#Must be kind of hard for a dog lover to act like he loathes dogs! :D

[don-dake]

Dogs of “Doc Martin” (ITV 2004—?) ‘Gremlin’ as unnamed dog, ‘Dodger’ as ‘Buddy’, ‘Paddy’ as ‘Bob’, ‘Widget’ as ‘Shelly’

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - “Plot Twist” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Embroiled in the aftermath of two very messy break-ups, Crowley and Aziraphale are preparing to film their first love scene together. But how do you pretend to be in love when your love life is falling apart?

It probably doesn't hurt to be in love with your co-star. (2318 words)

Notes: So I made the chauffeur young Shadwell, but patterned after young Michael McKean, who I was desperately in love with back in the day XD Human au, ineffable wives, mention of past Aziraphale/Gabriel, mostly just fluff

Read on AO3.

“Ooo, I get a limo this time. Fancy, fancy,” Crowley mumbles, not nearly as impressed as she’s pretending to be. She’d much rather drive herself in her own Bentley and in her own sweet arse time. But she needs to keep up appearances. 

There are always two eyes and a camera lens on her at any given moment.

Even though it’s the literal buttcrack of dawn, she’s not alone. There are about thirty asshats, armed with cameras, camped out on her doorstep, climbing over each other to snap a candid of her for the gossip sites. A photo of her emerging from her rented townhouse fresh-faced and ready for another day on set will fetch an easy hundred pounds.

But if she looks like she rolled out of bed, drank a bottle of whiskey for breakfast, then fell down a flight of stairs, landing face-first onto a mountain of cocaine? Those pictures would fetch considerably more.

That’s what she gets for going through a horrendous break-up while having the nerve to be rich and famous.

She thought that when the production moved filming away from London and out to California, the buzz surrounding her personal affairs would die down. On the contrary. It seemed to get worse, in part because the states don’t have the same paparazzi laws the UK does.

She can’t sit down to take a proper shit without seeing a flash pop off.

Despite how she feels about her life at the moment, she went for class over crass. She shies away from hard drugs, and she can't justify looking less than her best, especially in public. 

She refuses to let anyone see her sweat.

“Antonia! Antonia! Over here!” the pariahs beckon, some of them whistling for her attention like she’s a dog. “Antonia! Hey, Crowley!”

Crowley.

That’s the one that gets to her - burrows into the roots of her teeth and makes her head pulsate with rage. It keeps her feet moving when she might have stopped to exchange a polite hello, given out an autograph. And the sick thing is these vultures probably realize that. 

That’s why they keep doing it. 

Who talks to people like that? When did it become acceptable to bellow out someone’s last name as a means of getting their attention? Is it too much to ask for them to shove a ‘Mrs.’ in front of it? Have these glorified stalkers forgotten that, if it weren’t for her and stars like her, the only jobs they could get would be snapping photos of families at Legoland for minimum wage?

Ugh. 

Too much thinking too early in the morning.

She could write an entire essay on how much she loathes pap culture, but today, she can’t be bothered caring.

She’s filming one of the most anticipated scenes of her whole career on one of the worst days of her life. 

That’s the hurdle she needs to focus on.

She slaps on a smile and waves, sliding her glasses down her nose only far enough so they can’t see how red her eyes have gotten from crying.

“Oh, ‘ello, loves! I didn’t see you all here! So nice of you to greet me at 5:30 on this fine winter morning! Oh, careful there. You spilled your coffee. And I think you just kicked that poor lad in the face. You wanna give him a hand up there? He’s bleedin’ all over the pavement.”

Crowley greets her guests this way every morning, killing them with kindness, as subtle an eff you as she can come up with when her brain cells have yet to kick in for the day.

Coffee. She needs coffee. About a gallon-and-a-half of it.

And a shot of bourbon might be nice.

Crowley glides through the crowd, an angelfish among sharks, and comes out unscathed.

A man with brown hair, pale skin, and striking blue eyes, wearing a fitted, black uniform tailored to within an inch of its life, opens the car door for her as she approaches.

"Good morning, Mrs. Crowley."

“Good morning, Mr. Shadwell. It's nice to see you.” Crowley slides into the car, thankful when the chauffeur shuts the door. She sinks into the leather seat and tosses her sunglasses aside. “God!" she moans, burying her face in her hands. "I don't want to do this! I want to stay home, eat ice cream, and drink tremendous amounts of alcohol! I definitely don’t want to be snogging anyone today!”

Aziraphale, who had been waiting patiently with a small box of assorted cookies and wearing a sympathetic smile, frowns. “Wow. Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley's head snaps up, her face splotchy, and red enough to rival her hair in seconds. “Aziraphale! I am so sorry! I didn’t know you were …! That’s not what I meant!" She takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly. "It's not you, angel. I swear it isn’t. I just don’t feel particularly romantic today.”

“It’s all right. I know what you mean. I feel the same way.”

Crowley squares Aziraphale with a stern look. “Wow. Thank you.”

Aziraphale ducks her eyes, her cheeks turning pink as she offers Crowley a cookie from the box. She wonders if Aziraphale made them herself. She often does bake to pass the time. So much so that she's become quite good at it.

Life hasn’t been treating her too kindly, either.

The cookies are delicate little things, intricately frosted in red, green, and white, decorated as bells and angels and snowflakes in honor of Christmas. 

Because it’s Christmas. 

Crowley is having the worst day of her life a week before Christmas.

Sigh.

There is usually champagne, no matter what vehicle the studio sends to pick them up. She wonders where it’s gone, searching about for it. Crowley and Aziraphale rarely avail themselves to it, preferring to wait till after the shooting day is done to have a nightcap.

But today, it feels like a necessity.

Leave it to the studio to not provide them a bottle of bubbly on the one day Crowley longs to drown in it.

“I didn’t know Shadwell was picking you up first,” Crowley says, starting small talk to ease the tension. Crowley and Aziraphale don’t usually have trouble making small talk.

Today is an exception.

“Well ...” Aziraphale clears embarrassment from her throat “... I was just … you know … a few blocks down the way.”

Crowley sits up further, leans forward with interest. “So you did it. You left him. You left Gabriel.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies quietly. “I couldn’t stay. Not after …” She stops and sniffles, turning her head to hide eyes that must be as red as Crowley’s. Crowley doesn’t know.

She only ever notices how incredible they are.

Crowley rests a comforting hand on Aziraphale’s knee. “I know.” 

“Yeah,” Aziraphale says with a slightly bitter laugh. “So does the whole world. In fact, the photogs knew I was leaving before I knew. You should have seen it. I could barely get past them.”

Crowley pulls a box of tissues out of the side panel and offers her co-star one. “They’re bottom feeders. The lot of them. Try to ignore them.”

“Easier said than done.”

“I know,” Crowley repeats, feeling exceptionally useless. She’s in the exact same boat, but her heart hurts more for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale doesn’t deserve what she's going through. She doesn’t deserve such a public break-up.

