, for all the times he’s eavesdropped on her radio calls with his brother and sister. She has this low, dry laugh that comes close to a witch cackle, but the more honest it is, the richer it is, even though a veil of static.

Of course, she hits the Whitetails like a torpedo. Eli takes to her, as predicted, which jump starts Jacob’s idea. Once she takes the lumber mill and rescues Jess Black (damnit, she would have been a choice recruit, but oh well), he decides to put the plan into action. 

And when he captures her and gets her in the chair, he finds out exactly why John was laughing.

In the darkness and shuttered light of the projector, he can’t make out many details about her. He knows Pratt’s put her in the chair while Jacob was preparing, so he hasn’t seen her up close himself. And in the dim light, with casts of gray and green and red, there’s not much to see other than an expression of masked horror and awe. Then, the picture on the projector changes to one of his favorites; one of the white wolves gnawing off a deer leg. The light’s bright enough that he sees–

He sees something impossible.

For the first time in years, he fumbles in his presentation. He freezes, staring, watching her with wide eyes. He sees the light of the projector illuminating patches and spatters of blue that go from her forehead down her temples and cheeks, spilling onto her neck and disappearing under the hem of her black parka before reappearing on the backs of her hands.

And she’s looking at him with the same expression of frozen wonder. Maybe the horror isn’t directed towards what he’s doing so much as what he looks like.

And he thinks. He really thinks.

He doesn’t remember any of those marks in the church, but the waters of the baptism might have washed a layer of make-up away. 

“Oh, fuck,” says the Deputy in a whisper.

He echoes her sentiment, and for the first time in ages, he has no idea what to do.

His soulmate is strapped into one of his chairs, ready for a round of conditioning. His soulmate, the one he’s spoken to through scars, apologized to, begged forgiveness from when things got bad, and mentally hid things from, is sitting in front of him as his biggest potential enemy.

Sometimes it takes a little while, his mother had said. Give or take two decades or so.

They don’t wash off, she said. No, but you can hide them with make-up or scar them over so bad that they disappear.

Sorry, sorry, sorry, he had said. And suddenly, he wants to say it again.

Instead, he clears his throat as the projector clicks and shows a deer skull against a snowy background. “Pratt,” he says, and he hears the man grunt behind him. “Take Deputy Oakley to 3-A. We need to have a talk.”

He knows Pratt hesitates, and all it takes is one heavy step toward him to send the man scurrying over to his coworker, quickly undoing the straps. He helps her stand, and she does so on legs that don’t quite hold her up right. When she takes one step and nearly falls, Jacob feels himself lurch forward on the instinct to catch her. He only just stops himself when Pratt catches her and assures her that she’s going to be fine. 

Jacob should be the one doing that. He should be–

He stiffens. “Get moving,” he barks, and Pratt almost drags her out of the room.

The other two Whitetails in the room stare at him as the deer skull is projected over him. He breathes heavy, thinking. Always thinking.

And suddenly, he catches that crest of thought that he only felt in juvie, when he was young and still had some optimistic bone that hadn’t been shattered yet. He sees potential there, a future that doesn’t end with either of them dead, or Joseph’s vision ruined. He sees something like promise, like the possibility of having a right hand that can strike as quick and hard as he needs. Someone beside him, someone strong and as of yet unable to really be defeated. He sees his soulmate there, where soulmates should be, this balance on the other end of his scale that’s always been tilted and askew.

She’s seen his pain on her skin, and he’s seen hers. He can use this. He can bring them together and make a partnership and cull the weak in their pack with one of the strongest by his side.

And as he continues his presentation to the hapless Whitetails, who will eventually become the Deputy’s first test, he thinks about the girl in the other room with the ink-blue marks of his scars on her skin. He thinks of the future they can make.

He has no idea that she’s going to fight him every step of the way.

[jestbeeextras]

Unfinished: enemies to lovers YouTuber au

Originally written: 22 June 2018

This was my attempt during fedij 2018 at writing enemies to lovers YouTuber AU because I was reading a lot of Drarry and i wanted that whole "i hate you but i really love you" thing. but I realised that what I was writing was too close to Ships. I might like to revisit the idea one day, but I need a bit more distance from Ships so as not to evoke the same kind of feeling

---

It is a perfectly lovely evening. The pub is kind of crowded, which he never likes, but he hasn't seen Louise in ages so it's nice to catch up with her. YouTube events were always good for that kind of thing, when for a few days they could leave their actual lives behind.

