#ALSO I AM NOT JOKING ABOUT THE COCAINE

[simplygojo]

The Devil He Made Me - Ch. 10

Authors Note: YALL I'm sorry this took like 3 days longer than promised, life has been so chaotic, a good chaotic nonetheless, but that is why I am so behind. BUT FRET NOT!! I will get to as many requests as possible! All fluff fics will be completed after kinktober is over!

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x f/reader

Series Masterlist

Chapter Summary : Tension lingers in the air as awkwardness builds between you and Gojo following his recent behavior. As you and the other students prepare for an afternoon training session with Nanami and Gojo, discussions about the threat of Mahito add to the unease. Amid the training, a moment of clumsy distraction leads you to an awkward encounter with Gojo, highlighting the strain between you both...

Word Count: 5.2k

Warnings: just some light angst, also not edited lol

Taglist: @mawhoreagaa; @peqch-pie; @blue-serendipity; @simplyyyuji; @starrnai; @sorcerersseestars; @n1vi; @angryglitterperfection; @krak-jj; @coweringbear; @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni; @cococola-cocaine; @sdv98o; @theendx888; @dvmb4ssbiatch; @sugxryratz; @kinny-away; @crankyarchives; @enfppuff; If you’d like to be added to the series tag list, leave a comment below:)

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The chill of Gojo’s words had not left you. They lingered, even days later, like a bruise just beneath your skin, tender and deep. Gojo's dismissal still echoed in your mind—a reminder that, no matter how close you thought you were to him, there was a line that you could not cross. 

His casual tone, the way he brushed off the intimacy that you knew the both of you felt, left you feeling exposed, your vulnerability laid bare. 

But something had shifted since that night. 

His presence had become even more constant, his gaze a fixture in every room you walked into, every training session you participated in. It wasn’t just that he was watching you—he was hovering, an unspoken concern woven into every action, every instruction. 

His protectiveness had become palpable, his interventions more frequent and increasingly unnecessary. It wasn’t long before the others started to notice.

The past few days had been... different. That was the only way you could describe it. 

There was a shift in the air around you, a tension that seemed to linger wherever you went, following you like a shadow. 

And no matter how hard you tried to brush it off, you couldn’t ignore the fact that things had become undeniably awkward with Gojo.

It wasn’t just you imagining it, either. You could feel the distance in the way he acted—like a thin, invisible wall had been placed between the two of you. 

He wasn’t outright avoiding you, but he had certainly pulled back. 

Gone were the teasing remarks that often made you roll your eyes, the casual touches on your shoulder or back, the unspoken familiarity that had become so easy. 

Now, his behavior was almost careful, measured, as if he were afraid to let something slip.

Even his jokes, though still light-hearted, felt more guarded, lacking the usual carefree tone.

You didn’t know if it was because of what he’d said that night after your nightmare, or the way he had held you so close when you’d awoken, comforting you in a way that had felt too intimate for even him. 

Whatever it was, there was an awkwardness between you now—an uncertainty that hadn’t been there before.

And it didn’t go unnoticed by the others. Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi had thrown a few questioning glances your way during the past couple of training sessions. 

Even Maki had seemed to pick up on it, shooting you an inquisitive look here and there. But none of them said anything directly. 

If they suspected something was going on, they kept their thoughts to themselves.

Today, however, the uneasiness seemed even more pronounced as the six of you gathered in the courtyard for a late afternoon training session. 

The sky was painted in warm hues of gold and pink, the sun dipping low over the horizon, casting long shadows across the open training field.

Nanami was already there waiting when you arrived, his expression as calm and stoic as ever, while Gojo leaned casually against a nearby tree, his sunglasses glinting in the fading sunlight.

Yuji, Megumi, Nobara, Maki, Inumaki, and yourself lined up in front of them, your expressions expectant. Today’s training had a different focus—one that made a knot tighten in your stomach as you thought about it. 

The topic was Mahito, the special-grade cursed spirit who had been a thorn in the side of Jujutsu sorcerers for far too long. 

Both Yuji and Nanami had faced him before, and today they would be sharing their experiences, giving you insight on how to fight a curse as dangerous as Mahito.

“All right,” Nanami began, his voice steady and calm as he looked over the group. 

“I know that most of you haven’t encountered Mahito before before this, and that’s fortunate. But given recent events, it’s crucial that you understand what kind of threat he poses.” He paused, his gaze shifting to Yuji. 

“Itadori and I have fought him before. Itadori, why don’t you start?”

Yuji stepped forward, his usual energy dampened by the gravity of the topic. His expression was serious as he glanced at all of you, his eyes lingering on yours for a moment longer. 

“Mahito’s cursed technique is really dangerous,” he began. “He can manipulate the shape of souls—his own, and other people’s. If he touches you, he can change your body’s form in an instant.” His voice tightened, the memory clearly difficult to revisit. 

“It’s not just painful, it’s... warping. You won’t be able to recognize yourself.”

Nobara frowned, her brows knitting together. “So, we just can’t let him touch us, then?”

Yuji nodded firmly. “Exactly. Even a single touch can be deadly.”

Nanami took over, his voice steady but carrying a weight that reflected his own experiences with the curse. 

“Mahito’s power makes him extremely difficult to fight up close. He’s not only skilled but also unpredictable. He can heal his body instantly, and the more you try to damage him, the more dangerous he becomes. There’s also the psychological aspect—he enjoys inflicting pain and suffering, both physically and mentally.”

There was a moment of silence as his words hung in the air, the seriousness of the situation settling over the group like a heavy blanket. 

You could feel your heartbeat quickening as you imagined what it would be like to face a curse like that, one that could alter your very form with just a touch.

Nanami’s gaze swept over the group once more. 

“When fighting Mahito, you have to maintain distance and keep your cursed energy defences up at all times. If you let your guard down for even a second, you’re putting yourself at risk.”

Gojo, who had remained quiet up until now, finally spoke. 

“He’s dangerous,” he said, his tone light but carrying an undercurrent of seriousness. 

“But it’s not impossible to beat him. You’ve got me, after all.” He gave a playful grin, but his usual spark seemed dimmer, and there was a stiffness in his posture as if he was forcing himself to appear unaffected.

His eyes briefly met yours, and for a moment, it felt like everything around you faded away. 

There was something unspoken there, a hint of the unresolved tension that had been simmering for days. But before you could even attempt to decipher it, he broke the gaze, turning his attention back to the group.

“Mahito may be powerful,” he continued ripping his gaze from you, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t outsmart him. Remember, he has a human-like mind. Use that to your advantage.”

Maki folded her arms over her chest, glancing between Gojo and Nanami. 

“So, that mean we need to work on keeping our distance and using long-range attacks.”

“Precisely,” Nanami replied with a curt nod. 

“Long-range attacks will reduce the risk of being touched, and maintaining your cursed energy as a barrier will help protect you. This training session will focus on those techniques.”

As Nanami began to detail the exercises you would all be running through, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of Gojo’s presence beside you, like a magnetic pull that you were struggling to ignore. 

The brief moment of eye contact had stirred something within you—a mix of confusion and longing that you hadn’t been able to shake off since that night.

The group dispersed to different areas of the field, each person preparing to begin the training exercises. 

You caught sight of Gojo out of the corner of your eye, his expression unreadable as he spoke quietly with Nanami. 

When their conversation ended, Gojo turned to face the rest of you, his mask of confidence slipping back into place as he offered a bright smile.

“Let’s get started, then,” he called out. “I want to see those long-range techniques at full power.”

As everyone prepared to begin, you positioned yourself a little distance away from the others, your mind still replaying the way Gojo’s gaze had softened when he’d looked at you, and how quickly he’d turned away afterward. 

It was clear that things were different between you now—strained, uncertain, and weighed down by unspoken words. 

And despite the training at hand, you couldn’t help but wonder if the distance you felt would ever truly fade, or if it would only continue to grow.

Lost in your thoughts, you moved to reset your position after an exercise, your feet carrying you across the courtyard with automatic steps. You didn’t realize how distracted you were until it was too late, and suddenly, you walked right into something solid—someone solid.

The moment of impact jarred you back to reality. 

You stumbled, instinctively reaching out to steady yourself, your hands gripping onto the familiar fabric of a uniform jacket. 

When you looked up, your breath caught in your throat as you found yourself inches away from Gojo’s chest. 

His scent—clean and faintly sweet—filled your senses, and you felt a flush creeping up your neck as your eyes met his.

Gojo’s arms had shot out to catch you as you bumped into him, and he was holding you steady, his grip gentle yet firm. 

For a second, you could see the surprise flicker across his features, and then his expression shifted—awkwardness filling the space between you like a palpable force. 

His usual confident composure seemed to falter, his grip loosening on your arms as if he wasn’t quite sure whether to let go or keep holding you upright.

“Whoa, careful there,” he said, his voice just a little too light, a little too forced. He released his hold on you quickly, almost as if your touch had burned him. 

“Distracted much?”

You took a hurried step back, your cheeks burning as you struggled to recover from the embarrassing stumble. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled, not quite meeting his eyes hidden behind his round shades. 

“I wasn’t paying attention.”

He gave a small chuckle, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“It happens,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze flickered away. The usual ease in his voice was missing, replaced by a strained tone that only seemed to amplify the awkwardness of the moment.

The two of you stood there for a beat too long, the silence stretching between you. You could sense the tension in his posture, the way he seemed to be holding himself back—like he was afraid of saying something wrong or letting the moment slip into something deeper. 

It was a stark contrast to the Gojo you were used to—the one who was always so carefree, so sure of himself. But now, that confidence seemed to waver, replaced by something much more uncertain.

“I, uh, better get back to the group,” you said, breaking the silence. You took another step back, your heart still pounding in your chest. 

“Sorry again.”

Gojo’s expression softened, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. 

“No harm done,” he said, his voice regaining a bit of its usual playfulness. But the awkwardness was still there, lingering in the way he shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

You quickly turned away, heading back toward the others with a mixture of embarrassment and confusion swirling inside you. 

As you resumed your position, you couldn’t help but glance back over your shoulder. 

Gojo was still standing there, watching you with an unreadable expression. When he noticed you looking, he turned away, running a hand through his hair and letting out a breath that seemed to carry more than just relief.

—

By the time you had all finished training it was late, the kind of late where silence hung heavy in the air, and the darkness outside seemed impenetrable. 

The faint glow of the moon spilled through the window, casting slanted shadows across your room. You’d fallen asleep, exhausted from the day’s training, the weight of your worries finally pressing you into a fitful rest.

But sleep did not bring peace.

The dream came slowly at first—a haze of indistinct shapes and muffled sounds, like being submerged underwater. 

You felt that familiar pull in your chest, the creeping chill that signalled the arrival of something darker, something lurking just beneath the surface. 

Then, with a suddenness that stole your breath, the shapes around you sharpened, and you were no longer in your bed but standing in a shadowed forest, the air thick with an oppressive presence.

Your pulse quickened as you stumbled forward, the dense fog parting enough to reveal the silhouette of a figure standing in the distance. 

There was an eerie familiarity about him, like a memory you couldn’t quite place. His face—oh, his face—was there and then gone, flickering in and out of clarity. 

You could see his eyes, dark and unyielding, boring into you as if peering straight through your very soul. The edges of his features twisted and blurred, refusing to solidify into something recognizable, and yet... you felt like you knew him.

“Who... who are you?” You gasped out, your voice trembling as you took a step back. The fog seemed to thicken around you, as though it were alive, clawing at your skin with icy tendrils.

He didn’t respond, didn’t move. 

But the energy radiating from him was unmistakable—heavy, suffocating, and blacker than night. It crawled toward you, seeping into the ground beneath your feet.

Panic surged through your veins as that cursed energy latched onto you, tightening around your limbs and chest like chains. 

The searing pain that followed was immediate and all-consuming, as though your very essence was being pulled apart thread by thread.

“No—stop!” you cried, your voice shattering the stillness. 

The figure’s face flickered again, coming closer, so close you could almost see the details, but not enough to give him a name. His lips curled into a cold, cruel smile, and suddenly you were falling—falling into an endless darkness, swallowed up by the very curse that was tearing you apart.

In the real world, your body was tense, trapped in the throes of your nightmare. Sweat beaded on your forehead as you tossed and turned, your breaths coming in ragged, desperate gasps.

From the hallway, Gojo heard your muffled cries. 

He had been on his way back to his own quarters when the sound reached him—a faint, broken sob that instantly sent a jolt of alarm through him. He didn’t hesitate. In an instant, he was at your door, throwing it open and rushing to your bedside.

“Y/n!” he called out, his voice firm but tinged with urgency. He reached out to shake your shoulder, but you didn’t stir. 

Your cries grew louder, more frantic, your body trembling as you fought against the unseen horrors in your dream.

“Y/n, wake up!” Gojo’s tone shifted, more desperate than before as he cupped your face with both hands, his thumbs brushing over your damp cheeks in an attempt to pull you from the grip of the nightmare. 

“Come on, wake up!”

But it was as if you were locked away, trapped in that dark place where he couldn’t reach you. 

Your voice broke, a scream tearing from your throat as the figure in your dream reached out, his hand curling around your neck, squeezing with a force that stole the air from your lungs.

Gojo’s heart raced as he watched you writhe, your hands clawing at the air as if trying to fight off an invisible attacker. He tightened his hold on you, leaning closer as his own panic began to rise. 

“Y/n, it’s just a dream, you have to wake up!” His voice dropped to a softer tone, a rare tenderness breaking through his usual composure. “Please, wake up.”

As if his voice finally pierced through the darkness, you jolted awake with a sharp intake of breath, your eyes snapping open as though you’d been yanked from underwater. 

Your chest heaved with each ragged breath, and your vision swam as you struggled to ground yourself.

The moment awareness returned, so did the overwhelming terror. 

Your hands flew up to cover your face as you gasped for air, sobs tearing from your throat uncontrollably. You were shaking—deep, violent tremors that wracked your entire body, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t seem to stop.

“Hey, hey...” Gojo’s voice was closer now, his hands gently prying yours away from your face so he could see you. “Breathe, y/n,” he murmured, the concern in his voice unmistakable. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

The sound of his voice, the warmth of his touch, started to break through the haze of panic, but it wasn’t enough to stem the tears streaming down your cheeks. 

“It was him,” you choked out between sobs, your voice trembling so badly you could hardly form the words. “I saw... his face. But it’s always slipping away, like I can’t—can’t remember it.”

Gojo pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you with a protective tightness.

“Oh Satoru it’s so real, it’s always so real,” you said, clinging to him like a lifeline, burying your face against his chest as you continued to cry, your tears soaking into his shirt. 

His hand moved soothingly along your back, his other hand gently cradling your head. 

“It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice low and steady as he tried to calm you. “You don’t have to remember it now. Just breathe.”

It took several long moments before your sobs began to subside, the comfort of his embrace slowly grounding you. 

You drew in a shaky breath, leaning into his touch as the last remnants of the nightmare faded from your mind. 

The warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek—it was enough to remind you that you were back in reality, that he was here, and that you weren’t alone.

When your breathing finally steadied, you lifted your head slightly, blinking away the lingering tears. It was then you realized just how close you were. 

Your face was still tucked against his chest, his arms encircling you as though he had no intention of letting go. The air around you seemed to grow thicker as the reality of the situation settled in.

