#just a vietnam vet getting by in the world

[thot-of-khonshu]

All Access, Chapter 1

All Access Masterlist | Ko-Fi | A03 Link

Pairing: 70s rockstar! frankie morales x f! reader

Rating: 18+ (explicit, minors do not interact)

Word Count: 6.4K

Summary: It's 1975 and you're one of the rare women given the opportunity to write for Rolling Stone. When you get the opportunity of a lifetime to travel with the hottest band in the US, Triple Frontier, you're welcomed into their den of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. But what happens when you fall for their bass player and it becomes more than just a story?

Content: explicit drug use, heavy partying, triple frontier as rockstars, eventual smut, 1975 au

A/N: Thank you so so so much to my beta readers @heythere-mel, @proxima-writes, @nostalxgic, and @pedropascal-whore I am so insanely, eternally grateful you have no idea! Thank you to anyone who has been waiting for this story since it was just a random idea in 2022. I hope you all enjoy it and it makes you sing as loudly as Santiago.

TRIPLE FRONTIER: FROM BATTLEFIELDS TO CENTER STAGE

As the dust of the Vietnam War settles, a new sound emerges from its ashes. Four war veterans—Santiago, Benny, Will, and Frankie—unite under a new banner, Triple Frontier, capturing the soul of a generation seeking peace, love, and rock 'n' roll.

Triple Frontier's latest self-titled album strikes a chord with raw passion and unflinching honesty of their previous work. We can trace their meteoric rise in the music world back to their time serving together in the Vietnam War, an experience that has left an indelible mark on each member and seeps into every note they play.

At the forefront is Santiago Garcia, the charismatic lead singer with vocals matched only by his charm and stage presence; Behind Santiago, Benny Miller lets loose on the drums, laying down the heartbeat of their sound. Will, Benny's older brother on lead guitar, is the soul of the band. He's intuitive and artistic with the guitar akin to Robbie Robertson.

And then there's Francisco Morales on bass. The stoic backbone of the group, his basslines are more than just musical notes—they're lifelines. His bass weaves the music together like a thread that ties each member of the band.

Tom Davis, their manager, has been instrumental in their rise. A fellow vet, he understands their shared history and has transformed their raw, visceral tales into a finely-tuned musical odyssey. Speaking about their journey, Tom says, "These boys have stories that the world needs to hear. I'm just helping amplify their voices."

The band's name, Triple Frontier, references the tri-border area in Southeast Asia—a location many veterans from the Vietnam War will recognize.

Despite the weight of their past, or perhaps because of it, Triple Frontier brings a refreshing authenticity to the rock scene. Their music isn't just entertainment; it's a balm, a therapy, a reminder of the indomitable human spirit.

As they gear up for their nationwide tour, one thing's for certain: Triple Frontier is here to stay, and they're just getting started.

Despite your boss stating he just needed a simple puff piece about Triple Frontier, whenever you reread that review you couldn't help but feel a sense of pride when you saw your name in print in Rolling Stone. It wasn't the first time, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

You were on the fast track to doing something big at Rolling Stone by the time you were thirty, you could just feel it. After freelance writing post graduation from college, you landed an entry-level job at the magazine. You knew what you were getting into, the long hours and the male-dominated office could be a lot at times, but you were living the dream as far as you were concerned. To write about music and make it your living was a gift you never wanted to take for granted.

It was a Tuesday afternoon and you were done at work surprisingly early. You lugged your 1969 Dodge home and immediately went to the back patio to light a joint. You slunk back in your chair, inhaling deeply from the joint, and watched the sun dip lower behind the tree line; the warm glow of the Los Angeles sunset never got old. As the smoke filled your lungs, you felt the day slowly dissipate.

The sound of your phone ringing jolted you out of your high-induced stupor but you heard your roommate Jenna flit across the house and yell "I'll get it!" before answering. You took another deep pull off the joint and exhaled, watching the smoke dance around the sky as it faded out.

You heard Jenna call your name from inside. You walked into the kitchen and saw her standing with the phone receiver in her hand, she was looking at you with an expectant expression.

"Who is it?" You asked.

"Some guy named Tom Davis? Sounds foxy." She grinned at you and wiggled her eyebrows. You rolled your eyes and swatted her away before taking the phone from her.

"Hello?"

"Hey! I hope you don't mind me calling you at home. Your work number was listed in the phone book, but I didn't know if you'd want to take this call in the office or not. Figured home was probably better."

You had talked to Tom a month back for the Triple Frontier article. You remembered him as a no-nonsense type of guy who didn't beat around the bush, so you knew even though he was calling you at home it wasn't for a dinner party.

"No, that's okay. What can I do for you? I hope the article came out okay?"

"That's actually why I'm calling, I wanted to thank you again for doing such a great job. The guys really loved it and the boss did too. And we've had some new interest in the band and they think an interview series might be a good way to build some buzz during the tour."

You felt excitement bubble up in your stomach. You didn't want to be presumptuous and assume this was an offer, but you also didn't want to say no.

"I'd love to write more about them! I'm not sure if you just want a song by song review or..."

Tom chuckled on the other end.

"Nah, nothing like that. I know this is actually last minute but we're playing a show at the Troubadour on Friday night and we'd love for you to come. I've already cleared it with your editor at Rolling Stone if you're game."

You tried not to sound too eager. Of course you knew about the Troubadour show, it had been sold out for months. You knew this wasn't an easy ticket to score or an opportunity that just falls into your lap like this.

"I would be an idiot to say no."

"That's what I like to hear! I'll be in touch with more details, but I'll have your ticket and backstage pass ready for you on Friday night."

"Awesome, thank you so much."

"Thank you, we'll talk soon!"

He hung up the phone. You stood in the kitchen with the receiver in your hand. You felt like someone had just punched you in the gut, you couldn't believe it. The Troubadour, backstage passes, exclusive interviews... it was the break you'd been waiting for.

This was real rock journalism, the rock journalism your mom cried over when you said you wanted to move out west and pursue this as a career.

Will Mom still think you're dabbling with the devil if your name is under the biggest story for Rolling Stone with the hottest band in the country?

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By the time Friday night rolled around, you felt like you had a permanent case of butterflies in your stomach. It wasn't often you had the opportunity to attend a show and not write about it, so the fact that you had no other reason for going besides seeing the band was enough to set your nerves on fire. But meeting them?

You'd spent the whole week building scenarios in your head - Would these guys even take you seriously? Would they see you as just another fan? Were they even that interesting to interview, or were their music and looks all there was to them?

You shook the thoughts from your head as you walked up to the Troubadour. The line outside was already around the block and you could feel the energy from the crowd. You saw women with long hair down their backs in tight jeans and crochet tops, some men with hair even longer than theirs and dressed in flared pants and vibrant shirts. You could already smell the weed wafting off some people.

As you approached the bouncer at the back door, he glared at you, intimidating and unwavering.

"I'm here to pick up a press pass from Tom Davis." You tried to exude confidence, even though you felt the opposite. He arched his brow at you before reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a paper.

"Name."

You gave him your name and also added what you thought would cement your legitimacy. "I'm with Rolling Stone."

He looked over the paper before his eyes settled on your face.

"Right. This way."

The man turned and opened the door behind him, beckoning for you to follow.

Once inside, he led you through the dimly lit back corridors of the club. You were immediately welcomed into a heavy musk of smoke and sweat. You passed other roadies carrying guitars, amps, and microphones. You felt the excitement rising up again and you had to remind yourself to act cool.

He led you into a dressing room with a large group of people. Everyone had drinks in their hands and seemed to be chatting amongst themselves. The walls were covered in posters and various band members from over the years had scrawled their names on the walls where Tom was seated, reading over a sheet of paper.

"There she is! Good to see you." Tom immediately spotted you from the crowd, his tall and imposing figure stood up and made his way over to you. He was wearing a black leather jacket and his hair was pushed back with gel. He looked every bit the rocker, and you couldn't help but wonder if he always dressed like that. With the band but not in the band.

He reached into his back pocket to pull out a laminated press pass. "Here you go, this should get you access to whatever you need."

You took the press pass and held it up, smiling. You were still in shock.

"I can't thank you enough, Tom. This really is an honor."

Tom chuckled and clapped a hand on your shoulder. "Honor's ours. We're looking forward to the piece."

"Speaking of pieces, If you're gonna write about the band you might as well meet them. Come with me."

He started making his way toward the back of the room. As he passed, the people parted to let him through. You followed closely behind, trying to not lose him.

He led you towards a cluster of men in the corner. They were talking amongst themselves, beers in hand and laughing. You recognized Benny–the drummer–from the album cover, by his shaggy, dirty blonde hair. He was bouncing off the soles of his feet, drumsticks tucked in his belt loop, and was the center of the circle.

Will was leaning against the wall, his long blonde hair tucked in a bun. He had a cigarette dangling between his lips and a guitar pick in his hand, fiddling with it.

Next to Will, Santiago was sitting on a couch, his arm draped over the back with a glass tumbler in his other hand. His eyes shined as he was talking to the other boys, taking his hand to smooth out his jet-black hair.

It was true what every girl said - his pants were as tight as his voice.

And then there was Frankie.

He was standing next to Santiago, a beer bottle hanging loosely from his fingertips. He was leaning on his elbow on the wall behind Santiago, listening to Benny.

He was handsome. His brown hair was covered in his signature baseball cap, and the stubble along his jaw along with his mustache gave him a rugged look. You couldn't help but notice the muscles underneath his thin shirt. You could see his arms flexing underneath the material, his fingers wrapped tightly around the neck of his beer.

He was the first one to notice you, looking at you before he did Tom. His eyes were dark and unreadable, but you could tell he was assessing the situation.

"Boys," Tom boomed, "I want you to meet the writer from Rolling Stone."

Santiago and Will turned their heads in unison, but Frankie's eyes stayed fixed on you.

Santiago's smile broadened, and Will raised his eyebrow and nodded. Frankie's expression didn't change.

"Well, hey, welcome to the party." Santiago stood up and extended his hand. You reached out and took his, shaking it. His hand was soft and his grip was firm.

"Nice to meet you." You tried to sound confident.

"You've already met Tom, obviously," he gestured towards Tom, who smiled at you, "and this is Will and Benny, and that's Frankie."

Benny smiled at you, and Frankie's eyes flickered over to Santiago as he said his name, but he didn't speak. You had a feeling this was his way of letting everyone else talk.

"Nice to meet you all, I'm a huge fan." You offered them a friendly smile.

Benny spoke up, "Well then, I like you already. You'll make us look good!"

Tom looked down at his watch and then snapped up at the guys. "Shit–we have ten minutes before showtime, you guys need to get down to the stage."

They started moving and shuffling: Will stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, Benny put down his beer, and Santiago tossed back his drink. Frankie had disappeared into the crowd, leaving you to watch them all go by.

Tom turned back to you, "What are you doing? You're going down with us. ‘Can't write about the show if you aren't there."

You felt the rush of adrenaline surge through your body. Your face broke out into a huge grin.

"Yeah, right. Okay."

Tom smiled and turned, heading for the door. You followed him, trying to keep up with his strides. Backstage was a flurry of activity and you felt like you were on a hamster wheel trying to stay out of the way. You couldn't help but stare at the scene before you, the lights and the sounds, the smell.

After navigating through the throng of people and equipment, you found yourself on the side of the stage, the lights dim and the sound of the audience humming through the floorboards. While Tom had stopped to talk with one of the lighting guys, you could see the boys getting into their instruments and tuning up.

You looked over and saw Frankie. He had taken off his hat and was carding his hand through his thick hair. His mouth was turned down into a frown, but you could see the glimmer of his eyes.

He looked up at you. Your breath hitched and you could feel your cheeks start to burn. He held your gaze for a moment before turning away and putting his hat back on.

Suddenly, the lights dimmed and the audience erupted in cheers. The guys, including Tom, went into a huddle and you slowly inched yourself closer, not wanting to miss this moment.

You heard Benny shout, "Let's get it done tonight, boys! Let's give the fans what they came for."

You could see Santiago's grin spread across his face, "This is our mission. Our job. Our purpose."

Tom placed his hand into the middle, "I'm proud of you, boys. Now, let's go fucking rock this shit."

They put their hands together and Santiago began to sing "Stop, hey, what's that sound..."

Like a ritual, the rest of the men in the circle sang "Everybody look what's going down."

With that, the boys dispersed and you felt so lucky to be in that moment. You feel their connection, their comradery, their love.

You saw Tom pat Benny on the back. "Showtime!" he boomed. Benny ran onto the stage and the crowd roared. You could hear the clatter of sticks in the air as Benny hit the cymbal to start playing their song "Echoes".

The rest of the guys filed onto the stage and you were immediately struck by the sheer energy radiating off the crowd. They were cheering, clapping, dancing. There was so much movement and excitement and you felt the hairs on your arms stand up.

The band started their set with a bang. You watched as Santiago worked the crowd, his voice smooth and strong. He walked slowly, confidently, swaying with every step. The crowd was eating out of the palm of his hand.

You'd never experienced a concert like this, being able to watch from the sidelines and take in everything. The lights, the sound, the way the crowd responded.

Your eyes drifted to Frankie. He was focused and precise with his guitar, his hands moving effortlessly across the strings. You watched the muscles in his arms flex and strain as he played along with the concentration in his eyes.

The rest of the concert flew by. Before you knew it, the band was finishing up their final song, and the crowd was going crazy. You watched as Santiago, Frankie, Benny, and Will took their final bows.

The audience screamed. Santiago leaned over and spoke into the microphone, "Los Angeles, thank you. We love you! Goodnight!"

And with that, the lights dimmed and the guys filed off stage. Tom turned and motioned for you to follow as he led you to a different area where the guys were drinking bottles of water and catching their breath.

Benny was sweating, his face flushed red. "Man, we really fucking killed it."

Santiago grinned, wiping his brow. "You bet your ass we did. That was one of the best shows we've done."

Frankie was leaning against the wall, a bottle of water in his hand. He was drinking it slowly, his eyes looking up and meeting yours.

Will looked over at you and gave you a wink. "Did you enjoy the show?"

"Oh my god, yes. That was incredible." You were trying to be professional, but your excitement was starting to show through, an excitement that Santiago could start to see through.

Santiago clapped his hands together. "Excellent. Now that we've broken your legs, I think it's time for the afterparty. Are you coming with us?"

"The afterparty?"

"Of course," Tom chimed in, "you don't have to go, but it might give you some time to chat with the guys more and get some quotes. These things tend to be a good time so I can also book you a room, on us. It's at the Chateau Marmont."

"Holy shit."

"That's the spirit." Santiago winked.

You hesitated, knowing how big a decision this was. The idea of the afterparty excited you, but it was also a chance to spend more time with these guys. To talk to them one-on-one and maybe get some insights that would really sell the article.

You took a deep breath and looked around the room, at the guys waiting expectantly.

"Alright, count me in."

You could have sworn you saw Frankie's lip twitch up into a smile.

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The afterparty was at a bungalow at the Chateau Marmont and it was a mess of people, noise, and debauchery. You tried to take it all in but you just couldn't. There was too much happening at once.

You found a bar top to sit at, watching the scene unfold. Santiago was at the piano playing some old jazz tunes and laughing with gorgeous women surrounding him. Tom was chatting up some record exec, a scotch in his hand. You even saw Benny and Will having an impromptu arm wrestling match in the corner. Frankie so far wasn't anywhere to be found.

The music, the lights, the alcohol. All of it was almost overwhelming and you were starting to wonder why you decided to come.

This world of excess and debauchery was so foreign to you, a far cry from the quiet solitude of your apartment where you usually did your writing. You've been to parties but nothing like this. You thought about your male coworkers at Rolling Stone, who seemed to fit seamlessly into the rock and roll lifestyle, effortlessly bonding with their subjects over shared experiences and unspoken understandings.

You focused on scribbling notes in your notebook, trying to make sense of the chaos around you and organize your thoughts about the concert. The more you wrote, the more your head cleared, and you found yourself able to better compartmentalize everything you'd experienced.

As you were finishing up your notes, you felt a tap on your shoulder.

"Hey."

You turned and saw Santiago standing behind you. He had a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand and his eyes were slightly bloodshot.

"Hey." You replied.

He moved to stand beside you, looking at the party in front of you.

"What are you doing over here by yourself? Having fun?" He asked, taking a swig of the whiskey.

You shrugged, "I guess I just wanted to take everything in, get a feel of the scene. "

"Through your notepad?" He asked, gesturing towards your notes.

"Yeah, uh, it's easier for me to write things down."

"Ah," he took another swig, "can I ask you a question?"

You looked up at him. He was staring down at you, a smirk on his face.

"Sure."

"Why do you wanna write a story about us?"

It wasn't the question you were expecting. You had prepared for a list of generic questions like how you got into writing and your favorite bands, but this one caught you off guard.

"Because..." You hesitated, not sure how to answer, "...because I think you guys are cool."

Santiago smirked, leaning in.

"Cool? That's it?"

"Yeah," you said, feeling slightly defensive. "I think you guys have something special."

He chuckled to himself, taking a joint from a walking passerby, and taking a hit. "That's what they all say."

"All who?"

"People, the press. They all want to write a story about the cool, rebellious, rock and roll band, but the thing is, no one ever actually gets it."