It's the first night of the event, and they're gathered in a pub down the road from the hotel they're all staying in for some kick-off drink. He's had a full half hour of undivided Louise attention, asking about Darcy and leaning across the table to talk to a number of the other YouTubers gathered there too.

He's had about three drinks and he is feeling cheerful and loose and carefree in a way that he hasn't in a while. Which is why is makes it all the worse to look up and find the door opening on someone he really didn't want to see.

"Oh no," he says.

Louise follows his line of vision to where Dan Howell is entering the pub and making eye contact with someone in their group, waving a bit. She looks back at Phil with a frown.

"Philip," she scolds, "not this again."

"He's just so irritating," Phil insists.

"Is this about what happened last time? Because he really was just trying to be nice."

Phil had forgotten about last time, but he feels a huge rush of prickly anger up the back of his neck now he remembers.

"It's not that," Phil shakes his head, "I just don't like him, okay?"

"Just..." Louise sighs, like she's been through this a million times and is this close to giving up. She sort of has. "Give him a chance."

"No promises."

"Then, be civil?"

"I don't get why you're friends with him," Phil says.

Louise is just nice to everyone, is why. She's too nice most of the time and people like Dan Howell walk all over her.

"I don't get why you're not," she says, "don't you think it's gone on for long enough now? Can you even remember how it started?"

"I can remember."

"Well I can't."

It had started small. It wasn't one thing in particular, just the way that Dan Howell had come out of nowhere, tall and British and a bit nerdy. He even had the audacity to wear his hair in a fringe over his forehead the same as Phil.

It was pathetic really.

And sure, now Phil sounded like a bitter has-been mad with the younger model for stepping on his branding. But Phil had tried, in the beginning, to be nice to him. But Dan had ignored him. At YouTube gatherings and other social occasions they happened ot be at, Dan stayed clear out of Phil's way and barely said two words to him.

Then he'd started mentioning him in videos. Talking about how Phil was an 'influence' of his and how much he admired him. It was vapid and shallow and completely untrue. Phil didn't have time for it.

Phil hadn't shaded him or anything, he really hadn't intended the video he made after Dan's video to get so much traction and all he'd done was make a throwaway comment about YouTube culture and the stealing of ideas, but fans had taken it to mean he was talking about Dan and well... it was kind of  just accepted fact at this point that Dan and Phil had drama.

Nowhere near as sensational as people on Twitter would imply it, but there was some basis to it.

Phil just shrugs at Louise and doesn't have time to say much more before Dan is sidling up to their table.

"Hi Lou," he says.

Phil picks up his drink and sips it, avoiding eye contact entirely. He could get up of course, find someone else to go talk to, but he refuses to let Dan Howell drive him out of his seat.

Thankfully, PJ wanders over at the minutes to sit down on the other side of him, Chris trailing behind him.

"Hey Lou," he says fleetingly, before hitching a leg up on the bench they're sat on and facing Phil. "Settle an argument, Phil."

And then PJ and Chris bicker in front of him for long enough that he forgets Dan Howell is even there.

It isn't until they've gone, and he turns back to talk to a shifting Louise that he remembers.

"I've got to get going," Louise says, "you boys play nice."

And then she pats Phil on the cheek a little too hard and is out of her seat. Phil tries a little noise of protest as she leaves, but it's no use.

Dan is sat a little further along on the bench and he's got a drink in his hand that's barely touched at all.

Phil clears his throat, maybe a little too loudly, and contemplates how much he cares about staying in his seat. Suddenly keeping it, when it might mean making polite conversation with Daniel Howell of all people, doesn't seem worth it.

He drums his fingers on the table, once or twice, and then rises to his feet.

"Am I that bad?" Dan asks.

"Sorry?"

Phil pauses, half out from behind the table, one foot in the aisle between their table and the next.

"You can't even bear to spend like, five minutes in my company. Am I that bad?"

Phil fights an urge to roll his eyes. Because of course Dan is making this all about him, and of course he has no idea why Phil wouldn't want to spend any time with him.