Gojo’s breath hitched slightly, his gaze drifting down to meet yours. The sudden awareness of your proximity made his ears tinge with colour, and he cleared his throat awkwardly, shifting his hold on you. 

“You, uh... sure you’re okay now?” His voice wavered, betraying the faintest hint of discomfort.

You nodded, quickly pulling back, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. 

“Y-Yeah, I’m fine... sorry,” you mumbled, the embarrassment creeping in to replace the fear. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” he said quickly, though he hesitated for a moment before stepping back and dropping his arms to his sides. His usual air of nonchalance seemed almost forced as he gave a lopsided grin. 

“I was just passing by, y’know? Lucky for you, I’m always around when you need me.”

“Right,” you murmured, your cheeks still flushed as you glanced away.

The silence between you stretched, growing increasingly awkward. Gojo rubbed the back of his neck, the tension evident in his posture. 

“Well, uh... I should probably let you get back to sleep,” he said, taking a step toward the door. “But if it happens again... don’t hesitate to call for me. I’ll come running.”

You offered a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Gojo.”

He flashed a brief, genuine smile in return before slipping out of your room, pulling the door shut behind him. 

As he walked back down the dim hallway, his thoughts lingered on the sight of your tear-streaked face, the way you’d clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. 

A part of him wanted to turn back, to stay just a little longer, but he forced himself to keep walking, his expression shifting back into its usual confident mask.

Back in your room, you sank back into the covers, your heart still racing from the nightmare. 

You could still feel the echo of his arms around you, the comfort of his presence, and for just a moment, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t facing this darkness alone.

—

It was after yet another training session, one where Gojo had cut in before you even had the chance to break a sweat, that you found yourself wandering aimlessly in the halls of Jujutsu High. 

Frustration simmered beneath your skin, the tightness in your chest a constant reminder of how little control you had over anything lately—not your cursed energy, not your training, and certainly not Gojo’s sudden shift in behavior.

As you turned a corner, you caught sight of Gojo and Nanami standing near the courtyard’s entrance. 

Their voices were low, but even at a distance, you could see the tension in the set of Nanami's shoulders, the way Gojo’s normally relaxed posture seemed just a bit too rigid. 

You hesitated, lingering just out of view, an unspoken need to know what was really going on between them keeping you rooted to the spot.

“Gojo, this isn’t like you,” Nanami’s voice carried, even in its quietness. There was a sharp edge to it, a concern buried beneath the layer of his usual composed tone. 

“You’ve been acting... different. Stressed, even.”

Gojo chuckled, a dry, humourless sound. 

“Stressed?” He echoed, tilting his head slightly as if considering the word for the first time.

“I didn’t think you noticed such things, Nanami. Maybe you’re finally starting to loosen up.”

Nanami’s expression didn’t shift; his gaze remained steady, unfazed by the attempt at deflection. 

“This isn’t a joke,” he said bluntly. “You’ve been stepping in more than necessary. It’s not like you to be this—” he paused, searching for the right word, “—overbearing.”

For a moment, there was a flicker of something in Gojo’s eyes—an unguarded glimpse of the strain he was under, as if the weight he carried had finally begun to crack his ever-present mask of calmness. 

His jaw tightened, and his usual casual demeanour slipped, just slightly, enough for even you to notice the change.

“She’s in danger,” Gojo replied, his voice dropping to a low, almost raw intensity. “More than any of you realize.”

Nanami’s brow furrowed, his skepticism evident. 

“We deal with danger all the time, Gojo. It’s our job. But you’re treating this like it’s something personal.”

“It is personal,” Gojo shot back, the words escaping before he could catch them. There was a fire in his gaze, a frustration that bordered on desperation. 

“Whatever’s happening to her, it’s not just some curse we can exorcise and move on from. Someone is pulling the strings, and they’re doing it right under our noses.”

Nanami’s eyes softened, the sternness in his expression giving way to a kind of resigned understanding. 

“And you’re afraid,” he stated, not as a question but as a fact, the truth behind Gojo's behaviour finally laid bare. “That’s why you’ve been hovering. Why you can’t keep your distance.”

Gojo’s silence spoke volumes. He looked away, his gaze drifting towards the courtyard where the students often gathered. The lightness in his usual stance was gone, replaced by a weight he couldn’t seem to shrug off. 

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted quietly, almost as if confessing to himself. “And I can’t stand it.”

Nanami’s voice softened, though his words were firm. 

“You won’t be any help to her if you let this consume you. You’re not doing her any favours by trying to shoulder it all alone.” He paused, letting the weight of his advice settle. 

“You need to trust that she’s strong enough to fight this too. Otherwise, you’re just keeping her in a cage.”

Gojo’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze lingering on the courtyard for a moment longer before he finally turned back to face Nanami. 

“I know,” he said, though his voice was strained. “But knowing that and letting go are two different things.”

Gojo glanced back toward the direction of the training grounds, where you were surely still within earshot. 

His gaze softened, the tension around his eyes easing just enough to show a flicker of the concern he held so tightly in check. 

The usual sparkle in his eyes seemed dulled, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down harder than usual. 

His shoulders slumped slightly, betraying the exhaustion he had been trying to hide behind his casual demeanour. 

“I rejected her,” he said, his voice strained, as if the admission was a stone he had been carrying for far too long. 

“I thought… if I could push her away, keep some kind of distance, it would protect her—and me. That maybe if I didn’t let myself get emotionally involved, I could handle all of this better.”

Nanami watched him, his expression unyielding yet tempered with understanding. 

“You thought that keeping her at arm’s length would make it easier,” he said, his voice steady. “But it hasn’t, has it?”

Gojo shook his head slowly, the familiar mask of arrogance slipping away, leaving him vulnerable. 

“No,” he admitted, a bitter laugh escaping him. “If anything, it’s only made things worse. It’s like… no matter how much I try to shove my feelings aside; they keep finding their way back to her. She’s in my head—everywhere I look, I’m thinking about what might happen to her, and how I can stop it.”

Nanami’s brows drew together in quiet contemplation as he took a step closer to Gojo, his tone even. 

“It sounds to me like it’s too late to pretend you’re not emotionally involved,” he said, the weight of the words settling heavily in the air. 

“You already are, whether you want to admit it or not. The way you’re acting—the overprotectiveness, the constant hovering—it’s not just concern, Gojo...”

The words seemed to pierce through Gojo, who glanced away, his jaw clenching as he struggled with the truth laid bare before him. 

“I know,” he whispered, the confession rough at the edges. “But what good is caring if it just makes me hesitate? If it gets her hurt?”

Nanami let out a quiet breath, his gaze steady on Gojo’s tense form. 

“Ignoring your feelings won’t make them go away,” he said, his voice firm yet calm. 

“And it certainly won’t help her. If anything—it’s clouding your judgment. You’ve been so focused on trying not to care that you’re missing the bigger picture. Is it really worth pretending that you don’t give a damn just to protect yourself?”

Gojo’s expression tightened, the conflict within him clear in the way his hand clenched into a fist at his side. 

“I’m not trying to protect myself,” he argued, though there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “I just… I don’t know if I can handle it if something happens to her. I don’t know how to fix this, Nanami.”

Nanami’s voice softened as he placed a hand on Gojo’s shoulder, an uncommon gesture of support from the typically reserved man. 

“We all know you want to help her,” he said. “But you can’t help her if you’re constantly trying to put walls between the two of you. You need to let her in, trust her strength as much as you expect her to trust yours.”

Gojo’s gaze softened as he glanced back toward the training grounds, his eyes tracing the path you had taken moments earlier. 

“She doesn’t know how much I need her to be okay,” he murmured, the quiet confession barely audible.

“Then let her see it,” Nanami replied, his tone unwavering as he took a step back. “Before it’s too late.”

With that, Nanami turned away and walked back down the hall, leaving Gojo standing there, grappling with the full weight of his emotions for the first time in a long while. 

Gojo let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his fingers flexing into fists before releasing again, tension rippling through his posture. 

He stared at the empty space where Nanami had just been, his words echoing in his mind like an unrelenting mantra. 

He didn’t know how to show you what he was feeling—not when he was so used to hiding behind a veil of jokes and a devil-may-care attitude. Not when showing you would mean admitting, even to himself, just how deep he had already let you in.

With a frustrated sigh, he shoved his hands into his pockets and took a step forward, then another, as if motion itself could somehow dispel the unrest stirring within him. 

Unbeknownst to him, you were still there, tucked away around the corner, holding your breath as you had listened to every word. 

You had stopped in your tracks earlier when you heard Nanami and Gojo’s voices, intending to turn around before they saw you. 

But the moment Gojo had begun to speak—when his tone dropped from its usual playful timbre to something raw and unguarded—you hadn’t been able to move. It was as if your feet had become rooted to the floor, as if some part of you had known that what you were about to hear would be something you weren’t meant to know.

You held your breath as Gojo came into view, and for a moment, you were struck by how different he seemed—his usual careless confidence replaced by something that looked almost like defeat. 

His jaw was clenched, and his eyes were focused somewhere distant, his expression troubled in a way that you had never seen on him before.

But as he walked further down the hall, something shifted. 

The frustration seemed to catch up to him, and he suddenly stopped, his hands leaving his pockets as he ran them roughly through his hair. 

The small, restless motion betrayed the agitation simmering beneath his calm exterior, and it was enough to make your chest tighten with an unexpected ache.

You couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was about seeing him like this—unravelled and unguarded—that hit you so deeply. 

Perhaps it was because, in that moment, you understood just how much he had been holding back, how hard he had been trying to keep everything together. 

Or maybe it was because you realized, with startling clarity, that you weren’t the only one struggling to navigate the distance between you.

As Gojo’s shoulders sagged slightly in resignation, he took a few more steps down the hall before stopping again. 

He turned his head ever so slightly, almost as if he could sense someone watching, and your breath hitched in your throat as you quickly pressed yourself back against the wall, out of sight. 

You could hear the frustration in the exhale he let out, a low, weary sound that cut through the silence.

Without another word, Gojo resumed walking, his pace a little faster this time, like he was trying to escape the emotions that had been left hanging in the air.

You waited until the sound of his footsteps faded completely before you dared to move, your heart pounding in your chest as the weight of what you had just heard settled over you.

You weren’t sure how long you stood there, staring at the empty hallway and trying to piece together the meaning behind Gojo’s confession. 

But one thing was clear: whatever wall he had put up between the two of you, it was beginning to crumble, and it terrified you just as much as it comforted you.

[blucactus112]

May never come to reality but im planning out a Animatic to AJR's 'Maybe Man' (sue me) and need some help filling in some of the parts.

(Its probably going to be about all the life series in general not specifically Wild life. but feel free to try it fit it all in one series)

!!!long post incoming!!!

General plan so far:

First Half(ish) will be calmly looking at hermits in their peaceful habitats talking about their insecurities.

Finishing the first half when we get to the god part it will be Grian before life series started pleading to watchers and becoming one himself then cutting to him and all the other lifers standing around in a circle (like the start of each series) (much wow)

ONE. TWO. PANDEMONIUM.

murder, just all of the scenes of people dying biggest polt twist, betrayals, and Amount of kills.

Also specifically a close up of grain seeing the server burning in the reflection of his eyes.

ending with another shot of the beginning of a server but we see grains eyes which are weathered and worn out and maybe has some watcher purple

Specific Lines:

Wish I was a stone, so I couldn't feel You'd yell in my face, it'd be no big deal But I'd miss the way we make up and smile Don't want to be stone, I changed my mind

Im thinking scar and Grian Desert Duo? also could be

I wish I had eyes in the back of my head Then I could see the places I've been But then I would know that you're talkin' shit I don't wanna know what my friends think

This im Deff thinking cleo bigb scott and lizzie from the Boogeyman series (i forgor wich one that is)

but open to other ideas

Wish I were my dog out on the lawn I'd be so glad when I hear you come home But if I were my dog, I wouldn't live long I'm sure gonna miss her when she's gone

This is pearl playing with a dog, you cannot fucking make me change my mind

I wish I could act in a show on TV 'Cause then I could practice not bein' me I'll practice my cry, put it into my reel But you won't believe me when I cry for real

im either thinking like Ren or Martyn because of the acting thing or one of the scenes usually portrayed as lots of crying (ie Scott at the end of double life)

I wish that my brain would triple in size I'd nail every joke, I'd win every fight But I'd get too deep with that kind of mind I don't wanna know the point of life

ive been thinking of this as jimmy in general but also i dont want to be mean so other ideas would be great

In some other life I would be rich I'd travel in style, I'd cover the bill But couldn't complain 'bout anything small Nobody'd feel bad for me at all

havent given much thought for ones after this but im thinking Scar on Magic mountain trying to scam everyone?

If I was cocaine or a bottle of Jack I'd get invited to every frat But when you get old and your good days have passed You'll only want me when you're sad

have there been any people that bounce between alliances during one series?

Wish I was a song, your favorite one You'd follow the dance to me at your prom I would be there when your baby is born For two or three minutes, then I'm gone

there was at least one dande floor that was a trap, right??

I wish I was big, as big as my house I'd sleep on the trees, I'd skip every crowd But I wouldn't fit on my therapist's couch God, I could really use him now

probably ep1 of WildLife

I wish I was God, I'd never trip up And if I did, well, so fuckin' what? I could be cruel and break all your stuff Yeah, I'd be loved no matter what

pov grain angst

grain is on super windy mountain top surrounded by watchers crying, pleading to them

But if I was God, it'd get kinda weird 'Cause you would only say what I wanna hear And then you would die, you'd love me to death I never know who the hell I am

grian is surrounded by purple light wings and eyes becoming at least in part, a watcher

I wish I was me, whoever that is I could just be and not give a shit Hey, I'll be whatever makes you a fan 'Cause I don't know who the hell I am

cut to peaceful tranquil plains, all of them jn a circle at beginning of life series laughing joking shaking hands hugging (set em up for emotional damage)

One, two, pandemonium

black, black, PAN DE MONIUM

cut to destruction of server only using reds browns and blacks showing carnage this series has brought (and yes ofc player has died messages will appear in the corner as if in chat)

One, two, pandemonium

im thinking each line will be each of the series in chronological order

Here I go again

One, two, pandemonium

Here I go again

One, two, pandemonium

One, two-

Here I go again

cut to beginning of ?wild life? they all have scars when their final kills have been, some look tired some look determined

if you end up making this animatic if you want to put me in the credits as like 'inspired by' :3 but honestly idc that much. but you HAVE to tell me if you post one bc i will watch the hell out of that

#god i need more tags

[sugashook]

I think Althea represents wades love as like was basically said in dp1 "love is blind wade " and wade tells her "no you are" he is arguing with his own self pointlessly.

And he constantly disrespects her but she's all he has . He's like a giant red heart and all he has is his love to keep him company. He's a lonely heart and she's all he has .

And then he's like even my love is broken like I am, she can't walk without tripping, I won't help her do much except for to keep us alive basically, you know it's just a mess. just like his powers all he knows how to do is survive.

And then he's telling Logan about her and disrespects her in the way he describes her (but he tries not to better each movie kinda) and then he's like to logan "But that's what she is, she's blind." He's describing his love and feelings to Logan. and justifying his self-hate, being confused like, that's all there is to my love. i call it how it is. like it's so simple. its like kinda how he sees himself as a jokey disability guy perhaps. hes extremely insecure.(duh)

And then later on when he asks Logan to meet his symbolic love, Althea. He looks at Logan and reminds himself to treat his love with more respect and calls her Althea. Even though she comes to him screaming and cussing about wanting cocaine.

