#JON FAVREAU I NEED TO SAY A FEW WORDS | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bobathots · 3 years

Text

smokescreen

i wrote the first draft of this in a lust-fueled haze in less than 24 hours a few weeks ago and then i watched a movie where tem was just absolutely off the rails h word and my brain went “haha smoking kink go brrrrr again” so literally this is just an excuse for boba to smoke. @jon favreau give him a cigarette u coward mob boss! boba/female reader. smut 18+ ~10k tags: pwp, smoking, oral sex, shotgunning, at one point u give boba a blowjob while he smokes also on ao3

He wasn’t expecting anyone — or at least, he wasn’t expecting you , that much was clear from his body language. You weren’t even sure it was him until you got close enough to see the dim streetlamp cast a familiar shadow across his face, until you could make out his staple leather jacket wrapped around his form. The tip of his cigarette stood out cherry-red in the evening light, hanging loosely between his index and middle finger. He tensed and turned his head as you approached.

“Boba!” You kept your voice light and even; you didn’t know how to talk to the man at work, much less in a situation like this. You hadn’t exactly expected to come across him in the middle of the night, in a dark alley situated neighborhoods away from where you both worked. But, then again, it wasn’t as if this was part of your normal schedule.

He dipped his head toward you in greeting, then brought his hand up to his face to take a drag from his cigarette. Your gaze remained transfixed on the motion, how he rested his index finger on his tip lip while his hand remained splayed, as if he was trying to hide the action. You spoke before you could think, the words tumbling out of your mouth, “I didn’t know you smoked.”

His inhale sounded like a sigh. Dropping his hand back to his side, he courteously turned his head away from you and exhaled billows of ash-grey smoke from his mouth. “Meant to keep it that way, too.” Oh. You winced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

He shook his head as if to waive away your concerns. “Don’t. I’m the one smoking outside in public.”

“At midnight,” you added, knowing that he probably chose this time and place specifically for privacy. Privacy that you were now infringing upon.

“...At midnight,” he echoed, the beginnings of a wry smirk on his lips.

The conversation died out there, but you remained standing next to him, casting your gaze out onto the buildings. Distantly, you could make out drunken conversations from the surrounding busy streets so filled with nightlife, mixed with the occasional prickle of Boba puffing his cigarette. A cool breeze swept through the leaves and across your skin, causing goosebumps to pimple out in response. You hugged yourself tightly, palms wrapped around your bare arms, as if you could chase away the evening chill.

“Speaking of midnight —” You glanced back at Boba; he pinched the end of his cigarette between thumb and forefinger and dropped it to the ground, crushing it underfoot with his heel, “— you shouldn’t be out alone this late.”

“It’s not so bad in this part of town.” It felt weird having your boss express concern for you, as subtle as it was, even if it was in his nature to take care of his own , as he put it. You figured you were more like a blimp on his radar; it wasn’t like you were a crucial employee. You hardly ever needed to interact with him at work. “The streets are always lit,” you continued, “and always crowded.”

“Right. Which is why you decided to go down a dark alley in the middle of the night.”

Heat rose to your face. “Because I thought I saw you!”

He let out a sound which might have been a chuckle — god, it was so hard to tell with him — and he pushed off the building he had been leaning against. “Let me walk you home, then. An apology for causing you to make a stupid decision.”

You can’t tell if he’s being mean on purpose, but regardless, you didn’t want to impose on him. “Boba, it’s okay, there’s no —”

“Start walking,” he ordered. His voice was stern, commanding; the tone he took when giving instructions at work, and that meant there was no room for argument, no wiggle room to barter or bargain. The words yes, sir sat on your tongue, burgeoning with desire, but you swallowed them down back to the pit of your stomach where they belonged.

Another breeze blew in. You shivered, both from the temperature and from Boba’s intense presence, but finally nodded in acquiescence. “It’s not far,” you assured him, turning to walk back the way you came. “Maybe like five minutes or so.” Then, something heavy and warm draped itself over your shoulders and you paused, turning back once more to look at Boba.

A now jacket-less Boba.

“I...oh. Um. Thanks?”

“Don’t mention it.” He kept walking the direction you set out, leaving you to play catch-up. You took a moment to slide your arms through the sleeves, and it thrilled you to find out just how much extra fabric hung past your hands. Even bunching it up at the wrists caused it to slide down from how loose the jacket sat on your body, so you simply clutched the hems in your palms to keep the fabric from slipping over your fingertips. The rest of it draped over you, his frame much larger than yours, and you felt weirdly protected in his jacket. It smelled like leather and faintly of cigarette smoke, but most importantly it smelled like him, a scent you had no other words for. It was the same smell that lingered in his office long after he’d left, something masculine and oddly comforting. Wearing your boss’ jacket was like being wrapped in a second-hand hug, and you were ashamed to admit how much you liked the idea.

You had to do a little jog to catch up to Boba. Maybe it was the night air, or maybe it was the fact that you had genuine one-on-one time with the man you’d been admiring for so long, but you were suddenly emboldened to nose into his personal life. “So...am I allowed to ask why you don’t smoke with the others?” The “others” you referred to were a sizable group of Boba’s underlings that you often noticed smoking together by the backdoor.

“Not a social smoker.”

You wouldn’t call Boba a social anything , to be honest. “Okay, so why not in your office? I mean, you spend a lot of time alone there anyway.” You would have remembered if he kept an ashtray or a pack of cigarettes anywhere visible, and his office never smelled like smoke.

Silence stretched out between you. You thought maybe he was done with your invasive line of questioning — after all, this was the first “real” conversation you had had with him that didn’t involve work-related topics — but he spoke up after an elongated pause.

“It’s a nasty habit I can’t kick. I try not to indulge if I can help it.” If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that Boba almost sounded embarrassed at having a vice. “My turn to ask a question.”

“Hm?”

“There a reason you’re leading me through back alleys instead of taking the main streets?” He cast a sidelong glance at you, and even with the glint from the streetlamps you couldn’t place whatever subtle emotion danced in his gaze.

“Oh, uhm. It’s just a faster shortcut,” you said, hesitating despite your honesty. “I...normally don’t feel safe enough to do this at night, but…” The implied since you’re here hung heavy in the air between you. You drew his jacket tighter around your body, relishing in the shield it provided against the chilly evening air.

Seemingly satisfied with your explanation, Boba lapsed into silence beside you. You lead him around a corner and stopped at the base of a sloping hill, turning to face him. “Um, the house I’m renting is just up the road from here,” you started, nerves sitting at the base of your chest. The thought of Boba — your boss , who you were crushing on hard — knowing where you lived? It was almost too much to bear, because you were certain you’d do something stupid like invite him in for a drink, which would naturally lead to you into shamelessly begging him to do unspeakable things to you. You couldn’t.

Instead, you shrugged off his jacket, internally mourning the loss of warmth and security it radiated. “Thanks again. And thanks for walking me home.”

Boba acknowledged you with a slight dip of his head as he pulled his jacket back around his own shoulders. You gave him what you hoped was a natural and normal smile that didn’t let your nervousness show, and turned to walk up the long sidewalk that led to your ramshackle house.

His gaze burned on your back the entire time, only letting up when you unlocked the door and stepped inside the safety of your home.

The second time had to have been a coincidence, an alignment of your schedules, because you found him at the exact same spot at the exact same time a week later. The only difference was that this time, he was grinding out a cigarette and raising a zippo to light another in the same moment.

You never took him for a chainsmoker.

“Boba —”

“What did I say about walking alone at night?” His tone wasn’t accusatory, necessarily, but neither was it condescending or patronizing. It was almost concerned, if you could call it that.

“I only have the same excuses as last time,” you admitted. He made that noise again, the little huff you’d taken to mean he’s amused, and your chest did a funny little skip in response.

“Means I’m responsible for walking you home again, then.”

“I - no! Not if it’s some sort of imposition. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“I’m sure of that, kid. But,” he paused to inhale, and deeply: his chest visibly expanded to fill out whatever room was left in his leather jacket, and he held it there for a beat, savoring the burn, before he breathed out in one fell swoop. “I’d like to see you safe with my own eyes.”

The white smoke obscured his gaze for just that moment, and all you could see was the bright burning end of his cigarette like a wine stain on a white tablecloth, like a gunshot wound through a white shirt.

You swallowed thickly. “Y-yeah, okay. Thanks, Boba.”

Something like gratitude settled over your shoulders, but there was also something else there, something you didn’t know how to describe. It meant enough to your lovesick heart to know that he cared , at least in some capacity, about your well-being. Enough to walk you home twice .

Even when Boba looked away, gaze on some distant point down the alley, you couldn’t keep your eyes from him. He looked so good , so imposing at all times, and the cigarette only helped add to his appeal. He was every bit like an intimidating mob boss, like he might decide to put his cigarette out on some thug’s eye for mouthing off — and you were only a little ashamed to say that the mental picture made you want to squirm.

At the same time, you could tell there was a different edge to him tonight. Something more coiled and tense, like he had a bundle of energy he needed to burn off and burning a cigarette was the closest he could come.

If he had been savoring it that first night, he was flat out devouring it now. It was aggressive, in a way; how he’d barely let his lungs take in a full breath of oxygen before he filled them with nicotine and tar again.

“You smoke?”

His voice startled you from your thoughts, bringing you clear back to the current moment. “N-no. Why?”

“You keep staring. Made me wonder if you wanted a puff.” He had caught you red-handed in your shameless oogling, and you supposed you should’ve felt embarrassed, but you were too enraptured with the way he spoke with his cigarette hanging from his lips, how the smoke leaked out in little wisps with every word. Deftly, he thumbed the filter to flick ash from the butt and immediately brought it back to his lips again. Your eyes followed every movement. “But it’s a good thing. Don’t start.”

“I hadn’t planned on it,” you said, which was the truth — the truth that existed before you knew Boba was a smoker, anyway. It wasn’t like you had a craving to smoke for smoking’s sake. Instead, you wanted to taste from the same filter that sat in Boba’s mouth, imagining it stained with the imprint of his lips; you wanted to inhale the same smoke that he exhaled and pretend that you were sharing breaths like lovers, or fuckbuddies; you wanted to kiss him and taste the nicotine on his tongue —

— but he was your boss, and a good deal older than you, and he’d never be interested in the first place. Instead, you had resigned yourself to watching him in the act with the hopes that you didn’t give off creepy vibes and that he’d fire you. It’d be best if you could turn your mind away from more unsavory thoughts, you decided. You would rather be a friend to him than someone he cast aside. You figured his stress came from the current negotiations between him and a potential business partner, but said partner was well-established in this area and, to the best of your knowledge, kept raising their “prices.” You didn’t know much about it because it simply wasn’t your job to know, but word did get around. “Are the talks not going well?”

He let out a derisive snort. “Hardly.” He exhaled and smoke escaped through his nostrils, giving him the momentary impression of a dragon. “It’s that obvious, huh?”

“It’s just…” You paused to search for the right words. “You seem very stressed. I thought it might be because of that.”

Boba grunted in response. He held his little nub of a cigarette between forefinger and thumb as the smoldering end continued to eat away at the filter. For a moment, it seemed like he was honestly considering trying to finish it off, but then he breathed out a quiet sigh and tossed the butt to the ground.

“....So it’s a stress thing, then, huh? The reason you smoke?”

Boba crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his full weight against the building behind him. “Supposed to be,” he answered. “But then I got addicted.”

“You picked up smoking to cope with stress?” You couldn’t keep the incredulity out of your voice if you tried. Your response to stress was just to cry, something arguably way healthier than what Boba was currently doing.

He breathed in deep, then out, and caught the tail-end of a worrisome cough as he exhaled. “Stress used to make me angry,” he explained, taking a moment to clear his throat. “When I was younger, I picked a lot of unnecessary fights, broke a lot of bones.”

“Yours?”

“And others’.” You didn’t miss the uneven slant of his mouth, the slight grin he wore at the admission, as if he was proud . “But it was a dangerous outlet, so I found something else.”

“Like smoking is any less dangerous,” you pointed out.

“A cigarette kills slower than a bullet, kid. And besides, you’re...what, half my age? Maybe more?” He lifted himself off the building and beckoned you to follow him with a jerk of his head. “I’ve been smoking longer than you’ve been alive. There weren’t many other options beside violence or drugs when I was younger.” “Oh. I’m...I’m sorry,” you said lamely, not really knowing how else to respond. “Don’t be.”

He was leading you home, you realized with a start, both amazed and terrified that he remembered the route you showed him exactly once. As you walked, you stayed close to his side; the evening was no less chilly, and even though you were wearing a thin windbreaker of your own, you were still cold. Boba radiated body heat, and you tried to soak up some of his without being in direct contact with him.

“You don’t look stressed,” you offered after a minute of companionable silence.

He turned to look at you fully, an obvious cue to continue, but his unwavering attention made you nervous, and you started to blabber. “I-I mean, like… just in case you were worried that you were projecting the wrong image. Whenever I see you on base I just think you look so cool and intimidating, so even if these talks are stressing you out, it doesn’t show, and you still look as powerful and scary as ever, and so —”

“Thanks.” His voice made you shut up instantly , though there was no harshness or anger behind his tone. You were glad that he stopped your rambling; you were certain that if you had continued, you would’ve said something you couldn’t come back from.

You stopped at the same place last time, at the base of the hill, and turned to Boba with a slight smile. “Well, thanks again —”

“No, kid.” His hand fell to the small of your back, so big and solid and warm , and for a moment your brain short circuited as you tried to process the contact. “I said I wanted to see you safe with my own eyes. I’ll walk you to your door.”

“Uhh, y-yeah, okay. Yeah. Good. Sounds good to me.” To your surprise, as you started walking again, Boba’s hand remained a constant on your back. Were he any closer, you could pretend he had his arm slung around your waist as if he were a lover, or your boyfriend, your partner — but, desperately, you attempted to put a stop to those thoughts. They were all fantasies, anyway, unreachable things that you were never meant to hope for.

You stopped in front of your house steps. They were shoddy and showed more tear than wear, and the building clearly needed some love and care. It was, however, home , for the foreseeable future.

“Um, this is me,” you said awkwardly. Boba’s hand finally fell from your back, unfortunately not stopping anywhere on the way down, and he glanced up to take in the state of the building. You couldn’t tell if he was impressed or not — his expression was virtually unreadable — and you didn’t want to imagine what he was thinking, or what information he could extrapolate about you based on your residence. “I wanted to say thanks for walking me home. Again.”

“You shouldn’t be walking alone in the first place,” he said in lieu of acceptance, his brows furrowing ever-so-slightly.

“I know, I know, just —” You shuffled awkwardly, half-wanting him to leave, half-wanting to invite him to stay. “Thanks.” You hoped it was obvious that you weren’t just thanking him for seeing you home, but for sharing pieces of himself with you, for allowing you to see the bits of himself he never showed at work.

For a moment, his eyes seemed to look you over, top-to-bottom. He dipped his chin slightly in response. “Get some rest, kid.”

And then he was gone, the phantom touch of his hand hot and heavy on your back.

You formed a ritual together after that.

You’d meet him at the same place every week, always around midnight, and he’d smoke while you had an easy conversation. He smoked depending on his mood: sometimes, it was just one cigarette, enjoyed slowly, the stick held between his fingers more often than his mouth. Other times, he’d smoke multiple in quick succession, never more than three, but always with a sense of quiet urgency, like he wanted to finish them as fast as possible. He’d usually smoke them down to nothing, too, leaving barely anything left to count as litter.

Consequently, you grew closer to him than your schedule at work would ever have allowed. Some nights, the conversation would stick to work or work-adjacent topics. Other nights, you’d talk about more personal things, like when Boba revealed how his father died and you stepped in to overshare about your own sob-story childhood — but no matter the topic, there was a general acknowledgement that your relationship had Shifted, with a capital s . The dynamic between you two was no longer strictly boss and employee, but neither was it just a friendship. It was something precarious, dangling over the edge, desperate for something to disrupt it.

And you were desperate to keep it there. Sure, Boba had gotten a little more physical with you in the sense that he always had a hand or an arm touching you as he took you home, and maybe he gave you his jacket more often than not these chilly evenings, but otherwise he was still...Boba. Still kind of hard to read, still a little emotionally closed off, and most definitely not into you. It sucked, but you had learned to be content with the crumbs you got, and it came with the added bonus of having a secret together that no one else at work knew about. It wasn’t scandalous, or taboo, but it definitely felt a little gratifying knowing that you got to see a side of the boss that most everyone else wouldn’t know existed.

Your weekly meeting was a ritual. A sacred thing.

Until it wasn’t.

One night, Boba simply wasn’t there .

His silhouette was missing . There was no figure leaning against the building, there was no cherry-red glow of cigarette embers, there was no one.

You checked your phone: just a little past midnight. Was he sick? Or busy? He had your number for work-related reasons, so surely he would have texted you if —

But why would he? It wasn’t like this was anything serious , right? It wasn’t a meeting he needed to cancel, or a failed date you could excuse your way out of. This was just… a thing . A repeated thing with a date and a time and a place, sure, but…

Nonetheless, you found yourself drawn to your phone, the screen casting a soft blue glow across your face as you waited for a notification to pop up over your messaging app. You wouldn’t call yourself a romantic, but surely expecting a courtesy message wasn’t beyond whatever little ritual you had going on, right? At least, as your employer, he could treat it like —

A hand grabbed your shoulder. On reflex, you twisted around and flailed your arm wildly, hoping to hit whatever would-be assailant in a place that would hurt.

He caught the fist you carelessly slung in one broad hand, his fingers wrapped around your wrist tight to hold it in place.

“ Boba! ” you gasped, both relieved and irritated at the same time. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

He let your hand slide from his grasp, and if you were in the right mind to pay attention, you would have noticed how he purposefully let his fingertips ghost longer on your skin, how they ran from your wrist to fingers instead of dropping away outright. “Don’t stand oblivious in an alley. At least keep moving if you’re alone.”

You slid your phone back into your front pocket. “I was waiting for you . I didn’t think you were coming.”

At that, he raised an eyebrow ever-so-slightly. “Wasn’t aware I could be late.”

And, well — he was right. This was his thing, after all, his late-night smoke break that he just happened to be so kind as to let you participate as a spectator. Of course he could change his mind, of course he wouldn’t think to let you know. It was your fault for getting attached and thinking it was something more —

“You should stop walking alone so late at night.” Boba was close , you realized. The brief panic earlier had drawn you two together and you hadn’t parted very far, your chests merely inches from each other. It was closer than you had ever been to him before, at least face-to-face, and as a consequence he spoke quieter, his voice coming out as more of a husky rumble than an actual vocalization.

“I’ll stop when you stop smoking,” you countered, your mind too focused on your proximity to Boba to filter your words properly. You were worried he might pick up the true meaning, that it was the act of Boba smoking that lured you to him each week, but instead he huffed out a chuckle.

“We’ll see about that, princess.”

Princess . That was... oh . It sounded like a proper pet name, and the realization made a rush of heat go to your face.

“P-princess?” you finally squeaked out. “Really?”

“You’re spoiled often enough,” Boba said plainly, though the hint of a grin pulling at his lips made you realize he was teasing you.