She doesn’t deserve having her name drug all over social media by an emotionally manipulative bastard who thinks he's God's gift.

Crowley gazes out the window at the sky above. The forecast said it would be clear and sunny today, but it’s cloudy and grey. It matches Crowley's mood. Everything is cloudy and grey.

Well, maybe not everything.

The cookie she's eating isn’t. It’s sweet and crisp and melts in her mouth. It puts a smile on her face.

That helps.

Aziraphale helps, too.

Even gloomy, melancholy Aziraphale helps.

Just being in Aziraphale's presence helps.

“Living in the public eye isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, is it, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, though it sounds as much like a statement to herself as a question for Crowley.

“Not on days like today. But that’s the trade-off for being a star, I suppose.” 

“Would you ever give it up?” Aziraphale asks, taking a nibble of her Madeleine.

“I can’t say I would. You?”

“Nnnn ... no."

"There isn't anything else you wanted to do?" Crowley asks, latching on to her hesitation. "Not even when you were younger?"

"Well ..." Aziraphale bobs her head back and forth. "To be honest, I have always wanted to own my own bookshop. Or perhaps work in a library. But that's only if acting didn't work out. Acting has given me so many opportunities I could never have dreamed of. And all the great people I've met? I mean, this is what? The fifth film we’ve starred in together?”

“It is." 

Aziraphale chuckles. "Some of them have been real winners."

"I know! The roles you get offered when you're just starting out are criminal! Let’s see, we’ve been rogue enemy agents from different factions …”

“High school frenemies …”

“Alien co-conspirators …”

“Jealous rivals …”

“And now … lovers.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says bashfully. “And today …”

Crowley smiles. “We get together for the first time.”

Hearing Crowley say it makes Aziraphale’s heart race, her pulse thrumming so fast it disappears.

The day Aziraphale found out she’d gotten the role of Crowley’s love interest and not the ‘jealous ex’ (the role her agent originally pitched for her since they play adversaries so well) was a dream come true. The studio felt the two of them could take their insane sexual tension (the studio's words, not Aziraphale's, although she doesn't disagree) and use it to fuel the plot of their latest 'friends-to-lovers' rom-com.

Aziraphale has always wanted to be a leading lady. Deep down, she prayed that her first time, she'd play opposite Crowley. Now that it has finally happened, the role of her dreams comes with the greatest perk in the universe - an intimate moment with Antonia.

In front of about three dozen crew members, but still. 

It's Aziraphale's chance to indulge her crush, which she plans to savor since it may not come around again. 

Not in the way Aziraphale wants.

As friendly as Crowley is to her, as flirty as she can be, Aziraphale doesn't know for sure whether Crowley shares her feelings.

“If you don't mind my asking, when did she tell you?” Aziraphale asks.

“She didn’t." Crowley snorts humorlessly. "I woke up, and she was gone. I thought she had left for work. She had a table reading at six that morning, so I wasn’t immediately suspicious. Not until I started noticing important things were missing - clothes, toiletries, her contact lenses, her laptop …” 

"Did she tell you why she was leaving?"

Crowley chews her lower lip at the question she'd known was coming ... the answer she's debating whether or not to give. "Eventually." She glances up at Aziraphale, flashes a sly grin, and decides to go for broke. “She left because she thought I was falling in love with my co-star.”

"Really?" And just like that, Aziraphale dies, her heart shrinking into nothing and blowing away on the wind. "W-which one?" she asks, solely for conversation's sake.

This time, when Crowley snorts, clamping a hand over her mouth to keep from spraying crumbs all over the interior of the limo, it's genuine. "You, you gumball!"

"Oh. Oh!" Aziraphale’s expression of shock is so endearing, Crowley can’t look at it too long. There's a glow about her. It's like staring into the sun. “That's ... that’s funny. Gabriel broke up with me for the same reason. Because of ... you. At least, that's the excuse he gave on Twitter ... and Instagram ... and Facebook.” Aziraphale's glow dims as she talks about her ex. Their relationship, and separation, weren’t as civil as Crowley’s. In reality, trouble had been brewing behind the scenes for a while. 

She’s glad they finally went their separate ways, but it stings just the same, finding out that someone you once loved, who you thought loved you back, just wanted someone to push around. To control.

"That is funny. Not funny ha-ha. Just ... funny. Who would have thunk?" Crowley goes back to her cookie, taking small bites while keeping an eye on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale glances out the window as the limo slows, approaching the gates to the studio lot. Crowley doesn't follow Aziraphale's gaze.

She doesn't need to. 

She knows what Aziraphale sees by the way her face falls.

Aziraphale had hoped they could slip in quietly, but there's already a mob three feet deep waiting for them. The photographers and fans won't be able to see a thing through the car's windows. The tint on them is darker than dark. Still, the whole lot will be on high alert with them here. 

Inevitably, a handful will slip in. 

They may even find their way on set.

Aziraphale doesn't have the energy to deal with that.

Not today.

“How are we going to get through it?" Aziraphale asks. "Filming this scene? The timing is ... uncanny, to say the least.”

“Think of it this way …” Crowley slides across to Aziraphale’s side, sits as close as they're both comfortable with. Crooking a finger beneath her chin, Crowley draws Aziraphale's attention away from the gathering crowd and over to her eyes instead “… we get to spend the entire afternoon making each other feel better. That's how we're going to get through this. Agreed?”

Aziraphale’s eyes lower, flicker to Crowley's lips unintentionally. When they travel back up, she notices Crowley's eyes do the same. She swallows hard. At this distance from Crowley, from her mouth, Aziraphale only has the wherewithal to say one word. She makes it count. "Agreed."

[chanseo023]

Medicine

For the request: Kim Jungwoo + STFU! (Rina Sawayama) + Enemies to Lovers AU 💛

Pairing: Jungwoo x Reader 

Fluff and angst, kind of slice of life.

A/N: My very first request! Thank you anon! I tried to make it gender neutral.

Jungwoo didn’t know how he ended up in this position. In hindsight, he should have expected his friends to pull this - make enemy!you and him to be stuck together in a place that would have, under other circumstances, been his haven. But no. They had to put him in the spot.

[Seungkwan]: Woo-yah, sorry, man, but we can’t come.

[Jungwoo]; Why???

[Vernon]: we have some work, sorry we’re bailing out

Jungwoo sighed loudly when he saw you. He wanted to take his phone out and yell at Seungkwan and Vernon; he really did. They had always thought you and him would make a good pair but Jungwoo believed otherwise because he firmly believed you were far too entitled, far too rich, far too spoiled. While he shouldn’t have been judgemental, you had proved his conclusions right. You had the air of richness around you, and he loathed it. He detested the fact that you had enough money to dismiss it as just another casual thing. The same money for him was a fortune.

