#I would say that I have no idea how a film that's based entirely around the idea that we need to discourage 'dysgenics'

[equalperson]

by the way, I would like to note that I immediately don't trust you if you agree with the statement that "idiocracy is a documentary/real/a prophecy/etc."

the entire premise is idiocracy is based in eugenics, specifically the idea that poor and disabled people reproducing will lead to the downfall of society, particularly if upper-class and abled people aren't having even more children to wash us out.

do you really think society's biggest issue is that poor/disabled people have too much power?

do you really believe that the people in power--or humanity as a whole--is mostly intellectually disabled, all while people with ID are still disproportionately likely to be abused, raped, and incarcerated, among many other outcomes that can only result from their total lack of systemic authority?

earlier, I came across a post on r/idiocracy of a developmentally disabled boy destructively stimming in public. almost all of the comments were saying he shouldn't be allowed outside and should be tased or otherwise harmed (note: he was also black) for his behavior. do you really think a black, severely disabled, 10-to-13-year-old is your oppressor, your "idiocracy?"

or are you just scapegoating disabled and otherwise marginalized people as the source of society's ills, simply using "intellectualism" and "anti-consumerism" as an excuse to encourage mass violence against us?

because of course the issue isn't the rich trying to get richer. it isn't bigotry. it isn't capitalism or any other oppressive system. it's too many damn disabled children burdening you with behavior you don't want to see, and too many disabled adults burdening you with criticism you don't want to hear.

[denimbex1986]

'...“It’s fun playing bad, but actually he’s not,” the actor says, smiling as he reflects on his character, Crowley. “He’s a villain with a heart. The amount of really evil things he does are vanishingly small.”

...As it always has, “Good Omens” dissects the view of good and evil as absolutes, showing viewers that they are not as separate as we were led to believe growing up. Aziraphale and Crowley’s long-standing union is proof of this. The show also urges people to look at what defines our own humanity. For Tennant — who opted to wear a T-shirt emblazoned with the words “Leave trans kids alone you absolute freaks” during a photocall for Season 2 — these themes are more important now than ever before.

“In this society that we’re currently living in, where polarization seems ever more present, fierce and difficult to navigate. Negotiation feels like a dirty word at times,” he says, earnestly. “This is a show about negotiation. Two extremes finding common ground and making their world a better place through it. Making life easier, kinder and better. If that’s the sort of super objective of the show, then I can’t think of anything more timely, relevant or apt for the rather fractious times we’re living in.”

“Good Omens” is back by popular demand for another season. How does it feel?

It’s lovely. Whenever you send something out into the world, you never quite know how it will land. Especially with this, because it was this beloved book that existed, and that creates an extra tension that you might break some dreams. But it really exploded. I guess we were helped by the fact that we had Neil Gaiman with us, so you couldn’t really quibble too much with the decisions that were being made. The reception was, and continues to be, overwhelming.

Now that you’re no longer bound by the original material that people did, perhaps, feel a sense of ownership over, does the new content for Season 2 come with a sense of freedom for you? This is uncharted territory, of sorts.

That’s an interesting point. I didn’t know the book when I got the script. It was only after that I discovered the worlds of passion that this book had incited. Because I came to it that way, perhaps it was easier. I found liberation from that, to an extent. For me, it was always a character that existed in a script. At first, I didn’t have that extra baggage of expectation, but I acquired it in the run-up to Season 1 being released… the sense that suddenly we were carrying a ming vase across a minefield.

In Season 2, we still have Neil and we also have some of the ideas that he and Terry had discussed. During the filming of the first one, Neil would drop little hints about the notions they had for a prospective sequel, the title of which would have been “668: The Neighbour of the Beast,” which is a pretty solid gag to base a book around. Indeed there were elements like Gabriel and the Angels, who don’t feature in the book, that were going to feature in a sequel. They were brought forward into Season 1. So, even in the new episodes, we’re not entirely leaving behind the Terry Pratchett-ness of it all.

It’s great to see yourself and Michael Sheen reunited on screen as these characters. Fans will have also watched you pair up for Season 3 of “Staged.” You’re quite the dynamic duo. What do you think is the magic ingredient that makes the two of you such a good match?

It’s a slightly alchemical thing. We knew each other in passing before, but not well. We were in a film together [“Bright Young Things,” 1993] but we’d never shared a scene. It was a bit of a roll of the dice when we turned up at the read-through for “Good Omens.” I think a lot comes from the writing, as we were both given some pretty juicy material to work with. Those characters are beloved for a reason because there’s something magical about them and the way they complete each other. Also, I think we’re quite similar actors in the way we like to work and how we bounce off each other.

Does the shorthand and trust the two of you have built up now enable you to take more risks on-screen?

Yes, probably. I suppose the more you know someone, the more you trust someone. You don’t have to worry about how an idea might be received and you can help each other out with a more honest opinion than might be the case if you were, you know, dancing around each other’s nervous egos. Enjoying being in someone’s orbit and company is a positive experience. It makes going to work feel pleasant, productive, and creative. The more creative you can be, the better the work is. I don’t think it’s necessarily a given that an off-screen relationship will feed into an on-screen one in a positive or negative way. You can play some very intimate moments with someone you barely know. Acting is a peculiar little contract, in that respect. But it’s disproportionately pleasurable going to work when it’s with a mate.

Fans have long discussed the nature of Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship. In Season 2, we see several of the characters debate whether the two are an item, prompting them to look at their union and decipher what it is. How would you describe their relationship?

They are utterly co-dependent. There’s no one else having the experience that they are having and they’ve only got each other to empathize with. It’s a very specific set of circumstances they’ve been dealt. In this season, we see them way back at the creation of everything. They’ve known each other a long time and they’ve had to rely on each other more and more. They can’t really exist one without the other and are bound together through eternity. Crowley and Aziraphale definitely come at the relationship with different perspectives, in terms of what they’re willing to admit to the relationship being. I don’t think we can entirely interpret it in human terms, I think that’s fair to say.

Yet fans are trying to do just that. Do you view it as beyond romantic or any other labels, in the sense that it’s an eternal force?

It’s lovely [that fans discuss it] but you think, be careful what you wish for. If you’re willing for a relationship to go in a certain way or for characters to end up in some sort of utopian future, then the story is over. Remember what happened to “Moonlighting,” that’s all I’m saying! [Laughs]

Your father-in-law, Peter Davison, and your son, Ty Tennant, play biblical father-and-son duo Job and Ennon in Episode 2. In a Tumblr Q&A, Neil Gaiman said that he didn’t know who Ty’s family was when he cast him. When did you become aware that Ty had auditioned?

I don’t know how that happened. I do a bunch of self-tapes with Ty, but I don’t think I did this one with him because I was out of town filming “Good Omens.” He certainly wasn’t cast before we started shooting. There were two moments during filming where Neil bowled up to me and said, “Guess, who we’ve cast?” Ty definitely auditioned and, as I understand it, they would tell me, he was the best. I certainly imagine he could only possibly have been the best person for the job. He is really good in it, so I don’t doubt that’s true. And then my father-in-law showed up, as well, which was another delicious treat. In the same episode and the same family! It was pretty weird. I have worked with both of them on other projects, but never altogether.

There’s a “Doctor Who” cameo, of sorts, in Episode 5, when Aziraphale uses a rare annual about the series as a bartering tool. In reality, you’ll be reprising your Time Lord role on screen later this year in three special episodes to mark the 60th anniversary. Did you always feel you’d return to “Doctor Who” at some point?

There’s a precedent for people who have been in the series to return for a multi-doctor show, which is lovely. I did it myself for the 50th anniversary in 2013, and I had a wonderful time with Matt [Smith]. Then, to have John Hurt with us, as well, was a little treat. But I certainly would never have imagined that I’d be back in “Doctor Who” full-time, as it were, and sort of back doing the same job I did all those years ago. It was like being given this delightful, surprise present. Russell T Davies was back as showrunner, Catherine Tate [former on-screen companion] was back, and it was sort of like the last decade and a half hadn’t happened.

Going forward, Ncuti Gatwa will be taking over as the new Doctor. Have you given him any advice while passing the baton?

Oh God, what a force of nature. I’ve caught a little bit of him at work and it’s pretty exciting. I mean, what advice would you give someone? You can see Ncuti has so much talent and energy. He’s so inspired and charismatic. The thing about something like this is: it’s the peripherals, it’s not the job. It’s the other stuff that comes with it, that I didn’t see coming. It’s a show that has so much focus and enthusiasm on it. It’s not like Ncuti hasn’t been in a massive Netflix series [“Sex Education,”] but “Doctor Who” is on a slightly different level. It’s cross-generational, international, and has so much history, that it feels like it belongs to everyone.

To be at the center of the show is wonderful and humbling, but also a bit overwhelming and terrifying. It doesn’t come without some difficulties, such as the immediate loss of anonymity. It takes a bit of getting used to if that’s not been your life up to that point. I was very lucky that when I joined, Billie Piper [who portrayed on-screen companion, Rose] was still there. She’d lived in a glare of publicity since she was 14, so she was a great guide for how to live life under that kind of scrutiny. I owe a degree of sanity to Billie.

Your characters are revered by a few different fandoms. Sci-fi fandoms are especially passionate and loyal. What is it like being on the end of that? I imagine it’s a lot to hold.

Yes, certainly. Having been a fan of “Doctor Who” since I was a tiny kid, you’re aware of how much it means because you’re aware of how much it meant to you. My now father-in-law [who portrayed Doctor Who in the 80s] is someone I used to draw in comic strips when I was a kid. That’s quite peculiar! It’s a difficult balance because on one end, you have to protect your own space, and there aren’t really any lessons in that. That does take a bit of trial and error, to an extent, and it’s something that you’re sometimes having to do quite publicly. But, it is an honor and a privilege, without a doubt. As you’ve said, it means so much to people and you want to be worthy of that. You have to acknowledge that and be careful with it. Some days that’s tough, if you’re not in the mood.

I know you’re returning to the stage later this year to portray Macbeth. You’ve previously voiced the role for BBC Sounds, but how are you feeling about taking on the character in the theater?

I’m really excited about it. It’s been a while since I’ve done Shakespeare. It’s very thrilling but equally — and this analogy probably doesn’t stretch — it’s like when someone prepares for an Olympic event. It does feel like a bit of a mountain and, yeah, you’re daring to set yourself up against some fairly worthy competition from down the years. That’s both the challenge and the horror of doing these types of things. We’ve got a great director, Max Webster, who recently did “Life of Pi.” He’s full of big ideas. It’s going to be exciting, thrilling, and a little bit scary. I’m just going to take a deep breath.

Before we part ways, let’s discuss the future of “Good Omens.” Gaiman has said that he already has ideas for Season 3, should it happen. If you were to do another season, is there anyone in particular you’d love to work with next time around or anything specific you’d like to see happen for Crowley?

Oh, Neil Gaiman knows exactly where he wants to take it. If you’re working with people like Gaiman, I wouldn’t try to tamper with that creative void. Were he to ask my opinion, that would be a different thing, but I can’t imagine he would. He’s known these characters longer than me and what’s interesting is what he does with them. That’s the bit that I’m desperate to know. I do know where Crowley might end up next, but it would be very wrong if I told you.

[At this point, Tennant picks up a pencil and starts writing on a hotel pad of paper.]

I thought you were going to write it down for me then. Perhaps like a clandestine meeting on a bench in St James’ Park, but instead you’d write the information down and slide it across the table…

I should have done! I was drawing a line, which obviously, psychologically, I was thinking, “Say no more. You’re too tempted to reveal a secret!” It was my subconscious going “Shut the fuck up!”

[simon-newman]

TIL I learned that the initial plans for Smaug in the Hobbit movies had him with four legs and a pair of wings like an actual dragon should be:

Supposedly the original design was still used in the first movie original cut and only changed to show winged forelimbs in the enhanced version.

what we ultimately got is the bat-like front limbs that serve as both arms and wings.

NGL. I still love him but there's this tiny voice at the back of my head saying "this is a wyvern".

Now. Why was the change made?

The official answer is:

"Originally, the dragon we envisioned was bigger. The idea was to get the fear through his bulk. In fact, if you go back and look at the first film and the scenes that he was in, he was actually a four-legged dragon because we just had him stomping through Erebor in all of those flashback scenes," Letteri said. "But we realized that once you saw him performing -- we especially got this from watching Benedict perform. He got down on the grown and starting slithering around like the way Tolkien described Smaug in the books, which is as a big worm. Once we saw Benedict doing all of that, we realized you can't have him be this four-legged creature with wings on him back, he needs to be two legs and his wings need to be his arms properly, as you would expect a creature to be like a bat or a bird."

So in order to make him move like Tolkien described they had to make him not fit the Tolkien's description of having four legs.

They made him less accurate to make him more accurate?

Plus. The excuse that he will be slithering around means he can't have four legs?

This is Fatalis - the most powerful monster in the Monster hunter franchise. It's an Elder Dragon with uniquely Draconic design.

Most regular MH monsters are some kind of a wyvern with four limbs. Elder dragons are different and like Fatalis many have six limbs.

Uniquely - Fatalis is the classic European dragon in terms of design - something that set him apart from other monsters in the franchise.

It is a monster and destroyer of kingdoms.

And he slithers around.

He can move in two ways - by lying flat on his belly and pulling himself forward with wings - in this case the forelegs are held close to his body.

The other method is to actually use the front limbs instead of wings. This gives him multiple means of movement depending on the situation and intentions.

He has a few more animations where he just lies flat or jumps forward - both ending with him flat on the ground and able to stand up easily. Those are attacks that intend to crush enemies with his entire body.

Four legs don't interfere in the slightest with all those movements.

The excuse is weak.

It is just my theory but seeing the recent push for "realistic" design for dragons I personally blame the Game of Thrones.

It began airing too late for the first movie to be changed as the production was likely in a very late stages.

Second one tho? Yeah. I could see how they implement the idea based on G.R.R. Martin's design.

For REALISM.

Of a mythical, flying, fire breathing monster.

I'm just waiting for "realistic" dragons appearing alongside creatures like gryphon and pegasus with the same excuse being made.

...

Thank you to listening to my rant.

[killertoons]

I've got ideas and a theory for the recent welcome home updates (10/18/2024)

Walk with me-

So that short story alone already showed pulling ideas from Edgar Allen Poe with the tell-tale heart and the cast of amontillado

(I wouldnt be shocked if they reference other Edgar Allen poes works like the raven soon but that's me cheating to peek at clowns kofi and I won't speak further on that-)

Basically Sally is doing a rendition of the tell-tale heart and poppy got cast....only she doesn't want to be involved. It's a scary tale, and for those who didn't take advanced English

The story of the tell-tale hearts about a man so absolutely freaked out by this old man's eyes to quote

'I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture- a pale blue eye, with a film over it.'

So the man sets out to kill him, does so by lurking in the dark for 7 straight nights till finally the 8th night he finally does so, dismembered him and hide the pieces under the floorboards!

But when police came to investigate...he could hear both but a beating heart under the floors and from his guilt he admitted to the murder and ended the tale with

'"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed!- tear up the planks!-here, here!- it is the beating of his hideous heart!"

So already Sally doing a rendition of this tale is wild already as I imagine it's been changed to be more family friendly for the neighborhood, but poppy isn't up for it.

And Sally's sad about it! And of course the neighbors all know why poppy actually didn't wanna do it. And Sally trying to be a good friend realized the play scares her so they gotta do something to let poppy have her cozy state of mind away from anxiety

So they form their plan-

To cask of amontillado her into her house, brick by brick.

Another famous story by Edgar Allen Poe, that one is about a guy luring someone he had a dispute over into a cellar and bricking him up down there to rot.

It's a revenge story, one we have no details other than a man was wronged (we never learn the reason) his anger and vengeance taking center stage.

Through the entire story time, the neighbors are supposed to be following a book along as a read aloud story but they keep breaking into separate lil conversations or making quips to each other... Till the end where audio is lost on the rest of the story after poppy was bricked away.

However...

Because we have the secret website we can check there and what's found was....worse

Poppy in the dark of her barn and something is lurking with her in the dark.

By the end someone gets her out but the sounds of the people aren't named... although they sound familiar to us

I could say what we were all thinking and state the obvious "oh those must be the puppeteers! That was poppy's puppeteer having a freak out moment-"

Which I personally agree but there's more to it.

Do y'all know how big birds puppet works?

It's one person in there, with a screen to tell you where to go and a script taped inside while they maneuver around like this!

I imagine poppy is the same way since she's based design wise off big bird

Now with this in mind, add how hard it is to move or see or perceive where you are in general in that suit. How clasterphobic your gonna be if you can't get out!

I get clasterphobic trying to get out of a dress that fits too tight at the store, I can't imagine how scary this would be especially if your on your own in the dark room as well!

with only your lantern to read your lines and something to occupy yourself- maybe knitting as it's a hobby you picked up-

When you hear breathing that's not yours. From within the suit. A suit that's JUST big enough for you, mind you.

So it be impossible for anyone else to be breathing...only you forgot someone.

The puppet suit itself...is breathing.

And there's scratching at the door, something else is lurking in the dark with you but you can't see it. You can't get out, the suit can't leave but your mind is stuck the doors open but in another world it's closed and sealed-

But I'm getting ahead of myself

What is said is...what if that IS poppy reacting in the dark to something...but also it's the puppeteers reaction to poppy as well. They share a mind and A space for a moment in the dark where their fear matches them and it doesn't break till the door opens and the puppeteers talk..

I think the horror is going higher as both sides are gonna start interacting more and more with each other..

[martini-garnish]

So I've been throwing ideas about Vox at @bigfatbimbo for a hot minute, specifically factoring in his relationship with Valentino because they are toxic and manipulative and so incredibly non-exclusive lmao. But some things are too long to be asks and y'all Did vote for freak behavior on main lmao

(Like every other scenario I wordvomit onto the screen this is definitely based around an oc but I'll be generic with it lmfao)

18+! NSFW! Minors do not fucking interact Please!

So Val sucks, we know this, we know. Please note Vox also sucks. That does not get acknowledged often enough he is also an asshole. What I'm saying is there is no way he wouldn't use a side piece to get under Vals skin.

It's word of Viv that outside their relationship they're both very dominant, but with eachother it's a toss up and, inevitably, a fight for power every time.

Here's where this new partner comes in, especially if they're someone petty, vindictive, and or willing to take shots at Val. Because wouldn't he just hate to see something he has to fight so hard for get offered up on a silver platter to some Fucking Nobody? Of course he would.

So Vox let's himself get dommed. Kind of. He plans it, of course, lays out Exactly what's going to happen. He's pulling the strings, he's in control here, he won't let them forget it, but Val doesn't need to know that. The plan of course is to film this encounter and "accidentally" leave it playing somewhere that Valentino will probably definitely "accidentally" come across it. See someone else getting the easy submission he can't have.

The problem arises when Vox, stripped with his hands tied and someone, sometimes, being gentle with him in this state, realizes he likes this a little too much.

A lot too much. He's stopped reminding them to stay on script. He's forgotten to moan instead of whine. They tell him he looks so perfect like this, he's doing such an incredible job. And the scripted scene is out the window because he's fucking whimpering.

The more they praise him the more he forgets what this was for in the first place. That the point wasn't originally being told how stunning and brilliant and gorgeous he is while being touched so softly it almost aches. He didn't plan out begging for more, please fucking more because he's getting close before they even start paying attention to his cock. As soon as they do its practically over, he bluescreens, buffers, glitches, practically sobbing when he cums so hard it knocks out power in the entire section of the building.

Once he's back in his head he can't believe he knocked out the fucking camera, that was the whole point, now they'll have to set this whole thing over again. Friday? Does that work? Maybe sooner? It's really too bad he lost the footage.

(Of course he didn't, it autosaved up until the black out. But they don't need to know that.)

[muiitoloko]

I had another idea that has been swirling around in my mind, this one being an Alan Rickman one. Basically he and a younger actress have been going around doing interviews on tv for their new movie which is a film about an older man being with a younger woman. They talk about how they got to know one another as they knew in the movie there would be some quite intimate scenes. The actress starts to notice with some tv presenters that they seem to have a sly dig at Alan regarding his body shape, which starts to make the actress furious. The actress can tell it is having a negative effect on Alan, so she reassures and/or comforts him regarding it and telling him how a lot of people do in fact find him physically attractive and they will love seeing him in this movie because of it. This could be a fluff, smut or both, whatever you decide.

I hope things turn around for you soon.

Title: More Than Looks

Summary: When the interviewer shifts focus to Rickman's appearance, [Your Name] steps in, redirecting attention to his talent and the undeniable magnetism that make his performance unforgettable.

Pairing: Alan Rickman × Fem! Reader

Warnings: implied betrayal, criticism, implied sex.

Author's Notes: Thank you for the request! I’ll admit, I considered adding a smutty twist but got a little lazy 😅—sorry about that! I hope you still enjoy it. I based this on my story “Rehearsal” but no worries—you don’t need to read that one to follow along with this.

Also read on Ao3

It was funny how quickly things had shifted. What had started as pure excitement about promoting your film with Alan Rickman had now grown into a simmering frustration as interview after interview seemed to focus on his body, often with a subtle—or not so subtle—hint of judgment. Each time someone commented on his appearance, criticizing or even questioning his suitability for a role so intense and passionate, your patience wore thinner. Could these people not see how breathtaking he was? That commanding presence, his quiet confidence, the way he could make you feel utterly captivated with a single, steady gaze? His charm, his wit—this was the man who had brought your character’s forbidden desires to life so vividly, and they were missing it entirely.

You were seated beside him on a popular late-night talk show, the host launching into a lighthearted question about how you two met on set. As you shared stories of your first impressions and the awkwardness of those early rehearsals, you spoke openly about how you’d been a fan of his films long before you’d ever met him.

Alan smirked, his signature half-smile playing across his lips as he glanced at you with those intense hazel eyes that had you captivated every day on set. ��I suppose I wasn’t quite what you imagined in person,” he said in that smooth, baritone voice, a touch of self-deprecating humor lacing his words.

The host laughed, raising his eyebrows. “Oh, come on now, Alan. She’s not likely to say anything that would wound your pride, surely?”

Alan tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over you with a twinkle of mischief. “Careful now, or she might mention a certain comment about my…” he trailed off, glancing down with a smirk, “…my ‘intensity,’ shall we say.”

The host leaned forward with interest. “Intensity! And how did you manage all that intensity, [Your Name]? These scenes were rather… spicy, from what I hear.”

You smiled, sharing a glance with Alan as a flush of memories filled your mind. “Well,” you began, trying to keep a playful tone, “let’s just say Alan has this incredible way of… drawing you in. He doesn’t just act the part; he lives in it. And when he steps into that kind of role—one with such intensity, that undeniable tension—it’s… overwhelming, in the best way.”

Alan chuckled softly, crossing his legs and resting his hand casually on his knee as he met the host’s gaze. “Yes, it was a difficult part to research, I’m afraid. I had to be… persuasive,” he added with a knowing glance at you. “It’s challenging, you know, making someone fall for you when they’re… resistant.”

The host laughed, clearly entertained by the way Alan turned the conversation around, but you could sense Alan’s subtle irritation at how much attention the questions kept turning toward him and his body. He was so much more than that, and you wanted everyone to understand it.

Trying to turn the conversation toward his talent, you jumped in. “Alan doesn’t just play the role of a forbidden lover. He brings this… raw energy. There’s this controlled power to his performance that made the scenes feel… almost too real.” You shot him a grin, recalling your rehearsal. “And sometimes, that energy meant improvising, going off-script, capturing moments of raw emotion. That’s part of what made those scenes so… powerful.”

Alan raised an eyebrow, his expression half amused, half intrigued as he considered your words. “Ah, yes, the ‘raw energy,’” he teased, his voice low and suggestive, but his gaze softened as he looked at you. “Well, I had some good motivation, wouldn’t you say?”

The host leaned forward, clearly delighted by the chemistry between you. “I imagine filming those scenes required quite a bit of… trust?”

You nodded, your eyes meeting Alan’s as you replied. “Absolutely. Alan made it so easy to lose myself in the role. He has this way of looking at you, and suddenly, the world fades away. There’s only him, and it’s impossible not to… fall under his spell.”

Alan chuckled, his fingers tracing the arm of his chair in that calm, deliberate way he had. “And isn’t that the essence of a forbidden romance?” he mused, his voice dipping into a rich, velvety tone that had you transfixed. “To make the audience feel that desire, that… need. Even when it’s wrong. Especially when it’s wrong.”

The host, catching on, leaned in with a sly grin. “So, tell us, how did it feel when that camera rolled and the scene came to life?”

Alan’s lips quirked, and he glanced at you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. “Well, I’d say… electric. When you’re close to someone, barely breathing, the heat between you almost unbearable. And then… you cross that line. It’s a moment of surrender,” he murmured, looking directly at you, his words laden with the weight of that memory.

You held his gaze, the electricity between you as real as it had been on set, and a warmth rose to your cheeks as you replied, “Every scene felt like stepping into fire. Alan made it feel like… like something dangerous. Impossible to resist.”

As the conversation on the talk show continued, the host, always eager to keep the audience engaged, leaned forward with a gleam in his eye. "Well, folks," he announced with a flourish, "before we wrap up, let's take a look at the trailer for this sizzling new film that's been making waves."

