#[ could i remake this better now that i am slightly better at ps? yes ]

[prxncecharming]

                               YOU JUST GOT SLAPPED                                                            ACROSS THE FACE MY FRIEND

Independent Captain Hook & Prince Charming Blogs that are probably too exclusive to write with you anyway written by Lucas and Nadia.

[akwardlyuncool]

After We Collided (2020) - Movie Review

CW/TW: Alcohol abuse and what I perceive to be a brief scene of sexual assault.

Note: Still have not read the book this is based on or any of the books in the series.

So I told myself that I should probably rewatch After, the first movie in this series, to kinda prime me for this sequel, but I passed thinking I’d be okay and thus now my thoughts will probably be lacking in some areas for me making that decision. I was hella confused a lot of the time, anyway, let’s just go with what we got.

Without being part of the fandom or knowing much about the history behind the series, part 2 felt like a sad remake of 50 Shades of Grey and in a way that pulled the worst versions of all the characters, especially Christian and Ana. You had  the young woman who loves to read and the man with all the connections to make sure she get’s to do just that, the I’m-pissed-at-you-so-I’m-gonna-drunk-call-you-cause-I-miss-your-manipulative-ways, bits, as well as the nightmares of a traumatized boy that only his soulmate can fix. There was so much that was just plucked from 50 Shades of Grey, that it makes me feel like that is all fact. Now the whole thing could actually be fan-fiction of 50 Shades, to which I have many thoughts, however as it’s own thing, After We Collided was rough and continued to be just as brutal as the first one, yet worse.

Don’t quote me on this but I think I remember reading somewhere that this series was maybe One Direction fan-fiction. I know that doesn’t help it’s case, but if that’s true, it just fall under all the other cringey One Direction stories out there, that all play on these similar themes.

It had a slightly better timeline than the first movie, so I’ll give it that, but it was still far too rushed and there was never a moment that felt breathable. Every step forward for these characters felt like they happened in two seconds and I’m just sitting here rolling my eyes, cause I’m like “weren’t you just mad at him not 5 literal minutes ago and now you’re blowing up his phone talking about ‘call me’?” There was so much tug of war and manipulation going on that it was hard take anything remotely serious. I know I said in my review for After, that I wasn’t going to be taking these movies too serious in the first place, yet here I am thinking about all the reasons this so called “romance” is a trash one.

Personally I think this whole THING would have been better if it had just stayed an internet book, that way we could write it off and let it exist in the midst of all the other stories about toxic relationships that some people disregard and unfortunately idolize simply because there might be a steamy scene somewhere in one of it’s 37 chapters and the guy quotes some cheap Shakespeare line about belonging together or something of that nature after apologizing once again for his many indiscretions. As a movie it wasn’t good and as a story it failed even harder. I know how they’re bleeding more out of this series, because in internet story-land, it’s what you do to keep the fan base engaged, I just feel bad for it, whatever this is. (As well as for Trevor, Dylan Sprouse’s character, even though part of me doesn’t trust him not to be manipulative or somehow toxic either.)

PS: The whole Landon’s mother being white in the first movie thing that had me hella irritated was just glossed over this go round because they made her Black this time. YES I DID NOTICE! I do however thank you for changing the character formally played by Peter Gallagher to Rob Estes, cause it was the right thing to do.

Side Note: The DVD that I watched was also so cheaply done that it didn’t even have a main menu to select scenes or subtitles or anything of that nature. (And yes it was an official copy I checked out from the library.)

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If you’re interested, check out my review of After the first movie in this series.

[roombagreyjoy]

“Shh. Come here. It’s just a nightmare.” prompt for jonmartin >:3

OKAY THERE IS A PERFECTLY GOOD EXPLANATION FOR THIS: I had a perfectly good draft, already edited, ready to be posted. But it was too angsty/filled with anger/not enough comfort for all the hurt and I had a TERRIBLE week and I woke up from a nightmare (oh, the irony) at 6AM and wrote this one instead on a burst of fear-induced mania in like four or five hours. I've barely edited it, so bear with me.

PS: I’m so sorry.

Seriously I did my best I’m so sorry.

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Prompt #2: “Shh. Come here. It’s just a nightmare.”