"Maybe because the people who write about you are only interested in the glamorous lifestyle and not the reality of it."

He cocked his eyebrow.

"The reality?"

"Yeah," you said, closing your notebook. "I don't want to write a story about what I see here. This is a party, a show. It's not what's real."

Santiago studied you for a moment, and you felt the tension in the air between you. It was as if he was trying to read you, to figure out what made you tick.

"I'm here to witness the magic, the brotherhood. You can feel the bond between you guys: it's real, it's tangible, it's magnetic. People come to see your shows to see it. Shit, people come to the Chateau Marmont at 1 AM to see it. People want more."

You met his gaze, unwavering. You weren't going to back down.

He laughed, taking a step back. "Okay, okay. I believe you."

You smiled, relieved.

"But I'm gonna let you in on a little secret…Tom? He's over the moon, hunky fuckin' dory that you're writing this piece, but the truth is? We're a little skeptical, a little worried. We wanna look good but we also don't want this to be a puff piece. You've convinced me though, I believe you when you say you wanna do something different. So here's the deal - if you want the real story, the one that matters, you need to prove it."

You swallowed.

"And how do I do that?"

He smirked, gesturing to the crowd. "Come hang with us, chill out, see how we are when it's just us. If you can do that, I'll tell you whatever you wanna know. If you wanna get to know the real us, you gotta dive in."

Santiago offered you the joint, and you took it from him, putting it to your lips and inhaling.

He grinned. "Welcome to the team."

You hesitated for a moment. You wanted to get the real story, the one that mattered, but you were afraid. What if you didn't fit in? What if the guys didn't like you?

But Santiago had a point. You needed to prove yourself, and what better way than by actually hanging out with the band?

So you sucked it up, took a long drag off the joint, and threw caution to the wind.

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You weren't sure how much time had passed, but the party was still in full swing. The doubts and fears that plagued you had floated away along with your sobriety. Santiago had been a great host, introducing you to people, making sure you had a drink in your hand, and keeping the conversation going. You'd lost track of how many drinks you'd had, but you were feeling good.

He'd also gotten you better acquainted with Will and Benny. Will was reserved but he was incredibly knowledgeable about music, and you spent most of your conversation talking about some of the more obscure bands you both liked in common. With Benny, he was the life of the party. He had an infectious smile and was quick to laugh.

Frankie was another story entirely.

Frankie had eventually been found at the party but he'd stayed off to the side, talking quietly with a group of people, occasionally smoking a cigarette or sipping from a glass. You watched him throughout the night.

He'd glance at you from time to time, his eyes dark and unreadable. His gaze would linger, sending shivers down your spine. You would try to catch his eye, but he'd look away before you could make contact.

A model that you recognized from a cover of Cosmopolitan pulled out a baggie of coke and offered some to everyone at the table. You politely declined and headed for the bathroom.

You walked around the hallway and saw a few sets of doors. You opened a door to see Tom sitting on the bed, the phone cord stretched across the room.

"Of course I'm thinking about this damn offer, it's all I can think about. Fuck, I just don't know if this is the right move. If I had another band under my roster the boys would kill me, but the money they're offering? It's the kind of money we can't turn down."

You tried to back out of the room quietly, but sobriety be damned, the heel of your shoe clicked loudly on the hardwood floor as you tripped. Tom turned, his eyebrows raised and his expression a mixture of surprise and concern.

You mouthed an apology and quickly made your way out of the room. Humiliation and embarrassment flooding through you, you decided you needed some air.

You made your way outside, the cool air hitting your face. You inhaled deeply, trying to clear your mind and slow your racing heart. You only had a bit of context but you knew that wasn't a conversation you were supposed to hear.

You sat down on the ground, resting your head against the wall. You could feel your body relax, the tension easing from your shoulders.

As you closed your eyes, the events of the evening replayed in your head. The music, the energy, the excitement.

Suddenly, you felt someone sit next to you. You looked over and saw Frankie, his expression still unreadable.

"Hey."

"Hi." You tried to sound casual, hoping the high pitch in your voice didn't sell you out.

He lit a cigarette, taking a long drag and exhaling slowly. The smoke curled in the air, dancing in the breeze.

You sat in silence for a moment, watching the smoke drift away, trying to distract yourself from the man in front of you.

"Having fun?" Frankie's voice was low and husky, his question caught you off guard. "What do you think of all of this so far?"

"It's definitely not what I'm used to."

He chuckled, and you couldn't help but smile. He took another cigarette from the carton, offering one to you.

You took the cigarette from him and he lit it, the flame flickering in the darkness. You felt the smoke fill your lungs.

"What are you used to then?" He asked, his eyes locked on yours.

"Lighting a joint at the end of a long day, writing a draft for an article, and throwing it in the trash. Sitting at home alone and wondering if I'm ever gonna break out."

Frankie smiled. "We're not what you expected, huh?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "Not at all."

You took another drag of the cigarette. The combination of weed, whiskey, and nicotine was making your head spin, and you couldn't stop the giggle that escaped your lips.

Frankie smirked.

"Lightweight."

You nodded, leaning your head against the wall. You looked over at Frankie, his profile illuminated by the moonlight. He was handsome, his jawline sharp and his lips full. His hair was tousled under his hat and his stubble was perfectly trimmed. You could see the muscles in his arms flex as he brought the cigarette to his mouth, and you felt your breath hitch.

You looked away, feeling a blush creep up your neck. You weren't sure if it was the alcohol, the drugs, or his presence that was making you feel so flustered.

"What are you doing out here anyways?" You asked, trying to distract yourself from the butterflies in your stomach.

Frankie shrugged, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I could ask you the same question."

You laughed, the alcohol and weed finally settling in.

"I was feeling a bit overwhelmed, I needed some fresh air."

Frankie nodded, understanding. "I'm not really one for big parties."

"Is that why you weren't around earlier?"

He gave you a curious look. "You really are quite the observant reporter."

You grinned. "I'm a professional."

He smirked, your gaze turning back to the sky. You couldn't help but feel his eyes linger on your skin, you felt like you were burning up.

"I'm just not a huge fan of the crowds. I like the music, the shows, but the parties are sometimes too much."

"I can understand that."

"Can you?"

You looked at him, surprised by his question. "Of course."

He raised his eyebrow. "How so?"

You shrugged. "I've had my share of experiences. Not quite like this, but enough that I get it. Sometimes I'd rather just sit back with a joint and observe it all."

Frankie's lips twitched into a small smile. "Me too."

You couldn't help but smile back. He seemed much less guarded now.

You took another drag of your cigarette; the smoke swirling around the two of you.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Frankie glanced at you, the corner of his mouth twitching again.

"Sure."

"What brought you into music? How'd you end up here?"

He considered your question for a moment, tapping the ashes of his cigarette.

"Well, I just always loved music. I was a quiet kid and my parents weren't around a lot. Santi moved to Miami when we were eight and we just immediately hit it off. Whatever he did, I did. If he joined the baseball team, I joined the baseball team. And then he started playing guitar. We'd sit in his garage for hours and play. I never knew I wanted to be a musician until then. It just felt right."

He paused, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

"How'd you get into journalism?"

You froze. The truth was, you had no idea. You just always felt drawn to writing. You had a knack for it and it came easily to you. You never had any grand plan or vision, it was more like a calling.

"I guess I just felt called to it. I was always writing stories as a kid and then I wanted to write about real people and real stories."

He studied you, his eyes searching yours.

"So far, do you like my story?"

You grinned, "I don't know your story yet."

He smiled, exposing a dimple as you felt your heart skip a beat.

"It's been a long time since I've actually talked to someone like this."

"Me too."

There was a moment of comfortable silence. You could hear the sounds of the city around you, the cars honking, the music and laughter drifting from inside. Suddenly, you heard the door open and Tom stepped out.

"Some chick from Apple Records just threw up on my Italian boots. This is a disaster."

Frankie rolled his eyes. "You've had worse, Tom."

Tom groaned. "I'm gonna call it a night. You guys have that radio station interview tomorrow and I need to get ready for it in the morning."

"I should probably get some sleep too." Frankie stretched out and yawned, his shirt riding up and exposing a strip of skin above the waistband of his jeans.

You felt your mouth go dry and quickly looked away.

"Did you get the room key I left for you?" Tom asked you. "We rented out the whole second floor, so you've got your pick of rooms."

"Yeah, thanks." You dug into your back pocket, pulling out the key.

"I gotta clean this shit up so I'll see you guys in the morning."

He retreated away from the cottage, leaving you and Frankie alone once more.

You stood, dusting off the back of your pants. "I guess I should get some sleep, I'm pretty wasted."

"I'm heading up myself, so I can walk you to your hotel room."

"Oh, okay." You said in a high-pitched tone.

"Unless you don't want me to."

"No! No, I want you to, I just wasn't sure if you wanted to say goodnight to the guys?"

"They're honestly too fucked up to remember anything right now. Besides, I'd rather make sure you get there safe."

You blushed, the alcohol and weed still affecting you. "Thanks."

You and Frankie made your way back into the main building, the party still raging on from the cottage nearby. While you walked through the halls and into the elevator, you marveled at the luxury of the famous chateau. You'd heard so many stories but to say you'd gone to a party there, even for a couple of hours, was something you’d never forget.

The two of you got into the elevator, and you were acutely aware of Frankie's presence. He was tall–at least a foot taller than you–and his shoulders were broad and muscular. You could smell his scent, a mixture of spice, nicotine, and citrus.

The both of you got off on the second floor, walking silently down the hallway. The hotel was dark and quiet; it was as if the rest of the world had faded away.

You reached your room, fumbling with the key and unlocking the door.

"This is me."

Frankie nodded. "Good night."

You stepped into the room and turned around, watching as he walked away.

"Good night."

You watched him disappear around the corner, the butterflies in your stomach erupting again.

Once the door had shut behind you, you exhaled a breath you didn't realize you were holding. You were still buzzing from the alcohol and the pot but there was something else, an energy that you hadn't felt before.

You stripped off your clothes, letting them pool on the floor, and crawled into the bed. As you drifted off, you felt yourself smile.

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

You were jolted awake by the shrill ring of the hotel telephone. Before you could even think, your head was already pounding from last night and its excess. You squinted at the clock next to you, the bold white words focusing on 9:30 AM.

"Hello?" Your voice was hoarse and still heavy with sleep.

"Morning! It's Tom." Tom sounded surprisingly chipper given last night's circumstances with his Italian shoes. Not one to beat around the bush, he started, "I have a proposition for you."

You were instantly alert, sitting up straight in the bed. "Oh yeah? What's that?"

"I had a long talk with Santiago this morning. About you."

You swallowed nervously. You knew that whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

"Okay.."

"He told me that you really want to tell the real story of the band, that you want to get to the bottom of who we are."

You paused, considering your words carefully.

"That's correct. I think there's more to your story, more than meets the eye."

"That's exactly what I thought, which is why I have an offer for you."

You held your breath. You didn't want to seem eager but you couldn't help the excitement building inside of you.

"I'm listening."

"Rolling Stone wants an in-depth piece, right? Well, what better way to get that than by joining us on tour?"

Your heart skipped a beat as his words sunk in.

"You mean..go on tour with you guys? Be a part of the band?"

"It's the only way to really understand us, right? Get into our world, our culture, and experience it for yourself. I already pitched it to your editor and he said as long as the label pays for expenses and you're game, he's game."

You were astounded at the things that Tom Davis could get done before noon.

"But..how would that work? Where would I stay? I don't have any experience touring or writing on the road."

You took a deep breath, processing everything Tom had just told you. "I'd be lying if I said that this wasn't an incredible offer."

"An incredible offer you can't refuse?"

You couldn't help but smile, the adrenaline coursing through your veins. "An incredible offer I can't refuse."

Tom let out a hearty laugh, "That's what I like to hear! Look, we've already discussed it amongst ourselves, and as for accommodations, we're a tight-knit group, we always look out for one another. You'll have a place to crash every night, always a nice hotel to stay in."

Your mind was racing with possibilities. The chance to immerse yourself in their world, to witness their artistry up close and personal—it was an opportunity unlike any other. "What about interviews? Will I have unrestricted access?"

Tom nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely. We want this to be as authentic as possible. You'll have full access to everyone in the band, backstage, on the bus, wherever we go. Just promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"Promise me you won't hold back. We want the real story, the gritty details, the highs and lows of life on the road. Don't sugarcoat anything."

You nodded with determination. "I promise, Tom. I'll give it my all."

"Good," he said with a satisfied smile. "I have a feeling you're going to fit right in."

As you pressed down on the end call button, a surge of adrenaline shot through your veins. This was it - the opportunity to delve deep into the core of the band and capture their raw energy in words for all to experience. Just thinking about it made your heart race, and as you thought of Frankie, you felt an unfamiliar warmth in your belly.

You'd have a new adventure ahead of you, one that would change your life forever.

#frankie morales #triple frontier #frankie catfish morales #Frankie morales smut #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x y/n #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie catfish morales x you #triple frontier au #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier smut #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fic

[ragingbookdragon]

hello bubuuu, how are u? i hope that ur fine :) can I request something? could u write strangers to lovers with ghost x fem reader? ignore this if ur uncomfy :) xx

the only time i've ever been made uncomfortable by an ask was when an anon asked me if i would write a fic where the kink was breeding and i was...floored, and not in the good way

but here you go <3

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

The first time he shows up in her bar it’s an hour to closing, there’s barely a handful of people in the bar at this point, most of her regulars already gone home for the night. He’s an odd one to peg already, dressed in all black, hood raised, and a black mask covering his forehead and lower face; only his eyes are exposed, but even then, they’re covered in what looks like soot. He sits on the very last stool furthest away from the doors and waits.

“What can I get you, babe?” she asks, propping an elbow on the bar.

“Bourbon, neat,” he replies, a rumble of a voice like thunder on the distant Birmingham skies.

She hums as she gets a glass. “Any specific kind?”

“Kentucky.”

“Ah, a good ole boy, aren’t you?” she teases and grabs a bottle of amber liquid; pours more than a generous amount for him, she’s not about to question his day, it already looks like a rough one. She places it in front of him about the time he’s pulling out a tenner. “On the house,” she smiles and his hand freezes before he puts it away.

“Thanks,” he mutters lowly, and she can tell he wants to be left alone while he drinks.

She throws the towel over her shoulder and givers him another smile. “Let me know if you need anything else, babe.”

When she comes back a few minutes later, he’s gone and she’s rather surprised that she hadn’t even noticed the man leave, as big as he was, she should’ve at least seen him, but not even Barry, her bouncer, saw him. She reaches for the glass and chuckles at the tenner tucked underneath it.

***

“You’re not from Birmingham, are you?” he asks, one evening, and she’s shocked to hear him even talk to her.

“Me?” she repeats, as if he’s speaking to anyone else. “No, I’m not from here.”

“The bar’s American.”

“It is. Based on World War Two and other American wars. A family friend who took me in as a kid was a Vietnam vet. I dedicated the bar to him and other Americans who fought in wars then and now.” She cleans a glass. “You military?”

“Army.”

“From the way you carry yourself, I say special forces. SAS, isn’t it?”

“Mhm.”

She takes a long look at him, the mask riding just above his upper lip. “You’re an odd sort of fellow, you know that, right?”

“I’ve been told.”

“So, what’s the deal with the mask? Is it a comfort thing? Security? Both?”

He looks back at her, slate gray eyes staring right through her; it makes shivers ripple up and down her spine. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“I am bartender,” she chirps and sets the glass down. “I like to know my regulars.”

“I’ve only been here twice.”

“And if you didn’t feel comfortable, you wouldn’t’ve come back, babe,” she says knowingly, looking at him. “Have a name?”

“Ghost.”

“Hmm…how fitting.” She sets another bourbon down and takes the empty glass he has. “Let me know if you need anything.”

***

It’s a regular occurrence over the next few months to see Ghost in her bar an hour before closing. She recognizes he likes the silence and peace that last call brings. She’s gotten into the habit of setting his drink up exactly a minute before he walks in. Which is always ten on the dot.

This time, when he sits, he pushes the glass forward and she’s confused. “Want a fresh one?”

“What do you like?” he asks, looking at her.

“Oddly enough, I’m not a good ole girl.”

He smiles at that, and she knows by the way his gray eyes crinkle.

“Why don’t I make you something I’d like and see how you like it?”

“Surprise me then, love.”

It only takes a few minutes of vigorous shaking and switching liquors and Ghost has a tall, yellow fruity drink in front of him, complete with whipped cream and pineapple on top.

“Voilà.”

He blinks. “What…is that?”

“Hawaiian Rum Punch. Spiced and dark rum, pineapple liquor, passionfruit and pineapple juice. Little bit of sun in the gloomy English weather.”

Ghost snorts as he picks it up and takes the straw in his fingers, sipping it. “Funny.”

She waits, a slow-spreading grin on her face as she watches for his reaction. “Well?”

“It’s good. A little too sweet for me,” he replies honestly, and puts it down. “You’re good though.”

She reaches over with the towel and nicks the corner of his mouth where the whipped cream got him. “I know I am.” As she walks off to attend to another customer, she calls, “Drink your bourbon, good ole boy!”