You and Alan turned to the screen, anticipation building as the lights dimmed and the first scenes unfolded. The camera panned over your character, Emily, a young woman with a hopeful, carefree spirit, enjoying a drink with friends, blissfully unaware of the storm her life was about to enter. Then came the scene with Michael—played by an up-and-coming actor—her charming boyfriend, laughing over drinks, his hand resting on her shoulder. The music took on a more tense note as Emily and Michael walked into a room, and there he was—Alan’s character, Thomas.

The atmosphere thickened as Emily’s eyes met Thomas’s across the room, the tension instant and undeniable. Even through the screen, you felt the intensity of that first encounter, the magnetic pull between them. Thomas’s sharp gaze lingered on Emily just a moment too long, his baritone voice greeting her with a warm, yet somehow calculating, “Emily, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Michael’s told me so much about you.” The unspoken challenge in his tone was subtle, but unmistakable.

You could feel the audience's curiosity deepen as the trailer cut to a scene between Thomas and his son, Michael, the two of them exchanging loaded words over a glass of whiskey. Alan's face was shadowed, the low light accentuating the sharpness of his hooked nose and the intensity in his hazel eyes as he spoke, his tone laced with bitterness. "Michael," he said, his voice a silky drawl, "you’ve always been so… predictable.”

Michael’s response was defensive, bordering on anger, the tension between father and son palpable as the trailer hinted at a deep-seated rivalry. It was clear that Thomas’s resentment simmered just below the surface, and it wasn’t long before that bitterness took on a new focus: Emily.

The trailer flashed back to a scene of Thomas and Emily alone, the ambiance dark, thick with unspoken longing. Alan's voice, in a low, almost predatory tone, murmured, “You’re different from what I expected.” His fingers reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, his gaze intense, calculating. Emily visibly tried to resist, but her breath quickened, her eyes betraying her struggle to hold back from the attraction that drew her to him.

The screen flickered to another scene—a candlelit room, Emily standing by the window, looking torn and vulnerable. Thomas appeared behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders as he leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered, “Why fight what we both know you want?” His tone was rich, seductive, layered with that familiar Alan Rickman edge that could make even the most innocent words feel like a sin.

You felt your own pulse quicken as the trailer showed the forbidden dance between them escalating. The sound of Thomas’s voice echoed through the studio as he muttered, “This isn’t about him. It’s about us. And you know it.” His fingers slid along her jawline, coaxing her to face him as his lips found hers, the scene charged with a desperate, guilty need that had both you and the audience breathless.

As the trailer transitioned into the hot, forbidden scenes between Thomas and Emily, the tension on screen thickened, pulling the audience into the dangerous web of their affair. Each stolen moment was a study in contrasts: Thomas's raw dominance against Emily's trembling vulnerability, her guilt palpable but overshadowed by her overwhelming need. The music, dark and pulsing, set the tone as Thomas’s hands slid down Emily’s arms, his fingers lingering on her wrists as he pinned her against the wall.

“Why fight this?” Thomas’s voice was a rough whisper, his hazel eyes filled with a fierce, relentless desire. “You want this, Emily. You want me.” His tone was commanding, giving no room for denial, and as his lips claimed hers, you could feel the forbidden desire practically vibrating through the screen.

In another scene, Thomas’s hands explored every curve of Emily’s body with a hunger that bordered on obsession. His baritone voice dripped with lust as he muttered in her ear, “You belong to me now, Emily. Don’t even think about him.” The camera lingered on their entwined bodies, capturing every stolen kiss, every whisper of guilt-tinged passion as Thomas claimed her, the heat between them all-consuming.

But beneath the lust and forbidden connection, Emily’s guilt simmered. In one heart-wrenching moment, Michael, her boyfriend and Thomas's son, looked at her with absolute sincerity, his eyes filled with a tenderness that twisted the knife of her betrayal even deeper.

“I love you, Emily,” Michael said softly, his fingers brushing her cheek as he held her close. She forced herself to smile, but her eyes betrayed the storm raging inside her, torn between the comfort of Michael’s love and the fire of Thomas’s dangerous seduction.

The screen cut back to Thomas and Emily in a hotel room, dimly lit and shadowed. Thomas, in full control, had Emily pinned to the bed, his hands pressing her wrists into the mattress as he loomed over her. His gaze was dark, challenging, daring her to deny what was unfolding between them.

“You think you can go back to him, pretend nothing happened?” he sneered, his breath hot against her skin. “No, Emily. You’re mine now. And I’ll make damn sure you remember that.” His hands traced down her body, his grip possessive, his words laced with dominance. Each move, each breath, each kiss felt like a declaration of ownership.

As the trailer built to a crescendo, the final scene shifted to a formal dinner setting. Emily sat beside Michael, who was oblivious to the secrets she kept buried beneath her polite smile. Across the table, Thomas watched her with that familiar, smug expression, his eyes glinting with barely concealed satisfaction as he raised his glass in a toast to the love.

“To love,” he said, his voice rich with irony, his gaze never leaving Emily. The silent threat in his eyes was unmistakable, as if reminding her of the control he held over her. The tension was thick, palpable, every word laced with the knowledge of what they shared—and what she could never admit.

The screen faded to black as the title of the movie appeared, followed by the release date in bold, with the haunting background music underscoring the forbidden nature of their connection. The final note left a lingering tension, promising audiences a twisted, seductive journey of desire, betrayal, and control.

The lights came back up in the studio, and the audience sat in stunned silence before erupting into applause. Beside you, Alan Rickman wore his usual, subtle smirk, a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes as he nodded toward you, clearly pleased with the trailer’s impact.

The host leaned in with a half-dazed smile, clearly affected by what he’d just seen. “Wow,” he murmured, his voice a mixture of awe and surprise as he turned to you. “That was something else. What was it like filming such… powerful scenes?”

You smiled, feeling a renewed excitement as you thought back on what it took to bring Emily’s journey to life. “Well, Emily is caught in this web of conflicting desires and guilt,” you began, glancing at Alan, who nodded subtly in encouragement. “She knows she’s making a mistake with Thomas, that she’s risking everything. But there’s a fire between them that she can’t ignore, this intensity that keeps pulling her back in. Alan brought so much to Thomas—this commanding, almost predatory energy that made her attraction to him feel undeniable. It was like stepping into fire every time we shot those scenes.”

The host grinned, clearly intrigued by the dynamic. “And it seems like that heat is definitely going to carry over to audiences!” He turned to Alan, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Alan, this role is quite a departure for you, right? Intense passion, deep conflict… I imagine it was a challenge. But, if I may say, some people might wonder if it was a bit of a stretch, considering…” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at Alan’s physique. “You know, the years have added a bit of… experience.”

A flicker of discomfort passed over Alan’s face, his easygoing expression tightening just slightly. You could see he was maintaining his usual calm, probably used to the subtle jabs that occasionally came his way. But this time, it irked you. You clenched your fists, irritation bubbling up as the host continued with a superficial smile. Why was it that everyone focused on Alan’s appearance as if it diminished his talent, as if that baritone voice and those intense hazel eyes didn’t already command a room?

Before Alan could respond with his usual poised deflection, you interjected, your voice laced with a calm but unmistakable edge. “With all due respect,” you said, turning to the host, “I think that question completely misses the point. Alan brought an energy to Thomas that’s raw, magnetic, and honestly, breathtaking. I’m certain audiences are going to be captivated not because of a number on a scale but because of the undeniable charisma he brings to the screen. If anything, I’d bet most people will be going to see this film just to watch him.”

Alan looked over at you, surprise and a hint of gratitude in his eyes, though he quickly covered it with a slight smile, that subtle, self-deprecating charm of his. “Thank you,” he murmured quietly, dipping his head.

The host, momentarily taken aback, tried to recover with a chuckle. “Oh, absolutely, I didn’t mean to suggest anything else. It’s just that… well, Alan’s a bit of a legend, and people have a certain image…”

You didn’t let him finish. “Exactly,” you replied smoothly. “And that image is of someone who captivates, who can seduce with a look or a line. I don’t know about everyone else, but when Alan Rickman steps into a role, I don’t notice anything but his presence. And in this film, he exudes a dangerous, irresistible attraction. That’s what will have audiences glued to their seats.”

Alan’s smirk widened slightly, a glint of approval in his gaze as he relaxed beside you. He glanced at the host, his usual sly humor peeking through. “I think I’ll take that as my cue to leave all future interviews to [Your Name] here. She clearly has a much better perspective on the matter.”

The audience chuckled, and you exchanged a warm look with Alan. There was an unspoken connection between you both, a shared understanding that transcended the superficialities the host had attempted to reduce the discussion to. The conversation quickly shifted to the film’s plot and its themes, but you felt a renewed closeness with Alan. As the host wrapped up the interview, you gave Alan a discreet squeeze on the hand, a gesture of support and admiration.

Backstage, Alan turned to you, his usual smirk softened by a touch of genuine warmth. “Thank you,” he murmured, his baritone voice low. “You didn’t have to do that.”

You met his gaze, a smile tugging at your lips. “Someone had to remind them what really matters. And honestly, I meant every word. When people see you as Thomas… let’s just say, they’re in for quite an experience.”

He chuckled, his hooked nose scrunching as he raised an eyebrow. “You think so, do you?”

“Absolutely,” you replied, your voice dropping to a playful whisper. “And between you and me, I think I’m the lucky one, having been the one to experience it firsthand.”

Alan’s eyes sparkled with mischief, his smile lingering as he took in your words. “Well then,” he murmured, his tone laced with that rich, magnetic allure that left you breathless, “it’s good to know I still have it, isn’t it?”

[annabelle--cane]

it's fascinating to me the way that different social media platforms result in different types of fandom behavior. while s5 of tma was airing, I spent a good amount of time on tma tiktok (I log back in about once every two months now, going back to in-person school after a year a half of lockdown seem to re-blanace my brain and made me once again not really enjoy the format) while still using tumblr as my main socmed, and while there was a lot of overlap in the fan culture, some things were notably different.

tumblr tma fans had near-encyclopedic knowledge of the source material, but it was kind of an ongoing joke for tiktok tma fans that everyone binged the whole show in a week-long fugue state and lost memory of about 35% of it. tumblr has virtually no character limit and allows posts to be passed around by users indefinitely, which lends itself to fairly in-depth meta analysis being made and shared until most any fan could say "the time and space discrepancies at hill top road? psh yeah, I know all about them, I've read seven scrupulously cited posts that lay out all the details." for the entire time that s5 was airing, tiktok videos could still only be a minute long, and I know from a lot of personal effort that there's only so much you can fit into a one minute script that you also have to memorize and record (and cc manually with tiktok text stickers, as they didn't add the caption feature until april 2021) if you want the process to take less than four hours of your one mortal human life. and then you only see the video if your following or fyp algorithm shows it to you. there were a few tma meta-ish videos that got popular because other people would make their own videos referencing them and tag the account so their followers could see what they were talking about, but it's much harder to circulate content you like there. several times I saw people post videos saying "I got into cosplay to film some [agnes or annabelle or gerry or another secondary character] and I just realized I have no idea what their deal actually is 💀".

a thing that tiktok tma fandom was definitely better at than tumblr tma fandom was accurately remembering certain pieces of characterization and the flow of certain scenes. I've seen a bunch of posts on here where someone is trying to argue a point with excerpts from the text ("x character is nicer than you all give them credit for" "x character is so mean to y character in this scene" "z theory can't be true because y character said a line that disproves it") where the argument only holds up because the poster has gotten these excerpts from a transcript dive and hasn't listened to the episodes they're from recently, because while the text alone can be construed to mean one thing, the way it's delivered on-podcast clearly intends another. tiktok, being an audio and video based medium, allows audio clips to be shared around a lot, and cosplayers would often all make videos acting along to the same show clips of juicy interpersonal drama, and so tiktok fans, though they may have had less overall memory of what characters said, always had a better grasp on how they said it. an average tiktok tma fan might not have remembered melanie's subplot about war ghosts, but they would know the nuances of how the way she talks to jon changes between mag 28 and mag 155.

[senditcolton]

hits different

do you think i have forgotten... about you?

series masterlist | playlist | word count: 9.3k a/n: here it is! the finale of the "we're a bad idea" series. it's crazy to think that this series started on a complete whim and turned into this. i had so much fun writing this for you all and screaming about it with you and... gosh, just, thank you for all your support! I hope you all love this conclusion as much as I do. warnings: feminine reader, teammate's sister, age gap. smut! heavy handsy make out, oral (f receiving), protected penetrative sex. Disclaimer: Reading/creating content for married players isn’t for everyone. Please don’t read if you don’t vibe with it, but don’t attack me or others!

It felt like something out of a goddamn movie.

The way your eyes locked onto each other the very moment you settled next to Shannon at the altar. How the scent of the flowers that Emily had chosen for your bouquet suddenly became overwhelming. The feeling of heat that rushed through you – a heat that had nothing to do with the warm July afternoon and everything to do with the blue eyes that had captured you under their gaze.

Not the mention the film reel flashback that replayed in your head of those months when you allowed him into your bed and into your heart. And how he broke you into a million pieces and sent you running to Los Angeles to escape his hold on you.

Almost two years and three-thousand miles between you and him. You thought that would be enough.

But, even after all of that, it seems that you still couldn’t forget Matt Martin.

And based on the beating echoing through your ribcage, it was obvious that your wretched heart failed to remember how much it hurt whenever he was around.

The string music dancing on the breeze lifts to a crescendo and you almost scoff at the irony; like the universe itself was trying to arrange a reunion worthy of an Oscar-winning romance. Then you heart stutters when you see Matt lift from his seat, his eyes still locked on your frame and you fear that a love confession was about to fall from his lips.

Thankfully, that doesn’t happen. Instead, he turns from you, directing his gaze down the aisle.

The embarrassment rushes through your body and you have to shake your head at your dramatics; at the way you made yourself the main character in a moment that was anything but yours.

This was Scotty and Emily’s moment – their wedding, for Christs sake. Your eyes divert to the end of the aisle, watching as your soon to be sister-in-law walk to your brother, her stunning white dress flowing behind her. You sneak a glance at Scotty, watching his eyes water as Emily takes those final steps towards him. This was the reason you were here. Not Matt Martin.

Somehow, you manage to make it through the entire ceremony without looking out to the audience and those ocean blue eyes. When you walk back up the aisle for the recessional, your arm linked in Sebastian’s, your gaze locks with Matt’s once again before he disappears from your sight.

It’s a moment of reprieve as you sneak back into the cabin where you and the rest of the bridesmaids had spent the night, a deep breath lifting your chest.

You should’ve known he would be here. He was your brother’s teammate, a fact that you were all too aware of when this tryst began. Still, you hoped you wouldn’t have to face him. Not because you hated him or because you had moved on. But because there was still a part of you that craved him, that couldn’t let him go.

There was an ache in you and it felt like only he could heal it.

How? The answer to that question was still uncertain. You didn’t know if you needed him to apologize, or give you closure, or tell you everything you’ve always wanted him say. But you weren’t ready for it, whatever it was.

And when you walk into the reception area where the guests waited, your heart proves how unprepared you were based its reaction when your eyes find Matt. And the gymnastic routine it does when you realize that he was seated at your table, only a few spaces away from you.

Dinner is excruciating. It feels like a choreographed routine as you stop your head from drifting too far to the right to look in Matt’s direction, pretending that you don’t feel the weight of his stare, laser-focused on the toasts and your brother’s first dance. And when the dance floor opens and the mingling begins, the reason you fly from your chair was to greet other guests, performing your duty as a bridesmaid.

Not because you were desperate to delay the inevitable conversation you knew you had to have with the one man you had been avoiding.

Blissfully, a familiar voice calls to you from across the space and your eyes lock onto Mat Barzal, frantically waving at you from one of the other tables. You smile, walking over to him as he rises from his chair and hugs you, your name falling from his lips with that bright cheerfulness that you heard so frequently over Facetime calls and nights out in LA when the Islanders came to California.

“How are you doing, Barzy?” you ask, pulling away from the hug.

“Pretty good,” he replies, his hand falling to the shoulder of the pretty brunette occupying the seat next to him. “Have I introduced you to Lyla yet?”

“Well, you’ve talked about her enough that I feel like I’ve met her before,” you laugh as you steal Mat’s seat from him, holding out your hand before formally introducing yourself. “Good to officially meet the girl that stole this idiot’s heart.”

“Nice to finally meet you too,” Lyla says, taking your hand in hers. “Although, I will be honest, when I first saw your name on Mat’s phone and how many Facetime calls the two of you shared, I was a little concerned. Thought you were a long-distance girlfriend or something.”

“Completely understandable,” you laugh, admiring her candor. “But there’s nothing to worry about. He’s a little too sweet for me.”

“I’m standing right here,” Mat huffs and you look up at him with a smirk.

“It’s nothing you haven’t heard before.”

Your relationship with Mat Barzal was the one thing that had shifted in the years you were away but it definitely changed for the better. He had turned from a potential romantic partner to a true friend. That shift – one that was brought on after a night of too many French Blonde cocktails – lifted a weight off both of your shoulders and opened the door for an even deeper connection with star winger.

“I hear that I have you to thank for him asking me on a date,” Lyla says.

“I did nothing but push Mat to ask for the number of the pretty girl at the gym that he spent almost a half-an-hour raving about,” you laugh, loving the way both Lyla and Mat’s cheeks flushed. “You had him whipped before he even knew your name.”

“Oh, trust me, I figured that out eventually,” Lyla jokes and you can’t help but scoot in, ready to hear all the embarrassing stories that Lyla was willing to share. And share she did. It seems like hours of laughter and conversation, Mat even dragging a chair over and joining in – although most of his comments are attempts to defend himself. Eventually, Lyla gets up to run to the ladies room, departing with a kiss on Mat’s cheek and you can’t stop the smile that appears when Mat’s eyes stay glued to her as she walks away.

“I like her,” you say, calling his attention back to you. “She’s way too good for the likes of you.”

“Oh, I know,” he laughs, taking your jest in stride before sipping his beer. You see his hazel eyes bounce across the room, pausing momentarily before they return to you. “Have you talked to him yet?”

A sigh rushes through you as you shake your head.

“I still can’t believe I told you about him.”

“You told me like… eight months ago. Besides, you can only blame yourself.”

“Hey, I can also blame copious amounts of alcohol.”

“Yeah, alcohol that loosened your tongue and sent his name falling out of your mouth,” Mat quips, his eyebrow raising. “Along with your dinner.”

“Please don’t remind me,” you say, your mind jumping back to the night in question.

It was November, when the Islanders played Los Angeles. You and Mat met up at a local bar – just the two of you and it was that night that your relationship changed completely. Because in your inebriated state, Matt Martin’s name slurred from your lips while Barzy was attempting to shove you into an Uber.

Despite facing the wrath of his coaches, Mat helped you back to your apartment and kept you company that night, his reasoning being that he wanted to make sure you were alright and a California road trip allowing him the time to do so. It was over greasy eggs and bacon that he asked why you said Marty’s name. And you told him.

You even told him about the night of the charity gala, emphasizing that you never meant to use him like that. And that the reason why you never took him up on his offer to be more than friends was because you didn’t want to use him more, keep giving him false hope.

The truth stung him for a few days but after giving him the time and space he needed, the honesty and clarity brought the two of you closer. Now, he was the only person in your life that knew the whole story of why you left Long Island. And, like the good friend he was, he kept your secret all that time.

“You know you’re going to have to speak to him at some point,” Mat prods.

“I know,” you quip, playfully rolling your eyes. “Doesn’t mean I can’t avoid him for a few more minutes.”

“You’ve been avoiding him for almost two years. Don’t know if a few minutes is going to help.”

“When did you get so wise?”

“You can thank Lyla for that,” he smiles and you watch his whole expression soften at the mere sound of her name.

“She makes you happy.”

The sentence is more statement than question. You were there on the other end of the line when he talked about the first time he saw her. You gave him pep-talks and advice on how to ask her out. You helped him plan dates and dinners. It was obvious that this girl was something special to him.

“Happier than I’ve been in a while.”

“Then why are you still sitting here talking to me?” you say. “Dance at a wedding with your girlfriend.”

“Alright, I will,” Mat laughs, standing. He doesn’t depart immediately, choosing instead to lean over to you with a serious look in hie eye. “But you have to promise me you’ll talk to Marty.”

Another sigh escapes you as you let your head turn to look at the reception hall, your eyes glancing off the crowd of guests before landing on Matt, leaning against the wall, talking to Cal and his wife. As if he can feel your eyes on him, his gaze drifts to you and you watch a myriad of emotions dance on his face, each so subtle and fleeting that you couldn’t even begin to decipher what he was thinking.

“He’s been asking about you, you know,” Mat’s voice sounds, pulling your attention back to him.

“He has?”

“Yeah. Asking me, Scotty, Emily, anyone really. How you’re doing, what you’re doing.”

“What have you told him?”

“Just surface level stuff: your job, your complaints about the weather and LA traffic, things like that. It seems like he wants to talk to you,” Mat says. “So, you should talk to him. If nothing else, you might at least get some closure.”

You exhale, you mid swirling with the information that Matt Martin was still thinking about you, maybe in the same way you were thinking about him. Your head was a mess of doubts and hopes and fears and longing and desires. You just breathe through it all, pulling Mat into another hug which he reciprocates.

“You’re a really good friend, you know that right?” you ask, your voice muffled by his tuxedo.

“So I’ve been told by this really cool Los Angeles girl who overthinks everything.”

You laugh as you let your arms fall, Mat shooting you that crooked smile before he is walking away. You see him intercept Lyla as she re-enters the reception area, taking her arm in his and pulling her to the dancefloor, the smile on her face brightening as Mat leans in and kisses her cheek.

There was a part of you that twinged at the sight. You knew it was jealousy – not the traditional jealousy but a different form. You weren’t angry that Mat found joy with someone that wasn’t you, but envious that he found someone, period.

Especially since you were unable to move on from the man you shared a scandalous but exhilarating few months with. The man you promised yourself you would forget.

But then you hear his voice sound from behind you and feel that exquisite ache that you had never been able to soothe throb in the center of your chest.

“Hey.”

You turn to see him standing behind you, his suit looking almost too perfect for his body, his hair tousled and falling over his forehead. You watch as his blue eyes rove over your face and you wonder what he’s thinking and if all the same emotions are flooding his system the way they were yours.

“Hi,” you whisper, cursing your voice for coming out sounding so timid, cursing yourself for still allowing Matt Martin to make you feel small. But instead of that cool smirk that used to always appear at the sound of your frailty, his face remains impassive, his eyes flicking down to the now vacant seat next to you.

“Could I sit?” he asks and your head spins, not only because of the gentleness of the question but the fact that he even asked at all. The Matt Martin you used to know would’ve sat down immediately, invading your space boldly and brazenly for no other reason than to get a rise out of you.

You nod, watching him settle down into the cushioned seat and take a sip from his whiskey glass, his eyes still on you. It takes an immense amount of effort to break your gaze as you reach for your own wine and letting the smooth oaked flavor dance over your tongue.

“How have you been?” Matt breaks the silence again and you know you hear a hesitance in his voice, like he is unsure if he should even be addressing you.

“I’ve been alright,” you reply, your own voice thick with trepidation. “You?”

“It’s been decent.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, and his eyebrows quirk up in curiosity at your words. “For your injury. The playoffs,” you elaborate. Your gaze stays locked on him, trying to understand the micro-expressions that pass over his face.

“Thank you,” he replies and you just nod, taking another sip of your wine. “Didn’t know if you were even watching.”

“Wanted to support my brother.”

“Right,” he sighs. “Of course.”

You hated this. Hated the weight that hung over the two of you like a lead curtain, making anything beyond small talk too difficult to say. You weren’t sure how to surmount this obstacle, not sure if it was even possible to overcome. But someone had to be brave and attempt that first step.

With a deep breath and another sip of liquid courage, you turn you attention back to Matt.

“Was there… something you wanted to ask me?” you question, the words as stilted and unclear as the intention behind them.

Matt looks at you, his blue eyes wide as he absorbs your words. It is a moment of stillness before he is finishing off his whiskey and setting the glass on the table, lifting himself out of his chair. Your heart flips in fear that you said the wrong thing, that you ruined the moment before it could even take shape but that concern is silenced when Matt stands in front of you, holding out his hand, his palm upturned.

“Dance with me?”

Of all the questions that you thought Matt Martin would confront you with, this was one that you were not prepared for. A sentiment that is echoed by a bewildered ‘what?’ falling from your lips.

“Will you dance with me?” Matt reiterates, the request turning into a genuine question. Would you let him take you out onto the dance floor and into his arms again?

Your eyes rove from his face to his hand, still outstretched. The hesitance lingers in you reflected by the way you lift your own hand, your fingers curling back in a moment of uncertainty before you allow them to touch his. They glide against his calloused skin, wrapping around his palm, his own fingers winding around your hand.

Another glance up at him shows you the slightest smile playing at his lips. But it isn’t twinged with the familiar undercurrent of cruelty or power. Instead, it looks like relief.

He gently tugs you upright before leading you to the dancefloor, the refrain of a slow melody encompassing you moments before Matt’s arms do the same. He adjusts the grip on your hand while the other finds a respectful place on the small of your back. You let your own free hand lift and rest delicately on his bicep as the two of you begin to sway.