"I just need to go and see someone actually," Phil says, because starting a fight isn't on the agenda tonight. "It isn't all about you."

Oops.

"Sure."

Dan looks away from him, picking up his glass and taking a sip. Phil seethes, Dan's biting sarcasm is so apparent that it takes everything within him not to turn right back around and tell Dan that yes, it is about him. Him and his arrogance and his irritating little smile. Him and his stupid hair and that perfect dimple.

Shit.

"Think what you want," Phil says instead, "But I need to go."

Dan looks like he might have something more to say but Phil doesn't give him a chance. He stalks towards the door of the pub, angry and disgruntled at just how infuriating Dan is. He's annoyed at Dan, at Louise for leaving, and at himself for allowing Dan to rile him up so much.

"You leaving?" PJ says, catching him at the door.

"Yeah," Phil shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant even though he can feel hot anger creeping up the back of his neck.

"Oh come on, Phil," Chris says, sidling up alongside PJ and slinging and arm around both of them. "Stay for one more."

"I really have to go," Phil insists. "I've got a busy day tomorrow."

Chris gives a too-loud laugh like he really doesn't believe him. Chris is always far too excessive, loud and extroverted in a way Phil will never be. Phil can't help looking over to see what Dan might have made of that but he's not paying attention. Instead, he's looking at his phone with a scowl and not talking to anyone at all.

PJ side eye's him across Chris's front and then hooks his head over to see what Phil is looking at.

"Sure," he says, turning back with an amused expression on his face. Most likely because he has no reason to believe Phil at all considering they have a similar schedule all weekend.

"I do," Phil insists anyway.

"What?" Chris says, missing the thread of the conversation entirely in favor of looking over in Dan's direction too. "Dan Howell?"

Once again Chris is far too loud and Phil pushes at him, palm flat to his chest, sending him stumbling back half a step. "Fucks sake, Chris."

Chris is just laughing as Dan looks up from his phone. His brows twitch in to an even deeper scowl in their direction. Phil grabs Chris by the shoulder and turns them around so they're no longer looking at him.

"You need to get over this Dan Howell thing," PJ says.

"Ooo, what Dan Howell thing?" Chris asks in sing-song.

"Nothing," Phil spits through gritted teeth.

"Does our Phil have a crush?" Chris asks.

He really is fucking oblivious sometimes.

"No. Definitely not."

PJ shakes his head. "I don't know, Phil. You are kinda obsessed with him."

"I'm not obsessed," Phil says. "I <i>dislike</i> him."

"No reason you can't fuck him," Chris shrugs.

Just how many drinks has he had, anyway?

PJ shoots him a bit of a pitying look and jabs Chris in the ribs with a pointed elbow.

"Leave off," Phil says, "that's horrific."

"Not even a hate fuck?" Chris asks, "I love a hate fuck. They're so… bitey."

Phil pauses, raising his eyebrows in Chris's direction wondering if he has any shame at all. Probably not, is the answer, but at least PJ seems like he's on Phil's side.

"Ignore him," PJ says.

"Who, Chris? Or Dan?"

PJ shrugs, "Both, I guess."

Phil shakes his head and looks longingly at the door.

"Nah," he says, "I'm gunna head out."

"Alright," PJ says, "We'll see you in the morning?"

Phil just nods and raises a hand to wave at them. This isn't how he'd thought the first night of this trip would go. He'd been excited to be in Florida and to be at this event with all the people that he liked. Now he's just mad and disappointed and it's all Dan Howell's fault.

He just hopes that's the last he sees of him this weekend.

---

If you like this, and are so inclined, you have my permission to finish it, remix it, make it your own. I'd love to see what you do with it.

[thetimeistwoam]

We Don’t Dance

Noodle thinks of something that might be beneficial for Murdoc. Also she really wants to learn how to ballroom dance.