Something overwhelmingly warm and pleasant tugged at your heart, replacing practically every negative feeling you’d experienced in the past ten minutes. “I’m spoiled, huh? How am I spoiled?”

“You usually get what you want.”

You hummed at that, trying to think of something he might be referencing. He didn’t interact with you much at work, and typically it was usually the opposite in your experience. “I don’t think so,” you finally said, drawing up blanks.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Oh.

You hadn’t considered that maybe he kept up with the ritual for your sake. Maybe he didn’t smoke at the same time and at the same place on a weekly basis, but instead decided to show up because you expected him there. Because that made sense.

Guilt ate at your heart, replaced quickly by a sense of affection.

It meant he enjoyed your talks, then, right? That he at least enjoyed your company? You couldn’t think of anyone he might just hang out with other than Fennec, and even then, you couldn’t picture him going through the trouble of all of this just to talk with her.

“Boba…” Tentatively, you reached out and placed your palms against his chest, looking up at him. He smelled like leather and smoke and himself , and you were so close that if you wanted, you could… you could….

Thunder crackled sharply overhead, and you jumped back in pure surprise. Boba’s hands came to settle around your elbows, keeping you from fully peeling away.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathed. Ozone filled your nose — the threat of rain.

“Didn’t think it was supposed to storm tonight,” Boba admitted, and the change in weather made disappointment surge through your veins. You doubted he was the type to enjoy smoking while soaking wet, meaning you’d likely have to call it quits for tonight.

Unless…

“You could…” Oh, god. You already knew that the offer would be a mistake, but you swallowed down the nervous lump in your throat. “You could smoke. In my house. If you wanna.”

He regarded you quietly. “If I want, huh?”

“I-if you want,” you repeated. “But would a ‘please’ help influence your decision?”

“No.” And oh, that made your heart drop in your chest — but then he curled a finger under your chin and applied enough pressure to keep you gazing up at him. “But I want to hear one anyway.”

You couldn’t look away if you wanted to. There was something in his eyes that had you absolutely mesmerized , something burning like the smoldering end of a cigarette. God , you wanted to fucking kiss him. “Will you please come to my house?”

His lips curled into a small, self-satisfied smirk that bordered on a grin. The way he allowed you to see a flash of teeth seemed almost predatory , and it made you want to run away, or run toward him. “I’m not in the mood to get soaked,” he finally said. “Let’s go.”

You thought he would pull away from you entirely, leave you wanting and waiting, but instead his arm curled itself around your waist to pull you against the warmth of his side. The gesture was so obviously possessive that it made your heart swoon . You tentatively leaned into him, a hand braced on his chest, but he took your weight easily, as if it were nothing.

The walk to your house was usually a quick affair, a five minute walk at most . Yet, now it felt like you were getting there at a snail’s pace, your body and brain hyperaware of your surroundings, dragging the walk out into one long punishment. Boba’s hand had slipped underneath the hem of your shirt to touch bare skin and it burned with promise. His body was so warm, and so solid, and he smelled so good that you just wanted to bury your face in his chest and just breathe.

To anyone else, you would’ve looked like a typical drunk couple enjoying the evening together. You were invisible, and that knowledge made you almost giddy . He was no longer your boss and you weren’t his employee. The circumstances of your relationship didn’t matter, and for a moment you could pretend that you two were just —

Well, that you two were something together. Something with a future.

Too held up in your thoughts, you didn’t notice the pebble in your path, and you caught your foot on it and stumbled. Boba’s arms wrapped around you before you could pitch forward and he dragged you up to hold you against his chest, one strong arm braced around your middle. “Easy.”

His lips were right by your ear, so close that his voice had come out as barely more than a low rumble. You instinctively tensed in his arms, one hand resting atop his own, and turned your head back to look at him.

Christ , you were impossibly close. The angle meant that there were scant few inches separating you from him, and that a small adjustment would be enough to allow your lips to brush his, to allow you to have a taste of him that you’ve craved these past few months —

Thunder boomed overhead and you startled in his arms, enough so that you jerked away from him. You gave a nervous laugh moreso to assure him that nothing was actually wrong than anything else. The first few fat drops of rain splattered your skin, shockingly cold, and you both looked up at the sky in unison.

“We’d better hurry,” you suggested, knowing how easily torrential rain began in storms like these.

You reached for his hand this time, settling your small hand in the palm of his own, but it was Boba that pulled you along to your house with a renewed sense of urgency as rain began to darken the concrete in small splotches. The clouds threatened to open up and drench you both, but there was something a little more primal in the way he handled you, like it wasn’t just the rain on his mind.

By the time you reached the steps leading up to your door, he was practically manhandling you up them, and instead of allowing you to stop and fish your keys from your pockets, he kept himself in your space, crowding into you, forcing you back against your door. He braced an arm over your head, the other settling on your hip, and when he pressed his knee between your thighs you parted your legs willingly for him.

Boba stared at you. Water droplets dusted the shoulders of his leather jacket, shining dimly in your porch light. The same light reflected warmly in his brown eyes, eyes normally so hard and closed off, but soft for you , like he was sharing a secret, like he was barring some hidden part of himself just for you. Only you.

His thumb skimmed your bare skin where your shirt had ridden up, drawing slow and smooth circles that didn’t match the intensity of his gaze or the way your heart pounded in your chest. When he swallowed, you watched how his adam’s apple bobbed and longed to put your mouth there, to feel the motion against your lips.

“You gonna invite me inside?”

You wanted to hit him. You wanted to give him a snarky reply for all but forcing you up your stairs, or call him something that involved the words cheeky and asshole — but his breath kept ghosting tantalizingly across your lips and his damned smirk was so attractive and you felt like you had been waiting for this for literal years, desire and want and longing all bound up fit to bursting in your chest. “Only if you kiss me,” you challenged breathlessly.

Boba surged forward, hands sliding to cup your face between his broad and calloused palms, and he kissed you with more teeth than lips, something ferocious and desperate . His knee slotted itself higher between your thighs, purposefully rubbing against your center, and you moaned into his mouth, clutching desperately at his wrists. Against the awning, the spattering of rain turned quickly into a flood and for a moment you couldn’t differentiate between it and the blood rushing in your ears.

You never thought you’d find the taste of cigarettes appealing, but you did — at least, you liked them combined with whatever it was Boba tasted like. Maybe it was your attraction to him warping your senses but you couldn’t get enough. You licked into his mouth, sucked lightly on his tongue, teased his lip with your teeth — literally anything to keep him pressed against you.

His hands left your face which made the chilly air feel all the more cold against your cheeks. Instead, they ran down the length of your torso, mapping out the curves and planes of your body. You arched willingly into his hands as they reached around to your backside, sliding into the pockets of your jeans —

— only to be met with disappointment when you heard the jangle of your keys as he pulled them from your pocket. “Could’ve — asked ,” you managed between breathless kisses. Boba hummed into your mouth as he reached for the doorknob to your side. Reluctantly, he pulled away just long enough to slot the key correctly into the lock, and you busied yourself with tasting the expanse of skin on his throat that the new angle provided.

One hand still remained cupping your ass, and you squeaked when he suddenly grabbed a handful and squeezed. As he turned the doorhandle, he used his hand to pull your weight forward against him so that you wouldn’t fall backward into your house, which had the added advantage of pressing your chest to his.

“C’mon,” he murmured lowly, playfully swatting your ass. “Inside.”

You barely registered the sound of your keys hitting your tiled floor as he ushered you indoors, because the moment you both were safely inside you fell on him again, lip-to-lip, hands trying to work off his leather jacket. He took the hint and shed it quickly, letting it fall to the floor, and immediately he urged off your own shirt, breaking away from you long enough to pull the fabric up over your head.

His hands felt so big against your body like they were everywhere, his rough palms a stark contrast against your smooth skin. He thumbed just under your breastband, one hand settled on your back to keep your pelvis pressed to him as his other hand groped your chest over your bra, rough and demanding, and you whined into his mouth. The pleasure threatened to sweep your thoughts away, to turn you mindless and dumb and completely receptive to his whims. You turned your head away from his lips, trying to find the words to speak as he continued to grab handfuls of your flesh. “Boba —” you started, cutting off abruptly with a whine as he teethed at the delicate skin of your neck, each nibble a promise of a later bruise. “W-wait, Boba, I thought you came here to smoke?”

In an instant, his hands fell to his sides, leaving you completely untouched. If you weren’t keyed up and desperate, you might’ve appreciated the gesture, but now it just left you feeling frustrated and unfulfilled. He looked down at you in concern, brows slightly furrowed, but all you could focus on were his lips . They were slick with saliva, kiss-swollen, and you felt a twinge of regret that you had pulled away at all.

“....Do you not want —”

“No! No, I do, I just thought that maybe, y’know…” You gave him a sheepish grin, aware of how hot your face felt. “I thought that maybe you could...do both?”

Concern gave way to slight confusion, then he chuckled in amusement. “I should have guessed.” Boba reached back into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out his lighter and a carton of cigarettes and carefully shook one free. “You have a thing for smoking, huh?”

“No!” It was a gut-response to deny; smoking was gross . It was yucky . It did awful things to people’s bodies and it stained clothes and fingers and yet — “Or at least, I didn’t,” you amended, voice softening. “Not until I saw you that night.”

He paused, lighter halfway to his mouth. The cigarette dangled attractively from his lips. “You should have better taste.”

You choked on nothing. “Wh — you should have better stress relievers!” “Are you offering?”

That made you stop, heat rising to your face at the implication. Sure, you wanted him — but the thought of being his little toy , someone he came to when he needed a quick fuck to ease his frustrations — you liked the thought of it a little too much. Boba was smirking at you, but he seemed to understand to leave well enough alone, at least for now.

There was a flash of light, steel hitting flint, and then the familiar smell of smoke filled the air, more potent in your tiny house. He motioned his head toward your couch as he breathed out a mouthful of smoke. “Go sit.”

The command was almost unneeded; Boba practically steered you there himself, hot on your heels, his hand right back on your lower back like it belonged there. You settled yourself on the cushions, half expecting him to sit beside you, or maybe cover your body with his own — but when he sunk to his knees in front of you, nerves bubbled up in your stomach.

“Oh, Boba, I’ve never...No one has...gone down on me before.”

He grunted, deft fingertips already at the button of your jeans. “Don’t see how that impacts me.” You raised your hips to help as he tugged at the hem of one pantleg, and he slid your jeans off in one smooth movement. He placed your legs over his shoulders and jerked you forward so your ass was off the couch, hips suspended in midair by his arms hooked underneath your thighs. It left you trapped and pinned in place, your back slouched awkwardly against the back of the couch. He puffed on his cigarette before transferring it between his first two fingers, the burning tip pointed away from you as he gripped your thigh. Smoke escaped his mouth as he spoke, “Unless you want me to stop?”

You shook your head, and whatever nervous thoughts you had about tasting or smelling weird, or not looking the way he expected, or not being groomed the way he liked instantly left as Boba ran the flat of his tongue against your clothed cunt, so hot even through the fabric of your panties, and you jerked your hips both in surprise and want .

“Be still ,” he growled, so close that you felt his breath against your center. “I don’t want to burn you.”

“You won’t,” you breathed. You trusted him not to even accidentally harm you, like accident wasn’t a word in his vocabulary. Instead, you felt his arms clamp down on you harder, giving you even less potential wiggle room than before.

A moment later, his mouth was on you, his tongue licking broad stripes against your panties. It felt good even without direct contact; you had never had someone’s mouth on you before, and it had been a long time since you had anything but your hand to pleasure yourself with.

“You’re already so wet.” He turned his attention to your inner thighs, and pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to your heated skin. His free hand rubbed you through your panties, spreading your slick into the fabric, and you moaned . “Is it because of me, or are you just excited?”

“You. It’s you.” He hooked his thumb under the edges of your panties and pulled the fabric away from your crotch, exposing your heated core. Your breath came in short puffs as he finally touched you, skin against skin, his thumb dipping into your folds to collect your slick on his fingertip. “I’ve — thought about this for so long.” “About me eating you out?” You were so wet; you could see how your juices glistened on his thumb as he brought it to his mouth, letting his tongue loll out lewdly as he licked your taste clean from his finger. You whined at that sight alone and imagined his tongue tasting you for real, imagined how wet and hot it would feel against your bare cunt. He brought that same hand down onto the meat of your thigh, slapping you light enough to get your attention but not enough to leave a lasting sting. “I asked you a question, princess.”

“About this,” you repeated, as if it clarified anything. “About you. About — Boba, please —” You tried arching your hips off the couch to tempt him, tried to explain without words what you wanted as your voice died off into a needy whine.

His hand returned to your cunt, fingertips grazing over your clit through your panties. They were so soaked with his spit and your slick that it was barely a barrier at all, made translucent by all the fluids. “Don’t make me guess what you want,” he said. “Tell me, and I’ll give it to you.”

Frustrated, you groaned and covered your face with your hands. “It’s embarrassing to say it.”

“It’s embarrassing, huh?” Boba teased the edge of your underwear, flicking it against your skin as a reminder that his fingers were right there , that you could have what you were desperate for if you only asked. “Is it embarrassing if I say that I love how you taste?”

“Boba….” you whined weakly.

“I want to taste more of you,” he murmured, voice growing husky. He nosed against your clothed mound, breath fanning hotly against your core. “I want to bury my tongue in your little cunt and take everything from you. I want you to come undone on my mouth, princess.” He pressed an oddly-sweet kiss to your thigh, his lips lingering on your skin. “But I can’t unless you tell me what you want.”

You felt hot and extremely bothered by the casual way he said those things, how he just uttered his desires as if they were nothing. It wasn’t embarrassing to ask him to eat you out, but you found it embarrassing that you wanted it. You swallowed thickly, and when you finally looked out from under your hands you found Boba looking up at you through hooded eyes, just waiting. Watching.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please eat me out.”

“ That ’s it." In a blatant show of strength he ripped your panties right from your hips, tearing the cloth with one strong pull. You didn’t even have time to articulate a response, because a second later his mouth was on your bare pussy, his tongue eagerly lapping up the liquid that glistened on your folds.

“ Boba! ” You jerked hard in his grasp but he pinned you down with his hands alone, his grip on your thighs so tight you knew that there would be ten marks in the shape of his fingers the next morning. He was relentless, lapping and slurping at your cunt like a man starved, and the sounds were so lewd and so pornographic that you’d have found them gross were you not so aroused.

You wanted to snap your thighs closed and rut against his mouth so bad , but his hold on you was unforgiving. He kept you spread and held in place, completely at his mercy as he licked and sucked and devoured you. Little gasps and moans kept escaping your lips, mixed in with mindless repetitions of Boba and please and yes, yes, like that. This was the loudest you had ever been; months of pent-up desire and sexual frustration had you quickly approaching an orgasm, vastly helped by Boba’s skillful tongue. The urge sat heavy in your gut and only grew with each passing second until you were frantically trying to grind into him, hips moving minutely in his iron grip.

And then he began to pull away. Your hand shot out to grab the back of his head to hold him in place, a desperate whine leaving your throat. “No! No, Boba, please, I’m so close, please —”

“Shhh.” He turned his head to place a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “Relax, princess. I’m not going anywhere.” His assurances were enough to cause you to let go, and he rewarded you by peppering more gentle kisses to your slicked skin. “You got an ashtray?”

You had to think through the haze of want that clouded your thoughts. “A... huh? Why?”

“Don’t want to burn you.” He motioned toward the cone of ash on his cigarette, which had been steadily burning the whole time his mouth was on you. Carefully, he unwound his arms from around you and you slumped, boneless, back into the couch. “Unless you want me to use the carpet?”

“N-no, god, my landlord would kill me.” You spotted an old mug sitting on the endtable right next to the couch and reached for it, almost spilling the scant liquid left inside as you haphazardly handed it to Boba. “Use this.”

Sitting back on his haunches, he flicked the excess into the mug and then brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. You watched the fabric of his shirt stretch across his chest as he breathed in, how his shoulders seemed to broaden with the action. When he exhaled, he blew from the side of his mouth, keeping the smoke from reaching your face.

Which was considerate and all, but… “ Boba .” You stretched your lower half toward him in need, letting your thighs fall open. “Please?”

“You invited me here to smoke,” he reminded, even as his free hand slid up to brush tantalizingly close to your slit. “You gonna make me waste a cigarette?”

“N-no, but…” Tears pricked the back of your eyes; you had been so close , and the longer you went without his mouth on you the more you worried you wouldn’t get to come at all. “ Please .”

Boba flicked ash into the mug again and set it aside on the floor, out of reach of flailing arms and legs. “Spoiled little thing,” he said, so affectionate, and then he was upon you, his head back between your thighs. And, fuck, maybe you were spoiled, but it was his fault for indulging you and giving you an inch so you could take a mile. His tongue just felt so good, and without his arms pinning your legs open you rutted freely into his mouth, moans and pleas rolling off your lips anew.

Boba turned his head to the side as he took another drag from his cigarette, holding the little nub a safe ways away from your skin. He exhaled before he wrapped his mouth around you again, hotter than before, and his lips latched around your clit.

“Fuck!” Pleasure shot up through your spine and you moaned shamelessly, your eyes shutting tightly against the feelings that threatened to overwhelm you. “Fuck, fuck , Boba, please, oh my god —”

“Gonna come from my mouth alone?” His lips barely left your cunt as he spoke, his hot breath only serving to further tease you. “Wanna come for me, sweet thing?”

“ Yes ,” you hissed. “Yes, Boba, please , wanna come on your tongue —” You weren’t even wholly aware of what you were saying, just babbling mindlessly as he kept torturing your clit with attention. The urge you were chasing earlier came back full-force, leaving you teetering on the edge. “Please, please , Boba, Boba —”

“Then come,” he ordered. “Come for me.”

It might have been his voice, it might have been because his teeth skimmed your clit, but you came and you came hard . You think you screamed, or blacked out, or screamed and then blacked out — and when you finally relaxed, body no long tight and taut, you opened bleary eyes to find Boba’s face still buried between your legs, his tongue lapping at your sensitive pussy in slow, languid movements.

“Boba,” you whimpered, pushing at him weakly. “‘S’too much, please …”

He peppered hot, open-mouthed kisses on the heated skin of your inner thighs as he pulled away, settling back on his knees. To your embarrassment, his mouth and chin shined with your juices; he turned his head to wipe himself clean on the sleeve of his shoulder and replaced his cigarette back between his lips. It was evident he’d enjoyed himself, too, because there was a sizable bulge tenting the fabric of his jeans.

“Hey.” You stretched a leg out, brushing a toe across the top of a clothed thigh. “It’s not fair you’re still dressed. Take off your shirt.”

He exhaled slowly, smoke drifting lazily upward from his mouth. “Take off your bra if you want it to be fair.”

You had completely forgotten that you were still wearing it, and you realized how ridiculous you must look: stripped nude with your bare pussy on display, but still wearing your fucking bra. It wasn’t even cute .

Sitting up, you hesitantly reached behind yourself and unclipped your bra. You let the straps slide down your shoulders but left the cups covering your chest, suddenly very acutely aware of everything: the couch beneath your bare thighs, the drying slick on your skin, Boba’s warm eyes focused intensely on you .