Like think of it if like your affection is in the shape of an old helpless blind coke addicted lady screaming and cussing full speed at you as you let someone else into your life. I think wade would want to prepare people for that by talking down on himself.

For example, so funny my love is a joke right, i'm a joke? i'm so pathetic? RIGHT? like in the scene at the first party, and Vanessa laughs at the self deprecation and wade is hurt after. "its just me and blind al sleeping in the same bed together" something like that.

i feel like thats also his own self or half of his heart or whole heart being tired of himself and growing more depressed over his situation with love in his life.

and Logan is like always noticing his lies, and bad behaviors and says don't talk about yourself like that. he's never going with the flow. he's the harsh reality check, that won't laugh along or laugh things off. etc. "jesus thats what you call her? you call her blind al?"

Like wade's like I'm crazy, I depend a lot on help from others, I'm an addict I have all these issues, I yell I talk a lot, i have a disability, i'm too much for others ,etc..

but on the other hand, his love is blind which is always a beautiful positive thing and it's soooo trueee. Like I need a lot from people but I give a lot , no matter who you are . His love is pure he's extremely child-like and innocent. but it's also child like in a way where he can't process things as an adult, he processes them badly, like a confused child.

[striveattemptfail]

chaos, we so catostrophic | Logan Howlett & Wade Wilson, 1.1k, PG-13

@poolvertober: Day 17 – Cozy

Summary: Takes place immediately after Wade introduces Logan and Mary Puppins to Al. This is 100% dialogue and is more gen than slash but we all know the truth ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) TW: Rated for canon-typical violence, gun use, mentions of drugs/alcohol, language, and death of a nameless rat. Read on Ao3

A/N: I'm taking today's prompt real fast and loose here so please forgive me lmao. Title from Chk Chk Boom by Stray Kids because I'm still offended it wasn't included in the OST, smh 😑 Shout out to the wonderful Zay @comatose--overdose for the beta, idea throwing, and putting up with my ass (ಥ‿ಥ) All other mistakes are mine.

❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛

“It’s like an armadillo fucked a gremlin, angrily, and in a bed of gonorrhoea—”

“Wow.”

“—and didn’t stop ‘til the sun came up!”

“Whatever it is, I ain’t taking care of it.”

“Don’t worry about that. Besides, we should talk about how Logan is here to live with us!”

“No, I’m not...?”

“How the fuck are we supposed to keep a mangy dog and another whole-ass human being alive in this shithole apartment, Wade?”

“Gasp! How dare you call her mangy? She’s a princess and deserves to be treated like royalty!”

“And you want her to live in this cocaine-less den?”

“Did you just say ‘gasp’ out loud, bub?”

“The movie’s almost over, so I can probably hook you up with Doug’s forbidden baking powder soon. I’ll figure it out!”

“What about the entire man—”

“Ooh, that he is.”

“—that you intend to house in this one-bed, one-bath?”

“I’ll only be here until I can get on my feet, ma’am.”

“Nope, you’re staying here until you’re 90! Also, ‘ma’am’? Logan, I’m pretty sure you’re twice her age.”

“What the fuck?”

“Oh yeah, Logan’s the Wolverine and he’s, like, stupid old.”

“Fuck you.”

“...I thought Wolverine died?”

“This is a new one.”

“How the fuck did you get a fucking new one?”

“I’ll give you the abridged version of the movie later, after everybody settles in.”

“Wade! For fuck’s sake, I can hear you leaving—don’t you dare walk away from me!”

“Don’t you dare walk away from meeeee!”

“Singing Whitney doesn’t answer my question about how the hell we’re fitting three people and a dog in here!”

“We’ve got a pull-out—haha, pull out—in the living room and an XL twin in the bedroom.”

“My bedroom, Wade!”

“Bub, are you fuckin’ serious?”

“Hey, if the fanfics can make it work, then we’ll make it work!”

“I cannot believe this shit. This dumbass never listens to me.”

“Jesus fuckin’ christ. Althea?”

“Yes, Logan?”

“Ya got any booze around?”

“I think there’s beer in the fridge.”

“Booze? Already? It’s not even—Al, what time is it?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“Right, blind, can’t see the time.”

“If that wall clock’s right, it’s 3:14, bub.”

“It’s not even 4pm and you’re already drinking?!”

“If I have to put up with your hairless-brained bullshit, yes, I am.”

“I’d be more offended at that joke but I’m honestly impressed, pookie.”

“Seriously? For calling you bald?”

“His standards are in hell used as Satan’s spreader bar where he should’ve gone instead of rooming with me.”

“Hey!”

“Pfft!”

“Unbelievable, I can’t believe—oh, no! No no no no, Lady Leprosy With Legs, don’t nap in that! That’s where Daddy keeps his knives.”

“That’s what I’m trying to talk about, Wade! Where the hell is everyone supposed to sleep?”

“You and I can bunk together like we used to, Al. Logan can take the pull-out.”

“Oh, friggin’ hell—no. You and I will share that damn couch and Althea can keep her bed.”

“Thank you, Logan.”

“Aw, you’re so sweet, sugar tits!”

“Now, what about the dog?”

“She’ll get a dog bed, duh.”

“What? D’ya just have a dog bed lying around somewhere?”

“I do, actually! But where did I put that thing?”

“Are you serious?”

“Convenient, huh! I found it in Al’s shit when we moved in together and decided to keep it. I’m guessing the author got too lazy trying to figure out a better way to include it in this fic.”

“...He just says shit sometimes. Don’t mind him, Logan.”

“I’m well aware. You’re a weirdo, bub.”

“Thank you! I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, if I remember right—SHIT!!!”

“What?!”

“The fuck’s happening?!”

“Ah, shit, fuck! There’s a rat!”

“A RAT?!”

“Althea, where did you get that gun—put it down!”

“POINT ME TO THE FUCKING RAT!”

“Al, put the fucking gun down!”

“GET RID OF THE RAT FIRST!”

“Arf!”

“Mary, don’t touch that thing!”

“Fuckin’ hell, bub, grab Mary while I—”

BANG!

“AL, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE—”

“Arf-arf! Rrrrruff!”

“WADE, GRAB THE GODDAMN DOG!”

“NO, GET THE FUCKING RAT FIRST!”

“Mary—!”

BANG!

“AH!!!”

“Althea!”

“Jack Kirby’s giant ballsack!”

“Did I get it?!”

“Fuck no! You hit me, you empty-eyed, shit-for-aim walking corpse!”

“Rrrrrrafff!”

“Logan, keep her from shooting this way!”

“Just let me aim for the fucking rat!”

“Althea, please just hand me—”

“Get your goddamn hands off my glock!”

“Then stop shooting!”

“Mary, wait—!”

BANG!

“Rrrrrragghhh!”

“Ho. ly. shit.”

“What the fuck happened? Did I get it? Is it dead?!”

“You’re such a good girl, yes, you are!”

“He better not be talking to me, I swear to god.”

“Little miss angel face here just caught our uninvited guest!”

“Grrrrrr.”

“Wade, get that thing out of her mouth before it catches rabies from her.”

“Wow, rude, she doesn’t have rabies! Also, I’m pretty sure it’s already dead. She’s got no teeth but a hell of a bite, don’t you, my lovely bundle of herpes and joy?”

“Just get the fucking thing out of here!”

“Ugh, fine, jeez louise—come here, girl. You did such a good job, yes you did! Thank you for killing that thing! Now, let’s go toss it out.”

“The dog caught the rat?”

“Yeah, she did.”

“Well...I guess it can stay then.”

“Really? The dog’s already in your good graces?”

“You’re the one who tried grabbing my gun.”

“Because you were shooting everywhere!”

“And now you’re arguing with me!”

“...My apologies, ma’am. Won’t happen again.”

“Just keep your word and it’s alright.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Alrighty! Time to go look for that bed again.”

“Anybody want a beer?”

“Can you grab me one, Logan?”

“You already finished that whole can?!”

“‘Course I did. All that shit gave me headache.”

“Welcome to a day in the life of Deadpool and Blind Al, peanut!”

“I did this to myself. I chose to come here. How the fuck did that happen?”

“I wonder the same damn thing all the time.”

“Your beer.”

“Thank you, baby.”

“I can’t believe it’s been less than five minutes and both of you are already ganging up on me!”

“S’not hard to.”

“My Wolvie is so mean! Aha, here it is! I knew I still had the old thing. Here you go, my fearless guard dog.”

“It was a rat, not an intruder, Wade.”

“She protected the house and killed that pest. She’s practically a guardian angel!”

“Eh, good enough for me.”

“See, Al gets it!”

“I still ain’t looking after that thing.”

“That’s fine. Logan and I will!”

“I did not sign up for that.”

“You did when you agreed to crash with me!”

“Is he always like this, Althea?”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

“Make yourself cozy, Logan, because it only gets better from here!”

“God help me.”

“God help us all.”

“Arf!”

[whatsnewalycat]

Psychomanteum / Chapter 14

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC Louella (2nd POV)

Chapter 14: Wish You Were Here

Chapter Summary: Dieter takes action.

Word Count: 9.9k+

Content / Warnings: dieter pov, implications of suicidal thoughts, swearing, alcohol use, airplane, uncertainty, parker/jackie, infidelity (not our heroes), thoughts of cocaine use/relapse, opera, fame, very vague understanding of the criminal justice system excuse that pls, bribery, lotta fucking dialogue, lotta yearning and self-reflection, angst, our boy is a big sappy mess and we love him for it

Notes: Chapter title from “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd. First and foremost, everything is gonna be ok, ok? I promise. Also, good news for people who like this story—since we’re nearing the end, I’m going to make it my primary writing focus for a while. Will be posting to AO3 later bc I can’t from mobile it’s a nightmare.

[ Previous Chapter ] [ Series Masterlist ] [ Next Chapter ]

— Dieter senses your absence before he even opens his eyes. 

Oftentimes you wake before him, still weaning off your internal alarm of 5:30AM EST (not-a-fucking-chance o’clock PST). When this happens, you brew some coffee and drink your morning cup in bed, passing the time by reading, or fucking around on your phone, or writing in your journal. 

Most of the time he opens his eyes and finds you deeply engrossed in one of these activities. Sometimes you’re cuddled up into his side, silently tracing patterns onto his skin. Even when you’re not in the same room when he wakes, he can still feel you, your life force brushing up against his. 

But this morning is different. 

Dieter winces at the morning light and sits up, rubbing his face before looking around the room. He clears his throat, then calls out your name. 

It echoes back to him. 

The silence that follows is eerie and distinct, its vacuousness an exclamation point that hurts his ears. 

How can nothing be so loud? 

Swinging his feet over the side of the bed,  he goes to grab his phone off the nightstand and instead finds a note with his name on it. He sits there staring at it for a minute, rubbing the layered notebook paper between his fingertips. 

The gears in his brain start to turn. 

He looks at the armchair where your suitcase has been sitting the week and a half. It’s gone. 

Understanding twists his guts bowtie. 

Denying the cardstock confrontation, Dieter puts on a robe and searches the house. 

He finds nothing. 

Each empty room accumulates buzzing and hot beneath his skin. 

He goes outside. 

The patio, the garage, the driveway, the street. 

Calling your name like a kid who lost his mom in a department store, panic building with every utterance, a desperate crescendo. 

By the time he returns to the origin point, his thoughts are stumbling over one another trying to explain what the fuck could be possibly be happening, because this can’t be real. 

It’s a joke, it’s a terrible joke that you’ll laugh about later—or, no, there was an emergency and you had to go—but wouldn’t you wake him? Wouldn’t you tell him? Maybe you went to the store and you’ll be right back. But why would you bring your suitcase? 

He snatches the paper off his nightstand and unfolds it.

—

Dee,

I need you to know this isn’t your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. I love you as much as humanly possible, and then some. Please understand that I couldn’t make you choose. That burden shouldn’t rest on you. 

I’m sorry for ruining everything. I’m sorry for leaving like this. I’m sorry for not giving you a choice. 

I love you with everything I am. 

Until the next life, 

Lua 

PS: I stole some cash from your wallet. I’m sorry for that, too. 

—

The words don’t compute at first. 

He shakes his head and reads it again. 

And again. 

And again. 

A thousand-pound weight drops his stomach to the floor. Adrenaline pumps through his heart and turns his limbs gelatin. Blood whooshes behind his ears, and—God, he’s going to be fucking sick. 

The note wavers in his grip and the text starts to blur.

This isn’t right. 

This can’t be happening. 

He needs to talk to you right fucking now. 

Overcome with this sudden rush of panic, Dieter grabs his phone off the nightstand, ignoring the barrage of notifications littering the screen, and calls you. 

The line trills, and further away, he hears “I’ll Be Your Mirror” by The Velvet Underground and Nico play. 

He follows the noise into the kitchen, where your phone buzzes on the countertop, displaying your contact photo for him. The one where you’re both mid-laugh with red lipstick and black face paint smudged all around your faces. 

Your voicemail picks up.

“Hey, this is Louella, sorry I missed you. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back, thanks.” 

A tone signals the start of recording. Dieter clears his throat, then says, “Hey, doll. It’s me. This is probably stupid because your phone is here, but I don’t know,” he pauses to gather himself as everything around him becomes blurred by tears. When he speaks again, his voice is somehow gummy and ragged at the same time, “I don’t know what to do. You’re gone, and there’s this note and… Fuck, whatever it is, we can figure it out. Please, Louella—Lua, baby, I love you. If you hear this somehow, please call me.” 

When he hangs up, all he can do is stand there, staring at her phone. 

The air particles around him throb with this deep, dense sorrow that cracks him wide open and hollows him out. It’s heavy. Infinite. All-consuming, like loss on loss on loss on loss. 

He knows, like he just knows things, that this is what you were feeling before you left. He knows you left your phone so nobody could find you. 

Beyond that, though… It's a brick wall. He tries, although he doesn’t really understand what the fuck he’s doing, to send out some kind of a psychic ping. Sometimes he can get a sense of you this way. 

This time he gets nothing. 

He can’t hone in on anything, can’t even feel the rough edges of your life force. The string that connects your tin cans has been severed.

What the fuck does that mean? 

The not-knowing makes him anxious. His imagination starts wander deeper into the dark forest, showing him taxis and mirrors and riverbeds and— 

Your phone jumps to life. 

It starts ringing to the tune of “Take Your Mama” by Scissor Sisters, lighting up with a photo of you and Parker. 

He scrambles to grab it and answers, “Parker—”

“Dieter?”

“Is she with you? Do you know where she is?” 

“What do you mean? Isn’t she with you?” 

“No, I just woke up and she’s fucking gone and there’s this note,” he sighs and throws his hand out at his side, “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“A note, what does the note say?”

“Hang on, let me,” he tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder, rummaging through the pockets of his robe, “Here we go, ok…” 

He reads it to Parker, who remains silent for a long while afterwards. 

“Until the next life?”

The tips of his ears heat up, and he runs a hand through his hair, “Yeah.”

“Have you talked to anyone else this morning?”

“No, I just woke up,” he starts pacing the length of his kitchen island, explaining, “Last night we were talking about moving in together, having her come out here, and… I don’t know, did I fucking scare her off or something? She seemed into it, but maybe I’m wrong, maybe I was going too fast—”

“Whoa whoa whoa, ok, slow down, papi,” Parker interjects, “It’s not like that. Her apartment was raided this morning.” 