The silence between you remains even as the music rises and falls. You still avoid looking in Matt’s eyes, content to stare at the hardwood floor even though you can feel the weight of his gaze. In the back of your mind, you knew that if your eyes locked with his, you wouldn’t be able to keep your composure.  That possibility was to be avoided at all costs. You couldn’t let Matt Martin regain the control over you that he used to have.

“You look beautiful.”

Those three muttered words, the compassion behind them, makes your resolve crumble, your eyes darting up to meet with his.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice breathless – the exact opposite of the curtness you wanted your tone to convey. But perhaps it wasn’t your choice to soften your words. Maybe it was subconscious, based on the way that Matt held you, the way he spoke to you, the way he looked at you. It felt different.

He was different.

“I missed you,” he whispers; the first real confession of the night.

“Matt,” you sigh, the cynic jumping out to protect your heart – the one that he shattered.

“I know,” he says. “I know what you’re going to say.”

“How can you?” you challenge him, the small flame of anger that you held flickering in your chest.

“You’re right. I have no idea what you were about to say. But I can make a guess.”

His words extinguish that resentment as soon as it appears, your eyebrow raising in surprise – not only towards his words but in his concession to you, he deference of power, the pendulum swinging in your favor. Your silence allows him to continue.

“I know I haven’t given you any reason to trust me,” he begins. “For you to believe anything I say is the truth. But I guess… I’m just wondering if you would give me a chance. Let me prove it to you.”

“Prove what to me?”

“How much I missed you. How much I care about you.”

He pulls your closer to him and you allow it. You let him hold you tighter until your chests press together, the smell of his all too familiar cologne flooding your senses. You swear you forget how to breathe when you feel his hand trace up your arm before resting against your jawline. The gentle press of his fingers guides you to look up at him, his thumb caressing your cheek.

“Let me prove that I was an idiot for ever letting you go.”

You can feel the tears prick the corner of your eyes and you know Matt can see them, watching as they well up on your lower lashes. His words seemed so sweet, so genuine, and you so desperately wanted to believe them. But there was still that voice in the back of your mind screaming, ‘this is what he does; he’s an expert at speaking these saccharine words but you know they’re never fulfilling.’

But here, now, he was promising to prove it to you.

The words of acceptance are dancing up your throat, hanging on the tip of your tongue and at the edge of your lips. But before you can speak them into existence, the universe silences you once again.

“Alright everyone, please clear the dance floor and let the bride and groom have one private last dance. Make your way to the front entrance and get ready to send them off in style!”

The MC’s voice booms from the speaker, pulling your attention and your body away from the gentle hold of Matt. The uncertainty and distrust take advantage of the interruption to reassert itself in your mind.

‘This was a sign,’ it said. ‘The universe is protecting you from getting your heart broken again.’

But when you look back, your eyes connecting to Matt’s once more and you still see nothing but yearning on his face, you feel your own longing surge again.

“Meet me by the fountain when this is all over?” you ask.

“I’ll be there.”

This time, you really do believe him.

You meet with the rest of the bridesmaids and hand out the silver streamers. You are blessed with an immense amount of coordination and impeccable timing as the streamers pop right as Scotty and Emily make their way through the crowd and hop in the car, already packed with their suitcases and honeymoon plane tickets. It is another few moments of clean up and meeting with the wedding coordinator before you are able to run back to the cabin where you and the other bridesmaids stayed for the past two days. You grab your overnight duffle bag, slinging it over your shoulder before making your way through the country club and out to the garden near the front entrance.

The two aspects of your personality were still at war with each other as you entered the terrace. Part of you prayed that Matt would keep his word and be there, just like he said. The other part prepared itself for the possibility that this was all just a cruel joke, an elaborate attempt for him to keep his hooks in you.

But when you walk out and see Matt standing next to the stone fountain, his profile illuminated by the garden lights, your desire once again silences the doubt in your mind.

You wanted to trust him. Sure, you might get hurt. But you could also heal.

That hope was worth the risk.

Matt hears your heels clacking against the pavement and turns to face you, his lips curling in a gentle smile at your approach.

“You’re here,” you say, breathless, as if your brain still didn’t trust that this wasn’t all a dream.

“I told you I would be,” he replies, holding out his hand to you again, another offering for you to accept or reject. This time, your hand slides easily into his, your fingers intertwining.

There is a pause, as if neither of you expected to be in this situation. Now that you were, you were both unsure what to do next. The uncertainty sinks into you, your voice breaking the silence in an attempt to continue the moment.

“I was planning on getting a room at the hotel airport,” you explain. “If you want to join me.”

You swear you see a flash of surprise cross Matt’s face at your suggestion before softening, a look of gentle exasperation painted on his features.

“Is that how you think I’m going to make it up to you?” he asks. His tone isn’t frustrated or offended. Instead, it’s curious, like he truly wonders if that’s what you thought of him. Or if that’s what you needed from him.

The ache that rushes through your body, reminiscent of the desire you always felt towards him but multiplied tenfold, gives you your answer. The months you spent denying your hunger for him, the ways you explained away the pain of losing him as something akin to withdrawal, how you used those brief moments of happiness to justify your choice to leave, keeping you handcuffed to the idea that you would be better off without him… they all melted away.

You wanted him. You’ve always wanted him.

You step forward, pressing your body close as you look into those eyes that haunted your dreams.

“It’s how I want you to,” you whisper, the response to his question cutting through the night air.

There is no clear indication on who moved first but you find it doesn’t matter when you feel the press of Matt’s lips against yours. This kiss itself is delicate, as if he was careful not to cross any line, any boundary that you wanted to place. But you had no sense of restraint.

Your desire surged forward, free from the cage that you kept it locked in. You release your grip on his hand and your duffle bag, your free hands flying up to his hair, tangling in the silky locks as your body presses impossibly closer. Matt takes your desperation in stride, his own arms wrapping around you, holding you steady. Your tongue presses against the seam of his lips, silently begging for access which he gives. A whimper escapes your throat, the taste of him on your tongue only increasing your craving. You can feel Matt’s grip tighten in response to your sounds, his fingers crumpling the silk fabric of your dress as he swallows every desperate noise that he pulls from you.

Somehow, the kisses slow until your lips are falling away from each other. Matt keeps you near, your forehead pressed against his, the warmth of his breath fanning across your cheekbones.

“Let me take you home,” he murmurs and you don’t even think twice before your head is nodding in agreement.

The car ride back to his place feels both familiar and foreign. The air between you is still thick with need but those powerful emotions are lightened by the feeling of Matt’s fingers intertwining with yours over the center console, the way his eyes dart over to you, looking at you as if he couldn’t believe this was real. You were sure that your face conveyed the same thought.

He pulls into the driveway, the porchlight gleaming like a beacon in the darkness, calling you back to him. His grip around you is firm as he walks you to the front door, escorting you across the threshold and your eyes take in the sight of a house that you felt you knew like the back of your hand. The pillows on his couch were different as was some of the art lining the walls but besides that, it looked exactly how it did the last time you were there.

You hear Matt kick off his shoes behind you and you aren’t sure if it’s habit or muscle memory that pulls you forward, your own heels tapping against the hardwood as you wander deeper, your body guiding you to the staircase. Your hand wraps around the wooden railing as you begin your ascent to the second floor. Matt is close behind you, his own steps slow and measured as he lets you guide him up the stairs and to the first door on your right.

The master bedroom is more of the same, the smallest and subtlest of changes catching your attention as you walk into the room. You can hear the small click of the door latch finding home echo and you turn to see Matt leaning against the doorframe, his eyes observing you in the low lamplight.

Your smile is all the encouragement he needs to push himself away from the door, crossing the distance stretched between you in only a few steps. His hand lifts to cup your face, your eyes locking with his before he is capturing your lips in another kiss.

In the safety and security of his bedroom, it seems as if both of your desires were unleashed with a vengeance. His hands pull you closer and your own scramble on his body, wanting to feel every inch of him, wanting to recommit his shape to memory. You are pressed against him, pushing him deeper into the room, your feet moving across the carpeted floor. He lets you manipulate him, walking backward and holding you against him as if he wanted no space to separate the two of you ever again, be it three-thousand miles or three inches.

It isn’t long until his body is falling to sit on the edge of his mattress, his thighs spreading to pull you between them. His desire to have you close is reciprocated, your body moving on its own accord. Your hand mindlessly reaches down to grip the fabric of your dress, pulling the midi hem higher to allow you to climb into his lap without hinderance, your legs straddling his waist.

Matt’s hands grip you tighter, pulling you close, the movement of his lips against yours never ceasing. Your own hands return to tangle in his hair, the taste of him more intoxicating than all the bottles and glasses of alcohol that you drank trying to forget him.

If possible, your desire ratchets up another level and your hands fall from his hair, tugging off his suit jacket. You blindly reach for his tie, undoing the knot as Matt’s hands wander all over your body, grabbing your ass, pulling your hips down to meet his. A moan rumbles from your chest as you feel the hardness of him pressed against you, your lips falling from Matt’s. He doesn’t seem affected, his own lips moving to kiss your neck, his hands still tracing your curves.

You are blind with lust as Matt’s head dips across your collarbones and the top of your decolletage and you let your instincts guide you, your fingers finding the buttons of his dress shirt. Each clasp is unfastened deftly and as soon as the shirt falls open, your hands sneak underneath the fabric, pressing against Matt’s warm skin. You can feel the strength of his chest, the movement of his muscles, and the pounding of his heart underneath your palms as they glide up, pushing the material off his broad shoulders. Matt’s hands only depart from your body momentarily to rid the shirt from his frame completely before he is pulling your lips to his again.

Your hands drift back down to his abdomen and you can feel his muscles clench in response to your gentle touch. It’s another generous roll of your hips against his before your fingertips find the button and zipper of his slacks. You blindly undo them just enough that you can slip your hand beneath both the waistband of his pants and boxer briefs.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Matt groans against your skin as your hand wraps around his length. Another rush of heat flows through your body at hearing the familiar pet-name fall from his lips. Your own lips twist in a smile as you give him a few languid strokes, relishing in the way his moans vibrate against your skin – the way he weakens for you.

The need to make him unravel more takes over as you begin to pull away from him, your body scooting back in order to dismount and fall to your knees in front of him. But before you could even drop a single foot onto the carpeted floor, Matt’s hands hold you firm, halting your motions.

“No,” he whispers, pulling you back to him. “Not tonight.”

You stare at him, your eagerness to have him in your mouth mixing with the confusion of why he was preventing you from doing just that. The immediate response he gives you is another kiss, his hand returning to rest against your jaw. When he does pull away, you hear his sultry timbre echo around the room.

“I should be the one on my knees worshipping you, not the other way around.” 

His declaration burns through you, igniting a need that had been left untapped for years.

You were used to submitting to Matt Martin. You thought that you loved it. But now, here he was ready to bow to you and your desires and your will. That thought alone made a fire pool in your lower stomach, your lips pressing against his again.

His hands tighten against your skin, securing his grip on you as he lifts himself from the bed with you in his arms. The sensation of the smooth sheets pressing against your back is almost instantaneous, Matt’s lips falling from yours to retrace their previous pathway along your jaw, down the column of your throat and across your collarbones. You are about to lift yourself upright to pull the material of your dress away from your frame but Matt’s arms keep you pinned against the mattress. Instead, his hand simply tugs the fabric up, painstakingly exposing more of your skin to the cool air until the silk is bunched around your waist.

You feel Matt’s smile against your skin as his lips continue their descent, kisses placed against your stomach before he presses a whisper of one right above the edge of your panties.

“So fucking beautiful,” he whispers, his eyes darting up to look at you.

The only sound that your voice can manage is a whine but it’s enough for Matt, his elegant fingers hooking and twisting around your waistband. Your head falls back as you lift your hips to help him pull the soft cotton away. He tugs the material down your legs at a painstaking pace, lifting your feet to unhook the elastic from around your ankles.

You expect – no, you need him to return to the apex of your thighs. But you soon realize how much Matt meant it when he said he planned on worshipping you.

His hands guide your feet to rest on his muscular thighs as his finger unbuckle your shoe, sliding it off before repeating the action on the other side. He lifts your leg, your bare heel now resting on the back of his shoulder and you sigh when you feel his lips press against your calf. They linger as he makes his way back up your frame, a kiss pressed on your shin, your knee, your inner thigh.

It feels like reverence. It feels like devotion – to you, to the way you make him feel.

Your hand reaches down, tangling in his hair and gently tugging him closer to the place you needed him most. Matt lets you guide him and, after he brings both of your legs to rest on his shoulders, his arm wrapping around your waist, pinning your hips to the bed, he finally – finally – presses his mouth against your core.

A relieved sigh escapes your chest as Matt’s lips move, his tongue darting out to trace your folds. Your sighs turn to whimpers to moans as he continues his ministrations, remembering all the things that make your breathing hitch, your thighs shake. Remembering all the ways you come undone.

“Still so sweet,” he murmurs. “Still so desperate for me.”

He resumes his movements, winding you up in the most deliberate way. Your free hand twists into the sheets as he drags you closer to the edge, his tongue diving into your cunt before lifting to flick against your clit, the action causing your hips to jolt from beneath his strong arm. You swear that you are about to rip his sheets based on how tight you are holding them.

You’re too strung out to see Matt’s eyes lift, him noticing the death grip you have on the soft cotton covering the mattress. In your haze, you can feel the grip he has on your thigh loosen and depart but your mind doesn’t understand the reason until you feel his hand dancing across your fingers twisted in the sheets, silently coaxing you to release the fabric. You do and as soon as there is space, his fingers filling the gaps between yours, holding your hand tightly as his mouth continues to work its sinful magic against you.

Your orgasm hits you unexpectedly, your back arching off the bed as the tidal wave of pleasure crashes through your body, radiating from your stomach down to the tips of each limb. Your hand tightens around his so firmly that you believe you must be cutting off circulation. But Matt doesn’t seem to mind, squeezing your hand tighter in response. He moans against your core in response to the taste of your release flooding his tongue, the vibration sending another round of shudders down your spine.

The feeling of Matt’s mouth and hands leaving you ignites a new wave of desperation, one that is only partially satiated when he returns to hover over you, kissing you deeply. You moan into his mouth when you taste the tang of your own essence still coating his tongue.

“I can’t believe I forgot how good you were at that,” you exhale when your lips fall from his.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget how gorgeous you look when you cum,” he murmurs, his head dipping down to your neck, his quiet assertation making you smile.

You let him press his lips against your throat, content to lay beneath him for the moment. But when you feel his hips roll against yours, his own hunger for you and your body not yet satisfied, another ache of need hits you. You pull his head back up to your face, capturing his lips in another feverish kiss.

Matt’s body hovers mere centimeters above yours, his hips pressed against you. The position makes it easy for you to hook your leg around him. Using what strength you had, you somehow manage to flip the two of you around, Matt’s back crashing onto the bed, your body now suspended above him.

You break the kiss, lifting yourself upright with a grin on your face as your hands trace over the ridges of his chest. His own hands dance up your thighs, sneaking beneath the hem of your dress to caress the soft skin around your hipbones. In the span of a breath, your fingers bunch the silken material of your gown, gathering it in your hands before you pull the fabric over your head.

The gentle sharp inhale of Matt’s breath as your body becomes entirely exposed to him is music to your ears. There is no stopping his hands as they continue to drift up your body, gliding over the curves of your hips and waist, dancing across your ribcage before coming to cup your breasts. He caresses the sensitive skin, his thumbs reaching to brush against your nipples causing your head to fall back, a soft plea for him to continue falling from your mouth. He listens, his fingers roving across your body, as if there was not an inch of skin that he wanted to leave untouched.

“Such a gorgeous perfect body,” he mutters, making the pool of desire within you fill again.

You lift your hips up only so far as to reach behind you, tugging at the fabric of his slacks and boxer briefs; a silent request. His hands fall from your body to pull the material down his legs and you feel him kick off the only remaining barriers between your bodies. You lean forward as you kiss him again, your hips sinking back down. A simultaneous moan escapes both of you as you grind against him, your arousal coating the soft skin of his shaft.

There is want and then there is pure unadulterated need and the latter is what takes a hold of you now. Your lips fall from his as you stretch your body forward, your arm reaching for the nightstand drawer, the place he used to – and now you hope still does – keep his condoms. Your progress is halted briefly by Matt’s head lifting to wrap his lips around your nipples, the action making another gasp sound your throat. You persevere, albeit somewhat distracted because of Matt’s ministrations, pulling open the drawer, relieved to see the box in the same place, thankful that not everything had changed.

But as you reach for one of the square packets, your eyes land on a stack of envelopes pushed against the other side and you swear you see your name scrawled across the white paper. You don’t have any time to linger on them as you feel Matt’s teeth gently nip at your skin, pulling your attention back to him.

“Please, darling, hurry up,” he implores, dark blue eyes looking up to you. “Need to get inside you.”

Who were you to deny him?

Your fingers grasp the foil, your body returning to its upright position above him. You rip open the packet, pulling the rubber from the confines and preparing it before you reach behind you, taking Matt in your hand. He throws his head back, his hair haloing around his face as you give him a few languid strokes before sliding the condom on.

There is no waiting, no more hesitation as you lift your hips up. Your free hand presses against the center of his chest for balance as you guide him to your entrance. You aren’t sure if it’s him or yourself you’re teasing when you slide the tip of him against your folds once, twice before you align yourself to him.

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as you sink down, the stretch of him entering you delectably foreign and yet comfortingly familiar. Matt has a similar reaction to the sensation of your walls wrapping around him, his hands flying up to your hips, his grip tightening around you so much so that you swear you’re going to have bruises in the shape of his fingerprints the next morning.

“Fuck, darling,” he growls as your hips meet his, him bottoming out inside of you. “Still feel like fucking heaven around me.”

Your only response is a whimper as your eyes flutter shut, both of your hands now resting on his chest, using him for leverage as you begin to move. Matt guides the motion of your hips, helping you bounce on top of him, letting you grind against him, more sharp gasps falling from your lips as your clit rubs against the taut skin of his lower stomach.

“That’s it sweetheart,” he praises, fingers brushing against your skin as you ride him. “Take what you want from me. It’s yours to have.”

You whine, grinding your hips even deeper onto him, one of your hands lifting to tease your nipples. You missed this, the feeling of Matt hitting spots so deep in you, spots that no one else had been able to find before and since.

“God, I missed this,” Matt groans, echoing your thoughts, his eyes devouring your body. “Missed you.”

His words force you to open your eyelids and when your eyes lock, you almost cum simply from the way he is staring at you: like you were the most beautiful piece of artwork, like you were sculpted from the purest marble, crafted from the finest paints. Like you deserved to be hung in the Louvre.

“Matt,” you whine, his name falling from your lips in a plea as your movements falter against him.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he asks, his own voice strained and earnest. “What do you need?”

“Need you to fuck me.”

“Yeah?” he questions. But unlike the times before, he’s not asking in order to tease you, to be cruel, or to force you to beg him for a mere sliver of his attention. He is asking because he wants to hear you say it – wants to hear you confess that you’ve missed him and that you’ve been wanting him as much as he has been wanting you.

“Please,” you reply. “Please, I need it. I need you.”

Your words aren’t twinged with contempt, nor are they wretched from your mouth unwillingly. They fall from your lips because you mean them, because you want to beg for him – not the other way around.

A gasp is torn from your chest as Matt lifts himself up, his chest pressing against yours. His hands trace your spine, one burrowing into the hair at the nape of your neck, the other resting heavy on the small of your back. He pulls you to him, kissing you again and swallowing every noise that falls from your lips as he drags your hips into his.

You weren’t sure if it was because you were wound too tight or that you truly couldn’t comprehend what was happening because before you knew it, Matt had spun you around, flipping you once again so you were the one laying against the sheets. Your legs instinctively wrap around his hips and before you can moan at the feeling of him thrusting into you, your sounds are muffled by his lips again.

Matt eventually breaks away, one arm reaching back to grip your thigh, pulling one leg higher, the new angle causing every stroke of him to brush against that damnable spot that made you see stars. You cry out, your head collapsing against the bed, Matt’s name falling from your lips.

“Fuck, I missed this,” Matt mutters, keeping his steady pace as he watches your body respond to his movements. “Missed how beautiful you look underneath me. Missed this perfect fucking pussy. Fucking taking all of me like it’s made for me.”

His possessiveness makes you whimper, the high-pitched sound catching his ear.

“That right, baby?” he asks. “This cunt still mine, even after all this time?”

“Yes,” comes your reply, wrapped in a strangled moan. “I’m all yours. I’m still yours,” you gasp out, your hips desperately chasing his.

“And I’m all yours,” Matt replies, his head dropping down to kiss you again. “Let it out, sweetheart. Let me hear you.”

He doesn’t speed up, content to keep his languid pace, steadily driving you towards that cliff. The noises that escape you are incoherent, a jumbled mess of curses and pleas as your walls flutter desperately around him. It feels like the most deliberate and exquisite torture, a pleasure that you would welcome time and time again if he would let you.

“Come on, darling,” you hear Matt’s voice whisper in your ear. “Remind me how good it feels when that beautiful cunt cums around me.”

It is the quiet demand that has you falling off the edge, your muscles stiffening as your orgasm hits you. You can hear a faint growl rumble from Matt, murmured praise being spoken into your skin like a prayer as he fucks you through it, your legs trembling as they fall from him.

Matt’s movements finally increase in speed as he chases own climax, each move of his hips making you whimper. You tug his head to you, kissing him fiercely and swallowing his groans as he stills and you bask in the sensation of his cock pulsing inside of you.

Your labored breaths mingle as you stay wrapped up together, sweat drenched foreheads pressed against each other as you both collect yourself. Matt’s hand, the one that that had been gripping your thigh, lifts to brush your hair away from your forehead as his eyes appraise you. You can’t stop the way your eyes close as he leans in, kissing you once again, his tongue dipping into your open mouth and you whine as you feel him slowly pull out of you.

He places a gentle chaste kiss against your lips before lifting himself off you, walking around the bed. Your eyes track his movements, watching as he stops at the nightstand, the top drawer still open. There is a flicker of some emotion that crosses his face before he pushes the drawer closed before disappearing into the ensuite bathroom. You hear the water running before he returns, a warm damp washcloth in one hand and a t-shirt in the other.

Matt gently presses the washcloth against your skin, starting at your forehead and temples before descending until he reached the apex of your thighs, brushing away the lingering wetness of your release from your skin. He throws the towel into the hamper and holds out his hand, which you take. You let him lift your torso off the sheets as he hands you the t-shirt. He holds you steady while you slip the soft cotton over your head, the worn Maple Leaf emblem resting on your upper chest almost completely faded.

You collapse back against the sheets as Matt pulls on a pair of boxers before climbing next to you. His arms wrap around your body as he settles behind you, pulling your back close to his chest. Your own fingers lift to absentmindedly play with his as reality crashes back over you.

You aren’t sure what to say, if there even is anything to be said. You don’t want to ruin the golden halo of peace that surrounds the two of you but you knew you couldn’t just leave it like this. There were still too many questions unanswered, still too much uncertainty.

“What are you thinking about?” you hear Matt’s husky voice whisper from behind you. You sigh, wiggling in his grasp. He loosens his hold enough for you to spin and face him, his blue eyes soft as they take in the sight of you in his bed.

“A lot of things,” you answer, the response vague enough to let him decide whether to press on or to leave it at that. He decides to do the former.

“Like what?”

Your eyes lift to think, picturing the mess of thoughts in your head as you attempt to untangle each. The loose threads seem innumerable, too many to choose which was the most important to tug and which could be saved for a later moment. So, you just latch onto the first image that appears in your mind.

“Could I ask you a question?” you say, eyes connecting back to him.

“Of course.”

“When I was in your nightstand earlier,” you begin, carefully observing even the tiniest reactions that tug at Matt’s expression. “I saw a stack of envelopes and it looked like they had my name on them. What are they?”

There is a myriad of emotions that dance across Matt’s face, each more fleeting than the last before his features settle to what looks to you to be apathy or resignation. You feel your heart panic as his body turns away from, fearing that you spoke the wrong words – said the wrong thing. But it quiets when you watch him pull open the nightstand drawer, his hand reaching in. Your eyes follow his movements as he pulls out the stack of envelopes before spinning back to you.

“They’re for you,” he says, holding them out towards you. You take them from his hands, the bundle held tight by a rubber band. Your fingers flip through each of them, finding your name written on every single one. Your eyes dart from the paper back to him and you swear you see his cheeks tinge a lightish pink.

“My therapist suggested that I write you letters.”

“Your therapist?”

“Yeah. I started seeing him shortly after you left,” he explains, his hand reaching behind to awkwardly scratch at the nape of his neck. “Realized that there was a lot I needed to work on.”

“Why didn’t you send them?”

“I didn’t know your new address,” he tells you, the candor in his voice strengthening as he continues. “And I was too proud to ask. Besides, I wasn’t sure if you even wanted to hear from me. Thought you might throw them away if I did send them.”

You don’t respond, neither confirming or denying his assumption because in that moment, you weren’t certain what you would’ve done if a letter from him had appeared in your mailbox.

“What’s in them?” you ask, choosing to revert to a safer statement.

“Things I wanted to say to you. Things I never said to you when you needed to hear them. Everything I wanted to tell you but never got the chance to.”

There is a silence as you take in his declaration, your curiosity piquing as your fingers trace the edges of the envelopes. There is a desire to read them but also a fear, unsure if the contents would contain blame or apologies or gaslighting or regret.