Read it on my AO3 Page as well

Alternative Title: Nightmares Aren’t Fun

[They really aren’t]

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Pairings: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims

Content Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Depression (not explicit), feelings of solitude/loneliness, low self-esteem (not explicit), there’s literally an Apocalypse going on what else do you need to know

Addendum: I am so sorry, I had a perfectly good draft and went for this one I just wrote in four hours nonstop instead, the other one was too angsty/angry/sad and I had a terrible week so I chose to remake the entire thing I am so sorry, the first part of this is very statement-y and it was completely on accident but then again as your resident nightmare expert what can you expect, please don’t kill me I tried my best and I only have one (1) brain cell.

Length: 2515 words (do not trust AO3 I know it’s 2515 don’t fucking @ me)

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It’s a weird feeling, waking up from a nightmare. You don’t realise when you’ve woken, you just… are waken, sometimes bolting upright in bed due to the shock, others jolting awake with tears streaming down your cheeks; heaving, or breathing rapidly, or just straight-up sobbing, with snot coming out of your nose in the least dignified way possible. The heavy weight of the world on your shoulders, the fear clinging to your soul, rooted deep beneath your skin, in your brain, in your heart, in your lungs and your stomach and your knees and your shoulders and your chest and your teeth and your eyes and your tongue…

You can feel it clutching at the last cracks of sleep left within you. Sometimes it takes a while for it to be left behind. Can be minutes. Can be hours. Sometimes you carry that fear with you for a day, two days, a week… oftentimes not even remembering what exactly it is you’re supposed to be afraid of.

Waking up from a nightmare with someone by your side is an even weirder feeling.

At least, it is, for people who are not used to having anyone by their side at all.

When you have been lonely for so long, companionship can become a prison as well as a salvation. The balance is hard to find, processing your emotions is more complicated than it used to be when you were alone. You have someone else there; someone who’s affected by your actions and whose actions you’re affected by. Someone who depends on you and on whom you depend. It’s in equal parts comforting and terrifying.

Especially when you’ve just woken up from a horrible, terrible, godawful nightmare.

That had just happened to poor Martin Blackwood, who, in fact, did not quite remember what the nightmare was all about at all! All he remembered is that it was horrible.

But, then again, this is the Apocalypse, isn’t it? It’s supposed to be bad. Awful, even. And that, it was. He shook a little at the touch of cold hands tentatively brushing past his arm and resting on his bare shoulder. He could already feel the tingle in the back of his head, like his brain was tickling, but not necessarily in a good way. The more awoken he was, the more his senses started brushing off the tiredness and sleepiness, he became more and more aware of it. The feeling of being watched, of being observed; the underlying fear of being judged. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to keep that fear at bay. ‘You’re not judged. You’re safe. You’re okay. Being looked at does not mean being submitted to judgement.’ A constant reminder, time and again. The incessant push to make his brain rationalise the situation. Trying not to break. Not like this. Not in front of Jon. He already had enough on his plate as is, to have to deal with him even after the nightmares.

It’s hard to convince yourself of some things when your entire life you’ve felt otherwise.

He did not open his eyes, but he leaned into the touch when he felt Jon cupping his cheek softly. The feeling of his hand on Martin’s skin was comforting; his skin was rough, coarse, the texture of his palm uneven and scarred, his once delicate, slim fingers now slightly bent, fragile, yet their touch was certain, his fingernails only a little too long (Martin bit at them when he was stressed, but Jon never did; he resorted to nervously tangling his fingers instead). He felt himself letting out a long breath of air he didn’t know he had been holding until then, and with it went some of the tension bottled up deep inside his body, when he felt Jon’s thumb slowly caress his cheek in a circular motion. He didn’t open his eyes yet, and he felt the other man’s hand shifting slightly, at an infuriating slow pace, probably in order not to startle him. Said hand slowly reached up, and he felt Jon’s thumb softly against his skin again, this time in his eyelid, moving upwards, tracing his eyebrow, his index finger drawing circles over his forehead with a gentleness almost unparalleled… Jon ran his hand a few times through Martin’s hair, in a calming motion, only for his thumb to then trace the way back down, gently playing with his ear, lingering there for a second or two, before it made its way to Martin’s jawline, lips…

Jon finally let his hand down, and Martin begrudgingly opened his eyes. He was staring at him. Of course, he was staring at him. He blinked whatever was left of sleep within him and smiled back. He stared at the other man for a few minutes, without saying anything. Jon seemed reluctant to say something either. Martin eventually blinked. Jon didn’t. He finally opened his mouth, his voice coming out hoarse yet filled with such affection Martin felt his stomach twist for a second with what he might have once called butterflies. Not anymore, though.