Dieter frowns, “Wait, what?” 

“Yeah, some fucking journalist went poking around, talking to her neighbors and shit, digging into stuff about Ethan, their business, all that. He brought it all to the cops and demanded they do something about it, so they got a search warrant.” 

Dieter stays quiet as his mind whirrs, trying to comprehend this information. 

Parker continues. 

“I went over there this morning, just to check in on the place, and it was fucking crawling with cops. I FaceTimed Lou and told her, then she hung up and I haven’t been able to reach her since. Figured she was talking to you, but…”

Poisoned words cycle through his head, begging to be released, but he traps them behind clamped lips. 

“I called Reese to see if he knew anything, since he bumps elbows with a lotta those criminal justice guys, you know?”

“Reese?” Dieter furrows his brow, “Married guy? I thought you were done with him.” 

“Yeah, well,” a sigh crackles in his ear, then Parker says, “Good thing I’m not. Turns out, he’s friends with the DA. He told Reese about the journalist shit, said they have a warrant out for Lou. Wanted on possession with intent to distribute and drug trafficking for the pot stuff, oh—and possession of cocaine, because apparently they found one of Ethan’s hiding spots.” 

“Fuck.” 

“I know.”

Hundreds of thoughts ricochet around his head screaming for attention. The whole goddamn dashboard is lit up and blaring WARNING WARNING WARNING—

The nausea returns. Dieter plucks a half-smoked joint from the ashtray on his countertop and lights it, then turns and slides down the cabinet onto the kitchen floor. 

He takes a few hits, waiting until the overwhelm dims a bit before whispering, “Fuck, Parker, this is bad.” 

“I know, baby, I know.” 

The skunky smoke burns his lungs as he inhales again, holding holding holding, then lets it go. 

Things start to slow down enough for him to backtrack, “Did you say a journalist?” 

“Yeah, Reese couldn’t get a name, but there was this guy outside the building this morning who was—oh, fuck.” 

“What oh fuck?” Dieter wrinkles his nose at the roach and takes one more drag before stubbing it out on the shiny hardwood floor. 

“It was that point dexter motherfucker that did your interview. That was the guy! And I was on a video call with Lou—”

Parker cuts himself off with a gasp.

I couldn’t make you choose.

“Oh fuck,” Dieter breathes, “I gotta call you back.” 

He hangs up and trades your phone for his own, rejecting an incoming call from Darlene. 

It takes him three seconds to find it. 

Dieter Bravo Girlfriend Wanted On Drug Trafficking Charges, Claims In Email to DIRT: “He Was In The Dark” 

The header presented at the top of the article is your mugshot from your previous arrest. Your eyes appear puffy and dull and hopeless. Below it, the article continues: 

Dieter Bravo’s newest girlfriend reportedly has a warrant out for her arrest in relation to drug trafficking charges. 

Early this morning, the NYPD hit Louella Friedman’s Downtown Brooklyn apartment with a search warrant. Friedman was not present at the time the warrant was executed, so no arrests have been made, but law enforcement sources tell us that she is now wanted by the state of New York on multiple drug charges. 

This is not Friedman's first run-in with the law. Just days ago, she appeared alongside Dieter Bravo for an exclusive interview with DIRT, in which she admitted to being convicted of felony drug trafficking in 2018. She stated during this interview that she has “changed a lot since then … we don’t want people to think we’re trying to hide any of this, because we’re not. We’re just trying to move forward together.”

The email we received from Friedman this morning paints a different picture: 

“As you probably know, my apartment is being raided. I need one thing to be clear: Dieter is not complicit. He didn’t know about and did not take part in my illegal activity. He was in the dark. My mistakes are my own, and I ask that the blame be placed appropriately.” 

It’s assumed that Friedman is still in the LA-area, as she and Bravo have been spotted out and about a few times this week. Before that, the pair were seen in New York, which leads us to wonder how much time the Academy Award winner actually spent in her apartment. 

Bravo himself has a notoriously checkered past with drugs, and although his antics have been subdued since the “publicity stunt” for the movie Limbo (premiering next May), it wouldn’t be considered out of character for him to become knowingly involved with a drug dealer. 

DIRT will continue reporting as this story unfolds. 

—

The first person Dieter calls is Lincoln, who answers on the second ring with a cheerful, “Good morning, Dieter!” 

“Lincoln, where the fuck are you?”

“I’m grabbing breakfast from that pla—”

“Change of plans,” Dieter leafs through the clothes hanging in his closet, “Get over here now.”

“What about—”

“Listen, I need you to get me the next flight to New York. And, uhh,” he rips a few shirts off their hangers and tosses them into the open suitcase on the floor, “Clear your schedule for at least two days. I need you to housesit.”

“Is everything alright?”

Dieter ponders the question for just a moment, long enough for a sharp ache to pierce through his chest, then says, “Hurry the fuck up, ok?”

He hangs up. 

The second person he calls is his lawyer. 

When he tells the guy about your situation, he says, “Well, it sounds like there’s enough room for deniability, I don’t think they’ll bring charges against you—”

“Yeah, no shit,” Dieter scoffs, “What about her, how could she get out of this?” 

“With all due respect, Dieter, you’re my client, not her.” 

“Come on, man. What if, you know, I was in her situation?”

On the other line, the lawyer sucks his teeth, then says, “Well, theoretically speaking, you would be looking to either turn yourself in or see if you could get the charges dropped.”

“How would one get the charges dropped?” 

“The District Attorney would need to drop them.” 

“Uh-huh,” Dieter nods and rubs his lips, then queries, “And if—you know, like you said, theoretically—if he were to be convinced to drop the charges—”

“See, that is a tight line to walk, and one must tread very carefully, you understand? Many methods people attempt to use in persuading district attorneys, for example, bribery or blackmail, get sticky quick. They offer the wrong amount of money, or don’t get enough dirt, or what have you, then they’re in a world of hurt.” 

“Well, sure. Those people don’t use their head. But if someone wanted to just… sit down and talk to him, would that automatically raise a red flag?” 

“Depends. If someone of similar notoriety as you reached out to him to set up a meeting, it might raise a red flag. But if they happened to run into each other… probably not as much.” 

“I see.” 

The front door swings open and he looks up, expecting to see Lincoln, but instead locks eyes with Darlene. She’s holding a phone to her ear and says, “Yeah, he’s here.” 

“I gotta go,” he says, then hangs up the phone and greets Darlene, “Hey.”

Her heels click-clack on the floor as she strides over, taps on the screen of her phone, and says, “Ok, Mark, you’re on speaker. Dieter’s here.”

Darlene sets the phone down on the counter and starts rummaging through the leather bag hanging off her shoulder. The phone speaks: 

“Dieter, we need to talk. Is Louella there?”

“No.” 

“Is she going back to New York?”

Not sure how to answer the question, Dieter rolls his eyes, “Is that what this is about?”

“Yeah, look, this isn’t good. I’ll cut to the chase. If you endorse her claim and cut ties, we can keep you on, but if you don’t, we gotta let you go, bud.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Darlene answers this time, “We’re serious, Dieter. The optics are terrible—”

“The fucking optics, un-fucking-believable,” he mutters, pushing off the counter to pace the kitchen. 

“Is it really unbelievable?” Darlene blinks, her scathing gaze steady on his, “Coke head dating a felon who’s wanted on drug charges? You don’t see how studios will react to that?”

He doesn’t answer. She continues. 

“If you release a statement corroborating her story, explaining how you didn’t know, and things are over between you—”

A groan of agony rises in his throat. 

“—it will work. She gave you an out, Dieter. Take it.” 

His nostrils flare. Heat rises to his face and he hisses, “You never liked her, did you?”

Darlene scoffs, “What?”

“Did you even give her a chance, or did you just write her off the second you met her? That shit weasel from DIRT is the one that set all these fucking dominos up, did you know that?”

“No, of course not—”

“Dieter,” Mark sighs, “This isn’t personal. Look at the facts. You’ve done three stints in rehab just within the past decade. Beasts of the Bubble depicted you as a drug addict—Christ, you overdosed in that hotel. You just got divorced, had a ton of bad press from that. Now you’re in this very new, very serious relationship with a widowed felon. And, what, a week after swearing she’s a law-abiding citizen, cops find enough shit in her apartment to issue a warrant for her arrest? Do you know how that makes you look? Does it sound like you’re a person anyone could trust to sign onto a project?”

Dieter presses his palms against the kitchen counter and leans over the phone, “It sounds like you’ve already made a choice, Mark. You wanna drop me as a client, just fucking do it.” 

“If you make a public statement saying you were shocked to find out that she took advantage of your vulnerable state, you’re not using, blah blah blah, this could go away relatively quickly. Most likely she’d be painted as a con woman or gold digger or something along those lines, which makes you the victim. Granted, that makes you look a bit like a sucker, but we can live with that.” 

The nausea returns. 

“I can’t,” Dieter shakes his head, “I’m sorry, but I can’t live with that. Saying that she tried to steal my money—god, not a fucking chance in hell—”

“Of course, you wouldn’t say that,” Darlene cuts in, “People might infer that, is all Mark means. You know how this works—”

“Yes, I do know how it works. And no, I can’t. I won’t. It’s all fucking bullshit, the whole thing. Darlene, you’re bullshit,” he directs his voice to the phone, “Mark, you’re fucking bullshit. Fucking… optics and public opinion and the two of you trying to stage direct my fucking life—my life. Mine. I am my own person. And I love her. I’m going to find her, and fix this, and spend the rest of my fucking life with her even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else but us.” 

Darlene holds up her hand, “Dieter, you’re making a mistake—”

He laughs. 

It booms, dry and humorless, through the house.

She jumps in surprise at the noise, then looks at him like he’s fucking crazy. Which is fair. He sounds fucking crazy. 

But for once, he feels completely sane. 

His spine straightens flag pole and he shakes his head, “Trust me, Darlene. I’m not.” 

They sit there, staring at each other in a silent standoff. Her hazel eyes flick around his face, then drop to the phone.

“Mark, I’ll call you back.”

Darlene ends the call before Mark can respond and stomps around the dining room table to a solid oak credenza, popping the top off one of the decanters of booze. 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I need a drink.”

“It’s 10am.” 

Whiskey sloshes into the crystal tumbler. Darlene glances over her shoulder at him, holding up the bottle in question. He sighs, which she interprets correctly as a yes, and pours a second glass. 

Dieter murmurs a thanks when she returns and hands it to him. He takes a big swallow of the liquor. Leaning back on the counter beside him, she does the same. 

“How’s she doing?” 

His stomach twists. 

He takes another swig and shrugs, then digs the note from his robe pocket and gives it to her. 

She reads it, then passes it back and empties her whiskey down her throat. 

“Fuck.”

“My thoughts exactly,” he mutters into the tumbler as he drinks the remaining booze in one large, burning gulp. 

“So you don’t know where she is?”

Dieter pinches his eyes closed, tilting his head up at the ceiling, and shakes his head, “She was gone when I woke up. Took her suitcase. Left her phone, funny enough.” 

After a brief silence, she tells him, “I didn’t know David was looking into her. Even if I did, I would never try to get her in trouble. You know that, right?” 

He shrugs. His shoulders weigh a million pounds. 

“Look,” she sighs, “Maybe I don’t see whatever it is you see in her, but I do see that you love each other.” 

“Yeah.”

“Do you think she’s turning herself in?”

He furrows his brow and looks down at the floor, shaking his head, “No.” 

Dieter breathes it in, that palpable emotion still clinging to the air. He sinks into the dense, dark feeling—blackest ink in the world—letting it carry him downstream. There’s a glimmer of something. A spark of you. 

He speaks it out loud. 

“She’s in the fucking woods now.” 

“In the woods? Dieter, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles, scrubbing his face with his hands, “I don’t fucking know. I’m scared, you know, with the note…”

He doesn’t want to say it. If he doesn’t speak it into existence, maybe it won’t be true, that you’re looking for a place to die. Like how dogs do when they’re ready, crawling off into isolation to protect their loved ones. 

Darlene stays quiet. 

He swallows hard and starts pacing the kitchen floor again, running his fingers through his hair, “If I can get the DA to drop the charges, maybe it won’t be too late. Maybe I can fix this. But I have to find her, too.“ A hot rush of frustration overtakes him. He slams his fist down on the countertop with a thud and barks, “FUCK!”

“Ok,” Darlene turns to face him, placing a hand on his arm, “It’s gonna be ok—”

“But what if it’s not?” 

Emotion clouds his vocal cords and vision, warping both into a wet, smeary mess as he says, “What if she fucking—fuck, Darlene, what if she goes through with this? I can’t do this without her. I won’t.” 

“We don’t know that this is a suicide note—”

His whole body twists up into a snarl, a guttural moan rising from his throat as the idea shreds him to bits. He shakes his head in protest, because he does, he knows that’s what this is, but he can’t fucking bear to speak its name. 

Darlene watches him unravel for a moment before taking the crystal tumblers back to the credenza for a refill. When she returns, she holds one out to him and asks, “We need a plan to track her down. Have any ideas?” 

He rolls his head on his shoulders to look at her, glancing down at the cup, “We?”

She nudges him again, so he takes it and sips while she grimaces, “If I didn’t raise hell about the interview and get David in trouble… who knows, maybe we wouldn’t be here. I doubt he was looking to write an exposé on her before that.” 

“Maybe. Maybe not,” he shrugs, “Doesn’t matter now.” 

“Still, I’m… sorry,” she stares down at her glass and swirls the amber liquid around a bit while telling him, “The contract, too. I’m sorry about that. Like Mark said, it’s not personal. It’s business.”

“I know.” 

“You’re sure, though? That you don’t want to corroborate her story?” 

“Yes, I’m sure I don’t want to throw the love of my life under the fucking bus, Darlene.” 

She holds up a hand in defense, “Ok—”

“Even if that’s what she wanted me to do, no fucking way. She’s a good fucking person and I won’t sit here and agree with people saying she’s some fucking lowlife, because she’s not—”

“Ok ok ok—Dieter, I understand. I was just making sure.” 

He huffs and takes a drink. 

An uncomfortable silence settles over them. The booze starts to course heat through Dieter’s veins, sedating his agitation, making his head swim. 

“If you’re not my publicist anymore, why the fuck are you still here?”

“Because I’m still your friend.” 

He looks over at her, meeting her hazel eyes, and senses sincerity. 

His jaw works back and forth. He takes another drink, then tells her, “I’m going to New York to meet with the DA. Lincoln should be here any minute, he’ll stay here in case she comes back while I’m gone. I’m gonna have him try to track her whereabouts, see if she left any breadcrumbs—”

“You have a meeting with the DA?” 

“Not… necessarily.” 

“Then, what—” she pinches the bridge of her nose, “I don’t wanna know, do I?” 

“Doubt it.” 

“Right,” she sighs, shakes her head, then starts pacing, “Well, if Lincoln is here, he can call around to places, but I’m assuming you don’t want him to leave the house? In case she comes back?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll help follow up. Call around, and if needed, go to the places she might be. See if I can’t track her down.” 

Hope swells in his chest. His posture softens, and he nods, “Thank you.” 

She waves him off, “You said she left her phone, right?” 

“Yeah, uhh,” he pulls it from his robe pocket and stares at the lock screen, “I felt, I dunno, weird… about going through it. So I haven’t yet.” 