Noodle didn't know what made her do it. It had been weeks since she'd even spoken to Murdoc. Ever since that night they'd gone on a drive together and then the next morning she'd had to shunt one of his whores out the door, she'd been purposefully avoiding him. She'd been hanging out with 2D a lot, and frequently breakfasting with both him and Russel (Murdoc never seemed to get the Noodle-scrawled memo). But despite all these efforts to drive away nagging thoughts and enjoy herself, she found it becoming increasingly impossible. Mainly because the day of the "whore" incident Murdoc had actually given her what, in his terms, could only be considered an apology. Meaning he sort of looked guilty about the whole thing. Noodle could tell that maybe, somewhere very, very deep down, maybe he actually felt a little BAD about himself. It wasn't likely, but the thought of what it might entail had been causing her a great deal of unrest. Gorillaz wasn't something she would ever truly be apart from, she could clearly see that now having been gone so long, and an inkling of change in the constant arrogant clod that was Murdoc seemed like something that needed to be pounced upon, rather than ignored. At least, that was what she had apparently now concluded, since ignoring it just was not working. Maybe that's what made her do it. She really, really didn't know. Maybe she was just actually that desperate to learn how to ballroom dance. "It's only like a twelve week program," She was saying, as she and Murdoc drove throughout the snow lined streets; Murdoc's stare was dark, one hand gripping the wheel perhaps too tightly and the other flicking some cigarette ash out the slightly cracked window; it was much too cold to roll it down all the way, at least, according to Noodle. "Three fucking months." "Well it sounds longer when you put it like that..." "When you put it like exactly how it is?" "I'm not making you do anything." "Fine, then let's turn around and-," "We are NOT turning around!" "Clearly very ambivalent on the matter," Murdoc acidly remarked, rolling his window down a bit more just for the satisfaction at seeing Noodle's responding glare and shiver. The rest of the ride passed in silence. Murdoc purposefully hit the curb at quite a speed as he went in to park, pretending as if he didn't see Noodle get choked by her seat belt and continuing in such a manner as he stepped out into the biting wintry air, Noodle glaring at him the entire time. They had stopped in front of a tall, towering building with the appearance of something constructed in the 1800s. Despite a solid looking stone foundation, the dark wood of the walls looked too weathered to still be functional, and Murdoc took in the gabled roof with its cracked stone trim and gargoyles skeptically. Noodle had got out to stare up at the place as well, not missing Murdoc's dubious side eye. She chose to ignore it, pulling her jacket tightly around her and starting up the steps to the massive oak doors without a backwards glance. Murdoc took one last drag on his cigarette and, very reluctantly, followed. A few flourescent lit halls later and the two had entered into a very large dance hall. The shiny dark wooden walls and floors were bathed in the yellow light of oil lamps and a low hanging chandelier, the elegance of the room a stark contrast to the peeling walls and cracked tiles of the halls just out the door. The majority of the dance class was already gathered, and Noodle and Murdoc ambled somewhat awkwardly towards the group, hanging around the edges and catching just the tail end of the instructor's greeting speech. Basically, it appeared they were all going to pair off and two step in order for the instructor to get a general idea of where everyone was at before proceeding to actual assignments and instruction. A large turntable sat in a corner partially hidden by floor sweeping red velvet curtains, and the instructor put on a slow tune (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R2LQdh42neg) for everyone to slowly revolve around to. Somewhat nervously, a fact that annoyed her greatly, Noodle turned to face Murdoc, who was eyeing the couples stepping on each other's feet around them warily. He finally seemed to feel Noodle's stare and looked down at her, swallowing once, his hands firmly in their pockets. "Remind me why we're doing this again, love?" Murdoc tried at nonchalance, but the prospect of actually having to dance, properly dance, with Noodle, was unnerving him slightly; this was the farthest thing from his exceedingly large comfort zone. He could play bass, be crude, and fuck around, and it ended about there. Ballroom dancing? Sod off. Noodle actually looked to be thinking along the same lines as Murdoc, but she squared her jaw resolutely and tilted her chin up at her dancing partner, firmly placing a hand on his shoulder before she could stop herself. The other she held out impatiently for what was still jammed firmly in his pocket. "We need to hold hands," Noodle willed, not daring to meet his eyes as she felt her face burn; maybe this wasn't the best bonding idea. When she'd thought "ballroom dancing," all she'd pictured was something of elegance and sophistication, elegance and sophistication that would maybe rub off onto Murdoc (hah), somehow the fact the two of them would actually have to talk