“Don’t get shy on me, now.” Gentle and slow, he reached a hand up and helped ease your bra the rest of the way off your chest. He palmed your bare breast, pebbling your nipple underneath his thumb. “Beautiful.”

You flushed at the compliment but gently pushed his hand away. “Your turn. Fair’s fair.”

He extended his cigarette out to you as he stood up from his knees, and you didn’t miss the quiet noise of exertion he made at the effort. “Hold this.” It was burned down to almost nothing, wasted, but as you took it from his fingers you remembered how often you’d imagined holding the filter between your lips, how often you dreamed of tasting him second-hand.

“Want to try?” He must’ve caught you staring; when you glanced back at him, he was bare-chested, and you marveled at the power that flexed underneath his skin, at the tattoos that spanned his chest and upper arms. You’d have to ask about them later.

“I thought you didn’t want me to start?”

“You’re an adult. I’m saying the offer’s there, if you want.”

You considered it — you really did — but then you thought about how sweeter it would taste coming from his mouth, and you passed it back to him.

“I...can we try something?

The end of it burned red-hot as he inhaled. “What?”

Your earlier shyness came back, your nerves sitting heavy in your chest. “What if...you kissed me, right? But with your mouth full of smoke? And then...y’know….” You wrung your hands in your lap as your confidence died out.

But Boba merely chuckled and took a seat on the couch next to you, the cushions dipping under his weight. “You won’t like it,” he warned.

“I don’t care.” Half-surprised he agreed, and half-giddy with desire, you crawled loose-limbed into his space, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth as you settled into him. “If it’s from you, I don’t care.”

You had tucked yourself into his side, but Boba hauled you into his lap instead, swinging your legs across his own. His clothed erection pressed into your hip and you had half a mind to ask if he wanted his pants off, too — but then he grabbed your chin between one large hand and held you in place as he puffed from his cigarette. His lips ghosted across your own, soft and tentative, and then he kissed you for real.

Unlike before, this was gentle and sweet, the slow molding of his mouth to yours, until he urged your lips to part. On instinct, you inhaled, and the smoke that entered your lungs was hot and spicy . You coughed once against his mouth before you had the chance to turn away. Your lungs and throat burned and tears quickly filled your eyes as you coughed away the sensation.

“I told you,” came Boba’s smug reply, and you narrowed your leaking eyes in a glare even as small coughs wracked your body. Gently, he smoothed his hand up and down your spine. “Wanna try again?”

“So you can —” you stopped, coughing, “— laugh at me?”

“Not laughing.” He wiped away some spittle on the side of your mouth. “It’ll be easier if you just hold it in your mouth. Don’t breathe it in.”

You nodded. After he took another drag from his cigarette, well and truly burning it to the filter, he kissed you again. This time, when you felt smoke fill your mouth, you fought off the urge to inhale. It almost tasted sweet beneath the bitter burn. You forced yourself to breathe out, the smoke pouring from between your connected mouths, but despite your best efforts you ended up inhaling a little anyway. You pulled away and coughed to clear your throat.

“Better?

You shook your head. “Not really,” you said sheepishly. “At least I know there’s one fantasy I don’t want to try again.

Boba extinguished the nub of his cigarette between forefinger and thumb and tossed it to the mug he left on the floor. “You fantasized about this?”

“Well, duh.” You sunk down against his chest, resting your head on his shoulder as he drew you close. “What else am I supposed to think about at work?”

It was a tease, mostly, but Boba pinched the soft skin of your thigh. “Naughty thing,” he admonished. “I pay you to fantasize, huh?”

“You occupy my thoughts even when I’m off the clock,” you admitted. As you shifted a bit in his lap, his erection pressed into your side, and you remembered another worktime fantasy and spoke before Boba had a chance to reply to your honesty. “Hey, you brought a whole pack with you, right?”

He huffed out a chuckle. “You trying to give me lung cancer?”

“No! No, no, just —” You squirmed. “Do you maybe want a blowjob? While you smoke?”

He answered you by reaching into his back pocket to pull out his lighter and cigarette carton. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“W-well, I mean, I thought you might like it. It’s supposed to be every man’s fantasy, right? A good blowjob and a smoke?” You eased yourself onto your knees before him as he lit up another cigarette, smoothing your hand over his broad thighs.

“Never considered it before,” he said as he began to undo his belt, “but I won’t say no.”

Your deft fingers helped undo the button on his jeans, and you pulled the waistband down just far enough to free his aching cock. “Oh, fuck ,” you breathed. He was big . Bigger than anyone else you’d taken, and you felt a phantom twinge of pain in your jaw just imagining him in your mouth.

“Like what you see?” Boba grinned down at you, his freshly-lit cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. Oh, he knew he was big. He knew it, and he knew you liked it.

You wrapped your hand around him and almost moaned when you realized you were barely able to touch your thumb to your middle finger around his girth. “Holy fuck , Boba.” You had never wanted to suck a dick as badly as you did now, even if you were questioning how any of it would fit in your mouth. Would he even fit in your cunt? If things escalated to that point, would you be able to take him, or would he just split you in half?

You subconsciously squeezed your thighs together and leaned in, pressing kisses up along his shaft. He smelled good , like musk, like Boba , the scent that you could never name. You parted your lips and dragged the tip of your tongue along his shaft, feather-light, stopping to take his leaking head into your mouth. He tasted salty on your tongue and you braced your hands on his thighs as you leaned in farther, relaxing your throat as his girth stretched you mouth impossibly wide. Already, it was almost too much, your jaw threatening to ache, and you worried you’d have to give him a handjob instead.

“‘Atta girl,” Boba praised, and oh if that didn’t make you feel like you could do anything . He ran a hand through your hair and settled a palm on the top of your head — not pulling, not pushing, but a comforting weight that held promise. Potential.

You pulled off his cock, tilting your head to look up at him through your lashes. “You can be mean,” you breathed, cognizant of how his hand tightened in your hair. “It’s okay.”

Boba hummed low in his throat, as if he were considering it. “Some other time,” he promised. “You have to learn to take me. I can’t break you on the first day.”

His words made you whimper automatically with want as your brain immediately filled in the gaps. Boba exhaled a mouthful of smoke around his cigarette and applied a little pressure to the top of your head, encouraging you to bend down again. “C’mon, princess. Take me into your mouth.”

You held his gaze for as long as you could manage as you wrapped your lips around his cock again, sinking down on his length. Despite his size, you wanted to take him deep in your throat and feel his jeans rub against your chin. You tried to relax as much as possible as you sunk lower but he was just too much , and you ended up gagging audibly.

He gave a sharp tug on your hair, pulling you off his cock. “Go easy ,” he stressed. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Spit dribbled down your chin. “I want to take all of you,” you whined.

Boba’s hand cupped your jaw, his thumb smearing your saliva across your lips. “Be patient. I’m not a small man.”

“You make it sound like I’ll get another chance to do this.”

“You will. If you want.” Ash fell from the end of his cigarette and onto the cushion below, but in that moment you couldn’t care less about your stupid couch. “I’d like to have fun with you again.”

You hid your grin behind kisses as you peppered them along his shaft. “Okay,” you finally said. “Okay, I’ll go easy.” Boba made it sound like you’d have all the time in the world later to train your throat to take his cock — and hopefully there’d be time to train other things, as well.

No longer focused on deepthroating his entire cock, you worked on fitting as much as you could comfortably handle into his mouth and settled into a rhythm as you sucked and licked. You stroked the rest of his shaft with your hand, aided smoothly by your excessive saliva that drooled down his length.

You took a chance to look up at Boba, and found him with his eyes closed, an arm thrown over the back of your couch. The cigarette bobbled in his mouth as he inhaled around it. “ There you go,” he murmured, smoke trailing from his lips. “Just like that. Easy.”

You swallowed around him and his hand tightened in your hair. The taste in your mouth grew saltier with each passing second as his precum leaked from the tip of his cock and mingled with your spit. Boba groaned above you, something guttural and almost primal , and you felt the ache between your own legs grow in response.

“Want my cum, princess?”

Grateful for the chance to give your aching jaw a break, you lifted from his cock and licked a broad stripe up from where your hand had been. “ Yes ,” you plead. “Yes, please, will you come in my mouth?”

“Gonna swallow me, huh?” At your enthusiastic nod, he grinned. “Good girl. My good girl. Scoot back.”

He moved to stand up from the couch and you realized at once what he intended to do as you shifted backwards, sitting pretty on your knees. He towered over you in this position and you couldn’t take your gaze away from him; at this angle, he seemed larger than life, intimidating and scary and huge , and the cherry-red of his cigarette burned brighter than ever.

Boba cupped your jaw in his hand, tugging at your bottom lip. “Open your mouth.” You whined and clutched at the fabric of his pants as you obediently parted your lips, moving your head so that the tip of his cock was pointed at your mouth.

He fisted his cock in one hand, jerking himself hard and fast, and with the other he gripped the back of your hair and held you in place. “Gonna come, princess. Stick your tongue out for me.”

You stretched your tongue out of your mouth as far as it would go, lips parted wide, and stared longingly up at him. Each of his exhales contained a mouthful of smoke, and it gave him the impression of standing in a translucent cloud, the tip of his cigarette standing out amongst the white.

He grunted something unintelligible and you felt something warm and thick land on your cheek. The next one hit your upper lip, and Boba drew you forward so that the head of his cock sat on the tip of your tongue. The rest of his cum landed hot and salty on your tastebuds.

Boba jerked himself from base to tip, coaxing out whatever droplets he could give you. “You look so good,” he murmured, voice husky. “Good girl. Swallow.”

You obeyed, opening your mouth wide after to show him. His thumb came up and helped guide the mess he left on your face into your waiting mouth, where you sucked his tongue clean each time.

“You did so well,” he praised, and even though your jaw ached and there was a dull throb between your legs, you beamed . You pressed your face into his clothed thigh and sighed happily as he rested a hand in your hair, stroking down the strands he’d mussed earlier. He took his cigarette from his mouth and tapped the ashes off into what you hoped was the mug.

A sort of quiet peace settled over you, and even though you were completely nude and it was late and you kind of wanted to invite Boba to stay the night (or forever), you were content to just sit there on your knees as he ran his fingers through your hair.

Besides. He told you there would be a next time — there was no reason to rush.

#boba fett #boba fett x reader #star wars #writing #this is extremely vanilla #i am surprised at how vanilla it is #i mean. theres some other stuff i would have written that wouldve immediately made it not vanilla #but no one ele would be into it but me #and i want my stuff to be read <3 #also i did say its a modern mob au but u can disregard that if u want #theres not like. any actual backstory or plot i just needed a way to have boba smoke actual cigarettes instead of Space Cigarettes #wtf is a death stick. its a cigarette #also i personally dont smoke so if any of the desc seem off like abt taste let me know LMAO im going off of second hand knowledge

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mythosaur34667 · 2 years

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I would like any commentary about Mando-ger please <3 It's my favorite of yours (so far). Spill the (coffee) beans!

Yay, I will gladly spill the tea for you (just like IG, lol!). ♡ ALSO! I added up my posted + unposted fic for 2021, and my wordcount is 153,304 words! (All Dinfeld!) Only 40k of that is posted, so I will have a lot to post in 2022 as I finish polishing and editing. 😊 I Demand to Speak to the Mando-ger Director's Commentary for Chapters 1 and 2! Chapter 1 The whole fic was born from a post about plot bunnies, literally something like, "Tell me your ideas." And I was only writing my (still unposted) longfic at the time, but then I started thinking, wouldn't a Mando coffeeshop AU be funny? And then I started writing it down. Then I went for a walk and basically came up with an outline for 3/4 of the story. It originally had more of a "hopeful ending" than the happy ending it is going to have now. The first sentence of the doc for a long time was, "Oh no, the Grinch had a wonderful, awful idea." Other than that, the first part I wrote was the exchange that appears in the summary. Also the title existed from the very beginning. I had the title before I worked it into the actual story with the nametag prank. I was worried about it being too silly, but thanks @urisarang for saying to go with it! I really can't imagine it being called anything else.

When Bo-Katan is trying to combine coupons and Din lets Cara deal with it, I wrote it that way because I didn't want to deal with Bo any more than Din did! I added the line about someone thinking spotchka is vegan because I had no idea the first few times I watched Ep 4 that the spotchka was made FROM the krill! So, very much not vegan, lol. Glasses!Paz was inspired by art of Jon Favreau as Paz without the helmet. Also I really enjoyed writing Paz being a supportive big brother and then turning around and stealing Din's krill snacks! Chapter 2 Lots of the operational details from Chapter 2 are remixed from real life, including the horrible ice machine. I did have a coworker who rode a motorcycle to work and brought his helmet in with him, but he wasn't an a-hole like Toro! And I toned Toro down by having him dance *behind* the bar; I had a real-life coworker who danced *on* the bar! Greef would have fired Toro on the spot if he'd done that on top of everything else! IG breaking the blender is a memorial to my friend's blender that broke irl due to a spoon being left inside. RIP! For the looooongest time, the draft of Greef's line read, "Sometimes this job sucks like [Star Wars metaphor for something that sucks]." This was one of the very last hurdles for posting the chapter! I wanted something that sounded vaguely inappropriate, but not too bad. I was so satisfied when I finally came up with, "Sometimes this job sucks like a mynock’s mouth on an unshielded power converter." One element that was always part of this fic was Din deciding to show his face for his own sake. I wanted Din and Migs to be able to interact later without Migs having that guilt associated with seeing Din's face. The cashier at the gas station is the Weequay bartender from Mos Pelgo, but he doesn't have a name in the show, so it was hard to make it obvious who it was supposed to be. In the book "Tales from Jabba's Palace," the Weequays have what is essentially a Magic 8-Ball, so that's why the cashier has one in Mando-ger. I spent a long time figuring out which Star Wars animal to use in the "deer in the headlights" line before deciding on "kybuck." At first I had "fathier," but then I remembered that fathiers are really freakin' tall and might not be blinded by a car's headlights? So I looked up a bunch of other Star Wars animals for this one line. Okay, so. I do not like slushies very much. I also hardly ever go inside at the gas station. BUT for this fic I went to the gas station when I did not even need to buy gas, purely to buy a slushie to make sure I wasn't getting any details completely wrong!! And then I gave most of the slushie to my husband, because he does like them! Similarly to Migs, I didn't want Grogu doggie to be the reason Din had to show his face. While Din had to go through a lot more than he planned by rescuing Grogu, Grogu wasn't the reason he broke with the Creed. Thanks for the ask! ^_^ Rereading the first two chapters to write the commentary was fun! I'm planning to have Chapter 3 up before the end of January!

#Dinfeld #My fic #Director's Commentary ask game

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gffa · 4 years

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Clone Wars EP Dave Filoni breaks down the first episodes of the final season [x]

It’s been a long journey in a galaxy far, far away, but Star Wars: The Clone Wars is finally back. After its unexpected cancellation in 2013, fans had a new hope for the revered series. At Star Wars Celebration in 2015, audience members got to see rough animations (story reels) of a few unfinished episodes, including a plot focusing on imperfect clone soldiers called the Bad Batch. Those episodes make up the first arc of the seventh and final season, which debuted Feb. 21 on Disney+. After the premiere of the first two episodes, EW spoke with Clone Wars and The Mandalorian executive producer Dave Filoni about bringing back the series — and a fallen friend.

ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY: When you produced the first six seasons, the pace of production was pretty quick. But for this season, you had years to look back and reflect on the story. As you were looking to bring back these first few episodes was there anything you really wanted to go back and update?

DAVE FILONI: If you go back to the original series, what we put out in 2008, it's such a dramatic leap. But then you realize it's been 11 years since that show first aired, which is kind of striking for me that it's been so long. So there should be dramatic improvements, visually. I think that facial animation, the fidelity of the expression — things like that — we were able to improve in the animation itself. I really feel looking at this show now, it's kind of how >George [Lucas] and I envisioned it to look in the beginning. We just didn't have the tools necessary to actually realize it then. But over time with a lot of training, you know, like any good Jedi I learned my way.

One scene that's a little different from the original story reel of “The Bad Batch” is that it originally opened with a longer extended sequence between Mace, Anakin, Rex, and Cody. In the final version, you added a pretty touching scene between Rex and Cody talking about a lot of the fallen clones. What was the decision to add that scene in there?

I just thought the story was really dragging in the beginning. I felt like there was a whole lot of exposition, one too many scenes where they're saying what they're going to do instead of just doing it. And then I wanted to add a better sense of personal stakes to the story. You know, part of the consideration I had to make when doing this was, how do people even know who Echo is? I'm imagining a lot of people will just watch these 12 episodes and maybe not go back and watch the previous, you know, over 100 episodes where Echo plays a moderate role.

The Bad Batch are mutant clones who are new faces we meet at the top of the season. How did you go about designing the looks for these guys and also new clone hairstyles that I didn’t know were possible?

Yes, we always had this bizarre hairstyle trend with clones where they would pick ways to individualize. And the Bad Batch themselves, that was all right from George. He wanted to explore this idea that there were clones that were a little bit more unique from one another that were like a special forces unit that had enhanced skills. And so the trick for those characters is really making them feel special in what their abilities could be, but not making them superheroes. Wrecker should not be the Hulk, even though we love the Hulk and those types of stories. That's not what Star Wars is. So we had to keep it all kind of within the reality of Star Wars.

I loved the callback to clone 99 from season 3. Was that always the plan to call the Bad Batch "Clone Force 99"?

Yeah. That's where the idea kind of came from story-wise, was that, you know, 99 proved back in the original Clone Wars series to have greater heart and strength than some of the clones that were thought of better warriors, and Cody felt that that was worth exploring. And so he really lobbies the Kaminoans to take a second look at clones that they might deem different.

These first two episodes feature almost entirely clone troopers. Dee Bradley Baker voices all the clones — what was his reaction when he saw the script?

He has a unique skill where he's able to lend his voice to the individual nature of these characters. You forget it's one guy doing it. And I can tell you, it's exhausting for him. Being inside one character's mind is exhausting. And I can't imagine what it's like when he's in a whole squad of guys. And he's got to keep the energy up and he's got to keep the conflict up. And he's arguing with himself.

He and I over the years have had different ways to remember clones. When we were in the series we had certain words that would be like triggering for each of the clones — what their key personality was. The Bad Batch is a little easier, you know, because they're so different.

I think one of the coolest scenes that has ever come out of Clone Wars is the attack on the command center in episode 1 of this season. Do you remember plotting that out?

Yeah, that was really well-directed by Kyle Dulevy. George was always pushing us to think more in terms of what the live-action blocking would be and how a live-action film could do things. And that's where some of those longer takes that hand off action and keep with movement and feel more handheld and operated come from. It's the way to really put the viewer right in there, like you're running alongside the clones.

The way we do Clone Wars, there's no storyboards. So when we plan the scene like that, it's all virtually blocked in the computer. All the staging is done in a privatized system George created called Zviz, which is like a virtual blocking tool for directors. And you can put all the characters on the stage and then you can watch them play out the scenes like you’re watching the morning walkthrough of the rehearsal run, and then you can set up your cameras and so you can follow everybody. There's this virtual camera, and you can tweak the timing to get it to be really perfect.