“You don’t have to read them now,” Matt speaks again, his voice drawing your attention back to him.  “You don’t have to read them at all if you don’t want to. They’re yours to do whatever you please.”  

Something inside you tells you that it’s dangerous; that it’s a bad idea to open them. To trace over the words and strong emotions that forced him to put pen to paper. To allow Matt Martin back into the heart that you’ve spent years repairing. But when you feel his hand trace down the side of your face, his fingers twirling a strand of your hair, you realize that that line had already been blurred beyond recognition.

You didn’t know what a bad idea was when Matt was around. You had already done so many things that you shouldn’t have with him. What was one more bad idea compared to the thousands you acted on before?

What was this bad idea in comparison to one that brought you to Matt Martin’s bed in the first place?

Your mind swirls with all the drastic changes you had experienced in such a short amount of time. How different the world felt right now versus a few hours ago. How different the man sitting next to you was from the man you left in a Long Island bar two years ago. You felt as if you lived twenty lifetimes since you woke up. The past, the present, and every possible future tangled together in your mind, an amalgamation of all that had happened and all that could happen.

But you didn’t want to think about that right now. All you wanted to do was sink into Matt Martin’s arms and hold him close.

So, that’s exactly what you did.

You gently turn away from Matt, reaching up to place the stack of envelopes on top of the neighboring nightstand. There was still uncertainty whether you would read them, but the action of keeping them meant that you would consider it. And when you face Matt again, it seems that – for him – that was enough. This time, it is you who reaches out to intertwine your hand with his, scooting closer to him. He follows your lead, his body sinking into the mattress until you are pressed together, side by side. Your head comes to rest on chest, your eyes closing, the sound of his strong heartbeat echoing in your ear.

Right before sleep overtakes you, you manage to whisper to him the truth that your heart sang out, the sentence that you realized you couldn’t deny even after months of trying to do just that.

“I missed you too.”

The last thing you register is a soft kiss pressed onto the crown of your head, and encompassed in Matt’s warm embrace, you let the feeling of peace wash over you.

… but it’s gonna be alright. I did my time…

a/n 2.0: I did decide to leave it a little open ended because i just liked the feeling of it better. but if you want to know how what i think happens after this, i will direct you to this mashup

tagging the babes who made writing this so rewarding: @texanstarslove @comphy-and-cozy @smileysvech @laurenairay @dissonannce @cowboybarzy @cellythefloshie @provokedgoalie @m00nlightdelights @tkachvkmatthew @cixrosie @alwaysclassyeagle @geospatialharmony

[joongtreasure]

Cupcakes and Kisses

Mingi x Fem Reader (ft. ATEEZ members) Word count: 6.6k Genre: high school au, jock Mingi, kissing booth au Note/s: Based on the film Kissing Booth (2018). This was in my drafts since 2021? + Mention of Changbin of Stray Kids <3 hehe Photo credits: 1, 2, 3

High school—it's the period for the most embarrassing moments of your life. Not only was it the time for raging hormones and puberty, but also a time for wrong decisions.

And today was no exception.

Today was the last day of the pitch for the spring carnival at KQ Prep. The student council required every club in the school to set up a booth for the event. Or else, no extra funding for club activities.

You were the vice president of the culinary and baking club, or as others would like to call it, the foodies. It's not that bad or insulting, to be honest (depending on you if you take it to heart). It is certainly not for your best friend, Jung Wooyoung, who was also the president of the club.

You and Wooyoung were like a tandem, a buy-one-get-one-free deal. In many ways, you and Wooyoung fill each other up: you were the shy and patient one, while Wooyoung was the confident and loud one. There was never a boring moment with him, but that doesn't mean all moments with him were good. Like right now...

Wooyoung, with a firm grip on your school blazer sleeve, dragged you across the hallway, whining, "It's a good idea!"

You, on the other hand, tried to pull away, saying, "No, it's not!"

Wooyoung grumbled. "The water sports are doing a toss and dunk booth! We have to beat their sorry asses!"

"You just want to beat Changbin!" You tried to pull away again but Wooyoung's grip was so firm that your school shoes were starting to skid against the school floor. "How is a kissing booth by us any better?!"

"It will be a hit!"

"It spreads germs!"

"We'll provide sanitation and mints!"

"We could be sued for public indecency!"

Wooyoung sighed and let go of your hand. "Oh, come on, live a little, Y/N."

You shrugged. "Can't we just make a bunch of food for the carnival? I know everyone will be hungry."

Wooyoung gave you a pointed look. "Everyone is going to sell food and trinkets at the carnival."

"Well," you jutted your chin out in confidence, "we could do, uh, well, an apple bobbing competition?"

Wooyoung scowled at you. "That's boring." He sighed. "Look, the majority of the officers already agreed to the kissing booth, Y/N. Except you."

"That's because you implied that San will be in the lineup of kissers," you stated. "Even though you haven't even asked him yet."

"That's because he and I think alike. Trust me, he would agree."

You pouted. "And trust me, the food will sell."

Wooyoung smiled and patted your head. "Oh, sure, you do that," he said before turning around and scurrying towards the student council's office.

You sighed.

-----

You slumped on the empty front steps of the school, sporting a frown on your face. Wooyoung was taking so long in the meeting. You hoped the kissing booth was rejected by the student council.

The doors of the school opened, the sound of the creaking metal startling you out of your thoughts. You looked back to see Song Mingi, the star of KQ Prep's basketball team, exiting the building and looking fresh out of a shower. He probably just finished practice.

You looked away before he could catch you staring. Mingi was one of those guys who looked straight out of a movie—tall, handsome, athletic, always wears a varsity jacket, drives a Jeep, and center of the school's attention. But it would be foolish to think that he's arrogant and proud like the trope. He's one of the sweetest and nicest people you ever met. 

You had a few classes with him. You could say that the interaction between the two of you is funny. He could be playful yet gentle and respectful at the same time. And in time, you also found yourself liking him like the entire student body.

Unbeknownst to you, as soon as Mingi saw you alone on the steps, he smiled and slightly hurried down. "Hey, Y/N," Mingi greeted, plopping beside you on the warm pavement.

You internally freaked when you saw Mingi next to you. The loose shirt, the sweet scent of his shampoo, and the dopey grin were too much for your poor heart. 

"You had a club meeting today?" Mingi asked.

"Not really," you responded. "I'm waiting for Wooyoung to finish his pitch for the spring carnival."

Mingi nodded. "And what will your club be doing?"

You groaned. "Don't remind me. It's embarrassing."

Mingi chuckled. "Why? It can't be that bad."

You sighed before muttering, "it's a kissing booth."

Mingi's eyes widened in surprise. "That's... interesting."

"It's all Wooyoung's idea," you shrugged. "Nothing better than to capitalize on teen hormones, right?"

"Right," Mingi said monotonously.

Seeing his somewhat dry response, you slumped. "I told you it was an embarrassing idea."

"No, I mean, yes—I mean," Mingi stuttered a response. "It was just unexpected, that's all." Mingi somewhat looked conflicted, but he still smiled softly at you. "Is it alright for me to ask if," he paused.

"If what?"

"If you—I mean, would you be joining?" Mingi asked.

You blinked in thought. "What do you mean?"

Mingi studied your confused expression before shaking his head. "Nevermind," he said, standing up.

You groaned. "Great, now you got me curious."

"It's nothing." Mingi laughed. "But, hey, if teen hormones bring you the money, then, why not?" He said, making you laugh as well. "Got a ride home?"

"Yeah," you smiled, "I'm riding with Wooyoung."

Mingi nodded. "Alright, I'll see you around then, Y/N."

You blushed. "Yeah, see you," you said as Mingi continued his way down the steps.

"Hey," he turned to you one last time, flashing you his oh-so-perfect smile. "You look cute as always, Y/N," he said before heading towards the parking lot. You swore you could've melted right on the front steps that day.

-----

It was no surprise the council approved the kissing booth idea. You totally blame Wooyoung. The boy could probably smooth talk himself out of jail if the situation calls for it.

Your club already started building the podium and mini stage for the booth in the school courtyard because there wasn't room in the Home Economics classroom. The weather was too perfect to ignore by anyone who had free period at the time.

"I'm going to get more paint," Wooyoung said to you before jogging towards the doors and into the building.

You were left alone with a few of your members, who were engaged in a hushed conversation while you minded your own business. 

You took a peak at the guys playing at the basketball court. It's no surprise that Mingi and his friends were playing. They always do during free period. They must really love the sport. 

It is also no surprise that they have a few spectators as well. It's the only time you would ever find Mingi and his friends setting their blazers aside, donning only their school shirts that accentuated their build so heavenly. Not that you were staring…

Speaking of, Yunho and Mingi laughed among themselves as Yunho tried to shoot the ball. Mingi effectively blocked him with his hand, however the ball bounced out of the court. It bounced until it was rolling over the pavement and stopped right where you were painting. You were able to grab the ball before it could barrel into the newly painted podium.

Seeing where the ball ended, Mingi ran towards you. "Hey," he greeted as he picked up the ball and crouched down next to you, "it's looking great. What's it for?" He asked, referring to the podium.

"It's for this week's carnival," you answered with a sigh.

"Right," Mingi chuckled awkwardly. "Umm," he paused, "so what will you be doing while," he drifted off, evidently conflicted as he pondered over his words carefully.

You looked at him funny. "While...?"

"While, you know," Mingi shrugged, "while people are kissing."

"I'll just man the booth," you said nonchalantly. "I'll leave it to Wooyoung and the others to facilitate the germ spreading."

Mingi laughed, looking somewhat happy and relieved at the same time. "Still haven't warmed up to the idea, I see."

"Never."

Mingi grinned. His face morphed into embarrassment as Yunho called for him from a few meters away. "Are we going to play, or are you too busy mingling, Mingi?"

Mingi rolled his eyes before smiling at you. "I gotta go. I'll see you around, Y/N."

You waved at him as he stood up and went back to his friends. You chuckled at the sight of Yunho giving Mingi a headlock and basically hauling him back to court. The boys laughed between themselves before returning to their game with their other friends.

You were feeling blissful, like how you always felt whenever you and Mingi talked to each other. You truly liked the guy. However, the blissful feeling was short-lived as a wild Wooyoung plopped down next to you. "What was that?!" He asked.

You blinked curiously at him. "What was what?" You looked at the spot you were previously painting. "I'm almost done. I didn't miss a spot as far as I could tell."

Wooyoung rolled his eyes. "I wasn't referring to the podium. I was referring to you and Mingi!" He exclaimed.

You looked at him funny. "It was just a friendly conversation."

"Friendly?" Wooyoung sighed exasperatedly. "Oh no no no, honey, you didn't see what I see. The guy is into you!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Wooyoung," you shook your head. "We have always talked like that. He's just super nice—"

"Na-ah! Again, you didn't see what I see," Wooyoung replied. All of a sudden, Wooyoung's face broke into excitement. He started slapping your arm, making you groan not in pain but in annoyance. "I just thought of the most brilliant idea EVER."

You frowned, not liking where this was going. "What?"

-----

"This is worse than you pitching the kissing booth idea to the council."

"Oh, come on," Wooyoung said as he kept pushing you towards the gym where the basketball team was training. "I will be of service to you forever if you manage to get him."

It was already past class hours when Wooyoung dragged you into putting his idea into action. He said you guys should have a meeting about the spring carnival after class. But alas, he deceived you again. That sly fox, you thought.

Wooyoung faced you towards him. "Alright, your uniform is clean, no evidence of your lunch anywhere," you rolled your eyes as Wooyoung checked you up and down. Wooyoung scrutinized your face before smiling triumphantly. "No booger or drool in sight too," he said.

"You—!" You exclaimed, but Wooyoung turned you around again and shoved you closer toward the gym doors. Sighing, you walked toward it, and right when you were directly in front of the entrance, you looked back at him. "How is this the most brilliant idea you ever had, again?"

Wooyoung shrugged. "The plan here is simple: talk to Mingi and his friends into joining our lineup of kissers so we can get more people to come to our booth."

"I don't want to use him, Woo."

"The man's too soft for you," Wooyoung smiled. "He will do whatever you want, I guarantee."

You gave him the most innocent look you could ever muster in an attempt to change his mind. But Wooyoung just shooed you with his hand and raised his eyebrows pointedly. With a defeated sigh, you opened the doors and entered.

The basketball team was in the midst of a practice game. You immediately spotted Mingi, running while dribbling the ball across the court. When he managed to outrun his opponent, he immediately made his shot, the ball flying through the air and into the hoop. You stared at him, awed as he was in his element. 

A bunch of squeals echoed in the gym. There was an audience watching with excited grins and squeals near the team's benches. It was an open practice after all. Sighing, you sat awkwardly at the side.

The coach blew his whistle, signaling that training was over. The players rejoiced and immediately jogged to their bags scattered on the benches. There were a few girls who called for Mingi, but he only smiled sheepishly and went to his gym bag. 

"Hey, Mingi," Yeosang, his friend and teammate, spoke between his breaths. "Isn't that your friend?" 

Mingi looked at wherever Yeosang was pointing. And true enough, you were there at the edge of the bleachers, awkwardly twiddling with your fingers.

"Yeah," Mingi said, dumbfounded at the thought of you watching their training.

"I think she's looking for you," Yunho, Mingi's best friend, said. He shook his head in amusement, eyeing Yeosang knowingly as Mingi started wiping his sweat and combing his hair deliberately to the back. Mingi hastily gathered his things before approaching you.

"Hey," he greeted with a smile.

You stood up awkwardly. There was something about a wet-haired Mingi in a basketball jersey that had you tongue-tied for a moment. "Uhh, hi, umm, Mingi."

"Were you waiting for me?"

"Umm, yeah, can I talk to you about something?"

"Sure, have a seat," Mingi said as he sat a bleacher apart from you, not wanting you to smell his sweaty state. "What's up?"

"Well, our club is hosting a kissing booth for the spring carnival," you slightly frowned at your awkward self. "Umm, but I think you already knew that."

Mingi chuckled and nodded amusingly. "Yeah, you might have mentioned it once or twice," he joked.

You let out a small laugh. "Yeah, I did, didn't I? But, well, you see, Wooyoung asked me to ask you about something."

Mingi nodded again, urging you to go on.

You sighed nervously. "Can you," you cleared your throat, "can you be—wait, I must emphasize that it was Wooyoung's idea."

"It was Wooyoung's idea," Mingi repeated. "Got it. Crystal clear. Now, what's up with Wooyoung's idea?"

You sighed defeatedly. Well, here goes nothing, you thought. "Can you be one of the kissers for our kissing booth?"

Mingi's eyes turned wide. "What?"

Your lips formed a thin line. "Umm, can you be one of the kissers for our kissing booth?" You repeated, less confident this time.

Mingi blinked unbelievably. "Why me?"

You sighed. "Well, Wooyoung was hoping your friends too. He said that having the players of the basketball team would bring revenue to the booth."

"Oh."

You frowned. "I'm sorry, I told Wooyoung you might be uncomfortable with it, but he insisted that I should still ask you."

"Why would I be uncomfortable with it?"

"I don't know," you shrugged. You were busy playing with the ends of your school blazer as the conversation pursued. "I guess, I didn't pin you to be the type to openly kiss strangers, or show public displays of affection."

"Maybe," Mingi side-smiled, "maybe not. Or, maybe it depends on the person."

"Oh," you muttered, "sorry. I didn't know."

Mingi then leaned on his knees, getting a better view of your slightly flustered face. "Do you want me to be a kisser?"

"What?" You stared at him blankly.  "Well, Wooyoung said—"

"I mean, do YOU want me to be a kisser?" Mingi emphasized, "You as in Y/N L/N, and not Jung Wooyoung?"

You didn't reply immediately, pondering over what his question meant. "Why are you asking me?"

"I don't know," Mingi said. "I feel like I should listen to you."

Why, though? This conversation was going nowhere and it was making you more nervous than before. Not to mention Mingi's inquisitive gaze that had you looking anywhere but him. 

Do you actually want him to, though? I mean, the kissing booth opens so many opportunities, but you were uncomfortable with the thought of him... the thought of him kissing...

"No," you said.

Mingi smiled, nodding at your answer, which confused you. "Then I won't," he sat properly again against the bleacher, letting his intense gaze turn into a soft one. "I won't join then."

"What? Why?" You were dumbfounded. 

"Just tell Wooyoung I'm busy or something," he said. "But I will try to talk to my friends, though. Emphasis on the word 'try.'"

"W-Would you have joined if I said yes?" You probed, but Mingi already stood up as if the conversation was already over, smirking at your confused look.

"Do you have a ride home?" He asked.

"Umm, yeah, Wooyoung's right outside," you answered.

"Well, then, I'll see you around." Mingi smiled at you for the last time before exiting the gym.

You sat back on the bleachers. Though your stance was already relaxed due to the conversation being over, your mind still couldn't wrap around what just happened in the conversation. Would he have agreed if I said yes?

The doors of the gym creaked as someone entered. It was Mingi again. He approached you with a different glint in his eye this time. What now?

"Hey," Mingi greeted. "Could you hold this for a moment?" Before you could ask, he put the object he was referring to in your hand. It was a set of keys—car keys, in particular. "Don't lose it, okay? I'll be quick, I swear." And just like that, he left again.

You stared at the keys in your palm. You really like Mingi, but he was seriously giving you a whiplash at the moment.

Your phone buzzed in your blazer pocket, indicating that you received a text message. You pulled it out to see a text from Wooyoung.

There's an emergency at home. Had to pick up Kyungmin from our grandma's house. Go get your man!

-----

You walked back and forth in the hallway, in front of the boy's locker room. You didn't know why Mingi left these keys with you, but you figured you had to return them to him before you leave for the bus stop. You couldn't just leave it somewhere and message him about it. Someone could steal it. Or worse, someone could steal his car.

Just in time, Mingi exited the locker room, fresh out of the shower and now sporting a big hoodie and sweats. "Hey," Mingi smiled.

"Hey, you gave these to me for some reason," you jiggled the car keys before placing them on his palm.

"Right," Mingi chuckled. "Shall we?"

You stared at him. "Shall we what?"

"Wooyoung already left, didn't he?"

"How did you know?"

Mingi chuckled. "The hallway was empty when I left," he shrugged, putting his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, "I figured he went somewhere."

"Ah, yeah, he said he had an emergency at home," you responded, following Mingi outside the school. 

Truth be told, Mingi met Wooyoung in the hallway.

---

Mingi smiled as he saw Wooyoung in the hallway. "Hey," he greeted. "Sorry, I don't think I can join. I think I have to visit my grandma that day."

Wooyoung slumped. "Oh, okay. Where's Y/N?"

"She'll be right out, I guess," Mingi replied. "See ya—"

"You like her, don't you?" Wooyoung asked.

"Uhh," Mingi blushed. "I-well, I, umm—"

"Yup, you like her," Wooyoung smirked. "Why won't you ask her out then?"

Mingi sighed. "I don't think she's interested in me in that way."

Wooyoung scoffed. "Believe me, she does." He started walking away. "I'll be taking my leave. Hope you get the guts to ask her out."

Mingi sighed again when suddenly he remembered, "Hey, aren't you her ride home?"

Wooyoung turned around and started walking backward with a smirk. "Am I?" He waggled his eyebrows before disappearing in the hallway.

Mingi grinned and shook his head in amusement before rushing back inside the gym to leave you his car keys.

-----

Mingi glanced momentarily at you with a smile. He would have to apologize in the future for using your kindness like that. But he hoped that doing this would drive him to ask you confidently out on a date.

Mingi opened the school doors wide enough for the both of you and waited until you were completely outside before closing it. 

"Come on, I'll give you a ride," Mingi offered.

"Oh, no thank you," you hastily refused, "I'll take the bus."

Mingi shook his head. "I'm not taking no for an answer. We live a few blocks away, anyway, so it's really convenient."

"But I don't want to impose," you sighed.

"You're not, Y/N," Mingi said. "And you won't. Like ever."

You sighed again. "But—"

Mingi shook his head then snatched your school bag. "If you ever want to see this bag again, you're going to have to catch me," and with that, Mingi ran towards the parking lot.

"Hey, no fair!" You followed him, pouting as the distance between the two of you widened. Damn his athletic build.

You chased after him, groaning in annoyance when Mingi reached his car and wiggled your bag as if to spite you. But you both found yourselves laughing as soon as you almost barreled into him and he caught you before you both could barrel into his jeep.

"Come on, Y/N, it's really not a bother," Mingi said, opening the passenger door.

You sighed. "Fine," you huffed as you grabbed your bag and settled in his passenger seat. "Just this once," you told him.

"Oh, don't count on it," Mingi said, winking at you before closing your door. You swore he would be the death of you.

As Mingi drove his jeep out of the school lot, you both fell into a casual conversation. "So why don't you want me to be a kisser?" Mingu asked.

You narrowed your eyes at his teasing expression. "Oh, stop smiling. I don't want anyone to be part of that"

"I guess, you didn't have much say on the idea?"

You slumped against the car seat with a soft 'yeah.'

Mingi looked at you momentarily before focusing on the road. "What was your idea?"

"Nothing special." You smiled. "I was thinking of just baking cupcakes or pastries."

"I think that's a great idea."

"Yeah, right," you muttered sarcastically.

"No, I swear. I think your baking's great," Mingi stressed.

"How would you know?"

"Because I bought and ate a lot from last year's fundraiser." Mingi smiled and chuckled, almost as if he could smell and taste your fresh batch just by thinking about it. "Especially those cupcakes. I swear, they're good."

"Huh, no wonder the cupcakes sold out easily," you chuckled. "We had an influencer."

"Or," Mingi drawled, "your baking is just that good." He smiled, switching his gaze back and forth between the road and you.

"Said no one ever," you shot back teasingly.

"I just said like seconds ago that they're good." Mingi shook his head in disbelief. "You don't take compliments very well."

"Maybe because I don't usually get them," you retorted.

"Ahh, all the reason for me to compliment you more then."

You looked at him before turning away upon seeing his smirk. "Oh, stop it," you said jokingly, but your heart felt like it was ramming against the seatbelt of his car.

The car slowed down to a stop just right in front of your house. You were about to thank him when Mingi suddenly exited the car. He rushed to your side before opening the car door.

"Thanks for the ride," you said. "You didn't have to do that." 

"I don't mind," he replied, following you to the front door.

"And you didn't have to walk me to the door." You chuckled. "It's literally like a few steps away from the fence."

"But I want to, though." Mingi shrugged and put his hands inside the pockets of his hoodie.

You both arrived at the front door. You were too busy finding your keys to notice that he was lingering to stay with you longer. As you opened your front door, you finally noticed his awkward stature. "D-Do you want to have dinner with us?"

"Oh," Mingi snapped out of it. "Uhh, maybe next time. My mom's waiting for me at home."

You nodded in understanding. 

"Y/N," Mingi sighed. "Do you want to...?"

"What?"

"I mean, umm," Mingi scratched his head awkwardly. "Do you—do you have any of those cupcakes lying around?"

"Oh, could you wait here for a minute?" You smiled before disappearing into your home.

Mingi palmed his face in frustration, muttering 'stupid' and 'dumbass' to himself. He pulled himself together when he heard your footsteps nearing.

You came out again with a small box in hand. "I baked them last night but they're still good," you said, handing out the box of cupcakes to Mingi.

"Thanks," Mingi grinned sheepishly nonetheless. "I'll give some to my mom."

"You better," you smiled.

"Thanks again, Y/N. I'll see you at school," Mingi started walking backward with a soft smile.

"See you," you waved at him. "Thanks for the ride."

Mingi winked at you before hopping into his jeep. As soon as Mingi's jeep disappeared into the night, you slumped against your front door and tried to calm your blushing self.

-----

It was the day of the dreaded carnival. The field where your school held the said carnival was almost in full swing, the lights and excitement gradually increasing as time passed by.

Your club has been there since early morning to finalize everything for the booth. Despite your judgment against the club's concept, you still had to do it for the sake of the team. 

Although, you had convinced Wooyoung to sell baked goods nonetheless. Your point was to remind the audience that you were still the culinary and baking club of the school. Thankfully, he agreed.

So, here you were, setting up a separate table for different baked goods beside the registration.

Wooyoung surprised you with an arm around your shoulder and a big grin. "I can already feel wads of money in our laps." He dramatically inhaled for effect. "I mean, look at our lineup so far."

You begrudgingly looked at the people readying themselves on the mini-stage. 

Leave it to Wooyoung to invite people from the top of the high school food chain. Everybody likes Wooyoung anyway. At least there were a few friendly faces—school mascot San, street dancer Seonghwa, up-and-coming celebrity Jongho, and... student council president Hongjoong?

"How did you get him?" You almost giggled at Hongjoong's icy demeanor just standing in the middle of the lineup.

"Oh, he owes me," Wooyoung said nonchalantly. When you gave him a look, he just replied, "Don't ask."

You shook your head as if to shake the idea of Hongjoong in Wooyoung's debt. It's an amusing sight, though.

"So where's your pretty boy's friends?"

You shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't seen them ever since."

You knew it was too good to be true. Your moment with Mingi lasted only a day as you haven't seen him for the rest of the week. Not even on free period. And when you had a class together, he looked like he was about to doze off and fall from his desk. You didn't want to be a bother.

"Oh, wait, nevermind. Here they come."