Darlene holds out her manicured hand, so he gives it to her. 

“Zero two one four eight eight.” 

She types in the passcode and starts tapping around as she paces, sipping her whiskey every now and then. 

Meanwhile, Dieter finishes his drink and stares at the empty glass, wavering back and forth on whether or not to pour another. A hungry buzzing works through the tendons in his neck. There’s an old, familiar voice at the back of his head, urging him for more more more, begging, pleading for sedation, anything to make these big feelings less so. 

Booze would be great, but you have the morphine, too, or the coke, fuck—now would be the perfect time for coke. It would straighten out your thoughts. Sharpen you. It could help you, Dieter, really. Help you clear your head and get to the bottom of this fucking mess, it could be the thing that saves her—

“She made an outbound call this morning,” Darlene murmurs as she punches the number into her phone, then raises it to her ear. 

Dieter hears the faint voice from the speaker answer, “Hollywood Checker Cabs, how can I help you?” 

She snaps her fingers at Dieter and pantomimes writing. He scrambles around the kitchen trying to find paper and a writing utensil while she asks, “Hi, my friend ordered a cab early this morning and I’m trying to track where she might’ve been dropped off, can you help me with that?” 

Dieter finds a notebook on the counter. He pulls the pen from its spine and writes down your phone number and full name, then slides it over the island counter to Darlene, who nods and reads your phone number, then says, “Yeah, she called at 5:32, the pickup is—yep, that’s it, that’s her.” 

She grabs the pen and starts scribing. Every few seconds she murmurs an uh-huh or ok. 

Behind her, the door to the garage swings open and in comes Lincoln, carrying a brown paper bag and a backpack. 

Concern creases his forehead as he approaches, and drops the paper bag on the counter, whispering to Dieter, “What’s going on?”

“Shh.”

Darlene glances up at them, then back at the notebook, and nods, “That’s incredibly helpful, thank you. Appreciate it.” 

When she hangs up, she says, “The driver dropped her off at Union Station around 6:30 this morning,” then continues typing in her phone, “From there, she could’ve taken another taxi, or a bus, or a train—”

“She took a bus.”

Lincoln asks, “Who took a bus? Lua?” 

They both ignore the question. Darlene blinks up at Dieter, and before she can question him, he shrugs, “Gut feeling.” 

“Gut feeling,” she snorts, shaking her head, and tosses her phone in her bag with a sigh, “Well, I’ll drive over there and see if she’s still there. When does your flight leave?”

Dieter looks at Lincoln, who perks up and pulls out his phone, “Let’s see… A car will be here in… fifteen.” 

“I’ll call you when I know more, ok?” Darlene says as she pulls her purse up onto her shoulder. She regards Dieter for a second or two before patting him on the shoulder, “We’re gonna find her.” 

He doesn’t trust himself to verbalize the uncertainty churning in his guts, so he acknowledges the sentiment with a flaccid smile and a nod, thinking, “I fucking hope so.”

—

“Hey, this is Louella, sorry I missed you. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back, thanks.” 

“Hey, love. I’m, uhh… leaving you an update, I guess. I’m going to New York to sort this shit out, talk to some people, see what I can do. But if you get this somehow, please, baby… please come home. Ok. I love you, bye.” 

—

Suspended miles above the Midwest, with Dieter packed in a tin can alongside all the other mouth-breathing sardines, the in-flight WiFi goes out.

He tries watching a movie, but none of the information computes. His mind keeps wandering to you. What you’re doing, where you are, why you didn’t just fucking wake him up and talk to him. 

Seconds twist under his skin. 

The minutes lodge inside his throat. 

The tiny screen could be showing him fucking anything, and his demeanor wouldn’t change a drop. 

Tight-lipped. Hostile. Dead-eyed. 

That’s what he gleans, anyway, from the way people react to his presence. The downcast glances and wide berths. How the flight attendant doesn’t even try to protest when he requests four mini-bottles of vodka. 

Wincing with every swallow, Dieter drinks them and scrolls through his text history with you. It’s not uncommon for him to do this while idly passing the time alone, within the past few months especially. 

Re-reading each conversation, admiring the photos and screenshots, allowing himself to daydream about you… usually, he finds it comforting. 

This time it’s different. 

It’s steeped in the knowledge that he may never receive another message from you. 

Flipping his phone face down on the little shitty tray, he looks up at the Q*bert air vent and releases a big sigh. The thoughts of you creep back into his brain. He doesn’t shoo them away, though. It’s fucking pointless. 

Please understand that I couldn’t make you choose. That burden shouldn’t rest on you. 

A burden. 

What a load of shit. 

As if he wouldn’t let hellfire lick his bones to dust for one more earthly second with you. As if you don’t revive him every single time your lips meet his. As if he could breathe without you in the atmosphere. 

Of fucking course he would choose you. 

Over anything, really. Especially acting. Fuck, maybe that’s exactly what he needs. It’s all just stupid Hollywood bullshit anyway. Being owned by a dozen different people at any point in time. Everyone trying to get their finger in the goddamn pie. He’s tired of being a billboard first and a human second. 

The more he thinks about it, the madder he gets. He douses his stomach with vodka, thinking about the fame machine, how it chewed you up and spit you out in no time at all. 

He resents the public spotlight. His whole adolescence, he dreamed of having a successful career as an actor. He worked hard and got lucky and his dreams came to life, and now, well… he’s right back where he started. 

Watching, helpless and terrified, as the person he loves gets pummeled half to death. 

—

Dieter leans on the doorframe and gives apartment 14C three firm knocks. 

The blaring music inside cuts. Parker stomps up to the other side of the door, “Who is it?” 

“Fucking Santa Claus, who do you think?” 

A thunk sounds from the deadbolt, then Parker swings the door open, propping a hand on his hip and shaking his head, “Santa Claus? Really?”

His face is fully dragged up in the style of Jackie Lantern, with blue eyeshadow and hot pink lips and harsh contour, while the rest of him is Regular Parker, with sweatpants and a baggy Bikini Kill t-shirt. 

“Ho ho ho,” Dieter enters the cozy, dimly lit apartment and pulls him into a one-armed hug, “Good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too,” Parker mumbles as he wraps his lanky arms around Dieter and squeezes, “Wish it was under better circumstances.” 

“Me too, bud,” Dieter takes a step back and ventures into what looks like a new-age opium den. 

Incense and pot smoke cloud the air. A loom-woven tapestry, depicting a unicorn standing triumphant in a field of wildflowers, takes up almost the entire wall behind a well-worn sofa. On the opposite wall, at least 50 framed bug specimens hang on display. 

Between the deep-seated couch and the TV sits a big octagonal coffee table, its glass top all littered with books and water bottles and cannabis paraphernalia. 

Dieter, finding none of this surprising, looks around and nods, “Nice place.“

Parker bolts the door closed and turns to scan Dieter up and down, “Nice suit.”

“I hate this fucking thing,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders in a feeble attempt to make more room inside the jacket, then points to Parker’s sweatpants, “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Shade,” Parker scoffs and starts off down the short hallway into his bedroom, “I’ll be ready in a minute, help yourself to whatever.”

“Where do you keep your liquor?”

“On top of the fridge.” 

Dieter wanders into the kitchen and grabs a bottle of whiskey from its home, then starts flipping through cabinets. When he finds the one with cups, he calls out to Parker, “Want a drink?” 

“Lord, please.”

He unscrews the cap and pours two generous servings. Before returning the bottle, he takes a pull off it. The cheap booze burns the whole way down, settling like fire in his belly. 

Parker comes stomping back into the room, clawing at the back of his blue sequin gown, “Do me a favor, love, help me zip this?”

Dieter signals for him to spin around, then guides the zipper up his bony back as Parker asks, “Any updates from your neck of the woods?”

He taps on his shoulder, giving him the all clear. 

Parker turns and leans back against the galley kitchen’s countertop opposite Dieter, who hands him a drink. 

“Yeah,” Dieter nods, takes a sip of the shitty whiskey, then explains, “Darlene was able to convince the security team at Union Station to let her review footage from this morning. At 6:30 this morning, Lua boarded a Greyhound bus that dropped her off in Fresno around 11:00. Darlene couldn’t get much over the phone from them, so she’s driving up there to raise hell, see what she can find out.” 

The words come out dull and matter-of-fact. Offline, disconnected from the treasure chest labeled LUA. 

Parker studies him, “How’re you holding up, papi, you doing ok?” 

“No.” 

He stares down into his cup and thinks he should probably say something else, but comes up with nothing. It feels both pointless and too painful. 

“Wanna talk about it?” 

“No.” 

When he glances up at Parker, and their eyes meet, he recognizes the melancholy there. His own, reflected back at him. 

He shifts a little and adds, “After we get this part over with, though, maybe we can… I don’t know, get hammered, cry about it. Drown our sorrows or whatever. If you want.” 

The corner of Parker’s hot pink lips turns up in a smirk and he chuckles, “Long as we don’t get arrested doing this stupid ass shit, I will take you up on that.” 

“We’re not gonna get arrested, I promise. He’ll take the offer.”

“And how do you know that?”

Dieter could make a reference to The Godfather here, or mention the thick wads of cash lining his Armani suit, but thinks better of it. Probably best he doesn’t know. 

Instead, he asks, “Do you trust me?” 

“You know we wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” 

“Then trust me, we’re gonna be fine. Just follow the plan.” 

Parker snorts and shakes his head, muttering something about ‘you cryptic ass motherfucker’ into his glass as he takes a sip. 

Dieter drinks, too, then tells him, “I like your dress.” 

“Thanks,” he smiles, eyes flicking to the clock on the stove, “Fuck, I gotta finish getting ready or we’re gonna be late.” 

“Can I pick out your hair?” 

Parker groans a little, feigning annoyance. He pushes off the counter and starts towards his room, “Fine, but I reserve the right to veto.” 

—

“Hey, this is Louella, sorry I missed you. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back, thanks.” 

“Hey, doll, it’s me. I’m uhh… in New York, at Parker’s place—”

“Who are you talking to?”

“I’m leaving her a message.”

“Give it, I wanna say something.”

“Just hold on—”

“Hey Miss Lou, I love you, I miss you, and let me tell you, your boy is a goddamn mess. And, um… so am I. I’m worried about you—we’re worried about you. Just… let us know you’re ok, ok?”

“Me again. We’re gonna go fix this. I love you, Louella. Please come home.” 

—

Instead of conversing en route to the Metropolitan Opera House, they pass a flask of whiskey back and forth and occasionally sing along to the music on Jackie Lantern’s “PUSSY POWER” playlist. 

Although neither of them mention it, Dieter knows they’re essentially doing the same thing. Hyping themselves up. Trying to ban the performance anxiety from their brains as they get into character. 

By the time he and Parker arrive at Metropolitan Opera House, the booze has fully assimilated into Dieter’s bloodstream. 

Thank fucking god. 

It grinds down the coarse edges of reality and allows him to slip effortlessly into a familiar skin.

Dieter Bravo: Washed-up Actor. 

Dieter Bravo: Party Monster. 

Dieter Bravo: Brazen Jackass. 

A carefully curated persona so convincing, it had him fooled for years before you coaxed the real him out of hiding. 

That guy, the real him, or whatever the fuck, is not the right man for this job. Too soft. Too emotional. Guy is a pansy, he would fucking cry or make a scene or something. 

Seriously. 

He has no jurisdiction here. 

Here, in this glitzy opera house, among the other black-tie patrons who regard him and Jackie Lantern with a kind of grotesque curiosity that guy couldn’t fucking handle. 

But, Dieter Bravo: Attention Whore? 

Eating. This. Shit. Up. 

“Literal fucking pearl clutching, ho-ly shit,” he murmurs to Jackie’s big, white blonde afro wig as they walk up the red carpeted stairs into the lobby. 

It opens up into a huge space that reminds him of a cave. 

Brightly-lit, thanks to the starburst chandeliers dripping from the ceiling like stalactites, but a cave all the same. All four stories of shining white marble look to be hollowed out over centuries. Smooth, curved staircases flowing into terraces, filled with hundreds of well-dressed people and the abstract murmur of their conversations. 

For the millionth time today, he wishes you were here. 

You would be awestruck, gazing around with starry eyes that would make him appreciate its beauty that much more. You would look at him, in that way you do, and everyone else would melt away. You would smile and make those crystal chandeliers look like bare fluorescent bulbs. Put the goddamn place to shame. 

“Whaddaya think, sugar? Get a drink?” 

He glances up at Jackie over the rim of his sunglasses and tosses his sloshy head back and forth, trying to gauge how drunk he actually is, then shrugs, “Fuck it, why not.” 

She leads the way while Dieter follows in her wake, delighting at the number of people who ogle Jackie, with her big hair and her commanding presence and her blue gown, shimmering aqua and cyan and turquoise in the light. 

Only a few people seem to notice him trailing behind her. Fewer yet glint any tell-tale signs of recognition. The little upright jolt. The furrowed brow leaping into a surprised expression. The whispered “Is that who I think it is?” to the person beside them. Or, his favorite, the scramble to grab their phone and snap a photo. 

They order drinks and find a tall table in the corner to lean against. From this vantage point, they survey the crowd for their subjects. 

“How much does your man know?”

“My man,” Jackie mutters to herself with a little scoff, glancing down at her martini, “He’s not my man. I’m just a rental.” 

Dieter peels his eyes away from the crowd to look at her, “A rental?”

“Not good enough to invest in long-term.”

His head rocks back in understanding, and he frowns, “How long have you been seeing him?”

“Off and on for two years.” 

As she says this, she looks up, flicking her eyes around the room. Then she zeroes in on something. Her posture perks to attention. That little glint of recognition. 

Dieter follows her gaze to what can only be described as the most average looking white man in Manhattan. Dusty blonde hair, athletic build, black suit. 

He would’ve completely overlooked the guy if not for the precision of Jackie’s stare. 

Well, that and the fact that you’ve gone on your fair share of angry rants about the man, which involved you showing Dieter his Instagram. This is how he also recognizes the mousy woman standing at his side. 

“He brought his wife?”

“Yeah.” 

“Have you two me—”

“Nope.” 

The sullen aura radiating off her makes Dieter tick his jaw back and forth. He looks between her and Reese, then asks, “Does he know the plan?” 

“Kind of,” she shrugs, “Bare bones, enough to maintain plausible deniability.” 

“Uh huh. How did Reese know about Mr. Lindorm’s uhhh…” 

He scrunches his face up and turns his wrist around, trying to find the right word. 

Jackie raises an eyebrow, “Proclivities?” 

“I was gonna say fetish, but sure.” 

She lands a playful smack on his arm, then sighs, “Sometimes it’s best I don’t ask.”

“Don’t ask don’t tell, good policy.” 

This earns him a side-eye with very little humor attached. Sore spot. Fuck. 

“Look,” he leans harder on the table, “All I’m saying is you could do better. No doubt about it. You uhh… I don’t know. You deserve someone who loves you so much, they would pluck the stars from the sky and craft them into a crown for you. Not someone who keeps you a secret.” 

“Craft them into a—?” She blinks at him, “Ok, papi, what the fuck’re you talking about?” 

He tries to formulate an answer, to figure out where the fuck that came from, but admits, “Fuck if I know.”

“I’m cutting you off.” 

“I am not that drunk.” 

“Better not be, cuz it’s fuckin’ showtime. Here they come.” 