The animator, Kyle, and his team were really proficient at using it. I know exactly the shot you're talking about. The way I look at it in my mind is that the Bad Batch arc is the most authentic to the way I think Clone Wars was back when we did it. Yes, we improved the animation. We improved the rendering. But it's very much something that we had shot. It's pretty authentic. The middle arc is more of a halfway point, where we tweaked it and we worked on the script quite a bit, but it's still the relative idea of what we were going to be doing cinematically. And then the end is really something like we've never done before in Clone Wars — because it’s the end.

It was so great to see Echo again despite the circumstances. When he seemingly died in the Citadel, did you know then that you wanted to bring him back later?

No, ha. That [death], really more than any of the other ones, we all kind of noticed that people were like, “Oh, man, Echo.” And we thought it'd be interesting that the Techno Union — a creepy bunch of guys on the evil side of things — maybe there's something to be done there. So we started to hatch a plan for if that would even be something that's possible. But it wasn't top of mind when we did the Citadel arc.

Another difference between the story reels in the second episode was this new scene about Anakin slipping away to call Padme, which I thought was a pretty illuminating addition.

When I looked at these 12 episodes, there was no Padme in them, and that seemed like a really huge oversight. That was never the plan, because there were more episodes planned, but we ended up doing these 12. I just thought that was really unfortunate. I talked to the actress who played her, Cat Taber, and I think it was a bummer for her because she'd been so involved in the series over the years.

And again, [this new scene] is important to the story and for people that might be walking into Clone Wars new. Having a scene with Padme actually interacting with Anakin was a very important moment. It also shows people where they're at in their relationship. It shows that he goes to her for advice, that she really gets the relationship he has with Rex, that she needs to remind him that actually that was going out on a limb for him, so maybe you should take it on faith and go on this limb for Rex. And also that she has a big influence over Anakin still and that he trusts her. And it also hints at the timeline. And that's always a tricky one, I think, because you as the viewer have to remember that at this point in Star Wars, we know way more than the characters do.

To be honest, I'd worked so much on Rebels, I had to go back and reread and watch a whole bunch of the Clone Wars era just to turn my brain back on. I had to upload a whole bunch of information to my drive because, you know, I guess I'm getting old and losing some of it, but it came back in time.

You posted an intriguing Instagram last month. It was a picture of Gandalf and Ahsoka. And Gandalf says, “People thought I was dead, too. Look how that turned out…” And, you know, a lot of people assumed Asoka was dead because we hear her voice in The Rise of Skywalker. Are we going to see her again?

Well, you'll see her in Clone Wars if you watch these 12 episodes. [Laughs] I told the truth! I had an answer for once.

Was there anything that you learned from working on and directing in this first season of The Mandalorian that you were able to apply to this final season of Clone Wars?

I think a lot. Working with Jon Favreau has been another extension of my education. There are a lot of things that George had taught me over the years about live-action, and finally here I was in a place where I could apply it. And I'm so fortunate to be working alongside Jon as another mentor and someone who is very experienced to help me through the questions and the challenges that you have in a different medium.

But yeah, it definitely affected me as far as looking back on the Clone Wars with different eyes and saying we could tighten this up, this could be better. You know, some of the things I learned from Jon about just keeping it moving and heightening and transforming things as we go. He brings a great perspective, and one that I've really never had as an actor to every scene and the emotions and the character. And so I've learned a lot from him in the past year about hopefully improving our performances and relating to performances.

#dave filoni #george lucas #jon favreau #ahsoka tano #commander cody #interview #meta #long post

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wonderfulworldofmichaelford · 4 years

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Michael in the Mainstream: The Lion King 2019

These Disney remakes are ridiculed by many as being pointless, worthless, and quite simply, bad. I, for the most part, have disagreed. The few I’ve seen at this point have been pretty good, for the most part. The Jungle Book is a darker and more interesting take on a Disney movie I never really cared for in the slightest; Maleficent, while not amazing, was still a pretty unique and intriguing spin on one of Disney’s greatest creations; and Aladdin, while undoubtedly not as good as the original film, still has plenty of charm and good ideas despite mostly being carried by the performance of Will Smith. Even Lady and the Tramp wasn’t too bad, just really boring… which is true of the original as well, so no shock there. There was only one remake I thought was awful, and to be fair it was so awful that I fully get why people reject these remakes: Beauty and the Beast. It is an utterly atrocious take on the story that spits on one of Disney’s most beloved Renaissance entries, and quite frankly it didn’t seem possible for Disney to stoop lower.

Then I saw The Lion King.

Beauty and the Beast is a movie that is clearly made by someone who hates the original movie. Everything about the remake seemed to exist solely to ameliorate the nitpicky complaints of people on the internet. None of the changes came from a place of love for the source material, rather they came from a place of open contempt and a desire to “fix” a story that was never really broken. The Lion King suffers from a problem in the opposite direction: it is clear that Jon Favreau loves the original film to a fault. The entire film is almost entirely the same, line for line, scene for scene, with little to no variation. It’s the same story you saw when you watched the original 90s animated masterpiece, only this time there’s a different cast and a different style of animation.

And yes, despite the efforts of clickbait journalists and to some extent Disney themselves, there’s really no point in pretending this is anything other than computer animation. And it’s really good animation! Everything looks stunning and realistic! But here’s the issue… this really isn’t a story that benefits from realism. It just makes all the stuff that was easy to accept as a traditionally animated film really hard to accept. It also lends the characters to being far less expressive, because real animals aren’t quite as expressive as cartoon animals, unfortunately. And back to how good the animation looks, good animation does not automatically make a good movie. The Emoji Movie looks gorgeous, but it is most certainly not good.

The acting across the board is almost entirely worse than the original, even in the case of James Earl Jones; despite reprising his role as Mufasa, his delivery is so tired and bored, like he was only here for a paycheck. This really sets the precedent for the rest of the voice cast, in particular Donald Glover and Beyonce as the older Simba and Nala; both of them give the most bland, lifeless deliveries, giving their characters the personalities of wet cardboard. Equally baffling is the decision to cast Eric Andre and Keegan-Michael Key as the revamped Banzai and Ed and then just… not give them anything funny to do or say. These are two of the funniest men alive, and they contribute nothing entertaining to the film despite playing remade versions of two of the funniest characters from the original. In fact, the only character who really manages to make it out of this movie looking good… is Seth Rogen’s Pumbaa. Rogen actually really captures the spirit of the character perfectly, and if I’m being honest I refer his take to the raspier Pumbaa of the original. Rogen’s voice just has more of that goofy charm that Pumbaa exudes.

If I can compare this to any film, it would be Gus Van Sant’s take on Psycho. Much like that film, this movie is a wholly unneeded remake that fails to justify its existence due to being too similar to the original to the point of being a shot-for-shot remake at times. I’m kinder to most of the other remakes because even if they fail to surpass the originals, there’s some indication that the filmmakers had some kind of vision. Here, despite Jon Favreau being extremely talented as a filmmaker, it’s pretty apparent he didn’t have much of a vision. I think he even realized that with the original film, there’s just really nothing to improve upon and so he just did what Van Sant did so long ago: just cash it in and give us the same thing we’d seen but worse in every way. The acting is worse, the songs are now lifeless and lack any sort of dynamic visuals, the animation isn’t very engaging, and all of the changes made are just stupid or baffling.

I think that Beauty and the Beast is worse as a story, as it changed so much of the fundamental plot and characterization that it made the film feel like a spiteful fanfiction. This film, though, is worse for the sort of laziness and pointlessness it represents. This thing fails to do the one thing every remake needs to do: justify its existence. What new ideas does this filmmaker have to add to this old story? What unique vision does the creator have? The answer this movie provides is “Nothing at all.”

This movie is just a massive letdown, a pointless retread that isn’t worth watching because there is a far better original film you could watch instead. Adding on half an hour, using a different and less flexible animation style, giving half-hearted attempts to flesh out characters like the hyenas, cutting out “Be Prepared” save for a brief spoken word bit, and removing Timon dressing in drag and doing the hula and instead replacing it with a self-congratulatory Disney reference while also cutting out Pumbaa’s “They call me Mr. Pig!” line did nothing to improve an already great film. There is literally no reason to watch this movie, and that is perhaps the worst thing you can say about any film.

#Michael in the Mainstream #MITM #Review #Movie review #The Lion King #The Lion King 2019 #jon favreau #disney #animation #animated movie

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jedimaesteryoda · 4 years

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The Mandalorian S1 Review

Warning Spoilers Ahead:

I admit I had my doubts when I first heard about the series, given my opinion of the Disney Star Wars universe has never been particularly high. I thought it might go the way of the sequel trilogy (my thoughts on the last one).

However, to give Jon Favreau credit, he actually does a pretty decent job. The show is basically a Wild West-version of Star Wars that takes place on the frontier with bounty hunters, homesteaders, mercenaries, roving gangs of bandits and corrupt officials.

I can’t go into it without mentioning the story it’s partially based on the manga, Lone Wolf and Cub. The story follows a ronin in Tokugawa Japan who travels as an assassin for hire with his son (an infant at the beginning) after being framed and betrayed by a powerful Imperial official. He cares for his son while being on the run as the Imperial government declares them both outlaws, and puts bounties on their heads.

This show gets right what the movies in the sequel trilogy didn’t. For starters, this show avoids exposition and instead relies more heavily on visual storytelling, slow pacing and info revealed offhand through brief bits of dialogue. The show does an excellent job of visual storytelling as everything about this character is shown through actions, body language and a little dialogue. The first half of the first episode tells much of what the viewer needs to know about him.

Mando is introduced by coming into a bar, and killing a bunch of men harassing some alien. In that moment he shows that he is a skilled gunslinger and fighter. The alien initially thanks him, only for it to be revealed that the only reason Mando helped him was not out of a feeling of justice or simply wanting to help someone out, but because he came to capture him for the bounty on his head. Mando isn’t some white knight, but a mercenary who acts generally out of self-interest. We learn that Mando doesn’t like droids when he refuses a ride on a transport from one, and instead preferring the more beat up transport. He is also a man of few words, rebuffing attempts by the alien to engage in conversation, and he speaks only when he feels he needs to.

He gets his jobs from Greef Karga, a disgraced former magistrate (who likely lost his position as a magistrate for shady dealings) who heads the bounty hunters guild, and like Mando and the other guild members is generally an amoral, self-interested individual who looks out for himself.

However, we also see that Mando isn’t a completely selfish, amoral rogue as we see him adhere to the code of his Mandalorian culture (”This is the way”), and give some of his bounty to the foundlings (orphans). We also see flashbacks of him as a child, undoubtedly during the Clone Wars, as Super battle droids attack his town.

We don’t need him to outright state his motives for saving some strange child given we see he always save a piece of his beskar iron payment for the Mandalorian foundlings, showing he has a soft spot for orphans given he himself was one, compounded with the child saving his life. We know that Mando hates droids, but he doesn’t need to tell us why as we see that in a flashback of his town being massacred by Separatist battle droids. However, we also see him grow past that as he is stricken when IG-11 decides to sacrifice himself to help the rest of the group.

The start of the protagonist's journey comes when he receives a job that should give him the biggest payment of his career up to that point. He is contracted by an old Imperial official to capture someone in exchange for a large payment in beskar iron, which he knows could be used to make the full Mandalorian armor he wants.

It takes him to a planet where he meets Kuiil, a moisture farmer who helps out Mando many times. He speaks matter-of-factly, often ending his sentences with his go-to phrase “I have spoken.” Being an Ugnaught, like other members of his race, he was enslaved by the Empire, but he managed to buy his freedom. He likely did so through his skills as a mechanic, as he managed to help Mando rebuild his ship and repair and reprogram IG-11. He is very proud, but not haughty and willing to go out of his way to help out a complete stranger at no benefit to himself such as helping Mando get back the parts for his ship and helping to repair it. He even goes with Mando far away from home on a dangerous mission. It’s also his reprogramming of IG-11 that ultimately ends up saving our protagonist and his party in the end.

To get to the prize, Mando has to fight his way through a compound with armed guards with the unexpected help of IG-11, an assassin droid. The entire sequence is a Western-style shootout which is well-done, and Mando demonstrates his skills and smarts such as using the heavy repeating blaster to shoot down the blast door. He goes in, and is surprised to find his target is actually an infant of Yoda’s species.

His relationship with Baby Yoda starts off with him shooting the droid, because it was about to shoot the baby. He does defend the baby, but he does it at the beginning simply out of self-interest, ie he is getting a huge payload for this job and he needs the child alive in order to get it. He even recklessly puts the child in danger by taking the baby with him when going to face the Mudhorn, simply because he doesn’t want to keeps his eyes off his prize. However, in that moment the child demonstrates that he can use the Force, lifting the Mudhorn off the ground, saving Mando’s life and giving him the opportunity he needs to slay it. After that, one can see him warm up to Baby Yoda. One can see it when he tells the stormtroopers to “take it easy” when lugging the cradle, and he even uncharacteristically asks about the fate of the child when he delivers it to the Imperials.

Even after he gets his payment and a new Mandalorian cuirass, you can tell the child is on his mind. Mando is about to leave for his next job, and try to get his mind off him, only to find the top of the handle for the ship removed by the baby earlier. He pauses, and then shuts off the ship. He doesn’t need to say anything, we know he is genuinely concerned for the baby, and later breaks into the Imperial compound and rescues him. However, all the other bounty hunters who tried and failed to capture the child before, go out to stop him. Even Greef who was friendly towards Mando as long as he was making himself useful to the Guild (and by extension, Greef himself), instantly turns on him. He manages to escape thanks to the interventions of the rest of the Mandalorians. Mando finds himself having to leave town being pursued not just by Imperials but by the Bounty Hunters Guild with bounty hunters on his tail. The episode is called “The Sin,” which refers to his act of rescuing the child. While any person can admit that he did the right thing, he broke the code of the Bounty Hunters Guild, and that action ultimately is what turns him into a fugitive. That none of the people he killed as a bounty hunter ever got him into trouble with the law, but doing the opposite and rescuing an innocent does, shows the skewed ethics and morality that govern the world he inhabits.

He flies to a backwoods planet in “Sanctuary,” where as the title suggests, he is hoping the planet’s isolation would give him the perfect hiding spot until he comes across a former Rebel shock trooper, Cara Dune. Cara Dune is shown to be a skilled fighter by being able to go toe-to-toe with Mando when we first meet her, and has the viewer easily believe that she is a former commando. Now that the war is largely over, finds herself out of work and without anything in the way of a home or purpose, not that different from Mando’s situation when they first meet.

He is about to leave until in a plot straight from a classic spaghetti Western, a poor farming community approaches the gunslinger for help against outlaws. He initially refuses given the poor payment, but only accepts after he learns of the community’s isolation, thinking it would be the perfect hiding spot. You see him work with the Cara to help the villagers defend themselves, and after the bandits had been routed, he decides to leave the child there, thinking he will be safe and happy there. He even refuses an offer to stay, saying he doesn’t belong there (another trope straight from a Western a la The Searchers). However, in a seemingly happy ending to this episode, cold, dark reality inserts itself in the form of a bounty hunter appearing and nearly killing the child were it not for the intervention of Cara. He is then again forced to leave with the uncomfortable knowledge that they may never be safe from others coming looking for them. In this episode, you actually see him develop as a character, putting the child’s interests above his own. He doesn’t agree to help the villagers until he learns their village is a place where he could hide the baby, and potentially have the child live in peace.

Among the episodes, 5 and 6 (”The Gunslinger” and “The Prisoner”) are easily the weakest, as well as both being the only two episodes written by writers other than Favreau. The former has him working with a neophyte bounty hunter, Toro Calican, to capture a wanted mercenary and assassin, Fennec Shand. The latter has him help an old cohort, Ran, free a prisoner from a New Republic prison ship. Both plots are just criminals and wanna-be bounty hunters allying with him just to screw him over in the end, and neither episode really contributes to the overarching narrative. At least “Sanctuary” had some heart in it, and we got to be introduced to interesting new characters that would go on to play a larger role in the story arc, as well as show some character development for the protagonist.

It picks up again with the final two episodes, “The Reckoning” and “The Redemption,” as Mando returns home per Greef Karga’s invitation ostensibly to help them get rid of the Imperial presence. Of course, after Baby Yoda heals Greef’s mortal wound he has a change of heart. He reveals the whole thing was a setup (I know, big surprise there at this point), and he decides to help Mando. They end up having to fight a new enemy: Moff Gideon. Through dialogue from other characters and his own actions such as killing his own men, Gideon is revealed to be a largely cold, ruthless figure who oversaw the wiping out of the Mandalorians.

It ends in a shootout, and we get to learn our protagonist’s name and see the face behind the helmet for the first time. In his final fight, he manages to take down Gideon in a TIE fighter after having earned his jetpack. He then refuses an offer to stay by Greef, and leaves the planet off to new adventures. However, as Jawas are scrapping the TIE fighter for parts, Gideon cuts his way out with the Darksaber, the lightsaber of the leader of the Mandalorians, suggesting that his part in the story isn’t done.

As for the child dubbed “Baby Yoda,” he has no name. Being an infant, he can’t have much in the way of personality other than being precocious, and he does seem to genuinely care for Mando. The child is Force-sensitive, and completely capable of using the Force as shown by lifting the Mudhorn, healing Greef and redirecting the blast from a flame projector. However, he is still just a baby, only using his Force powers randomly rather than consistently, and as such, can’t really be relied upon. Nothing demonstrates this more than in the final episode where under fire by a TIE fighter, Greef says “Baby, do the magic hand thing,” only for the child to respond by simply waving his hand. This works as it has the mystical part of the story, the Force, used in a constrained manner, at certain moments without overwhelming the plot.

As a result, the battles are still largely won through Mando’s fighting skills and smarts. The action sequences are good with plenty of Western-style shootouts such as when Mando attacks the compound, when he leaves town against other bounty hunters and in the final episode against Imperials. The shootouts also serve a role in the plot in serving as markers for the main character’s growth. The first shootout has him using a heavy repeating blaster and working with IG-11 to take out the fighters defending the child. The second shootout has him going up against bounty hunters wanting the child in hopes of the reward very much like he was at the beginning with even Greef referring to the child as “the bounty,” and he is saved by his own family, the Mandalorians. The last shootout has him again using a heavy repeating blaster and working with IG-11 like in the first shootout, but the roles are reversed as now his party is the one defending the child with the droid that originally tried to kill the child instead rescuing him.

The Mandalorian is for the most part a good show, and a breath of fresh air for the new Star Wars universe. The action scenes are excellent, but any show/movie good or bad can do that. What really makes the show work is the storytelling, and how it follows the main character on his journey, both externally and internally, going from amoral mercenary to hero.

Hopefully, Season 2 continues along that path and we get to see more of the character’s growth as well as more fight sequences as this is the way.

#star wars #the mandalorian #mando #baby yoda #moff gideon #cara dune #the force #kuiil #greef karga

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imagines-dreams · 5 years

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First Meeting(s) - Tom Holland Imagine

Rating: G

Warnings: meet-cute, budding feelings

Summary: Stacy, an intern at Stark Industries, is told to give Peter Parker some pictures from his Germany “trip.” / You are auditioning for the role of Stacy in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. During your last callback, you have to do a chemistry read with Tom Holland.