You immediately glanced up to see Mingi, Yunho, and Yeosang walking toward your booth. You could feel the crowd starting to buzz upon seeing the star players approach the kissing booth. Your gaze landed on Mingi who sported a plain oversized shirt and ripped jeans. So simple yet so handsome.

"Hey," Mingi greeted with a smile, never looking away from your gaze.

"H-Hey, how have you been?" You tried to keep your blush at bay.

"Well—"

"We're so glad to be here, Y/N. Mingi really convinced us to be here," Yeosang smiled in a—teasing?—manner, which you responded to with an awkward chuckle. 

"Yeah," Yunho chimed in. "Mingi really, really wanted us to join your kissing booth." Yunho smiled widely at Mingi, who only rolled his eyes.

"That's great, great news!" Wooyoung rejoiced. He quickly winked at you before ushering Mingi's friends to the lineup.

When you and Mingi were the only ones left, you smiled sheepishly. "I hope it wasn't much of a trouble convincing your friends."

"Don't worry, Y/N, it wasn't." Lie(-ish). Yunho and Yeosang complained a lot and made Mingi do whatever they liked for the past few days. From doing their homework to washing their cars, they were relentless. He hadn't gotten any proper sleep because of it. But, it wasn't really much of a trouble since he was doing it for you. Well, your club. But mostly for you.

Mingi stared at the table of baked goods in front of you. "I see you convinced Wooyoung to continue with your idea." He smiled.

"He still listens anyway." You chuckled. "Do you want one?"

"Definitely. I'll take a—" 

Before Mingi could finish, Wooyoung appeared and dragged you away from Mingi. "Sorry, Mingi! We're about to start now!" He yelled, but not before freezing on the spot as an idea popped into his head.

Wooyoung went back to Mingi with you in tow. "Actually, can you do us a favor and man the table? I need Y/N for the register."

You clicked your tongue and were about to protest when Mingi immediately said, "Sure."

You looked at him curiously. "Really?"

"I don't see why not," Mingi smiled.

Deep inside, Wooyoung was popping confetti. Wooyoung thanked Mingi before going to the center of the mini-stage. You placed yourself at the registration table as Wooyoung shouted, "And the kissing booth is officially open!"

----

You thought you could handle the smooch-fest behind you. But... you thought wrong. The amount of kissing and hooting was too much for your poor heart. Thank the heavens the registration continued to pile up and you had to put your sole focus there. Well, not entirely.

You would sometimes peek at Mingi who had his own long line to attend to. Mingi manning the food table seemed to generate a longer line than the kissing booth, which made you chuckle softly before turning your attention back to the registration.

It wasn't long before Mingi managed to sell everything on the table and he approached you with the funds he generated. You dumbfoundedly accepted and stared at the small lunchbox where he put the money. 

"I hope I did well, Ms. Y/N." Mingi smiled.

"You did, Mingi," you replied. "Thank you so much for helping us."

Mingi shrugged. "It was no problem." He looked at his watch. "Well, I have to do something for the time being. Will you still be here later?"

You nodded. "I'm here 'til it closes."

"I'll see you then." Mingi winked before disappearing into the carnival crowd.

-----

If you were being honest, the rest of the afternoon felt slow despite the buzz around your booth. With Mingi gone, it suddenly felt boring. You didn't show it though. You still wanted to be presentable to the carnival-goers. 

As night rolled in, the excitement started to die down. The crowd dissipated until only a few people were passing by the booths. The kissing booth was more successful than you thought, thanks to Wooyoung and his lineup of volunteers. 

As Wooyoung set aside the podiums, you counted all the money you had raised from the kissing booth and food table. You were halfway done when Wooyoung finished packing up and stood beside you. "So, how much did we earn?" He asked.

"I'm not done counting," you said. "But, we already have enough to win the student council's favor and have some extra funds for our own," you happily gleamed.

"Yes! Let's get drunk and party!" Wooyoung cheered.

You glared at him. "You're joking, right?"

Wooyoung forced a smile and patted your head. "Of course, I'm joking," he said, though his tone didn't sound as sincere as you had hoped.

You tutted before turning back to the money in your hands. For a moment, Wooyoung was quietly watching you count the bills. Then, all of a sudden, he spoke, "Oh, would you look at the time, it's getting late. Gottagohomenowbye," before scurrying away.

You looked up confused, your eyes following his seemingly excited figure before landing on a tall one that was walking towards the booth. You tried to hide your fluster as Song Mingi stopped in front of the registration counter with a smile. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," you smiled sheepishly. You can't help but notice the oversized windbreaker that he is now sporting. "Umm, we've closed already."

"I know," Mingi said, "I just came here again to talk to you."

"Oh, what about?"

Mingi scratched the side of his head. "Uhh," he mustered, "nothing in particular. What are you doing?"

"I'm just counting all our earnings," you referred to the bills in your hand. "Thanks again to you and your friends. I think you were the ones who attracted the crowd, Yunho and Yeosang especially."

Mingi scoffed. "If the crowd knew how weird they are, they wouldn't be lining up at all."

"And you're not?" You teased.

Mingi raised an eyebrow. "Who wanted me to join your lineup again?"

You rolled your eyes. "That was Wooyoung, not me."

"Sure, okay," Mingi shrugged with a smirk. 

You shook your head, wanting to wipe that smirk off his pretty face. You turned back to your money and jotted down the numbers under the last person to register. "Weren't you interested in our lineup of kissers? I can't thank you enough for helping us and being here and all."

Mingi leaned over the counter and crossed his arms. "No, not at all," he answered as he watched you work.

You looked at him and chuckled. "So you just came to watch your friends make out with a bunch of people, then?" 

"Well, I did to maybe get some material for blackmail," Mingi chuckled then cleared his throat, "but I was also waiting for someone."

"Oh," you said. You sounded so dry that you wanted to beat yourself up for seeming affected. "Who?"

"For you, actually," Mingi answered without a hitch, making you blush madly. "I—uh—also got you something." He placed a small chick plushie on the counter. 

You smiled uncontrollably as you grabbed and squeezed its fluffy material. "Where did you get this?" You happily asked.

"The claw machines rented by the robotics club," Mingi sighed. "My talent is limited to basketball I guess, since I only got one."

"It's cute," you chuckled. "What is this for anyway?"

"I figured a gift is better than $5 for a..." Mingi trailed off, unsure of how you would react.

Your face morphed from happy to surprise upon realizing what he meant. You looked him in the eyes to see whether he was joking or not, but eventually, you avoided his intense gaze. And you suddenly realized how close he was as he continued to lean over the counter, waiting for your response. "Stop that," you mumbled, "please."

"Stop what?"

"That," you said, not looking at him as you pushed him gently away from the counter. "Stop messing with me." 

Mingi sighed as he stood properly, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets. "I'm not messing with you, Y/N. I," he paused, plucking up the courage, "I want to kiss you—no, I want to ask you out first because I like you a lot."

You bit your lip anxiously. He wouldn't mess with you, right? You continued to stare at your feet. You can't bear to see if he was joking or not.

Mingi leaned over the counter again in an attempt to see your face. "I can see that you're holding yourself back. What's stopping you?"

You sighed, meeting his eyes for a moment before looking back down. "You're Song Mingi—"

"Nope, don't start. I don't wanna hear that bullshit. Give me a logical one like, I don't know, you don't like me back?" Mingi said sternly. His deep voice made the hairs on your nape stand. "I can date whomever I want. And that's you, Y/N. I like you for who you are. You're sweet and kind to everyone. You're one of the smartest people I know. You even stand up to your best friend for what you think is right."

You bit your lip again in a fluster, still too shy to make your move.

Mingi sighed. "If you don't like me back, it's alright, Y/N. I'm not going to be mad." He smiled softly. "I'm sorry for bombarding you with these things. You don't have to answer when you're uncomfortable." He moved to walk away, but you instantly grabbed the lining of his jacket to stop him.

"No, I—" you gripped the material nervously. "I like you too, Mingi. I—" You paused again, not knowing how to say your problem.

Mingi's eyes widened in surprise but waited for you to finish.

"I like you, Mingi. I—" you gulped. "And I also want to kiss you."

"But?" Mingi asked. "I feel like there's going to be a 'but' there."

You looked down at the counter. "But, I don't know how."

"I'm sorry." He smiled apologetically. "We don't have to kiss right now. We can just have dinner for now—"

"But I want to," you blurted out, which you immediately apologized for nonstop.

For a moment, you thought Mingi was going to laugh at you. You guessed that most of the people your age had already gotten their first kiss. Heck, your club's booth was a testament to that. So you were utterly embarrassed by your confession. 

However, Mingi did no such thing. "Move over," he said. You didn't know what he meant until he climbed over the counter. You almost tripped backward when he jumped down right in front of you. He caught you just when you were about to stumble.

"What are you doing?" You mused.

"Can't you tell?" Mingi teased as he held your face tenderly. "I'm trying to kiss you properly."

You shook your head in disbelief and amusement. This guy is really sleek. 

"C-Can I kiss you, Y/N?" Mingi asked. He rubbed his thumb against your cheek, comforting you.

You were extremely flustered by the warmth, not to mention the anticipation of what he was about to do, so all you could do at the moment was nod silently at his question.

Mingi smiled. You thought your heart was going to explode as Mingi came closer. You thought he was going to kiss you on the lips right away, but he planted a soft kiss on your forehead first. Then on your nose. You had to refrain from giggling, given the soft moment. Then he slowly came closer to your lips. You closed your eyes when you felt it against yours.

You couldn't explain it, but you felt warm and fuzzy inside despite your heartbeat ramming against your chest. The air felt soft yet exciting at the same time. It was definitely more than what you had imagined it to be. 

You slid your hand against his chest and rested it behind his neck. His hands softly slid against your waist and pulled you closer. You could faintly hear Mingi humming in delight. And a few moments later, you both stopped to gaze at each other.

Although, you still had trouble maintaining eye contact with his intense ones. And Mingi just chuckled lightly at the sight. "You still don't want me to be a kisser?"

"No, I—" you pouted and Mingi just laughed.

"Don't worry, you're the only one I want to kiss," he murmured before kissing your forehead. "Dinner?"

[ollyissleppy]

𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐞. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞

a/n: the way I cringed the entire time writing this lol I don't think I'll ever get used to writing about emotions. anyways, please read the end note and remember to vote in poll! cw: mentions of feeling high anxiety, swearing, my knowledge about pottery is based on the internet and is not to be taken seriously (I have no clue what the fuck am I talking about)

← prev. | m.list

To say you were nervous is an understatement. You were terrified, questioning if it was a good idea to meet up with Kozume. Yes, you knew him for multiple weeks, and you felt like you could trust him. On the other hand, you weren't sure if meeting up with him now is a good idea, especially with the confusing feeling you had towards Kozume. You didn't want to call it a crush just yet, rather just some weird sentiment or attraction? You were worried that with your conflicted feelings towards the man, you would make things awkward for the both of you. There was also the face reveal that you wanted to film with him, which added to the high anxiety you were already feeling.

You look around, trying to spot Kozume, the camera in your hand on record with it pointing to the ground. The plan was to film his reaction to seeing you for the first time, which was Kozume's idea. He believed that it would make a good thumbnail for the video, hopefully making it more interesting for the viewers. So you continue to look around, knowing that it's up to you to come up to him to greet him. You check the time, worried that he stood you up. You notice that it's only been a few minutes since you arrived at the meetup spot. You grow even more nervous, looking around once more. That's when you spot him in the distance, looking around as if trying to find you. The process was pointless since he had no clue what you looked like. You take a deep breath and start making your way towards Kozume.

"Hi," you say as soon as you reach him. His head shoots in your direction as he was looking in a different direction, his mouth wide open as if he wasn't expecting you to actually show up.

"Oh my God, (name), it's so nice to finally meet you," Kozume smiles and offers you a hug. You accept, though the hug comes out a bit awkward, since you were still nervous. "Fuck, you are so pretty." He lets go and looks at you up and down.

"Thank you," you smile shyly and look away, his stare making you nervous. "You're not so bad yourself." Kenma laughs, trying to release the tension between the two of you.

"So, what have you planned for us today?" He asks you, taking a camera out of your hands and pointing it at you. "Shit, you already showed it, right?" Kozume quickly points the camera to the pavement.

"No, I didn't really give it much thought, to be honest," you shrug your shoulders. "But showing my face at random points in the video is so funny to me."

"So, it's cool?" Kozume once again shows you in the video.

"Yeah, it's cool," you straighten your pose, unsure how to really act with the camera pointing at you. "Anyway, I thought that I could teach you pottery, and we could make some mugs or something together."

"Sounds cool. I'm not the best at this kind of stuff, though." He moves the camera to show his face and then points it back to you.

"And that's why I think it's a great idea for a vlog," you smile.

The two of you start making your way towards the workshop that your boss was kind enough to lend you for a day so you can freely record in there. Even though the walk there was short, due to stopping a few times to record, it takes you a while. You open the side door that opens directly to the workshop behind the shop you work at. You allow Kenma to roam around the space while you set up the stations. You hear him talking about stuff he sees on the shelves, recording everything.

"So, are you ready?" You ask, after you finish setting everything up.

"Yeah, I think," Kenma makes his way to where you're standing, sets the camera on a stand, and sits down in front of one of the pottery wheels.

You explain the basics of clay throwing and how to properly use the wheel. You allow Kenma to get comfortable with the wheel and texture of clay before helping him decide what to make. The two of you decide that throwing a mug is easy enough. You show him how to centre the clay to be able to start working with it. Kozume tries a few times and fails before you offer him help. You guide his hands, centring the clay on his wheel. You fail to notice the redness that appeared on his ears. You return to your wheel, fixing your posture in order to prepare to show Kenma the next step. You carefully move your fingers, the clay between your fingers changing its shape to look more like a mug. You make sure to move slowly and put your hands in a way that allows Kenma to see your technique easily and follow it. Other than a few words in a form of instructions and the quiet noises coming from the wheel, the workshop is silent. Kenma finds the silence comforting, taking him back to all the times he enjoyed watching you equally quiet to help him relax after a whole day of working. He tries his hardest to follow your instructions, but no matter what, his mug looks funky at best.

"And that's it!" You move away to admire your work before turning your body towards Kenma to check on his progress.

"Oh" is the only thing that leaves Kozume's mouth, his eyes going back and forth between his and yours mugs as if he's trying to figure out what went wrong with his.

"It's… cute," you try your hardest not to laugh at his piece. Kenma looks at you, not convinced with your words.

"I told you, I'm not good with this type of stuff." Kenma leans deeper into his chair, clearly disappointed with himself.

"It's alright; we can fix it!" You move closer to Kenma's wheel, turning it on. You once again guide his hands, helping him shape the mug. You're still oblivious to the redness that now moved from his ears to his cheeks. "See? It just needed a bit more love," you say, moving away, finally noticing Kozume's red cheeks, which makes you flustered as well.

"Well, now it needs to rest for a while before trimming and painting." You clear your throat before standing up to grab the camera so you can take closer shots of your mugs. "Who knows, maybe you'll return for the painting? It'll be way more fun, I promise."

"I don't think it's possible to not have fun with you," Kozume confesses, avoiding your eyes.

Suddenly, the workshop feels uncomfortably hot, neither of you sure what to say. Both of you sit in silence for a bit, avoiding each other's eyes. Kenma is the one to break it, asking if you want to do the outro together or if you'll record it later. You think for a while before deciding that filming it together would be way more fun. Making an outro with Kozume goes smoothly with him promising to return soon so both of you can finish your mugs.

"So, my place isn't too far from here. Maybe you could come over and chill with me for the rest of the day?" Kenma suggests helping you clean up the mess both of you made.

"Sure, sounds great."

location: Kenma's flat

Kenma decided to show you around his flat. 'So you can be comfortable,' he said. The two of you are now in the kitchen. It's a nicely finished room; it's classy with just the right amount of decor that doesn't clutter up the space. You look around, your eyes stopping at a calendar that's on the fridge. The noisy person that you are, you read what's written on it. You gasp after reading today's date and ask:

"You were supposed to be streaming today?" You turn towards Kenma, who's leaning against the counters.

"Yeah, but it doesn't matter; I can stream tomorrow." Kozume shrugs his shoulders, clearly not caring about his original plan for the evening.

"It doesn't feel fair to be honest. Like we spent hours recording for me, you suddenly feel bad, knowing he has to change his schedule to accommodate you, especially seeing that the next day has big bold letters 'DAY OFF.'.

"It's fine, I promise," Kenma smiles at you.

"Kozume…" you start, but the noise of the front door closing.

"Hi, you must be (name)?" A man with short, black hair enters the room; you guess that it has to be his flatmate.

"Yeah, and you're…" You didn't know his name, since Kenma never mentioned it.

"Akaashi." He extends his hand towards you. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too." You take his hand into yours and shake it, smiling at him.

"Hey. You want to see my office?" Kenma brings your attention back to him. "Since I saw your workspace, I figured you should see mine."

"Yeah, sure," you follow Kenma behind, saying your goodbyes to Akaashi.

Kozume takes you deeper into the apartment. You pass a set of doors before he opens one of them. The main focus of the room is most definitely his desk with multiple monitors on it and a custom PC. On the opposite side of the room, there's a not infamous couch that Kenma spilt his secrets on while drinking with friends. You chuckle at the memory, which caught Kozume's attention.

"What are you laughing at?" Kenma tilts his head, his brows furrowed.

"Isn't it THE couch?" You can't help but laugh at the absurdity of the fact that he confessed in front of thousands of people while live-streaming, and you're now standing in the same room as him.

"Yeah," he sighs, and when you look over at him, you notice that he looks quite sad, remembering what happened.

"Don't beat yourself up too much," you try to cheer him up, coming closer to you. "It's not like it didn't work out for you. I mean, I am here with you."

"Yeah, you're right." Kenma has a shy smile on his face with his ears getting red again.

"Hey, what if we stream together tonight?" You ask, looking over at his desk. "As long as I'll stay hidden from the camera, though."

"Don't worry, I'll make sure you'll stay hidden." Kozume's smile is much wider now.

Next thing you know, Kenma is out of the office, bringing another chair for you to sit on. He sets up the space, making sure you'll be able to comfortably read his chat and play without being seen. It made your heart flutter, thinking how eager he was to ensure your comfort. The two of you sit in front of his desk with Kozume writing something on his phone.

"Wow, that was intense" you say as soon as the stream ends, taking a deep breath.

"Yeah, but don't worry they loved you" Kenma smiles, getting out of his chair and moving onto the couch.

You decide to join him there. The two of you fall into the comfortable silence. Or at least comfortable to you. When you decide to turn to look at Kenma, you notice that he is deep into his thoughts, clearly overthinking something.

"What's on your mind, Kozume?" You ask him, turning your whole body towards him.

"It's just that the entire chat was asking if we were on a date or something and I just worry that you're forcing yourself to do all of that" Kenma says after a few more minutes of silence, his eyes looking everywhere but at you.

"Listen, I wouldn't ask if you want to hang out with me if I didn't want to" you extend your hand towards his face, turning it towards you. "I might not feel exactly the same way you do, but saying I don't feel anything towards you would be a complete lie. I do feel something towards you, maybe not love just yet, but definitely something deep."

"You really mean that?" the rest of kenma's body turns towards you, his face getting closer to yours.

"Yeah, we could try and go on some dates or something and see where it'll take us" you move your face even closer, both of your breaths mixing with each other. "We could try."

"We can try" Kenma smiles, closing the gap between you into an intimate kiss.

𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞

Hi everyone! Main part of 'fanboy' came to an end, however I might not be ready to part with these two. I have a few ideas for adding more to their story, but I’m not sure in what form you’d be interested in reading it.

@sunsribn @starssfall @cherryblossomy @vaedotcom @bae-ashlynn @theweirdfloatything @strawbrinkofdeath @scinclaitnoir @kodzubaby @shi-toshi @madiexuberant @fiannee @giocriedpower @moucheslove @3lectraheart @defnotciara @miruac

[fruitydiaz]

i haven’t been reading much of the interviews this season so it’s entirely possible that i’m missing something. but my general belief is that when they say something vague is coming and it doesn’t quite pan out the way we understood, it’s not (always) because they’re lying but because they have to be vague in interviews and we have to fill in a lot of blanks. with the way 911 is written and filmed i think a lot of the time they don’t know what’s going to be happen, so when interviewers ask they have to kind of assume based on some vague ideas.

i remember this with oliver i think last season or the season before. a lot of times interviewers would ask what’s next and oliver would say something to the affect of “this is where i think it could go” or like it to go and then it wouldn’t go there because literally how would he know? or he would mention scenes he had filmed that later got cut from the episode because that’s just how it goes.

the only thing i think you can really take for certain in interviews, particularly post mortems, is what they say about the episode that just aired. otherwise they don’t know! they just don’t! and the whole point of the article is to entice you and get you to watch further so of course the actors and tim and the journalist are going to promise something mysterious and intriguing that probably won’t pan out to be as mysterious and intriguing.

you also have to remember that even though we can often follow breadcrumbs accurately, fandom has a different world built around 911 than the cast and writers do. we’re going to have different understandings of the story at large than they do because of fan fiction and speculation and headcanons. even if you don’t actively participate in those things they are going to affect your perception because of your participation in fandom. that’s why we enjoy it. but that’s not the way they understand it, even when we do align sometimes.

[kinardsevan]

melbell's theory on "is it a swerve":

I have been saying for about two days that I would write out a whole through-line of my theory of what shenanigans might be happening in the writers room for 911. 

I should specify first that this theory goes based on the idea that what’s being served to us currently is an entire swerve, and that they’re following the formula they’ve done before (ala Madney, Tarlos, etc.). 

My theory ties into 807 as well. It has us not losing Tommy, but him actually being in the episode. Given that we know that it’s been said that recurring cast members will film in batches and not necessarily by week, that opens up the option for Lou to be in (at least) 807, if not more. 

I know some of what has come out in social media in the past few days references that there was a certain lineup for the way B/T was viewed through 8a, and how it would culminate in the discussion of moving in together, referencing lore to Tommy’s past, possibly his father, etc. 

My thing is that, at the end of the day as a creative, all I’m trying to do is follow the breadcrumbs we’ve been fed for the past 12 episodes of this show. Because of that, the points of note within those breadcrumbs are: 

7x09: “Tommy’s good people. He’s good for you.” 

7x10: “My dad and I don’t really talk…Having Gerrard was like having the father I already had.” 

8x05: “people are what make life worth living”; “my boyfriend”; “It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it? having a crew like this behind you, even when things go wrong” "especially when things go wrong"

8x06: “Do you love him” (entire speech) 

Now obviously, coming out of season 7, this show knew they wanted Lou back, but they didn’t know what his schedule was going to look like or whether the character would pan out, how the general audience would continue to tune in, etc. However, they did lay down enough crumbs that they could pick up and continue to move forward with. They gave themselves the ability to tell a story with Tommy’s lore around his father, along with what they ultimately chose to do with Abby (which a lot of fans were talking about early on in the summer as it was). 

Now, we’ve learned things since I first formulated this theory. We know that there’s a discussion about Buck having a “pendulum” reaction to the breakup and how to deal with it. We know that he’s going to throw himself into other things to cope. We know that there’s mention of “cracks starting to show” in reference to how he deals with the breakup. we also have mention in one of the articles about the possibility of them working a scene (as in accident, fire, etc) and things being awkward. 

based on all of that prior information, (along with Josh’s speech in 806), when I saw the preview for 807, I was very quickly one of the people who was like “this is being done for angst. this is not the end of BuckTommy”. 

My theory actually ties into (if we loved each other once) could we love each other twice, my latest fic. We don’t have any close-up shots of the person on the crane in the episode. We have the PA (or whoever he is) telling Bobby “there was an incident during filming, he fell and passed out”. Within the confines of me feeling like what’s happening is all a swerve on us, that line might not be entirely complete.  I’ve theorized that the 217 is already on scene, and Tommy is the man hanging on the crane. 

Why, you ask? 

When is the last time we saw someone hanging from a crane? (Buck, lightning strike, if you’re playing the long game, kids). Why bring that back if it’s not intended to be paralleled in some way, the very way they have been doing with this couple from the jump? 

We also have the voiceover of who we (aka as me and the two people I’ve actually written this all out for) assume is Oliver/Buck yelling “no no no no no!” in a panicked tone. For me, when I follow that line of logic (through 806 forward), things feel really clear. 

Now I hadn’t considered the idea that they might actually kill Tommy off until today, but let’s go with the idea that they’re not. Everything that we’ve been given from 710 on starts fill in a really beautiful plot going into the midseason finale for these two. 

Tommy is hurt. If the lightning strike is mirrored as I assume it is, the scene in reference will happen right about the end of 807. 808 will likely be some kind of other story (on purpose). I don’t think at this rate, we’ll actually ever get a Tommy Begins, but the title of Sob Stories really feels compelling to me on how they could do a version of this. Or a version of Tommy seeing what Buck’s life would be like without him, or any other version you want to think up. 

You suddenly get all of these breadcrumbs lined up really nicely into these episode. 

-Tommy’s dad can be presented to us. This also presents an opportunity to explain why Tommy feels unworthy/scared/etc of moving forward with Buck. 

-“people make life worth living”; “especially when things go wrong”. This would be something going very wrong. this would present them with an opportunity to give the payoff that we’ve wanted to see Tommy receive since 710, being accepted into the family he has always felt outside of. 