and be near one another had totally slipped her mind. How? How the fuck? But it was too late to turn back now, and besides, she DID want to learn how to dance this way. And she did firmly believe it would have some sort of benefit on Murdoc. ...Well she was hoping it would. He stared at her hand, before rolling his eyes and swiftly taking it in his own. The other he brought to a hesitant rest on her hip, touching as little as possible, and the two began to revolve with just a bit more grace than anyone else in the room. "I expected you'd be worse at this," Noodle commented after a bit of surprisingly not-too-awkward silent two stepping (though the song wasn’t helping), during which they'd both managed to avoid stepping on each other's toes. "Hah," Murdoc scoffed, deciding he'd rather change the subject, "Why then, didn't you just get Russ or the Faceache instead?" "Russel already knows how to ballroom dance," Noodle answered, as Murdoc spun her slightly outwards in a fairly decent twirl. "And 2D... I mean..." She was back near his chest, and chanced a glance upwards, meeting his eye with a raised brow. "Mmm, fair enough," He sighed in understanding, thankfully seeming to relent a bit; Noodle knew anything to do with bashing 2D would most likely get the results she wanted, in this case for him to maybe put a bit less effort into his abhorrence. They'd gone about halfway around the room now, silent once more, though with another twirl, upon being brought back into Murdoc's vicinity Noodle's nose twitched at something much too strange not to comment upon. "Are you wearing cologne?" She exclaimed, loud enough for a nearby couple to cast them a glance. Murdoc looked down at her, blinking a bit stupidly but regaining his composure soon enough. "Are you wearing perfume?" He asked, just as loudly; the couple near them started to clumsily "dance" further away. Noodle's brows furrowed at that stupid comeback. "I always wear perfume," She said, unabashedly leaning forwards and sniffing Murdoc's leather jacket; he released her grip, using the hand on her hip to shove her back some. "You're definitely wearing cologne." "I always wear cologne," He glared, causing Noodle to scoff and cross her arms. They were standing a few feet apart now, attracting more than just a few stares. The instructor was completely across the room, however, giving directions to some people and totally oblivious to whatever was going on across the hall. "I guess I wouldn't know whether or not that was true, seeing as normally you stink too much for anything else to be distinguishable," Noodle rolled her eyes; it was meant to be a throwaway comment, but when she made to continue dancing, Murdoc looked stoutly resolute. "You know, I don't believe I'll be continuing with this," He pretended to be thinking over the prospect, grinning at Noodle as her face turned to a frown. "Fun as it was, I can think of many, many other things I'd rather being doing. So, cheers, love," He gave a careless wave, leaving Noodle to stand dumbstruck as he strutted lazily through the dancing couples and disappeared out the door. A few women started to mutter sympathetically at the quite alone Noodle, but it only took her a few seconds of listening to that before she was out the door after her escapee. She burst out into the hallway, staring around at the deserted corridors before taking off down the way leading to the exit. Another angry burst out of the front doors of the building and she stood on the stone steps, cold air swirling around her and biting at her face as she watched Murdoc sliding into the driver's seat of the Stylo. He had to step very heavily onto the breaks, the car screeching against the frozen street, to avoid driving right into Noodle, who'd just thrown herself, arms outstretched, in front of the vehicle. There was silence but for the rumbling of the Stylo's engine as Murdoc lazily regarded Noodle through the windshield, and she him from the other side, arms still held out and expression almost frightening. He was leaning against one long fingered hand, head tilted and watching her with a smirk, a face that made her all the angrier. When she opened her mouth to start shouting however, he cut her off, rolling down the window and calling out. "Get in." Noodle stared at him incredulously, shaking her head and sputtering. "I will not-," "Just get in, love," Murdoc reversed slightly, turning the car around so that the passenger door was now level with Noodle; he leaned across and pushed it open, staying across the seat so he could smile up at her furious expression. He knew she'd do it, though, she was possibly more curious than a cat, and after a moment's more idling, Noodle was sliding in next to him, arms crossed and face still dark as he skidded out and away from the dance hall. "So where are we going-?" "Ah, ah, ah," Murdoc shook a finger at her, Noodle angrily pushing his hand away. "I put up with whatever the fuck that just was, so you're going to have to sit there and wait and see." Noodle, having only herself to blame for the situation she was currently in, decided that waiting and seeing was as good an option as any, and sunk further into the leather car seat, mentally going over all the insults she was going to cleverly throw at him soon as the opportunity presented itself. A short while later, and they were at