Word Count: 1774

Notes: So this might be a series??? Idk, I had an idea, I ran with it. Sorry if it’s a mess, also I wrote this for a poc!reader, but I’m not sure if I mentioned anything specific

~ - ~

You smiled. “Hi, I’m looking for Peter Parker. I was told he’d be here for Academic Decathlon practice.”

The young man nodded. “Yes, he’s right over there.”

“He might quit though!” One of the girls shouted. “You never know.”

“He did quit band,” another one added. When everyone looked at her with knowing eyes, she only raised an eyebrow. “I’m observant.”

You tilted your head. “What can you observe about me then?”

She tilted her head and looked you up and down. “Type A, private school, intern.”

“You can call me Stacy.”

“Michelle.”

“Anyway, Peter?”

“That’s, uh, me. I’m Peter.” He looked shorter in pictures. His layers of clothing hid the superhero muscle you knew was underneath. His backpack was on the floor, and if anyone stared closely enough, it wasn’t a standard backpack. It wasn’t the patches or the pins that made it special. No, it was the plastered web fluid on the corner, perhaps from a misfire or leftover from when he webs it to walls.

You cleared your throat and as you walked to Peter you purposely brushed your foot against the misplaced webs to smear it, turning it effectively into a smudge or stain.

You handed Peter the folder. “Ms. Potts told me to give this to you.”

“Ms. Potts?” Peter took the folder and smiled at it. “What is it? Why-”

“Pictures,” you said. “From the last intern conference.”

He blinked a few times, and for a split second, you could see Peter’s face contort in confusion. There was no such thing as a Stark intern conference. With one look at you and your tale-telling expression, he nodded. “Yeah, yeah the, uh, conference, that I was at. With you, of course. Cause you’re also an intern.”

“Yes, in the research department,” you helped.

“Yeah!” He laughed. “And I met you at the conference...”

You laughed. “Stacy.”

“Right, Stacy. I remember that.”

You laughed. “You know, for a Stark mentee, you have pretty bad memory.”

“I’m just trying my best.” Peter shrugged.

“Hey, it’s all good. We all are.” You leaned in close to whisper. “You might wanna not leave webs on your backpack, though.”

Peter’s eyes widened. He leaned down and whispered back, “You, uh, saw webs on my backpack? That’s, I mean, that’s insane.”

“Mhm.” You tilted your head. “Mr. Stark told me about what you do for your internship.” Peter Parker held his breath, but you just smiled. “Helping out at the Avengers Compound must be exciting.”

“You know, you don’t have to help Parker,” another boy said, a smug smirk on his face. “We know his Stark internship is boring as hell. Not to mention, he’d probably never meet any of the Avengers.”

“Hm.” You hummed and held out your hand. Peter put the envelope in your hands. “Do you mind, Peter?”

“Not really. What are you-”

You opened the envelope and grabbed the first picture. A printed picture of Peter with Black Widow. She was staring at the camera, clearly amused by Peter’s attempt to get a selfie with her. As you suspected, Peter wasn’t in the suit. It was after whatever happened in Berlin. So, his eye was forming a bruise, if you looked very closely, but he had this infectious smile, so it was easy to overlook.

Almost. You couldn’t believe that the kid you just met, that stuttering, clumsy kid, was Spider-Man. How could a fifteen-year-old do all this? Sure, you had a similar-ish schedule. But your internship was in the research department. You reviewed simple calculations and offered an idea or two. Sometimes, you got to see Ms. Potts walk through the hallways. She said hi to you once.

You squealed when she left.

Those were your exciting moments.

Peter’s exciting moments was fighting other superheroes and chasing bad guys and swinging through New York.

You glanced at Peter. That kid with a nervous smile was really something.

“Black Widow?!” screeched the kid with that smug look on his face. Well, he had a smug look on his face. It dropped when he saw that Peter really had met the Avengers. He reached out for the envelope, but you pulled them away and handed them back to Peter. “Sorry, here you go.”

He laughed. “That was amazing.”

“It was nothing.” You glanced at that annoying kid, and you couldn’t help but giggle that escaped your lips. “Plus, that was really satisfying, not gonna lie.”

“Still,” Peter insisted, “I could never do that.”

You scoffed. “Please! I know you do braver things.”

He laughed and looked around, as if trying to hide the fact that his cheeks were turning a slight pink. “I, uh, I mean… not with that.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

You nudged him. “Hey, don’t worry about it. But, if you ever wanna talk, they call me Stacy. And I intern in the labs at Stark Tower. My boss is really nice and lets me take breaks when I need it, or if a friend visits.”

Peter nodded. “I might swing by.”

Your jaw dropped. “Did you just-” You hit him again. “I hate you. I rescind my offer.” You picked up your things.

Peter laughed. “Hey, what? That was uncalled for! Stace!”

You laughed. “See ya, Peter.” You saluted him with two fingers and left for your internship. Couldn’t leave precious biotech sims and cell cultures by themselves after all.

~ - ~

Tom was stunned for a moment. You were good. You held this confident air around you when you played Gwen. Sure, other girls have too, but you did it with such grace. At that moment, he could see the entire franchise’s span with him and you on the posters. Sure, you didn’t look like the Gwen Stacy from the comics, but you were her in every sense. Sharp, clever, graceful, kind.

Your eyes met his. When Tom didn’t say anything, you looked through the script. “Sorry, is it my line?”

“No!” He cleared his throat. “Uh, you did a great job.”

You sighed. “Oh, good.” You laughed. “Thank you. You did a great job, too.”

“Alright, thank you, (Y/n). If you got the part, you should get a call from us within the next two weeks.”

You nodded. “Thank you so much for the opportunity.” You shook hands with Sarah Finn and Jon Watts. Then, you smiled at Tom and held out you hand. “And it was nice meeting you, Tom.”

“Yeah, yeah, you too.” He shook your hand. “Hopefully, we can see each other soon.”

“Definitely.”

Just as you approached your car, the man you played opposite of ran outside of the building and called your name.

You rubbed your tired eyes and smiled. “Yes?”

“Sorry, uh,” Tom stuttered as he tried to catch his breath. You assumed it was from running, but in truth, the actor was just trying to compose himself long enough to talk to you without sounding like an incoherent mess. So, Tom shook his head and stood up straight. “Sorry, I just forgot to ask for your number.”

You blinked a few times. “Right. Of course, you need my number.” He did not need your number, but you were too tired, and perhaps you were supposed to swap numbers. It must’ve slipped your mind. He handed his phone to you, and you typed in your number.

“Uh, thanks. So sorry about that,” Tom apologized again.

You shrugged. “No problem. It’s nice meeting you.” You laughed. “Again.”

“Yes. Lovely meeting you.” He smiled. “Well, I can’t keep you. Have a nice day.”

“You, too.”

It wasn’t until a few weeks later, much after the two-week deadline, did you realize that Tom was too fit to be out of breath from a very short run. So, that meant there was another reason why the actor wasn’t his calm self. He did gaze at you after the scene had finished. Was it possible…

No. It wasn’t. And even if it was, it didn’t matter. You weren’t going to see him again.

And even if you and he crossed paths again for another project or for an awards show, you were both actors. Cameras and gossip magazines took your privacy away. It’d be too complicated. So, no use in thinking about it.

Your phone rang. The area code was familiar. Maybe it was another open audition. You answered, “Hello, (Y/n) (Y/l/n) speaking,” and grabbed your planner just in case.

“Hi, it’s Tom.”

“Oh, hi!” You smiled widely at the sound of his voice. When you realized it, you pursed your lips. “Uh, what is it?”

“I just wanted to congratulate you!”

Congratulate you? On what?

The pen fell from your hands. He couldn’t mean. You hadn’t received a call from the casting director. Or your agent yet. “Congratulate me?” you gasped.

“Oh, uh, check your messages.”

“My what?”

“Check your texts. I sent you something.”

You opened his text to find a link. You clicked on it. It read, “The New Cast of Spider-Man: Homecoming - What We Know”. First, a paragraph on Tom Holland and his reprise of his role as Spider-Man. Then, Zendaya who was casted but no details on the person she plays. Jacob Batalon playing Ned, RDJ playing Tony Stark, Marisa Toomes as Aunt May, Jon Favreau as Happy Hogan, and then your name.

“New and upcoming actress, (Y/n) (Y/l/n) has been cast, but little is known about the character she will play. While Laura Harrier has been confirmed to be Liz Allen, the popular teenager Peter can’t stop thinking about, there is no indication of whether or not (Y/l/n) will be a major character in the film.”

“I got the part,” you whispered. You were cast. That meant that you were given the role you auditioned for. Oh god, you were going to be Stacy!

“I got the part!” you screamed.

“Yeah, you did!” Tom shouted. “Congratulations! You deserve it!”

“Oh my god!” You laughed and shouted, “I’m Gwen Stacy!”

Tom laughed. “Sh!” he teased. “Spoilers!”

You pressed your hand against your chest as if that could calm your racing heart. “Oh, god, I can’t believe this.”

“Really? Your audition was perfect.” He sighed. “I can’t wait to start working with you.”

Working with Tom Holland, the new Spider-Man. It was a dream come true. It didn’t matter how he looked at you when your scene was done or how handsome he was, you were going to part of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, with an amazing leading man and cast. No matter what happened, this was going to change your life.

With a dreamy smile, you admitted, “I can’t wait either.”

~ - ~

Am I posting this super late? Yes. Do I have any idea what to do from here? Kinda??? I mean, I don’t even know if this is a good idea, or something from my tea-infused, late-night brain, so very sorry if this sucks. I may or may not continue it. If you want me to write more (I have no clue why you would), please give me ideas??? maybe???

Anyway, thanks for reader, and have a wonderful day, readers!

#tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland oneshot #mcu #mcu fanfiction #peter parker #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker oneshot #marvel #marvel fanfiction

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stainyourhands · 5 years

Note

29. “I thought you were dead.” JonJon

Lovett has a routine.

The rooster, its vocal box deep and scratchy with the disease, crowing a mating cry into the dawn light is Lovett’s least favorite part of it.

Mornings have never quite been Lovett’s thing. When he was still working in politics, he’d work until most of his colleagues’ alarm clocks rang, then close his blackout curtains. When he was working in Hollywood, one p.m. was the new seven a.m. When he was working at Crooked, even after he started joining Tommy at that unbearable - and, he realizes now, pointless - cycling class, he waited until the East Coast made the first round of hot Twitter takes before he really joined the world.

But now, blackout curtains are a luxury Lovett can’t afford, Twitter disappeared with the actual blackout, and Lovett’s in the best shape of his life with no-one, not even that damn rooster, to share it with.

It serves him right, Lovett thinks some days, that all he needed to stick to a diet was the extinction of all deep friers, pizza ovens, and delivery workers. He’s not even sure he remembers what a Whopper tasted like. He’s pretty sure he misses them, though.

The rooster crows again, a sad, strangled sound that scares every animal for a mile around. Pundit lifts her head from the end of the bed, whoofing back half-heartedly before dropping her head again.

Lovett laughs, scratching between her ears as he slides out of the covers, stretching his arms above his head. He grabs the knife from his bedside table and scratches a mark into his bedpost.

436 marks.

436 days since civilization bit off its own nose to spite the face of progress.

When the authorities first started to warn of a string of bizarre cases, they warned against forming a routine like the one Lovett has now. Trump’s commerce secretary begged people to go out, do things, be productive members of the world economy even as bodies were piling up in the CDC morgue. Talk show hosts and news anchors and Oprah urged people to fight the fear, fear isn’t productive even as the virus was spreading through Europe with the force of the Black Plague. Doctors spoke into every microphone they could find, warning that routine is the first sign of illness even as they knew they were no closer to a vaccine than they are to rebuilding civilization on fucking Mars.

Lovett still remembers the first zombie he saw. He remembers standing on the sidewalk, watching the middle-aged woman who used to give Pundit treats from her stoop repeat her morning ritual - a lather, rinse, repeat of mundane tasks like brushing her teeth and brewing coffee - until there was no coffee to brew and there was no water to brush her teeth with and there was almost no skin on her bones.

That was day 137.

Lovett’s lost count of the zombies he’s seen since.

Lovett wonders, sometimes, if someone stood on his sidewalk, watched him go through his routine, if they’d be able to tell that he’s still healthy. If only in the most literal sense of the word.

Pundit hops off the bed and stretches at his feet with a disapproving yip. Lovett snorts and pets her side. “Yeah, yeah, let’s see what we can scrounge up for breakfast, huh?”

Pundit barks happily, dancing around his ankles as he reaches for the last clean shirt he has - a threadbare red FotP shirt that had seen better days eight months ago - and pulls it on as they head through the house. The sun is just rising over the horizon, illuminating the furniture Lovett had bought when he moved to LA so many years ago, when he thought furniture was disposable and his life was only on an upwards trajectory.

It’s wearing out now. Lovett’s been marking out furniture on his scavenging missions, rearranging his living room in his head. There’s a loveseat in a house around the corner that’s a pristine red leather that he’s been coveting for weeks. If he can only find a way to bring it back. He’s debating skateboards. Four of them. It might just work.

His pantries are looking a little bare, too, as he opens them and roots around for the can of chicken he knows he’s been saving for Pundit. He mixes it in a bowl and puts half in her dish, sitting the floor so he can eat the other half next to her. “Not so bad, huh? I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

In the distance, the rooster hoots again. The disease can’t tell sunrise from eight a.m. The disease only knows routine.

Lovett sighs, calling “we know, we’re up! You crazy fucking bird,” before he can regret it. Before long, the rooster will be gone and Lovett will miss him, too.

Pundit finishes licking her bowl and crosses to the door, already pawing at her leash. Lovett’s honestly not sure if he’s trained her or if she’s trained him, but he gets up. He shoves his feet into his shoes and reaches for his backpack. He’s pretty sure there’s a street two miles west of them that is mostly untouched. If he’s lucky, he might be able to restock his soups and beans.

He pulls on Pundit’s leash, smiling at her “we’ve got a long walk today,” as he opens the door.

And freezes.

Mentally, Lovett makes a checkmark next to the 436th mark on his bedpost. He’s made it through 435 days and now, on the 436th, he’s finally lost it. He’s made it through the initial food shortages and the power outages, through the cutting of the phone lines and the end of their oil supply, through friend after friend falling ill, through more funerals than he can count. Lovett made it through all of that, only to fall ill on the most innocuous day of the most innocuous month of the most innocuous year.

Because standing on his doorstep is a hallucination.

He’s looking a little worse than he does in Lovett’s dreams. His hair is long around his ears, his face half-obscured by a scraggly beard that could use trimming if not a full shave, his clothes thin and threadbare and a large khaki duffle slung over his shoulder. But Lovett would recognize those eyes anywhere.

Jon Favreau has stepped out of Lovett’s dreams and onto his front porch.

“Lovett,” the hallucination says. His voice is sore with disuse, his tongue darting out to lick at his cracking bottom lip. “Lovett.”

Pundit rises onto her hindlegs, her front paws resting on his thigh. He’s a three-dimensional hallucination, then. Sometimes, Lovett’s mind amazes even himself.

The hallucination rubs her ears, murmuring something low and unsteady, before looking directly at Lovett again. “I’ve been walking for a year and a half to fucking get to you. Are you doing to let me in or just stare?”

Lovett swallows. “I didn’t know that hallucinations needed permission.”

The hallucination laughs and, even under the beard and the three layers of dirt, it sounds so much like Jon’s laugh that tears fill Lovett’s eyes. “Feel like a hallucination, somedays, but, I assure you, I’m completely real.”

Lovett shakes his head. “That’s not possible.”

The hallucination holds out his arm. His fingers are thinner than Lovett remembers, but they’re still wider at the knuckles, still tan and long and the fixtures of Lovett’s dreams. “Pinch me. Come on. Hallucinations can’t be pinched right?”

Lovett shakes his head. “This is ridiculous.” But he steps forward, reaches for the arm - fuck, it’s solid, his imagination is fucking amazing - and pinches, hard.

The hallucination - Jon, Lovett’s brain supplies, hope rising from the deep, dark recesses Lovett’s pushed it into for the past 435 days - yelps.

“See?” Jon asks, stepping forward. His body is warm. His chest is solid. Pundit barks at him, recognition and excitement warring in her wiggling body. “I’m me, I’m here, I made it to you, just like I promised.”

Lovett shakes his head, his voice choked and desperate, “I thought you were dead.”

“No,” Jon whispers, closing the last inches between them. He smells like sweat and smoke and dirt but, under it all, just a hint of Jon. Lovett sways forward. Lovett never wants to stop smelling him. “How could I die, when I still had you to get back to?”

Lovett makes a pained noise, pulling at Jon’s neck, tugging him down and into a kiss.

436 days after the world ended, Lovett starts living again.

#this took a turn #semi-predictably #jonjon #my first writing meme #podsa

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angiewang19 · 4 years

Text

contemplating about careers

At the start of spring semester, I decided to not do 3-2, and I switched to a new academic advisor, my first semester math professor. During my first meeting with Prof. Aksoy, she asked, “What do you want to do after you graduate?”

I was stunned that she dared to ask this weighty question to a college freshman. I came from a high school that espoused “Do what you love in the moment!” and “You don’t need to plan for or think about the future; everything will fall in place when it needs to!” Most of my classmates had no idea what they wanted to do in college (let alone life), and most seniors went to college as undecided majors.

However, when I’d get home from high school every day, my parents relentlessly pushed me to make decisions as soon as I was ready. Planning for the future would give me luxuries -- more time, more opportunities, and therefore, possibly more money, happiness, and clout. While I was quick to fall back on, “almost all of my classmates have no idea what they want to do!” they knew, as first-generation immigrants, that being undecided was a privilege. To put off any form of planning is an acknowledgement that you can afford to buy time, opportunities, happiness, and clout. It is an acknowledgement that you have options that you can tap into whenever it’s convenient for you.

All of this went through my head as I tried to provide a coherent answer to Prof. Aksoy: “I’m thinking about going into consulting or finance. I think it might be nice to work in the industry for a few years to understand the purpose of my education, and then I’ll go to grad school. But... I don’t really know.”

My last sentence was my only genuine thought in this jumble of words -- I really had no idea.

She gave me a slightly disappointed look: “You need to do some soul searching. Look at your parents -- are they happy? Would you be happy doing what they do every day? You need to do something that makes you feel fulfilled.”

Before our conversation, fulfilled was a word I never gave a second thought to. Through our conversation, I realized I wanted to go into those fields because it seemed like everyone at CMC was/is fighting to get these opportunities. I think about the Goldman Sachs information session, where they didn’t talk about what exactly they did (maybe their day-to-day is actually mundane or they just assume that everyone already knows?), but they spent a great deal of effort talking about what it’s like to live in New York City as a first-year analyst and the fact that “everyone at Goldman is just so smart.” The fact that jobs and internships in these fields are so highly sought after at CMC made these roles seem glamorous in my eyes. More importantly, I saw them as prestigious destinations, and chasing prestige is addicting.