***

It’s the rare night that the bar is closed that she’s out on her own, visiting an older family friend at the base on the other side of the city. She’s only been once, but this time, he’d insisted on her coming. Plus, she had a bottle of old whiskey on hand, so she knew he wanted that too. He escorts her inside, answering her few questions she asks with more grunts than answers.

“How’ve the missions been going?”

“Good. Just finished a hefty one out in Syria.”

“Interesting. Have to tell me about it tonight.”

“I will. Soap will want to brag.”

“Soap?”

“New team member. Made the mission a success with his demolitions.”

She smiles as he wraps his arm around her outside the door. “It’s good to see you, Price. It’s been a while since you came to the bar.”

“I’ve been coming, you just haven’t seen me there.”

Her brows pull in confusion but he opens the door and there’s a group of men surrounding a card table; all of them look up, but one looks shocked.

“Ghost?” she asks and turns to Price. “Did you send Ghost to scope out my bar?”

“I had to keep an eye one you somehow,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know your Uncle Tommy would’ve wanted me to.” He nudges her. “Besides, Simon would’ve protected you if anything bad happened.”

“I can protect myself,” she retorts, sticking her nose in the air. “I only went through six months of rigorous training with you and Uncle Tommy.”

She walks over and around Ghost with the bottle, grabbing a glass from the table to set beside him; cracking the bottle, she pours him a round before leaning on his shoulders and asking, “So, Simon, is it?”

Simon takes the cigarette from between his lips, grinds it out before he looks up at her and replies, “I thought it was ‘babe’?”

“I call everyone babe.” She smiles at him. “If you want to be special, you’ve gotta take me out.”

“I can do that.”

#simon riley imagine #simon riley imagines #simon riley x reader imagine #simon riley x reader imagines #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost imagines #ghost imagine #ghost x reader imagine #ghost x reader imagines #ghost x reader #ghost #cod imagines #cod imagine #call of duty imagines #call of duty imagine #call of duty #mw2 imagines #mw2 imagine #mw2 #soap #john soap mactavish #john mactavish #captain john price #captain johnathan price #jonathan price #john price #price

[fanfreakinfiction]

Listen to the Music

Chapter One: Should've Been a Cowboy

Masterlist 🖤

7.3K Words // Joel Miller x f!southern Reader

Pairing: Joel Miller x younger/southern!reader (Could be video game Joel or HBO Joel. I like the 2003 timeline though, so we’ll just pretend the 2003 timeline is canon for both.) 

Chapters: 

One - Should’ve Been a Cowboy 

Summary: Jackson gets a jukebox which mean’s Joel has to install it! Annoying for him, but exciting for one certain someone who loves music. 

Tags: Multipart, SUPER slowburn, eventual smut, FLUFF, age difference, M/F, canon type violence, drinking, smoking, alchol, reader gives off innocent vibes but isn’t, Joel is grumpy, reader is southern, corny ass music transitions bc i love it, slight mention of religion (reader is from the bible belt), some mentions of smut.

A/N: Set in Jackson - probably a little out of canon but just rollll wit it. This is also a split POV! Also if you love 90s country music you will like this. I made a Tipsy Bison Playlist for you guys to check out where none of the music was made past 2003. 

Jackson was buzzing, quite literally. Every corner you turned, someone was eager to share the latest news.

"Y/n! Did you hear? Jesse and Astrid brought back that jukebox from the ski lodge! They’re gonna fix it up and put it in the Tipsy Bison!" Olivia shouted breathlessly from the stables' entrance, her jet-black hair falling in disarray around her face.

"Hell 'liv, you ran all the way here to tell me that?" You chuckled, taking a break from shoveling muck in the stables. Your Southern drawl emerged breathy and unusual from not conversing with anyone for the past hour. Wiping your forehead with the back of your hand, you greeted the teenage girl with a warm smile as she rushed to embrace you.

"Well, yeah! Mom said you liked music! Told me to come tell you! Said to meet her and Ginger there at 7:00 sharp!" Olivia exclaimed with contagious excitement.

You laughed, returning the embrace and appreciating the bond you'd formed with the young girl over the years.

The first friend you'd made upon arriving in Jackson was Caroline, a slender woman with blonde hair and blue eyes, and a mouth that matched yours. Hugging her hip was a young girl, Olivia, with jet-black hair and the same blue eyes. At the time, Olivia couldn't have been more than seven. In the four years since, Caroline had become like a sister to you, and Olivia like a niece. It was bittersweet watching her grow up, but you’d protect that little girl with your life.

"Well, your momma is right about that," you said, tucking a strand of hair behind Olivia's ear. "And I hate to tell ya, darlin', but Ellie beat you to it. I heard about the jukebox from her this morning." You turned Olivia towards Ellie, who was busy in the back of the stables, hunched over a worktable, oiling an old saddle Mike had found during a recent patrol.

"Ellie’s here?!" Olivia squealed, running off to join Ellie at the back of the stable.

Shaking your head with a laugh, you turned back to your work, the girls' excited chatter filling the stables.

As 6 pm approached, Ellie abandoned the saddle for a conversation with Olivia. Although it irritated you slightly, it also warmed your heart to see Olivia making friends her age. In this post-apocalyptic world, friends were a rare commodity, especially outside of safe havens like Jackson.

You were only five years old when outbreak day happened. Your parents were at work, and you were at daycare. You vaguely recalled your daycare teacher trying to stay calm, but panic eventually overtook her as she locked all the children in the bathroom. Your grandparents, miraculously, arrived to rescue you. Your grandfather, a Vietnam Vet who’d served two tours before leaving the military, was also a grizzled cowboy. He owned a ranch where he boarded and broke horses.

The most vivid memory you had of outbreak day was your grandfather bursting into the daycare with a .308 Winchester in hand, calling for you frantically. You recalled him nearly pulling your arms out as he scooped you up, then handing you over to your crying grandmother. Your grandfather reprimanded the daycare teacher sternly, instructing her to get the kids to a military outpost at the airport and then evacuate Tulsa. The exact words had faded from your memory.

You remembered the scent of your grandmother's perfume as you clung to her while she carried you out of the daycare. Fighter jets roared overhead, and you covered your ears as your grandmother hurried to their old Jeep. Your grandfather opened the passenger door for your grandmother, and she kissed your head. During the two-hour drive from Tulsa, Oklahoma, to his ranch, your grandmother had you play a game called "Keep Your Eyes On Jesus," where you'd focus on the silver cross necklace she always wore. That day marked the end of your life in the city and your chances of making friends. Your childhood died on the daycare bathroom floor.

"Helloooo, earth to Miss Y/l/n?!" Ellie's voice suddenly snapped you out of your thoughts as you continued to organize bridles, leads, and cinches.

You turned abruptly. "Hmm?" was all you managed as you met Ellie's gaze.

Ellie pointed to her empty wrist, giving you a knowing look. “It’s 6:20,” she said, her tone almost teasing.

"Shit," you murmured, quickly shoving tack items back into makeshift storage bins. Ellie laughed as she headed out of the stables with Olivia in tow.

---

Joel was exhausted, bone-deep tired. His knees ached, his back throbbed, and a relentless headache pounded behind his eyes. All this fuss over a damn jukebox.

Now, don't get him wrong; Joel loved music as much as the next person, and he understood why the whole town was buzzing with excitement. But he felt like people were acting as if they'd found a cure for the infection, not an old jukebox.

And yet, there he was, in the Tipsy Bison, helping to secure the wiring for the ancient contraption. A small crowd of men gathered around, drinks in hand, watching him work. Not a single one offered to help, and Joel knew why, but it still irked him to have the entire town gawking at him.

"You got time for leanin', you got time for cleanin'," Joel's dad used to say when he and Tommy were watching him work.

"Will it work?" Seth's voice interrupted his thoughts from over the bar.

Joel responded with a grunt as he connected two wires, causing the jukebox to spring to life. The bar fell silent, and Joel felt a wave of annoyance—or perhaps embarrassment—wash over him as he sensed everyone's eyes on him.

Slowly, he stood up from his crouched position on the dusty floor, his knees cracking in protest. He examined the jukebox, its lights aglow with a soft, white hue. However, the interior glass was so filthy that the song list was barely readable. His gaze fell on a doorbell wired to the coin slot. Joel pressed it once, his eyes scanning the various lettered and numbered buttons.

"S2," he mumbled to himself, thinking of Sarah as he hovered over the letter. With all eyes in the room on the back of his head, he slowly pressed the buttons into the old metal board of the machine, each button emitting a satisfying 'click.'

Silence enveloped the room, followed by a whirring sound.

Please don't make me look like a fool in front of the whole town, Joel silently pleaded, not caring to whom he addressed his thoughts—God, Satan, or Buddha.

Another click, more whirring, and then the old jukebox started singing like a canary.

"I'm in a hurry to get things done 

Oh, I rush and rush until life's no fun 

All I really gotta do is live and die 

Even I'm in a hurry and don't know why…"

The room erupted into cheers and hollers as the song "I'm in a Hurry" by Alabama filled the space. Joel released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. A hand clapped his shoulder, followed by another pat on his bicep, as various townsfolk expressed their gratitude. He grunted in response, uncomfortable with the attention. He couldn't help but think he preferred it when the town treated him like some cryptid.

"Joel... drinks are on the house tonight. I think this'll be the busiest night since we found that Bud Light truck," Seth said, crossing his arms and standing next to Joel to admire his work. Joel shifted uncomfortably but nodded his thanks to the man.

"So, uh, how does it work with no coins, I mean?" Seth asked, looking at the old doorbell attached to the wiring coming from the coin slot.

Joel let out a soft huff. "That there is the 'coin,' per se. Push it however many times for however many songs, but… I'd maybe limit people to three," he quipped, attempting dry humor.

Seth smiled crookedly. "Yeah, I'd hate to hear the same shit twenty times in one day."

Joel sighed. "Yeah, let me see what I can do about the glass, and it'll be nearly new."

With that, Joel carefully worked the glass out of the jukebox, his eyes widening slightly as he pulled back the grimy cover. He didn't know what he had expected, but this jukebox seemed like a unicorn. As he pulled back the filthy glass, a list of songs greeted him—mostly country music, some '80s hits, and a few oldies like Frank Sinatra. Seth whistled softly behind Joel's right shoulder as the music filled the cozy bar.

"Can't be late, I leave in plenty of time 

Shakin' hands with the clock 

I can't stop 

I'm on a roll, and I'm ready to rock…"

———

The snow crunches beneath your boots as you speed walk through the snow towards your tiny cottage on the outskirts of Jackson. It was a modest two-bedroom, one-bathroom house, but it had a porch with a breathtaking view of the mountains. The unusual emptiness of the streets at this hour suggested that most of the town's residents were either at the Community Kitchen or the Tipsy Bison.

Almost slipping on your porch steps, you chuckled to yourself, attributing it to the icy snow. Unlocking your front door, you immediately shed layers of clothing in a trail leading to the bathroom. Excitement pulsed through you as you started the shower, envisioning the possibilities that the jukebox might hold. Maybe it would play Johnny Cash or some new Alan Jackson track you hadn't heard before. Alan Jackson held a special place in your heart.

Thoughts raced as you hurried through your shower, eager to join the buzz of the town. Drying your hair hastily, you searched for your special occasion jeans. They were a pair of dark-washed Levi's, the kind you'd nearly sold your soul for at one of the general stores. They hugged you perfectly in all the right places and, most importantly, were clean—devoid of stains or blood.

Pulling them up over your hips and buttoning them up, you checked yourself out in the mirror. A dark red sweater with a v-neck and your patrol boots completed the look. You adjusted the silver cross necklace around your neck, a memento from your grandmother, and heard her voice echo in your mind.

"Just keep your eyes on Jesus, baby… we're almost to the ranch."

Breaking your reverie, you felt ready to head out for drinks and music. Slipping into your coat, you ventured out into the sunset-lit, snow-covered streets of Jackson. The Tipsy Bison came into view after a short walk, and your excitement threatened to burst from you. The line outside the bar, however, crushed your spirits.

"No way..." you muttered, coming to a halt. The entire town seemed to be here. You watched from a distance, scanning the crowd until your eyes landed on a blonde-haired woman nearing the front of the line. She turned and made eye contact, flashing a wild smile as she waved you over.

There was a hint of apologetic awkwardness as you joined your friend. Some people in line shot you dirty looks for cutting, but it’s not like the bar’s gonna grow legs and walk away. 

"About TIME!" Caroline exclaimed, enveloping you in a warm embrace as you met her outside the bar. "Ginger's already inside; she got us a spot at the bar!" Her excitement was contagious.

"Sorry! I had to go home and change. I didn't wanna come out smellin’ like a horse," you apologized, returning the hug.

"Oh honey, a shower doesn’t change that," she teased, playfully elbowing you.

"Caroline!" You gasped, feigning offense, and lightly elbowed her in return.

Curious, you peered into the bar, attempting to glimpse over the tall men in front of you. Music wafted out, and you heard the buzz of chatter as people walked in and out.

“It’s a shit ton of Country music," you overheard someone say as they walked away, "Well, what’d you expect from a ski lodge in Wyoming in 2003?” came the retort. Caroline shot you a knowing look, and you suppressed a smile.

The line gradually moved forward, and you stepped into the warm atmosphere. Caroline hung up her coat, and you couldn't help but shoot her an envious glance at her overly dressy top – a pink silk halter tied tank top that accentuated her figure beautifully.

“The hell’d you find that?!” You asked, a mix of curiosity and a hint of jealousy in your voice. It made her cleavage stand out, and it seemed perfectly timed as an unfamiliar song started playing from the jukebox, capturing everyone's attention.

“Her hair was Harlow gold 

Her lips a sweet surprise 

Her hands were never cold 

She had Bette Davis eyes…”

Being on your own for so long after your grandparents had passed had made you lose a sense of pride in your appearance. But being in Jackson, surrounded by other women again, ignited that desire to care once more. Caroline had been instrumental in helping you rediscover your femininity, teaching you how to braid your hair and transform dull button-ups into something more womanly. Caroline had been a high school senior when the outbreak happened, with a life and dreams you couldn't relate to. She aimed for Harvard, wanting to be like Elle Woods from a movie called "Legally Blonde." Those aspirations had seemed foreign, considering your upbringing on the Ranch, where your grandfather taught you to care for animals, garden, hunt, fish, and, of course, how to shoot – and shoot well. 

Caroline was the first person to make you question your beauty, to make something seemingly frivolous in the apocalypse feel essential.

"I believe that caring for myself isn’t self-indulgent, but rather an act of survival," Caroline had told you when you questioned the worth of bartering for old Avon makeup from the general store.

Caroline took your hand, pulling you toward where Ginger had miraculously saved some standing room at the bar. You hardly noticed as your gaze fixated on the Jukebox, where a line of people awaited their turn to pick a song. Your heart sank a little; you didn't think Caroline or Ginger had the patience to wait for you to choose a song.

Stepping up to the worn wooden bar, you were greeted by Seth's crooked smile. "Be back with ya in a minute, ladies," he said, his old hands moving as fast as they could to serve the bustling crowd.

"Bout time!" Ginger exclaimed as you turned to her. "I didn't think Seth'd let me save space any longer," she added with a laugh, her eyes scanning your and Caroline's outfits with admiration. "Damn girl! What'd you have to sell for those?!" She playfully ran her hand over the material of your jeans.

You rolled your eyes dramatically. "Oh, you have NO idea!" you began, but before you could continue, Seth returned.

"Two whiskeys, please," Caroline ordered for both of you, prompting you to resume your story. "You wouldn't believe it, okay..."

"Here we go..." Caroline rolled her eyes, and you playfully nudged her. Ginger hadn't heard this story before, and you were eager to share.

"I was rummaging through a house right after I'd left the ranch, and I found a Walkman! Battery-operated and a whole box of cassettes," you explained as Seth brought the whiskey back. Ginger listened intently as you continued. "I picked up some of the names I recognized from the pile. I ended up with like 10 tapes and a whole pile of batteries!" You took a swig and leaned on the bar top, facing Ginger, while Caroline leaned on your shoulder, clearly having heard this story many times before.

"Who were the tapes of?" Ginger asked, taking a swig of her dwindling beer.

"So I had an Alan Jackson cassette, I had a Shania Twain cassette, hmm oh! Johnny Cash's greatest hits, which were technically four tapes, one Journey cassette, George Strait, and then I even found a Marty Robbins tape!" You listed the tapes off, trying to recall them all.

"Sooo? What's this got to do with those Levi's?!" Ginger asked, laughing.

"Well, damn, hold on, sister, I'm tryna set the story up!" you retorted with a laugh.

"Anyways," you continued, "one day I'm navigating some thick woods. My headphones are around my neck, and I still have the music goin'. Well, I clipped the Walkman to the hip of my pants, and this fuckin' infected came outta nowhere!" You gestured dramatically with your hands. "This thing fuckin' leaps on me and pushes me up against a tree—"

"—crushes the Walkman!" You and Caroline said in unison, and all three of you burst into laughter, drawing the attention of others in the bar.

Tears welled in your eyes from laughing as you recounted the memory. "I'd never been so fucking mad in my life!" you recalled, trying to catch your breath. "I also haven't cried as hard since the day I lost that thing," you said dramatically as you took a drink. "Almost wish it'd bitten me instead of killin' my fuckin' Walkman," you added bitterly.