He hadn’t expected stuck up, obnoxious you to be volunteering for community service, especially at an old-age home. You were smiling brightly, politely talking to an aged man sitting in a wheelchair. Jungwoo scoffed. What a show you were putting on, behaving nice like you weren’t the exact opposite.

It took everything in him to stay still in his spot and not run away when you approached him.

“Hey, Jungwoo”, you said with a smile.

That was another problem. While he loathed you, you were always nice to Jungwoo. 

At first, you weren’t. Jungwoo had put you in your place when a healthy discussion about the rich had turned into a debate. Just as he expected, you had taken the side of the rich, claiming how hard they had to work to even get there. ‘How would you know?’ he had asked you. You had grown up rich. When you were just about to defend yourself, he burst in anger about how you would never understand how much people like him had to struggle, effectively shutting you up. And like every other rich person, you had evaded when the questions became too much to handle. He had thought you to be a coward and you were one. What he hadn’t expected was for you to find him two days after, and sincerely apologise. Ever since that day, he had seen you act differently. You had stuck to your apology and changed your mindset.

So he had to bite his lip from saying anything but “Hi.”

“Are Seungkwan and Vernon not coming?”

“They have some work.”

“Oh.”

He was about to leave, the small talk too overbearing for him when you asked, “Are you not coming to serve lunch, Jungwoo?”

Jungwoo felt torn. On one hand, that was where he wanted to leave for. But now that you were asking, he would have to oblige and go with you. Instead of offering any words, he took off in the direction of the kitchen and heard you scurrying to keep up.

Jungwoo managed to get through service with you. Although he would have to agree that it was mostly because you were busy, engaging yourself with the residents of the old age home. However, he didn’t know fate was backfiring throughout because when they stepped out to get back to their dorms, he found his bike with a flat tire. He groaned and looked up to the sky.

Why me, Jungwoo thought to himself.

“Hey, do you need help?” you ask him.

“No”, Jungwoo responds curtly.

“Jungwoo, there’s no taxi service here here and only the heavens above know when you’d get help. Come with me.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“Jungwoo, please, I-”

“God, can you shut the fuck up!?”

The silence that followed felt like it could suffocate him to death. You looked hurt and Jungwoo knew he was responsible. He was waiting for you to bite back; hell, he wanted you to.

But you didn’t.

Instead you sucked in a deep breath and said, “Let me drop you back. I won’t bother you after”, and made your way to your vehicle.

The car ride was sickening. Jungwoo felt sick in his stomach, bile rising up in his throat. He didn’t know what it was. Or maybe he did. It was guilt.

It was only half way through the drive that you opened your mouth.

“I know you hate me”, you said softly but it was loud in the car with only the two of you. “I know you do because of what I had said two years ago. I don’t know why I am even explaining myself, but I want you to know that I have been trying to be a better person. But it seems like you don’t want to believe that.

“You made me see what I couldn’t before. But maybe, that isn’t what you want. This is the last time you’ll see me. But all I ask of you is to give people a chance to improve.”

Perhaps Jungwoo felt wounded after that, not that he would admit it. Had he really been that harsh? There were tears pooling in your eyes when you looked away, continuing to drive.

When he narrated this to Taeil the day after you dropped him off, the older man sighed.

“Yah, you dumbass. This is your shortcoming. How come you want people to give you multiple chances but you won’t do the same for them? that’s not how it works, Jungwoo. They are trying, can’t you see that?”

It was no surprise that Jungwoo spent the entire day speculating, running Taeil’s words over and over in his head. Looking back, he realised just how harsh he had been with you. When he questioned how you must have felt after every harsh word, every sharp gaze he had sent your way, he felt his heart sink to his stomach. Every time that you had offered a white flag, he would absolutely crush it and throw it under the bus.

And then, Jungwoo couldn’t help but wonder why. Why all this animosity to someone who respected his words and reflected over their actions? Why all this hate? Perhaps Jungwoo was self-projecting. Perhaps he didn’t how to handle the fact that after your apology, he had no concrete reason to hate on you. Or maybe, just maybe, it was that he hadn’t understood how he had felt when he looked at you in your finest moments; playing with the campus dog, helping out your friends when you needed them, laughing your heart out, being unapologetically you. 

So, when he found you hanging out with Seungkwan and Vernon at the quad, he rushed to you, not wanting to waste any moment.

“Y/N?” Jungwoo called out, making you look at him surprised. “Can I talk to you? Alone?”

Just for a second, Jungwoo wanted to coo over your confused expression. But he willed himself to think of how to apologise to you instead. Amidst his thinking, he hadn’t noticed both the boys slip away, giving you and him the privacy he had asked for.

“Y/N, just please listen to me, yes? I know there’s a million other things you would rather do, but please hear me out. I want to apologise for my words and actions towards you. I spent two years loathing you, when it was really me I was loathing. It was self-projection, I realised. Because I could never mend myself as quickly as you did. And I always was right. In my head, I could never be wrong. But then you came in, correcting yourself after I told you off. What made it worse was that you even apologised. And that made me angry because if you could do it, why couldn’t I? I realise how terrible I have been and it only took a few words to be the bitter medicine for my mind. I am so sorry.”

To say you were shocked would’ve been an understatement. To Jungwoo, you looked like you had seen a ghost, like you were living a dream and couldn’t believe for it to be true.

Jungwoo began to get anxious, his nerves getting the best of him. He hadn’t expected you to accept his apology, he had only hoped you would acknowledge it. But from the looks of it, he might not even get that.

“Jungwoo”, you whispered. “I- Thank you. For apologising. I didn’t expect it.”

He couldn’t believe his ears. Were you seriously thanking him for apologising?

“I will need time though, to forgive you. I won’t lie, I did feel bad when you continued to treat me the way you did. But I understand. I am happy you could overcome it.”

“I-I don’t know how to- I am sorry”, Jungwoo repeated and he really wanted to smack himself for sounding like a broken record.

His breath hitched when you smiled at him. “I’ll see you around?” you said and left.

Maybe, just maybe, Jungwoo could have something more with you than just hate.

[secretlyatargaryen]

Tyrion and Dany, Monsters

“Monster” is a word that has been used to justify the abuse and dehumanization Tyrion has been subjected to from the moment he was born.

“When I commented that you seemed a poor sort of monster, your sister said, 'He killed my mother,' and twisted your little cock so hard I thought she was like to pull it off. You shrieked, but it was only when your brother Jaime said, 'Leave him be, you're hurting him,' that Cersei let go of you. 'It doesn't matter,' she told us. 'Everyone says he's like to die soon. He shouldn't even have lived this long.'”

It’s a word that appears often in Tyrion’s thoughts because of his awareness of how it is used against him.

. . me, the dwarf, the monster, the one they scorned and laughed at...  

"Yes, and I am a monster besides, hideous and misshapen, never forget that."