the very top of a car park, the matte black of the Stylo the only car present. Noodle couldn't help but be a little surprised, and immediately after more than a little annoyed; Murdoc had been surprising her too much lately, irritating for someone who was normally so predictable. They both stepped out once more into the cold air, walking together and coming to a stop right at the low concrete wall of the garage. A gust of wind blew back their jet black hair, and they both shut their eyes and breathed in deep the crisp smell of winter. Night was just beginning to fall, but the sky was so cloudy it was hard to even tell where the sun was, only that it was definitely getting darker and more and more lights were appearing in the vast concrete jungle laid out beneath them. "Only gonna get colder," Murdoc spoke lowly, watching Noodle's breath appear in foggy exhales; she looked over him, anger not totally faded from her dark green glare. "Better start groovin'." Noodle laughed unpleasantly at that, about to make a crack about his age, a nice one she'd thought up on the way over. However, as she opened her mouth, Murdoc withdrew from his jacket a small set of speakers and an iPod, and the words died on her tongue. Surprise. Again. He scrolled down to a song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ImKY6TZEyrI), setting the speakers on the concrete ledge and turning to face Noodle, stance perfect and hands extended for a dance as he sank into a slight bow, winking up at her through his ruffled mop of raven black hair. Try as she might, it was becoming increasingly more difficult to remain furious. "I like this song," She muttered, taking his hand; they once more fell into a slow waltz of sorts. "Everyone likes this song. But, I did see it on your G-mix," Murdoc grinned, and despite herself Noodle sort of grinned as well. "You actually look at that?" "Actually did. Was sort of a one time thing," He spun her out, not missing the slight grin as she spun back. It was much more comfortable up here rather than in the dance hall; beautiful a room it may have been, public settings didn't exactly fit them. Caught up in the music, Noodle hadn't realized how well Murdoc had been leading her until the song ended, and then she felt just a tad annoyed again. She stepped back from him, giving him a scrutinizing look that went from his worn Cuban heels to his mismatched eyes and back again. There was a small silence, then- "You can ballroom dance." It wasn't a question, and Murdoc's face cracked into a grin as Noodle realized. "Yes." The wind howled around them, car horns honked distantly and somewhere somehow, in the city, an owl hooted. Noodle shut her eyes, turning her back on Murdoc and feeling-, well she didn't know what she was feeling. Angry? Sort of. Surprise? Again? Yeah, definitely that. Also suddenly very tired. When Murdoc put on "All Apologies" by Nirvana, she finally turned around, snatching the iPod out of his hands and switching the song off before thrusting the device back into his hands. They glared at each other for a moment, or, Noodle did, Murdoc just stood looking slightly bemused, before Noodle exhaled and shook herself. "I guess I don't need the class then," She said; Murdoc shrugged. "The least you could do is teach me, after wasting so much of my time just now." "Aha, right, I wasted your time-," "You did, actually. You obviously had this planned from the beginning, or, do you just always have a spare pair of iPod speakers in your jacket pocket? Actually, don't answer that," Noodle held up her hand as Murdoc made to reply, then extending it to take his own once more; she was getting cold. They made their way around the car park without music, listening to the sounds of the city and dancing perhaps a little closer than normal to try and fight the cold that was getting icier by the minute. In fact, by the time they made it back around, Noodle nearly had her head on Murdoc's chest. He could see her eyes getting sleepy, and pulled them then against the hood of the Stylo, Noodle not bothering to protest as Murdoc stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and pulled the warm leather around them both. It was instantly much more warm for Noodle, and she was too tired and muddled to care much about if this was awkward or weird or whatever it normally was, because leaning against Murdoc's chest, which was warm and firm and didn’t smell bad for once, tucked into the warmth of his jacket with the cold air still ruffling her hair, just felt, at the moment, extremely nice. She locked her hands loosely around his middle, tucking her head under his chin, smelling the cigarette smoke and leather and, cologne. She blinked herself somewhat awake, eyes focusing on all the little fuzzies in Murdoc's sweater under her cheek. "The cologne is nice," Noodle muttered; she felt Murdoc stiffen a bit beneath her, and wondered if she'd made it weird again. Murdoc stared out at the cityscape, Noodle's hair tickling his chin, unsure what to make of her remark. He knew it was her weak form of apologizing, though his overreaction back at the dance hall had all been fabricated anyway, in order to escape the stupid place. He smiled a bit to himself, glad in the knowledge she must've at least felt a little bad, and patted her back slightly with his pocketed hand. "So's the perfume."