"Well, what did you do to it?" Ginger asked curiously.

"The infected? Oh. I fuckin' stomped that thing's head in," you deadpanned, throwing Ginger and Caroline into another fit of laughter. "Like... a lot," you repeated, deadpan again as you took another drink. "Fuckin' thing destroyed my Alan Jackson tape...anyways, I held onto the tapes, maybe out of bitterness. But once I got to Jackson, I traded the tapes for the jeans." Ginger made an "Oooh" sound, nodding as if she now completely understood.

Caroline tapped you on the shoulder, about to say something, when the sound of a very familiar song filled your ears, and you had to bite back the squeal that threatened to escape.

"It's Alan Jackson," you said, your eyes gleaming with a serious excitement that caught Ginger's attention.

"Come on," you said, pulling Caroline with you onto an opening in the bar floor as the chorus hit. You pulled her into a two-step, a dance you had seen your grandparents do every year on their anniversary.

"I should've been a cowboy 

I should've learned to rope and ride 

Wearin' my six-shooter, 

ridin' my pony on a cattle drive 

Stealin' the young girls' hearts 

Just like Gene and Roy 

Singin' those campfire songs

 Woah, I should've been a cowboy…"

You sang unabashedly, as if you, Caroline, and Alan Jackson were the only ones in the bar. Your head threw back in laughter after Caroline begrudgingly tried to match your steps. After a moment, you were so engrossed in your dance that you didn't even realize other people had joined in, dancing to the music. Ginger laughed from her spot at the bar as she watched your and Caroline's forgotten whiskeys.

———

Seth had been right. This was the busiest Joel had ever seen the Tipsy Bison. Brooding in the corner of the bar, tucked into a dimly lit table, Joel sat, nursing his fourth glass of free whiskey.

Shit. If Seth was offering, he wasn't gonna say no to free drinks.

Joel's tired eyes scanned the room as he tried to determine who he recognized and who he didn't. His gaze landed on a particularly familiar set of eyes. Tommy.

He watched as Tommy approached the secluded table, offering a crooked smile to the man.

"Big bad Joel fixed the jukebox?" Tommy teased as he sat down across from Joel.

"Did it for the free drinks," Joel retorted, attempting to deflect the sudden unwanted attention, his face flushing as he averted his brother's gaze.

"Well… you may have just earned some points with Maria," Tommy said with a genuine smile.

Joel smirked back. "Guess something good did come from this after all." He could feel the whiskey settling deep in his chest as he spoke to his brother.

Tommy glanced around at the crowd, but a roar of laughter snapped both of their heads toward the bar. Three women stood a few feet away, listening to one woman tell a story.

Joel narrowed his tired eyes. He didn't recognize the woman engrossed in her story. However, he did recognize the blonde with the revealing pink blouse. She scanned the patrons of the bar like a hawk, looking for her next prey and obviously uninterested in her friend's story.

The woman had approached Joel two days after he arrived with Ellie, asking to bum a cigarette and then bombarding him with a thousand questions as she batted her eyelashes at him. Her name was something like Karen, he couldn't quite recall. But when another bout of laughter reached his ears, his gaze locked onto your form, now less hidden behind the woman with her back to him.

He watched almost mesmerized as you laughed and smiled. Pretty, was the only thing his brain could manage. Suddenly, your face became very serious as you said something that made the two girls howl in laughter.

Tommy cleared his throat after an awkward silence, and Joel realized he had been completely caught staring at you. Their eyes met, and his little brother looked like he was about to say something smart, but Alan Jackson's music broke Tommy's focus.

"Holy shit! I forgot this song existed!" Tommy exclaimed with a nostalgic laugh.

Joel's attention was drawn back to the bar by another bout of laughter. Except, now, you had migrated to the middle of the room. Your arms were placed perfectly on the blonde chick as you began dancing. The blonde appeared obviously embarrassed by the sudden change, making a face of disdain. You laughed, the sound caressing Joel's ears, and he felt something stirring in him. Maybe it was the whiskey, but deep down, he knew it wasn't.

He and Tommy watched carefully as more patrons began to crowd the space, joining in the dance. Tommy let out a huff of laughter, his eyes now focused on the scene. As the song ended, everyone clapped, and Seth, the bartender, felt it appropriate to make an announcement.

"Everyone, thank Joel on your way out! He fixed up the jukebox," Seth declared, and a wave of applause and stares washed over Joel.

Joel could feel a flush creeping into his face at the attention. He cringed inwardly as all he could manage was a stupid smirk while looking down at his whiskey glass.

"Jukebox Joel!" someone in the crowd cheered, and Tommy choked on the beer he was drinking. Joel delivered a swift kick to Tommy's shin.

"Haha! What? Come on… it's better than Jackass Joel," Tommy laughed with a smirk as he teased Joel.

Joel actually let out a soft chuckle at that and shook his head as he looked back down at his empty glass. "Prick," Joel muttered softly as he glanced up at his little brother. "I'm gonna go get another." With a sigh, he pushed himself up from the table and made his way toward the bar to get another drink.

———

"I'm gonna go have a cigarette. Save me a spot!" Caroline swiftly moved to grab her coat, leaving you and Ginger at the bar.

Ginger looked at you. "So how's the stables?"

"Mmm, they're fine. I've recently gotten some help from this teenager, Ellie," you replied as you finished off your whiskey, paying no mind to the man who muscled in on Caroline's vacant space behind you.

"Is she a good help?" Ginger asked as she also finished off her beer.

"Depends on the day," you said with a soft laugh. "She's a great listener, just a little poor on the completion side of things. Like today, I asked her to oil this saddle Mike brought in from a patrol. Olivia stopped by to see me, and sure enough, Ellie just ended up talking with her for the last hour of the day. It's like she won't shut up. I swear, these outbreak babies are somethin' else," you added with an exasperated sigh. "She's a good kid, though. Smart as hell. I'm just mad I'll have to get up early to finish oiling the saddle before patrol." You finished with a final smile as you looked up to make eye contact with Ginger, who appeared as if she'd seen a ghost. She wasn't even looking at you but over your shoulder.

"Ginge?" you asked worriedly, placing a hand on her shoulder to shake her a bit.

"I'm gonna go grab a cigarette," she said hurriedly, shaking your hand off her as she all but ran out of the bar, leaving you standing there stunned.

In an instant, your senses tingled with the presence of an imposing, commanding figure emanating a cocoon of warmth from the shadows behind you. A shiver of anticipation raced down your spine, and a cascade of goosebumps rippled across your skin as you executed a deliberate, almost theatrical pivot to meet the piercing gaze of none other than Joel Fucking Miller.

———

If Joel had a dollar for every face he'd seen turn away from him in fear, he would've been a millionaire twelve years ago. But nothing felt as satisfying to him as watching your little friend scamper off to leave you with him.

He waited patiently for you to turn around before he spoke. His eyes drifted from the back of your head, tracing the contours of your figure, to rest on the soft curve of your ass. The sight made his breath hitch, and his gaze locked onto a familiar little red tag that stared back at him—Levi's.

Fuck  he thought to himself. Those must've cost a pretty thing like you a whole lot.

After what felt like ages, you finally turned to meet his gaze. Your soft, youthful face surprised him. You were young, younger than him, maybe even younger than Sarah would've been.

Your lips parted slightly as you gazed up at him with your fucking doe eyes. His eyes traveled south from your lips to the silver cross around your neck. He cringed internally, his gaze shifting away from your neck as he signaled to Seth at the bar.

"Mr. Miller..." Your voice fell warily from your lips, carrying a soft southern accent that caught his ear.

Joel grunted softly. "Mhmm," he replied, waiting for Seth to bring his last whiskey of the night. He had to force himself to look away from you.

"You're… Ellie's dad?" Your voice sounded sheepish, not in the usual "I'm scared of you" kind of way he was accustomed to in this town, but in a "I messed up" kind of way. He spared a glance at you, noticing how you fidgeted with your hands and struggled to make eye contact, trying to look up at him apologetically.

"Mhmm," was all Joel settled for after a long pause. Your face paled, and he had to look away to keep from laughing.

"I am so sorry, Mr. Miller!! Ellie has been a great help, and I'd love for her to st—" You sounded panicked, and he didn't like it.

"Kid's got ADHD or somethin'. Can't finish anything she starts…unless it's food or a sentence," the words flew from Joel's mouth before he could process what he had just said. Seth rounded the bar at that moment and handed Joel his whiskey.

Joel took the glass and was about to take a sip when your giggle froze him in his tracks. It wasn't a laugh or a chuckle, but a full-blown giggle.

"Haha! She is very food motivated! Sometimes I catch her going for the sugar cubes that are meant for the horses," you laughed as you spoke to him. Joel looked down at you with a crooked smirk, sipping his whiskey as he turned his attention back to his glass.

"Well… uhm, I should probably..." Your voice trailed off with a hint of uncertainty, and from his peripheral vision, Joel could make out a flush on your cheeks as you tried to awkwardly excuse yourself from his presence.

"You let me know if she gives you more trouble..." What the hell was he doing? Was he actually talking right now or was it the whiskey? Slowly, he turned to look at you, his left arm resting on the bar as he slowly set his glass down, shoving his right hand in his belt loop. You were flushed, perhaps you'd had too much to drink? Or maybe it was... nah. He looked into your eyes, his gaze searching yours for a moment before dropping to that stupid silver cross on your neck. He wanted to rip it off your neck while burying himself deep inside you. Your voice brought his attention from your neck and his thoughts to the present, where he stared into your eyes.

"Yeah… I, uh... I will." You almost sounded confused and curious. You were biting your lip, your face still flushed, your hair framing your face perfectly. He had to stop himself from grabbing you by the back of the head and forcing himself on you. "Thanks for fixin’ up the jukebox..." Long gone was the shy demeanor as your words came out like sultry silk. You stared back at him seriously, and he could tell you were being genuine. He tried to swallow the sudden dryness the whiskey had left in his mouth. His aching back and throbbing knees from fixin’ the damn thing long forgotten as he rolled your thanks around in his head.

Damn.

He grunted in response and, with a white-knuckle grip on his whiskey glass, he forced himself to walk away. He passed by you, his form squeezing around yours in the crowded bar as people danced. He forced himself to look straight ahead when your left shoulder grazed his chest as he nudged past you gently. He slinked his way back to his table in the corner, where Tommy and Maria now occupied two of the four chairs.

As soon as he approached, they eyed him and stopped talking almost immediately. Tommy spoke up first with a smirk. "So uh..."

"Shut it," Joel snapped, his words coming out harsher than he had intended, and Maria huffed.

"Be nice. You're on my good side for the night. Don't make that change before I've even had a chance to enjoy it," she glared at him. Leave it to Tommy to pick a hardass for his wife.

"She's nice, Joel, but... she's young," Maria said with a sigh.

He felt angry heat flicker in his belly, replacing the momentary desire. He glared at Maria, who stared right back at him, and he felt his jaw tighten, his teeth grinding.

"Hon, why don't we go dance... enjoy it while we can?" Tommy's voice rang out, and for once, Joel was thankful for his baby brother.

He watched carefully as Maria reluctantly agreed and let Tommy lead her away. Tommy shot Joel a knowing look as he disappeared into a sea of people. Joel settled back into his seat from before, his eyes scanning the now dancing and raucous crowd.

Unconsciously, he found himself searching for you, scanning the spot where you'd stood with your friends, but it was now occupied by some other men.

———

"What the fuck, Ginger?!" You spat harshly as you confronted the two girls who were practically shivering outside, puffing on a shared cigarette.

"What do you mean 'what the fuck'? You were runnin' your mouth about the scariest man in town's daughter!" Ginger retorted, a mischievous laugh escaping her lips. "I wasn't about to stand witness to you getting your teeth kicked in!" she added, taking another drag.

"Wait, you saw Joel Miller?!" Caroline chimed in as she put out the cigarette.

"Saw him?! She damn near insulted his daughter in front of him!" Ginger laughed, and you could feel your cheeks redden.

"I didn't know he was behind me! You could've said something! I had to apologize, standin' there like an abandoned idiot!" You playfully frogged Ginger on the arm, your accent growing thicker with anger.

"Ow!" Ginger winced as she rubbed her skinny arm through her leather coat.

"Wait, you actually talked to him?!" Caroline asked as if it were an impossible feat.

"Well, yeah. I felt kind of bad… Ellie is a good kid, she's just very talkative," you explained, crossing your arms to ward off the cold.

"And he talked back?" Caroline continued her interrogation.

"I mean if you can call a couple of pig-like grunts talking, then yeah, I guess," you replied with a shrug.

"Hmm…" Caroline offered as she gave you a once-over. "Come on, let's get back inside." She headed into the bar, with you and Ginger following behind.

The night passed fairly uneventfully, save for a few men asking for a dance. Caroline, as usual, was the star of the night, charming most of the men into buying her drinks and joining her on the dance floor. Ginger cozied up to a man you recognized from the kitchen, someone she had been with before. You were starting to feel the fatigue kick in when you realized the line for the jukebox had drastically shortened. Excitedly, you made your way to the magical machine, your eyes scanning the list of songs. You were in awe of the extensive selection: Journey, Patsy Cline – one of your grandmother's favorites, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, and some you didn't recognize at all, like Linda Ronstadt, ABBA, Earth, Wind & Fire…

You didn't even notice a presence near the bar, watching as you scanned the list in awe. Your fingers guided you, pressing the doorbell button connected to the coin slot, as you had watched so many people do all night. 

Your fingers grazed over the letter "J" for Joe—Jesus. "J" for Jesus, you mentally reprimanded yourself. Then you moved to a number, "5," your age on outbreak day. You listened to the machine click and whir in amazement. Unsure of the song title or the artist, you waited to hear the first chords.

"Came in from a rainy 

Thursday on the avenue 

Thought I heard you talking softly 

I turned on the lights, the TV, and the radio 

Still, I can't escape the ghost of you..."

Leaning on the jukebox, you listened to the foreign song by a band called Duran Duran. The lyrics suddenly made you feel melancholic as you absorbed each word.

"What has happened to it all?

 Crazy, some'd say 

Where is the life that I recognize? (Gone away)"

———

Joel couldn't help himself. He wanted to blame the whiskey, but deep down, he knew he wasn't even close to drunk. From his spot at the far end of the bar, he watched as you walked up to the damn jukebox. You looked like a kid on Christmas, that twinkle in your eye, just like Sarah when he threw her a surprise birthday party with all her friends, or like Ellie at the Museum…

He watched you hesitate when it was your turn to pick a song. His eyes drifted to those Levi's, like they had been poured onto you. The way they clung to your curves made his mind wander. He imagined himself coming up behind you in his kitchen while you prepared to cook something that he had hunted. His chest tucking into the curve of your back while he pressed his hips into the curve of your ass. The thought shot an arrow of fire straight to his groin. Fortunately for him, Maria's voice echoed in his head. "She's nice, Joel... but she's young." He knew Maria wasn't bullshitting him about that. You hardly looked the same age as the women you hung around with.

His gaze shifted from the curve of your hip to the profile of your face. From this angle, he could watch your eyes scanning the song choices. He wondered what you would choose and, for a fleeting moment, told himself that if you picked a slow song, he'd have to ask you to dance. He watched your face crinkle slightly as you read through the songs, likely because you didn't recognize most of them. Sipping his whiskey, he waited to see the outcome.

He observed as your fingers grazed the buttons until making their final destination. He couldn't help but imagine what those fingertips would feel like grazing his body in the same tender way. Your smile lit up when the jukebox whirred to life, and he released a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding when the song "Ordinary World" by Duran Duran began playing. It was an odd choice, he thought to himself.

The semi-familiar song filled the now-dwindling bar. Couples still danced, others nursed their beers, and some chatted. His eyes remained locked on your face as you listened intently. He could tell you had chosen the song on a whim, not knowing it. He sat and watched as the once-childlike wonder on your face slowly dissolved into a heartbreaking frown, one that he had seen a hundred times before on different women's faces.

Heat rose on his cheeks as he watched the blonde from earlier drunkenly sling her arm over your shoulder. Suddenly, he felt like a creep for watching you for so long. He turned his gaze back to his now-empty glass as Seth came over to offer him another. Politely declining, Joel stood up slowly, adjusted his coat, and, feeling a pang of regret, he slipped out the side door of the bar.

"But I won't cry for yesterday

There's an ordinary world

Somehow I have to find

And as I try to make my way

To the ordinary world

I will learn to survive"

———

"Come on, kiddo… time for you to walk me home," Caroline hummed in your ear, her arm slung around you. Her alcohol-laden breath pulled you out of your self-wallowing music session. You slid your left arm around her waist, providing some balance as she leaned her head on your shoulder.

"My dad loved Duran Duran…" Caroline slurred into your neck, and a shiver ran down your spine. She had only mentioned her father once before, and it had been followed by a request never to bring it up again. Hastily, you changed the subject and led her to the entrance of the bar to retrieve her coat.