“Sorry to interrupt.” 

He looks to the source, flicking his gaze up and down Reese’s neat tuxedo. 

Reese extends his hand, “I don’t believe we’ve met, but I’m Senator Reese Bernard—”

“I don’t endorse political campaigns, sorry.” 

He starts to turn back to Jackie, who mirrors the action, then Reese, right on cue, says, “Oh, no. Nothing like that, I’m just a big fan. Could I buy you and your um,” his eyes shift to Jackie, “Companion a drink? Maybe pick your brain for a bit?” 

Dieter finds himself slightly surprised with Reese’s acting ability. That is, until he remembers the man acts every single day of his life. He raises his eyebrows in question at Jackie, who holds his gaze and shrugs, “Fine by me.” 

“Alright, yeah.”

A boyish grin spreads across Reese’s face, then he turns to the little mouse of a woman behind him and murmurs something to her, jerking his head towards the bar. 

She nods and walks off as Reese joins their table, glancing between Dieter and Jackie, “Well, this is certainly a way to shake things up at the opera, huh? Kind of exciting,” he settles his gaze on Jackie, giving her a charming smile, “You look gorgeous.” 

“Thanks, love,” she tilts her head at him, batting her lashes. 

The way they look at each other, all goo-goo eyes, inspires Dieter to finish his drink. When he slams the empty glass down on the table, they both jump, snapping out of their nauseating little bubble. 

“When’s our guy supposed to be here?” 

“Ahhhh,” Reese frowns at his watch, then starts searching the lobby, “Should already be around somewhere. We always meet him and the missus over here for a drink before the show.”  

“You guys do this often?” 

He shrugs, “Every couple of weeks or so. Not really my cup of tea, or his even, but the gals love it.” 

“Cute,” Dieter mutters. 

Jackie shoots him a look, then asks Reese, “Do you really think this is gonna work?” 

“Oh, definitely, definitely. The guy is smart when it comes to law, but thinks with his dick when it comes to most everything else,” he smirks at her, “And you’re just his type.” 

In response, Dieter grunts and searches the room. His head feels weighted, brain sloshing around in the sea of alcohol he consumed throughout the day. 

Maybe he should switch to water for a while, slow down this freight train. 

Or maybe we should go in a different direction. Try to get a hold of something that will straighten us out. 

This thought overrides his entire body, blaring and hot and uncomfortable in his veins, and he wonders if that’s why it’s called an impulse. 

Wouldn’t it make you feel better? 

His leg starts to bounce. He grits his teeth and reminds himself that he promised you he wouldn’t use cocaine again. Reminds himself of what you said in return:

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Your voice in his head makes his heart flutter, while the content of your statement sits heavy in his stomach, warring with that concentrated dose of urgency buzzing through him. 

“There he is,” Jackie murmurs into her wine glass, “Over by the stairs.”

Jerking to attention like he fell asleep at the wheel, Dieter follows her laser-focused gaze to a distinguished salt-and-pepper man posing for a photo with a tall blonde woman. 

The way they stand next to each other, all rigid and precise, their perfect, practiced smiles spread wide beneath dead eyes… it strikes him as familiar. 

Middle-aged Barbie and Ken. 

A fair comparison, although she looks closer to 20 than 40. Either that or she has a stellar plastic surgeon. 

There’s something else, though. 

It’s in the way they take a big step apart when the photographer gets his shot. How they seem to be bickering at each other out the side of their faces between fake smiles. 

Anika and Dieter. 

He studies them with a morbid kind of curiosity, wondering if that’s what they would have eventually been like if they tried to make it work. If, almost a year ago, he would’ve gone home to her instead of boarding that plane to New York. 

They would’ve fought about it. Maybe they would’ve cried and had make-up sex. He probably would’ve gone to rehab, and couples counseling, and, hell, maybe they would’ve had a kid or something. Things would’ve felt real and good with her for a while. 

But it would have faded. 

After a while, he would have strayed again. He would have started getting high and fucking around all the time. He knows this like he knows you’re alive, like he just knows things, certain and right at the very core of him: He never would have found peace until he found you. 

Instinctually, he wants to say you changed him, that you made him want to be a better man. But it dawns on him, with stunning clarity, that you didn’t. You didn’t change him any more than an astronomer changes the universe when they discover a star. 

Which is to say, darling, that you just brought him into focus so he could see himself for who he really is. 

Anything else would have been a plastic, miserable cohabitation. 

As this sinks in, that hungry buzzing in his chest wanes. He understands that he can’t break his promise to you. More aptly, he won’t, because he’s not that man anymore. 

—

Sometimes things go sideways. 

For instance, sometimes the love of your life thinks that disappearing is the best solution to both save your career and evade a second felony. 

Sometimes, though… the universe aligns in your favor, and a plan goes off better than you ever could have imaged. 

Sometimes your girlfriend’s best friend’s boyfriend’s wife, who Dieter eventually learns is named Rachel, runs into her friends, Mr. and Mrs. District Attorney, on her way back from the bar and invites them to join your table. 

They introduce themselves as John and—no fucking joke—Barbara Lindorm. Just as Reese predicted, John is captivated by Jackie the second he lays eyes on her. He occupies the open space next to her and laughs at her jokes, frequently splitting off into quiet little side conversations, where Dieter hears him ask where she’s from, what she does for a living, and whether she and Dieter are dating—which is great news, because it means he has not placed him as Dieter Bravo: Louella Friedman’s Meddlesome Boyfriend. 

If Barbara notices her husband flirting, she doesn’t let it show. Dieter surmises it’s because he’s doing a bit of flirting himself, letting his gaze linger on her longer than appropriate, complimenting her dress, her hair, her nails. Not because he’s interested or anything, but rather to provide a bit of a distraction while Jackie reels in her husband. 

It’s a little fucked up, sure, but you’d understand. Think big picture, baby. The greater good or whatever. 

At one point, he sees Jackie pull out her phone and tell John, “Oh, I have to show you this picture from my last show, you’ll love this.” 

This is the move. The part where she shows him a typed out message telling him to follow her at intermission. 

Dieter calls attention to the other side of the table, asking Reese, “So, what, do you guys have regular seats or something? Since you come here so often.”

Reese sees the setup and nods, “Oh, definitely. A box, actually, they’re great seats—“ he cuts himself off with a gasp, slamming his palms down on the table, “Hold on, I’m getting a crazy idea. The other couple we usually come here with dropped out at the last minute. Do you two want their seats?” 

Dieter glances over at Barbara, meeting her demure gaze, while he hears John murmur to Jackie, “You’re right, I do love that.”

“Why the hell not,” he licks his lips and shrugs, departing from Barbara’s eyes to meet Reese’s, “Let’s keep this party rolling.” 

Reese grins, “Fantastic! Ok, do you guys wanna go now, or…?”

The lights wax and wane in brightness a few times, signaling curtain call, and Dieter smirks, “Lead the way.” 

—

While waiting for the gilded curtains to part, Dieter flips through the program for Ariadne auf Naxos, tuning out the meaningless chit chat taking place around him. 

He skims the synopsis provided, mostly just trying to look busy. One sentence catches his attention. 

Ariadne is alone in front of her cave. 

He tilts his head at it, lingering for a moment before resuming the skim. His eyes snag on the words stars vanish, then backtrack to the beginning of the sentence. 

Entranced by Ariadne’s beauty, Bacchus tells her that he would sooner see the stars vanish than give her up.

Like he did with the last line, Dieter stares at it, slightly stunned. He shifts in his seat, glancing around before leaning over the program to re-read the opera’s synopsis from the beginning. 

The passage briefly recounts the story of Ariadne, who assisted Thesus in escaping a labyrinth because she loved him. They were betrothed, and Ariadne left her family to be with him. On the trip home, Thesus abandoned her on a remote island while she was sleeping.

Ariadne woke and found herself alone on the beach. Heartbroken, she longed to die. When Bacchus arrived on the island, Ariadne first thought he was the messenger of death, then mistook him for Thesus. Bacchus explained that he was neither, he was a god. They fell in love and rose into the heavens. 

Dieter sits back in his seat and fidgets, trying to find comfort despite this goddamn suit jacket, all stiff and tight with wads of cash. Despite the painful parallels his mind keeps drawing. 

You are fucking everywhere. 

The opera. The crystal galaxy chandeliers that hang from what looks like a bright white tunnel into the afterlife. The scalloped ceiling, backlit with a warm, golden light, reminding him of goldfish scales. 

Are they signs or is he just losing his fucking mind? 

“Probably both,” he mutters to himself. 

Jackie looks up from her program at him, raising an eyebrow, “What?”

He shakes his head, nervously tugging at the whiskers that sprout from his jawline. 

Before she can prod him further, the chandeliers float up into the white abyss and all of the lights dim, then the curtains part. 

—

As soon as intermission starts, Jackie is on her feet. 

John waits one cool second before excusing himself and following her into the hall. Reese hears this and turns around in his seat, asking Barbara how she likes the show so far. As she leans forward and begins to answer him, Reese locks eyes with Dieter and gives him a wink of approval. 

Dieter nods and rises to his feet, then slips into the hall, weaving his way through the crowd.

See, when Jackie used to work catering gigs here, she got to know a member of the opera house staff who showed her a few private rooms that aren’t necessarily secret, but aren’t exactly advertised, either. They’re reserved for VIPs, when they want them, but mostly remain unoccupied during performances. 

He follows the path Jackie mapped out for him earlier today to an unlabeled door on level three. Inside, he hears a familiar giggle and knows it’s the right one. 

He pats down his suit jacket with both hands, double checking that he didn’t somehow drop all his money en route, then grabs the doorknob, twists it, and pushes the door open to reveal the smallest Victorian parlor he’s ever seen in his life. 

It contains an antique sofa, a coffee table, and an armchair in the corner, and still feels cramped. The back wall is entirely occupied by a mirror. Probably an attempt to make the room look bigger. 

On the ornate red sofa, Miss Jackie Lantern and Mister District Attorney are so busy making out, neither of them seem to notice his presence. 

Dieter makes a point of closing the door with a loud bang. John jumps up and starts scrambling away from Jackie, his face all covered in hot pink lipstick, stammering out clichés, “I can explain, this isn’t what it looks like—”

“Save it, that’s not what this is,” Dieter waves him off as he approaches the couch, unbuttoning his suit jacket. 

“What is this, then?” he looks from Dieter, who shucks off his jacket and sits down beside him, to Jackie, “A three way?” 

Jackie sticks out her bottom lip in a sympathetic manner, shaking her head. 

“This is an opportunity.”

John turns to him, narrowing his eyes, “Explain.” 

“Well, see,” Dieter tosses his jacket on the coffee table, “I’m going to give you a stupid amount of money, I mean—really, truly, a fucking obscene amount of money. In return, you’ll drop the charges against Louella Friedman.” 

He studies Dieter carefully.

“You and I both know that warrant was bullshit. Based on witness statements obtained by fucking paps, really?” Dieter clicks his tongue against his teeth and shakes his head, “That man is a gossip monger with a grudge. Zero fucking credibility. It wouldn’t hold up in court. It would be a waste of everyone’s time and money. This is an opportunity to cut through the red tape and get a little something for yourself in return.” 

John sits back, crossing his arms. He frowns at the jacket for a while, seemingly running calculations in his head, then asks, “How much?” 

“Hundred thousand.”

His eyebrows make a surprised jump. He presses his knuckles to his lips, considering this. His leg starts bouncing. He looks between Dieter and Jackie, these quick, sharp glares, “I don’t appreciate being set up like this.” 

Dieter nods in acknowledgment. Jackie just blinks at him. 

He releases a big sigh. 

Sitting up, he grabs the jacket and digs into one of the pockets, then pulls out a few $10,000 bundles. 

As he inspects them, Dieter asks, “Well?” 

“You two are good,” John chuckles, then extends his hand to Dieter, “I’ll look into her case for you, see what we can do.” 

He takes it, giving him an overly enthusiastic shake, “Good man. Thank you.”

“Louella Friedman?”

“That’s right. I, uhhh—I put her info in the front pocket.” 

“Got it.” 

Dieter stands and looks at Jackie, nodding to the door. 

“Thanks, Johnny,” she winks, then rises to her feet and starts towards the door. 

“Thank you, Jackie,” he grins at her for a second before returning to Dieter, “And thank you.” 

“My pleasure,” Dieter pulls up the sleeves on his dress shirt, “Don’t spend it all in one place.” 

John laughs at this, so Dieter feels compelled to clarify, “No, but really, the IRS might start asking questions if you do. So—don’t, ok?” 

“Oh, well, yeah—”

Dieter turns on his heel and follows Jackie out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

“Johnny?” he raises an eyebrow at her as they walk away.

“He’s kinda cute. Good kisser.”

“Thinking about adding him to your roster?”

She snorts and gives him a playful shove, “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

—

Within thirty seconds of entering the apartment, Jackie has locked herself in the bathroom with the shower running. 

Dieter collapses on the couch and slowly dismantles the remains of his suit, unknotting the bow-tie, taking off his dress shirt, wriggling out of his pants, until he’s left in boxers and an undershirt. 

Exhaustion, emotional and physical, drains any remaining adrenaline from this evening’s success from his limbs. 

Figuring it will take a while for the de-Jackiefication to take place in the bathroom, he checks his phone for updates, then decides to call and leave you a message before letting sleep take over. 

“Hey, this is Louella, sorry I missed you. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back, thanks.” 

“Hey, doll, it’s me. It is… just after midnight here in New York. Just wanted to let you know, I talked to the DA. He’s dropping the charges, because they’re bullshit, and uhhh… yeah. You can come out now, if you want. I… I miss you. All day I missed you. I wish you were here, and—listen, Lua, I get what you’re doing. You think you’re saving me or something by disappearing, but let me tell you, you are fucking not. Ok? I don’t think you understand… you save me every single day. Just by loving me. The acting, publicity, fucking—whatever, none of that fucking matters to me. I swear to god. You are—you are it for me. The end all be all. My sun, my moon, the stars, you are my whole fucking universe. You are… everything to me, Louella. I love you. I hope I see you soon.” 

[ Next Chapter ]

[shmichaelmeen]

Nothing could have prepared me for how Season 2 ended. Not even the spoilers.

okay i know that we all make jokes about how episode six is insane, there was even one person who posted about how it's comparable to eating a bag of powdered donuts but the last one is covered in cocaine. and i knew how season 2 ended from ~ the internet ~ and everything and due to some traumatic shit happening in the middle of watching season 2 for the first time, i never finished it. so all i knew was whatever i saw online and i didn't think there was anything much more to it.

but oh BOY was i wrong

watching episode 6 felt like a literal fever dream. I didn't even realize what episode it WAS until my friend (who helped me finish watching the season) pointed it out. and i FREAKED OUT because sooooo much happens in one episode. SO MUCH. i genuinely thought that the whole bit AFTER Jim/Gabriel got his memories back - the Metatron appearing, the kiss, EVERYTHING INSANE - was all another episode.