And when Tyrion reclaims that word in the books and turns it back around on someone who really is a monster, he’s using it to protect Sansa.

"No." Tyrion's voice was hoarse. "Sansa is no longer yours to torment. Understand that, monster."

Joffrey sneered. "You're the monster, Uncle."

Which of course is used against him, because he’s never been allowed to forget that label that has been used against him just for the crime of being born, and used to justify sexually abusing him as an infant. And in the scene with Joffrey, it’s a reminder that not only can he not protect himself, but that he can’t protect Sansa, either. His disability makes him weak not only in the eyes of people who would hurt him, but it means he can’t save anyone from the real monsters. This dehumanizes Tyrion as a man because he can’t perform what he sees as his duty as Sansa’s husband, and also diminishes him as someone who can never be a hero himself, but can only be an object to be acted on. And later, it’s used to twist the narrative and portray him as a villain.

"Ser Ilyn never dared provoke Aerys the way your Imp provokes Joff," said Cersei. "You heard him. 'Monster,' he said. To the King's Grace. And he threatened him . . ."

This word also factors in Tyrion’s mental break when he is falsely accused of Joffrey’s murder and begins to collapse underneath the belief that he really is a monster.

“You make me sorry that I am not the monster you would have me be, yet there it is. I am innocent, but I will get no justice here.”

It’s hard to identify who the real monsters are when you’ve been told your whole life that you are a monster. Tyrion goes from insisting upon his innocence, to attempting to protect others, to wishing he were what people thought he was. But what hurts most is Jaime, the brother that he loves, seeing him that way.

“And I am the monster they all say I am. Yes, I killed your vile son." He made himself grin. It must have been a hideous sight to see, there in the torchlit gloom.

Jaime turned without a word and walked away.

By ADWD, Tyrion, haunted by trauma and consumed by self-loathing, begins to refer to himself as a monster, seemingly believing the things people have said to justify dehumanizing him.

“No matter, Griff. You are no knight and I am Hugor Hill, a little monster. Your little monster, if you like. You have my word, all that I desire is to be leal servant of your dragon queen."

And this is where Tyrion’s story starts to meld with Dany’s, who also is surrounded by the word “monster.” The Dragon Queen. Queen of Monsters.

The girl never started for the west. No doubt she had good reasons. Between Meereen and Volantis lay five hundred leagues of deserts, mountains, swamps, and ruins, plus Mantarys with its sinister repute. A city of monsters, they say, but if she marches overland, where else is she to turn for food and water? The sea would be swifter, but if she does not have the ships …

Daenerys is a girl with no homeland. Daughter of a king who was, by all accounts, truly monstrous. A girl who assimilated herself into a culture she was sold into and forcibly married into, a girl who woke dragons out of stone, literal monsters out of myth. Small wonder Dany has also come to see the word “monster” as describing herself.

Mother of dragons, Daenerys thought. Mother of monsters. What have I unleashed upon the world? A queen I am, but my throne is made of burned bones, and it rests on quicksand. Without dragons, how could she hope to hold Meereen, much less win back Westeros? I am the blood of the dragon, she thought. If they are monsters, so am I.

Other people also use the word “monster” against Dany, for her crimes of rebellion and upsetting the social order. And being a mother to dragons is also a feminine sort of monstrosity.

"Sweet?" Qavo laughed. "If even half the stories coming back from Slaver's Bay are true, this child is a monster. They say that she is bloodthirsty, that those who speak against her are impaled on spikes to die lingering deaths. They say she is a sorceress who feeds her dragons on the flesh of newborn babes, an oathbreaker who mocks the gods, breaks truces, threatens envoys, and turns on those who have served her loyally. They say her lust cannot be sated, that she mates with men, women, eunuchs, even dogs and children, and woe betide the lover who fails to satisfy her. She gives her body to men to take their souls in thrall."

Oh, good, thought Tyrion. If she gives her body to me, she is welcome to my soul, small and stunted though it is.

It seems like Tyrion and Daenerys are destined for some kind of partnership, and this quote hints at a sexual one. That doesn’t necessarily mean that Dany x Tyrion will happen, because it could also be a symbolic coupling. Whatever happens between them, this quote is very intimate, an exchange of bodies and souls. A union of monsters.

"Have you ever bedded a monster before?”

Of the characters that question the label of “monster” applied to disabled people, Oberyn is one. In ADWD, Sweets, the intersex character who is a slave in Yezzen’s menagerie, uses the word to contrast the ableist labels given to Tyrion and the other slaves and to point out the true monstrosity of what they are being subjected to.

"You will want to be careful with Nurse," said Sweets when the overseer had departed. "He is the only true monster here."

The narrative is telling us that the true monsters are the ones who dehumanize others, and it’s those who have been called monsters that are in a position to call this out.

For Dany, it is not only confronting the monstrosity of her family’s legacy, manifested in the literal monstrosity of the dragons, but also tied into this narrative is the fact that all of the men that Dany has loved have been monsters (and, similarly to Tyrion, Dany spends a lot of time thinking of herself as a monster because of how she has been abused by monstrous men.)

(About Daario) Dany was appalled. He is a monster. A gallant monster, but a monster still. 

Again we see the theme of men who give the appearance of gallantry but are moral monsters, just as Sansa once thought Joffrey gallant. And both Tyrion and Dany struggle with whether they are any different from these moral monsters.

What have I done? she thought, huddled in her empty bed. I have waited so long for him to come back, and I send him away. "He would make a monster of me," she whispered, "a butcher queen." But then she thought of Drogon far away, and the dragons in the pit. There is blood on my hands too, and on my heart. We are not so different, Daario and I. We are both monsters. 

“My hands …" Tyrion turned them over, inspected them, coiled them into fists. "… my hands are crusted with old blood, aye. Call me kinslayer, and you won't be wrong. Kingslayer, I'll answer to that one as well. I have killed mothers, fathers, nephews, lovers, men and women, kings and whores. 

The irony of these quotes is that the very context contradicts the claim that these characters are what they say. Dany is not the monster the men influencing her would have her be, and Tyrion didn’t even do half the things he is confessing to.

[bittermarrow]

Break the Chain // (Thomas Hewitt x Reader)

A/n: Why do I write angst? It is so painfullll, yet so good and I’m indecisive and like torturing myself. Also, this takes place after Thomas gets his arm chopped off and chases after Erin.

Warnings: Graphic Gore/Blood, Angst, lots of feelings.

Words: 2200+

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Your entire body burns with a distinct kind of pain, your throat raw and pumping large gulps of air through your lungs despite the discomfort that doing so inflicts. You can feel warm gushes of blood dripping down your chest from the fresh gash streaking across your sternum. Your nose feels clogged yet somehow still oozing a thin stream of crimson, your cracked and peeling split bottom lip is covered in the blood leaking from your nose.