You grabbed her dark purple barn coat and draped it around her shoulders, making sure she was bundled up, then zipped up your own coat tightly. Caroline took your hand as you began to walk, leaning heavily on you. It had to be late because as soon as you stepped outside the Tipsy Bison, you felt your hair freeze. Both your and Caroline's breath fogged up the space in front of you as you surveyed the mostly empty streets of Jackson. Caroline's house was on the other side of town, and you mentally prepared yourself for the chilly walk ahead when Caroline made a mumbled noise into the crook of your neck.

“‘S lookin at you all night..” she murmured as you helped her navigate the snow-covered streets.

"Hmm, darlin'?" you asked, guiding her carefully.

"He was lookin' at you!" she repeated, a bit louder this time.

Confused, you adjusted your hold on her to prevent any accidental slips that could bring both of you down in the snow. "Who was lookin'?" you inquired, but she didn't reply. Suddenly, she went limp in your arms, and you let out a soft yelp at the abrupt change in weight.

"Carol?!" you called, trying to stifle a laugh as she put her full weight on you. "Shit. How much did you drink, darlin'?" you groaned, realizing that you were going to have to carry her home.

The walk across town to Caroline's house had left you wide awake. After taking her shoes off and tucking her into bed alongside a peacefully sleeping Olivia, you left the house quietly, ensuring the door was locked behind you. Stepping back out into the night, you were greeted by the sight of the quiet town, blanketed in snow with darkness settling in. A shiver ran down your spine as you took in the serene atmosphere.

You began your journey toward your own home, which lay on the opposite end of town. However, as you walked, your thoughts wandered back to the saddle that Ellie hadn't finished oiling. Despite your tiredness, you knew that if you went home now, you'd simply lay in bed tossing and turning, unable to sleep. With a sigh, you turned on your heel and headed back towards the stables, your hands shoved deep into your pockets to ward off the cold.

As the stables came into view, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of your stomach. The door was ajar, and a soft light spilled out from within. You knew you had closed up for the night, and the thought of leaving a kerosene lamp burning in a barn full of hay and the town's most prized mode of transportation was, unthinkable.

An uneasy thought crossed your mind; maybe it was Maria or Tommy, someone needing to head out for a late-night patrol. However, such occurrences were rare unless there was an emergency. With cautious steps, you entered the stables as quietly as you could, your senses on high alert.

To your chagrin, you found the horses calmly chewing on the hay you had left for them hours ago. The pit in your stomach deepened as you scanned the area, trying to discern any signs of an intruder.

"H...Hello?" you called out, your voice sounding uncharacteristically shaky even to your own ears. You couldn't help but think sarcastically, Oooh, very threatening. In that moment a thought crossed your mind that maybe Jackson was making you soft. You stood there, waiting for a reply, but there was none.

Confused and still on edge, you carefully followed the source of the soft lantern light. It led you to the back of the stables and into the tack room, your footsteps echoing softly in the enclosed space.

There, almost right where Ellie had left it, you saw the saddle that Mike had found on his patrol. However, what caught your attention in the dimly lit room was the unmistakable sheen across the leather. It gleamed in the lantern light, catching your eye immediately. It had been fully oiled, a stark contrast to the untouched condition it had been in earlier when Ellie had been working on it.

Confusion wracked your body; did Joel make Ellie come back to oil the saddle? Your fingers gingerly rubbed the leather between your fingers. No, this wasn’t Ellie’s work; this was oiled to perfection. Ellie was a good kid, hell, a great kid considering all the other children who’d grown up in this hellscape, but she oiled saddles like she was pouring syrup on pancakes. No, this had been done by someone with skill and experience.

A soft smile crossed your face as you reached for the lantern. Maybe Joel Miller wasn't the monster your friends had told you about after all. You'd have to ask Ellie in the morning. 

As you stepped out of the barn, relocking everything up for the night, you couldn’t shake the warm feeling in your gut. A feeling you hadn’t felt since you’d eaten your last meal with your grandparents... a feeling that scared you.

Unbeknownst to you, a dark figure across the street watched from the shadows, illuminated only by the orange glow of his lit cigarette as he leaned against a column under the roof of the general store. Joel took a drag from his cigarette as he watched you relock the barn for the night. He tried to tell himself the warm feeling in his chest was from the cigarette he'd been puffing on, but he knew better.

Joel took one last drag from his cigarette, flicked it to the ground, and crushed it beneath his boot before heading home, maybe something good came from that damn jukebox after all… he thought to himself as his eyes followed your form walking off into the snowy darkness of Jackson.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #the last of us hbo #the last of us #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters

[doraambrose]

fav comic writer & artist?

Hello! Thanks for the awesome question!

I'm not sure I have a FAVORITE writer, but here are some I do like:

Shawn Martinbrough took over for RHATO Rebirth for the last couple issues and us writing Redhood: the Hill, and I did really like his writing for RHATO, much better than Scott Lobdell

Gretchen felker-Martin wrote Jason's issue for Titans Beast world tour: gotham and it was hands down the best jason characterization I've ever seen since under the redhood despite him being a furry in it lol. She might be my new favorite actually

Geoff Johns wrote Batman: three jokers and I gotta be honest, for all its flaws (including some jason and Barbara), it'd probably one of my favorite series. The mix of the art, the exploration of chronic pain and trauma because of the joker, ugh so good.

Of course, I've got to give props to Judd Winnick for lost days and under the red hood. How jason was before he was retconned into being a sloppy stupid hothead, he was clever, cunning, sneaky, SMART.

An honorable mention is for suicide squad get joker, but definitely not my favorite

As for artists, me! (Just kidding) that's also hard to pick just one favorite, but I LOVE these artists

Dexter soy has such a unique way of doing comic art, but I just love it. He makes jason look his age and not, you know, a 50 year old Vietnam War vet. And I love the way Artemis was drawn as a strong, tall amazon woman with muscles and not, you know, skinny feminine woman like old style comics.

I also just LOVE Alex maleev for his work in suicide squad get joker. The people are drawn well, the color palette, it's all so visually appealing. And again, jason isn't 50. It seems like a lot of comic artists forget that most members of the batfamily are in their 20s

Jason Fabok gets a mention for his art in batman three jokers. It was beautiful. Same reasons too. I'm also a sucker for line art

Finally, one of my most favorite artists isn't even a jason todd artist but I wish he was. Bruno Redondo does a lot of the art for the newer Nightwing comics and I LOVE IT. The color scheme is so visually stunning, everyone is drawn so well, it's beautiful.

And call me a narcissist but I gotta add some of my own art in here lmao but thanks for the ask!!! This is very exciting for me and I love talking about jason todd as he is someone I've studied and read everything about for the last few years

I've reached my image limit so I might start posting my own art as well

#jason todd #batfam #batman #bruce wayne #red hood #dick grayson #nightwing #dexter soy #dc comics #dcu #bruno redondo #judd winick #geoff johns #alex maleev #shawn martinbrough #gretchen felker martin #jason fabok #dc joker #dc haley #suicide squad #rhato #rhato rebirth

[terrence-silver]

Can you please do a scenario where Terrys beloved dies during childbirth and how he copes with his grief. Would he accept and love the baby or reject and blame the baby.

---

Like five hundred other people are to blame.

Surgeons. Doctors. Nurses. Midwives. The medical staff at the emergency room. The poor, unlucky chauffeur who drove the beloved to their usual appointments, for all we know. The measures they took. The measures they didn't take. The amount of dedication they clearly didn't show, in his opinion. It is the ultimate betrayal that'll get so many people hurt. When Terry Silver pays a sum for a service, he expects the service delivered to perfection and according to his instructions; that's how that social contract works because nothing's for free, and if you throw a whole fortune at something, you expect nothing but your vision delivered to you down to the smallest details. The fact that he was failed so catastrophically it resulted in the death of the person he covets and loves the most? Someone stripped away beyond his control to stop it!? When he trusted vetted professionals, the best of the best in their field, to do the job right!? I swear to god, heads will fly. He daydreams about what could've happened if he just kicked down the doors of the delivery room and carried beloved out of there before it was too fucking late. The revenge will be horrifying, though. People will lose jobs. Their licenses to practice medicine. They'll be blacklisted. Sued. They'll find their cars blown up. Their places of residence broken into. Burned down. The hospital they worked in foreclosed, bought out, bulldozed overnight and turned into an empty privately owned lot until not even a single brick remains of the place that killed beloved. For the love of all that's holy, some of the participants involved in the tragedy might even find their own loved ones done in by mysterious circumstances because blood can be only repaid by blood. A life for a life. And since Terry might just think the life of someone he loves is worth infinitely more than just one life, the retaliation can be truly awful and result in some many injured parties and so much damage it is pretty hard to describe just how far he'd go.

Pretty far, I'd reckon.

Murder, carnage and torture type of far.

When the dragon's been woken, it's impossible to get him to slumber again.

But, however far it does go, I doubt he'd ever blame his child; if anything, his possessiveness of them is only kickstarted into some very excessive territories day one seeing as how they're the last thing he has left off from beloved and the one thing that'll outlive him and carry him on, into the future, and so, all the more reason for him to be devoted to his offspring with all the lovesickness a human heart can produce, blaming, perhaps, himself, all the more, behind the narcissistic facade that he is infallible and all powerful. Terry actually feels he's entirely to blame, triggered into a bygone time where his clumsiness resulted in a friend's death, and here he is, decades later, at the very exact same place. He lost control then and he lost control now. Almost like he's back at the very same spot he was in Vietnam and he's still that scared, shivering boy in the cage and he's angry. Desperate. Vulnerable. And oh so feral. And everyone best beware. This is an issue that The Valley might just end up burning down over, engulfing everything far and wide. Man would step on the whole world because he'd feel the world deserves it now more than ever.

This is an extremely deadly mindset to put Terry Silver into.

No telling how violently all of it could culminate in his mourning.

#terry silver #kk3 #cobra kai #tw; death #tw; death at childbirth #terry as father #terry silver as a parent #terry silver as a father #dad!terry #terry silver x reader #terry silver x beloved #angst #ptsd

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

by David Hume Kennerly

* * *

PLEASE DON’T THANK ME FOR MY SERVICE THIS VETERAN’S DAY

NOV 11, 2023

Please don't thank me for my "service." I was in the military, not the "Service." Service is doing something good. Service is what the person does who fixes your car. When the word "service" is applied to the military, it helps to justify violence as a method for conflict resolution. Like "defending our freedom," or "bringing democracy," the word "service" is used to lower the barriers of aggression. The military solution to conflict is death and destruction. That's not "service." Call it what it is - the military. If you have to hurt someone to solve a problem, you are the Problem. -- Arnold Stieber, US Army Veteran, 1970

I have absolutely no problem understanding exactly what Mr. Stieber wrote above, “back in the day,” with the white-hot heat of youth and the thorough pissed-offness of someone who had seen the side of life nobody ever wants to see. It’s the attitude I came home with from that same war, five years before he did.

I’ve never really gotten used to the new tradition of the past 30 years, for civilians - on discovering they are in the presence of someone who served in the military, - to say “Thank you for your service.” I have very mixed emotions about that. On the one hand, it’s nice that maybe a fourth of them have a clue why they’re saying what they are, that it isn’t merely the mouthing of polite words. On the other hand, I’m not sure why anyone would want to thank someone who served in the war I served in, or the ones that followed.

The war in Vietnam made everything in America worse. For just one thing, it harmed the economy when the government adopted a policy of both “guns” and “butter,” which led to the severe inflation of the 1970s, which gave companies looking for any way to reduce costs to start taking a hard line on employee compensation, which leaves us in the condition where the average American working stiff now makes less in terms of buying power than they did 50 years ago, I don’t know about you, but I’m not up to thanking anyone for that.

Of course, thinking further on this leads one to the obvious conclusion that it wasn’t the kids who got drafted who did any of that. They weren’t sitting in the halls of government thinking about how to distract the citizenry from the fact that this particular imperial war was going bad in all ways, and coming up with the idea of keeping taxes down in a period of increased government spending for things that go “BOOM!” while making sure they could get that new car every three years like they always did. Those decisions are the ones that led to the situation I mentioned above. Made by guys who mostly never got shot at, even in the war they did serve in.

In my experience during my time in the Navy and the years after knowing other vets and working with them, there were very few of us who “wanted” to go to war. Most of my fellow sailors were in the Navy because they figured joining the Navy and getting trained for a good job and “seeing the world” beat the daylights out of being in the Army, so much so it was worth a couple extra years over the two years a draftee served. Ditto the Air Force. Even the Marines were forced to start taking draftees after 1966, when they ran low on guys who believed what John Wayne told them in “Sands of Iwo Jima.”

As close as anyone got to “wanting” to go was when those of us who had joined before the war received the first orders sending us to the war. As my friend Phil Caputo wrote in “A Rumor of War” (a “Vietnam book” you should read), when he learned he and his fellow Marines were headed to DaNang in South Vietnam in 1965, “I thought to myself that when it was over and I went home, I’d be able to look my Tarawa-veteran father in the eye.” I know many others - including me, son of the guy who survived the Kamikazes - the sons of the “greatest generation” who had grown up with all the stories about our father’s “good war,” who “played war” with the cast-off gear from that war, who had similar thoughts.

Vietnam was the last war fought with draftees, and you can bet your bottom dollar today’s leaders will never go back to that system. The draft made everyone think about the war, whether they had to worry about getting drafted out of whatever working class job they had (or didn’t have); even the kids with student deferments had to think about the war when they didn’t work hard enough to keep their grades up and maintain their 2-S status. Mothers and fathers and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters and friends all had to worry about someone they knew and loved going off to that war. Whether they “supported the president” or came to understand that the war wasn’t worth the loss of that life they knew and loved, they came in the middle of the night to hate the war. And eventually that made itself known in politics. The makers of war became constrained in the war they could make by the lack of support from those who gave them their jobs with their votes.

I’ll tell you something. After I came back, I did all I could to end that draft. But I would be very happy to see it brought back today.

No deferments. The sons and daughters of the rich serve right alongside the sons and daughters of the poor - like they did in World War II. It’ll make the entitled little shits into something better. And it really does unify - it’s hard to hate people you know by name.

But mostly I’m in favor of that because it makes it almost impossible for “They” to decide to fight a 20 year war in Afghanistan, or Iraq. They can’t do it because too many people will be paying attention. And getting pissed off at them. And voting.

But no, for exactly the reasons I am for the draft, the “all-volunteer” army is here to stay. You can’t fight 20-year wars in hellholes nobody knows without it. That way, only about 1-2 percent of the population ever has to think about the war - the kids who join up because they don’t have a future that looks better than what the military offers, their families, their friends - not a big enough group that if they got upset they could muster any political changes, unlike all those folks 50 years ago.

Most of all, if you’re going to thank me or any of us for our service, don’t try to honor us as “heroes.” For one thing, most of us aren’t, and for another, if you haven’t been in the military you really have no idea what being a hero in that context actually is.

It’s not what you think it is.

An old Navy Chief once explained “being a hero” to me: “When you’re so terrified that your brain is so frozen you can’t think, and you’ve pissed your pants and shit your drawers, and you just know you’re going to die, and you still do your job - THAT is being a hero.”

Not the definition too many in our society nowadays want to hear.

“But, Tom,” you say, “don’t you write all these best-selling books about wars and heroes? You must really love war to think about it so much.”

If you have gotten anything even remotely like that from reading any of my books, you really need to reconsider that decision not to take that remedial course in reading comprehension.

Yes, I do honor those out there in the mud and the blood and the ooze. And I appreciate knowing the ones who were out there in the mud and the blood and the ooze and survived to come back to the world of the living. That’s because their willingness to do that has a lot to do with why there is that world of the living to come back to.

Or at least that’s true in the World War II books. That’s the last war that could be divided into the Good Guys and the Bad Guys.

Except it kind of can’t. I’ve known too many guys who served on “the other side” who are just as nice - if not nicer - than anyone I have met from “the good side.”

In fact some of them must be better than anyone who served on this side. That’s a small list. But every guy who served in Vietnam and then had the opportunity to later meet the people they were trying to kill at the time, has met people who have been willing to forgive them for My Lai and Agent Orange and Rolling Thunder and all the rest of it, and offer friendship. And the ones on that side who I have been privileged to meet are definitely honorable men.

A late friend of mine who was a leading ace in “the good war” once told me when we were at a convention of those guys and the honored guests at the event were the guys who they’d been out to kill: “The secret nobody knows is, we always thought the guys we were fighting were the only ones who knew what we were going through. We actually thought we were closer to them than to the other people who were on our side.” I’ve heard similar sentiments from former infantrymen as well as former fliers, so it’s not some “guild of the elite” or “honorable brotherhood.”

Although it probably is an “honorable brotherhood.” The brotherhood of people who were willing to do what it took to defend what they loved - and believe it or not that even applies to the Germans; most of them knew as much about the “larger issues” going on, the terrible things, as any young guy in the US military did in the war I fought. And when they did find out, they were shocked too. The people who did the terrible things tried to keep them secret from everyone else, because they knew they were doing terrible things.

My friend Jim Wright, who’s become well-known in social media in recent years for some straight-shooting talk from a retired Chief Warrant Officer, wrote:

“Mostly we veterans are just people who came when called and did our best under terrible circumstances.”

I’ll end with a quote from a guy who did know what it took to do all that stuff:

“Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed. This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children. This is not a way of life at all in any true sense. Under the clouds of war, it is humanity hanging on a cross of iron.”