I found a question about consulting/finance on Quora:

Q: Why do so many students in the Ivy League and other elite universities go into investment banking and management consulting?

A (from a student at Wharton): A slightly majority of my classmates (and myself included) go into finance and consulting. This speaks to how we’re all insecure and value the safety of a high paying and prestigious job.

Most people (especially “students in the Ivy League and other elite universities”) aren’t idiots, so I’m sure there are decent reasons to go into either of these fields. But I realized that wanting to go into consulting/finance because “everyone else is doing it” or “it pays well” are not good enough reasons for me. Over the past few months, I realized that consulting is not a great fit for me (thank you CCG), but I still haven’t closed the door on finance. However, I don’t feel strongly about a possible career in finance (in a positive or negative light), since I haven’t done my homework on what exactly the people do. In my opinion, understanding the responsibilities of the day-to-day and the consequences of my actions at work are the first steps to figuring out whether this career will feel good in the long run.

“Feeling good in the long run” is a nebulous phrase. In the process of trying to find more concrete understanding, I thought about the distinction between fulfillment and meaningfulness, words that are often used synonymously. I believe there’s a difference -- fulfillment is when an individual feels personally satisfied, while doing something meaningful has consequences beyond the individual doing the action (think: meaningful = full of meaning).

They’re connected, as often doing something meaningful gives you a sense of fulfillment -- volunteering for a cause you believe in, Bryan Stevenson’s work at Equal Justice Initiative, Jon Favreau writing speeches for Obama. As Favreau mentions in his commencement address, the day-to-day grind of a fulfilling job might not be pretty, but the work can still make you feel empowered and inspired.

To make my point about the distinction between the two words, I believe there are jobs that are meaningful but not necessarily fulfilling -- maybe serving our country via the military. According to Ben Rhodes, Obama’s deputy national security advisor, Obama remarked that the audiences he spoke to at military bases were always diverse coalitions, but as you climb higher up the chain of command, it became all white men. So while serving your country is meaningful work, I can imagine feeling cynical and disheartened if you were trying to work your way up, and you were anyone but a white male. Finally, there are jobs which I believe are fulfilling but not necessarily meaningful. Unfortunately, the first ones that come to mind are consulting and investment banking, which aren’t typically considered the most “moral” professions. For many people in the field, it’s immensely satisfying to close a deal or engage in the daily grind of solving client’s problems and being well-compensated for those efforts. But I’d argue that managing rich people’s money or consulting for Coca-Cola is self-serving and actually perpetuates inequality -- you help the rich get richer in the former and in the latter, you’re complicit in a Rust Belt child’s set of teeth completely rotting before they reach adulthood because soda is cheaper than water or other healthier alternatives.

This is my perspective based on a limited (sheltered + privileged) worldview. It’s important to look at any opportunity from the question of fulfillment and meaningfulness, but why you make choices, especially professional choices, is more nuanced than that. Favreau says he’s been better off looking for opportunities which enable him to do something, not to be something. As immigrants, my parents tucked away many of their genuine interests in order to make a living in the very expensive Bay Area. For them, the search for meaningfulness and/or fulfillment was put on the back burner, which serves as a reminder that evaluating for meaningfulness/fulfillment/happiness is a luxury. Michelle Obama’s parents told her to make money first, and then do what makes her happy. Worded differently, money buys you any kind of freedom you’d like (hence economists say that the best gift is always cash), which buys you a sense of fulfillment or meaningfulness or whatever combination of the two you’d like.

As a starry-eyed, ambitious, and naive college student like me, I’ve kept Andrew Lee's advice in mind: “Money isn't the most important thing, but money goes where value is being created - for me, this was a really hard pill to swallow coming out of college, but you'll notice people at the top of their field tend to be able to move to other fields and have come from other fields. Why? Well, it turns out a lot of them started in places where they were surrounded by the best resources - sometimes that is money, sometimes that is people, sometimes, that is technology (or some other resource that helps you shape reality). Early in your career, people tell you to pursue your passion, but it's really the intersection of passion, economic engine, and what the market will bear. As a result, people who go to money first, find it then easier to go out of it than the other way around. It's not that you won't learn anything elsewhere, but you learn with more resources, and it turns out most people go to where resources are.”

So... I feel like this post has taken a windy path, where I ramble a ton. Scrolling up, I notice that I start with my conversation with my academic advisor, and I go to the differences between meaningfulness and fulfillment. Ultimately, I make a pit stop to the role that money plays in all of our choices (the elephant in the room, in my humble opinion). Our individual core values shape our choices and outcomes, and we can condition ourselves to feel certain ways, for better or for worse. As of right now, I think working in academia or education checks my boxes, but others won’t agree (and ha! I don’t know if I have what it takes to go into academia). Andrew Lee argues that “right now the private sector is pretty damn good at being able to achieve some powerful social ends,” and as a venture capitalist, he can fund underrepresented founders and amplify their voices in society. You have people who are marketing sustainable products (hi Lauren), and you have people like my parents who work tirelessly every day so that we can have a better life in America. There’s not one way to get there -- wherever you believe "there” is.

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no-birdstofly · 5 years

Note

Favs/Lovett: “You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.

38.“Maybe we should take a break,” Jon says, and Lovett grumbles. Normally he lives for those words when they come out of Jon’s mouth. So rare, so few and far between. But he just hit his stride and he thinks he’s got at least another paragraph in him before he has to look away from his screen. He waves at Jon without looking at him. “You go, I’ll be here.” “Lovett, come on.” “Some of us have work to do,” Lovett says, and he smirks when he hears Jon fighting back a laugh. “You can go… go fuck around or whatever, I’ll be here when you get back.” “I’m not going to fuck…” Jon mumbles to himself, and Lovett sees him shake his head out of the corner of his eye before Jon pushes away from his desk and stands up. Or, well. He sort of does. For a second at least. “Jon,” he says, and he sounds a little panicked.

Lovett tears his eyes away from his draft. “What’s up?” “I can’t…” Jon says, staring into the middle distance, his hands white-knuckled on the edge of his desk. He makes a desperate grab behind him, like he’s trying to get to the desk chair he just scooted back too far. “Favs,” Lovett says, soft, like he’s trying not to spook a horse. He sets down the laptop out of harm’s way on his chair and crosses around the desk, his hands out soothingly. “Are you alright?” “Yeah,” Jon says, but it sounds weak. He doesn’t look alright, all the color drained from his face and his hands shaking. “I just need to–” He takes a step back from his desk and his knees buckle, Lovett actually sees them give out. Lovett doesn’t think about it, doesn’t hesitate, just rushes over to him and barely catches him before he hits the ground. Lovett’s not that adept at catching things, so they both more or less end up on the floor, but at least Jon didn’t bang his head against anything, cushioned as he is by Lovett’s somewhat bony body. “Jon?” he asks, staring down at his slack face. He doesn’t have any time to panic, not really, before Jon’s blinking up at him, looking confused. “Jon?” “I’m okay,” Jon says, but he doesn’t move, staring up at Lovett and then looking away, around the office, like he’s trying to figure out how he got here. Or got down here, more accurately. He’s not making any move to stand up, or to get away from Lovett, though. If anything, he settles in a little, his shoulders comfortably settled kind of sideways across Lovett’s lap, head pillowed by Lovett’s stomach. Most of him, all his miles of skinny legs, is on the floor, but Lovett managed to hold onto the vital parts of him, to save his upper body and his organs, his head and his brain and his stupidly handsome face. “You caught me,” Jon says, and his words come out a little slow. Fuck, they’re not quite out of the woods yet. “When’s the last time you ate?” Lovett cranes to reach behind himself, trying not to jostle Jon too much. He knows he has something in his bag, or he’s pretty sure he does. “You caught me,” Jon repeats, and that��s it, Lovett’s officially worried about brain damage, even though Jon didn’t hit his head. Was he out long enough to kill some of his brain cells anyway? “I did,” Lovett says, and when he risks a glance at Jon’s face, he’s treated to a full attack of Jon’s dumb, gap-toothed, incredibly pleased grin. He’s smiling so hard his eyes are almost closed. It’s stupid and unattractive, and definitely not the kind of thing that makes Lovett smile back, helpless. “Here,” Lovett says, pressing a little condiment tub of peanut butter he’d squirreled away the last time he’d gotten an apple in the mess. Jon squints at it as he peels back the plastic wrap. “Did I pay for this?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?” Jon rolls his eyes. “Spoon?” “Huh?” “You know, it’s a utensil. Fork, knife? Anything?” “Uh,” Lovett says, because normally he has apple slices to eat his peanut butter with, but he’s fresh out. He’s also not above getting the last little bits out with his fingers, sue him. “Fine.” Jon shrugs, which Lovett acutely feels, thanks to Jon’s shoulders still being in his lap, and leverages himself up enough so the back of his head is pressing into Lovett’s chest, and Lovett has to rearrange so he can lean against the desk while Jon leans against him. Probably they could have moved to the couch. Probably Lovett should have moved Jon to the couch. He doesn’t have much experience with swooning maidens, he’s a little out of his depth. Jon brings the shallow cup up to his mouth and licks at it, like he’s curious, and Lovett absolutely needs to look away, just like he has the last two times he’s seen some asshole pass Jon Favreau a jello shot at a party. He needs to look away and not see the way Jon actually goes for it, using his apparently strong tongue to scoop some of the peanut butter out and into his mouth, making a small, contented sound at the taste. Nope. Nope, nope, nope, Lovett thinks, wildly, reaching for his own chair, which is thankfully in reach, wheeling it over so he can get to his laptop. He re-reads over what he has so far, making small, useless edits, his laptop awkwardly on the floor, pointedly not watching Jon eat. It’s worse, when he risks a look down, when he thinks the peanut butter is gone, because Jon’s using his long fingers to get the rest of it out, sucking on them after, his tongue curling around his knuckles like he’s chasing the taste and fuck but Lovett needs to get his boss off his lap now. “You good?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the draft. “Yeah, I think so,” Jon says, tossing the cup toward the trash. He huffs when it bounces off the rim and onto the floor, and Lovett can’t help but smile. “Come on, let’s go get real food before you fucking faint on me again,” Lovett says, urging Jon up by his shoulders.“I didn’t–” “You absolutely did. Literally on me. And yes, before you ask, yes, I’m telling everyone. Do you think Tommy’ll think it’s funny? Or do you think he’ll get all Papa Bear on me?” Jon mouths Papa Bear with a horrified look on his face, but Lovett soldiers on. “You know, somehow decide it’s my fault you didn’t eat all day.” “You fed me just now,” Jon says, shrugging, picking up the tub and actually getting it in the trash this time. “To be fair.” Lovett ruthlessly pushes down at how the acknowledgement makes him feel warm all over. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go, we can do this over pizza instead.” “We got pizza yesterday,” Jon whines, slipping on his coat. “What kind of red-blooded American are you?” Lovett asks, aghast. “Some kind of, of representative of the leader of the free world you are, disparaging one of our greatest institutions.” “Pizza is not a–” “Slander!” Lovett cries, his voice echoing in the quiet hall as Jon locks his office, doubled over and laughing at Lovett’s outburst. “Fine, we can get fucking pizza,” Jon says. “But we’re finishing the draft tonight.” “Sadist,” Lovett says. “Walk ahead of me so I’ll have some warning if you pass out again.” Jon looks over his shoulder. “So you can catch me again?” “You know,” Lovett says, “if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.” He can just see the tips of Jon’s ears and the back of his neck flushing red as Jon hurriedly turns back around, and he counts it as a win.

#fic #ask #j/j #jamyesterday

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feministdragon · 4 years

Text

okay, so here's this fantastic rant that I want to share

http://gaslitnation.libsyn.com/mafia-state-usa

https://www.gaslitnationpod.com/episodes-transcripts-20/2019/11/19/mafia-state-usa-1

@44:50

Andrea Chalupa: There was a study how in political journalism white men talked to other white men and women get shut out of the conversation, and therefore women are locked out essentially of being prominent political journalists. There are very few of us. And there's no greater example of that than just now, Josh Marshall of Talking Points Memo and Jon Favreau of Pod Save America saying that I am the former DNC contractor who has been called before the House. Andrea Chalupa. [It’s Alexandra Chalupa, her sister]

Sarah Kendzior: [laughter] Oh my God.

Andrea Chalupa: And I'm sort of like, wait a minute, you guys. I want to say to Josh Marshall and John Favreau of Pod Save America: the Kremlin, the Kremlin can tell me and my sister apart, which is why we in America here, our media, and our government has been played so successfully by the Kremlin. If you here in America cannot even tell that my sister and I are two very different people, what is wrong with you? How can we trust you to accurately, successfully, effectively cover one of the greatest crimes in human history? Get it straight. On the heels of the Steele dossier being dropped by BuzzFeed, Putin's Sean Hannity did a segment on how my sister created the Trump Russia scandal and how I helped her. The only solace I took in that was that, "Okay, well, at least the Kremlin is smart enough to know that we're two different people. I wish my own media would catch up."

Sarah Kendzior: Yeah, I mean, it's pathetic. It's a sign of their laziness. It's a sign of their incompetence, but their incompetence puts people's lives at risk.

Andrea Chalupa: It's a sign of their arrogance. It's a sign of their arrogance. We've had this show for a year. We have members of Congress that follow this show. We've had outreach from members of Congress. We've had impact with what we've had to say. And yet our colleagues in the political journalism world, we don't register with them. We don't count on their radar, because they're busy talking to each other. If we were two men that launched a successful podcast within a year, there's over half a million podcasts out there. Very few rise to the surface. Gaslit Nation within a year was able to do so, within its first few episodes was able to do so. Our trailer announcing the show went viral. If we were two men who managed this on our own, we would have profiles written about us. Instead, Sarah and I continue to be ignored, even though we're at the center of this and our lives are threatened by this and we're getting harassment and phishing emails and other things as a result of the reporting we're doing. And yet, we're still continually sidelined by our colleagues who are also covering the story.

Sarah Kendzior: Right, and it's only by a certain type of colleague, to be honest. It's by rich white men who live in New York and D.C., because we do have a very large audience. We have a very diverse audience. We have an international audience. You have a movie; I have a bestselling book. We both do media appearances regularly. Like, we're not exactly languishing in obscurity. What I find frustrating about this is like, you know, I certainly do not need the validation of like Pod Save America, or, God help me, Josh Marshall to get through my day. I can live without that. What is frustrating is that the information that we're putting out there is coming months in advance of other publications and that it's because of our expertise, because we both spent our lives studying the former Soviet Union. And of course, in your case, your sister is caught up in this whole mess. And so when we come out in April and May with warnings about Giuliani's activity in Ukraine and about how he is the new Manafort and about everything else that we were like, "Please, Congress, look at this. Please, U.S. media with more resources and money than us. You need to look at this. You need to examine this, or we're going to end up with something like, oh, I don't know, Trump conducting an extortion scheme in July." Maybe if you would actually pay attention to what's going on and listen to people who have experience with this region, despite the fact that we happen to be women, maybe you’ll fucking know a thing or too, instead of just running out your mouth like, "Wow, I can't figure out why in the world Trump is connected to Putin." It's like, holy fucking shit, man. Like, there are books about this. Like there are books, you know, there are books written by me, but there are books written by many other people. There are television shows run by women like Rachel Maddow or Joy Reid that have been documenting this for years. You've got to catch up. You suck at your job. Like, either quit your job or catch up, because lives are on the line.

Freedom of speech is one of the few weapons that we have at our disposal that we more or less control. Free speech, free media. Guess what? It's probably not going to last forever, so it's your duty as an American citizen, as a journalist, to try to inform the public. And if your information is marred by your inability to actually consider women as human beings and listen to their expertise, then we're in a lot of trouble, because as we see again, as they pointed out in the beginning of the show, people who are bringing the truth forward are often women. It is Fiona Hill. It's the U.S. ambassador to Ukraine. It's whistleblowers like Reality Winner. It's the journalists I just mentioned. And it's a very consistent phenomenon of being marginalized in this discussion. And again, this is not about ego. We've been around long enough that we really don't give a fuck. It's about facts.

Andrea Chalupa: It's about facts. Let me break it down to you like this. So I have a friend who is an executive coach, and she said that her clients primarily come from mediocre white men who are so shocked that they keep getting promoted that they need help managing the extra responsibilities, and women who are doing all the work and never being promoted. That's her client pool.

Sarah Kendzior: And that's how things are. That's how things are in the United State of America.

Andrea Chalupa: That's political journalism. That's journalism. That's government. That's the space we're in.

Sarah Kendzior: And we encourage women to just keep speaking out and keep telling your stories and to, you know, if you can, run your own podcast or your own publication. Like, media is dying. We've seen a gutting of independent journalism. We're losing outlets right and left. The mainstream media is largely co-opted not just by government pressure, but by corporate constraints. We have barriers to entry where you have to be quite wealthy a lot of times to work for a pittance at one of these prestigious publications in the most expensive cities in America. We've got one out of every four journalists living in a very expensive place, while people like Missouri can afford to shoot their mouths off. And so I just encourage, you know, I don't want women to listen to this and feel discouraged, feel like no one's going to listen to them, because that's a really funny thing. Every day I get probably a hundred to a thousand tweets of people saying that, you know, "No one listens to Sarah Kendzior." [laughter] I'm like, well, if no one's listening to me, why are my mentions just an endless stream of people telling me that no one listens to me? And really, the key word in that sentence is "no one," because what they mean by "no one" is wealthy, white men, because everybody else is listening and is, you know, quite aware. It's this very narrow group, a kind of tyranny of the minority within journalism that, you know, part of it is they cannot come to grips with the breakdown of American exceptionalism. They cannot come to grips with the fact that they missed the story. They missed the boat. This all went right over their head while they were busy rambling on about Hillary's emails and how she was destined to win the election and all the other shit they got wrong. They cannot handle that. It's incredibly humiliating, because our very existence is a slap in the face to that establishment. And it's like, well, you know what, tough shit. We're all on the same sinking boat. We're all Americans living under this incredibly corrupt administration. We should all be trying to do our part to get the facts to the people. So yeah, I'll leave it at that.

Andrea Chalupa: And let's end it with Elizabeth Warren. You have Biden potentially crumbling as a frontrunner because he doesn't have what it takes. And it's just a simple fact of Biden not reading the room, not being part of the zeitgeist right now and giving the terrorist organization fueled by blood money—the Republican Party—way too much credit, saying that if only the Republicans can free themselves of Trump, we can have a united country. The Republican Party created Donald Trump. They are complicit. They're all in this together. This was the inevitable. The Trump Frankenstein monster was the inevitability of the Republicans party's ideology of hate, which has been growing in this country for so long, and so Biden's not reading the room. And what you're having is this emergence of Elizabeth Warren. Elizabeth Warren has been doing such an incredible job in having this common-sense platform where she has these plans on how she's going to confront the corruption that allowed Donald Trump to come to power. Elizabeth Warren is framing the debate accurately that the 2020 election is going to be about corruption. It's just corruption, plain and simple, and that is what her plans are about, is tackling gross income inequality, tackling the inhumane policies in America, where people are continuing to fall through the cracks as a society where any sort of health problem can make you lose your house and go bankrupt. And yet, you have a cable news bubble that continues to demonize her because they are afraid of losing their own power. What we're hearing on cable news is the familiar sound that all women know, and that is the entitled scream of the mediocre white man, because they know that we are coming for them because they have had power for far too long and they did not use it responsibly. So now nobody, nobody gives up power willingly, especially idiots. So what we need to do is arm ourselves with our grassroots armies, wait for nobody to save us but ourselves and show up, and show up for each other, and do not give in to their gaslighting. Elizabeth Warren has what it takes. She's a well-balanced candidate, and she has solutions to all of the social ills that gave rise of Donald Trump. And she understands. She has called the enemy by name, and the enemy is corruption.