Your chest aches and stings with boiling hot shots of irregular pain, the more you move the stronger your agony becomes. But still, you keep moving, the heavy downpour of a rare nightly rain leaves your clothes and hair soaked. You are jogging down the muddy road, your flimsy sandals slipping and squealing as the wet bottoms of your heel slide over the sole. You can feel the start blades of damp grass sticking to your feet and the dirty splashes of murky puddles against your ankles.

Your chunky dog collar chafes against your neck and the heavy, snapped chain jingles and sways with your movements. You can barely see much with how dark it is, but the length of the road acts as your guide. You’re wheezing so hard it sounds like you'll collapse any minute, but you know better. You weren't going to rest until you found him.

You were feeling a lot of things that confused you right now. You were angry, no, fuming that Thomas had run off after that girl, Erin, risking his health to catch her, to protect his family. You felt an unsettling amount of relief being able to finally run again, without being chained down like a dog. You felt guilty that you had run, without even telling the others that you were going after Thomas, leaving them to probably think you’d tried to escape. But most of all, you were terrified beyond belief.

All that blood, the sight of the dismembered arm of your most trusted person and all the vermillion smears over the lockers sending you into a panic. You were scared for Thomas’s sake, you knew he wouldn't stop his chase until he’s either caught the woman who hurt his family or killed himself trying. His family’s safety meant way too much to him for him to give up, but you couldn't just let him die out there. There was a chance that he was already… no, no he’s alive! He has to be alive, he’s stronger than that, you have to remind yourself, but it does little to comfort you.

You almost stop breathing and trip over your own feet when you hear the faint sound of a purring motor, you run even faster when you recognize it to be a chainsaw. You look further down the road but it's hard to see anything. You can feel your knees about ready to give out, but you ignore the burning pain. You almost sob in relief when you spot Thomas a few meters down. You slid to a stop and drop to your hands and knees to crawl over to his shaking form.

You finally reach him and use what's left of your strength to turn him over, so he isn't lying face down. You can't tell if Thomas is unconscious or just out of it, and when you can't force out his name through your chattering teeth you drop yourself against him. You press your cheek to his chest and listen for a heartbeat, your other hand scrambles of one of his— his only hand. And your fingers fumble over his wrist to search for a pulse.

He’s still breathing, but his pulse feels very irregular. Like he’s fighting for his life, literally. Either that or he’s fading in and out of consciousness, you can only hope it’s the latter. You startle just a bit when you feel his soaking wet arm drop around your back. It almost feels like it’s gone dead weight. You lift your head up from his chest and look up to his face, looking for any signs of consciousness or awareness.

You can just slightly make out the fluttering of his eyelids through the shadows of his mask and the darkness of night and rain. He suddenly looks you dead in the eyes, but only for a moment before he’s squeezing them shut. You can practically sense your own perturbation rising over the edge of the teacup holding in all of your emotions, ready to spill.

You can feel Thomas’s arm squeezing around you, and his fingers are twisting in the back of your heavy shirt. You don’t realize that his intent was to somehow shield you from the rain, and if he had gathered up enough strength to do it, you wouldn’t have been able to keep from sobbing. Thomas would do anything to keep you safe, even from rain that could potentially make you sick, even as he’s bleeding out on the road. In a way it’s almost a good thing he started to flicker in and out of alertness again.

You take in a deep breath and look over to what's left of his right arm, it’s but chopped off straight through the bone. You scramble around for something to wrap around his wound before he bleeds out, he’s already lost so much. You yank the damp sweatshirt off of your waist and pushed his good arm off of you.

You moved to his other side and hovered a trembling hand over the marred display of gore that was left of Thomas’s arm, some of the skin only hanging by mere strings on the exposed, clipped bone. Your fingertips hesitated when you lowered your hand to the stub of meaty tore-up flesh, and then gently lifted the damaged limb into your lap, trying your very best not to press too hard on it. You wrung out your soaking wet sweatshirt the best you could before hastily wrapping up his arm in it. The moment you applied pressure and began tying the sleeves together as a makeshift bandage Thomas started thrashing.

The sudden shot of pain must have shaken him back into consciousness, and you hold his arm down to the best of your ability, trying desperately to tie the damn knot so you could stop causing him so much agony. Once you had it tight enough to slow the bleeding, you let him jerk his arm away and hiss and moan to himself. He looked completely out of it. Like he was in too much crippling pain to even register that you existed. That wasn’t a good sign. You’d read about how the more blood the human body loses, the more delusional and susceptible to extreme side effects they become.

You are reminded of the roaring chainsaw a good ten feet away from where you kneel beside your lover, half of the saw is in a deep, murky puddle of muck drowning the motorized sound to be distorted into an unpleasant gurgling. You were about to lift yourself up from the street and go to switch it off, but in that same moment, Thomas starts shifting around and making louder, more clear whines. His wrapped arm is trembling on the slick dirt road like it was full of tremoring nerves that jerked and throbbed.

You crawl over so you are behind him and gingerly raise his heavy head up and place it over your lap, noting the streaks of blood beneath his skull. He must’ve hit his head pretty hard on the way down. You start to panic all of a sudden, all of your emotions melding into one big ball of dread and terror as you began to pant. Your heart is pounding in your chest almost painfully vigorously. This was not the time to have an anxiety attack! You supposed this whole situation could be described as your biggest fear, but the more you panic the harder it will be to keep a level head and fix all of this. You needed to help Thomas first, he came first.

You gulp down those feelings like you had done so many times before, putting them on hold for a more important call. You shakily attempt to speak to him, to see if you could get any other verbal responses. You don’t even try to even out the tremors in your throat.

“Thomas, Baby, can you hear me? Please, I can’t—” You broke off into a choked sob, your hot tears mixing with the chilly, fat drops of rain. You cradled his head in your hands and hunched over him just slightly before turning to one side as your emotional turmoil started to leak through the cracks. “To-Tommy? Tommy, please. I’m so scared, I-I’m so sorry, please stay with me. I can’t— not now. Ch-Charlie’s comin’ Don’t worry… don’t worry.”

It wasn’t quite clear who you were truly trying to comfort. You didn't even know if Hoyt was coming, you only hoped that he was. You once again curse yourself for not saying something before you left. You knew you couldn't drag Thomas back to the house by yourself, you didn't know if he could walk if he would make it, you didn't even know if you’d make it! You noticed Thomas was shaking, oh what more could go wrong!? If the blood loss doesn't kill him first, hypothermia will!

You tried to keep Thomas calm when he started to squirm, most likely from the searing pain he was experiencing. You hushed and cooed at him, cradling his head close to your stomach. You bent forward to stop him from touching his other arm, begging him to stay still for just a bit longer. You felt almost guilty for pleading with him to stay awake, but you knew you had to at least try to keep him conscious as long as possible.

The persistent deluge didn't relent in the slightest as five, six, and seven minutes passed by. Finally, you saw headlights approaching, the distinct pure of a truck growing closer and closer. You almost cried out in relief when you recognized whose truck it was, once it was close enough you wave to it to bring the driver’s attention to yourself.