― Dwight D. Eisenhower, Soldier, General, President

[TCinLa :: Thats Another Fine Mess]

#war #the draft #history #Vietnam #soldiers #veterans #thank you for your service #the military #the military industrial complex #Dwight D. Eisenhower #TCinLA #Thats Another Fine Mess

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

Breaking down the comics: Soldiers (Punisher Annual #2: Knight Fall)

You guys. YOU GUYS. 

I am so excited to bring you this next one for SO MANY REASONS. 

The first reason is that this is the FIRST Moon Knight comic I ever read. 

And this comic os pure WTFer set off an obsession that has directed the course of my life for over ten years now. 

Marc Spector: Moon Knight

Punisher Annual #2: Knight Fall. 1989

Written by: Mike Baron

Art by: Bill Reinhold

Gerbil: Tom DeFalco

(Tom is the editor in chief for Marvel at the time) 

We got ourselves a Punisher Annual with a Moon Knight guest appearance! 

Now I’ve talked about guest appearances again and again and again. It usually means that the guest star is going to show up HUGE on the cover with some dramatic depiction in an attempt to lure in more new readers to the title comic. 

But look at this comic cover. This isn’t Moon Knight showing up to save the day or in a little blurb bubble or box. He’s battling Frank! This looks more like a cross-over style comic! Those always depict the main character FIGHTING the other guest star! And damn if this cover isn’t amazing. Look at those two locked in close quarter combat! And that dagger! This might be a Punisher comic, but Moon Knight isn’t about to roll over! 

Now, as we all have come to expect, when you have a crossover for the first time, the two characters always spend the first couple pages fighting in some misunderstanding before they make up and team together to fight the real bad guys. But Punisher takes no quarter and Moon Knight is grumpy at best. 

Alright, so we open up on a Long Island Petshop where a Mr. Morton is purchasing Gerbils for their kids. 

For those that do not know, a Gerbil is about the size of a large mouse with a long tufted tail and kangaroo like hind feet. They're fast, bite hard, and are fun. (I used to own them as a kid for many years and loved them).

 They actually aren’t that well known, even though you can always find them in pet shops next to the hamsters. I wonder why they chose gerbil over say, mice or rats or hamsters. I get the feeling there was some inside joke among the writers here. 

…..Oh. 

Snake guy. Got it. 

MARC. 

Marc… “That man just ate a gerbil! Why does it set off all my emergency alarm bells?” 

Marc… 

So... After that... Marc calls up Frenchie on his radio and tells him that he's tailing a car and gives him details on the vehicle. 

"Oui, Marc, what's up?" 

"I'm not sure... Maybe nothing." 

MARC SPECTOR. You just watched a man eat a gerbil in a pet shop....WHOLE. What do you mean 'Nothing'?!

He tails the car to an old run down mansion . 

"That's the old Borgwardt estate--It's been taken over by something called Save Our Society... Time to head home." 

Frenchie confirms the car info with Marc. It is registered to the SOS non-profit agency that is privately funded by physicians. 

"Sort of an east coast version of the Betty Ford Clinic. Why would a man eat a gerbil?" 

Marc… You have fought werewolves. You fought a literal rat king. We’ve seen you fight ghosts and get your ass handed to you by a snake. 

AND WHAT ARE YOU WEARING!? Does Steven know you’re wearing his clothes? 

He asks Frenchie to dig into the petstore's files and get him a credit card for the guy that ate the gerbil and an address. 

Meanwhile, we meander on over to the star of our show: 

"Punisher's War Journal-- I've been on the trail of Ralph Newton, a junkie who makes a living ripping off old ladies' social security checks. Two weeks ago he pushed a seventy year old woman down a flight of stairs and she died. Newton seemed to have disappeared, butt now I have a lead--This shooting gallery in the Bronx." 

For those of you unaware of the Punisher, here's a brief howdy-do for you! 

The Punisher, AKA, Frank Castle. Originally a VietNam vet who came back with a little PTSD. His family (wife and child) were murdered by the mafia and Frank decided he'd had enough of evil in the world. He makes it his life's work to hunt down and kill anyone that makes it a living to hurt people. 

Historically, the other heroes (ESPECIALLY DareDevil and Captain America) despise Frank and often rally the other heroes to try to hunt him down and stop him from continuing his war on crime. 

He got his start in a Spider-Man comic of all places and branched out from there. 

Frank is a pretty gruff and serious man and depending on who is writing him and what series you are reading, he can be pretty violent. 

War Journal was a very popular series where he drives around in his Battle Van and writes about his missions. It works nicely because Frank isn’t much of a social man. So if you rely on the story conversations, like in all the other comics, you aren’t going to get much. But having him writing things down in his journal you get a beautiful narration that reads like a Noir film and you also get a fantastic way to get to know Frank and how he thinks. I appreciate it. 

Often when Frank meets up with other heroes, there is a fight with them telling him he's wrong for killing and them eventually trying to stop him. 

Now, we know he's going to meet up with Marc in this. And I am so excited for you guys to see this epic encounter. 

So we see Frank in his usual attire walk up to a safe house and knock on the door. 

He gets the guy to open the door posing as a seller. 

Yeah. By now, everyone knows what it means when they see that skull design. 

"Junkies. I swear they don't feel pain. You've got to break something before they stop coming at you." 

Frank shoots all but one. He tells the remaining guy he's looking for Newton. 

Lucky for the junkie he says he last saw Newton going into a rehab clinic saying he was going to get straight. 

So Frank heads up to the clinic. It's a Save Our Society clinic. 

"The place reeks of sweat and stale cigarettes, ashtrays filled to overflowing." 

Man that's good Noir. 

Frank walks up to the main desk (in his street clothes, which just means he put on a turtle neck and a coat). 

"Department of social services. I'm here to verify our use of federal funds." 

"I'm sorry, sir. There must be some mistake. This clinic is privately funded --we receive no federal funds." 

"*SIGH* Sounds like another department screw-up. Could I speak to your director?" 

(What works about this is that no one actually knows what Frank Castle looks like! He doesn’t need a disguise. Everyone knows him by what he wears. They see the giant skull and the guns. It WORKS. And Frank is surprisingly good at acting. He knows the system.) 

He's told that the director isn't in. She's Leona Hiss. (Hiss? Really? We're going there?) 

Frank heads to get info from Microchip. Hey! Microchip! I missed him! 

Microchip was Frank's old tech guy. He was the man in the van that would give Frank info and hack into things for him. 

I'd say they were good friends...But Frank doesn't have friends. I'd give you spoilers on what eventually happens to Microchip but... It's kinda a BIG spoiler and maybe someone here wants to head on over into Punisher land. So I'll leave it at that. (I came to Moon Knight from Punisher land. It was all thanks to this crossover comic… so I guess their ploy really does work sometimes.) 

Anyways... Microchip looks up this Leona Hiss person. 

A widow of an anesthesiologist who started the clinics to help drug addicts. He goes on and on and tells Frank it "Smells like a smoke screen. All her life, the lady shuns publicity. Now all of a sudden she's a big philanthropist?" 

Man, look at that light and shadow in the first panel. This art team is amazing. 

Frank sets up position on a roof across from the clinic. 

"Clock Street's eerily alive at two A.M. I see a knife fight, several drug deals...Lights are burning in the clinic but no one's entered or left. There are guards on the roof. Better move.

I take position a block away, behind the clinic. I can easily make my way back over the rooftops--Nobody's watching back here. Overhead, a faint Whoosh. Some kind of high-tech chopper." 

Oh boy. Oh boy. Oh boy. 

(This art. This art is SLAYING.) 

Oh man. Look at this meet up. Frank and his shotgun, Moon Knight facing him down. 

They know who each other are! Every time Moon Knight meets up with someone he has to introduce himself! No one knows who he is! But Frank knows him. And Moon Knight doesn’t call him Frank. He knows who he is dealing with. 

Oh man, that cover called for such an epic showdown. Both ex-marines. Both know how to handle themselves. 

Uh. 

“I presume we’re both interested in Save Our Society.” 

“Right this afternoon I saw a man eat a gerbil. He came from here.” 

“What’s his name?” 

"Helmut Snead. He used a solen credit card. Six feet, brown eyes, scar above his left eye." 

"Ralph Newton--A Junkie Murderer. What's he doing on Long Island?" 

"I don't know--But he didn't look like a junkie. I want to know how he got out of the South Bronx and into a fancy clinic." 

"How would you take this guy out?"

WHAT IS HAPPENING. 

This is incredible. You have no idea. 

Frank doesn't have friends. Frank doesn't do team-ups. Frank is brutal and tells it like it is. 

And this isn't Frank being the victim to a new writer making nice in someone else's ball park. This is a PUNISHER comic. Moon Knight is the visitor. 

And on that note... MARC doesn't have friends. MARC doesn't play well with others. We literally just came off of him being a part of the West Coast Avengers and leaving because he doesn't team well! 

And here these two are, meeting for the first time and being BFF. 

In fact, the fact that they already know who one another is despite never meeting means that they have heard others talk about them. And when people talk about the Punisher or Moon Knight, they generally don't have good things to say! 

So these two heard "Yeah he's a brutal lunatic" they went "I gotta meet this chap." 

I can't stress enough how amazing this is. 

Frank is even asking Moon Knight to show how he'd take down a guy. He wants to see how Moon Knight works. And Moon Knight is letting Frank go first. 

THIS in itself is amazing. Why? Because we have two highly skilled specialists from a high combat militarized zone that were both known for ambush settings and traps. 

They know everything about this building isn't reading right, they have seen some guards and they don't know what's going on inside. So they are essentially walking into an unknown through a closed space doorway into a stairwell with numerous blind spots and possibilities for traps/ambushes. 

If it were anyone else, Marc would go first to clear the way and possibly take that first hit because he knows he can take it. 

BUT. If you REALLY look at it, Frank is older than Marc. Frank went to 'Nam. Frank has been at this longer and has turned New York into his own personal jungle. 

He offers Frank the lead out of respect AND because he knows and Frank knows that if anything is out of the ordinary, Frank will spot it FIRST and deal with it. 

This is grade A military tactics and my lord it’s beautiful. 

And you know what? 

Frank’s history is that he was team leader. And when Marc gives him lead, Frank takes it and Marc RESPECTS him. They are both used to working in this sort of setting. 

And when you think about it, Marc was NEVER the leader. He followed other people. Bushman was his leader. Marc joined other groups and let other people tell him what to do. If he didn’t like it, he went off and joined a new group. 

So when Frank says “Hold it….!” he is treading Marc like an officer under him and he has now automatically accepted Marc as following him and thus putting him under his protection. This is beautiful. I could wax on about this all day you guys. 

Uh… Back to the comic. So… Frank spots a Black Mamba that’s sluggish from being in a cold setting. 

Marc makes light chatter (he’s kinda of a goof and light chatter is what he does.) Frank quiets him. He knows there’s trouble ahead. 

In the next room, we find a junky going through withdrawal and begging the doc to hurry up. 

The 'doctor' injects him with something just as Frank and Marc bust in. 

"Hello, Ralph. I didn't know you had a license to practice medicine... And only last week you were a lousy junkie..." 

"Punisher!" 

"Drop the needle." 

"I don't think so.... SSSST!" 

And the 'Doctor' suddenly has a snake tongue and snake eyes. 

This bodes well. 

Frank opens fire on his target and it hardly phases him. 

"What have we stumbled into? They move slowly but they don't feel any pain." Moon Knight calls out while pummeling one of the snake guys. 

"It's the cold. [....] Reptiles. The colder it gets, the slower they move. You saw Ralph eat a gerbil--Snakes eat gerbils. This place looks like a herpetology lab." 

Very astute Frank. 

They manage to take down all the snake guys and Moon Knight asks if he recognizes any of them. 

Frank recognizes a couple of them as crackheads and various junkies. 

They find Ralph to be a card carrier for S.O.S. 

"Last week he's a junkie with an armful of holes and this week he's front man for a fancy long island cure club." 

"I think we know where to go next. Why don't you come with me in the chopper?" 

"Thanks, I will." 

(WHY ARE THEY SO POLITE TO ONE ANOTHER. IT'S SO OVER THE TOP.) 

So... Frank takes a ride in Marc's chopper. 

"Nice set-up. How do you keep the engines so quiet?" 

"It's a new kind of fiberglass packing." 

And they arrive back at the mansion. 

"Come on in--I've got a war room. We'll do a little digging." 

"This place is a little ostentatious, don't you think?" 

"There are so many private choppers flying in and out of the neighborhood nobody notices mine--Especially at night. The surrounding mansions and trees also cover our entrances and exits from the concealed hangar." 

I don't think that's what he meant by ostentatious, Marc. 

Inside, Frank, Marc, and Frenchie stand around a table with some maps. 

Marc tells Frank about the Borwardt estate he initially tracked snake man to earlier. 

"I ran a check on cult leaders and you'll never guess who was released from a federal prison last month--Viper." 

Frenchie tells Frank who Viper is. 

"She used to head up zat facist group Hydra, zen she went solo. She was busted in connection with the so-called snake riot in washington last year...[....] A mass hallucination where people believed they turned into snakes. I also learned that Viper was recently sprung from prison by a Dr. Tyrone." 

We head on over to SOS where we see a green lady, "Madam Viper". 

She is in a room of snake men who are 'newly converted'. 

They say they are hungry and Viper tells them that they have "a rabbit, five hamsters and a gerbil. We'll have to make another run to the pet store soon." 

She has a bit of a thing for hitting people with a whip and demanding that they all call her 'Madame Viper'. 

She is then informed that the other clinic was hit and that Newton is dead. 

She sends the new snake men out to the yard for guard duty. She's pretty sure SHIELD is out to get her. Which makes sense since she worked for Hydra. 

Unfortunately for her, it's far from shield. 

Overhead, we find the Moon Copter flying by and Moon Knight drops in with his cape and Frank drops in on a glider. 

The guards immediately open fire on them and Frank returns fire. 

FRANK. DO NOT ENCOURAGE HIM. 

….I don’t know if I should count this as a window dive or not. It’s tempting. I’m not going to count it. He decides to abstain from window entrance for once. 

Unfortunately for Frank, he runs in without checking around and Marc isn't there to watch his six. 

Madam Viper jumps him and injects him with a serum. 

Now... Unfortunately for her... Frank has never responded well to drugs of any sort. He's got a history of this not going well for people that try to drug Frank Castle. 

He doesn't go down. 

In fact, it actually makes him go a little berserk. A berserk Frank Castle is NEVER something anyone wants to face. 

He’s doing fine. 

She makes a run for it. 

Elsewhere, Moon Knight is fighting his own snake man army. 

"Lets of gunfire and then it stopped! The time to start worrying about Punisher is when the gunfire stops.

Viper injects one of her larger helpers turning him into a very large and strong snake man. 

Moon Knight faces off with the big snake guy. His usual methods of just 'hit it as hard as I can' doesn't work. They don't feel pain thanks to the drugs. 

He's wearing a heat pack to keep him moving so Moon Knight decides to take this outside and....WINDOW! WE GOT A WINDOW! 

I mean… This one was legit. And he was exiting with a good reason… But I’m still counting it. 

Heat pack removed and out in the cold air, the lizard guy goes down easy. 

Moon Knight goes to find the Punisher now. 

He finds a room full of bodies and Frank in the middle having a lovely hallucination time. 

In the window outside, Marc watches a rocket thing take off with Viper escaping in it to fight another day. 

Marc manages to distract frank with his crescent darts, moving them around and letting the light reflect off of them in a hypnotic way. This lets him get close enough to take away Frank's gun. 

At this point, Frank calms down and the adrenalin that was coursing through his system and probably helping to stave off the toxic affects of the drugs wears off. 

Frank goes into convulsions and Moon Knight moves to get him out of there. Not to mention the cops are starting to show up and they need to leave. 

The cops have never been fans of Punisher (Despite what the right wing wants you to think when they put punisher logos on their giant trucks) and Frank has never liked the cops. Time to leave! 

Marc takes Frank back to his mansion and puts him to bed. 

I kid you not. 

This... This is a thing that happens a lot. He did the same thing to Jack Russel. Just... Take the drugged up guy home and let him sleep it off in his big bed in the mansion. 

Frank has a rough night, hallucinating and putting up a big of a fight but he sleeps it off. 

The next day, he wakes up feeling a bit better. 

And it ends here. Frank heading off to his next mission and Marc casual as hell as he watches his new buddy leave. 

Again I’m going to say it. WHAT. 

You don’t understand just HOW bizarre this issue was. ON BOTH SIDES. Frank was so…NICE… Marc was so amendable! They acted like long lost friends! WHAT WAS WITH THE CONSTANT REFERENCES TO GERBILS?! Why does Marc keep putting drugged up men in his bed? Why was he wearing Steven’s clothes? I have so many questions.

And from this casual weird encounter… An obsession was born. 

ALRIGHT. Let’s talk about why this works. (This is gonna get long. You can stop here if you don't want to hear me ramble and are just here for the comics).

In the Marvel universe (616), we have a lot of veterans of different wars. 

WWII has Captain America, Bucky, and Nick Fury

Vietnam has Frank Castle. 

Wolverine....a lot of wars. All the wars. Every war. 