Sarah Kendzior: Absolutely. And you know, on the final note, what they were chastising Warren for this week was being, quote, "angry and antagonistic." Which, quite honestly, I'm glad she's angry. She's angry at injustice. She's angry at the corruption of billionaires who are influencing and breaking our institutions, who have run this nation roughshod. And so yeah, she's antagonistic toward them. To be clear, she's not alone in this. You see this kind of rage from Sanders, you saw it from Beto O'Rourke, you see it sometimes from Kamala Harris, from Julian Castro. You see it from many of the candidates, and it's a good thing. We should be angry right now. That type of anger is a form of compassion. It is the opposite of hate or spite. It is the opposite of apathy, and I think people oppose this, people in the media from high positions of power who have been entrenched in that power despite their lack of merit, because it makes them very uncomfortable. It reminds them that there is an alternative to godlessness and to moral failure, and so I encourage all the candidates to continue speaking out in the way Warren has, and I encourage female journalists and other female activists to keep speaking out despite these sexist caricatures and attacks, and this insistence that we play nice, because quite honestly, there's a difference between nice and good, and I think that what we need to do is do good, is do things that are morally sound, things that are beneficial and helpful to vulnerable people, instead of just valuing this, quote-unquote "civility" above all else, because all civility is is a cloak for corruption.

#Sarah Kendzior #Andrea Chalupa #gaslit nation #elizabeth warren #radfems #rant #on the nose #mafia state #international crime syndicate masquerading as a government #women's rights #what women want #what women need #what women deserve

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monday--vibes · 5 years

Text

Far From Home Critique: Mysterio Makes No Freakin’ Sense

So, I saw Far From Home again the last week. Admittedly, I liked it a lot more the second time around than when I first watched it. The third act is great, the plane scene between Tom Holland and Jon Favreau made me feel all the feels, and the Berlin fight scene between Tom Holland and Jake Gyllenhaal was just something else entirely.

So, yeah. It was fun enough.

But it still struck me as a convoluted mess of a movie. I talked about this after I saw Far From Home the first time, but it’s such a hindrance to the movie that this mess is, in my opinion, what made the movie ‘meh’ instead of possibly one of the greatest Spider-Man movies out there.

So… what about this movie am I going to vilify?

The villain, of course.

Conflicting—sort of?—motivations

Just like every protagonist, every antagonist needs to have their own motivations, ideas, and attitudes. This is what makes them the bad guy, because these motivations and idea have to conflict with those of the protagonist. Voldemort and Harry Potter disagree about how to treat Muggles and Muggle-borns, Simba and Scar disagree about who should be king of the Pride Lands, and so forth. You get the idea.

Mysterio’s motivation is something along the lines of, “I’m mad at Tony Stark so I’m going to use his tech to blow up cities, hide this fact from the world, and convince everyone that I’m actually a hero.”

Firstly… what? Is that just me, or does that sound a lot like someone trying to get back at an ex-boyfriend by deciding that they’re going to be super successful and happy in life?

Secondly, what does this have to do with Spider-Man? His motivation is basically revenge against Tony Stark. And, with Stark dead, he’s already won by default.

Meanwhile, Peter’s motivation in the movie is “Mysterio, as it turns out, is a bad guy who wants to blow up London and I should stop him.”

Peter doesn’t actually show any moments where he’s mad that Mysterio is using Stark tech in his revenge plot (although he surely is) or where he’s appalled that Mysterio wants to control the world by lying to them (although he surely is).

The ideological conflict between the two lies in what is, to Mysterio, a simply means to an end—blow up London.

Keep it simple, stupid

It’s a pretty common saying, but it basically means that we shouldn’t even make things more complicated than they have to be.

The Vulture and his gang in Homecoming give us a pretty good example of this. We know that they steal alien tech from the Department of Damage Control, that they’ve been doing it for years, and that they seem to have it pretty down pat.

Here’s their plan to do so:

The Tinkerer finds out about when and where the items are going to be transported. Based on knowledge from prior heists, he makes sure the rest of the team has what they need to pull off the upcoming heist.

The team scopes out the area beforehand and determines the best place for the heist.

When the CDC trucks roll by, they radio the Vulture.

The Vulture swoops in, uses the Tinkerer’s tech to get into the truck, takes whatever he can grab quickly, and gets out.

Their plan is straightforward, simple for both the characters and the audience to understand, and best of all, it makes sense.

By comparison, here’s Mysterio’s plan. I’m not even going insult you guys by explaining why this plan doesn’t work as well as the Vulture’s—I’m sure you’ll see it.

(I’d also like to point out that I used the word ‘hope’ 11 times when I typed his plan out, so…)

Mysterio’s Great PlanTM:

Somehow find out about the EDITH glasses.

Somehow find out that Peter Parker and Spider-Man are the same person.

Attack a random village in Mexico, possibly killing a bunch of people. Hope that Fury shows up at all. Also hope that he shows up at just the right time, even though there’s no way to know if he’s even on the same continent when the attack happens.

Hope that your Really Great BackstoryTM is enough to fool the most paranoid, trigger-happy man—and his right-hand woman—in the world. Hope that SHIELD won’t do some sort of background check, demand some sort of evidence, or have systems in place that would detect issues with other dimensions. (After all, the Endgame talked at length about alternate dimensions, so it must be on SHIELD’s radar.)

Somehow gain the trust of the aforementioned paranoid, trigger-happy man in record time.

Sneak about behind Fury’s back, somehow getting a van-sized electromagnetic pulse-maker to various places in Europe, along with a few dozen drones, a group of people, and a metal suit of armour. (Seriously. How did they do it? You can’t get that shit on a commercial plane.) Hope that Fury doesn’t find out.

Somehow find out exactly when Fury is going to give Peter the EDITH glasses.

Convince Fury that you, the only person who has experience fighting Elementals, needs the help of someone who Fury knows is a traumatized, sixteen-year-old kid.

Convince the aforementioned traumatized kid to like you.

1Fight off an imitation water monster and hope that the aforementioned traumatized superhuman genius kid doesn’t notice that anything’s off.

Convince the same kid to trust you enough to give you access to a multi-billion-dollar orbital defense system, which it the last thing his mentor/father figure gave to him.

Hope the only security system attached to EDITH is Peter’s a-okay, and that the system won’t even warn Peter if he tries to give the glasses to someone who would have a red flag by their name in the Stark employee databases.

Gain access to EDITH. Laugh about your Evil PlanTM to a building full of people and hope that passers-by don’t hear you.

Fight an imitation fire monster in Prague. Again, hope Spider-Man doesn’t notice anything off with the imitation that he’s fighting and nothing makes Fury suspicious.

Hope you can convince Spider-Man not to Spider-Man while you blow up London.

Kill Fury during the same London attack, even though there’s no reason to assume that Fury will be in the thick of it. (Remember how he was away from all the fighting in both Avengers 1 and 2?)

Congratulations! You’ve achieved your goal of looking like a superhero while killing the only person who can stop you (in your opinion)!

Final step: Hope that nothing bad happens to Earth ever again, because you don’t actually have super powers and people will call on you to save the world.

#mcu #spider-man far from home #spiderman #critique #mysterio

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trashcanmarvelfan · 5 years

Text

Best. Job. Ever. 12/13

Summary: Reader gets a job on the set of Spider-Man: Far from Home for the 3 weeks they are shooting in New York City as what she thinks is a production assistant, but a twist of fate has her reassigned as Tom Holland’s personal assistant. As she & Tom grow close during filming, will their budding friendship turn to more or will they go their separate ways after filming concludes?

Warnings: Language, but that’s pretty much it? This is basically a PG-13 rom-com. (Legal) alcohol use as well but since it’s legal do I really need to tag it?

Word Count: 2350 for chapter 12.

Author’s Note: As this was written WAY before Spider-Man: Far from Home was released (actually before Avengers: Endgame was as well) I’ve kept plot details and which scene was being shot on what day extremely vague. Also, I’m American but tried to write Tom as British as possible, although I do think he’d try to stay(ish) in character and use as much American slang as he could while he’s still playing Peter.

Chapter-Specific Author’s Note: I hope the wait was worth it! XD (I also hope this is coherent. I rewrote this chapter like 3x’s because I had certain plot points I wanted to fit in.) And I know I said the epilogue was coming today as well, but I’m exhausted and want to read through it one more time, so it’ll be tomorrow.

Requests are always open!

Cross-posted at AO3.

Y/N had started packing her things the next morning when her phone rang.

“Hey Laura,” she answered. “What’s up?”

“Hey Y/N,” Laura answered. “I was just on my way to set and wanted to see how you were doing today. Last day in NYC, huh? Doing anything fun?”

“Nah, just starting to get all of my stuff packed so I’m not running around like a crazy person tomorrow. I can’t believe how much extra junk I’ve accumulated over the past 3 weeks.”

Her phone beeped with an incoming call. Tom’s name flashed across the screen.

“Oh, hold on a sec, Laur. Tom is beeping in.” She flashed over to accept the call. “Hi, Tom, what’s up?”

“Y/N, I was just checking to see if you were in.”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Do you mind if I pop over in a few?”

“No, that’s fine. See you in a bit.”

She flashed back over to Laura. “Hey, sorry about that. Tom’s coming by, can I call you right back?”

“That’s cool. I’ve got some extra time before I have to be on set.”

“Ok. Bye, Laur.”

“Bye, Y/N.”

There was a knock on Y/N’s door as she hung up and Tom’s head popped in. “Y/N? It’s me.”

“Hey, come on in. I’m just packing.” Y/N zipped her suitcase. “So, ready for the party tonight?” she asked.

“Actually, that’s why I’m here,” Tom replied. “I was thinking maybe we could just head over together? You know, since we’re both going anyway.”

Y/N smiled. “Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”

Tom scratched the back of his neck. “And since today is officially your last day as my assistant, can I take you out for dinner beforehand, um, you know, for old times’ sake?”

Y/N smiled. “I’d love to have dinner with you one last time.”

Tom grinned. “Great! I’ll come ‘round at 5?”

“5 is perfect.”

“Ok, so I’ll see you this afternoon then.”

“See ya.”

Tom gave Y/N a brief hug before letting himself out of the door.

Y/N called Laura back. “Hey, sorry about that.”

“It’s no big deal,” Laura replied.

Suddenly there was another knock on Y/N’s door.

Y/N sighed. “Oh, shoot, hang on one more sec, Laur. I think Tom’s knocking again.” She walked over to the door and opened it. “Did you need something el--” She stopped.

Laura was standing in front of her door, phone pressed to her ear. “Surprise!”

Y/N’s jaw dropped. “LAURA?” She ended the call and pulled her friend into a hug. “Oh my God, come in! What are you doing here?”

Laura laughed. “We had the weekend off from filming so I don’t have to be back on set until Monday afternoon, and you sounded like you needed your bestie, so… here I am!”

“I can’t believe it, I’m so happy to see you!” Y/N paused. “So wait, when you said that you were on your way to set, you were really on your way here?”

Laura nodded. “I had to make sure you were actually here and not out at a bookstore or on a tour or anything.”

Y/N shook her head. “I still can’t believe you! You’re the absolute best, you know that? You HAVE to come to the wrap party with me tonight, especially since you were on the crew for the filming in Europe. I can’t wait to tell Tom that you’re here--” Her eyes widened. “Oh, shit, I literally just made plans to go to dinner and the party with him. That’s ok, I’ll just let him know that I can’t go--”

Laura shook her head. “Absolutely not. You keep your plans, I’ll be fine.”

“No way,” Y/N replied with conviction. “I’m not ditching you when you came all the way from California just to support me. You know what, I’m sure Tom won’t have a problem with you coming too. Let’s go talk to him, he’s right down the hall.”

She grabbed her room key and opened the door, startled to see Tom standing at her door poised to knock. Harrison was standing next to him.

Y/N glanced from Tom to Harrison and back again. “Harrison! Wow, I didn’t know you were coming back into town,” She gave Harrison a quick hug.

Harrison grinned. “Hello, Y/N.”

Y/N stepped out of the doorway. “Come on in, guys.”

Tom and Harrison stepped into the room, Y/N closing the door behind them.

“Um, so I came to tell you that Haz came into town for the party tonight,” Tom began, “but I see that you have a visitor as well…”

“Oh, yeah,” Y/N replied, flustered. “I’d introduce you but it just dawned on me that you guys probably know Laura already.”

Laura nodded and gave a casual wave. “Hi, guys.”

“Ahh yes, Laura, it’s good to see you again,” Tom shook her hand.

Harrison gave Laura a brief hug. “Laura and I hung out on set during filming in Europe.”

“All the crew kinda bonded,” Laura added.

Y/N turned to Tom. “So about tonight… Since Laura and Harrison are both here how about we all go out to dinner together then head to the party?”

Tom glanced over at Harrison, who shrugged. “Oh, erm, ok then. That’s fine.”

“We’ll see you guys at 5 then?”

“Ok.”

As soon as Tom and Harrison left, Laura turned to Y/N. “Ok, what are you wearing tonight?”

Y/N shrugged. “Probably just a top & jeans.”

Laura looked horrified. “Nope, nopity nope nope nope. It’s the wrap party, plus your last night in NYC. We're going shopping to find you something extra hot to wear.”

Y/N and Laura spent the next several hours searching for the perfect outfit, finally deciding on a sleeveless red and black lace dress. Laura looked up from her phone and nodded firmly when Y/N stepped out of the dressing room. “That's it. That's the dress. You'll knock Tom's socks off, and maybe even the rest of his clothes too.” She winked.

Y/N covered up a grin with her hand. “Laura!” she chided.

Laura laughed. “Come on, Y/N. You can't tell me you haven't thought about it.”

Y/N thought back to Tom wearing nothing but a towel and blushed.

Laura arched an eyebrow. “Mmm hmm, that's what I thought. Now, I saw the perfect shoes that will go with that dress. Change back into your clothes and let's go.”

************************

When they got back to the hotel around 4 PM Laura begged off of dinner, claiming jet-lag and exhaustion from shopping, and saying that she needed to take a nap and would just meet everyone at the party.

Y/N had just finished getting ready when there was a knock on her door. She turned to Laura. “How do I look?”

“Amazing, girl. Now have a great dinner and I'll see you later, ok?”

Y/N gave Laura a hug. “Ok, see you at the party.”

She took a deep breath and opened the door.

Tom froze when he saw her. “Y/N, you look… Amazing.”

“Thank you,” Y/N replied bashfully.

She exited the room and shut the door behind her.

“Laura’s not coming?” Tom asked.

Y/N shook her head. “Laura said she was tired so she’ll just meet us at the party.” She looked around. “Wait, where’s Harrison?”

“He said something came up - phone conference or something - so he's going to meet us at the party too.” Tom shrugged casually. “So I guess it's just us, then.”

Y/N bit her lip. “Honestly, I don't mind. I'm glad we'll be able to have dinner together one last time, you know, just the two of us, before we go our separate ways tomorrow.”

“Me too.” Tom offered his arm. “Ready?”

“Sure.”

They headed downstairs to where a black SUV was waiting. “Good evening,” the driver said, opening the door for them.

Tom gestured for Y/N to get in first and followed behind her.

“You know, between all the excitement and craziness today I forgot to even ask what you had in mind for dinner,” Y/N said.

Tom smiled at her. “Well, since we had our first official, non-meeting dinner together at Pappardelle, I figured we could go back there for our last as well.”

Aww, that's so sweet, Y/N thought to herself. “I like that idea.”

The car weaved its way through traffic, finally arriving at Pappardelle. Tom held a hand out to help Y/N out of the car, and to her delight, he didn’t let go until they were seated at their table.

Y/N noticed that Tom looked fidgety throughout dinner, but chalked it up to excitement over filming being completed and the wrap party happening. She also thought Tom looked like he wanted to tell her something, but each time he would open his mouth they would get interrupted by their server delivering something.

Y/N thought they would get a chance to talk on the way to the warehouse, but their Uber driver was especially chatty and they didn’t really talk much in the car. Finally they arrived, Tom taking Y/N’s hand once again as they walked into the warehouse.

Y/N was in awe. Tom had told her that Jon would basically turn the warehouse into a nightclub but nothing had prepared her for just how different it would look from when they were filming.

Jon greeted them and told them to enjoy themselves.

They made their way around the warehouse, stopping to talk to various crew members before spotting Zendaya, Jacob, Marisa, and Jon Favreau, who was much more personable in real life than he was as Happy Hogan. Everyone gave Y/N a hug and Marisa, who was definitely the ‘cool aunt’ of the group, said to let her know when Y/N was settled in L.A. so they could have lunch together.

They eventually found Harrison and Laura, who seemed much more refreshed than when Y/N had left her earlier that afternoon.

“Hey guys, how was dinner?” Laura asked.

“Fine, it was fine,” Y/N replied before turning to Harrison. “How did your conference call go?”

“Conference call?” Harrison repeated with a confused expression.

Y/N glanced over at Tom. “Yeah, Tom said you had to skip out on dinner because you had a conference call.”

“Oh, right, my conference call! It went swell, just great. Got loads accomplished. Hated to miss dinner, but you know how it is sometimes.”

Oh, wait, look, there’s Toni,” Laura jumped in quickly. “Harrison, how about we go say hi?”

“Oh, that’s a great idea,” Harrison replied. “We’ll be back in a bit.”

He and Laura rushed off.

“Ok, that was weird,” Y/N said, watching them walk away as the lights dimmed and the DJ that Jon had hired started playing.

Tom tilted his head toward the makeshift dance floor. “Would you like to dance?”

Y/N grinned. “Sure.”

Tom pulled her out onto the dance floor, the memory of them dancing in the nightclub a few weeks earlier coming back to Y/N. After a few songs, the beat slowed down. Y/N took Tom’s offered hand without hesitation, Tom pulling her in close.

Y/N inhaled Tom’s scent, trying to commit it to memory. The realization that filming was well and truly over and that tomorrow would likely be the last time she saw Tom again suddenly hit her. “I’m going to miss you when you go back to London tomorrow,” she confessed, resting her head on Tom’s chest.

Tom cleared his throat. “What if you don’t have to?” he asked.

“What?” Y/N replied in confusion, looking up at him.

“What if I wasn’t going back to London for a while?”

“What do you mean?”

Tom looked around and spotted Harrison and Laura talking to a few of the crew members. “Wait, let’s go somewhere quieter.” He led Y/N to a small hallway off of the main warehouse floor.

“So, what were you saying?” Y/N asked.