It slowed to and pulled over, without a doubt, Hoyt and Luda Mae hopped out of the truck and rushed over to you. They both looked almost shocked to see you and only hesitated for a moment before they were fussing over Thomas. Luda was already yelling, starting to cry upon seeing her special boy in such a state.

“My boy! What have they done to my boy?!” You were quickly shoved away from Thomas, and as much as you loathed being apart from him and were on the verge of a severe emotional breakdown, you gave Luda some space to grieve and shout over her son. Charlie was a bit of a mess, you'd never seen the man so worried it, and yet so lost. Charlie always knew what to do, but right now… he looked like even he didn’t know how to fix this.

Fortunately, the posing sheriff was quick to get his head back in the right place and got his gears turning.

“C’mon, Mama, help me get ‘em in the truck!” Charlie shouted over the loud downpour, finally taking charge of the situation like he always did. You quickly rushed to help them maneuver a dazed Thomas into the backseat, the hulking man is trying his very best to stumble and walk with the aid of his family, and once he is in the back everyone else is jumping into the vehicle too.

You slide into the backseat with your injured giant, letting him lie his head in your lap and whispering calming things to him as Charlie sped way over the limit back to the Hewitt residence. There was no way they could take him to a hospital with their soon-to-be criminal record, and there was no telling if he’d make the entire long ride there anyway. So he’d have to be taken care of here, you know a bit about first aid from a bunch of medical classes you took way back in high school when you had planned to be a nurse. But you weren’t a surgeon, not even a nurse.

You just hoped to whatever god, ancestor, or force that existed that you could save him. You loved him too much to lose him now.

.   .   .

“So,” You heard Hoyt begin after walking out of the room Thomas was just stabilized and hopefully saved in, you hadn’t been allowed in. The family had assured you that your presence would do more harm than good. You hesitantly agreed.

“What?” You asked, the pure exhaustion and strain in your voice made you sound as worn out as you felt.

“What made ya stay? Ya ran off like you was takin’ your chance to run, why’d you bother with the boy?” The Sheriff questioned, not even sounding snarky or demanding, a genuine inquiry that you weren’t expecting from him. And so, you answered with nothing but truth soaking into every word, perhaps it even shocked you more than it did him.

“Because I love him more than that.” And you did, more than the life void of chains and gore that you could have escaped to. It would mean nothing without him.

Your collar and broken chain were never replaced.

[weepingstar]

Irregular Lovers - Chapter One

[ hey everyone! so this is my new AU i’m excited/NERVOUS about - please check the tags! let me KNOW if you’d like me to tag anything more, or if you appreciate it, or if you’re confused lol - i’ve been thinking about this AU for a long time, so if i make any assumptions/leave things out let me know. missed you all <3 ] 

Read on AO3 

Kenopsia: The eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that is usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet.

Graves saw the word, let his thumb rest against the thin paper of the book Unused and Useless Terms for Those with Nothing Else To Do and felt that he himself knew its effects. His heart, a place which was once filled by one very specific person who ambled around happily - leaving her things here and there, sleeping in warm corners - was empty. The occupier had flown away unhappily to the other side of the world, keeping busy with charity dinners and balls, whilst the two of them remained miserable and separated.

Graves flicks the pages for a while longer until he happens across another.

Apricity: the warmth of the sun in the Winter.

He thinks again of Credence

Percival Graves had been irritable for days. Celestia had noted that from the moment her fiance had received the telegram informing him that his sister wanted to meet, he’d been insufferable and moody, irritable to the extreme. He glimpsed at the clock much more than she thought necessary, tapped his quill in an incredibly annoying manner and snapped at the slightest thing. She didn’t quite understand the dynamic between the two siblings and Percival didn’t welcome questions about the two of them either.

The facts that Celestia knew were these:

Miss Credence Graves had been adopted by Graves’ father - her mother an attractive dancer named Caroline who performed at a gentleman’s club he frequented, her biological father unknown, and absent. The fact of Graves’ recently deceased wife did not however serve as a deterrent for the young Caroline, but spurred her on that much more. The marriage between the eldest Graves and his dancer had lasted, their quick love hadn’t.

As to how Credence had come to live with her brother - it was some kind of taboo to speak of it or ask any questions, so she didn’t. All she could understand was that something must have happened in the home of the eldest Graves for Percival to finally be able to move his sister in with him. Celestia vividly remembers the one occasion Percival had invited her in for a late night drink and Credence had been stood silently at the stairs in her white nightgown, staring with large, dark eyes. Percival had quickly ushered Celestia out again, while soothing Credence for some unknown reason.

From what Celestia could gather, the two had been inseparable until the short period of time before her and Percival’s engagement had been announced. Aurors in Graves’ department had shared their stories of Graves coming into work with a sulky younger Credence, holding her hand and using the other to practice his wandwork. From her own experience, she could tell that the pair were utterly devoted to one another, at first something she had found rather sweet. She could imagine Percival caring just as much for their own children, could see how patient and attentive he was and found it to be a surprising but very agreeable trait. Her meetings with Credence always left her knocked off centre - just old enough now to be married herself, but still acting like a little girl with her doting brother - she was quiet and cautious. Her large eyes tracked people about the room, she often kept closely to Percival and could be found under his arm at whatever society event they were attending. Celestia would quite like to have disliked her, hated her even, just to make the situation a little easier when she’d run away and Percival had all but ignored his wife to be. However, the truth was that she couldn’t quite find anything to hate the girl for, she didn’t talk very much, and she was rather shy and nervous. Hating her would be an unpleasant and unnecessary thing.

Celestia knew they must have had quite a disagreement about something or other during the brief time her and Percival courted because she remembers his desperation to see Credence before she suddenly ran away, and then his intense silence once he’d gotten back having not caught her, holding a letter in his hand that he crumpled in one moment and smoothed over the next.

The two rarely fought, in fact, Celestia couldn’t think of only one occasion she’d witnessed even a tiff - Percival certainly spoke to her sternly at times, and the girl might pout a little, but otherwise they lived in absolute harmony it seemed. So when on one balmy evening in June, Grave returned with a defeated slump to his shoulders and a hard set to his jaw. Celestia was quite worried. As for the letter, Celestia hadn’t asked to read it because she knew it was bad news, knew it wasn’t her place. She eventually asked him where Credence was, said that she was looking forward to seeing her at the wedding, surely, Percival had looked straight through her and simply said, “She’s gone.”