“You’re beautiful, you know.” Was all Jon said. Martin knew he didn’t look beautiful. He could still feel the tears drying up in his cheeks, although he didn’t know why he was crying in the first place, and he sniffed. He shifted his body, so he’d be looking up, to the ceiling. The sounds of the outside world were… bad. They were bad. He shook a little beneath the bedsheets.

“Do you, err… do you want me to bring you another blanket?” Jon asked, cautiously. “The one in the couch is… very comfortable.” He was aware Jon knew he wasn’t shaking out of coldness, but he nodded regardless.

“I know.” Martin said. He was the one who put it there, after all. That’s where Jon spent most of his time after the change. He used to stare silently at the wall, shaking. Sometimes he would let out small huffs of air, like he was trying to laugh but his voice wasn’t there to laugh with him. Martin took the warmest looking blanket he could find (Daisy was, apparently, not one for seeking comfort underneath a blanket and a warm cup of hot cocoa) and put it around him, making sure to cover him entirely. He used to leave Jon like that for a while, not wanting to invade his privacy, but sometimes he felt the need to rest a hand on his shoulder, whisper comforting words he knew Jon would not believe (after all, neither did he), kiss his forehead or his hair… although he wasn’t sure Jon even noticed he was there most of the time.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t an unknown feeling to Martin. So, he carried on, he made tea…

But the tea was gone.

So was the world.

Martin shook slightly harder. Jon bent over his arm to stare at him properly, this time; his green eyes glowing almost imperceptibly to the human eye. If Martin didn’t know, he wouldn’t have noticed. He always noticed, though.

“Are you sure about that blanket?” He asked again. “It’s… I…” He closed his mouth in defeat, at a loss for words.

“Yes. Yes. Go grab it,” Martin conceded. “… please.” He added.

Honestly, he just wanted to get Jon out of the room for a bit, give him a chance to collect himself. To function properly. To take a deep breath without feeling a pair of big, inquiring eyes upon him. Of course, Jon knew this. He should feel guilty. He just didn’t have it in him to feel guilty anymore. This, Jon also knew. Martin wished he could believe there was something Jon did not, in fact, know, at that point. But he had chosen not to care about that either. Not anymore. It was only going to hurt the both of them if he did anyway.

Jon, however, got up silently, took his share of bedsheets he was leaving behind and tucked them closer to Martin so he would keep the warmth his body was leaving behind. Not like Jon produced a lot of body heat, tiny and cold as he was, but the gesture was sweet. It made Martin feel slightly better, and also, slightly guilty, now for real. He closed his eyes with a soft, quick hum and heard the door open and close behind him. There was no need for Jon to close the door, he shouldn’t be long if all he needed to do was retrieve the woollen blanket on the couch, but Martin realised. This was Jon’s way of giving him some privacy. He still felt observed, but this time, the only pair of eyes he actually didn’t mind being observed by were gone.

It did take some of the tension out of him, however. The cabin was… safe. Allegedly. At least, he thought so. And the feeling of being watched decreased significantly with Jon being out of the room. He heard him fumbling in the adjoining room through the paper-thin walls, but he didn’t know what the other man was doing. He used this time to calm himself down as best he could. He sat on the bed, stretched a bit, felt his shoulders crack and moved his neck around. He took a deep breath, held, let it out, repeat. Five breaths later, he felt almost like a person. Almost.

“Jon?” He called out, voice loud enough for the other to hear. He didn’t wait for a response or a confirmation that Jon had, in fact, heard him, when he added: “I think you can come back in now.”