-“do you love him”. I think part of the break-up storywise being important for Buck is that it requires him to really dignify how he feels about Tommy. Another thing that this theory does is put them in a positon to really face the issue of remembering that life is not permanent. They can very much so end up without one another. And yes, shit already sucks being apart because Tommy broke up with him. But this brings to light the idea that, not only could they just be broken up, but that one of them could die and not have had whatever time they have left (especially given their career of choice) with one another. I think if you really lean into the parallel of the coma dream for Buck, it gives Tommy prime opportunity to learn why he’s afraid. Whether this is done in the form of a coma dream like buck, or like TK’s was with his mom (that feels more accurate for me with Tommy, meeting his mom, etc). 

—I’ll also include the aside of Gerrard being around could also be an interesting addition to the story. 

I can even see this feeding into whatever issue Buck runs into with Eddie in the coming weeks, whether it’s him still being upset with Tommy over the break up and Eddie saying Buck doesn’t have the full story, or Eddie thinking that Buck is giving in too easily after seeing him hurt. (Or that could be none of all of this). 

As for the interviews that are concerning, I do have somewhat of an answer to that too. 

I feel like on some level, Lou had to know that the fangirlish one was with someone who is fully behind Buddie and knew about the crap he’d been through. That interview didn’t have clear cut answers quite yet, and that one has me with this answer: nothing of what he said would necessarily be a lie.

He’s working on SWAT right now. Actors always have opportunities in front of them. He may have things that could affect how 8b goes, regardless. I have questioned whether he went into that interview with the discussion with the powers that be basically being like “don’t lie. but you can have fun with it, too.” 

In terms of the others, I haven’t read every single article out there, but I know we hold a general lack of understanding about the fact that the “exit interviews” just feel weirdly un-exit like. I’ve read millions of them at this point due to Greys Anatomy. And as it’s been said, you never see people asked about coming back; in fact you usually get a lot of "what's next" instead. We don’t get a whole lot of clarity of what’s happening with Buck next, beyond “new hobbies” “family time” “dealing”. 

That all said… I don’t know. I know the theory has legs, even though it takes shots from the articles we’ve been given. I started out with a lot of hope weighing into this theory. Now I’m not as certain. But I am someone who holding out hope that some version of a swerve is happening and it was just written really fucking poorly (and at the worst possible time known to queer men and women).

You’re welcome to share with me your thoughts. I’m open to polite discourse. 

[jestercake]

Finished some writing for you lovelies! Sorry for the delay but the concept piece to go with it took more time than I expected it to.

Preliminary Before Reading:

This short story is based almost entirely off of Disney’s Haunted Mansion 2023 film, with some allusion to the 2003 film adaptation. All of the characters within this story belong to Disney and I have adapted many of them to my own personal interpretation. This storyline takes place the night before Ben Matthias enters the mansion and Kent has gone back to New Orleans in order to seek him out. This story is a tragedy! (NOTE: I often capitalize the pronoun “He/Him” in most sentences in order to identify the Hatbox Ghost.)

Word Count: 10,414

DISCLAIMER:

Before reading, this story has specific and mature content listed: Necrophagia, Suicide by manipulation, poisoning, implied assult, explicit violence to ghosts, and implied enslavement.

The Dining Room

…

Almost every night at midnight, many ghosts were forced to set the elongated dining table for dinner. Some servant spirits had no trouble setting the table for their previous masters of the house, William Gracey amongst them. However, those times were far behind them. Now that Gracey had fallen victim to what others called, “the Hatbox Ghost,” dinner was a time of misery and melancholia.

William Gracey watched the upper levels of the grand dining room with a sunken heart and a sunken soul. How, in retrospect, it used to glow with warm orange candlelight, full of life and merriment, especially when guests used to come round. Now, the only light was an ominous, cold purple, gloomy and wrong.

William decided to ignore the subtle beat of the grandfather clock, thumping akin to a metallic heart. It would soon strike the thirtieth hour, signifying evil was on its way. He dematerialized down to the grand hall with a fair swoop of blue light as he grappled his yellow lantern. He was fond of it, for it was reminiscent of Elanore’s warmth.

“Quiet night tonight, isn’t it?” The ghost of a footman seemed to exclaim with a mellow tone to Gracey.

They patted the obvious pillows upon the largest dining armchair. Gracey exhaled as if he still had life within his lungs, folding the napkins as if to make himself useful.

“Yes...it always seems so.”

“It’ll get lighter!” Another spirit had said rather optimistically.

“It was lighter then…” Gracey finished the rest of the napkins off as if he were a footman himself, contemplating how many would be eating here tonight.

Every night was different now that the new master of the house had taken authority. The unfortunate souls that had seemed to disturb His presence spent the rest of the night locked away in objects of his choice, or worse. Sometimes, it was any object He’d set eyes upon— such as a lamp or a curtain hanger. William particularly remembered a time where He trapped a soul inside a chaliace and started to drink from it. Really, it was all who enviced such cowardice that were selected, brought forth to their ferocious master, and were led off immediately to be punished as an atonement for their offense. It was quite tortuous actually, being trapped inside something inanimate just to further the idea of enslavement. Being used was another abuse.

“Oh don’t let Him get to you now, Master Gracey. Grief wants something in all of us, y’know.” A parlor-maid spoke after she had set the chairs in their places.

William Gracey looked around in anxiousness after the maid had called him ‘Master Gracey.’

“Don’t say that dear, not at this time. He could be listening.” Another parlor-maid had said in a sudden response.

William then noticed a much wilder, tall-stature spirit materialize across the room, but it was not black like a shadow. It was the Hatchet Ghost, titled that way by the Hatbox Ghost, where his mortal name was once Vincent Gracey. William’s shoulders ran tight when he spawned near the rest of the maid-servants and footmen.

Vincent wore the same tattered dark suit and tailcoat, accompanied by a straight Victorian bow tie. More noticeably, there lay a prominent and raw wound across his neck. He grimaced, side-glancing at one of the maids who addressed William as ‘Master.’

“Ah…I thought I’d heard something out of you few. Still resisting, are we?” Vincent sneered with his strange, grotesque smile and sickly bulged eyes.

His skin remained a ghastly color with somewhat sunken features. William Gracey watched the Hatchet Ghost paced past the two maidservants, skimming the decorative table once or twice. Then, he stopped at the dining armchair, scoffing.

“Who patted the pillows!? Our master likes them rather billowy! Was it you?” Vincent suddenly pointed at a servant who’s back had faced the scene.

Suddenly, the soul turned with a terrible expression while the Hatchet Ghost forced them to the floor with a strange unseen power. The ghosts screamed and were blasted out of the dining hall in a matter of seconds. The other servants cowered after the event, looking toward the floor with dreadful expressions, while others retreated themselves.

“That’s better...” Vincent grumbled as he turned his head back to the chair.

He took the time to readjust the pillows so that they were perfect. After he did so, his eyes met with William Gracey. Although William wanted to react, use what little power he could to resist, he had no control over the situation. Any situation, in that fact.

“Oh, William. Why the long face? You of all… specters should know these rules…” Vincent made his way over to his nephew.

There was a small moment of silence between the two until William decided to speak.

“I don’t care, Vincent. I don’t serve devils like you do.”

With subtle fury upon his face, Vincent closed his fists tightly in response. However, he was cunning enough to know William’s mannerisms would be dealt with rather soon.

“…I’m..sorry to hear that, William. I expected more from you. But…” Vincent paused for a moment as he neared his distant relative with an unforgivable face.

“I remember you’re just a coward who lives in the past.”

William Gracey stood his ground, but in response, the slight flame within him was snuffed out in a matter of seconds.

“…You’re stuck, Gracey, just like the rest of them. Stuck mourning over some dead drab that wouldn’t even remember you.” Vincent spoke with such poison.

William brought his head down to where it was less painful, contemplating those words that were sharp as spears. He knew his uncle was right and it sickened him. It almost made his bones twist deep within the Earth, as he knew the truth. No matter how much he tried to resist, how much he’d tried to better himself, nothing would change the fact that this was all his fault. All his damn fault.

“…Perhaps if you did your job you wouldn't be so…useless. Besides, I won’t be the one to help you when you’ll inevitably pay Him for your actions.” Vincent continued to speak.

“And I’m sure you know His punishments quite well…don’t you…William?”

The Hatchet Ghost smiled unpleasantly at William and watched him return to a submissive state of sorrow and regret. It wasn’t hard to degrade him, and he knew that all too well.

“Now then…How about you go and pour our Master His glass before he arrives. Make yourself useful for once…”

William kept his eyes off of Vincent as he passed him. However, it was obvious to him how the other spirits watched as he carried himself in misery towards the end of the table. As he passed the maidservant, she returned glances with him, truly sorry that he’d fallen victim to this darkness.

He poured a large chalice full of arsenic for the Master of the house. Arsenic was His favorite and quite a strong delicacy for dark spirits to consume. It was like any other form of alcohol in the mortal realm, though much more potent. Devil’s whiskey, he thought.

William set the glass back down as more spirits were forced into the grand hall without liberty. He could recognize a few of them in the large crowd, some of them distant friends he’d once known in his past life. However, many of them were new acquaintances that he’d met during his purgatory. He made his way to Victor, a pipe organist, and Dorian Gracey, a distant relative to himself. He was also good friends with a harpist who had no name, for she couldn’t remember what it was, but she was a kind spirit. Dorian was the first to speak.

“William, I wish I could say good afternoon to you, but…” Dorian’s voice faded slightly.

William Gracey only smiled with his lips in response, but his expression hadn’t changed.

“It’s good to see you intact, Dorian.” William said half-heartedly.

He knew Dorian was cursed and would soon start to deteriorate, but it was always good to remind him of his obvious beauty.

“I didn’t know you were helping tonight, Gracey. And if I’m being quite frank I’m not even hungry.” Victor had said afterwards as he met up with the small group of spirits.

“One is always…particularly hungry. We don’t even need to be here.” The flutist caught up with Victor, adding into the conversation.

“It’s good to see you both. The realms haven’t been so kind to me.” William spoke with a dreadful undertone, knowing the reasons why.

“Don’t dwell on the past, William. At least we can see each other now.” Dorian patted William’s shoulder in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Yes, In the grand hall….Which I can never seem to escape…” Victor Giest scoffed in slight annoyance, though he was glad to be with his fellow spirits.

William exhaled a small laugh as the four of them continued to converse with each other. However, he couldn’t help but notice the darker spirits around them, maintaining the proper order of their master. Constance was one of them, corrupted by the Hatbox Ghost and forced to do his bidding unwillingly, despite her general liking to frightening mortals.

“You know, I sometimes wonder why He invites so many of us. One should not invite fewer than the Graces nor more than the Muses.” The flutist had commented upon the obvious, uneven amount of spirits present.

Constance met eyes with William suddenly, her eyes blinded with a strange blue light. Even for a ghostly entity, she was quite awful to look at. He inhaled suddenly, turning his head towards the upper levels of the house in a moment.

Suddenly, the grandfather clock echoed throughout the entire realm of the mansion, refracting perfectly as if to evoke fear upon every sorrowful soul. The painful ticking heartbeat seemed to cease after the twelfth stroke, as every spirit turned heads without content. William inhaled and watched as every exit seemingly faded away within the walls of the grand hall, which had stretched effortlessly in every direction. All spirits were lively, some even attempted to flee. However, an unknown presence forced their standing as if the floor became an ethereal cement. Even William had come to find himself stationary, which made every particle of his plasmic form circulate with worry and anticipation of what events would unfold.

Soon, the last chime of the clock echoed through the atmosphere and the repeated loud tapping of a cane’s ferrule could be heard everywhere, as if to snare the helpless souls once and for all. Every loud clap was a disturbing reminder of agonizing pain, akin to the sound of a whip to the abused. Each stab noisier than the last until the final blow came to a halt almost suddenly.

William Gracey looked around for the rest of his small group, no sign of the Hatbox Ghost anywhere. His eyes found movement when Vincent walked from the table effortlessly in silence. As he watched the spirit near one of the walls that had recently closed off, everything ran cold and still. Not a single Spector made a sound once the world around them grew dark with a black smog. He was near.

Trapped in thought, Gracey gripped onto his lantern in means of comfort, hardly able to make out his friends beside him in the thick fog. The feeling of grief began to overwhelm him without control, as he began to recall his beloved Elanore’s passing. Frightened souls wailed in the darkness as they heard the Hatchet Ghost’s calling.

“Everyone in their places…”

William shut his eyes as he was engulfed in terror, unable to escape. Every move seemed torturous as a now present sinfulness resonated throughout the endless realm, pure and maddening. The void of the fog started to reabsorb itself into one large, singular entity. An evil spirit of tyrannical might and manipulation. An infamous, malevolent entity.

“…Sir Hatbox Ghost…” Vincent exclaimed softly as he stood behind a nearby dining chair, arms folded.

The remaining section of a wall was ripped open as the dark spirit entered the room, only to have it close quickly after he’d entered. The air was deathly still as his cane tapped mockingly against the cold tiles. An animalistic growl escaped the entity as His great dark, ghostly cape dragged shortly after His grotesquely discomforting limp, a hatbox held in His left claw. The dark spirit had about him a spectral aura of blackness, something unnatural for even the ghost realm, where a strange bright orange light illuminated within the hatbox.

“…No reason to be…afraid…” came an omniscient, dark echo.

William Gracey attempted to move his feet, but to no avail. It was unwise that he had to stand so near the end of the table, for that was where the Hatbox Ghost approached. The Hatchet Ghost followed his master shortly after, making sure he drew the seat from the table.

However, before Hatbox Ghost took a seat, he stopped. Suddenly, the light within his hatbox faded to reveal a dark and desolate face of demoniacal features upon his hunched shoulders. He stared across the lengthened grand dining hall without a single sound, looming above them all. Only His great yellow eyes sifted every soul within His vicinity, followed by a deep, breathless inhale and a low snarl with bared teeth.

Many ghosts never saw his true face upon his shoulders, for he was a cursed entity, head bound to his hat box. Only during midnight was he able to soothe his own pain, once his head rested upon his shoulders.

The darkness within the dining hall never ceased as long as the Hatbox Ghost was present. No one held a voice, for he was too powerful to be spoken with. The only way one could stay below the radar was to disengage Him. But that was inevitable.

“Ah, what a…delightful bunch I have here tonight. I’m sure you are all…ecstatic upon my arrival.” He spoke through his booming, guttural, accented voice.

“Yes, Sir—Marvelous indeed!” One of his goons had said suddenly without context.

The Hatbox Ghost turned to face the outspoken spector, only to have them fall to silence instantly. Then he exhaled, finishing off his strained cycle towards his enlarged dining armchair.

Every eye watched with underlying dread as the Hatbox Ghost first analyzed the pillows. He glared with some content upon the work, akin to a critic, then held out his cane for a footman to take. Then he set his hat box beside him, still standing. Quickly, the footman took the large object in complete, almost robotic sync against his very will.

Something upon the entity’s face painted an impatient and ferocious expression in such a gradual manner as He stalked the still atmosphere. Then, He grimaced with sharpened, decayed teeth whilst he set himself down with a bit of strain. Within an instant, every spirit had made their way to the table without their will present. They all waited for Hatbox Ghost to sit before anyone could. Only after, did everyone take their seat in a repetitive manner.

William Gracey had found himself bending down until he and the rest of his friends were glued to their seats, unable to get up. It was an engaging, yet terrible entrapment caused by the evil spector’s supernatural abilities. Only He was in control.

After a moment of long silence, The massive ghost lifted His dark spell upon the spirits so that they could move freely. However, no one could leave their seat after He turned his clawed hand in a strange manner. Some whispering and vickering came shortly after the Hatbox Ghost had done so.

“Ah, yes. There’s no need to thank me, for I am rather…generous tonight.” A deep bellowing growl escaped His thin lips.

Then, He set his folded claws upon the edge of the table. It was in such terrible grace it made William Gracey feel quite weary. No one responded, in fear of what Hatbox Ghost might say or do to them. It was something every old spirit had painfully adapted to. However, some still spoke, for they were rather young and oblivious.

“Generous you are, Sir Hatbox Ghost! But, I was wondering something myself of late...” A rather plump spirit had responded, for it was Phineas, as most ghosts went by.

The Hatbox Ghost lifted his chin a bit, eyes now gazed upon the ghost irritatingly. His chest rose and one could notice the sheer width of his ribcage through his eccentric clothing.

“What do you…want, Phineas? Or should I say…you three.” Hatbox ghost snarled, for this has happened almost every evening occasion.

“Well, Phineas is just being quite chaste! If you—your uh—excellency…can lend us a car—” Another ghost beside him, Ezra, was brought into the conversation rather swiftly.

William Gracey, as for many of the other spirits at the table, observed the Hatbox Ghost as He pressed two of His long fingers against the sharp bridge of his sunken nose, closing His eyes in annoyance. This was the usual, everyone presumed.

“Yes Sir! I think we could be a great help if we weren’t—well, y’know—all cooped up in this house. Of course we all know you can't even leave the grounds yourself!” Another spirit, Gus, added his voice as well.

After a short bit of laughter, the trio changed expressions upon a quick thought. They noticed the Master’s widened, yellow eyes, beaming back at them unpleasantly. It was enough to even frighten the Hatchet Ghost, who sat closest to Him. It was rather animalistic and unnatural how small His pupils were slit.

Ezra looked away quickly, nudging the two others to quit their useless bickering. Then, he grinned back as if to relieve the thick atmosphere.

“We’re sorry, Master. Please…Do carry on in ignoring our requests. They are stupid requests…”

“Oh yes, childish!” Gus added.

The Hatbox Ghost exhaled with bared, slimy teeth. However, His terrible look was drowned out with a sudden, strange and false smile. Then, He spoke with sound gravel.

“The…only reason why I seem to be..stuck here…”

Suddenly, Hatbox Ghost clenched his fists and the three spirits were lifted slightly from their seats, which encouraged distressed cries. Then, they were all forced to face the evil Spector.

“Is due to the pitiful failures of little souls such as YOU THREE!” He bellowed.

Suddenly and by force, the Hatbox Ghost made the three of them strain painfully midair as if they were foolish puppets. Then, after enough torment, he brought them back down as they scrambled to their seats in a panicked frenzy. It was quite a terrible spectacle.

“Tedious old fools…” The Hatbox Ghost muttered.

William Gracey exchanged looks with Dorian, who now looked deathly sick as he reached the decomposition process of his curse. William turned his head in an instant, too overwhelmed to deal with Dorian’s malformations. Instead, he’d begun to fidget with his translucent, skeletal fingers underneath the table with his eyes shadowed.

“Now, where were we…” The Hatbox Ghost spoke with undertones of latent ravening. He was, however, quite capable of hiding such fury.

“The...mortals, Sir.” Vincent had imposed as he subtly whispered beside Him.

Slowly, the evil Spector wore a strange, deathly grin in light of the news, as He glided His vision across the table.

“Ah…yes. As many of you know, we have some new…guests with us of late.” He sneered.

The Hatbox Ghost grappled his chalice as he brought it to his gaunt lips with great emphasis. He took a rather considerable gulp, as he knew that all eyes were upon him.

It was strange to see the dark fluid melt into His ghostly form. William could see how it passed down His body, through His ribcage, every time lightning flashed into the room. It made him shudder. It was unnatural.

It brought Him much pleasure to be surrounded by the horror of others. Many souls knew He was not one of them, a cursed demon of sinfulness and lingering desires. Upon setting His toxic refreshment down, the Hatbox Ghost dragged his lengthy tongue across the surface of his teeth with such unpleasantness. His stare soon caught up to Victor, then to William Gracey, which made both of them presently unsettled.

“A priest, a mother and her…boy. What a bright little bunch if I do say so myself.” He spoke.

There was some short murmuring from the souls after the Hatbox Ghost addressed the news, most of them up to date. However, it was more due to their anticipation of the mortal guests that made them apprehensive.

“Oh…what will become of these most sorrowful souls?…” He spoke almost rhetorically, masking a wicked chuckle.

A grumble escaped the Hatbox Ghost as he failed to hide his content. It wasn’t unclear what the dark spirit would inevitably do to the mortals. For the entrapped souls, such as William Gracey, it was enslavement.

“Well, never mind that…for now. Let us dine together as acquaintances…”

After a moment of silence, the Hatbox Ghost raised his right claw and administered the footmen to leave the dining hall at once. As if it were almost routine, the ghouls headed towards the kitchen for the first course. That’s when the murmuring started up again.

“I heard the mother’s name was Gemma, or Gabbie, or something of that sort. Wonder where they’re from.” Victor spoke quietly from across the table to William Gracey and the Flutist.

“I do wish them well—That poor kid. He must be a bright young lad.” The Flutist had said to Gracey, who glanced back at her.

William attempted to disregard the obvious gaze from the Hatbox Ghost as he spoke to the spirits beside him.

“Uh—yes. Poor kid…” he muttered.

William Gracey now sifted his view upon Dorian, who’s skin had completely fallen apart from putrefaction. He was now an acrid skeleton, left in humiliation beside his friends. From the gratified look of Vincent, he enjoyed this quite awfully.

Dorian lifted the bare bones that were his hands, in an attempt to shield his brother’s gaze. However, William Gracey had stopped his relative before he could take any action, staring at him. Dorian looked back in slight bafflement.

“Don’t let them get to you..” William managed to say as he shook his head.

Vincent, among other goons, watched in subtle fury as the other spirits conversed, and perhaps even schemed, against the superintendency of the Hatbox Ghost. What dishonor they had for their glorious overlord, sitting in the very company of Him as if it meant nothing.

Willam Gracey set his eyes upon Vincent, and gave him a stern look. However, that soon vanished as the Hatbox Ghost suddenly gave him a look of absolute intent. It sent an unanticipated shiver down his entire form, filling him with despair, as he found himself frozen upon the deathly eyes. He couldn't help but relive those memories so long ago.

…

A pen had taken itself to parchment, he remembered. It was filled with words written in her handwriting. Every curve, every dot was hers. Instinctively, he wrote back to Eleanor, longing to see her again.

“I miss you as I loved you so. Why must death do us part?” He wrote in an expression that reflected his soul.

Madame Leota had warned him about this entity weeks on end, but he was blinded by grief and sorrow. He had seen Eleanor at times- as pretty as a picture and all the more. Sometimes she’d appear in a mirror or glass, refracting in a similar nature to water or dew. And sometimes, he heard her whisper things in his sleep. But mostly, she appeared in his dreams, and it was a presence that had wrapped him tight. A presence he couldn not escape.

“Gracey, my dearest love…” Eleanor had said within Gracey’s dream one night.

She caressed his false body, moving up his back and shoulders from behind. When William attempted to look at her, she set a hand upon his eyes and said,

“Mortal eyes cannot look directly upon the deceased…”

Gracey inhaled, soothed by her soft hand almost instantly. He moved his fingers across hers as he felt into complete darkness.

“…But why? Why can’t I look upon you, my love?” William remembered saying.

“…No man can gaze at My face and live. look at Me and you shall be lost for all eternity…”

“Then I beg of you to let me indulge in other senses! I want to picture you—remember you so that I don’t forget!”

After a subtle silence, Eleanor responded.

“…I will give you something…you will never forget.”

Her voice echoed within the darkness, giving off a shallow, uncanny feeling. It was as if it were doubled and strangled out in some strange way. But nonetheless, Gracey disregarded it.

With great dread and longing, he attempted to get the most out of his once lost love. He could remember her breath—absent of warmth—as she set her lips upon his. Together, they were in complete, desolate harmony as Gracey felt overcome with this lustful addiction. He continued to kiss her and so did she, arms intertwined as he felt her body like a blind man would with the world around him. He could almost picture her face clear in this dream until he felt hers draw away from his.

“…Eleanor…” Gracey exhaled, eyes locked away from sight as he shivered from the cold.

He gripped at her clothes, begging for more. However, slowly Eleanor had pulled away from him.

“—please—don’t leave me…” He uttered mournfully.

Gracey’s hands shook desperately as he held onto her.

“My time with you grows shorter. Listen to me, my love…”

“…no—please.”

“…Only the force of life has parted us from one another. You must give the life you have to Me. Only then will we reunite on the other side.”

“No!…”

Gracey reached out at nothing but ice-cold blackness as Eleanor faded away. On his knees he cried out, but she was no longer there to listen to his dreadful groans. In silence, he cupped his face with both hands until the dream slowly grew faint. But one echo was still heard from within the void, deep and omniscient.

“…Only through death can you see me once more…”

With the words reverberating infinitely in his mind, Gracey finally awoke in a sweat. Rapid breaths overcame him and quite suddenly, he drew away the covers to light a nearby candle. As he made his way towards the study of the mansion, the sound of spirits began to accompany him. Whispers filled the halls as he ran down them, trying to escape the chaos yet to unfold around the mansion. Nothing in the world would stop him from seeing his lost love tonight.

Upon entering the study, Gracey lit the fireplace to draw the darkness away. He stood within his office, noticing a piece of parchment enveloping an object on the large desk. with great anxiety and desire for action, he took the note and small object into grasp and brought it close to the light. He read the note first:

“Tonight we will meet on the other side. —Eleanor.”

Then, with terrible anticipation, he unraveled the note from the object, revealing a small bottle of arsenic. Poison.

Grasping the small bottle at hand, he covered his mouth and inhaled. It was all loud and true, and he knew what had to be done. However, even in grief something never set with him right. He started to quarrel with his morality as he paced in a panicked frenzy. Someone had told him once not to be envious of death, but Gracey felt as if even the malice of Hell would be meek compared to the torment of grief.