Graves and Celestia were meant to be joined in matrimony in July, but Credence having run away just short of their ceremony halted all the proceedings. Graves was loathe to even speak of marriage and shut himself away in his study or busied himself at work. No matter how gently Celestia tried to coax him he wouldn’t be moved on the subject, refused to marry until Credence returned and things were made right. Guests were disinvited, dresses left half completed, flower orders turned up on their front doorstep when no one had thought to cancel them. Celestia felt terribly about it, held her tongue when it came to Credence and decided she’d act coldly towards the girl on her return. She didn’t quite understand why it was that her going away so suddenly delayed her and Percival’s marriage, or why it affected him so, all she knew was that there was no point in pushing Graves, because nothing good had ever come of that. Time passed slowly, and what first looked to be only a few weeks of delay turned into months, and then half a year had passed with Credence still gone and no ring on Celestia’s finger.

The extended period of Credence’s travels hadn’t gone by unnoticed, Celestia sometimes felt she knew more about her (soon to be) sister in law’s plans than Credence herself did. Percival mapped them out, had his underlings keeping track of her and his own privately employed spies following her around. Celestia told him that he might be going overboard, that he should give her a little space, don’t suffocate her she said, she’s a young woman, a little independence will surely be appreciated by her. Graves had looked down at a memo from his office, stating that his sister was in Belgium and said, “She’s no good at looking after herself, you don’t understand-” Celestia had kissed his mouth to hush him in what she thought was an endearing way, Percival tensed up and didn’t return the affection. He wasn’t ever particularly amorous, but that was just what Celestia was used to from him.

~

Several months into his sister’s departure from the USA and the halting of their… whatever it was, Graves receives the telegram. Puzzled at first with such a no-maj form of communication, it suddenly dawns on him and he rips the envelope open. It’s from her. She wants to meet.

Graves strokes the ‘X’ at the end of the message, something that makes him happier than he’d been in months, and gives him hope, makes him smile at the fact his little sister told the telegram office in her soft, sweet accent to please put a kiss on the end.

Unfortunately for Graves, his sister specifies a day a week from now, being impatient already he begins pacing daily, growling at anyone stupid enough to enter his office at MACUSA, a giant angry dog barely caged.

When the day finally comes, Celestia barely has the chance to ask where he’s going before he’s out of the door, coat tails whipping around him, door slamming shut. Celestia was very aware when she agreed to marry Percival that he was ultimately devoted to his sister, however strange that might be, and that she mustn’t become jealous, as it wasn’t any use to her. This in mind, it doesn’t help the sting she feels when he up and leaves without a moment’s notice for her, without a kiss, without a goodbye. She’d overheard hushed telephone conversations between the two of them - infrequent as they were - and she burned with envy at his sweet voice to his sister, his careful enquiries.

Graves is early, of course. He stands in Berlin train station, watches people in their trench coats pass by, burdened with luggage. Doesn’t see a slight figure with a mink stole and no luggage in hand, a trolley following her with monogrammed cases. Not yet. The long windows of the building let in columns of light that illuminate passing figures, but none that he has any interest in.

He taps out a slim cigarette from a gold case, lights it and takes a deep drag to calm his nerves, his limbs feel looser now, more so than they had for months, his face feels relaxed and lacks his now signature frown. He sees a flash of white, fur, black glossy hair and is suddenly overcome with an armful of his little sister.

As usual, she was late.

To anyone else in the station, they would look like two lovers meeting again after a long time had passed, the small girl wrapped up tightly and the two embracing like the world was about to end, she was on tiptoes to reach up farther in her enthusiasm, when the older man picked her up and held her close, a kiss pressed carefully to her lips.

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine Advent Drabble 2020 - “Take One” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Embroiled in the aftermath of two very messy break-ups, Kurt and Blaine are preparing to film their first love scene together. But how do you pretend to be in love when your love life is falling apart?

It probably doesn't hurt to be in love with your co-star then. (1982 words)

Notes: Written for the @klaineadvent Drabble Challenge 2020 prompt 'grey'.

Read on AO3.

“Ooo, I get a limo this time,” Kurt mumbles, not nearly as impressed as he’s pretending to be. But he needs to keep up appearances. Even though it’s the literal buttcrack of dawn, he’s not alone. There are about thirty asshats, armed with cameras, camped out on his doorstep, climbing over each other to snap a candid of him for the gossip sites. A photo of him emerging from his townhouse fresh-faced and ready for another day on set will fetch an easy couple hundred.

But if he looks like he rolled out of bed, drank a bottle of whiskey for breakfast, then fell down a flight of stairs, landing face-first onto a mountain of cocaine - those pictures would fetch considerably more.

That’s what he gets for going through a horrendous break-up while having the nerve to be rich and famous.

Despite how he feels about his life at this moment, he went for the former, not the latter. He would never touch hard drugs, not for any reason, and he can't justify looking less than his best. 

Like a good friend once told him - never let them see you sweat.

“Kurt! Kurt Hummel! Over here!” the pariahs start calling, some of them whistling for his attention like he’s a dog. “Hummel! Hey, Hummel!”

Hummel.

That’s the one that gets him, burrows into the roots of his teeth and makes his whole head pulsate. It keeps his feet moving when he might have stopped to exchange a polite hello. Who talks to people like that? When did it become acceptable to bellow out someone’s last name as a means of getting their attention? Is it too much to ask for the respect of at least shoving a ‘Mr.’ in front of it? Have these glorified stalkers forgotten that if it weren’t for him and stars like him the only jobs they could get would be snapping photos of families for minimum wage at Six Flags?

Ugh. 

Too much thinking too early in the morning.

He could write an essay on how much he loathes pap culture, but today, Kurt can’t be bothered caring.

He slaps on a smile and waves, sliding his glasses down his nose only far enough so they can’t see how red his eyes are from crying.

“Oh, hello! I didn’t see you all here! It’s so nice of you to greet me at 5:30 on this fine winter morning! Oh, careful there. You spilled your coffee. And I think you just kicked that poor young man in the face.”

Kurt greets his guests this way every morning, killing them with kindness, as subtle an eff you as he can come up with when his brain cells have yet to kick in for the day.

Coffee. He needs coffee. About a gallon-and-a-half of it.

Kurt glides through the crowd, an angelfish among sharks, and comes out unscathed.

A man with dark hair and olive skin, wearing a fitted, black uniform tailored to within an inch of its life, opens the car door for Kurt as he approaches.

"Good morning, Mr. Hummel."

“Good morning, Harold. It's nice to see you.” Kurt slides into the car, thankful when the chauffeur shuts the door. He sinks into the leather seat and tosses his sunglasses aside. “God!" he moans, burying his face in his hands. "I don't want to do this! I want to stay home and eat ice cream! I don’t want to kiss anyone today!”

Blaine, who had been waiting quietly and wearing a sympathetic smile, frowns. “Gee. Thanks.”

Kurt's head snaps up, his face splotchy and red in seconds. “Blaine! I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you were …! That’s not what I meant!" He takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly. "It's not you. I just don’t feel particularly romantic today.”

“It’s okay. I know what you mean. I feel the same way.”

Kurt squares Blaine with a stern look. “Gee. Thanks.”