Jon opened the door trying his best not to let his eagerness show, carrying the infamous woollen blanket and… two mugs. For some reason. Martin eyed the man who stood in front of him suspiciously. Jon, patient as a saint, waited, leaning against the doorframe. Finally, Martin nodded, and he made his way to the bed. He didn’t climb onto the bed outright, sliding his knee up first instead, and dropping the objects he was carrying on the mattress carefully. He took the blanket and rounded up the bed until he got to Martin’s side. He placed it gently over his shoulders, instead of putting it on top of the bedsheets.

“I think we can both curl up under there.” He commented casually, a smile painting his words with comfort and love. Martin couldn’t help but smile back, softly.

“Sure, that sounds good.”

As much as he wanted to ask about the mugs, he knew he had to let Jon do his thing, on his own time. This was as much of a coping mechanism to him as it was to Martin.

Finally, with Jon on his side of the bed, Martin opened up the blanket as the other man positioned himself beneath the bedsheets. He took his side of the blanket as well, curling up beneath Martin’s big arm, pressing close to his side. He let out a content sigh and Martin’s heart beat a little faster. He didn’t even care how they’d ended up in this situation, all he cared about was the man who embraced him in his arms and hid his face in Martin’s neck, taking a deep breath. Martin absentmindedly pet Jon’s hair while his gaze diverted to the mugs, standing on the corner of the bed, untouched, empty.

“Jon…”

“Oh! Yes, right. Sorry.” Jon let out a small chuckle, not unlike him these days, but that would’ve been foreign to Martin before all this happened. He seemed so much better than… well. Before.

To some extent at least.

He knew though. He knew Jon was only putting up a show. Martin had been the one in charge of taking care of them before, and he knew Jon felt like it was his turn now. Martin thought it shouldn’t be like this. They had to take care of each other mutually, not just take turns and whatnot. While he was lost in thought, Jon had reached up for the mugs and handed one to Martin. The one with the tartan print on it.

“What’s this?”

“… A mug.”

“No- yes. Jon, I know it’s a mug-”

“Oh. Yes. Sorry, I-”

They kind of stepped on each other’s words for a bit until Jon decided to shut up, looking away with a flustered expression and a shame-induced smile that was still too endearing to Martin to avoid blushing too, himself.

“Look. I… why did you bring the mugs? You said there was no tea left and…”

Jon patiently waited for him to finish. But he didn’t. When it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything else, Jon sighed and pressed harder to Martin’s flank, shifting his own mug in his hands abstractedly.

“I know you like that mug.”

“What?”

“When… when everything was… when I didn’t… before I… well.” Martin did not press him to continue, just as Jon had waited for him to sort out his thoughts. Jon let out a quiet damnit and looked up in frustration. A storm raged in his eyes, and Martin slowly brought his hand to the other’s knee, squishing softly. Jon resumed, sometime afterwards, leaning into Martin’s touch almost desperately, like a sailor stranded at sea for far too long.

“When there was still tea left,” he said, and Martin knew. He had tried to talk to Jon about it, but the blame, the shame, the pain, the fear… it was all too much for him still. Maybe time was running out. Maybe not. Maybe it was all in his head. It could be. He didn’t know. There were so many things he didn’t know these days… But he wouldn’t push Jon. Not so hard. Not yet. Not still. He nodded, and Jon continued, a pinch of sadness crawling onto his voice. He tried to hide it with a cough, but he couldn’t. “When there was still tea left, you used to take these two mugs to make it the most often. You always kept the one with the tartan pattern on it, so, evidently, I assumed… you know.”

“Oh,” Martin whispered, softly.

“Yes. Well.” Jon coughed again. “It thought maybe… even if it was an unconscious choice, you know… I just… maybe, just maybe, it would make you feel better.”

Martin felt a warmth in his body that he knew was not because of the blankets, or Jon’s body next to him (though that sure helped), he smiled, tears threatening to bloom out of his eyes once again, albeit this time for very different reasons. He kissed Jon’s hair and kept his face buried there, the smell of the person he loved the most lingering, covering him, plunging him into memories of a different time, a different world, a different life. He closed his eyes and kissed Jon again, in the same spot, over, and over, slowly, gently, taking in as much of him as he possibly could, while his hands clutched the tartan mug.

Nothing else mattered. For now, he was safe. Jon was here. They were safe.