I have a lot to say about how people talked about the ending versus how it was to watch it and see it for myself for the first time but what i will say is this. i tried to go along with everyone making explanations for what happened and justifying that everything about the end, about the episode, heck even about the SEASON makes any sense but i cannot follow that anymore. to put it simply, there's a LOT there and i don't think at this time we CAN make a nice neat explanation. and that's the whole point. the whole point of the ending, the whole point of Nina and Maggie's ending, is that rarely in life (even i guess in immortal life apparently) is anything simple. when in comes to matters of the heart and Human Emotion, there is never an easy answer. it's messy, and that's perfectly okay. it's allowed to be messy. and that's my approach to trying to analyze season 2. it's okay that it's messy and things may not make sense. it's meant to be that way to represent just how confusing and even frustrating love can be.

everyone loves to bash the miscommunication trope", but why does it work? because it is realistic (a lot of the time, depending on writing of course). it's only realistic that people miscommunicate and that confronting feels for each other makes things confusing and awkward. that's how the ending was written. and i think that's perfectly okay.

as much as i am a Tier 1 Overthinker, this is one time where I'm willing to accept that the situation is unexplainable until we have further information (yay season 3!!!!!!). this also isn't an "anti-theories" post either. i think those posts, as well as all of the "what if the curtains are just blue" people, are trying to hard to be cool and different by not thinking critically about a piece of media when media is designed to be thought about and analyzed. and trust me, i do like entertaining theories, but I'm just staying super open-minded for the time being. if anyone has any niche theories i'd love to hear them because I'm willing to entertain any possible answer until we get the truth :)

(oh and before anyone says anything about how it's my own fault for looking at spoilers, that's not the issues. spoilers aren't the thing I'm talking about. it's people trying to make definitive answers and put together the puzzle perfectly when we don't have all the pieces. not having an answer feels uncomfortable, but that's also the whole point.)

[earlgreytea68]

do you have a playlist of peterick songs 🩷

I don't actually have a playlist (my playlist is All Fall Out Boy Songs in one massive jumble lolol and MAYBE THAT IS THE PETERICK PLAYLIST) and I don't think I've really been asked this question before, but here's what I would say are my top Peterick songs:

Saturday: This is for obvious reasons for anyone who's been around, but if you're brand new here, the lyrics are Saturday are explicitly about the Patrick-and-Pete relationship ("Pete and I attacked the Lost Astoria with promise and precision and a mess of youthful innocence" / "Me and Pete, in the wake of Saturday"). They've said it's the first song they felt like they successfully collaborated on without throwing punches at each other lol. They play it at the end of almost every single concert and Pete abandons his bass to stand right by Patrick before he wanders out into the crowd. Sometimes he puts his elbow on Patrick's shoulder and shimmies his hip. They also, when they perform it, make sure to shout "more than an hour" at each other, no matter where they are on stage (and they are COMMITTED to this bit, we've seen them almost miss it on this tour and scramble to make the eye contact). Patrick also always points to Pete wherever he is on the stage when he sings "Pete and I," so we're clear who he's singing about. It's charming. Also, in the video, Pete and Patrick turn out to be the same person, and...let's just leave that there for now.

It's Not a Side Effect of the Cocaine, I Am Thinking It Must Be Love: The lyrics of this song are absolutely wild. "Why can you read me like no one else? I hide behind these words, but I'm coming out." For real, Pete Wentz? "We'll make them so jealous, we'll make them hate us." REPEATED MANY TIMES. Ugh. "Think of all the places where you've been lost and found...out." REPEATED TWICE. With so much emphasis on being found out. Not just found, the word always hangs as the would-be conclusion, and then the out is such a definitive stamp at the end. I don't know what these lyrics are other than wrestling with the fact that you're in love with your best friend and wondering about your sexuality, just saying lol

I've Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth (Summer Song): I know that other people have other interpretations of this song, but to me "joke me something awful just like kisses on the necks of 'best friends'" is super Peterick-coded. Also the parenthetical of "Summer Song," again, I know other people have other interpretations but to me Patrick is always represented by summer in Pete's lyrics (the way he is also sunshine and golden).

7 Minutes in Heaven (Atavan Halen): I have an interpretation in this song that Patrick is the "you" in it. Patrick is the star he's trying to fixate on while his world is falling apart, Patrick is the one thing he wants to focus on to keep everything else out. Trying to forget everything that isn't Patrick, only it's not-working-not-working-not-working. "The only thing worse than not knowing is you thinking that I don't know": The way that Pete thought he had to be the Leader of this band, take care of this kid he'd forced into being the singer, and so even when he's a complete mess he's got to hold it together so Patrick doesn't realize it.

The (After) Life of the Party: I know what the official lyrics say but I've never heard Patrick sing that refrain clearly enough to convince me he's saying "cut it loose" instead of "could it last," and to me this song is the quintessential social butterfly / favorite dynamic, which is the Pete&Patrick dynamic. "Watch you work the room / could it last." Watch you blossom, will I lose you?

Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes: In Pete's own words, this is a song about anyone you feel close to. Sometimes for him it was a girl, but honestly, sometimes it's Patrick. So. Here's a song about Patrick, according to Pete Wentz. I'm half-doomed and you're semi-sweet.

What a Catch, Donnie: The song Pete explicitly wrote for Patrick. "All I can think of is the way I'm the one who charmed the one who gave up on you." In my head, this convoluted sentence is Patrick struck by how much Pete is charmed by him, and how much Pete gives up on himself. Also, the video has Pete putting himself on a sinking ship and leaving Patrick with all their friends as they shove off into the hiatus and whatever, I can't deal with any of this hahaha. THE SONG ENDS WITH A MEDLEY OF THEIR GREATEST HITS TOGETHER, whatever, this stupid song, I honestly thought the fact that this was the last single before hiatus had to be made up lol

"From Now On, We Are Enemies": A hiatus-era release titled for a movie about an intense artistic relationship. A refrain that's about the composer who's never composed who has to sing the symphonies of the overdosed. And the problem is they only want what they can't have.

Miss Missing You: The song in which Patrick sings about being saved by hot whiskey eyes. Please Google "hot whiskey," and then take a look at Pete Wentz's eyes. This is another thing I can't deal with lol. Also, the "miss missing you" is an explicit response to a poem Pete wrote to Patrick before the hiatus, in which Pete said, "I miss you missing me." Patrick responds with the song, "I miss missing you." THESE TWO.

The Kids Aren't Alright: First of all, they very frequently and consistently have referred to their fans as "the kids" since day one, so there's that. Which kids aren't alright? Ours. Shut up. "And in the end, I'd do it all again, I think you're my best friend." WHATEVER.

Fourth of July: Again, I know other people have different interpretations of this song, but for me this song is soooo Peterick. It's the summer reference again, but it's also hiatus-y to me. "We were fireworks that went off too soon." "I said I'd never miss you but I guess you never know." Pete got vicious and angry heading into hiatus and burned everything down, but you know what? "May the bridges I have burned light my way back home." "Oh, I'm sorry I didn't mean any of it." I could go on and on about this song, I love the words to this song, but I just want to say, "I'm sorry every song's about you," is just...a lot. And then followed by "the torture of small talk with someone you used to love," and if that doesn't smack of the awkward end of the hiatus, Idk.

Twin Skeleton's (Hotel in NYC): There is a LOT in AB/AP, a LOT that these boys seem to be working through, and it's a lot of hiatus feelings, and this song always makes me think of everything breaking down. "I need a new partner in crime, and you -- you shrug"????? THIS LINE KILLS ME EVERY SINGLE TIME. And it's really a song about trying to hold everything together ("hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on," it says over and over) but everything is still falling apart into dramatics ("I can just die laughing on your spiral of shame" is another line that hits like a slap in the face).

Bishops Knife Trick: Pete Wentz in the early 2000s, famously: I'm only gay from the waist up. Pete Wentz in the late 2010s, in a lyric: I'm in spiritual revolt from the waist down. Honestly, enough said.

Hold Me Like a Grudge: With that "thaw out my freezer-burn feelings from 20 summers" early on, this song is setting us up for being a song at least about Fall Out Boy, but "part-time soulmate, full-time problem" sounds like it's probably just about one person lol.

Heaven, Iowa: This song is a love song and to me it's their love song and that's just all I have to say actually hahahaha.

Okay, this was quick, I'm sure people have more! The joy is how ambiguously the lyrics can all be interpreted.

[cobra-wives]

ok, everyone's gonna be talking about it now. so i figure why not spearhead the discussion on the nick marini interview on some of the new terry lore (?) we got today. (and shoutout to oomf you know who you are for sitting through the entire hour of the interview with me!)

nick saying "i watched a lot of videos of heroin addicts on youtube" for his role on chicago med made me giggle because i honestly thought he was speaking on terry.

initially auditioning for his role in the cks3 flashbacks, they had dubbed his character's military nickname as mayo. (as in mayo boy, because he's pasty white. DO YOU KNOW HOW FUNNY THAT IS.) upon seeing nick, the writers switched it up to twig. (to which nick laughs, says "great, not only are you calling me pasty, you're calling me a skinny twig.) WE COULD'VE HAD KREESE CALLING HIM MAYO.

nick dubs kk3 era terry "cocaine terry" which is, in itself, HILARIOUS.

"he is very much the beta to kreese's alpha..."

on the relationship between terry and his father - "terry's father is the first man he strikes down... i don't think cobra kai is his first experience with no mercy." interesting on that principle - much of terry's cutthroat business-like personality seem to be inherited from his father.

also very cool analysis from nick - he refers to the scene in s4 where he's staring in the mirror and regretting his ruthlessness in the past. i find that detail that he calls out, right next to the discussion of his relationship with his father, to be very intriguing - perhaps terry was ashamed of becoming like his father, just to prove himself to his father and kreese as well?

"we had a joke about terry... it was very karate kid meets succession" SUCCESSION MENTION!!!

nick talks about terry's relationship with his father as very estranged and strangled - he juxtaposes it to experiences he's had with rich kids from upenn, with farther relationships with their parents who are all ceos/rich kids. very heartbreaking. :-(

"the people that terry wants to prove himself to... they don't have time for him."

(LOTS of daddy issues in this interview.)

"he loves kreese. but the moment he realizes he's the one thing holding him back, he has to take care of it."

(i knew you! leaving like a father, running like water!!!! EVERYONE ADD CARDIGAN TS TO YOUR COBRA HUSBANDS PLAYLISTS NOW!!!!)

"can he even be redeemed???...i don't think he thinks he even needs to be." re: terry so deeply set in his ways that he doesn't believe he's wrong. (REAL.)

nick marini has so much love for his role as terry and i adore him. BEST believe i am sat for this man's career and anything he has to say about silver!

[an-actual-attack-helicopter]

Book 6, Episode 3: The Frozen Ship Analysis/Commentary

Pretty atmospheric scene. And is that...whale sounds...? Yup, there a whale sounds all throughout this scene in the background. Fits pretty well, actually.

The Shadowpaw only breaks the ice after Callum takes Sneezles.

"Sup, i came here so that when i faint it will be your responsibili..." thud

"'Rayllum.' Seems like a nice name for a ship."

"I mean look at it. This ship is going nowhere!" Just wait a few episodes broski. By the end, Rayllum shippers are the only ones not sobbing like they lost their unicorn daughter.

Okay okay I'll stop with the jokes about this scene. We all get the gist.

Where the hell he get the sponge lol? If he got a wild one we would have to like sterilize it and stuff. And he wouldn't wanna harm it. Maybe they just brought it though.

Then we got Rayla crying over a romance novel. Seriously though, I think she relates to Skall. Like, after the two years she was gone, she felt that it was for nothing and she really just needed to be with Callum. And then...

Condrad, if you were here-

*KICKS DOOR* RAYLA RAYLA IM HERE- OWWW *PUSHES DOOR BACK OPEN* IM HEREEEE

Yet another example of how the animators and stuff played with lighting more this season. I can't stop talking about this. They've really improved.

"K I L L M E ."

viren in episode 8 be like--

Okay, there is no way Damian's respiratory disease wasn't related to Soren's. Maybe it was a virus spreading throughout Katolis. Buuut he said he had been living with it his whole life, and if Soren caught it you would think Callum would too. Maybe he did and he just recovered? Or maybe certain people are more susceptible to it. OOOOOR it's genetic and Soren and Callum are actually distant cousins. Okay, okay, I'll stop.

Anyway, I find it so funny how loudly Callum is shivering. Bro is trying to guilting her into sharing the blankie without having to ask lmfao. It literally comes off like that though--

Also, the scene where they almost kiss but Callum stops because he has to reveal something totally reminds me of a certain Claudium scene from season 2. Okay, enough Rayllum fluff, time for the pain. And the addiction allegories. Hear me out.

"I did cocaine again."

I mean, look at this. She even uses the word "quit." DARK MAGIC = DRUGS BASICALLY. Is it just me??? WHY ARENT PEOPLE TALKING ABOUT THIS??? IT'S SO GOOOOOOD. The animation too btw, like DAYUM.

Imagine the pearl breaks and aaravos gets out and is like "bro why are my toes on fire" shbfhdghjjkhh

This combined with Rayla's theme playing in the background...am i a Rayllum shipper now?

Finally, we're back to Viren and his deluded selfishness. He claims not to plead for mercy, and yet, he rambles on about how he is better than he was before. Cool shot though.

That's about it for this one. More packed than episode 2, though.

[crooked-wasteland]

Hazbin Hotel Live Blog: Overture

. While I am being kind to the show as it is, I cannot push out of my mind the fact that this is still Vivienne Medrano, and while this seems to be an interesting direction the series is considering to take the story, I am lacking any intrigue. Medrano has a knack for interesting ideas, but once executed are often trimmed down from all nuance and then played in the most straight forward and storybook fashion.

Evil existed before and separate from Lucifer

Eve is linked to the root of evil through the animation

Dichotomy of Lilith and Lucifer

Why does Heaven think Hell will rise up?

Charlie is reading the storybook to herself. Aloud. And the reason is because she’s like a child seeking comfort. Also Charlie’s delivery of “Pretty worked up” is just feeling off. Like isn’t this supposed to be a somber moment? Why is it delivered so chipper? The pilot had her crying and singing a lamentation. Downgrade.

Info dump dialogue

“This kingdom was something she really cared about.”

Vaggie’s voice is such a downgrade. She sounds so uninterested.

“Daddy issues by fixing you” So alastor knows about Charlie’s family situation already.

The lineart around Alastor is so distracting. It’s so bizarrely thick.

I wish there was no dialogue

Her dad calls her but she is supposed to have a strained relationship.

I feel like Medrano doesn’t know what Angel Dust is. As in the actual drug. PCP is not Cocaine.

That was the worst segue into a song I ever saw.

“If you dont mind the smell, it’s a happy day in hell.” I hate this line.

Vaggie just never sounds right, does she? Her singing is so nasal dominate it doesn’t sound like her throaty modal voice.

What was the contract? What did it say? Why even have Charlie sign anything if we have no concept of what that is? It is such a rip off from Ariel’s contract in the Little Mermaid that it feels more like an Easter egg than relevant to the story actively being told. You need to show why the actions happening are taking place, you cant just do things and expect us to pick up the pieces for you. Are you trying to get across that Heaven is full of bureaucracy and paperwork? There is no receptionist and no other person in the building until she signs ONE paper. You failed at portraying an overabundance of bureaucratic red tape and it is distracting and infuriating. All I see are the better DISNEY MOVIES that were clearly just plagiarized. Not an homage, not inspired. Plagiarized.

Lucifer calls Charlie to meet Adam. Adam says he knows. So this doesn’t feel like this is Charlie filling in, the way the dialogue is written is that it was specifically planned for Charlie to meet Adam.

Everything has a gradient.