Gracey’s pacing subsided as he stopped to look upon the light of the fireplace, face wet with tears of confliction. It was warm and radiant— something he longed to feel again. Without Eleanor, he felt lost in the mortal world. Even after months of performing the same repetitive seance, it all felt futile, for he finally had a chance to see her again. He wouldn’t just let her fade away as if nothing had happened. It was only terror that seemed to engulf him. To live or to die, that was the question. The question that had brought him more pain than poison or hellfire. Finally, he felt as if he was in some control of his decision. He felt something other than misery.

And with this in mind, he slowly unscrewed the cork of arsenic as if it were a bottle of strong liquor. A liquor strong enough to stop a man’s heart. A subtle pop was heard and William Gracey glanced at the bottle with great apprehension, palms sweaty as his heart thundered. He winced away his fear and thought of Eleanore’s desperate command. With this in mind, his jaw tightened as he gradually brought the bottle to his lips. And finally, he slipped it down his throat with curled lips.

Upon finishing the bottle, he grimaced at the pungent and sour metallic flavor of the poison. He searched the room with rapid, uncontrollable thoughts, knowing there was no turning back. He gazed upon the table, setting his hand on the hard leather surface while he dragged his fingers across it. Then, he walked towards the fireplace, standing by it.

Hastily, Gracey’s breath started to stagger as he felt incredibly nauseous. His intestines screamed in anguish as he clutched his torso, for the pain never ceased afterward. It felt as if every organ and bone within him started to break apart and leak out in puddles upon the floor. He wretched out what he could in an attempt to free this sudden agony, but this acute state had him snared.

“AGH—” He screamed only once, gurgling a mixture containing vomit and foam.

His muscles had lost all control and he stumbled around the room with such terrible pain. Objects fell and broke all round him as every sinew within his body was electrified with excruciating pain. It was absolute Hell— something a simple poison could not inflict upon a mortal. This was something far greater.

Eventually, gravity had taken Gracey’s weight down to the cold hard tiles within the study. His eyes blurred the images about him as he faded in and out of consciousness. Now, in a deep state of paralysis, he only twitched in an attempt to move. The agony had overcome his state, for death would shortly arrive. Blood creeped down his lips in a deep red stream, indicating internal bleeding.

As William Gracey heaved his last breaths on the ground and awaited death, a cold presence overcame him. From what his eyes and mind could barely comprehend, he noticed a black silhouette on the left side of him, carrying a fog-like shadow as it moved across his lens. It was no angel like he’d imagined.

Slowly, the unlighted entity dragged itself toward him, circling him like doomed prey. It drew closer and closer with terrible rapping rhythm until it stopped close to Gracey’s face. It seemed to heave a deep and terrible breath, something that made his soul quiver in terror. This was not Eleanor…

Unable to escape, Gracey drew his last, long breath and the dark entity took it in like life. It groaned with terrible pleasure as it watched Gracey’s mortal form fall limp on the floor, bottle and note still at hand. The rest of his soul was devoured and trapped in an endless cycle of fear and grief as the entity had seized it from its eternal rest. This terrible entity was the first to greet him in the afterlife.

A demon.

…

All the painful memories flooded back as he stared at the Hatbox Ghost with fear and terrible regret. He held no conception of time as he did once so, never quite snapping out of it, heavy and lifeless breath engulfing his ribcage.

“Well…William Gracey. Once again pestering your relatives…” The Hatbox Ghost’s voice came, which accompanied a grim smile upon his face.

William opened his mouth to say something but quickly stopped himself. He stuttered, not knowing what to say to the evil Spector that sat before him. He was wrong— he was just attempting to ease Dorian’s humiliation. But, he knew he was just trying to convince his mind otherwise.

“I—” William stammered.

“Perhaps I should put an end to your…pestering…hm?” The Hatbox Ghost shifted slightly in his seat.

And before another stutter could escape, William Gracey was forced from his seat beside his friends and led down the table to where Hatbox Ghosts’s ghoulish goons sat, right beside the looming dark spirit that had entrapped him for eternity.

William, though persisting in his defiance by stance, could only withstand the agonizing pain of resistance for so long. Eventually, he stayed seated in order to keep the agony he felt at bay. It was a terrible feeling— to have the devil force one’s spirit like a puppet. With a widened lens, William looked around at the entities he sat with. They all stared at him with an occulted hatred as the Hatbox Ghost sat to the right of him, encompassing sinful pride with every expression. William looked down almost immediately.

“You see…That’s much better now. No more pitifully distracting side shows that squander my valuable time…”

Dorian attempted to comfort William from across the table, but it was obvious that he wasn’t responding to anyone, too frightened to do so.

“Speaking of wasting time…” The dark spirit spoke with prolonged groans in between.

He watched as the footmen carried in a multitude of silver platters, all of which were covered quite beautifully. Every spirit watched as the food came in, curling in their chairs with loads of anticipation. Despite the Hatbox Ghost’s torturous, inhumane mannerisms, he still allowed the ghosts to dine through offerings. It was a sick way of manipulating naive souls, causing them to almost believe He cared for them.

Normally, the feast was carried out with a variety of specific smells and memories found only in the past lives of the spirits. Whether it was the meaty scent of Jambalaya, or the pungent and delectable crawfish Étouffée with crispy crab cakes, it was a dish fit for a soul. And of course, a subtle glass of red wine on the side never hurt anyone. He knew that of all entities.

However, something was quite different as soon as the silver platters were placed in a manner that appeared planned. William slowly turned his head curiously and noticed the Hatbox Ghosts’s rotten grin when he spoke.

“Finally…something to celebrate my success. Satiate my hunger…”

Gracey inhaled without breath and winced almost immediately at a sudden odor. With terrible speculation, his fears were eventually portrayed through every spirit within the room. The platters were lifted up, revealing the nightmare.

Upon the long table was a rotting corpse, still fresh in a sense that it gave off a significantly horrific odor of death and decay. On everyone’s plate was a random piece of it— a hand or cheek alike. However, a lifeless body formed across the table in front of the Hatbox Ghost. It was enough to make all the souls’ wretch back within their chairs or simply stare in shock. Even the hitchhikers and goons had sat in silence as they gazed back at their plates.

Many spirits watched in utmost terror as the Hatbox Ghost inhaled the putrid scent of the corpse as if it were a dessert. He let out a sickening cackle afterward as he pressed his palms against the table, his gloved hands squeezed involuntarily. It was absolutely horrid, and many of the souls would rather die again just to get away from the situation. Even Vincent, the Hatchet Ghost, found that ideal hard to resist.

The Hatbox Ghost then shifted his cruel gaze upon every expression, for he found a gruesome pride in the fact every spector had a new and profound fear of him. He traced his green tongue against his rotted teeth, chuckling in the back of his throat.

“What seems to be the matter? Haven’t any of you had your fair share of tartare before?”

The dark spirit bellowed out in maniacal laughter again shortly afterwards, akin to a madman, as he covered his chest as though he had a heart. Even when he joked, it was as if the sorrowful souls had perished again all those years ago.

“Please…let us dine together now on this fine evening…”

The Hatbox ghost adjusted within his seat as he began to remove his black gloves one finger at a time. He acted in a manner of which every ghost could watch him with grueling anticipation as he revealed his monstrous claws.

Too frightened to look upon his friends, William Gracey’s skeletal hands shook underneath the table as he stared onto his plate. He had to look more than once to realize it was. A heart— a mortal heart—on his plate, covered in an array of dull greens and purples. There wasn’t any blood pouring from what he could see, just holes deep within the ventricles and shriveled, brown fat encasing its shape. If he were alive he would have evacuated himself. But now, he just felt paralyzed as the heart gazed back at him quite menacingly.

It all made devastating sense as William watched the Hatbox Ghost’s prominent side-eye. It was as if He vouched for such a dish just to vex him. In fact, the dark spirit had been tormenting him ever since the beginning, and He would do the same now. There was always madness within Him, but it was madness with an underlying method to it. There was always something the Hatbox Ghost wanted.

Vincent among other ghosts continued to watch his master once he set his large talons upon the table. The dark spirit’s elbows and wrists ceased to touch the edge of the cloth, which was a rather polite courtesy. He even picked up the silverware neatly placed upon the cloth as he examined its condition. He brought the fork to his eye level and slowly turned it before his hands began to tremble subtly.

It was His humanity slowly disappearing.

Then, as if something had snapped within the Hatbox Ghost, immediately the pupils within his yellow eyes began to wane as he dropped the utensil. He then violently grabbed the atrocious corpse in his massive claws as he began to devour it vigorously, revealing his truly famished presence.

Some airless gasps and mourns could be heard from the ghosts present, for it was an utmost horrible sight to see. There was strenuous struggling within the dining room chairs as the souls attempted to get away, unable to watch the beast take fourth in His sinful actions.

The Hatbox Ghost’s eyes evinced his pleasure as his whole massive frame hunched forward, continuing to partake in the gluttony. He felt a joyous impulse as he saw the fluids of innocence flow through his fingertips.

William nearly gagged as he watched Him, thoroughly revolted by His manners. But he knew the Hatbox Ghost was cursed to feed off of the living and deceased alike, truly unable to enjoy memories of food He had once indulged in. He knew this dark spirit truly felt hunger—something that all of the trapped souls did not.

The ghost’s claws were covered in the grotesque green and brown coloration, but nevertheless, His talons grabbed what was left of the slimy entrails. He seemed to devour most of them within minutes. However, time was irrelevant in the realm of darkness, and to some ghosts, it felt like He was eating for hours on end.

The souls that sat nearest to the Hatbox Ghost were quickly splashed and dirtied by the gush of old blood and gruel. William Gracey couldn't help but shed tears of misery and pain of what had unraveled before him. He was filled with agony, for the lifeless corpse returned him to his constant bereavement.

Oh—Why must this be so! To live among Satans whilst Eleanor lived in the realm of kings and queens? Was she even watching from above? He felt torn apart at the thought of her forgetfulness of him, mangled from the infinite pain, with no hope and no home. This was not the region beyond as he was promised. This was Hell. Because, unlike the eternal dream, this was the land where souls dwelled in torment and agony, forced to watch the Hatbox Ghost take his share of blood, flesh, and marrow. It was, of course, the acrid flavor that He desired, barely enough to satisfy His superimposed gluttony. The way He ate was enough to degrade even the toughest of souls.

William Gracey kept his face hidden, reminiscent of his dread. Normally, the Hatbox Ghost’s goons would’ve helped out with his wicked pestering, but they were all strictly preoccupied with his latent ravening. It was enough of a distraction until Gracey started to sniffle. Goodness—why did he have to sniffle?

Nevertheless it was heard, which had caught the attention of the monster to the left of him. The Hatbox Ghost’s claws unsheathed the mess intertwined in them, which fell from his hands slowly like a bloodied slime. Then, He quickly looked toward William with an unkenneled pleasure.

William, who shielded himself from many lingering eyes, wiped the tears and purged the marks from his face in an attempt to alleviate his constant dismay. However, he couldn’t stop pouring himself out with dreary wet tears once he’d started, which was no help to him in the end.

The Hatbox Ghost slowly leaned closer to Gracey and smelt the almost tangible atmosphere around him. He emitted a terrible groan—the sound of a monster as he widened his mouth to taste the addictive sensation. His ghostly hair seemed to stick on end subtly. In the Ghost Realm, sensations were like memories that gave off the scent of nostalgia, sorrow or any other deep emotion as a replacement of taste. Of course, they weren’t as pungent as the feelings of mourning spirits and mortals. And how pungent grief was to Him.

It didn’t take long for the Hatbox Ghost to become addicted to it, eyes maddened with the same inherent voracious prodigality. Many ghouls and spirits attempted to leave their seats again, aware of the inevitable outcome of this display. Eventually, The Hatbox Ghost would lose any mannerisms he had previously held before dinner, and would leave behind a madman. This needed to be stopped before anyone was permanently harmed. Vincent quickly proposed this ideal as the evil spector moved Himself closer to Gracey.

“Now, Your Excellency— Master of the Realms— perhaps you should finish devouring your lovely meal?” Vincent exclaimed quickly.

Other spirits had started to add onto this distraction in an attempt to draw the Master of the House away from the stench of grief. However, The Hatbox Ghost had already started to drool ferociously with every spectacle matching his inward appearance.

“Yes!— I think we all enjoyed the courtesy of your meal! Perhaps we should be excused before you—”

“SILENCE!” He roared.

And presently, not a sound was heard afterward, other than the mourns of William Gracey, who’d attempted to cease his internal dilemmas rather quickly.

William shut his eyes and only sniffled now that he had shielded his rather robustious cries. Though it was hard, he couldn’t let the demon before him get what He desired so desperately and with such ease. Even with eternal blackness to cloud out his vision, William pictured Him perfectly. It was disturbing how every component was laid out within his mind with no comparison to a painting. And it was that same painting that had been stuck within his mind ever since he’d died so many decades ago.

Slowly, the evil spirit made His way towards William Gracey, not hesitating to push his chair away from the long table. As He stood tall over William, many heads turned in utter terror, for they knew they were nothing against the wrath of their unwilling Master. This was quickly proven as Hatbox Ghost looked at everyone with a sudden animalistic fury.

“…What are you all looking at?! DINE!” He spat.

Almost suddenly, every ghost took up their forks and knives like puppets that feasted without hunger or desire. It was such an ugly sight to anyone, even the deceased, that some spirits would much rather suffer for years trapped inside an airtight box than have to face eating the remnants of a human. The spitting of sludge and crunching of bones was a bitter enmity to anyone forced to participate or even listen, the crimes justified only by Hell itself. After all, it was His realm now.

Even William was forced to take up the fork. He unwillingly sliced off a stiff piece of the old, wretched heart, much like the rest of the thralled spirits, forced to bring it to his tongue and eat it. Nothing in the mortal realm before prepared him for the disgust as he began to chew without will. Every empty tear fell to the floor without a stain, almost as if every one of them meant nothing in a dimension of infinite sorrow. They were tears in the rain, pointless to remember even if they meant something. Once William swallowed with great misery, he’d given into the inevitable that was The Hatbox Ghost’s eternal torment.

“—Why…” William had said rhetorically with a cloudy and woeful expression.

He spoke aloud but with little volume, for his spirit felt low and chained from within. It was more than just a spell that he and the ghosts were under— it was a curse. A terrible curse.

As if the deathly dimension couldn't take any more away from him, William was quickly torn from his seat by a large set of claws that had tightened painfully around the rest of his torso. He yelled only once, before the large hands suffocated him as if he had air to breathe. He couldn’t escape it.

The Hatbox Ghost ceased his terrible laughter as he neared William Gracey to his monstrous facade. His ferocious and lifeless breath exited the emptiness of his nose cavity. It was truly His face altogether that expressed His violent yearning towards such helpless and innocent souls. There was no exaggeration as He savored the grieving spirit’s aroma grotesquely, full of content.

“Mmm…You smell of…Misery…”

It was William's fragrance of grief that He’d found irresistible. It was enough to impose the sins of Gluttony and Lust simultaneously. What a mistake it was to show this heartfelt pain. He’d begun to feed a demon.

“…In-toxicating…”

William felt his ghostly form ripple painfully as the Hatbox Ghost took fourth in his own obscenities. He fed off Gracey’s grief, which caused his spirit to cripple and lose all thoughts that were dear to him during the process. The love he held for his friends turned sour, into dread and sorrow instead. He began to focus on Eleanor’s death once again.

“Leave him alone!” One of the maids screamed toward the Hatbox Ghost with a small spark of resistance.

The Hatbox Ghost let out a deep chuckle as he violently grabbed Williams neck instead, allowing him to dangle midair. William let out a strained noise as the grasp tightened like a serpent around his neck, firm and constricting.

“Oh, you really care for him, don’t you?…” The Hatbox Ghost’s voice seemed to grow darker as he gazed at the parlor maid with monsterous eyes.

“…Willing to share the same fate?…”

Suddenly, the maiden fell into the floor that stretched open beneath her. She let out a shrill scream of terror as she fell into a large pit of black sand that emitted a dark aura. The ghosts around her gasped audibly as some peered into the gaping hole next to them, which began to fill up quickly and swallow up the poor soul. Her screams ceased as the floor closed up afterward with a strike of lightning from outside.

The Hatbox Ghost let out a horrendous, boisterous laughter afterward, and it was clear he gained sickening satisfaction from the event.

William gripped at the Hatbox Ghost, almost in a pleading manner, desperate to be set free from the torment. This elicited the dark spirit to focus his gaze back toward him. He bared his slimy teeth as He fought His ferocious desire to confiscate and devour Gracey’s kind spirit in an instant.

Even in sorrow, William was so full of life—brilliant and caring—everything Hatbox Ghost was not. But He was patient.

“Don’t you recall…that night…” The Hatbox Ghost muttered as he neared William’s face closer to his own.

William scrunched his expression horribly as he struggled to relieve himself from the monster's grip. His translucent, skeletal fingers grappled the Master’s tough dark claws in an attempt to relieve himself from the constant, agonizing restriction.

“The night Eleanor deserted you…” The Hatbox Ghost whispered through a chuckle.

His eyes fiercely studied William’s, for He still desired much more delicious grief from him. William quickly felt the torment burn down on his soul again, which had forced his sorrowful tears to pool in his sockets. And those terrible words repeated endlessly within his head. It was all his fault…

“She never loved you…” The Hatbox Ghost uttered through a masked grin, eyes pulsating with a strange, yellow aura. Soon, He would get what He desired. And how He deserved it.

Gracey mouthed “no,” too weak to project any resistance. Even if he were a strong and enduring spirit, nothing could withstand the excruciation of this Devil.

“…She…left you here, allowing your torment. To waste away and rot in your own home…Just to suffer.” His words came again like poison.

William let out a strained sob as he shut his eyes. The misery was almost too much to bear, for tears began to stream rapidly down his face without an end, almost forced out. The Hatbox Ghost’s eyes widened at the tormented soul with an exhilarated pleasure. Only He noticed the visible aura of misery and grief illuminated around William. This is what he longed for.

William kept his eyes shut tight as he felt the Hatbox Ghost lean in towards him. He could feel a demented chill wash over his spectral form as he realized quickly that he was being drained of his life force slowly—feasted upon.

William understood the enslavement he constantly found himself under—all willing souls shared this fate. Many of the willing souls He fed on were wasted away into entities too weak to move or speak. In other words, they only existed for Him and his desires to satiate Himself. They were the true course— the reason why the Hatbox Ghost hosted the demeaning dinners. Why was he to be damned for all eternity this way, devoured into nothingness—Left with empty torture and grief?

The Hatbox Ghost groaned pleasantly as he began to consume William’s soul, exhausting him in the process. His jaws opened extensively whilst he drew in the concentrated anguish and suffering from Gracey. It roused and stirred the madness within, rather thrilling to Him.

“You’re…Mine!” He growled.

The Hatbox Ghost wheezed airily as he took in another lifeless breath full of grief and pain. lightning crackled in a much more electrified manner outside the windows, which had flashed in strange shapes of purple and green. Every loud crack against the immaterial realm sent a shrill scream of terror throughout the dining room, adding onto His deranged symphony.

Even Vincent, the Hatchet Ghost, had taken recognition of this most demonic sight, watching his very nephew waine and weep as he was feasted upon by the new Master of the house. He couldn’t help feeling an indiscretion deep within his spectral form, for he found the execution incredibly hard to watch. He suddenly intervened on behalf of any ghost unwilling to make the sacrifice.

“Master— Must you stop this…this madness?!”

A jolt of loud thunder was heard afterwards, silenced through the ferocious stare of the Hatbox Ghost. His beady, yellow, and menacing eyes were enough to stop any mortal heart— any soul’s at that. And it sent a terrible, antagonizing might that stunned Vincent into a state of pure shock. The only movement he could bear was his own trembling. It was only through this reaction that The Hatbox Ghost temporarily recessed his gruesome mannerisms, snarling as he spat.

“You DARE…disrupt ME?!”

The Demon roared with great severity towards the Hatchet Ghost among the other trembling spirits. The dining room had darkened all around them and all fears had been brought forth to their salacious Master. William, still trapped beneath the claws of the massive spector, held only the strength to look toward Vincent Gracey, who stood his ground even in fear. He winced in appealing agony with tears that could’ve burned at his skin if he were still alive. Why was he doing this for him— a ghost weak and pathetic beyond comparison? This was all his fault…

“Sir—” Vincent had managed to say before the fear had restricted his lifeless vocal chords.

Although he loathed his nephew, he couldn’t face the fact that he too was a willing soul just like him.

And how He craved the Willing.

“Even my most…Loyal adversary…Seeking to betray Me?…”

The Hatbox Ghost sifted himself towards the Hatchet ghost with William Gracey still snared in between his massive talons, much like a hawk with its prey. He bared His gray, rotten teeth at the demented, meek spirit with no desire to blink even once. The darkened aura seemed to engulf most of His cape now as if to stretch His shadow across the room, which gave Him a much larger expression than before.

“Of…of course not—” Vincent managed to speak.

The darkness around him started to crawl close to the putrid scar embedded across his fleshy, green neck. It made him grunt due to the sudden enforced agony.

“You’re not…caring for him, are you now? Much like…the others?”

The Evil Spector studied the Hatchet Ghost’s perturbed expression, His eyes enticed with such insanity and deception, they were enough to entrance any ghost who gazed directly at them. Every spirit hid their eyes from Him. All except Vincent Gracey.

“I…” Vincent muttered, enraptured by the Hatbox Ghost’s pulsating yellow eyes. He couldn’t resist them.

William Gracey watched in horror as his relative fell under the hypnotic and tractable spell. His eyes— Why must he look into those eyes?! He had almost seen Vincent Gracey’s true self, shrouded out within an instant through the manipulative power of the Hatbox Ghost. He almost had his uncle back. He almost had hope.

“Besides…I won’t be the one to help you when you’ll inevitably pay him for your actions…Right?…” He chuckled.

The Hatbox Ghost restated the Hatchet Ghost’s previous statement to William Gracey as if He’d known of their recent encounter. It sent a petrified chill down William’s spine.

He listens. He heard everything. And all roads lead to Him in the end…

The Hatchet Ghost strangely inhaled as the darkness faded around him, seemingly done with him. Then, those hypotonic clouds ceased within his eyes and revealed the same bitterness William Gracey had always seen in him. Hatred.

“...Of course, Master. Thank you for your…assistance.”

William Gracey faintly struggled within the Hatbox Ghost’s claws and watched as the Hatchet Ghost got up from his seat without hassle. It was quite alarming for the rest of the sorrowful souls, still glued to their seats without content. It was a statement which meant the loyal were favored over the enslaved. A terrible statement that meant one had to give into the dark spirit’s bidding just to be free. It was all an illusion, however. No one was free.

The Hatbox Ghost’s perpetual smile sneered all the more wider, now that the Hatchet Ghost had gazed at William with such unpleasantness. It made William shed more empty tears, no longer recognizing Vincent Gracey in those addhorrent, misshapen eyes.

“What do you think of…poor William Gracey now?…” The Hatbox Ghost snarled in his guttural voice.

Presently, He lowered William Gracey back down to the hard tiles so that Vincent could gaze upon him. William’s knees buckled from his lack of strength, kneeling as he held a heavily depleted expression. The Hatbox Ghost still kept an intense hold of his neck and torso while he wheezed, watching Vincent walk up to him with a sadistic grin upon his face.

For a moment, the Hatchet Ghost lingered his daunting smile at William Gracey, who had no choice but to gaze back with tired eyes. After a moment of silence, he spoke…

“I want him to…suffer…” He spoke through an inhale.

“I want to…watch you break him. Only I…”

Vincent’s voice was layered with darkness as he knelt down in front of his tormented relative. What was said was something imparable and vile, addressed to no one except the once luminescent soul before him. Now, he was nothing but an eternal feast for the demon before him.

“…And let the others’ blindness overcome them with a fear far greater than the sweet escape of closure…” The Hatchet Ghost added, looking up to his dark ruler.

William shook with a sunken head, eyes glassy and darkened by the condition of his very being. He could only listen to the quaked voices of his fellow friends, for they too always winded up paying for his actions. Why must this always be so? This was all his fault. Always his fault.

“What a…pleasant surprise…” The Hatbox Ghost uttered through an utmost sinister chuckle.

He was infatuated by the animosity He’d caused between a once happy family. How he loved the capability of destruction caused by His own making. He was a monster, vain and vile, created with misanthropic power and the disposition for committing atrocity.

“Wouldn’t you agree…William? He bellowed.

The dark spirit hunched down with a most wretched snarl, one claw upon the floor, while his eyes gazed upon William Gracey. He was once again lifted off the ground with such ease and carried back towards the Hatbox Ghost’s mummified facade. It was acrid and dark, his face. Void of any life or pleasantry it had once possessed in a forgotten timeline. His nose cavities enlarged after every powerful, lifeless inhale, eyes but yellow fragments of hellfire as they stared back at William. William had made no effort to voice out even a feeble ‘no,’ too dreadfully exhausted to do so. All he could muster was a heart-wrenching stare at the dark spirit before him, eyes blurred from tears.

“Well then. I shall see to this manner…personally. Within a more…confined setting...”