Apparently Charles Xavier was in the Korean war (I didn't know that) 

Ben Grimm was in the Marines before his space accident (Awww. Another thing for him to bond with Marc over.) 

Then of course you have Carol Danvers who worked for the CIA in the cold war.

Rhodes (War Machine) who was in Afghanistan and Vietnam. 

There are a LOT of veterans of different wars and different time periods (Marvel time is a soup). 

The initial problem was which war. And this is where we are going to once more step onto the Drifting Pieces History soap box. 

We all know the saying “There’s no good war”. But that’s not right. Not according to politics and public opinion. 

To be a veteran of WWII was a noble and good thing. You fought a clear cut enemy, (nothing worse than a Nazi) liberated suppressed people, and most important, you came home a winner. 

What’s that? There was another war? In Korea? Never heard of that one. We totally didn’t go to Korea and fail miserably and we certainly aren’t going to talk about what happened over there. 

Oh look, Vietnam! The first publicly broadcasted war. Not like “The Whole World is Watching”. Oh no, the average citizen is suddenly getting their first look at what happens in war. Oh no, it’s not as nice and pretty as it’s supposed to be. No one talked about the atrocities that were committed by the good guys in WWII! And the Korean War certainly didn’t happen. 

This was the first war where American soldiers came home and were shunned. They were booed. They lost their jobs, lost their homes, and lost their families. Disgraced and forgotten by their country and their people. 

So we have nice shiny Captain America. A literal representation of the good of America and ideal soldier, punching Nazi and saving people in WWII. 

Then we have Frank Castle, a dirty soldier from Vietnam. I’m sure people screamed “Baby killer” at him fresh off the plane. What’s that? Frank served THREE tours in Vietnam?! He was the sole survivor of a huge ambush? He was awarded the Medal of Honor, the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the Navy Cross, Silver and Bronze stars, and four Purple Hearts? That don’t mean shit to the average citizen that only cares about two things: 1. We lost. 2. We shouldn’t have been there in the first place. 

So he comes home, one of the best Marines in the business, and he’s got nothing. 

He gets married to a sweetheart, has two kids (a little girl and boy), and settles in living an ideal life. A quiet life. Too quiet. Frank’s got a little PTSD going on and he was very good at what he did. He didn’t want to leave. He was good over there. He was respected. He was needed. 

But he’s doing the best he can. Until that’s taken away from him in an event he’d seen over and over again in war. Blazing gun fire and his family is gone. 

He gets revenge. But there’s a problem. He isn’t seen as a loving family man that takes down the people that murdered his kids and wife. He’s seen as a violent ex-soldier from Vietnam that’s gone crazy and is shooting up the place. 

They say that for Frank, “the war never ended. It just changed missions.” 

And all these other Heroes that are also veterans? They came from good wars. Captain America spouts speeches of being a Good Soldier at Frank. He doesn’t know what it’s like to question if the bad guy really is the bad guy. 

If Frank hadn’t of been such a family man, he would have made an amazing mercenary. The best there was. 

But then you have Marc Spector. He went to war to escape trauma. He was good. He was VERY good at what he did. And dollars to donuts, he heard about another Marine that was also very good named Francis Castiglione. 

But Marc could only be good so long as it wasn’t obvious that his mental illness was a thing. Even if he lied signing up for the military, when he took the jobs working for SHIELD and the CIA, they HAD to know about his history in the mental hospital. But the second he starts to dissociate in public, he’s kicked out. Can’t have a mentally ill person hanging out around all those weapons, right? I’m sure that’s what they told themselves as they kicked him to the curb. 

Marc could have gone home here. He’d have been a disgraced hero, sitting on the side of the road on a Veteran hat asking for change. But Marc was still running. He didn’t have a childhood sweetheart waiting for him. He had trauma. 

So Marc carries on the mission and he’s GOOD. And he’s a follower. He likes being told what to do. It prevents him from thinking and taking responsibility. If people get hurt, it isn’t his fault. 

Now Frank is very thorough. There’s a chance that the first time he hears about a new Superhero showing up in Manhattan he immediately looks into it. He’s got access to SHIELD info. He finds out who Marc Spector is and he sees another soldier that was let down by his country. Another soldier that was looking to make a wrong right despite how the war went. 

And Marc? Frank’s a hero. He’s tough. He does what needs to be done to keep people safe. Frank’s a leader and he takes care of his soldiers. 

They look at one another and see soldiers struggling to find their place here in the normal life again because they never HAD normal lives to begin with. 

Moon Knight is the only one who can probably understand where Frank is coming from and not judge him. 

Much later on in the comics, when Moon Knight is desperately trying to fit in with the Avengers and be a better hero, we see him come up against Frank again. Frank understands what Moon Knight is trying to do and he asks him if he really thinks it’s going to work. 

And despite how everything else was going in that particular run (a lot. A lot was going), it was a very real moment. Frank saw through him. I’ll get more into it later when we eventually get there. But man… These two together both make me so happy and also break my heart. 

ANYWAY. Uh… Long extended explanation over! I love this issue with my whole everything. 

This writer? This artist? Why couldn’t THEY have been the ones to take over the Marc Spector run? They get it! Look how pretty they make him! Look at all that cape action! 

They even get the dichotomy of Marc in this time. We may not have STEVEN, but did you see the way Marc was dressed in the mansion? How very Steven -esque. Even the way he treats Frank at the end there. 

UGH I could go on about this all day. I’m going to stop here before I write a dissertation. I HAVE FEELINGS ABOUT THIS OKAY.

#Moon Knight #Moon Knight comics #Analyzing the comics #Marc Spector #Jake Lockley #Steven Grant #Frank Castle #The Punisher #They deserve to be friends #These two disasters #Why was there so much Gerbil in this #I love this issue #I could wax poetry about it all day #Two reviews in one day? Spoiling you

[melodiousmonk]

Ethan Hawke asks, "Why does masculine energy so often manifest itself as idiocy? Why is male sensitivity so often linked with perceived weakness? How does one be, as Johnny Cash said; ‘a dove with claws?'"

Kris Kristofferson takes a long beat, then says, “Yeah, that used to piss Shel Silverstein off.”

“What did?” Ethan asks.

“That whole ‘dove with claws’ thing. He just thought, ‘What the hell is that?'”

“Why do you think Cash said it?”

“I think he was feeling the very thing that you’re talking about – that if people think you are against the war, that in some way you’re a pussy.”

“Your first recorded song was a pro-Vietnam War song, right?”

“Yeah, I wrote it when I was in the Army on my way to Nashville, and I came upon a protest march. I had a lot of friends over there; and I was thinking we were fighting for freedom. And I wasn’t thinking very deeply.”

“Why did you end up changing your mind about that war?”

“I was flying helicopters in the Gulf of Mexico on one of those offshore oil rigs, and I was talking to some guys coming home. The stories they were telling me were so horrible that I think it just shocked me enough to change my thinking 180 degrees. I’m talking about things like this young vet telling me about taking people up in a helicopter and interrogating them and if they didn’t say what they were supposed to, they’d throw them out, stomping on the fingers of the prisoner holding on to the skids, you know? The guy telling me this particular story was still just a green kid when he returned from the war. The notion that you could make a young person do something so inhuman to another soldier – or even worse, a civilian – convinced me that we were in the wrong. I hadn’t been thinking in human terms of what that military action was.” He pauses, stroking my dog. “I agree with you totally about all the conditioning that makes us want to feel masculine and tough. I mean, I’m sure that’s why I went to Ranger School and Jump School. And I’m proud of that Ranger tab – still am. But the notion of bombing a defenseless country that’s never threatened us and the fact we all accepted it and said, That’s politics!’ Damn. I’m not really interested in polities. We’ve come to a place that I never dreamed and I know my father never dreamed that America would get to.

"That’s why Shel didn’t like that ‘dove with claws’ thing,” Kris goes on.

“Johnny Cash should have just said he was a dove and proud of it?”

“Exactly. ‘Cause people would have accepted anything from John,” says Kris. “We knew he was a man. I don’t really think anybody would have called Johnny Cash a pussy. But John was conditioned, just like you and me. You really have to get past all of that — where you have enough feeling about what’s right and wrong in the world to not give a shit about what kind of names anybody throws at you.

[Source - Rolling Stone Magazine]

#johnny cash #kris kristofferson #ethan hawke #shel silverstein

[crystalis]

do you ever just like think about how terrible the united states is like the entire history of it from the beginning, destroying the indigenous peoples and cultures and expanding south and west until reaching the other coast using african slave labour and doing nothing to stop the holocaust until germany delcared war on the US (and rewriting history to say we stopped it bc we're the good guys) and nuking japan killing 100000 people instantly and then literally taking over the world and brainwashing its citizens beyond comprehension to think we're some modest country that Fights For Freedom and that everything we do is for the greater good of mankind .. and we obliterated iraq libya afghanistan cambodia vietnam laos korea guatemala el salvador nicaragua pakistan yemen etc and have a 1 trillion dollar military budget and army bases scattered across the earth and the highest incarceration figures of any country and a militarized police. and homeless people everywhere and no developed public transportation and healthcare is so bad youre literally held hostage by the healthcare sytem if theres something wrong with you or you just die, even though this like the richest or 2nd richest country in the world, its like so crazy.. not even 250 years old AND like idefk how much of the population is conservative patriotic God Bless America "pray for our vets" types.. american politics in general are so outrageous.. the settler colonial empire calling people "illegals" and deporting them is real funny.. god damn america sucks so much and its insane how insulted people get about it and say shit like "get out of our country then" bc theyre completely indoctrinated by american propaganda white supremacy patriotism. and making kids pledge allegience to the flag in school and lying to them and teaching them rewritten history and then going "look at how china and north korea brainwashes their people 😲😱😱" even though americans are the most brainwashed propagandized people on earth

#god idk i feel like so small right now i hate being a part of this #wish my grandma wasnt so insanely brainwashed by american patriotism and also the rest of my family #just feels so weird.. and we're so isolated from the rest of the world and our mainstream news outlets just #lie about other countries constantly #i was just thinking about how Fox News is the most popular news outlet in the US. which is insane #the US empire is such a fucking abomination and so unfathomably powerful

[absolutebl]

This Week in BL - Ending the Year FINE & simple

Dec 2022 Wk 4

Being a highly subjective assessment of one tiny corner of the interwebs. Organized by which ones (in each category) I’m enjoying the most.

Ongoing Series - Thai

Never Let Me Go (Tues YT) 3 of 12 - Butler Dad (v.2) is going to be a problem, I can tell. Chimon is a cute, if suspicious, flirt. Palm, on the other hand, is the gentlest flirt imaginable. He wants spoiled prince + attack dog dynamic so bad. As, indeed, do I. 

Between Us (Sun iQIYI) 8 of 12 - still enjoying it very much, annoyed by filler couples, WATCH ALONG HERE.

609 Bedtime Story (Fri WeTV) 6 of 11 - Oh, I see! The Mint storyline is to give more characters motivation to murder Dew. It’s all set up. How clumsy. Meanwhile, we got a confession right on schedule, classic romance beats. 

I Will Knock You (Fri Gaga) 7 of 12 - Whatever. 

Remember Me (Sun Gaga) 12 of 14 - Honestly? I’d DNF this show but its almost done and I've watched 12 already. Sunk cost fallacy in action. I’m not going to make this mistake with this production house again. JaFirst cry well, but I’m vetting and binging these in future.  

My School President (Fri YT) 5 of 10 - no ep this week, resumes Jan 6

Ongoing Series - Not Thai

The New Employee (Korea Weds Viki) 2 of 8 - It’s giving me life, this one. Pining boss. Drunk lesbian bestie of awesome. Plus gay player (former college heartthrob) is a fun background for the faen fatal, not to mention rainbow rice cakes. COME ON. RAINBOW RICE CAKES! 

HIStory 5: Love in the Future (Taiwan Thurs Viki) 1 of 20 - A cheerful kid from 1999 travels to 2022, works as a deliveryman, and meets an heir with a domineering personality. Directed by Nancy Chen (HIStory 4, Papa & Daddy). The time travel premise is interesting, the leads are giving me whipping boy vibes, but I don’t like seme’s stalker energy. It feels very HIStory franchise which means it could go any direction but sensible and I’m expecting problematic tropes. However! The sides are GREAT - they’re an office romance boss/intern relationship. And this is 20 full episodes so we will get plenty of them. Also, is that Taiwan I see giving us a femme character? I am all amazement. I think I like this show, actually. (Note; will be referring to this as H5 going forward.) 

The Director Who Buys Me Dinner (Korea Thurs iQIYI) 5-6 of 10 - Is there a not very small part of me that wishes this were a love story between the earnest assistant baby boi, and the older anxiety-riddled rockstar? Yes. Although I did not expect Korea to go there with the lipstick mark AND an actually gay idol. What alternate reality are we currently living in? Also, is every character in this show slightly insane? Yes. Is every actor in this show slightly too pretty for my emotional well-being? Also, yes. Bring it on 2023. 

Candy Color Paradox AKA Ameiro Paradox (Japan Fri Gaga) 3 of 8 - I think I just don’t like the photographer character much (although he’s very typically Japanese tsundere seme). Really quite a good kiss though, for Japan. On the flip side, it was nice to see the reporter being good at his job (competency porn is a very underused trope in BL). Then we get confession, immediate retraction, and a disbelief counter attack. Then more kisses. Huh. This isn’t progressing how I expect. And that’s kinda nice too. Oh Japan, you so cute & trixie. 

It’s Airing But I’m Not Watching It

Love Bill (Vietnam Sat YT) - Bah Vinh is back but I’m too distracted. Also there’s a lot of fund raising stuff going on with them. I’ll wait and binge.

The Star Always Follow You (Vietnam YT) - same Team RL peeps we have seen before (Sunshine, Stupid)

Till the World Ends (Thai YT) 10 eps - it seems to be good but I don’t know about the ending with that kind of title, so I’m waiting.

Moonlight Chicken GMMTV’s Midnight series (Weds YT) 1 of 8 eventually - first segment has begun bit it’s not the EarthMix messy gays. Sorry all, I’m so not interested in messy hets, so I’m waiting until they grace my screen.

In Case You Missed It

Coffee Melody special feat TitNuea & Jean like it’s counterpart was rather dull, but I find this a more appealing couple than the mains so I liked it better. 

Moments Of Love - featuring SmartJames AKA LeonPhob from Don't Say No) from Foremorfilm Production supposedly aired Dec 24 directed by Golf Tanwarin (609 Bedtime Story and The Eclipse). But it has no rating on MDL so I guess not? 

Next Week Looks Like This:

2023 forthcoming BL master post is in the works... wait for it... I’m doing all the 2022 wrap ups first. Also waiting for the last of the studio announcements. 

THIS WEEK’S BEST MOMENTS

Mujigae-tteok (Korean rainbow rice cake) - a new item has entered my never ending food quest list. 

OhmFluke do domesticity well, gotta give them that. 

Quick end of year thoughts on 2022 BL & the future of these weekly posts: 

Honestly? Overall it’s been a fine year for BL with some good shows & and some ho shows, and also a lot of dross. But the most notable aspect was the overwhelming quantity to keep up with. My work world is opening back up with tons of travel. This plus my recent revelation that I actually prefer binge watching (especially the lower quality stuff) means that I can’t keep up with BL if it keeps up this insane pace. 

So in 2023 you can expect me to try to keep these weeklies updated with what’s airing, of course, but also pull back on how many I personally watch and summate. 

In 2022, BL sort of became my 2nd job, and it doesn't pay well enough for that.

All that said I think... 

2023 is going to be GOOD for BL. Happy new year! 

(last week)

Current Kpop earworm? I’ve been in a “beastly” mood recently so it’s Lee Gikwang’s (Beast, Highlight) Don’t Close Your Eyes. I forgot how fucking banging that opening rift is. Thank you Kpop gods for putting the 2nd gens through the ever eternal slut phase. 

Now just put them all though a BL phase and we’re golden. Yes, I am thinking of Unintentional Love Story (Gongchan B1A4), why do you ask? 

#this week in BL #BL news #BL gossip #upcoming BL #best BL #new BL #BL reviews #Thai BL #Korean BL #Taiwanese BL #Japanese BL #live action yaoi #Rakutan Viki #gagaoolala #GMMTV #Unintentional Love Story #Gongchan #B1A4 #Gikwang #Don’t Close Your Eyes #Kpop #OhmFluke #Mujigae-tteok #Coffee Melody special #Never Let Me Go #Between Us #winteam #609 Bedtime Story #I Will Knock You #The New Employee

[steampunkforever]

The Last American Hero is a great film if you want to watch a film that harnesses the rebelliousness of the Dukes of Hazard without making you look at the confederate battle flag and deal with uncomfortable thoughts about old media and America's painful past.

If you asked me for a film that just recaptured the "Rural outlaw from the American South" playfulness, I'd recommend you just watch Smokey and the Bandit. This is, at its heart, more than just about flaunting the law.

The Last American Hero can be distilled to "if the Duke boys had to give up running booze and legitimize, how would they navigate the integration of their free spirits into great society?" The answer, just like the real moonshiners a young (and cute!) Jeff Bridges represents in this film, is racing cars.