I bet $15 that the Dickmaster portion of Adam’s dialogue was Alex Brightman’s improv. I was not impressed by his Kaiju Dick improv in Oops and this is just as flaccid. Pun intended.

There is a clear discccrepency in talent between Alex and Erika. He has such a smoother voice and range while Erika feels like a Disney understudy where every delivery is pretty much identical to the last. Like the songs themselves are not doing her any favors. They range from bad to mediocre, and even in the better songs, there is always one horrifically bad lyric that just ruins the entire experience.

I like Lute. She feels like Peridot.

RIP Katie Killjoy.

Nifty is cute. The joke for her had a lot of potential of being hilarious but didn’t meet my threshold of comedy due to lacking a feel for Nifty. Imagine if she was in every scene with Vaggie talking her head off and never shutting up. Then when Vaggie is like, “If anyone can sell this hotel, it’s Nifty.” And we had this foundation that Nifty is known for being a huge chatterbox only to then be dead silent when the camera is on her. It would have been hilarious. But we see her once and she has one singular line previous. So it just feels like a cheap visual gag.

As a musical, it is lackluster. I see that Evil is something separate from Lucifer and something he dislikes. Lucifer is said to see free will as a spring of creativity, but humans used it to suck and that killed Lucifer’s love of life. In the meantime, Lilith is empowered by Hell. Hell fuels her sense of freedom, which she spreads through her “songs”. Only for her to just vanish I guess. She just hopes out without a word, Charlie says she must be doing something important over the last 7 years, but no inclination on what important things Lilith would be doing. Additionally, Lilith is said to have loved Hell, like Charlie. So it sets up this idea that Lucifer dislikes Hell or even hates it, while Lilith revels in it. Alluding to their marriage falling apart from this dissonance. At the same time, Lucifer calls Charlie to meet with Heaven, despite the pilot being canon. So we get the impression that Charlie and Lucifer had a falling out (“Maybe dad was right.”) but she doesn’t have much more than surprise at her father calling. Then he just sets up this meeting for her to meet with Adam off screen entirely. It is unclear how this was conveyed, but Lucifer doesn’t believe in Charlie and her meeting Adam has nothing at all to do with her hotel.

But the way Adam talks about the meeting is unusual in that it gives the impression that it wasn’t about Charlie “filling in”, but that this whole meeting was specifically set for Charlie and Adam. This is compounded by how the ending reads like they didn’t know if the angel was dead until that moment. So the extermination being moved up has nothing to do with the angel’s death. Maybe I’m wrong, but this all feels really disjointed.

But Lute really is just Peridot. So much so that when asked what I liked about the episode, I literally said “Peridot”, not Lute. The one good aspect of this episode is another stolen concept from a better show with a more competent creator. But I also like Alex Brightman’s singing. He is very talented and he does elevate the material by really playing with his delivery, but it’s still at best Mid due to the weak lyrics,

3/10

[queenoftheimps]

Goddddd yes it would be fucking HILARIOUS if that dude suddenly goes missing and the internet goes wild with connecting it to a couple of folks that left really nasty reviews on Goodreads

sldjeksjen the GOODREADS REVIEWS

I want you to know that this joke is 20 years old but Armand (OR SOMEONE) is in fact out there on his fuckass little iPad responding to every less than stellar Goodreads review like “you’re interrogating the text from the wrong perspective”

(Look. Everyone was very mean about this when it happened but at this point I’m high on iwtv cocaine and I am halfway to imagining the fake bad book reviews where you could sneak that line in as a reasonable response)

HAH! Armand doing murders where Daniel has a clear motive and a rock solid alibi is also insanely funny like. He’s making that man’s unlife harder on purpose because he knows Old Maniel is turned on by these complications.

Ahahahaha and the thing is that honestly, that sentence in particular reads SO much like an Armand way of phrasing it. Like I can even imagine Daniel spotting the review replies and being like "ARMAND I KNOW IT'S YOU, NO ONE ELSE TALKS LIKE THIS".

But you are absolutely correct that he'd also be kind of flattered and turned on by all of it while Armand is just like :D see I did good and look your Community Reviews Star Rating has gone up

[hesitantvampirealien]

im bored so I'll try to guess something about you based on your favorite mcr + hesitant alien song (>>unserious!!<<)

I'm not gonna do all of them, just whatever song that comes to mind, so I'll probably miss a couple. Just ask me about any that i missed if you want. please don't take it seriously

Bullets

cubicles - you hate your job so much that you need to be comforted

mirror - you suck dick for cocaine

early sunsets - youre gay

headfirst - youre gay and depressed

demolition lovers - youre a lesbian

our lady of sorrows - you're a minecraft player who forgets to sleep and has to kill multiple armies of phantoms every in-game week

Revenge

helena - elder gay

im not okay - gay and depressed (and probably still in high school)

the ghost of you - you're a visual artist under psychiatric treatment

prison - you're INHUMANLY FUCKING HORNY and gay (and kinky)

thank you for the venom - you get into physical fights but you lose them more than you win them

deathwish - you're angry at someone or something, and you're not gonna stop being angry so soon

cemetery drive - you're probably another elder gay but a little more emo and/or into mcr than the helena elder gay

i never told you - you're angry, depressed and absolutely fucked in the head (and gay), but you're trying.

The black parade

welcome to the black parade - you're may or may not be a normie but you're a cool normie at least

i don't love you - you're either aromantic and feels nice listening to it (like me) or you're suffering with a relationship breakup and this song makes you sob your eyes out

dead // the end + dead - you're fucked in the head but you're trying to either disguise it or to be funny about it

sleep - you're probably into some weird abstract shit like Nurse With Wound (I'm a nww listener so don't come after me fellow nww listeners pls im joking)

house of wolves - you and the prison gay are equally horny (bonus if you two had sex) but you're a bottom and you're probably into humiliation kink, spanking and being tied up/wearing a collar and leash

teenagers - you are SUCH a fucking normie i swear to god

famous last words - you're traumatized

mama - deadly dysphoria that fucks you up

Danger Days

na na na - you're cute

bulletproof heart - you're probably nerdy

sing - ☭

planetary - you're also fucked in the head but you're even better at tolerating the pain + you probably go out at night a lot

party poison - you're non binary, angry, depressed, neurodivergent and tired of people existing but you try to tolerate it

save yourself - you're an angry gay and you're probably a bit more of a punk as well

scarecrow - you're a slightly older gay taking care of a young gay (probably the I'm not okay gay)

summertime - you're a little older, scarred physically and mentally and ULTRA depressed

destroya - youre horny as fuck and you want a threesome with the prison gay and the house of wolves gay

the kids from yesterday - you're painfully self aware about your age and your adult life

Conventional Weapons

boy division - gay

gun - gay

kiss the ring - gay and horny

ambulance - gay

make room - gay and punk

tomorrow's money - gay punk and horny

the world is ugly - you feel like you're extremely ugly despite actually being absurdly pretty

the light behind your eyes - you're just as mentally fucked as i am. :)

bonus lol

every snowflake is different - you're what normies call a giga chad and you're probably like a god or something

Hesitant Alien

the bureau - you're baby

action cat - you're cute

drugstore perfume - you're cute but you're suffering

brother - same thing as the light behind your eyes

zero zero - please fuck me i'll even bend over on this table for you

maya the psychic - you're the cutest and you're baby (and you're probably a visual artist)

[odusseus-xvi]

If some of you want a bit of positivity, Both Baghera and Aypierre tweeted this morning about yesterday's situation : (I am not going back on twitter anytime soon, I'm not exagerrating, I went there for 5 minutes this morning and got nausea)

Baghera : I'm not putting the link to the tweet because most of you won't see it anyway, so I'm I'm just copypasting :

"Good morning

Just a quick reminder that QSMP community is an amazing community and that I’m having an amazing time and the majority of people are a big support -

Now lezgo to Paris to meet amazing creators"

Aypierre : Same, I'm gonna copy paste. Wanted also to add to those who didn't know he is reffering to some of his jokes that may have passed as offensive and started a second discourse (mostly the "Forever got arrested for dealing cocaine" joke at the beginning of the debate) He explains it a little but basically French humor and norms are very diferent than english and american ones, one of our (french) main form of humor is being incredibly crass and mocking absolutely everything and everyone (including ousrselves) (for example one of his main jokes on the smp is that he gives alcohol to two month old children and that it's completely normal and innocent in france, wich he knows is horrible but tragically the truth for a lot of families over here. Anyway here is the tweet in english (he actually wrote it first in Brazilian, then english, then french to be sure everyone understood)

"To QSMP's Brazilian viewers: sorry if some felt offended by the French jokes/trolls, it's just our sometimes offbeat humor - there's absolutely no hatred towards you or any other community/nationality. As I've always said, if any content creators have any concerns about this they can come straight to me, I know you can laugh at anything but not necessarily with everyone. I love the interactions I have with forever, pac & mike and all the other players and I don't want a "war" to break out between communities just because of little jokes. And of course I know Forever doesn't do cocaine, he's a minecraft streamer, not a roblox streamer lol"

Anyway, don't forget to love each other, this is what all of this is about.

[clove-pinks]

🌸 If you get this, answer with 3 random facts about yourself and send it to the last 7 blogs in your notifications, anonymously or not! Let's get to know the person behind the blog. 🌸

No pressure of course!

Okay, okay. I'm awake due to anxiety and not feeling well, and it's making me punchy enough to drop some forbidden lore.

I grew up watching tumblr darling Columbo! Not by choice, mind you, but my mother always had it on. And I hated Columbo with a fucking passion: I was rooting for the bad guys non-stop, always hoping they would get away with it. And every time that smug jerkass said "And one more thing..." ARRGH!

While my hatred of Columbo is undimmed (not sorry), I would consider giving the 1980s Granada Sherlock Holmes series another try. (I'm not sure if this TV show is a big deal on tumblr in general or just on my dashboard.) I also watched this as a child thanks to my mom, and my abiding memory is an episode where Jeremy Brett does drugs and has bloodshot eyes and looks like death warmed over. My mother very solemnly informed me that SHERLOCK HOLMES DOES COCAINE. I grew up with an idea of Sherlock Holmes as a guy who solves crimes and does cocaine.

Since all of these answers are very tumblr-centric, I will drop my third bomb by mentioning that I met my wife, my honest-to-god real life spouse, on tumblr in 2012. We literally still joke about the fact that thank goodness she followed me first, because I am too shy to follow people (unfortunately then as now). We will be married 10 years in September!!

I'm not going to send this to people because I don't like anything that feels like chain mail and worry that I would be bothering people, but thank you for the ask!

[radioisntdead]

Hazbin hotel characters with sick! Reader headcanons

Warnings: none but I am feverish and suffering rn, HELP ME

Oh no! You're sick! What a coincidence so am I!

Well first things first your quarantined inside your room, one wrong move and you spread your sickness to the rest of the hotel!

Charlie makes you soup, and makes sure you drink lots of fluids, Vaggie's on medicine duty!

Depending if you're like me and just want to get better as soon as possible, Vaggie just hands over the medicine and gets you a cup of water to drink it with, or if you're like the children I'm related to, you decide to BOOK it down the hotel hallways because the medicine tastes horrid, either she's leaving you to suffer or she's chasing you down.

You cannot escape, take your damn medicine.

Alastor wouldn't do much, unless you were his spouse,

He'd probably mock you and stay away from your room because he is NOT getting sick because of your little illness.

Especially if you're like me when sick with a sore throat, just curled up and trying not to cry because it HURTS, the ruthless mocking you get.

Now if you're his spouse, may the Lord above have mercy on your little sinner soul because you are in danger!

1930 medical practices may occur, you MAY consume cocaine or whiskey! Maybe both I don't know!

On the brighter side he makes great soup! Not as great as the soup my mom made me but good soup!

He does maintain a distance though, he's the radio demon, he CANNOT GET SICK, no touchy, no after marriage hand holding get away.

Also I can't remember where I saw it but I remember this one comic of Alastor singing a lullaby and you know what, He does that when you're sick now, I don't make the rules.

OH also makes you food on the Spicer side to burn out the sick.

I can see Husk making you tea or something warm to drink, is warm alcohol a thing? Vodka? Does that do anything when sick??

I was gonna say angel dust provides you with popsicles because those help with sore throats [I've had three within the past three hours, about to make it four]

But I think he'd probably get you blankets and stuff before fleeing.

With Niffty, well uh,

I feel like she sprays you with chemicals and tries to clean you with a mop.

Sir Pentious is ON IT!

Multiple types of medicine, dude will snuggle you, attempts to make soup.

Can Sir Pentious cook? Can he canonically cook?? I feel like he can't, I feel like he burns toast

But he tries! The egg Bois help too! [Egg drop soup might be good for you]

Outside of the hotel time!

Auntie Rosie has EVERYTHING, Cannibal soup, tea, cough medicine, books for you to read when your not sleeping!

Grandma Susan is the one you need to worry about, she'll make you the soup and everything but WILL scold you for getting sick in the first place, hope your not feeling too shitty! She's gonna make you feel a little worse! She's also probably wearing like hazmat gear when

You may also get the whiskey cocaine treatment or worse! Bloodletting!

Also a shit ton of hot sauce to burn the sickness out!

Good evening folks I passed out like five times while writing, I wish I was joking it's now 2 pm, I started writing at 3 am,

Anyways thank you for tunin' in folks I hope you enjoyed, the angst fics will be up soon I wanna get them all up at the same time and I can't do that until the last one is edited, thank you and Goodnight!

[nicoleanell]

I couldn’t decide if Renfield would be fun or a waste of money but all your posts are making me want to see it haha

Listen I don't want to oversell "Renfield", it's a very dumb movie with an extremely predictable plot and hit-or-miss jokes, but it's also fun as hell. It is a solid 90 minutes of EXACTLY what it needs to be and I had a great time, both times.

(I said this to a friend on twitter but when I first heard about this movie being made I was kind of rolling my eyes, but I realize now that was a defense mechanism because I KNEW the power that Renfield as a dewy-eyed tumblr murderboy was gonna have over me.)

Maybe I'm crazy and a specific kind of target audience for this film, but I think they genuinely did... a way better job than I expected with the "Dracula/Renfield as an abusive relationship" thing. The comedy comes from the absurd extremes of the situation, the action scenes in particular are gleefully over-the-top and bloody, but there is this core of earnestness in Nicholas Hoult's performance and the scenes where he plays his fear and broken-ness and self-loathing dead straight.

Meanwhile Nic Cage is Nic Cage-ing it up and being really campy and entertaining whenever he's onscreen, but he's also manipulative and cruel in a way that is actually menacing when it needs to be. So whatever the fuck else is happening (I cannot stress enough AN INSECT IS SNORTED LIKE COCAINE by my new favorite character in the world lmao) there's just the right amount of sincerity and potentially relatable/cathartic stuff underlying it. I can't explain why this movie isnt a tonal mess, but it's not.

(Also: I can confirm after a second viewing with ALL my het goggles on, the second Awkwafina finds out about the familiar stuff they basically drop any pretense of her being his love interest and it becomes more of an alliance/buddies vibe, which is very cute!! Like they don't definitely say not to ship them either, but it's not 100% in either direction about them ending up together.)

(P.S. it really is concerning how attracted I am to Ben Schwartz now. P.P.S. If you've seen the "he won't grow to full power!" bit from the trailer that IS the single funniest line in the movie.)