[rigdicklucas]

Wonder Woman(2017) Spoiler Review

Zack Snyder’s latest foray into ruining the superhero genre had the potential to be something special but throws it all away for no reason at all.

By D. Lucas.

Let me tell you right away that this is not a movie you should be spending time on, let alone drive up to a theater for. It’s one of those rare occasions where the ingredients for a great film are all in there but it gets ruined by a terrible, terrible director, Zack Snyder—as if this surprises anyone anymore. If there’s a silver-lining to this CGI slugfest it’s the sliver of hope from the story by Patty Jenkins but it tries hard with little success, which is ironic since she had directed a film (2003′s Monster that won Charlize Theron her Oscar) and some interesting TV episodes. It would’ve been quite interesting to see had Warner Bros. allowed her to have a go at it. But, alas, we’re stuck with the Snyder and let’s just get this out of the way as fast as possible and get ready for that fun-superhero film coming this July. wink, wink.

There, if the director is not enough reason to skip this movie, which given his track-record shouldn’t be all that hard, then go ahead and read why the director is reason enough to skip it.

The movie begins with Diana (Gal Gadot) receiving a package in a truck with the Wayne Enterprises logo on it. Inside it is the actual photograph that we saw in Batman v Superman (Note how Zack made it so that even Wonder Woman needs a man’s help to get this photograph that is important to her). It is used to transition back to when Diana was a little girl on her paradise island, Themyscira, and how she grew up being denied training by her queen mother, Hippolyta, but was secretly trained by her general aunt, Antiope. For some stupid reason all this is intercut with a history-lesson about how Zeus made mankind and Ares corrupted them as the God of War and how Zeus again made Amazons to compensate for it which made Ares go mad and kill all the other gods. Luckily he was defeated by Zeus at the cost of his own life but not before making an ultimate sword called the Godkiller.

Gal Gadot Warner Bros.

The queen finds out about the secret training-sessions and seems upset at first but then pivots a full 180-degree and asks her sister to train Diana harder than any Amazon before. I mean, seriously? Whatever happened to sticking to established character traits? Only in a Zack Snyder film can this happen. I’m willing to bet Patty’s story had a long interlude in between but Zack decided he couldn’t wait to get to the messy fight sequences. And sure enough we get to Gal Gadot in the very next scene where she battles a couple of Amazons and then her aunt while her mother looks down from atop a hill on horseback. And sure enough it ends with a random shock-wave out of her bracelets—which we are to assume have grown along with her since the child Diana also had smaller ones on. Then Diana feels guilty for hurting her aunt and runs away only to find the crashing plane of Steve Trevor(Chris Pine).

She, of course, rescues him and a band of men breach into Themyscira who were in pursuit of Steve. The battle scene that Zack had been itching to get to is here and it plays out much like his oft-criticized sludge of slow motion and the-oh-so-important manner of shooting them. There’s a self-indulgent shot of the general Antiope grinning like a maniac as she marches into battle which could only be found in a Zack Snyder movie (another bet that Patty’s story didn’t include this).

The battle costs Antiope her life and the Amazons instead of impaling Steve right there like the warring faction that they are decide to interrogate him using some heated rope that makes you tell the truth. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the way Diana announces it as if it isn’t the most ridiculous thing ever.

Then follows the forced humor™ with Steve and Diana about man-parts and watches when out of the blue Diana just decides to betray her entire sisterhood and leave with this man who she’d known for less than a day. The feminist-front this film had been marketed on makes this move so very ironic I can’t believe Zack believed he could win over feminists like me with this. Humor™ in any superhero film not made by Marvel can only be reactionary and a cash grab.

Gal Gadot and Chris Pine Warner Bros.

And so we return to London with all of Zack Snyder’s favorite dark and drab aesthetic. You could just feel the relief he must have felt at this point! I’m surprised he didn’t cut the “It’s hideos” line by Gal which is clearly just another attempt at the Marvel-only humor™—honestly there are so many instances of such attempts that just fall flat on their face that it’s unintentionally hilarious.