NASCAR, as very smug people who don't like NASCAR will remind you, was founded by moonshiners who'd built hot cars to run from the cops down twisty country roads as they delivered cases of Prohibition-flaunting (and later simply unregulated) booze. Somewhere in between moonshine falling out of relevance and Dogecoin sponsoring a car, the bootleggers started getting together to show off what their machines could do, first on beaches and fields and later as events at fairground circle tracks (hence the overdone only turning left jokes) that could house more spectators.

Just like those bootleggers, Jeff Bridges character must do what all 70s American cinema mavericks have done and carve a path that lets him fly free. Except instead of being a jaded Vietnam vet, he's a young racer trying to use what he learned careening down the hollers to navigate the already regulation-stifled world of stock car racing.

Interestingly, instead of films that run along the lines of Rambo, where the options are antisocial activity, a return to the old life, or fiery death doing what you love, The Last American Hero tells us that we must adapt to survive, that integration into society does not necessitate compromising freedom nor does it mean abandoning "the self."

Without a hint of preachiness or soapboxing this film presented a complex, timely narrative with sophisticated artistic direction while somehow simultaneously getting demolition derby strategies completely correct. You ARE supposed to go at the other cars trunk first, it keeps the shock away from your driveline and prevents your radiator from being punctured in a collision.

#filmposting #film #the last american hero #jeff bridges #gary busey

[greywolf8725]

THERE ARE STILL GOOD PEOPLE IN THIS WORLD

"Richard, (my husband), never really talked a lot about his time in Vietnam, other than he had been shot by a sniper. However, he had a rather grainy, 8 x 10 black and white photo he had taken at a USO show of Ann Margret with Bob Hope in the background that was one of his treasures. A few years ago, Ann Margaret was doing a book signing at a local bookstore. Richard wanted to see if he could get her to Sign the treasured photo so he arrived at the bookstore at 12 o'clock for the 7:30 signing. When I got there after work, the line went all the way around the bookstore, circled the parking lot, and disappeared behind a parking garage. Before her appearance, bookstore employees announced that she would sign only her book and no memorabilia would be permitted. Richard was disappointed, but wanted to show her the photo and let her know how much those shows meant to lonely GI's so far from home. Ann Margaret came out looking as beautiful as ever and, as second in line, it was soon Richard's turn. He presented the book for her signature and then took out the photo. When he did, there were many shouts from the employees that she would not sign it. Richard said, “I understand. I just wanted her to see it." She took one look at the photo, tears welled up in her eyes and she said, "This is one of my gentlemen from Vietnam and I most certainly will sign his photo. I know what these men did for their country and I always have time for 'my gentlemen.'' With that, she pulled Richard across the table and planted a big kiss on him. She then made quite a to-do about the bravery of the young men she met over the years, how much she admired them, and how much she appreciated them. There weren't too many dry eyes among those close enough to hear. She then posed for pictures and acted as if he were the only one there. That night was a turning point for him. He walked a little straighter and, for the first time in years, was proud to have been a Vet. I'll never forget Ann Margaret for her graciousness and how much that small act of kindness meant to my husband. Later at dinner, Richard was very quiet. When I asked if he'd like to talk about it, my big, strong husband broke down in tears. “That's the first time anyone ever thanked me for my time in the Army,'' he said. I now make it a point to say 'Thank you' to every person I come across who served in our Armed Forces. Freedom does not come cheap and I am grateful for all those who have served their country. If you'd like to pass on this story, feel free to do so. Perhaps it will help others to become aware of how important it is to acknowledge the contribution our service people make."

#forget tags

[slightlyspooky]

The impact of Le Samouraï (1967) can be traced to the present day and this post by Tumblr user @cum-rade

In this essay I will outline the series of events leading the creation of the above post and the lasting effects of Le Samouraï on modern culture.

Timeline

November 1955 Vietnam War begins

1967(?) Le Samouraï begins production directed by Jean-Pierre Melville

June 1967 A time traveler* burns down the studio attempting to end production

October 1967 Release in the France

1972 dubbed release in the USA titled as The Godson to capitalize from The Godfather's Success

1972 Arthur Bremer's relationship ends, quits his job, plans to assassinate Richard Nixon or George Wallace, and ultimately shoots George Wallace while posing as a supporter and living out of his car

April 1975 Vietnam War ends

1975 Paul Schrader writes the script for Taxi Driver, inspired by assassination attempts and Le Samouraï while living out of his car

Summer 1975 Taxi Driver has begun filming

September 1975 Lynette "Squeaky" Fromme of the Manson Cult attempts to assassinate President Gerald Ford

February 1976 Taxis Driver is released staring Robert De Niro, Cybill Shepherd, & (child) Jodie Foster and directed by Martin Scorsese

Break for Taxi Driver Rundown (spoilers)

Robert De Niro plays Travis Bickle a lonely, mentally ill, white, male Vietnam War vet who drives a taxi

Travis thinks the world is a dirty horrible place that somebody should clean up

Travis says the iconic line "We live in a society"*

Travis is infatuated with Betsy (played by Cybill Shepherd)

Travis goes on a few dates with Betsy

Betsy breaks up with Travis because he brings her to a pornographic theater

Travis deletes Facebook, hits the gym, and lawyers guns up

Travis attempts to assassinate a political candidate while posing as a supporter

Travis gets away cleanly

Travis kills a bunch of pimps to save a sex trafficking victim named Iris (played by Jodie Foster)

Travis puts a gun to his head and pulls the trigger

Travis is celebrated as a hero

Timeline Continued

John Hinckley Jr. watches Taxi Driver (1976) at least 15 times

Hinckley becomes infatuated with 14 year old Jodie Foster

1980 Hinckley moves to Connecticut to stalk Jodie Foster

Hinckley emulates The Joker Travis Bickle IRL

October 1980 Hinckley is arrested for illegal possession of a firearm while stalking President Jimmy Carter

Hinckley chooses to support Ronald Reagan

1980 American Gigolo, directed by Paul Schrader is released as the second installment of Schrader's list of movies based on Taxi Driver

January 1981 Reagan becomes president of the USA

March 1981 Hinckley shoots Reagan and several others

1992 Light Sleeper, directed by Paul Schrader is released as the third installment of Schrader's list of movies based on Taxi Driver

1997 Le Samouraï re-release in the USA

2007 The Walker, directed by Paul Schrader is released as the final installment of Schrader's list of movies based on Taxi Driver

2011 Drive inspired by Le Samouraï staring Ryan Gosling is released

That greentext where Anon pretends to be Ryan Gosling's character in Drive takes place

2016 Hinckley is released from psychiatric care

2019 Joker, (which is the same movie as Taxi Driver) is released staring Robert De Niro who's brains are blown out on screen

Joker meme culture captivates lonely males

2020 a ruling allows Hinckley to showcase his artistic work under his own name

2022 all restrictions on Hinckley are lifted

2023 Tumblr user posts about Hinckley's artwork

Le Samouraï is the basis of the Loner Male movie genre and lead to Ronald Reagan being shot. You can continue the legacy of Le Samouraï by missing the point of of the genre. Do toxic masculinity, it's very cool* and you can be just like Arthur Bremer, Travis Bickle, John Hinckley Jr., and Mr. The Joker.

*false

#ronald reagan #film #taxi driver #joker 2019 #le samourai #high effort shitpost #masculinity #suicide #sex trafficking #gun violence #slightlyspooky originalpost

[yessoupy]

re: your post about asks for mota!

is there any piece of media separate from mota (novels, films, other tv, etc) that you find a lot of inspo/motivation in when writing fic for the series?

well, I haven't written any MOTA fic yet but I've sure been thinking about it near constantly so it's only a matter of time. I've read and watched band of brothers (watched it at least 20 times) and spent months and months of my life contemplating that series so I'm sure it'll play a role when I finally put words to a document.

perhaps unconventionally I've been collecting music for MOTA fic. not songs, but pieces. on Sunday I heard one at the Houston Symphony that just wrecked me and I can't imagine it won't influence my writing.

the composer wrote it for her father, a Vietnam vet, and took inspiration from a poem written by a man for his father, a world War 2 vet.

the poem: the lost pilot

....

My head cocked toward the sky,

I cannot get off the ground,

and, you, passing over again,

fast, perfect, and unwilling

to tell me that you are doing

well, or that it was mistake

that placed you in that world,

and me in this; or that misfortune

placed these worlds in us.

#band of brothers #masters of the air #missy mazzoli #james tate

[beardedmrbean]

Hey it was me huey zoomer who pointed out the child predator shit in different cultures and economies systems

Oh and well…might save my rant for later

Sorry socialists, I prefer being bezos bitch for 10 hours for 4 days then being force to reproduce with up to 5 female slaves starting at 15!

Ugh sorry I don’t want to use my enslaved ancestors as a crunch. I just want to point out the hell my ancestors went through prior to industrialization

Also this thread have a clip from a video I watch that pointed issues I have

https://x.com/lavenderghast/status/1771018961968157013?s=46

And incase you wonder what type of “consultants” devs are going to

One is the bitch that shit over Akira early black designs

At least he approved on his black characters

Also there a FUNDAMENTAL difference between Pixar getting Mexican and African American consultants so they can be authentic to the cultures their using

Then using the black American activists that thinks skintone=entire personality

Because I just realize something with Killmonger

Black activists can’t separate the difference between a common thug vs a Navy seals cia agent that purposefully trained in destabilizing countries and treated wakandans like shit

“He was a victim of systemic oppression!” And who joined the cia that been used as the basic for

Wait wait

Holy

Fucking

Shit

Are you telling me

These late 20’s-30’s

College educated

Narracists

Didn’t pick up on the huge middle fingers Vietnam vets or friends did to the cia in the late 70’s-00’s media did they?

Or how cops in shows LOATHE working with the cia

They’re crooked too

But it ain’t rocket science who gave the narcos and cartels military grade weapons that no regular American can buy much less third world citizens

Oh and the CIA/FBI FUNDED CRACK AND COCAINE EPIDEMIC

I mean if I was a rookie cop that say low thugs have military weapons my station don’t have. I would be wondering how the fuck they got it here in the USA?

Sorry it always been a issue, but Killmonger shows how twisted they see black and white

The fucker made a deal with the devil in his current suit. Yet he the victim in everything?

don't think that even really registered with that one, was wearing out about then, changed the tag on it

Sorry socialists, I prefer being bezos bitch for 10 hours for 4 days then being force to reproduce with up to 5 female slaves starting at 15!

Oh I don't know, that could be fun......... (kidding, I'm all for monogamy)

Also this thread have a clip from a video I watch that pointed issues I have https://x.com/lavenderghast/status/1771018961968157013?s=46 And incase you wonder what type of “consultants” devs are going to One is the bitch that shit over Akira early black designs At least he approved on his black characters

A lot of Hollywood stars, the big ones, have people that go over their scripts for them and get changes made so that they fit in with the persona of the actor, it's why you pretty much always know what you're going to get with a Will Smith movie, people went through and did rewrites to make sure his lines sound like Will Smith lines.

Video games using established characters should look into that apparently, so the stars of the game don't just become (more?) generic, which would suck.

Also there a FUNDAMENTAL difference between Pixar getting Mexican and African American consultants so they can be authentic to the cultures their using Then using the black American activists that thinks skintone=entire personality

Disney in general is pretty good about that and getting better, Pixar has always been over the top about it which shows.

But it ain’t rocket science who gave the narcos and cartels military grade weapons that no regular American can buy much less third world citizens

Thanks Obama. Next we'll discuss the policy he put in place that lowered civilian deaths by listing anyone in the blast area of a drone strike as a terrorist.

Oh and the CIA/FBI FUNDED CRACK AND COCAINE EPIDEMIC

Mostly FBI, it's insane how after all that and things like the Tuskeege syphilis experiment how many people in the black community trust the government, oh it's just the cops that are bad, na fool the Fed is directing it all.

Though it did result in black Americans having a lower covid vaccination % than any other demographic IIRC.

I mean if I was a rookie cop that say low thugs have military weapons my station don’t have. I would be wondering how the fuck they got it here in the USA?

That's why we need more gun laws, if it's illegal to have those I'm sure the various gangs and such will turn theirs in.

Sorry it always been a issue, but Killmonger shows how twisted they see black and white The fucker made a deal with the devil in his current suit. Yet he the victim in everything?

Still haven't seen the movie, but ya by my understanding there was no nuance there at all.

Hopefully they learn better when it come to making a villain.

#zoomer huey anon #sorry if I missed anything #migraine time

[terrence-silver]

What would different era’s of Terry use as a cologne or a scent to make beloved be around him more?

---

― What would Twig do? Hard to tell. But, maybe, just maybe, he's heard old folk stories around Vietnam, during the war, among locals, about ancient concoctions and brews that increased attraction from the wearer to their intended target, bordering on magical properties; something that appealed to the mind and the body. Something that back home might be deemed a love potion by any other name and while he thought it is a load of mumbo jumbo and old wives tales back then, he sure as heck he wishes he had a vial of that to spray all over himself now. Should he rummage through beloved's things and do some well meaning digging when they aren't likely to see, though? Just in case? See what scents and perfumes they use and align himself to that, ensuring he matches with them and ensure a higher probability of their attraction through that? Do some stalking and use observational logic? Use his newfound money and wealth to buy the most expensive thing on the market and hope smelling like raw cash would do the trick for him? Maybe appealing to the soldier in him is the right course of action; maybe smelling fresh and clean and orderly is the best tactic --- honest, good and old fashioned? Or maybe, just maybe, he should get to scheming. To cooking. o a bit of would-be witchcraft, not that he ever figured himself the type. A pinch of his sweat, a droplet of his blood, a lock of his hair, the salt of his tears, various fragrances and herbs he brought home from Korea to make his dish complete. It is not unusual for a soldier to make frag grenades and Molotov cocktails on the field, from scratch, so why would making a scent that appeals to someone's desire be all that strange? He's in love, and he's a little like a girl eagerly making perfume out of roses petals from his mother's garden. He is doing this for a good cause. Is it so bad that he wants you to be around him more than ever? It is not wrong. Not if it actually works.

― See, for 80's Terry Silver, whatever boyish, albeit obsessive innocence Twig would have on this topic with his homegrown solutions dissipates into outright Machiavellianism. In the animal world, he knows, beasts in heat secrete a sort musk that makes the irresistible to any would-be mate that catches their scent, and people are a type of animal too. Jungle rules are valid in civilization. Jungle rules are valid in desire and the arena of courting and conquest. More than any place else, actually. And so, a team of scientists, experts, doctors and chemists are commissioned and carefully vetted by Mr. Silver himself, in a hush-hush operation, to literally design the perfect scent. Just for him. With beloved you in mind. No expenses too big. No excess too excessive. Terry Silver gets what Terry Silver wants. Always. Mind you, he doesn't feel he needs a bottle of anything to already be alluring as he is, without the aid of science, but he supposes there's an undeniable sort of fun to this, an unabashed eroticism, in you thinking he smells so good, that it is physically, on a molecular level, impossible to resist him, felling you entirely under his whim of control and rendering you helpless under his literal spell, with no bullshit or distractions serving as obstacles. Should his people at Dynatox frequently dealing with gasses and toxins get involved with this project? They just might. And after months of genuine research, tens of thousands of man hours invested, nearly a million dollars blown into the ether, anything intrusively perverse, from a sample of his cum in the mixture and the collected venom of a rare Burmese Cobra (A shameless suggestion by Mr. Silver himself), the perfect, addictive, nearly hallucinogenic and entirely unethical cologne is designed. Nobody who sees you can quite explain why your pupils wildly dilate and why you ignore everything else when Terry comes into your line of sight but they suppose it must be love.

― You know what would be a great shortcut when you're old, you find love infuriatingly late in life, feel the rage of not having control of time itself and when such things happen and you wish you could somehow jump through all the social rings of fire that involve the dance of pleasantries with the one you want and actually get down to have them, right away, not a minute more wasted? A love potion. In such times, yes, a literal tonic to induce desire, skip all the nonsense, awaken the senses and make the brain receptive would come in handy. The notion almost amuses old man Terry. It really does. Except, few notions amuse Terry for their own sake without actually formulating into outright plans and possibilities in his head after a while --- as was the case all his life. And sure, he knows his way around fine art. Fine dining. Fine wine. Fine suits. Fine cars. Fine mansions. Fine perfumes and colognes galore, because he's a natural purveyor of the rare, expensive and exotic. Still, he finds most options available for the buyer's purse, self-proclaimed to make you 'irresistible' as poultry marketing tricks --- instead opting for something wrought from his own machinations. You get invited to dinner. You get wined and dined by an ever so charming old man. You get seduced. You get drawn in. You have a wonderful evening. And for some reason, you immediately, against all reason, find yours in Terry Silver's bed, that very night. First date. How? Not unreasonable, seeing as how he is quite alluring on his own, when he wishes to be, but unbeknownst to you, he has sprayed himself and his own environment with every aphrodisiac, incense and fume in the book and ensured his mansion smells like desire. Smells like sex. Invading the mind. Disarming, almost like a drug, to the point that the dinner was cut short and continued in his bedroom before you could even reason why. You supposed...Terry smelled quite nice.

You never realized you stood no chance the minute you crossed the threshold of his estate.

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