Tom fidgeted. “Ok, so no one knows except Haz and my family, but a few months ago I bought a house out in Los Angeles because I’m planning on splitting my time between there and London since so much of my work is filmed in the States.”

“Okay,” Y/N replied.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you at dinner. My flight tomorrow isn’t going back to London, Y/N. It’s going to Los Angeles, where I’ll be for the next several months until I have to start filming The Devil All the Time. We’re going to be in the same city, Y/N, and I’d like to be able to see you.”

“Well then, yeah, of course we can hang out,” Y/N replied.

Tom shook his head and took Y/N's hands in his own. “I don’t mean as just friends,” he murmured. “You are beautiful, kind, funny, and absolutely brilliant. I’m totally mad about you, Y/N, and I’d like to take you on a proper date once we’re back in L.A.”

He caressed Y/N’s face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ears. The familiar gesture brought back the memory of their kiss, and along with it all of Y/N's feelings she had been so desperately trying to forget. She blinked back tears and nodded. “I’d like that a lot.”

A relieved grin bloomed on Tom’s face. “Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

Tom held her gaze. “By the way, I’m completely sober right now,” he said.

Y/N wrinkled her brow quizzically. “Okay?”

Tom grinned. “Just wanted that to be clear before I did this.” He pulled Y/N into his arms and pressed his lips to hers.

Y/N melted into Tom’s embrace, wrapping her arms around his neck and tangling her fingers in his hair as Tom deepened the kiss.

Neither one noticed the fist-bump that Harrison and Laura gave each other before they slipped out of the hallway.

Taglist: @laureharrier @thoughstofaredhead & @greenarrowhead

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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How The Mandalorian Resurrected a Jedi to Cover Luke’s Surprise Role

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It’s been nearly a year since The Mandalorian’s second season finale used the Force to floor the collective fandom with Luke Skywalker’s surprise, age-erased, cameo. Yet, the afterglow of the moment remains widely resplendent due to the sheer shock value; a response attributed to producers’ ability to keep the Disney property’s stunning state secret. Now, the full extent of the sneaky endeavor has been uncovered, revealing how the return of Star Wars’ first and most famous hero was obscured by an intriguing Jedi substitute: Plo Koon.

It should come as no big surprise that, in an era of leaked concepts and trailers (we’re looking at you, Spider-Man: No Way Home), the words “Luke” and “Skywalker,” were strictly forbidden to use—either apart or together—during production of The Mandalorian‘s second season, due to the enormous magnitude of THE secret that needed to be kept in a difficult marathon fashion across the frame’s entire 8-episode run. However, the second Season 2 episode of Disney+ behind-the-scenes documentary series Disney Gallery: The Mandalorian has revealed how the creative coalition navigated this proverbial Death Star trench run, notably with Plo Koon as red herring firewall of sorts for leaked Luke intel. Interestingly, Koon wasn’t even a random choice, and actually reflected a clever methodology that predicted the logic of prospective prognosticating fans.

“It’s fairly well known by deep core fans that Plo Koon is my favorite Jedi,” says executive producer (and onscreen portrayer of pilot Trapper Wolf,) Dave Filoni. “And a lot of people—if Plo Koon from the script got out—would assume, ‘Well, oh of course,’ because Dave loves Plo Koon. So, there’s these layers of intrigue we try to weave.”

The episode, in pulling back the magic curtain of creativity behind the technology that brought a Return of the Jedi era Luke Skywalker back to life on screen in 2020, reveals that Mark Hamill himself put in a performance of sorts, brought on-set to record HD footage of his facial expressions while reciting the dialogue. Said expressions were eventually rendered with a version of deepfake technology onto a double named Matt Rugetti, the man actually seen in the unforgettable finale scene. However, as Filoni elaborates of Rugetti’s initial depiction on the set, “We had a digital Plo Koon head placed on the actor in dailies, so it looked like Plo Koon.”

Disney+

Moreover, the façade was further facilitated by the creation of artwork and temporary digital effects and models, which wrought renditions of Plo Koon as a substitute for Luke in the now-iconic scene, notably with one impressive piece of apocrypha, showing Koon systematically slicing and dicing Moff Gideon’s prized robotic Dark Troopers. Indeed, the measures implemented to maintain the secrecy of Luke’s arrival were not only elaborate, but had to be maintained—under penalty of Disney-deal consequences—for around 15 months to two years. The tension—now revealed in hindsight—was palpable from the accounts. Pertinently, visual effects supervisor Richard Bluff describes the secret-keeping in an almost post-traumatic way, stating, “We were never allowed to say it [Luke Skywalker]. Even now when we refer back to what we did, we talk about the code names. We simply do not utter those two words.”

Plo Koon is a major name to Star Wars fans, but the Jedi is, understandably, not well-known to the general moviegoing public—although a flash at the Kel Dor Jedi’s distinctively-alien countenance (almost akin to a more-humanoid rendition of director David Cronenberg’s The Fly,) would still likely evoke an “Oh yeah, that one.” Koon, a Jedi Council member, was seen across all three entries of the Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, known for his signature mask and goggles—necessary accessories, since oxygen is toxic to his species. The presumed end of his arc—such as it was, with only a few scenes, sans a single line—came about in 2005’s Revenge of the Sith during the Order 66 death montage, in which his Jedi Starfighter was destroyed during a Clone Wars campaign on Cato Neimodia, shot in explosive fashion from behind by the very Clone-piloted ARC-170 starfighters he was leading into battle. However, Filoni, as showrunner of Star Wars: The Clone Wars, took advantage of its pre-Sith era to utilize Koon frequently, and even revealed that he was the Jedi who found Ahsoka Tano as a Force-sensitive small child on her home planet of Togruta, and brought her back to train with the Jedi on Coruscant.

Disney+

However, the episode’s director, Peyton Reed, initially fell into the “Oh yeah, that one” category, and pretty much reacted accordingly when he was given an early version of the script in question, for “Chapter 16: The Rescue,” in which it states that Plo Koon, who is “not dead after all,” made the episode’s climactic entrance, and takes Baby Yoda/Grogu away for proper Jedi training. While Reed is obviously experienced, and a member in good standing of the Disney creative clubhouse, having helmed Marvel’s Ant-Man films—including the upcoming Ant-Man and The Wasp: Quantumania—even he felt shocked and understandably overwhelmed when creator Jon Favreau finally told him to whom the term “Plo Koon” really referred around The Mandalorian set.

How Star Wars Deepfake Seriously Improves Luke Skywalker Cameo in The Mandalorian

By Joseph Baxter

Star Wars: Why Hera Syndulla Should Be in The Mandalorian Season 3

By Megan Crouse

“I knew Plo Koon was a Jedi, I think, from the prequel trilogy, and I was like how are we visualizing this?,” says Reed of his initial underwhelming reaction. “He [Favreau] said ‘Come over in the corner, I want to talk to you.’ And he gave me the real news, that it was, in fact, not Plo Koon, but it was going to be Luke. And I needed a moment, and I needed to know, because I’ve had a long relationship with John, and I said ‘Are you being serious right now? Is this real? You’re bringing the guy back?’ and he said ‘We’re bringing the guy back.’”

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Of course, The Mandalorian’s Luke Skywalker cameo was met with resounding praise, standing distinctly as the kind of widespread pop culture moment that has seemingly been lost in a content-saturated era, in which algorithms inveigle our interests, creating a segmented society. However, The Mandalorian will take another shot at matching—or possibly topping—that monumental moment with its upcoming third season, which is roughly scheduled for a 2022 Disney+ premiere. Yet, it won’t be the streamer’s only live-action Star Wars fare by that time, since the show it directly spun-off, The Book of Boba Fett, will arrive this Christmas, and offerings like Kenobi and Andor are also on the slate for ’22, with even more to come on the far horizon.

As for the fate of our substitute Jedi, to paraphrase Chevy Chase, “Jedi Master Plo Koon is still dead.”

The post How The Mandalorian Resurrected a Jedi to Cover Luke’s Surprise Role appeared first on Den of Geek.

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troublewithcomics · 6 years

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ADD Reviews Avengers: Infinity War

[Note: Contains spoilers for Avengers: Infinity War.] "We live inside a dream," Special Agent Dale Cooper once said on Twin Peaks. And so it has been for millions of people during the decade of Marvel Studios films that launched in 2008 with Jon Favreau's Iron Man.

I felt we had dodged a bullet back then, in the casting of talented but troubled actor Robert Downey Jr. as Tony Stark, after talk of Tom Cruise taking the role, and Marvel even publishing comic books with Stark drawn to resemble Cruise (a tactic which would actually work with Samuel L. Jackson, to the delight of just about everyone). Cruise was not right for the role. At that point I had been living with Tony Stark in my life for over thirty years, and I knew Downey would embody that part like no one else could. Thankfully Favreau knew it as well and convinced the studio to bet on Downey along with him.

But despite the unlimited potential in the characters owned by Marvel Comics, mostly borne out of the imagination and visual power of the late Jack Kirby, I wasn't expecting much from Iron Man and I doubt anyone in the movie industry was, either. Marvel's characters had been licensed time and time again to film and TV and even radio shows, and the one that gained the most traction was the TV series The Incredible Hulk, which took a few elements from Jack Kirby and Stan Lee's creation and then used them to retell The Fugitive. Similarly the less-well-regarded Spider-Man TV series used almost none of the essential aspects of that comic book's mythology, instead using the character's name and costume as a small part of a generic, episodic crime drama, not even bothering to steal the plot of a successful show, like The Incredible Hulk did.

The relative success of those shows hinged on a number of factors, among them the lack of alternatives -- you had three commercial TV networks plus PBS back then. (Which reminds me that Spider-Man also regularly appeared on The Electric Company, a show aimed at 8-10 year olds and which managed to present a more faithful wall-crawler than a primetime network series could, even allowing for the fact that on The Electric Company, Spider-Man never spoke a word.)

The 1980s and 1990s brought even more mediocre-to-terrible attempts to cash in on Marvel's characters. Dolph Lundgren as The Punisher. Reb Brown as Captain America. And a truly awful Fantastic Four movie made quickly and cheaply by cult film director Roger Corman in order to allow the rights holders to maintain their license. It resulted in a film so bad that it was never widely released and was only seen by most people through the wonders of bootleg VHS tapes sold at sketchy comicons. It should be noted that this Fantastic Four film is only marginally worse than the three later released by major studios, but with four films to their names, The Fantastic Four at this moment has more movies to its name than even The Avengers franchise, even if not a single one of them is worth watching.

Speaking of The Avengers, I went to see Avengers: Infinity War yesterday in the company of my wife Lora. I think we have seen most of the Marvel Studios films at the theater, although I have my doubts about the second Thor film. It's hard to keep track now that the Marvel Cinematic Universe (as it's called) is closing in on two-dozen full-length feature films, almost all of which are at least entertaining, and some of which have proven magical in both their mass appeal and their ability to generate revenue. Narratively, financially, and especially from the perspective of pre-2008, the continuing success of the Marvel movies is a dream that millions have been living within. It has changed the lives of many, from turning around the literal and metaphorical fortunes of actors like Downey, who no one thought would even live to see 2018 never mind be one of the most popular movie stars on the planet, and Chris Evans, whose depiction of Steve Rogers/Captain America has left far behind any memories of his participation in two of those lousy Fantastic Four movies. More interestingly this dream movie franchise has inspired and brought happiness to untold numbers of people, like that time Downey gave an Iron Man-like bionic arm to a seven-year-old boy. Or the millions of African-Americans and others who found in the recent Black Panther film an inspirational culture in which they could see themselves and their own history. These films haven't solved all the world's problems, but it's undeniable that they have brought joy and comfort and more in far greater proportion than one might have thought possible before this all began.

Which isn't to say they are perfect. I am not writing a love letter to Marvel Comics, Marvel Studios, or anyone else, really. Maybe Jack Kirby, because without him there would be none of this, but also Stan Lee, who wrote the words of so many of the comics these movies are based on. And Steve Ditko, whose imagination spawned the characters and worlds of Spider-Man and Dr. Strange. And so many other comics creators I never thought would get their due, and yet who are credited in the long crawls at the end of these films and who, I hope, are being fairly compensated for the translation of their work into motion picture form.

Like Jim Starlin, a writer/artist whose work blew me away in 1977. That summer I was 11 years old, and Starlin wrote and illustrated a two-part crossover featuring The Avengers, Spider-Man and The Thing (from the Fantastic Four) in a galaxy-spanning battle royale against Starlin's most noted creation, the supervillain Thanos. The sprawling epic was made possible by the earlier work of Lee, Kirby, Ditko and others, but it felt like something entirely new. Recently going back and reading that story, I realized how direct an adaptation of that story Avengers: Infinity War is, and that realization made me even more eager to see how the film would play out.

It turns out that Infinity War is every bit as mind-blowing as those 1977 funnybooks that inspired it were to my 11-year-old self, and for much the same reason. It's not just the epic scale of the story, or the stunning visuals, or the huge cast of very different characters being remixed in new and interesting ways. Both the comics and the movie share all those elements. No, it's the combination of all those things, plus the charm, skill, talent and determination of the actors, writers and directors, the grand vision for these films from the producers, and other factors too numerous and mysterious to be easily tallied.

So yes, I loved it. My wife loved it. It wasn't perfect in the way Citizen Kane or Synecdoche, New York are perfect, timeless films, but that's not what the MCU movies are for. They are a commercially-produced dream, made for profit inside an increasingly dysfunctional capitalist system, and perhaps another essay could be written on the dangers of allowing such dreams to make one forget the injustices and dangers of the real world, but that's not the essay I am writing today. Today I want to just reflect on the wonder of seeing this film finally come to fruition, the bringing together of franchises-within-the-franchise, and I want to state with wonder and delight that it works.

Not just for me, lover of Spider-Man and the others since 1972. It works for my wife, who didn't know who most of these characters were before she met me, and who now loves Groot unconditionally and with profound delight. It works for millions of other people, some of whom have only the faintest idea who Jack Kirby is, although almost everyone knows who Stan Lee is. Not to diminish Lee's contribution to this mythology -- without him it almost certainly would not have existed nor endured this long -- but it cannot be said enough that Kirby gets the majority of the credit. Others took the baton and ran with it once Kirby left Marvel, but Captain America, Black Panther, Thor and many other of the most endearing and exciting characters in these movies are as popular and effective as they are precisely because of the elements Kirby baked into them: Black Panther's dignity, Thor's arrogance and innate decency, and perhaps most importantly, Captain America's dedication to people over politics, to good over greed. Let there be no doubt, these are exactly the heroes we need at this moment in history, and it is perhaps not a coincidence that many of the actors who inhabit these characters have used their popularity to give voice to those less fortunate than themselves, and to use their voices to critique the current wave of fascism and authoritarianism that threaten to destroy our culture. These movies are entertainment, yes, and they have made fortunes for many of the people involved, but some of those people see the responsibility their new prominence and success has given them, and they seem to take it seriously. I'm grateful for that.

And I'm grateful for the joy in so many of these films, which reaches an almost unreal level at various moments in Infinity War. Not just seeing Tony Stark bicker with Stephen Strange, or Groot heroically assist Thor in a way only he could at exactly the right moment. Not just seeing Mark Ruffalo's sublime Bruce Banner argue with The Hulk, and therefore himself, to hilarious effect at exactly the wrong moment, only to later see him delight in having all of the power but none of the horror such power usually brings him. It's all of these things and at least a thousand more.

Like I said, it's not perfect. How could it be? In a story this wide-ranging, I was never going to get enough of Scarlett Johansson's Black Widow to make me happy. But there'll be a movie for that soon enough. I was never going to get everything I came to this for, but then no one is, when you get really granular and start picking it apart. But that's missing the big picture, and in the larger sense, it's important to note I wasn't bored or unhappy for one nanosecond of this film, as I was for every never-ending moment of the grotesque, doomed-to-fail Justice League movie. I was uneasy and scared at the beginning of Infinity War, as intended. I was amused and laughing when Peter Parker asked for a distraction on a schoolbus to hilarious effect. I was chilled when Banner announced "Thanos is coming." As I said on Facebook, "So many moments."

I have seen some concern about plot holes, but I see none. The most specific concern centers on why Dr. Strange makes the choice he does near the end, with seemingly catastrophic results for the entire universe. Did the people voicing these criticisms forget that there's another movie coming? Did they not hear Strange tell his fellow heroes that he had seen millions of possible outcomes in which they all lose, but one, and one alone, in which they succeed in defeating Thanos? To be fair, that moment is couched in dread, no doubt to conceal the fact that it is foreshadowing the ultimate outcome of the as-yet unnamed sequel, said to be the end of the book all the MCU movies to date represent in the minds of those overseeing the franchise, before the start of the next book. But I have no doubt that Dr. Strange's decision, as agonizing as it was to see the consequences of, was the one that will somehow allow all those we lost to be returned to us in some form. Well, maybe not all.

I doubt it's a coincidence that Tony Stark was the one to see the ultimate defeat of their efforts to stop Thanos, and to watch in helpless horror as Peter Parker and others died before his eyes. Since the first Avengers movie, Tony Stark's bravado has masked his increasing trauma as one cosmic threat after another homicidal robot of his own design has taken chunks out of his soul. My guess is that by the end of 2019's Avengers movie, we'll have many if not most of the toys back in the toybox and ready to be played with another day. I watched the Falcon die, but I'm sure he'll be back. And Spider-Man, and The Vision, and Nick Fury, and everyone we watch blow away in the breeze, to our horror and despair. I'm guessing the price of their return will be Tony Stark's sacrifice in the next film, likely Downey's exit from the franchise. And that would be suitable. Downey was perfect for the role of Tony Stark because in so many ways he really already was Tony Stark. Arrogant, talented, addicted. He was, and is, our gateway into this world, the reason we have been able to feel the emotions these films create in us so viscerally and so immediately. Reversing the damage Thanos does at the end of Infinity War will require a huge payment to balance the books. I will be surprised if that isn't represented by the final end of Tony Stark's journey in these movies.

After all, the great throughline of these movies has been revelation and change, as the universe these characters live in has, in a decade, come to be as expansive and intriguing as it was after many decades of hard work and imagination from Stan and Jack and all the other writers and artists who are responsible for the comic books that launched this dream we are all now living inside. Who has had more revealed to him, and who has changed more than Tony Stark? How fitting would it be for the next film to end with him making the sacrifice, finally, that he narrowly escaped making at the end of the first Avengers film?

I could be wrong, though. And I don't care if I am. I’m just theorizing. How can you not? It's fun to speculate where this gigantic story will go next. And who could have guessed, before this all began in 2008, that so many millions of filmgoers would be so thrilled by one movie after another, a series of increasingly entertaining and even diverse films that give us worlds of wonder and delight, with shocks, horrors, laughs and even love?

No, no one could have seen this coming in 2008. No one except Jack Kirby, who, if he were still with us today, might be heard to say, "I knew it all along." -- Alan David Doane

#Posts by Alan David Doane #Movie Reviews #Avengers: Infinity War #Comics #Comic Books #Marvel #Marvel Comics #Jack Kirby #Jim Starlin #Stan Lee #Iron Man #captain america #Thor #Groot #Reviews

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