The villain is obviously going to be the God of War that was weakened by Zeus in his climactic battle but his identity is supposed to be a secret. Anyone with any rational thinking capacity can figure out that it’s the dude that talks about peace at a meeting of generals! The gall of Zack Snyder is thinking it’s a well-kept secret by shamelessly inserting a red-herring in the German general Ludendorff. It is so blatant in its execution that his lackey poison-cook makes these pills for him, saying, “For you. To restore your strength.” As if we didn’t know he wasn’t a red-herring! Zack’s potential to keep assuming his audience as a pack of dumb sheep never ceases to amuse me.

Danny Huston Warner Bros.

Once Steve gathers his band of misfits and smuggles them to Belgium along with Diana, while sitting around a fire, there are some throwaway scenes masquerading as character moments that just toss out themes about the futility of war, a soldier’s PTSD, etc., which all deserve to be further expanded upon but this being a Snyder feature are left hanging like the hooked carcasses at a slaughterhouse.

Before long, Zack’s itch for another battle sequence becomes unbearable and we have our next action set piece. There’s nothing inventive or creative about this, just ticking off a list of cool-shot after cool-shot with the same tried-and-tired slow motion that even Zack should have gotten sick of by now. The most hypocritical thing about Wonder Woman here is just how easy she finds it to kill the innocent German soldiers under the influence of Ares and even finds it appropriate to dance with Steve to celebrate it later that evening. My third bet is that Patty’s story didn’t have all this killing and instead had Wonder Woman gently put out these soldiers because she truly believes only love can save the world. But Zack had to muddy it up with his 300-style brutality.

There’s an idiotic scene where one of Steve’s band just randomly find an automobile parked around which they then use to get Steve into a German party where Ludendorff will be. This is without an invitation, mind you. The damned proto-Nazis are that easy to fool in Zack’s dark and gritty universe and that brings us to when Ludendorff deploys the new gas weapon over the little town that Diana just saved by killing two dozen soldiers. It just has to be that dark, thank you very much. Unfortunately the ending only further devolved into what’s now Zack’s characteristic bad-CGI overload.

The plot-twist, like I already mentioned, comes unsurprisingly and is followed by the same bad-guy-vision-for-the-future that Zack used in Man of Steel except here Ares(David Thewlis) is a stand-in for General Zod. It is funny how this battle seems to be a polar opposite of the final battle in Man of Steel:

- Zod rips off his armor while Ares puts on one.

- Zod shows a future built over the dead remains of humanity while Ares shows … a future built on the dead remains of humanity.

- Zod is the more experienced one over Superman while … Ares is the more experienced one over Wonder Woman.

Okay, Ares is just Zod for Wonder Woman.

The sequences feel rather recycled if anyone’s seen Zack’s previous films but he expects us to oversee that because it’s a female superhero. Sorry, Zack, we’re not that stupid! When Steve Trevor sacrifices himself by flying the bio-weapon payload into the sky and shooting it, Diana gains new powers as she mourns him and simultaneously skates, mortally hurls around German soldiers, pummels Ares, and lifts a tank to crush the poison-cook, Dr. Maru, but reconsiders Maru for sequels and also because she just suffered a short-term memory loss by forgetting what Steve had told her before catching the plane. This seems to be a one-time thing though because the film doesn’t turn into Memento, or anything. She also remembers what Steve says about men not deserving to be protected but still should be, maybe and tells exactly that to Ares before she skates up to him and kills him using his own lightning bolt, so technically not murder (unlike MoS where Superman should’ve used Zod’s own hands to snap his neck like a true hero and technically not murder him. He could’ve stood up and smiled at that family he’d saved like Diana looks at the soldiers).

Wonder Woman is basically Zack’s go at making the same kind of film he always does but shrouded in the veil of Marvel humor™ and a good, straight story (thanks to Patty). But at the end of the day, Wonder Woman still can’t save itself from Zack Snyder.

Why pose big questions like why did Wonder Woman walk away from mankind when no one wants to give the answer anyway?

Bonus critiques:

-Zack’s sexual-predatory, exploitative lens makes a comeback in this shot:

-Just the general idea of scantily clad beautiful women (Amazons) being objectified at the beginning of the film and thinking it empowers them à la Sucker Punch, which suffered the additional burden of being written by Zack Snyder!