As the Hatbox Ghost straightened himself up back into his menacing, overbearing stance, he fixed his eyes upon every quivering ghost and spirit within the room that had watched the grimful spectacle commence. He groaned and bared his spear-like teeth as he made his gaze known across the room, then inevitably stopped at William’s acquaintances.

Victor, the Flutist, and Dorian Gracey couldn’t help but share the same alarmed expression with each other, the rules made known to all of them clearly. The Master was never wrong. The Master was always listening. And if He shall ever look upon you with greatness, He will do so with great reason. And ‘great’, He was. It was this final oath that had made them tremble with anticipation.

The darkness began to ripple throughout the massive dining hall, which had echoed its deathly sweet lullaby into the infinite chambers of the mansion. Sometimes it thundered like lightning or rippled akin to waves. Nevertheless, it taunted every soul under His mighty curse. Haunted them.

“Oh, I hate to be a terrible host and run, but I do think it’s time for me to go. You see, I have some…important matters to attend to…”

The Hatbox Ghost’s aura had begun to ripple and mystify him as he took a gradual step back from the chair that was his throne. Everyone had eyes on the Master of the house as he took William Gracey with him into the blackness that had been summoned. The Hatchet Ghost was beside his Master, and observed as the black veins started to crawl and intertwine around them. Although it was inevitable to show fear, he’d embraced it long long ago: something his nephew did not.

“Enjoy the dinner…Ta-ta, now…” The Hatbox Ghost muttered in an exaggerated voice.

The dark spirit quickly dematerialized within His own darkness alongside the other two spirits. He always spoke the final word. Even after He’d vanished just as elegantly as He’d come, no one was allowed to leave until they were finished with their dish. And Every ghoul alike held this deep and unforgiving punishment, the solemn supper being only the beginning of it all.

Many had known what this celebration had meant, for it was all loud and clear what the Hatbox Ghost had in store for the delicious mortal souls entrapped within the mansion. Eventually, they would all share the same fate as every ghost had—forced to abide by the dark spector’s command. And the willing souls? The willing were special to Him; potent to Him. It was something He craved ever since his arrival, something eternal that would fuel his insatiable hunger for more. Because, unlike the mortal realm, there was no escape from the infinite oblivion waiting for them on the other side.

And how He waited ever so patiently…

…

[aliusfrater]

apart from the general bullshit the criticism of j2 at work that ive heard is that they loooove to be silly and have fun, completely disregarding how long other staff have been working and making days way longer than they had to be. i have no real source for this but seeing as you know about singer allegations you probably know more than me, what are your thoughts

i actually read an interview from jim parrack, the guy who played dean's siren in 4.14 earlier, and this is what he had to say and jared and jensen on set:

like while it's very much plausible because that's their workplace that they're very much not really at risk of getting fired from and as a result, they're more slack about their own time as well as the time of the people they work with, i just don't think it would ultimately be in any of their best interests to actually permanently hinder the work of themselves and others on set. like these guys are very much already working twelve to sixteen hours a workday, they're miles away from their families and their entire lives are the people they work with. a supernatural episode had a maximum of eight days to be filmed which is forty minutes of Everything within only 128 hours. i doubt they would actually go to any extreme past these aspects of the basic working environment, especially when these are the coworkers they have actual work relationships with that need to be upheld. there's also the basic idea that that j2 are both extremely well experienced actors; jensen's talked about how fast paced and roboticised working on the days of our lives was and jared was quite literally coming off of multiple shows and movies on which he was guest starring. you can see how their past experiences help within their day-to-day abilities even in bloopers or in interviews like the one above i don't think they need the extra time to goof off lol

i recently came across that story of jared's issue with the final scene in 14.12 and the way it as well as other stories they've told regarding working on set is described is really interesting to be because something jared specifically mentions remembering having an issue with, was how much time he was holding the crew back on set while he was continuing to struggle with his lines. and like, this isn't the only aspect of their work relationship/pov ive seen where it's very obvious that they, not only have respect for their own jobs and treat it as a job worth working hard for, but they also have a lot of respect for the people they work with. there's also another story where j2 were goofing off during the 11.04 smoothie scene in the impala, which is a scene that was shot when the impala was not moving, but rather the environment (controlled by the crew) moved around them outside of the car, and they capped their shenanigans at three takes maximum and while telling the story jared made a note about the fact that there were crew members who were doing these environmental movements for them. quite simply, they Care

also like, the part about singer that i'd talked about was in the context of jared's own goal as a producer was to make sure that the work environment on walker was a comfortable one in which, "[their] cast and crew are treated correctly and that some of the habits that can happen on a tv show that end up hurting people don’t materialize." [x] which i think says a lot about his (and jensen's) workplace values especially since jared's past experiences influenced so very much of his decisions re: walker. so like i said while it's very much plausible, but based on what i know i'm gonna give them the benefit of the doubt

[laurelwen]

Texts in Like Minds: Sally's Books

After her first encounter with Alex, Sally returns home and consults a stack of books while listening to the recording of their discussion.  Of this stack, only two titles are discernible.  The first book is shown briefly and set aside, and the second is opened to a bookmarked page.  This large tome is titled Principles of Criminal Psychology (Fifth Edition), by George R. Booth and Andrew Porter.  Sadly, I cannot find even the tiniest scrap of the existence of this book online.  It is clearly a textbook, and presumably one she would have kept from her school days given that it’s directly relevant to her career.  The bookmarked page is titled “Chapter 27: Gestalt Theory”, and the opposite page features photos of Leopold and Loeb, who I have discussed elsewhere.  The text itself is unfortunately not clear enough to be readable. 

Returning to the first book we see, there is much more information to be found online.  It is titled Gestalt Therapy: The Attitude and Practice of an Atheoretical Experientialism by Claudio Naranjo, first published in 1993.

The recording Sally plays during this moment is their exchange regarding gestalt.  This concept is one that the movie highlights in this scene and again at the end during Sally’s address to her peers, but it does not clearly define or explain the idea of “gestalt” for the audience.  Gestalt first arose as a philosophical principle suggesting that the experience of the parts of something cannot fully represent the whole of that thing, like the notes of the song versus the experience of the song itself.  A cursory search of various articles online can give a brief overview of the core ideas of gestalt psychology.  Wikipedia says this:

Gestalt psychologists believed that breaking psychological phenomena down into smaller parts would not lead to understanding psychology.   Instead, they viewed psychological phenomena as organized, structured wholes.  They argued that the psychological "whole" has priority and that the "parts" are defined by the structure of the whole, rather than the other way round.  Gestalt theories of perception are based on human nature being inclined to understand objects as an entire structure rather than the sum of its parts.  

This gives us a more thorough explanation of Alex’s very brief description of “gestalt”, but does not provide much insight into the meaning of his hints to Sally or why gestalt would have any bearing on his relationship with Nigel.  The implication we are left to surmise is that these two separate boys have combined as individuals to create a whole greater than the sum of its parts, and Sally lampshades this idea at the end in her speech referencing the movie title.  However, examination of these two books has given me some new thoughts about the use of gestalt in the film and about Sally’s conclusion regarding the dynamic between them.  

Alex’s next words to Sally feel extremely significant and should be considered thoroughly: “It’s not what it is.  It’s how you use it.”  Given that both these books reference “gestalt therapy” specifically, it’s worth looking beyond the core theory of gestalt psychology to see how therapists actually use these ideas in practice.  I found a clear explanation on this page:

Gestalt therapy is an existential and experiential psychotherapy that focuses on the individual's experience in the present moment, the therapist-client relationship, the environmental and social contexts in which these things take place, and the self-regulating adjustments people make as a result of the overall situation. It emphasizes personal responsibility. Gestalt therapy was co-founded by Fritz Perls, Laura Perls and Paul Goodman in the 1940s–1950s.

Gestalt therapy is built around two central ideas: that the most helpful focus of psychology is the experiential present moment and that everyone is caught in webs of relationships; thus, it is only possible to know ourselves against the background of our relation to other things.

I think we can already see some connections with the story as Alex presents it.  Alex and Nigel are inextricably entwined in a web of relationship, and we the audience find it impossible to understand either character outside of this context.  

Here I would like to suggest some Doylian interpretation which I believe to be possible or even likely, but for which I can offer no concrete evidence.  We know that Greg Read initially intended to make a documentary about the phenomenon of two people who match each other’s freak so well that they enable a worsening of sociopathic tendencies to the level of violent criminal behavior.  In one interview, he referenced a paper he read about gestalt psychology which opened doors in his mind and led him down this path.  He had developed the documentary idea enough to show it to other people, and someone told him it would make a great fictional movie.  Based on this, I assume he must have acquired additional materials beyond that first paper, conducting extensive research on the idea in preparation for the documentary.  I posit that the books Sally uses in this scene are Greg’s books, or copies of the same books he had referenced.  All of Sally’s scenes were filmed in Australia, so it’s not outside the realm of possibility that he simply brought (or already had) his own books on set.  

Working from that assumption, the ideas found in Gestalt Therapy: The Attitude and Practice of an Atheoretical Experientialism might be taken as extremely influential on Greg’s thought process in writing this film.  While the whole text is not available online, there are a few excerpts one can read for free here.  (The book itself is available through multiple websites for around US$40 at the time of this post.)  If we examine the excerpts below within the context of the movie, a few things really stand out (emphasis mine):

Perls sometimes stated the principle entailed in such strategy as one of absolute validity: You never overcome anything by resisting it. You only can overcome anything by going deeper into it. If you are spiteful, be more spiteful. If you are performing, increase the performance. Whatever it is, if you go deeply enough into it, then it will disappear; it will be assimilated. Any resistance is not good. You have to go full into it—swing with it. Swing with your pain, your restlessness, whatever is there. Use your spite. Use your environment. Use all that you fight and disown.

This sounds remarkably like the process Alex goes through with Nigel, resistant at first and gradually leaning into the swing, learning to embrace and roll with all the things he was fighting against.  A case might also be made that Nigel partakes in this process as well: he too is resistant to Alex initially, but the train scene marks a turning point in which he seems to make the decision to lean into the violence that Alex offers.  

Returning to Alex’s assertion that it’s not about what gestalt is, but how you use it, these passages take on a whole new meaning.  Sally’s speech at the end of the movie suggests that she arrived at the conclusion, based on her belief in Alex’s version of events, that Nigel essentially used the techniques of gestalt therapy in a twisted, malicious way to manipulate Alex towards the culmination of the film. As she says,

“What follows, through a system of either intimidation, manipulation, or coercion, is the dominant individual begins to focus and influence the thoughts of the subordinate partner.  This process nurtures a subjective gestalt where similar thoughts, fantasies, and other interlocking elements conspire to form a greater and more volatile whole, therefore, a merging of like minds.” 

Now read the excerpt below in light of these descriptions: 

In the strategy which pervades Gestalt practice, the therapist is leading the patient through a process similar to that through which a child that is learning to sit on a chair needs to discover that he can sit only by giving his back to the chair, not by moving towards it. While this is a discovery that many make at a certain point in a typical session, a spectator may not share the insight. The patient discovers that his resentment was a diluted and devious form of healthy aggression, for instance, but this spectator may be frightened by what he sees as destructive loss of control; what the patient experiences as a rewarding and cleansing explosion of grief, brought about by the exaggeration of emptiness, the observer without familiarity with Gestalt may fear that the therapist, by urging on the patient’s symptoms, may lead him to suicide. The therapist’s ability to bring a patient to the turning point where his disowned destructive energies become his own purified strength will depend, in large measure, not upon technique alone, but on his experiential knowledge that this is possible, and in the consequent sense of trust in the constructive drives of which pathological manifestations are a distortion brought about by unhealthy denial and which can heal by itself in the presence of awareness. Such trust will enable him to pursue a given course of action to an effective degree, in spite of the patient’s chaos, rage, or loss of control—and will be important, too, in eliciting the necessary trust in the patient for him to let go. Gestalt therapy is based on the principle that to alleviate unresolved negative feelings like anger, pain, anxiety, and resentment, those emotions cannot just be discussed, but must be actively expressed in the present. Without that, psychological and physical symptoms can arise.

These passages represent the intended healthy expression of these principles.  If we take these ideas and techniques and twist them into an unhealthy, intentionally manipulative and toxic dynamic, it maps quite clearly onto the relationship between Alex and Nigel and the actions they take throughout the film.  Sally assumes that Nigel is in the role of the “therapist” leading Alex the patient through this process.  The movie’s ending presents itself as a twist and suggests that these roles were in fact reversed, particularly in light of Alex’s first interview with Sally and his ominous and vague statements about Nigel's death being a necessary means to an end.  If we accept that conclusion at face value, then consider how Alex “urging on the patient’s symptoms” may have actually “led him to suicide”.

The Gestalt therapist contrives experiments that lead the client to greater awareness and fuller experience of his/her possibilities. Experiments can be focused on undoing projections or retroflections. They can work to help the client with closure of unfinished Gestalts ("unfinished business" such as unexpressed emotions towards somebody in the client's life). 

What is the climax of this movie if not Nigel creating a violent type of closure with his unexpressed emotions toward his parents?  “It’s how you use it.”  Did Alex use gestalt therapy techniques to draw Nigel into this violent chain of events as “a means to an end”?  If so, what actually was the “end” he desired?

Incorporating this information into our interpretations of the movie still does not necessarily force us into accepting Alex as Mastermind as the only reading.  I think you can certainly see that dynamic, but it doesn’t preclude Nigel as Mastermind.  In my further reading regarding gestalt therapy, I found this passage in a blog post:

A thirst for experience is part of all life. Often though, this takes the form of a wanting to move on and on to other experiences than those at hand. A craving for more replaces the need for depth that could be our natural mode of contacting the world, had we not become desensitized to it. Intuitively seeking that depth or fullness of awareness that is on our birthright, and not finding it, we seek the substitute of environmental stimulation: spicy foods, rock climbing, high-speed sportscars, competitive games, tragedies on the movie screen.

This describes Alex perfectly and speaks to his own need for the gestalt therapeutic approach.  We could argue that Nigel addresses this drive for more experiences by bringing Alex into a focus on the depths of the present moment, existing in the now that Nigel creates for him as he attempts to understand his own feelings and reactions.  As the book puts it:

The Perlses believed that it is not our responsibility to live up to others' expectations, nor should we expect others to live up to ours. In building self-awareness, gestalt therapy aims to help clients better understand themselves and how the choices they make affect their health and their relationships. 

 My own interpretation is one of equal partners both playing the role of therapist and patient to each other.  Gestalt therapy relies on the ability of the therapist to set aside their own interpretations of the patient's experiences in favor of allowing or guiding the patient to arrive at their own understandings and conclusions. I do not think that sole responsibility can be placed on either Nigel or Alex, and the events of the movie could not or would not have transpired without the active participation of both boys in each other's lives.  While the context is a dark expression of these ideas, both Alex and Nigel help each other build self-awareness and achieve a better understanding of themselves.

Like Minds Masterpost

[t0ast-ghost]

Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home thoughts!!!

Love me some good ol’ treks and I know this is the one with the whales (which reminds me of hitchhikers guide to the galaxy)

Warning for spoiling the whole movie (don’t cry over spoiled movie if you don’t have to! Go watch it for yourself!)

Let’s get going:

- A LEONARD NIMOY FILM ?!?

- okay Harve Bennett. I see you in the credits.

- I like the Saratoga crew. Too bad they’re probably gonna die immediately

- HIII SAREK!!! God he’s hot I hate him so much

- “Personal bias! His son was saved by Kirk.” His son is also married to Kirk so…

- McCoy got to choose the name of the ship :))

- Kirk’s wearing the same shirt.. oh wait they all are nvm

- Spock on a rock

- Hi Amanda!

- “Spock, the retraining of your mind has been in the Vulcan way so you may not understand feelings, but as my son, you have them.”

- Amanda trying to tell Spock that his friends care about him so much that they go against what is logical and it mirrors how in journey to babel Spock was not willing to sacrifice the good of the many (the ship) for the good of the one (his father) so I’m wondering if they will have an arc for him realizing that sometimes you want the one and not the many

- I like the problems they keep having with projectors/videos. Or not exactly problems but in the beginning they had to ask multiple times for the video to stop playing and here they are just talking over the transmission in the background. It adds a sense of confusion and havoc that I think makes it delightfully more realistic

- The Bird of Prey is such a beautiful design

- “I did not wish to be shot down on the way to our own funeral.” lol nice Chekov

- Nooo Spock and Saavik don’t have the mentor/mentee vibes anymore :(((

- Kirk really wants Spock to call him Jim… he misses his husband :(

- Bones is right. And then he leaves Kirk with the “That’s what I thought.” And the entire bridge crew is just like ‘don’t engage, look away, the husbands are fighting but just don’t look.’

- The copy pasted Saavik and Amanda

- “Hi. Busy?” McCoy sliding over to Spock

- McCoy just say you’re happy he’s back. He misses his verbal sparring buddy omg

- “Forgive me, Doctor, I’m receiving a number of distress calls.” McCoy is SHOCKED like, ‘did he just purposely reject me???’ I’m crying

- sad! Your husband died and now he doesn’t want to fight with you!!

- hi bitch! (It’s Sarek)

- THEY PUT EYELINER ON CHEKOV!

- THE PROBE SOUNDS LIKE WHALES ???

- so the transmission is for whales. That’s cool.

- Uhura would make a sick DJ. She’s remixing the whale sounds

- “Bones, you stay here.” “No way. Somebody’s got to keep an eye on him.” He’s trying to look out for his husbands

- love sci fi that is like ‘sea creatures interacting with space hmmm yess I think it will’ cause if you think about it, there’s a lot of sea that is unexplored just like space (yeah I’m talking about HGttG again)

- SPOCK SAYS SAVE THE FUCKING WHALES

- McCoy DOES NOT want them to travel back in time

- HII CHAPEL HIIII

- The chaos in the control room with someone on the screen talking over everyone else in the room… perfection

- Sometimes Kirk sounds like Seth Macfarlane

- “You really gonna try time travel in this rust bucket?” “We’ve done it before.” “Sure. Slingshot around the sun, pick up enough speed and you’re in time warp. If you don’t, you’re fried.” “You prefer to do nothing?” “I prefer a dose of common sense. You’re proposing that we go backwards in time, find humpback whales, then bring them froward in time, drop them off, and hope to hell they tell this probe what to go do with itself.” “That’s the general idea.” “Well, that’s crazy.” “You have a better idea? Now’s the time.” Yep. That summarizes it better than I could ever. How McCoy stays married to this man is a mystery

- The command base hears that Kirk is going to time travel and PANICS

- “May fortune favour the foolish.” Good Kirk line

- The ship is actively falling apart

- They’re back in time!

- Sulu lore! he was born in sanfransico or however you spell it

- McCoy trying not to laugh at Spock’s little bandana. Kirk smiles for a second and then remembers himself

- THEYRE IN THE WILD! SET LOSE! Who let them roam free?!

- Winchell’s Donut House. Wonder if that’s still open. Or real. Damn, I want donuts.

- Kirk almost getting run over “Well a double dumbass on you!” And then he throws up his hands omg I love him

- They’re all slaying

- “The rest of you, break up. You look like a cadet review.” They’re all kinda lost tho

- Spock in the pawn shop is looking like, ‘those were a birthday present from our husband. Why would you give them away :(‘

- Kirk and his powerful skills of deduction. He won’t let Spock just infodump :(

- They’re all really good looking.

- UHURA AND CHEKOV TEAM UP! Something I didn’t know I needed (I need it)

- NO LITTLE RUSSIAN BOY! Don’t ask for directions from a cop to a nuclear weapons base in the 1980s!

- SPOCK NERVE PINCHING THE PUNK ON THE BUS LOL

- “No one pays attention to you unless you swear every other word.” WELL. Okay. I’m not offended. At all.

- Spock frowning at the whales dying on the screen

- “To hunt a species to extinction is not logical.” There’s a lot of times you think ‘Vulcans can be emotionless which could equal cruelty’ but looking at this, humans with emotions turn out more cruel because that is an emotion. We want and are greedy. It’s surprising that Vulcans are friends with humans because of just how much illogical carnage we have wrought. Anyway.

- Hey Jim. Where’s Spock?

- Kirk becoming more and more worried that he can’t find Spock. And then he turns around AND HES IN THE TANK.. this is why McCoy wants to come along. Jim cannot watch him well enough

- Spock’s ass can’t believe he went in there to mind meld with the whales

- Sopping wet Spock

- “The hell they did.” SPOCK SWEAR OMG

- “Can’t you remember?” “The hell I can’t.” I love him so much, he’s being a little shit, this is on purpose. I think writers should let him say hell and other expletives more often

- “Oh come on, Bob! I don’t know about you, but my compassion for someone is not limited to my estimate of their intelligence.” DID YALL IN THE BACK HEAR THIS???

- Uhura and Chekov on the beach with the seagulls

- Gillian’s got a “I ❤️ whales” sticker on her truck. I love her.

- “I think he did a little to much LDS.” I think Kirk meant to say Spock does LSD? I’m assuming?

- This lady just picked up two husbands trying to save the whales.. that’s very lucky for her

- “Are you sure it isn’t time for a colourful metaphor.” LET SPOCK SAY FUCK

- “You guys like Italian?” Spock and Kirk proceeding to fight by saying no and yes repeatedly is my favourite

- They’re just letting Scotty and McCoy roam around???

- I love McCoy and Scotty improvising together, and Scotty going off and getting upset

- “May my assistant join us?” “Don’t bury yourself in the part.”

- Sulu just gets to nerd out about helicopters

- McCoy sitting on any and all surfaces like it’s a chair. Scotty joining him.

- McCoy handing Scotty the mouse like he’s so proud of himself

- McCoy’s got his ✨dazzling✨ eyes on rn

- “We’d be altering the future.” “Well, how do you know he didn’t invent the thing.” Scotty. That’s not how time travel works.

- So basically McCoy gets Jim and Spock out of trouble but gets into trouble when he’s with Scotty

- THEYRE JUST LEAVING SPOCK IN THE PARK oh wait he’s going to the ship

- Get yourself a partner who would cry over whales

- “I’m from Iowa, I only work in outer space.” This man smh

- Oh no. Get Chekov out of there. Holy shit.

- “Must be the radiation.” He proceeds to throw the phaser at the guy and then runs out the door

- Gillian not afraid to slap Bob over whales

- Did- did Sulu steal a helicopter? Yes. Yes he did.

- Gillian sees Spock with his ears and eyebrows and she’s like ‘yeah makes sense’

- “Admiral, may I suggest that Dr. McCoy is correct?” Spock agrees with McCoy. 208 dead, 15 injured

- Gillian is surrounded by the polycule. She just wants her whales to be safe.

- McCoy is literally the best. He saw this person suffering and then immediately helped

- “Uh, excuse me, we’ll take that.” They steal the gurney and Gillian immediately hops onto it. I love her.

- “This woman has immediate postprandial upper abdominal distension.” “What did you say she’s got?” “Cramps” McCoy saw the security and went ‘Yep they’re stupid’ he didn’t even bother with a proper lie

- In an argument between a 20th century doctor and McCoy, I would bet McCoy any and every time

- I love when McCoy is just.. appalled at old medicine

- Chekov slowly regaining awareness and he lifts his head only for Kirk to push his face down with a, ‘not now, Pavel.’

- I like how the crew right now have been using Chekov’s first name and are protective of him.

- Sulu immediately being there to help Chekov get back on the ship 🥺🥺🥺

- This woman is so into whales that she would time travel for them

- Is McCoy sitting on the console and leaning over it to talk to talk to Spock? Yes, yes he is.

- “Well, then you’re just gonna have to take your best shot.” “Best shot?” “Guess, Spock.” “Guessing is not in my nature, Doctor.” “Well, nobody’s perfect.” He lets that last line drawl and then stares at Spock for a little too long. That’s flirting.

- That was the most intense countdown. I felt like something might happen to the whales within those ten seconds and I was worried

- “So I will make a… guess.” McCoy is rubbing off on Spock

- “No, Spock. He [Kirk] means that he feels safer about your guesses than most other people’s facts.” Hehe

- She was so happy just staring at her whales but then Kirk goes and interrupts that

- “I belong here, I am a whale biologist.” They are so lucky that they ran into someone THIS interested in whales

- McCoy resists the urge to just look at Spock when they’re travelling back to their time

- I like how there’s a hatch leading outside on the bridge… of a spaceship.

- forgot how hot Kirk’s poofy sleeves are

- They have a scene where everyone just gets absolutely drenched

- I’m so glad they didn’t have subtitles for the whales and probes. It’s more realistic for the universe. Starfleet doesn’t know what they’re saying, the crew doesn’t know what they’re saying, we shouldn’t know what they’re saying. It’s not how the universe works.

- They’re cheering for whales. I love when people cheer for things

- They’re all playing in the water omg this is adorable

- hi bitch (Sarek)

- Jim walks in with McCoy right behind him and Spock goes to join them from where he’s sitting

- I love Scotty’s little moustache it’s so :<

- McCoy is NOT listening, he’s got like nyan cat theme playing in his head

- THEY GAVE HIM COMMAND OF A STARSHIP FOR DISOBEYING ORDERS?!?

- I think McCoy should run up to Spock and Kirk and get them to kiss here

- Scott and Sulu arguing over which ship they think they’ll get <3

- McCoy is leaning so sluttily on the new bridge

The credits just showing pictures of each of the cast is adorable

See ya on the flip flop

Masterpost