Blaine ducks his eyes, his cheeks turning pink as he pours Kurt a glass of champagne. There’s always champagne, no matter what vehicle the studio sends to pick them up. But Kurt and Blaine never avail themselves to it.

Today, however, Kurt thinks as he accepts the flute Blaine offers and takes a sip, is an exception.

“I didn’t know Harold was picking you up first,” Kurt says, starting small talk to ease the tension. Kurt and Blaine don’t usually have trouble making small talk.

But, again, today is an exception.

“Well ...” Blaine clears his throat, seems embarrassed “... I was just … you know … a few blocks down the way.”

Kurt sits up further, leans forward with interest. “So you did it. You moved out.”

“Yup,” Blaine replies quietly. “I couldn’t … I just couldn’t stay. Not after …” He stops and sniffles, turning his head to hide eyes that must be as red as Kurt’s. Kurt doesn’t know.

He only ever notices how striking they are.

Kurt rests a comforting hand on Blaine’s knee. “I know.” 

“Yeah,” Blaine says with a slightly bitter laugh. “So does the whole world. In fact, the photogs knew I was leaving before I knew. You should have seen it. I could barely get past them.”

Kurt pulls a box of tissues out of the side panel and offers one to Blaine. “They’re bottom feeders. Try to ignore them.”

“Easier said than done.”

“I know,” Kurt repeats, feeling exceptionally useless. He’s in the exact same boat, but his heart hurts more for Blaine.

Blaine doesn’t deserve what he's going through. He doesn’t deserve such a public break-up.

He doesn’t deserve having his name drug all over social media by an emotionally manipulative bastard.

Kurt gazes out the window at the sky above. The forecast said it would be clear and sunny today, but it’s cloudy and grey. It matches Kurt's mood. Everything is cloudy and grey.

Well, maybe not everything.

The champagne isn’t. It’s cool and refreshing, and the bubbles make his tongue tingle.

That helps.

And Blaine helps, too.

Even gloomy, melancholy Blaine helps.

Just being in Blaine's presence helps.

“Living in the public eye isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, huh?” Blaine asks, though it sounds as much like a statement to himself as a question for Kurt.

“Not on days like today. But that’s the trade-off for being a star, I guess.” 

“Would you ever give it up?” Blaine takes a sip so slight it doesn’t lower the level of the liquid in his glass.

“I can’t say I would. You?”

“Nah. Acting has given me so many opportunities I could never have dreamed of. And all the great people I've met? I mean, this is what? The fifth film we’ve starred in together?”

“It is." 

Blaine chuckles, shakes his head. "Some of them have been real winners."

"I know! The roles you get offered when you're just starting out are criminal! Let’s see, we’ve been rogue enemy agents from different factions …”

“High school frenemies …”

“Alien co-conspirators …”

“Jealous rivals …”

“And now … lovers.”

“Yes,” Blaine says bashfully. “And today …”

Kurt smiles. “We get together for the first time.”

Hearing Kurt say it makes Blaine’s heart race, his pulse thrumming so fast it disappears.

The day Blaine found out he’d gotten the role of Kurt’s love interest and not the ‘jealous ex’ (the role his agent originally pitched him for since they play adversaries so well) was a dream come true. The studio felt the two of them could take their insane sexual tension (the studio's words, not Blaine's, although he doesn't disagree) and use it to fuel the plot of their latest 'friends-to-lovers' rom-com.

Blaine has always wanted to be a leading man. Deep down, he prayed that his first time, he'd play opposite Kurt. Now that it has finally happened, the role of his dreams comes with the greatest perk in the universe - an intimate moment with Kurt.

In front of about three dozen crew members, but still. 

It's Blaine's chance to indulge his crush, which he plans to savor since it may not come around again. 

Not in the way Blaine wants.

As friendly as Kurt is to him, as flirty as he can be, Blaine doesn't know for sure whether Kurt shares his feelings.

“If you don't mind my asking, when did he tell you?” Blaine asks.

“He didn’t." Kurt snorts humorlessly. "I woke up, and he was gone. I thought he had left for work. He had a table reading at six that morning, so I wasn’t immediately suspicious. Not until I started noticing important things were missing - clothes, toiletries, his contact lenses, his laptop …” 

"Did he tell you why he was leaving?"

Kurt chews his lower lip at the question he'd known was coming ... the answer he's debating whether or not to give. "Eventually." He glances up at Blaine, flashes a sly grin, and decides to go for broke. “He left because he thought I was falling in love with my co-star.”

"Really?" And just like that, Blaine Anderson dies, his heart shrinking into nothing and blowing away on the wind. "W-which one?" he asks, solely for conversation's sake.

This time, when Kurt snorts, clamping a hand over his mouth to keep from spraying champagne all over the interior of the limo, it's genuine. "You, you gumball!"

"Oh. Oh!" Blaine’s expression of shock is so endearing, Kurt can’t look at it too long. There's a glow about him. It's like staring into the sun. “That's ... that’s funny. My ex broke up with me for the same reason. Because of ... you. At least, that's the excuse he gave on Twitter ... and Instagram ... and Facebook. There were other things. Other men, too.” Blaine's glow dims as he talks about his ex. Their relationship, and separation, weren’t as civil as Kurt’s. In reality, trouble had been brewing behind the scenes for a while. 

He’s glad they finally went their separate ways. 

But it stings just the same, finding out that someone you once loved, who you thought loved you back, was using you for clout. 

And in that, Blaine's ex was a better actor than Blaine ever was.

"That is funny. Not funny ha-ha. Just ... funny. Who would have thunk?" Kurt goes back to his glass of champagne, keeping an eye on Blaine above the rim.

Blaine glances out the window as the limo slows, approaching the gates to the studio lot. Kurt doesn't follow Blaine's gaze, but he doesn't need to. 

He knows what Blaine sees by the way his face falls.

Blaine had hoped they could slip in quietly, but there's already a mob three feet deep waiting for them. The photographers and fans won't be able to see a thing through the car's windows. The tint on them is darker than dark. Still, the whole lot will be on high alert with them here. 

Inevitably, a handful will slip in. 

They may even find their way on set.

Blaine doesn't have the energy to deal with that.

Not today.

“How are we going to get through it?" Blaine asks. "Filming this scene? I mean, the timing is ... uncanny, to say the least.”

“Think of it this way …” Kurt slides across to Blaine’s side, sits as close as they're both comfortable with. Crooking a finger beneath his chin, Kurt draws Blaine's attention away from the gathering crowd and over to his eyes instead “… we get to spend the entire afternoon making each other feel better. That's how we're going to get through this. Agreed?”

Blaine's eyes lower, flicker to Kurt's lips unintentionally. When they travel back up, he notices Kurt's eyes do the same. He swallows hard. At this distance from Kurt, from his mouth, Blaine only has the wherewithal to say one word. He makes it count. "Agreed."